They strolled upstairs to the southeast corner of the second floor, and Mr. Howard escorted her into the library. The walk had been enough to set her feet to throbbing once again. She rounded one of the massive ornamental pillars supporting the roof and stained-glass dome and made a quick selection from a long magazine table in the center of the room. While Mr. Howard perused the contents of one of the mahogany bookcases, she selected a comfortable easy chair, thankful to be off her feet. She would never again borrow these shoes from Charlotte. She flipped through the pages of Harper’s New Monthly Magazine and stopped at an illustration by George du Maurier titled ‘‘What Induced Him to Marry Her?’’
‘‘Obviously it wasn’t her beauty that induced him, was it?’’ She hadn’t heard Mr. Howard step behind her chair. He was leaning over the leather-upholstered chair, and his breath tickled her neck.
Olivia slapped the magazine to her lap. ‘‘I’ve been told that beauty is the only thing of import to men when choosing a spouse.’’ Personally, she found the notion somewhat irritating.
‘‘Well, you have no need to worry, Olivia. Your beauty surpasses that of most any woman I’ve ever seen. Any man would be delighted to have you as a wife.’’ Moving to one side, he took possession of the chair alongside hers. He leaned much closer than necessary and lightly swept his fingers across her hand. ‘‘I know I certainly enjoy your company.’’ He whispered his comments, careful not to provoke the librarian.
His words were disquieting in the extreme. Had Fred’s unexpected appearance caused these surprisingly ardent remarks? Could he possibly consider himself in a competition for her affections? She didn’t like that idea in the least. With Charlotte and her constant complaints, her own attempts to prove herself to Chef René , and her concern that every word she spoke could conflict with one of her previous falsehoods, Olivia had more than enough to keep her mind in a whirl.
She noted the book in his hand. ‘‘If you’ve made a selection, I should soon go home. Since I’m attending the concert with you tomorrow, I promised Lady Charlotte I wouldn’t be late this evening.’’
‘‘Lady Charlotte? Are you referring to Mrs. Hornsby?’’ Mr. Howard’s eyebrows were arched high on his forehead as he awaited her response.
Olivia wished she could snatch back that one word. What could she say to conceal her blunder? She swallowed and forced a smile. ‘‘Having worked for nobility, I seem to slip back to my former patterns of speech from time to time.’’ She inhaled a deep breath. ‘‘And you must admit that Mrs. Hornsby commands a stately bearing.’’
He seemed to weigh her response and then nodded. ‘‘Yes. She does appear quite regal in her mannerisms.’’
Olivia wasn’t certain she had convinced Mr. Howard with her feeble explanation. She could only hope it had been enough to set aside any suspicion. She waited while he checked out the book. Together they descended the wide stairway, walked the long hallway, and exited the building. Her too-tight shoes were now the cause of a slight limp, and she hoped her feet would recover by morning.
‘‘I believe you mentioned you had met Mrs. Hornsby when she called at Lanshire Hall. What was her association with the Earl and Countess of Lanshire?’’
Was he testing her? She’d never said any such thing. ‘‘I don’t believe Mrs. Hornsby ever called at Lanshire Hall. If so, I’m not aware of such an occasion. I believe I told you we had met at a dressmaker’s shop when she was having several gowns altered.’’
He placed his index finger to his lips and tapped lightly. ‘‘Yes. I do believe that’s what you told me. It seems my memory fails me on minor details from time to time.’’
When they arrived in front of the house, Mr. Howard took both of her hands in his own. ‘‘I’m looking forward to the band concert.’’ He moved a step closer. ‘‘And please tell Mrs. Hornsby you’ll not be home so early tomorrow evening. I thought we might have dessert at the Arcade restaurant afterward.’’ His breath whispered across her cheek while he spoke. She wanted to move back, but her heels were lodged against the step. ‘‘I should go inside now, Mr. Howard.’’
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘‘And you’ve forgotten my name once again. What must I do to make you address me as Samuel, my dear?’’
My dear? She wasn’t his dear. When and how had this sudden change in Mr. Howard’s demeanor occurred? What had she done to make him think of her in this possessive manner? She had accepted his invitations, but mostly because she feared losing her job, not because she found him irresistible company. The moment he released her hands, she turned around and raced up the steps. With a quick wave, she thanked him for the lemonade.
‘‘I’ll call for you at seven o’clock tomorrow evening. Do sleep well.’’
She thought she’d heard him add ‘‘my dear’’ to his final sentence, though she hoped she was wrong. Once inside, she leaned against the front door, wishing tomorrow would never come. The sound of Charlotte’s tinkling laughter drifted into the hallway and was soon followed by a man’s voice. Perhaps Albert and Martha had stopped by.
‘‘Is that you, Olivia? Come see who has been visiting with me this evening.’’ Charlotte’s melodious tone caused the hairs on Olivia’s neck to prickle.
She walked to the parlor, where Charlotte sat beside Fred. They had turned the divan toward the front window to allow a perfect view of the front sidewalk. They’d been watching her. Heat fired in her cheeks. ‘‘Could we have a moment alone, Charlotte?’’
Fred stood. ‘‘No need. I was about to leave when you and Mr. Howard arrived out front. I didn’t want to interrupt, so I waited a few extra minutes.’’
Charlotte’s blue eyes sparkled, a sure sign she was pleased to observe Fred’s displeasure. Olivia’s taffeta dress swished as Charlotte brushed by her.
‘‘Please let me explain, Fred.’’
‘‘No need. I believe I saw enough to tell me what I need to know.’’
How could she make him understand she’d done nothing to encourage Mr. Howard’s advances? His cold eyes spelled out the truth. He’d already made up his mind, and nothing she could say was going to change things.
Olivia stood in the doorway and watched until his figure slowly faded into the nighttime darkness.
‘‘Come along and tell me about Samuel and those kisses I saw him placing on your hands tonight.’’
Charlotte’s words sliced through her like a slashing sword. Olivia whirled around and glared. ‘‘You made certain he would see me out there, didn’t you?’’
‘‘But of course. I was extending an act of charity that you’ll one day thank me for. What I did will eventually prove to benefit you greatly. Now, I believe I’ll retire for the night.’’ She grinned at Olivia as she continued up the steps. ‘‘However, I must admit Fred is rather good looking.’’
How did one deal with the likes of Charlotte? She was no match for the woman. Olivia dropped onto the chair and removed the unyielding leather shoes. Charlotte had placed the bouquet of flowers on a table near the divan. Had Fred noticed them and wondered if they’d been a gift from Mr. Howard? She shook her head. No need to speculate. As sure as the sun rose in the east each morning, Charlotte had told him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When Olivia entered the hotel kitchen the next morning, Chef René crooked his finger in her direction. They didn’t exchange words, for she’d learned not to question him early in the day. Following his lead, she trailed along until they entered the hotel lobby. As was his custom each morning, Mr. Billings sat perched behind the massive front desk calculating the guests’ accounts. His self-aggrandizing mannerisms wilted, and he tugged at his starched white collar as they approached.
Chef René grasped Olivia’s arm and pulled her up to the desk. ‘‘Mr. Beelings has something to say to you, Miss Mott.’’
Mr. Billings clutched his pen in a white-knuckled grip. ‘‘I apologize.’’
Olivia expected the writing instrument to crack in half and send ink spat
tering across her white jacket at any moment. Before she could respond, Chef René tightened his grip on her arm. ‘‘Not good enough, Mr. Beelings.’’
Mr. Billings slapped the pen atop his ledger and glared at the ink droplets that spilled across the page. Teeth gritted, he directed an ominous stare in Olivia’s direction. ‘‘I apologize for wrongfully accusing you of stealing liquor from the hotel bar.
The culprit has come forward and admitted his guilt.’’
The chef clucked his tongue. ‘‘And?’’
‘‘And I will not accuse you of anything in the future. You are not my employee, and I will first speak to Chef René if I have concerns about any of his kitchen staff.’’
With a look of satisfaction, René pivoted on his heel and pointed Olivia toward the kitchen. ‘‘We must prepare breakfast, Miss Mott.’’
A thousand questions popped into her head, but this wasn’t the time to ask. She would wait until they’d completed breakfast preparations; then she’d quiz Georgie. While she chopped and whisked, Chef René prepared a variety of the omelets and scrambled eggs that the hotel diners insisted upon each morning. Olivia was most confident with the morning meal. Perhaps because she’d made fewer mistakes, the preparation was simpler, and Chef René didn’t insist upon a daily change in the menu.
‘‘Eddie! These dishes need to be delivered to the hot closet.’’
Her mouth dropped open, and she twisted around to survey the kitchen. Surely the chef had erred. Why would Eddie still be working in the kitchen? Hadn’t he been discharged for his thievery? The long-legged young man loped into the kitchen as if it were any normal workday. He came to an abrupt halt in front of the preparation table, his red locks bouncing up and down.
When he saw her staring, he winked and grinned. ‘‘Are these the dishes that need to go to the hot closet?’’
She nodded her head, unable to speak. Now that she thought about it, she’d not seen Georgie since arriving at work. She sidled up to the stove when Eddie was out of earshot. ‘‘Where’s Georgie this morning?’’
The chef looked at her and shook his head. ‘‘Not now.’’
When they’d finally completed breakfast and the dirty dishes were being washed, Chef René signaled for her to follow him to his office. He closed the door and forced his corpulent body into his chair.
‘‘Georgie has taken a position in the Paper Wheel Works. He will be paid a few cents more an hour than he received working in the kitchen.’’
She frowned and he held up his palm.
‘‘Let me explain. He told me the truth about Eddie stealing the liquor, but he admitted he had been the one who had consumed most of the alcohol. He also confided that he feared retribution once Eddie discovered he’d come forth with the truth and therefore asked to change jobs.’’
She was surprised to hear that Georgie had been reassigned at his own request.
Chef René grinned and continued. ‘‘With the slight pay raise and opportunity for advancement, anyone would understand his leaving the kitchen. Georgie has moved out of the hotel and taken a room with a family here in town. In a few days, I plan to confront Eddie.’’ He pointed to a cabinet in his office. ‘‘I have kept the empty bottles, and Georgie told me where Eddie keeps the tools of his trade. He’ll lose his position in good time.’’
There was little time to dwell on Georgie’s departure. They’d soon need to prepare for the noonday meal. And though having Eddie remain on the employee roster for even a few short days was cause for concern, Olivia was pleased Georgie hadn’t been discharged—even more, that he had escaped Eddie’s poor influence.
Throughout the day, she caught Eddie watching her and wondered what Georgie had told him. She tried to convince herself that he was looking at her no more frequently than usual. Eddie had always leered at the girls. She was simply more aware of his behavior today. However, she was relieved when quitting time finally arrived.
After packing a few leftovers into a basket, she retrieved her hat and cape from the closet off the hallway. While tying the satin ribbons of her cape, Eddie approached and blocked the doorway with a menacing look in his eye.
‘‘Some folks around this place know more than they oughta, Miss Mott.’’ He stood too close and his unwashed clothing fouled the air.
‘‘I wouldn’t know about that, Eddie. Personally, I don’t consider myself in that category. There is much I still need to learn. My soufflés are proof enough of that.’’
He glowered at her. ‘‘I ain’t talkin’ ’bout no soufflé s, and you know it, don’t ya?’’ He moved a step closer.
She could barely breathe. ‘‘Please move aside, Eddie. I’m not—’’
‘‘Eddie! What are you doing in there?’’ Chef René ’s question boomed through the narrow hallway and into the tiny coat closet. They both started and turned.
Eddie backed away, his menacing look replaced by one of fear or annoyance. He mumbled something as Chef René pushed him toward the kitchen.
Moments later, she departed by way of the side door rather than passing through the kitchen. Once outside she removed her cape and tucked it atop the basket. Even though she’d needed the added warmth early this morning, it wouldn’t do for her walk home. She crossed through the park near the hotel, occasionally glancing over her shoulder as she continued onward. She hoped Chef René would keep Eddie in the hotel until she was well out of sight. The thought of having him follow her home was frightening. Moreover, she wouldn’t want him to come to the house and alarm Charlotte.
When she reached the row house, she was winded, and the handles of the basket were cutting into her arm. One final look assured her that Eddie hadn’t followed. She hurried inside and dropped the basket onto the kitchen table. Surprisingly, Charlotte was setting the table. Her ladyship must be famished.
After placing silverware at each place setting, Charlotte waved one of the napkins toward her. ‘‘Your face is as red as a beet. Has it warmed up that much outdoors or were you running?’’ Without waiting for an answer, she dropped the napkins onto the table. ‘‘You didn’t need to rush. You’ve plenty of time to prepare for the concert.’’
Olivia simply agreed and unpacked the food. No need to worry Charlotte with talk of Eddie and his menacing ways. Besides, she was likely making a mountain out of a molehill. A young man such as Eddie would no doubt be occupying his free time with girls and liquor.
With the hot July sun finally heading westward, the afternoon’s warmth had begun to subside by the time Fred mounted the steps of the Malloy residence. His invitation to the band concert had been extended to Mildred for all the wrong reasons. He wanted to prove to Olivia that there were plenty of other young ladies who would be pleased to accept his invitation. Now he regretted his hasty decision. Nonetheless, he would do his best to assure the evening proved pleasurable, for Mildred had done nothing but happily accept his invitation.
Before Fred had an opportunity to knock, Mildred whisked open the front door and greeted him. She was dressed in a pale green gown, and her auburn hair was piled high on her head and fastened with ornate combs. She’d obviously taken special care preparing for the evening. He hoped she hadn’t read too much into his invitation, but he should have considered that possibility before he’d invited her.
They arrived early and stood chatting while beautifully attired attendees gathered near the massive, highly polished stairway leading to the west-central portion of the second floor. Fred watched the entrance, his emotions wavering. He hoped to capture a glimpse of Olivia, yet he knew that seeing her with Mr. Howard would only fuel his resentment that she’d chosen Mr. Howard as her escort.
Then he saw her. In reality, he first saw Mr. Howard, but his focus immediately shifted to Olivia. She was wearing a gown of pale blue silk with puffed sleeves, and narrow blue ribbons were woven into her hair. He inhaled a shaky breath—she looked beautiful. He wanted to look away. He tried to look away. But his gaze remained fixed upon her.
‘‘Amaz
ing that a chef ’s assistant could afford such a gown, isn’t it?’’
Mildred’s comment shook Fred from his trancelike state. ‘‘I believe she probably borrowed it from Mrs. Hornsby.’’
‘‘Mrs. Hornsby?’’
‘‘The widow who resides with Olivia,’’ he explained.
‘‘Oh yes. I’ve seen her with Olivia from time to time. She’s expecting a child, isn’t she? I believe I heard she’s a widow.’’
Fred nodded and watched Olivia walk up the stairs holding on to Mr. Howard’s arm. The town gossips likely knew everything about Charlotte Hornsby except her name.
Mildred tugged on his arm and motioned toward the stairs. ‘‘Shall we go up and take our seats?’’
They followed a group of attendees, most with tickets admitting them to the main floor. Several of the supervisors and their wives walked toward the inner stairway of the theater that led to the boxed seating. While the usher directed Fred and Mildred down the aisle, Fred tried to covertly scan each of the elegantly decorated boxes that projected along the east and west walls of the theater. His breath caught when he spotted Olivia and Mr. Howard. The city agent held Olivia’s waist in a possessive grasp while he pointed at the beautifully adorned stage. Fred inwardly cringed when he saw her laugh in response. She obviously was enjoying Mr. Howard’s attention.
Fred imagined the man’s ploys to hold Olivia’s attention. He was probably reinforcing her perceptions of Mr. Pullman as a grand philanthropist while he expounded on the theater’s exceptional features.
Disheartened, Fred slouched in his red leather–upholstered seat and stared at the huge chandelier that hung from the center of the fresco-painted ceiling.
Mildred leaned closer and pointed upward. ‘‘Look, Fred. There’s Olivia with Mr. Howard.’’
Before he could stop her, Mildred stood and waved. ‘‘Oh, look. She and Mr. Howard have spotted us. Olivia is signaling with her handkerchief.’’ She grabbed for his arm and tugged until he stood up. ‘‘Wave at them, Fred.’’
In the Company of Secrets Page 12
