It was when Olivia had been getting ready to leave that morning that Mrs. DeVault had suggested they discuss additional help for Charlotte and the baby this evening. ‘‘I can come over about eight o’clock, and we’ll talk.’’ But now Chef René wanted to discuss some matter. Who knew how long he’d keep her.
The chef pointed his thick finger at one of the chairs. ‘‘Sit! We will talk.’’
He’d given her no choice, and she did as he commanded.
Lacing his fingers together, he rested his arms across his substantial girth. ‘‘I was going to talk to you first thing this morning, but you were late arriving. So now we will talk.’’ He sat on the edge of his chair and leaned across the desk. ‘‘We have been given a special privilege, Miss Mott. One in which I hope you will excel.’’
She bobbed her head. ‘‘I will do my best, Chef René .’’
Thoughts of Charlotte slipped from her mind as Olivia scooted back in the chair, curious to hear about this fine opportunity of distinction. Chef René knew her capabilities better than anyone. No one could deny the chef ’s expertise as an instructor, and she’d accomplished much under his tutelage, yet she remained unsure if she possessed the ability to excel. However, his words of confidence had bolstered her enthusiasm for whatever project he might suggest. She waited patiently while he shuffled through several piles on his desk. There was no doubt the chef was more organized in his kitchen than with the paper work on his desk.
‘‘Ah, here it is!’’ His eyes gleamed with triumph as he clasped a piece of stationery between his thumb and forefinger and held it in the air. From this distance, she couldn’t read the document, but the stationery appeared similar to the expensive linen paper Charlotte had stolen from her mother months earlier. She deciphered a large P monogrammed at the top of the page. Her hands quivered, and she wondered if this might be a special request from Mr. Pullman.
Placing the missive atop the center pile on his desk, he patted it gently. ‘‘Mrs. Pullman has requested that a special tea be prepared for guests who will be attending the sailing regatta and athletic competitions in late September, when all of her friends have returned from their summer sanctuaries.’’
Olivia waited. She wasn’t certain what he expected her to say. Apparently he thought she didn’t understand his reference to the elite returning home from their summer vacations.
‘‘The wealthy all flee the cities during the hottest months. Most depart in June or early July to go abroad or travel to their vacation homes in other parts of the country. If the Pullmans aren’t in Europe, they go to their resort along the shore in New Jersey or to Castle Rest in the Thousand Islands—both places I hope I’ll never see again.’’ He daubed the beads of perspiration that had gathered along his forehead with a giant white handkerchief.
Though Olivia couldn’t imagine why he wouldn’t want to revisit such lovely sounding places, the chef ’s attention was once again on the letter on his desk. He lifted the page by one corner and handed it across the desk. ‘‘Read this.’’
Olivia quickly perused the letter. Mrs. Pullman would be entertaining the wives of influential Chicago businessmen at a tea to be hosted at Hotel Florence. In addition to enjoying their tea, the women would be discussing plans to raise funds for the new Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Beyond that, the letter didn’t state what else the women would be planning, which apparently was not something Mrs. Pullman thought of import to Chef René or the kitchen staff. The letter explicitly charged Chef René with impressing her guests with delightful delicacies and fine service throughout the afternoon event.
‘‘Since the English are renowned for their teas, I thought this would be an excellent opportunity for you to exhibit some of the delights developed in the kitchen of Chef Partridge.’’
Olivia giggled. ‘‘Chef Mallard.’’
He shrugged. ‘‘At least I remembered his name resembled some type of edible bird. What do you think about this? The hotel will be filled with guests during the weekend, and I will need to direct all of my attention toward meal preparations. I would be most appreciative if you could handle this tea.’’ He said the word as though it pained him. ‘‘If you do not believe you are up to the task, you must be honest with me.’’ Wagging his index finger back and forth, he leaned forward and rested his chest atop the desk. ‘‘I don’t ever want to see ants parading down my tables again. The ladies would run screaming from the hotel, and I would surely be discharged.’’
‘‘No more peonies. Besides, they don’t bloom in late summer.’’ She wondered if Chef René would be pleased after he heard the honest reply he’d requested. ‘‘There was a pastry chef at Lanshire Hall, but it wasn’t me. I wasn’t even the regular assistant to the pastry chef.’’
He clasped a hand to his chest as though she’d mortally wounded him. ‘‘Ah non.’’
‘‘I only performed as a helper when the regular assistant was not available, and I don’t know if my pastries will meet Mrs. Pullman’s expectations. If I could use my mother’s recipes—’’
‘‘Good! I care little whose recipes you will put to use so long as they are worthy of being served in Hotel Florence.’’ Suddenly he slapped his hands on the pile of papers. ‘‘Aha! I have the answer!’’
His shout nearly caused Olivia to fall from her chair. ‘‘And that is?’’
‘‘You will prepare your recipes for me, and we will give them a taste test.’’ He once again folded his hands across his great expanse of belly and grinned. ‘‘A good idea, non?’’
‘‘Yes. An excellent idea. I will bring my recipes tomorrow, and we shall begin.’’
He pushed on the arms of the chair and dislodged himself. ‘‘We shall begin tomorrow—after regular working hours.’’
‘‘But—’’
‘‘After the others go home, you will bake and I will taste.’’
Olivia wanted to argue, but it appeared as if the matter was settled, and the timing couldn’t be worse. When she disclosed she’d be working late every night for the remainder of the week, Charlotte would likely fly into a rage—or begin one of her crying episodes that could go on for hours. Olivia didn’t know which would be worse. In the meantime, she wanted to select several of her mother’s recipes before morning.
Approaching the house, she could hear the baby’s cries coming through the open bedroom window. Picking up her pace, she ran up the front steps and hurried inside. A quick peek into the bedroom revealed the infant lying on the bed, his tiny arms and legs flailing in time with his lusty cries. Olivia looked into the parlor and noted Charlotte reclining on the divan.
‘‘Could you do something to make him quit crying?’’ Charlotte asked as she waved her arm toward the bedroom. ‘‘He’s been screaming ever since Mrs. DeVault departed, and I can’t get a minute of peace.’’
‘‘Did you consider holding him? He’s kicked off his blanket.’’ She had no idea when the infant had eaten. She hoped Mrs. DeVault had convinced Charlotte to nurse the baby. ‘‘And his diaper is probably wet. No wonder he’s crying. When did he last eat?’’
‘‘Shortly before Mrs. DeVault departed at six o’clock.’’ Charlotte tugged at the cloth strips around her chest. ‘‘These bindings hurt,’’ she whined. ‘‘Why are you so late tonight?’’
She chose to ignore Charlotte’s question. ‘‘Did you feed him?’’
Charlotte wagged her head back and forth as she continued to rearrange the bindings. ‘‘Mrs. DeVault found some woman. She said she’d return this evening and talk to you.’’ She tightened her lips into a moue. ‘‘Are you going to do something about him?’’
‘‘Indeed I am.’’ Olivia walked to the bedroom, picked up the baby, and carried him into the parlor. With as much decorum as she could muster, Olivia dropped a diaper onto Charlotte’s lap and placed the child in her arms. ‘‘It’s time you began taking care of your son.’’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The previous night’s events had proved enough of a disaster that Olivia was actu
ally pleased she had an excuse to remain at work this evening. Charlotte’s childish behavior had bordered on intolerable. Instead of taking responsibility, she had acted like an uninterested party during the meeting with Mrs. DeVault and Mrs. Logan. Mrs. Logan agreed to supply milk, and Mrs. DeVault would continue to assist with the infant’s care, but only if Charlotte agreed that she, too, would do her part. It was only when Mrs. DeVault threatened to withdraw her assistance that Charlotte had finally joined the conversation. Mrs. DeVault later explained that it was Charlotte’s willingness to pay Mrs. Logan, rather than the woman’s Christian love, that had been the deciding factor.
Mrs. DeVault remained hopeful that Charlotte would soon embrace motherhood, but Olivia had her doubts. At Olivia’s insistence, Charlotte had changed a few wet diapers. Though she had retched, gagged, and whined, she’d finally managed to change one dirty diaper last night. This morning, with only a wet diaper to manage, she had done much better. However, she’d not been amused when she removed the wet diaper and young Morgan drenched her with an unexpected shower.
Chef René slapped his beefy hand atop the counter and all thoughts of Charlotte and the baby immediately dissipated. ‘‘The pastry kitchen is yours, Miss Mott. I hope to be impressed.’’ He raised his eyebrows and looked at the clock. ‘‘I will return in one hour to check your progress.’’
The moment he departed, Olivia set to work, thankful the chef had not chosen to follow her downstairs to the pastry kitchen and watch. She lit the bakery oven, selected the temperature, and gathered the ingredients. She’d never been one to pray over the small things in life, nor over many of the big things, either, for that matter. But Mrs. DeVault said God was in the little things as well as the big, so she silently asked for guidance through these next few days of testing.
For the most part, she had already decided what she would prepare. Today, it would be pastry puffs with a variety of fillings, everything from lemon curd to chicken salad. By making the puffs in several sizes and adding an array of decorations, each would appear unique—a time-saving device learned in Chef Mallard’s kitchen. Chef René hadn’t set any particular rules regarding preparation. Therefore, Olivia had confiscated several pieces of leftover baked chicken for her chicken salad, as well as some chocolate custard, apricot cream, and rhubarb custard for her dessert delicacies.
She would have preferred more time for the puffs to cool before filling them and didn’t hesitate to tell Chef René when he entered the kitchen. ‘‘You had best check the texture quickly, or the creams and custards will be in a complete meltdown.’’
Observing her plight, he didn’t argue and immediately tasted the offerings. She’d drizzled the sweet puffs with chocolate or a dusting of icing sugar. In the chicken salad puffs, she had tucked a sprig of parsley or rosemary to add a dash of color. Unfortunately, there had been little time to arrange them in an attractive presentation that would be pleasing to the eye as well as the palate, something Chef René constantly emphasized.
Olivia anxiously awaited his response while he finished the final bite. ‘‘These will do nicely.’’ He kissed the tips of his fingers. ‘‘Magnifique!’’
She wanted to dance around the kitchen and celebrate; instead, she remained calm and offered her thanks. Hearing Chef René ’s praise had made her efforts worthwhile. When she began to gather the cooking utensils to carry them to the sink, he shook his head.
‘‘You go home now. I’ve arranged for one of the kitchen boys to come down and clean up each evening when you finish your baking.’’
‘‘Then I’ll see you in the morning. Thank you, again, for your kind words.’’
‘‘Time is limited in the evening, Miss Mott, but do not forget— presentation.’’ The chef ’s final word floated across the room in a reverent tone.
She removed her toque and jacket. ‘‘The tables will be properly decorated, and I will use crystallized flowers and fruit to accent.’’
He popped another pastry into his mouth and gave an affirmative nod. ‘‘I look forward to tomorrow’s offering.’’
Though René ’s praise had bolstered her spirits, her body needed rest. Forcing one foot in front of the other, she wondered if she’d get any sleep tonight. And tomorrow would be another long day. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t hear the approaching footsteps and was startled when she felt a tug on her basket.
‘‘May I carry that for you?’’
‘‘Fred! What a pleasant surprise.’’ She loosened her hold on the basket and suddenly didn’t feel nearly so tired. ‘‘What brings you here?’’
‘‘Mother returned to help Mrs. Hornsby with the baby, and I walked along with her.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘That one’s not much good with babies or the domestic life, is she?’’
Olivia giggled. ‘‘No. She’s certainly not.’’
‘‘My mother says it may have something to do with losing her husband—that she’s not gotten over grieving his loss. I’m not so sure. I think the woman tends to be self-centered and lazy. To my way of thinking, she should be pleased to care for the young lad. After all, he’s all that she has left of her husband.’’
Fred’s comments were a reminder that Charlotte must not forget her role of the grieving widow. Yet Olivia couldn’t fault Charlotte too much. After all, she herself failed to remember their lies from time to time. Unlike the truth, she’d discovered it was much more difficult to recollect lies. The two of them had become rather lax of late. They’d better review the list of lies before bed tonight.
‘‘People react differently in times of grief, I’m told.’’ She hoped her cursory remark would be enough to forestall further discussion of Charlotte’s behavior. ‘‘I’m pleased you happened along.’’
He laughed heartily and pushed his hair from his forehead. Her stomach flip-flopped at the sparkle in his eyes. ‘‘I didn’t just happen along, Olivia. My mother said you had to work late, so I thought I’d wait in the park until I saw you heading toward home. Turns out I didn’t have to wait at all.’’
Although they’d seemingly mended their disagreement over the night at the band concert, Fred had proceeded cautiously since then. They’d attended several outdoor concerts with Albert and Martha, she had accompanied Martha to watch the men compete in their soccer and baseball games, and they were together after church each Sunday. However, Fred hadn’t invited her to spend time alone with him. Now she relished the moment and welcomed the pleasure of being with him, if only for a few minutes.
‘‘I asked Mrs. Hornsby why you were working so late, but she merely said she thought you wanted to avoid being around the baby. I doubted that was true.’’ He grinned.
She matched his stride as they continued along the perimeter of the park and then crossed the street, all the while savoring his presence and wishing he would slow his gait and they could spend the remainder of the evening alone. ‘‘I’m required to stay after regular hours each evening to make pastries for Chef René ’s evaluation. And while I’m preparing for the gala at the hotel, I understand that you and Albert have been practicing for the athletic competitions that will coincide with the regatta.’’
‘‘Yes, though I imagine we’re enjoying ourselves more than you are. Don’t you resent spending so much time in the kitchen?’’
She shook her head. ‘‘It’s hard work but an amazing opportunity.’’ Pleased at his seeming interest, she detailed several of the delicacies she would prepare. ‘‘I do want to please both Chef René and Mrs. Pullman.’’
‘‘Oh yes. We wouldn’t want to disappoint a member of the Pullman family.’’ His words dripped with sarcasm.
‘‘Do you dislike Mr. Pullman and this town so much, Fred?’’
‘‘I’m not denying there’s a great deal of opportunity in Pullman. But these capitalists are building their empires off the little man’s sweat and toil. Wealthy visitors come to town and think this place is a utopia for the workingman. Instead, it’s just another means for Mr. Pullman to stuff more money
into his own coffers.’’
Fred’s slant on Mr. Pullman’s rise to wealth and fame differed dramatically from that of Mr. Howard. Of course, the two men possessed far different positions within the company and the town itself, so she supposed that wasn’t so odd. Mr. Howard thought Mr. Pullman’s rise to fame and fortune had been hard-earned and well-deserved. On the other hand, Fred painted a picture of a man willing to achieve success at any cost, even if it meant stepping upon the backs of hardworking, uneducated men to get there—a cold and indifferent man who cared little for anyone or anything other than the almighty dollar.
Yet she wondered aloud whether such a cold and heartless man would name a hotel for his daughter or take such care in beautifying the town.
Fred laughed at her remark. ‘‘I’m told Mr. Pullman has four children, but he favors only one—Florence. What kind of man gives such preference to one child over the others?’’
Olivia didn’t think Mr. Pullman’s behavior such a terrible offense. ‘‘He couldn’t name the hotel after all of them, and she is the oldest child.’’
‘‘No, he couldn’t, but don’t you see that it’s not just the hotel? While the other Pullman children were absent the day his company began production, it was Florence who turned the valves to set the Corliss engine into motion and begin production at the Pullman Car Works. Her picture was in all the papers, yet there was no mention of the other children.’’ He frowned and pointed toward Lake Calumet. ‘‘Have you seen the housing where the brickyard workers live?’’
Although she’d not been to the area he referred to, he didn’t hesitate long for a response.
‘‘You haven’t seen those places because they’re well hidden, carefully tucked away so that Mr. Pullman’s illustrious visitors won’t know such ramshackle housing exists in this town. Those wealthy folks ride into Pullman on their private railroad cars and believe everyone living here has a perfect life—all thanks to our wonderful benefactor.’’ Fred kicked a pebble and watched it bounce down the sidewalk before coming to rest in a well-landscaped patch of grass.
In the Company of Secrets Page 14
