‘‘I do wonder what Mrs. Morgan would think about her husband’s behavior—or Mr. Pullman.’’ Charlotte tapped the toe of her shoe and pursed her lips. ‘‘Indeed, you might find yourself unemployed should the London shareholders begin withdrawing their investments with Mr. Pullman’s company. You surely recall that my father carries a great deal of influence with the overseas investors, Mr. Morgan.’’
‘‘You can’t prove your allegations.’’ He smirked and sidestepped her advance.
A gust of wind swept across the expanse, and Charlotte’s unfettered curls spilled over her shoulders in wild abandon. ‘‘Don’t be so certain, Randolph. I have an item in my possession proving we were much more than acquaintances who met over supper in my parents’ dining room.’’
His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened into an ominous line. ‘‘How dare you continue with these threats! You stay away from me and my family. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from Mr. Pullman, too.’’
Obviously undeterred, Charlotte pressed on. ‘‘It sounds as though you are the one making threats. But you have no control over me, Randolph. If I decide to write a letter or two, you’ll have no control over that, either.’’
He yanked Charlotte close, whispered into her ear, and then shoved her away. With anger still shining in his eyes, he turned toward Olivia. ‘‘I suggest you see that your mistress returns to wherever it is she lives.’’ He stomped away without a backward glance.
Olivia grasped Charlotte’s shoulders and looked into her eyes. ‘‘I must get back to the kitchen. Please promise me you’ll go home.’’
Charlotte’s lips trembled and her complexion paled several shades. ‘‘Randolph said he’d see me dead if I said anything further about the baby.’’ Her eyes clouded. ‘‘I believe he meant it.’’
Olivia folded her into an embrace. ‘‘He’s angry.’’ She leaned back and forced a reassuring smile. ‘‘You caught him unaware and confronted him with unwanted information. Besides, you were making idle threats. There’s no need to worry.’’ She turned Charlotte toward home as though she were a small child and then raced to the kitchen. No doubt she was the one who needed to be frightened of retribution. Chef René would likely greet her waving a wooden spoon and venting his anger.
Fortunately for Olivia, Chef René had been too busy scolding the headwaiter, who hadn’t made a timely appearance to confer over details of serving the meal. René didn’t even notice when she entered and reestablished her position at the stove.
The remainder of the day passed in a flurry, and she had little time to dwell upon the earlier scene. It wasn’t until she was packing one of the meringues into her basket that she recalled Charlotte’s frightened words.
Lost in her own thoughts, Olivia picked up the basket and left the kitchen. If nothing else, the food should help calm Charlotte’s mood.
She hadn’t heard the sound of approaching footsteps and started when Mr. Howard approached.
‘‘May I carry your basket for you, Miss Mott?’’
‘‘I can manage, thank you.’’ Instinctively, she grasped the basket handle a bit tighter. Mr. Howard’s unanticipated appearance was unsettling. It seemed as if he had a way of appearing when least expected. Had someone mentioned her involvement in the skirmish outside the hotel? Though she hoped the confrontation had gone undetected, she realized the three of them had been standing in full view of many of the hotel’s windows— including those in Mr. Pullman’s office. He could have observed the entire incident without difficulty.
She wondered if Mr. Morgan had already departed for Chicago. If not, perhaps he had sent Mr. Howard to elicit information. Or had Mr. Pullman sent him to inquire about the confrontation? She now wished she had checked the hotel registry to see if Mr. Morgan had registered as an overnight guest, though with Mr. Billings standing guard over the leather-bound tome, it would have proved awkward, if not impossible. The hotel manager guarded the book as though it held the world’s greatest secrets.
‘‘I wondered if you might enjoy a stroll through the Arcade or a visit to the library with me this evening,’’ Mr. Howard said.
A stroll? Her feet ached, and he was inviting her to accompany him on a walk through the Arcade. Obviously he had little idea what her work entailed. ‘‘I’m rather weary this evening.’’ She tapped a finger on the basket handle. ‘‘Charlotte and I haven’t yet eaten our supper.’’
‘‘How thoughtless of me. I wasn’t thinking about the busy day you’ve had. What about tomorrow evening?’’
Even his enthusiasm couldn’t erase her memories of the wearisome day. Between Chef René ’s ongoing demands and the encounter with Charlotte and Mr. Morgan, Olivia was exhausted. She truly didn’t want to think about tomorrow evening, but the question remained open between them.
‘‘Tomorrow evening would suit,’’ she finally said, ‘‘after seven o’clock.’’
He glanced at the basket swinging from her arm. ‘‘Right. You’ll need time to have supper with Mrs. Hornsby.’’
‘‘Who?’’ She quickly caught his look of surprise. ‘‘Oh yes. Charlotte. I seldom think of her as Mrs. Hornsby.’’ Without missing a beat, she turned their conversation to the weather and the beautifully maintained flower gardens and lawns they passed by.
He glowed at her remarks, as though his personal touch had produced the blooms. ‘‘I’ve purchased tickets for the band performance on Saturday night in hopes you’ll attend with me.’’ He patted the breast pocket of his suit jacket and grinned. ‘‘I’m asking now so you won’t make plans to go with someone else.’’
She’d heard Albert and Martha mention the band concert, but nothing more had been said. Likely both Albert and Fred would have cricket or baseball practice on Saturday evening. Unless there would be no practice due to the concert. The thoughts jumbled about in her mind while Mr. Howard continued to peer at her.
‘‘May I look forward to enjoying your company at the concert?’’
‘‘Yes, I suppose that would be agreeable.’’ She bid him goodnight, wondering why she felt obligated to accept his offers. He was a nice enough man, but it was Fred who had truly captured her interest. Fred, with his spirited laughter, could lift anyone’s mood—especially hers—in the wink of an eye. Perhaps that was it. Mr. Howard was somber and serious, a more thoughtful man. Though he wasn’t much older than Fred, he seemed more the fatherly type. However, she should at least get to know him a bit more before judging him as stodgy and boring.
‘‘Finally! I thought you’d never get here. I’m starving.’’ Before Olivia cleared the threshold, Charlotte’s assault of words reached her.
No matter how much Olivia’s feet ached, Charlotte’s attitude was enough to make Olivia want to turn on her heel and run back to the hotel. She sailed past the door to the parlor and headed directly for the dining room. No need stopping to argue or defend herself. She’d tried that tack often enough, to no avail. She could only hope Charlotte’s mood would improve once she set eyes upon the chocolate meringues.
Grasping her back with one hand as she lumbered into the dining room, Charlotte surveyed the table. Her eyes appeared to glaze at the sight. Food seemed to be her only pleasure in life. Olivia couldn’t be certain, but she thought Charlotte had gained at least twenty pounds since their departure from England back in April.
‘‘Mrs. DeVault came over this afternoon.’’ Charlotte dipped her finger into the center of a meringue and licked the whipped cream.
Olivia shook her head and moved the dessert aside. ‘‘This is for after you eat your meal.’’ With each passing day, Charlotte acted more like a two-year-old. ‘‘What has happened to your manners, your ladyship?’’ She hoped referring to Charlotte’s position and title would give the young woman pause.
Charlotte shrugged. ‘‘No need for formalities in this place. I’m just another nobody living in a rented tenement. Randolph made my station in life abundantly clear this morning. Wouldn’t you agree?’’ Sh
e jabbed her fork into a piece of the creamed quail with chestnuts.
Olivia helped herself to a serving of the grilled mushrooms and puréed potatoes while Charlotte stuffed a bite of quail into her mouth. ‘‘Well, don’t you agree?’’
Now her ladyship had taken to speaking with her mouth full! What next? Would she soon give up bathing? ‘‘Your station in life is whatever you choose to make of it, I suppose. You’re not treated as anyone special in this country, but if you made it known that you are Lady Charlotte, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Lanshire, you would undoubtedly receive a great deal of attention.’’
Her cheeks now swollen with far too many grilled mushrooms, Charlotte bobbed her head. Her neck extended a few inches as she swallowed the mouthful. ‘‘Exactly my point.’’ She aimed the tines of her fork in Olivia’s direction. ‘‘We both know I can’t reveal who I am, yet I detest this boring existence.’’
With her swollen feet and aching shoulders, Olivia didn’t want to hear Charlotte’s complaints, so she attempted to change the subject. ‘‘You said Mrs. DeVault stopped by. Did you have a pleasant visit?’’
Charlotte reached across the table and heaped the remaining potatoes onto her plate. ‘‘I accompanied her to the Arcade, thinking I would borrow a library book, but they said you hadn’t paid the fee.’’ Her lips formed a slight pout.
‘‘You could have paid it, Charlotte. I don’t have money for library fees, nor do I have time to read.’’
‘‘I found the librarian rather rude. I chose to leave the book and walk out.’’ She raised her nose into the air.
Olivia shrugged. There would be no making the woman happy this evening. While Charlotte finished the second meringue, Olivia cleared the dishes. Once she’d finished in the kitchen, she would retire for the night and leave Charlotte to complain to the walls.
‘‘Oh yes. Mrs. DeVault said to tell you that Albert and Martha have tickets for the band concert on Saturday.’’
Olivia popped her head around the corner. ‘‘Is that all she said?’’
‘‘No. Fred purchased tickets, also. He’s hoping you’ll go with him.’’ Charlotte licked her fingers. ‘‘I told her I was sure you’d be more than pleased to leave me alone for yet another night.’’
With a sigh, Olivia plunged her hands back in the soapy dishwater. Two escorts for the band concert. She hoped Mrs. DeVault wouldn’t take Charlotte’s word and relay an acceptance to Fred. What would she do with two gentlemen callers arriving at her front door on Saturday night?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After brief consideration, Olivia decided against having Charlotte deliver a message to Mrs. DeVault. Charlotte had already determined Mr. Howard would be the preferable suitor for Olivia. And knowing Charlotte, she would intentionally forget to deliver the message, an embarrassment that would likely terminate any further pursuit by the younger man. Olivia remained uncertain how Charlotte could consider herself an accomplished judge of men. Hadn’t she chosen a true scoundrel for herself? Olivia dared not mention that opinion for fear of igniting the woman’s wrath or sending her into a crying spell that would go on for untold hours.
Instead, she’d send her message through Martha. Though the two women saw little of each other at work, Olivia would make a special effort to go to the upper levels of the hotel and locate her today. She’d explain what had occurred, and perhaps Martha could lend some advice on how to best handle Mr. Howard’s advances in the future.
Although Olivia had little time to think about her conflicting escorts for the band concert, Chef René soon offered the perfect opportunity. Before placing a tray of croissants in the oven, he checked the temperature and beamed at the stove. ‘‘Magnifique!’’ He slid the baking sheet into the Goodwin gas range—the pride of his kitchen. ‘‘Georgie is missing, likely hiding out somewhere on the fourth floor. I need you to go and find him.’’
On any other day, his request would have annoyed her. Normally she preferred to be at Chef René ’s side, observing every move, hoping to gain his expertise. But today was different. Today she must make certain Fred knew exactly why she couldn’t accompany him to the band concert. Taking the steps two at a time, she looked down the hallways before proceeding to the next floor. Not seeing Martha on the second or third level, she continued upward. She’d first locate Georgie, a task that should prove rather easy. The fourth floor was occupied by kitchen boys and the servants who accompanied some of the hotel guests, all of whom would be—or should be—out of their small stuffy quarters before dawn. She need not take precautions before flinging open the doors on this floor. The oddly shaped spaces had been wedged into the crannies surrounding the dormers or fitted to the varying slants of the roofline. Little care was given to their size or shape, for they’d not be used by anyone except the lower class.
Nearing the end of the hallway and still having no success, Olivia wondered if the young man had run off without telling anyone. She’d been told that from time to time one or two of the boys would jump a train passing through town. The boys all thought they’d find a pot of gold at the end of their ride on the steel rails. So far, three had returned. They’d found neither their pot of gold nor gainful employment. Chef René was forgiving, saying young men should explore their opportunities before settling on their life’s work. She doubted whether he believed the same about women.
Pushing open the final door, Olivia heaved a sigh. Finally! There was Georgie. He appeared to be asleep. She clapped her hands together and called out his name.
The boy rolled over and groaned.
‘‘Chef René wants you in the kitchen this moment. Are you ill?’’
He held his stomach. ‘‘Yes.’’ He jumped to his feet, waved her away, and then raced down the hall toward the bathroom. Two empty liquor bottles sat in the corner by his bed. Apparently Georgie had been celebrating throughout the night and was paying the consequences this morning. Chef René would not be pleased. Georgie was still holding an arm across his stomach as he staggered back to the room, obviously weakened by constant visits to the bathroom.
‘‘Please don’t tell,’’ he said in a raspy voice and fell back onto the narrow cot. ‘‘I just received word my mum died last month. I didn’t even know she was sick.’’
‘‘Well, you’ll not pay her tribute by falling into a drunken stupor every night. Will you promise this is the last of the drinking?’’
He groaned an affirmative reply.
‘‘I’ll tell Chef René you’ve taken ill, but if he asks about alcohol, I’ll be required to tell the truth. I’ll not lie for you, Georgie.’’
He rolled back toward the wall. ‘‘Yes, ma’am. I won’t ask you to go against your religious convictions.’’
His words burned through her conscience. Though she had lied to protect herself, she was quick to tell Georgie that truth must be spoken when it applied to him. Self-righteous! The words echoed in her mind as loudly as if someone had shouted them down the empty fourth-floor hallway. She ran to the staircase and started down, her shoes clattering on the bare oak steps, clinging to the railing for support. At the third-floor landing, she collided with Martha and jerked to a halt.
She clutched Martha’s arm as she gasped for air. ‘‘I’ve been looking for you.’’
Martha’s thin eyebrows lifted and formed two perfectly shaped arches. ‘‘On the fourth floor?’’
‘‘No. I went up there looking for Georgie—at Chef René ’s request.’’ She tugged Martha’s hand and pulled her to an alcove that overlooked the rear of the hotel. After explaining her predicament with Mr. Howard, she leaned against the windowsill and looked into Martha’s hazel eyes. ‘‘What can I do?’’
Martha lowered her voice as one of the maids walked down the hallway. ‘‘You must go to the concert with Mr. Howard.
You’ve already accepted his invitation. It would be impolite to break the engagement in order to attend with Fred.’’
‘‘But what do I say should he extend a future i
nvitation? I’m to be with him both this evening and tomorrow evening, yet I’d rather be with Fred.’’ Her cheeks flushed at the admission.
Martha giggled and looped arms with her. They walked toward the stairs. ‘‘Then tell him no thank you. It’s as simple as that.’’
Olivia shook her head. ‘‘I worry my refusal could jeopardize my position at the hotel.’’
Martha stopped at the head of the stairs. ‘‘Why should it?’’
Olivia couldn’t respond. Outside of another lie, what could she say? Because I was hired based upon a fraudulent letter of recommendation, and if I make an enemy of Mr. Howard, he may delve into my background? Such a reply wouldn’t endear her to Martha.
‘‘You aren’t still concerned about those ants marching all over the dining room, are you?’’ Martha stifled a giggle.
‘‘No, but I’ve continued to have my share of mishaps in the kitchen, and I know I try Chef René ’s patience from time to time—even though it’s not my intent.’’ She glanced toward the stairs. ‘‘I had best get back to the kitchen, or he’ll be sending someone to fetch me as well as Georgie. You will explain to Fred?’’
Martha nodded. ‘‘I’ll do my best, but he’s bound to be disappointed.’’
Olivia didn’t say so, but she truly hoped he would be. Leaving behind the pine woodwork of the second and third floors, she descended into the main lobby, where rich cherry woodwork and Minton tile gleamed to polished perfection. Mr. Billings stood behind the front desk, guarding the enunciator box, call button board, and registry like a mother hen protecting her chicks.
‘‘Chef René has inquired concerning your whereabouts, Miss Mott.’’ His lips remained in a tight line as he relayed the message.
‘‘Thank you, Mr. Billings.’’ The man’s demeanor remained unchanged. Olivia was convinced he didn’t like her. He’d never warmed to her. She could only assume that being hired without his stamp of approval resulted in the man’s ongoing displeasure. Of course there was no way of being certain. With the exception of Chef René , no one else had been hired to work in the hotel without Mr. Billings’s endorsement—at least that’s what Martha had told her.
In the Company of Secrets Page 10
