In the Company of Secrets

by Judith Miller

  ‘‘But how do you know if He really forgives you?’’

  Mrs. DeVault’s expression became somber. ‘‘That’s called faith, Olivia. And even though He forgives us, we must be prepared to suffer the consequences of our sins.’’

  Olivia tilted her head and stared out the kitchen window while considering what the cost of her sins might be. ‘‘What if I sin again?’’ Her voice trembled.

  The sparkle returned to Mrs. DeVault’s eyes as she patted Olivia’s hand. ‘‘We’re imperfect creatures, Olivia. But once we accept Jesus, we try to do better by following His Word and listening to the Holy Spirit.’’ The older woman touched her palm to her heart.

  ‘‘Is that the little voice I keep hearing that tells me I should or shouldn’t do something?’’

  ‘‘That’s exactly right. We need to do what God wants us to do, Olivia, not what other folks tell us. You look to the Bible for your answers, and you’ll not go wrong.’’ Pressing her hands atop the table, Mrs. DeVault stood up. ‘‘I believe that pie’s rested long enough to thicken. Don’t want to leave it too long; the men will complain if it’s cold.’’

  Even though Mrs. DeVault seemed to know a lot about the Bible and faith, she obviously thought it important that Olivia search out answers on her own. Likely so she’d become more acquainted with the contents while she looked. Olivia considered the size of the book and its feathery pages. Finding the answers to her questions could take many an hour!

  When Olivia had placed the final pieces of silverware on the table and poured steaming coffee into the heavy earthenware cups, Fred walked into the kitchen with Morgan on his shoulder. Mrs. DeVault wagged her head back and forth and pointed him toward the door.

  ‘‘Put that boy down and let him sleep. You keep carrying him around like that, and he’s going to think that’s the way of things, and I’ll never complete my chores when you’re at work.’’ Her voice was brusque, but her eyes twinkled.

  Fred nuzzled the baby’s downy hair and whispered his apologies to the infant as he carried him from the room. ‘‘I won’t tell young Morgan a soft heart lies beneath those gruff words.’’

  Mrs. DeVault shooed him from the room without comment, and when he returned a few minutes later, his arms were empty. His mother wasted no time putting him to work. Using thick towels, he lifted the pie from atop the stove, careful to protect his fingers from the edge of the dish.

  ‘‘In the center of the table?’’ he asked his mother.

  She pursed her lips into a tight knot. ‘‘How can you serve if it’s in the middle of the table, Frederick? Put it in front of your plate. You will serve tonight.’’

  Olivia moved a step closer. ‘‘Frederick?’’ she whispered.

  With a look of disgust, he plopped the hot dish onto the table. ‘‘Fred, to you. Only my mother can get away with calling me by my formal name.’’

  Mrs. DeVault turned on her heel. ‘‘What? Frederick is an excellent name! You are ashamed of the name your father and I gave you?’’

  ‘‘No, of course not, Mother. It’s just that I prefer the shortened version. It’s not so . . . stiff and proper sounding.’’

  She muttered something under her breath, then asked, ‘‘Where is Albert hiding? Does he think he’s permitted to be late to the table?’’

  Albert strode into the room with Martha following close on his heels. He reached around and pulled her forward. ‘‘I hope you won’t mind that I’ve invited Martha to join us, Mrs. DeVault. She stopped by Olivia’s apartment and, not finding her there, decided to see if she was here. I told her we were just sitting down to supper and that—’’

  ‘‘Oh, stop with your rambling explanation, Albert. You know there’s always plenty for one more.’’ She flapped a linen towel in his direction. ‘‘I’m always pleased for Martha’s company. Olivia, would you set another place, please?’’

  Soon they’d all taken their places, and Mrs. DeVault signaled for Fred to offer the blessing. Olivia liked the way Mrs. DeVault had everyone hold hands. It made her feel as though the prayer was from all of them instead of just from Fred.

  After the prayer, Albert tucked his napkin into his shirt collar, just as he’d done when a little boy. It hung in front of him like a triangular bib, but Martha seemed not to care a whit. ‘‘Any word from Mrs. Hornsby, Olivia?’’ he asked.

  Fred spooned a large serving of the pie onto Albert’s plate. The inviting fragrance of the meat and vegetables drifted toward Olivia as she passed the plate of food to her cousin. ‘‘No, I’ve not yet had any word from Charlotte.’’

  Once Fred had finished serving all of them, Martha dipped her fork into the pie. ‘‘I think you should consider finding a more permanent place for the baby. After all, you can’t continue to care for him. He’d be better off with a mother and a father.’’

  Olivia’s breath caught. She placed a hand to her bodice. ‘‘He’s not a sack of flour that I can drop on someone’s doorstep.’’

  Martha apologized, but her words of regret sounded hollow. Moreover, her eyes betrayed what she truly thought: Olivia should take Morgan to the orphanage in Chicago where they might find him a home. Martha sounded just like Chef René .

  Olivia knew that placing Morgan in an orphanage wouldn’t guarantee him a nice home with a mother and father. She’d seen some of the orphanages in London where many children remained until they were old enough to be sent into the factories to earn a few quid. For now, at least, it was better if the baby remained with her.

  She thrust out her chin. ‘‘I’ll keep him with me for a while longer. Charlotte may yet return. I’ve even considered giving up my position at the hotel if necessary.’’

  Martha flashed a pitying look. ‘‘Really, Olivia. Don’t be foolish. How would you support yourself and the child? Wasn’t Mrs. Hornsby paying a portion of your rent? Anyway, if you don’t work for the company, you can’t live in Pullman. I thought it was your dream to be a chef.’’ With a woeful grimace, she wiped the corners of her mouth. ‘‘Do you plan to give up your dream and leave Pullman? How will you survive?’’ She dropped her fork and stared at Olivia, bug-eyed. ‘‘Unless you plan to wed in the near future.’’

  Heat traveled up Olivia’s neck and spread across her cheeks as she remembered the conversation with Mr. Howard earlier in the day. Had Martha been listening in the hallway outside Chef René ’s office? Could she have heard Mr. Howard’s proposal?

  Fred stared at her, and she longed to escape his questioning eyes. Was he thinking of her comment earlier in the day when she had mentioned a proposal? She could only pray he wouldn’t ask. She didn’t want to lie.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  For the fourth time within a two-hour period, Olivia trudged up the long flights of stairs leading to the top floor of the Arcade. Everything appeared to be in readiness. The crystallized flowers added a perfect touch to the simple decorations Chef René had insisted upon. They shimmered in the glow of the copious candelabra strategically situated throughout the lodge rooms on the third floor of the Arcade. On September 24, Mrs. Pullman had sent word of her decision to change the location for her tea. She had suddenly decided she disliked the idea of having her guests divided between the ladies’ reading room and the dining room. With the hotel lobby located directly between the two rooms, she had determined the arrangement would be unacceptable. At least that’s the word Chef René had used when he advised Olivia. They’d been left with only a week to make the necessary adjustments, and the logistics were exhausting.

  Specific members of the kitchen staff and the wait staff had been assigned to assist Olivia, and loaded wagons had transported many of the amenities that would be needed for the party. In addition, Chef René had recruited a host of young men to carry the items up the sweeping staircases to the third floor— for a fee, of course.

  Like all of the formal buildings in Pullman, the lodge rooms were luxurious. Once decorated, they provided an excellent ambiance. Olivia checked the clock. The guests would
arrive in less than an hour. Chef René had promised that the ice sculptures, surrounded by linen towels and wrapped in hay, would depart the hotel kitchen a half hour before the first guests were due to arrive. ‘‘This will allow sufficient time for delivery and proper placement on the tables,’’ he’d said. She would have preferred an earlier arrival, but from the set of his jaw, she knew he would brook no argument.

  The waiters in their starched white shirts, freshly pressed jackets, and creased pants were lined up in readiness while the kitchen staff flurried in the Moose Lodge room at the far end of the hall—Olivia’s choice for a makeshift storage and preparation room. The ornate chairs and furnishings had been moved into the other rooms to provide additional seating.

  Now she could only hope the staff had remembered all of the utensils and supplies needed. Should an emergency arise, she would keep two boys, Walter and John, at the ready to fetch anything needed.

  ‘‘Here come the ice sculptures. Hey, Thomas! Up here.’’ Walter was leaning out of a third-floor window while hollering to one of his friends on the wagon. Olivia hoped none of the elegant guests who were arriving for the festivities had observed Walter’s unceremonious behavior.

  She yanked the stripling’s shirt and motioned him back inside. ‘‘The town is awash with distinguished guests, Walter. Do not hang out the windows and yell at your friends like a young ruffian.’’

  With a hearty laugh, Walter moved away from the window. ‘‘If I can’t holler at my friends, can I at least toss some water on my enemies?’’ He slapped his leg and guffawed.

  Chef René appeared just then and pinched the boy’s ear between his finger and thumb. ‘‘Whom do you think you are speaking to, Walter? Miss Mott is my assistant, and you will treat her with proper respect. Do you understand?’’

  Walter squirmed and wriggled as he lifted onto his toes, likely hoping to relieve the pressure on his right ear. ‘‘Yes, Chef René .’’

  The chef released the boy and pointed toward the door. ‘‘Now go and help carry the ice sculptures. And don’t stumble. If you drop them, there will be no pay for you!’’

  The bug-eyed boy raced from the room with Chef René ’s ominous warning following him out the door.

  ‘‘You’ve become quite the tyrant,’’ Olivia observed with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘‘I didn’t even know you were in the room until I heard you bellowing at young Walter. He must be frightened out of his wits.’’

  ‘‘Ha! It would take more than a pinched ear and a stern warning to alarm him. The boy needs a father’s direction to guide him. Unfortunately, his father is no longer living, and his mother is busy trying to earn a living for the family.’’ He waved his hand. ‘‘We don’t have time to discuss Walter Young’s troubles. I can’t stay long, but I wanted to ensure everything is in order.’’

  Olivia knew why he’d truly arrived: he wanted to make certain she’d properly placed the mirrors that would reflect light on his ice sculptures. And, of course, he wanted to be the one to position the creations on the tables. Not that she faulted him. He accompanied her throughout the rooms, and when he’d finished the tour, he took hold of her shoulders and placed a fleeting kiss on each cheek.

  ‘‘Formidable! You have surpassed my expectations, Miss Mott. You have created elegance.’’ As the boys carried the first of the carvings up the steps, he glowed with satisfaction. ‘‘After the ice sculptures are in place, Mrs. Pullman will never again mention the idea of themes for her social events.’’

  The young men had received their instructions before departing the hotel, and all remnants of hay had been removed from Chef René ’s creations before they ascended the stairs. Olivia remained in the background while he orchestrated the final maneuvers and strategically positioned each of the swans on the smaller tables. When the final sculpture was ready to be unveiled, he motioned her forward.

  Slowly he removed the toweling. Olivia gasped. In the center of the large serving table sat a perfect ice replica of Hotel Florence. She grasped the older man’s arm. ‘‘It’s beautiful, Chef René ! Mrs. Pullman will be delighted.’’

  ‘‘Oui!’’ He stepped back to take in the entire setting. He pointed to the far end of the hallway. ‘‘Even with that awful sign that says Moose Lodge, we have managed to create elegance, Miss Mott.’’

  With an admonition to keep the trays filled and the tea hot, he bid her good-bye and lumbered off to prepare an elegant supper for the many guests and dignitaries visiting Pullman for the several days of festivities. Mrs. Randolph Morgan had been among the guests slated to attend today’s tea, and Olivia wondered if both she and her husband would be in Pullman for the entire weekend. Would Mr. Morgan chat and exchange pleasantries with the earl and countess? Would he mention Charlotte’s presence in Pullman? The thought all but knocked her to her knees. Before this moment, she’d not considered the idea. Had Charlotte feared Randolph might reveal her presence in Pullman and avow she had wrongfully accused him?

  ‘‘Miss Mott. Miss Mott!’’ One of the waiters tapped her shoulder and pulled her from her introspection. ‘‘Mrs. Pullman is arriving.’’ All thoughts of Randolph Morgan vanished from her mind, and Olivia assumed her position beside the polished cherry balustrade at the top of the wide staircase to await Mrs. Pullman’s appearance.

  The staff stood at attention, their eyes fixed upon the stairway. Moments later, attired in a plum gown accented with crystal beads and a stand-up collar, Mrs. Pullman appeared with her husband at her side. With wrist flounces and a jabot of ecru lace, Mrs. Pullman was the epitome of beauty and grace. Then, before Olivia had completed her assessment of the ensemble, she caught sight of an aristocratic couple following Mr. and Mrs. Pullman. It was the Earl and Countess of Lanshire. Olivia clutched the cool wood of the banister and inhaled deeply. She didn’t want to faint. How she wished Chef René hadn’t departed. She wanted nothing more than to escape into the recesses of the back room and hide. Without thinking, she uttered a silent prayer. I know I don’t deserve it, but could you help me through this? Please?

  Not one of the foursome acknowledged Olivia’s presence as they passed by. Perhaps God had heard her prayer. The thought comforted her. She followed at a distance while the group made their way around the rooms, surveying the tables and occasionally murmuring a comment. When they had finished their rounds, Mrs. Pullman turned to speak with the countess. Olivia held her breath, fearful the woman would disapprove of the décor, for the countess was renowned for her impeccable taste. One word of censure could signify disaster for the chosen design.

  The countess scanned the room one final time. ‘‘Exquisite!’’

  Mrs. Pullman beamed at the praise.

  ‘‘The ice carving of the hotel is a superb focal point for this event,’’ the countess continued, gesturing with her gloved hand. ‘‘I couldn’t have suggested anything more perfect. I’m pleased you didn’t choose to use some tedious theme like so many of your American counterparts. The practice never was completely embraced in European social circles and is utterly taboo this season.’’ Mrs. Pullman flushed at the praise. ‘‘But, of course, you already knew that, didn’t you, for your tables are exquisite. The crystallized flowers add a perfect touch.’’

  Mrs. Pullman waved Olivia forward. Both the earl and Mr. Pullman had stepped to the other side of the hall and were engrossed in conversation, obviously uninterested in conversing further about the décor. Olivia momentarily gave thought to retreating from the building. Both Mrs. Pullman and the countess were staring at her, but she couldn’t force her feet to move any more rapidly.

  With charming grace, Mrs. Pullman grasped Olivia’s hand. ‘‘I believe you may remember this talented young woman?’’

  The countess frowned as her gaze traveled from the tip of Olivia’s white toque to the shine on her black leather shoes and then returned. She peered into Olivia’s eyes. How Olivia wanted to turn away, yet she dared not.

  The older woman slowly shook her head. ‘‘I’m sorry, girl. I
don’t believe I recognize you. Your name?’’

  ‘‘Olivia Mott. I was employed in your kitchens at Lanshire Hall.’’ Olivia curtsied and forced a smile. ‘‘Of course, Chef Mallard conducted all meetings with you, so we never actually met.’’

  From all appearances, Olivia determined the countess was pleased she didn’t have to think further on the matter. And Olivia was thankful to have the situation so easily resolved. At least it had been resolved until Mr. Pullman strode across the room, the earl at his side.

  ‘‘I’d wager you were sorry to lose this fine young lady as a chef in your kitchen,’’ Mr. Pullman commented. ‘‘However, she’s a testament to the fine training given at Lanshire Hall. I hired her based upon your excellent letter of recommendation, Countess.’’

  At a loss for words, the countess glanced at her husband.

  The earl shrugged his shoulders. ‘‘Mr. Pullman has asked me to join him for a meeting with some other investors,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ll join you back in our rooms before supper?’’

  Olivia took the opportunity to slip away while the foursome discussed their plans. The guests were ascending the staircase as she scurried down the hallway and into the preparation room, where she finally exhaled a sigh. After a final review of the serving trays, she dispatched the waiters. One thing was certain: for the rest of the day, she would remain with the kitchen staff in the Moose Lodge meeting room.

  Olivia dropped into bed exhausted. She shifted positions, but sleep wouldn’t come. Too many thoughts cluttered her mind. The remainder of the day had passed in a whirlwind, but there had been no further dealings with the countess.

  She stared at the ceiling, remembering Mrs. Pullman’s grand entrance into the preparation room at the conclusion of the tea. The older woman’s effusive compliments had embarrassed Olivia. In order to divert attention away from herself, she had eloquently praised the staff. After hearing her acclaim for the workers, Mrs. Pullman promised each of them that a small bonus would be added to their pay the following week. The staff had offered her a hearty cheer once the guests had departed. Olivia grinned, remembering how Walter, using flowers from the table decorations, had fashioned a daisy chain, placed it atop her toque, and declared her their champion.