In the Company of Secrets

by Judith Miller

  Fred took a step closer to Olivia’s side and grasped her elbow with his free hand. ‘‘If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Howard, my mother is expecting us for supper. We don’t want to keep her waiting.’’

  Mr. Howard looked down at Morgan for a brief moment. ‘‘I trust Mrs. Hornsby isn’t ill.’’

  ‘‘Not to our knowledge,’’ Fred said as he tightened his hold on Olivia’s elbow. ‘‘Come along, Olivia. We’re already late.’’

  She tipped her head, thankful Fred had taken control of the situation. ‘‘Good evening, Mr. Howard.’’

  He nodded formally before donning his hat. ‘‘Miss Mott. Mr. DeVault. I trust you’ll enjoy the remainder of your evening.’’

  Olivia sighed, relieved to be away from the sticky situation. But she’d taken only a few steps when Mr. Howard called after her. ‘‘Don’t forget that you owe me an afternoon in Chicago, Miss Mott.’’

  She noted the twitch in Fred’s jaw and steeled herself for his questions.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A week later, Olivia arrived at the hotel kitchen, harried and exhausted. Mrs. DeVault was filling the void during the daylight hours, but Olivia was required to care for young Morgan each evening and throughout the night. The lack of sleep was taking its toll. Unlike Charlotte, Olivia hastened to still the infant when he cried, pacing the floor or rocking him—whatever was needed. For that, she’d received Mr. Rice’s thanks but little slumber for herself. The infant was colicky, due in part to a change in his milk—at least, that’s what Mrs. DeVault advised.

  The older woman had forecast a bleak result with such a change, and she had been correct. However, there had been no choice. Though Charlotte’s letter clearly stated Mrs. Logan had been paid for the remainder of the month, the woman contradicted the declaration and refused to supply further sustenance for Morgan. With an immediate resolution needed, Mrs. DeVault had decided upon fresh goat’s milk as a substitute. But young Morgan had objected to the new arrangement.

  Although Mrs. DeVault had said he would adjust within two weeks, Olivia didn’t know if she would survive. She trudged up the steps and into the kitchen. Her feet felt as though heavy weights had been attached to them, and dark circles rimmed her eyes. Chef René had declared she resembled a raccoon, in spite of her attempts to obscure the offending discoloration with powder.

  Turning from the giant stove, Chef René glanced in her direction and shook his head. ‘‘When will you get some sleep, Miss Mott? You cannot continue to work in this condition. The guests arrive for your tea at the end of the month. You must be prepared, Miss Mott.’’ He pointed his spoon in her direction. ‘‘If you are to be a chef, your first concern must be the kitchen.’’

  Olivia dropped onto a nearby chair. They would be alone for another fifteen minutes before the kitchen boys arrived. ‘‘But there is a baby at my house who needs care. I can’t disregard his needs because of my own desire.’’

  He pushed the pot of simmering oatmeal, one of the daily breakfast offerings, off to the rear of the stove and joined her. ‘‘His mother did. Why do you feel this child is now your responsibility? I am told there is a home for orphaned children in Chicago. Perhaps you should go there and see if they will take the infant.’’

  Olivia cradled her arms across her chest, thinking of her own motherless childhood. How could she do such a thing to little Morgan? He deserved more than a home filled with unwanted children. Though her father had never shown her love or attention, she’d always known that Aunt Eleanor loved her. Furthermore, she’d seen the dark, dank places in London where these children lived. She had passed one each time she walked to visit Aunt Eleanor. No, her heart would not permit such a thing. She couldn’t provide Morgan with a luxurious home, but a child needed love more than finery—of that she was certain.

  Chef René sat down beside her. ‘‘What do you think? You can take the child to the orphanage in Chicago tomorrow morning. I will permit the time away from work.’’

  ‘‘No.’’ Her word was a mere whisper. ‘‘The child is more important than my dream.’’

  ‘‘Non! I would agree if he were your own baby. But this is someone else’s child, Miss Mott.’’ He tapped his finger on the band of his white toque. ‘‘You must think of your future!’’

  ‘‘I’m too tired to think, Chef René . Today I’ll do well to make it through my tasks that require little thought.’’

  ‘‘What’s this I hear? Too tired to think?’’

  Both of them shifted around at the sound of Mr. Howard’s voice. He’d obviously been listening to their conversation. Olivia hoped he didn’t plan to intrude. He seemed to think he had the right to direct both her work and personal life. She was aware that his insistent behavior revealed affectionate feelings that were more than a passing fancy. But to date, her attempts to dissuade him had proved unsuccessful.

  Fred was likely correct: if she truly didn’t care for Mr. Howard, she shouldn’t accept his invitations. Thus far, the power he held over her employment with the company had controlled her decisions.

  ‘‘Miss Mott?’’ Mr. Howard interrupted her thoughts, always careful to address her formally during working hours.

  ‘‘Yes, Mr. Howard?’’

  ‘‘May I speak with you privately, please?’’ He then turned his attention to René . ‘‘May we use your office?’’

  Mr. Howard knew they would both comply, for the questions weren’t actually requests. They were commands posed in a gentlemanly fashion. Before either of them responded, he motioned for her to follow him. Olivia glanced over her shoulder, but Chef René shrugged and raised his brows. He obviously had no idea what Mr. Howard wanted.

  Once Mr. Howard closed the door, he pulled Chef René ’s chair around the desk and sat down beside her. ‘‘I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it, and I hope you won’t consider me rude, but I overheard your entire conversation with Chef René .’’

  What should she say? That she thought his behavior highly improper? She merely gave a slight nod.

  ‘‘I believe I have a solution for your problem with the infant. However, I want you to think on what I’m about to suggest— for several days. Then you may give me your answer.’’ He reached across the arm of his chair and lightly grasped her hand. ‘‘You know that I am very fond of you, Olivia. We’ve not known each other long, but from the first moment I saw you, I knew I was ready to move forward with my personal life.’’

  How could he have known such a thing the moment he saw her? Clammy beads of perspiration rolled down her back. She wanted to withdraw her hand yet feared his reaction should she pull away. Her mind raced. Exactly what was Mr. Howard suggesting? Apparently he construed her silence as agreement, for he continued.

  ‘‘If you married me, we could provide a loving home for young Morgan. He’s a fine infant, and I have the means to give him an excellent upbringing. You’d be able to quit your job and give him the nurturing he deserves. I believe this is a perfect solution—for all three of us.’’

  The warm air wrapped around her like a suffocating wool blanket. She feared she might swoon. And with the door closed, the small room provided little ventilation. Gathering her courage, she withdrew her hand, plucked a piece of paper from the desk, and frantically fanned herself.

  Mr. Howard immediately joined in and waved his white linen handkerchief back and forth in front of her. ‘‘This is why I want you to take time to consider my solution. I knew you would be—’’

  Olivia held up her hand to stave off further explanation. She inhaled deeply, carefully choosing her words. ‘‘You and Chef René forget that Charlotte—Mrs. Hornsby—may come back at any moment. As I explained to Chef René , Mrs. Hornsby’s letter didn’t say she wouldn’t return.’’

  ‘‘And it didn’t say she would. We must assume that if she intended to do so, she would have clarified her plan.’’

  ‘‘I could argue the opposite, but there’s no way of knowing for certain. A decision of any type cannot be made at the mome
nt.’’ She checked the clock. ‘‘I must get back to the kitchen, Mr. Howard.’’

  He slid forward and once again captured her hand. ‘‘But you’ll consider my proposal?’’

  The urgency in his voice matched the eagerness in his eyes, and she wanted to run from the room. She couldn’t believe he would suggest they should wed. They barely knew each other. Surely he couldn’t love her. The man could have his choice of many women. Why had he selected her? She had little to offer him . . . couldn’t even offer love. He was a nice enough man but not the man for her, not the man she hoped to marry one day. At least she didn’t think so. And she had no interest in a marriage of convenience. Did Mr. Howard believe she would grow to love him? Was he willing to take such a chance in order to provide a home for Morgan?

  Her legs wobbled as she stood, and he placed a supporting arm around her waist. ‘‘I’m fine, Mr. Howard. It’s the heat; it’s stifling in here.’’

  He leaned forward and turned the doorknob. Thankfully, a faint breeze drifted into the room. She glanced at his arm that continued to circle her waist, and he immediately released her. He wouldn’t want the staff to see him clutching the waist of the assistant chef.

  ‘‘We’ll discuss this further next week. Perhaps when we have our belated supper in Chicago?’’

  She stepped into the hallway and twisted around. ‘‘I have the baby to look after now. I’m not formulating any plans for my days or evenings away from work.’’

  The sparkle she’d noted in his eyes only moments ago disappeared. ‘‘In a city the size of Pullman, I imagine I could arrange for someone with excellent references to care for the child.’’

  Unwilling to offer an affirmative response, she pointed toward the kitchen. ‘‘I must return to work. I’m certain Chef René is in need of help with the breakfast preparations.’’ She hurried off before he could detain her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  On several occasions throughout the day, Chef René broached the topic of her conversation with Mr. Howard, but she immediately silenced his inquiries with comments about the seating arrangement in the dining room or with a question regarding one of the recipes. By day’s end, he’d ceased his questions, though she knew he was more than a little interested in what had transpired.

  He followed her outside as she prepared to depart for the evening. ‘‘I trust Mr. Howard didn’t speak ill of me during your meeting this morning?’’

  The man didn’t give up easily. ‘‘Of course not. This was a . . . a private matter.’’ She sighed with relief when Fred rounded the corner of the hotel. She waved him forward. ‘‘I thought you’d forgotten me.’’

  A gust of wind whipped his hair, and he ran his fingers through his mass of dark curls. Chef René glanced back and forth between the two and then rested his arms across his rotund belly. ‘‘Ah, so that is how it is.’’

  Olivia arranged her white jacket across one arm and held her toque between her fingers. ‘‘We are friends. His mother is caring for Morgan.’’

  Chef René tipped his head back and laughed, his sagging jowls jiggling. He wagged his head back and forth. ‘‘We, too, are friends, but you do not look at me with this same affection that I now see in your eyes.’’ He lowered his voice and winked. ‘‘I think Mr. Howard will be worried if he sees the way you look at this young man.’’

  ‘‘Who knows what will or won’t worry Mr. Howard?’’ Olivia attempted a nonchalant shrug and bid the chef good-night. She quickly fell in step alongside Fred. With the familiarity of a couple who’d known each other much longer, he took the food basket and swung it in one hand as they walked. His easy ways calmed her, and she laughed as he jested with her. Once their laughter ceased, he grew more serious.

  ‘‘I made a few inquiries about Eddie Calhoun. One of the janitors at the train station has seen him hanging around over there on a couple of occasions, but that was several days ago— probably when you last saw him hiding across the street. I may try to locate young Georgie and see if he has any information. I know a couple fellows who work at the paper wheel factory, and they can probably tell me if he’s living here in Pullman or over in Kensington.’’

  Olivia didn’t think Georgie would have maintained his friendship with Eddie—not if he wanted to remain employed at the factory. But she remained silent. Better to keep her thoughts to herself or she might discourage Fred from assisting her. Another Eddie Calhoun sighting was the last thing she wanted. The sooner the redheaded miscreant was out of her life, the better. She had enough worries with the approaching gala, Mr. Howard’s proposal, and young Morgan’s care.

  Fred lifted the basket a notch. ‘‘You probably don’t need this food today. Mother is planning on your joining us for supper tonight. She said the two of you had never completed an earlier conversation, and she intended to do so tonight.’’

  Although she detected the curiosity in his voice, she merely agreed that his mother’s company would provide an enjoyable evening. ‘‘Besides, I thought you and Albert were practicing your baseball or rowing this evening.’’

  He laughed heartily, causing tiny lines to crinkle at the corner of his eyes. ‘‘You sound like my mother. She says I’ll never find a wife who’ll be willing to put up with my still wanting to play games like a young boy.’’

  ‘‘I think most any young woman would gladly accept a marriage proposal from you.’’ A blush stole across her cheeks, and she quickly looked away, embarrassed by her response. What must he think of a woman who would make such a bold remark?

  ‘‘I’m flattered by your assessment.’’ Fred tipped his head closer, his lips twitching to force away his natural grin. ‘‘And do you count yourself among that number?’’

  Without thinking, she joined in his banter. ‘‘I don’t think my heart could withstand two marriage proposals in one day.’’ Her eyes widened, and she bit her lower lip the moment the words escaped her lips. In the pleasure of their repartee, she’d let down her guard and forgotten to mind her tongue.

  His brow furrowed.

  She forced herself to giggle, relieved when he quickly followed suit.

  ‘‘So you’re attempting to make me jealous, are you, Miss Olivia Mott?’’

  The heaviness slowly lifted from her chest, and she inhaled a shallow breath. Placing her hand on her heart, she feigned mock indignation. ‘‘I would never do such a thing.’’

  Fred guffawed loudly. ‘‘On first meeting, a person would miss the depth of your humorous nature, Olivia.’’ His blue eyes softened.

  A twinge of guilt nagged her conscience. I didn’t lie! But you still deceived him. The argument raged in her mind until they arrived at the DeVault home. Albert greeted them at the front door with Morgan cradled in one arm.

  Olivia greeted Albert with a kiss on the cheek. ‘‘Getting in practice for one of your own, I see.’’

  He vehemently shook his head. ‘‘No! Marriage maybe, but I haven’t had enough preparation for fatherhood just yet.’’

  Olivia removed her bonnet and cape and hung them on one of the hooks in the hallway. ‘‘That’s what all men say, but you appear quite at ease with Morgan.’’

  Albert grinned. ‘‘I’m simply helping out where needed. I’m waiting for supper, and Mrs. DeVault can’t tend to the boy and cook, too.’’ Morgan whimpered and Albert bounced his arm. ‘‘You’ve got him spoiled, Livie.’’

  She slapped her cousin’s arm. For the first time since Olivia’s arrival, Albert had reverted back to the childhood name she detested. ‘‘Don’t call me that. You know I dislike it. And he’s not spoiled—he’s got a case of the colic. Just ask Mrs. DeVault and she’ll agree. Now out of my way so I can go and assist in the kitchen. I trust the two of you strapping men can handle this teeny baby.’’

  Without waiting for a response, she removed the basket from Fred’s hand and marched off toward the kitchen.

  Mrs. DeVault’s clear blue eyes sparkled as she greeted Olivia. Her ample figure was wrapped in a cotton apron that
covered her plain brown dress. The heat from the stove had turned her cheeks rosy. ‘‘Olivia! I’m pleased to see you, child.’’

  She offered the words as though she hadn’t seen her for a month instead of just earlier this morning. The woman certainly had known that she’d be arriving—both to partake of supper and to retrieve Morgan. Her tone exuded a warmth usually reserved for family and close friends. She crooked her finger and Olivia stepped closer.

  ‘‘I was hoping we would have some time alone to visit. What with Mrs. Hornsby’s unexpected departure and all of the upheaval with the baby, we haven’t had an opportunity to resume our discussion about those Bible verses.’’

  ‘‘I do have several questions for you, Mrs. DeVault.’’

  The older woman beamed and rubbed her palms together. ‘‘Good. I’m pleased to know you followed my advice and read the Scriptures.’’

  ‘‘Oh yes. I read them that very night.’’ Olivia reached into her reticule and retrieved a scrap of paper. ‘‘I wrote down a few notes.’’

  Mrs. DeVault beamed her approval. ‘‘Well, you ask away. If I don’t know the answer, I’ll find someone who does.’’

  While Mrs. DeVault removed a beef and potato pie from the oven, Olivia posed her questions, hoping she didn’t sound foolish. But Mrs. DeVault didn’t frown or laugh at her. On the contrary, she appeared pleased by each inquiry.

  The older woman wiped her hands across the corner of her apron and sat down next to Olivia. ‘‘Let’s start with your first question. Receiving eternal life is every bit as easy as the Bible says. It’s a gift—pure and simple. But here’s the thing, Olivia. We have the right to accept or reject it. This isn’t something that’s forced upon us. If you believe what the Bible says, you ask for forgiveness and invite Jesus into your heart.’’