Whispers Along the Rails

by Judith Miller

  After Fred’s quick explanation, John hollered congratulations across the room. Bill pumped his arm in the air, and Fred laughed at his enthusiasm. ‘‘Don’t get him too excited. I don’t want him to end up disappointed if it doesn’t work out.’’

  ‘‘Looks to me like the Lord’s got His hand in this one. Think about it. How often does something like this happen?’’

  ‘‘It’s the first time I know of, and I couldn’t be more pleased for Bill. We’ve all been worried over his situation. The church has been helping out, but with more and more men being laid off, the benevolence fund is being stretched to the limit.’’

  John scratched his head. ‘‘His own business—that’s really something. I hope it works out for him.’’

  ‘‘Chicago is wide open for the taking. Not much competition and high demand with all the construction and wealth. I’m hoping Bill can do some of that fine artwork on the doors and windows of those fancy mansions along Prairie Avenue.’’

  ‘‘He’ll need to convince only one of those women that she needs his artwork, and the rest will follow suit. Seems they like to do their best to keep up with one another.’’ John glanced around the room. ‘‘It would be wonderful if we could see the rest of these fellows have the same opportunity.’’

  ‘‘This center is a wonderful thing, John, but what we truly need is a place where the men can get their hands on the machinery. We’re not giving them the real training they need.’’

  John shuffled his notes and stacked them on the table. ‘‘We’re giving them more than they had when they walked in the door, and most will be better-equipped than their counterparts, Fred. But I like the idea that you’re looking to find alternatives for training the men. While you’re in Chicago, maybe you can find us a benefactor to equip the training center.’’

  The two men laughed. They both knew that unless someone like George Pullman or Philip Armour finally realized the advantage of financing a manual training center, it wouldn’t happen. Only when one of the wealthy tycoons saw the profit to be gained by having a ready supply of skilled workmen would a fully equipped school open.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Chicago, Illinois

  March 2, 1893

  Charlotte Spencer, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Lanshire, raked a comb through her snarled hair before she fell back against her pillow. She lacked both the energy and inclination to continue with her toilette. Enveloped in a cocoon of lethargy, she’d done no more than perform the absolute necessities of life for the past month—or had it been longer? She’d lost track of time.

  One thing was certain: she’d soon need to make plans for her future. She had paid for her room rent through the end of February, or was it March? She couldn’t remember. Unlike the first four months following her clandestine departure from Pullman, these last months had been no more than a blurry existence. In retrospect, those first months had been rather enjoyable. She’d taken a room at the Palmer House and whiled away her afternoons shopping at Marshall Field’s emporium and enjoyed taking her meals at Chicago’s finer restaurants—until she had realized her funds were running low and she’d been forced to find a more economical place to reside.

  Shortly after leaving Pullman, she had sold the remaining pieces of her mother’s jewelry, the pieces she’d stolen before she and Olivia had set sail from London a year ago. London—that part of her life now seemed so distant. Had it truly only been a year? Strange that a scullery maid who had worked in the kitchens of Lanshire Hall shared her darkest secrets. Charlotte hadn’t even known Olivia until a few nights before they set sail for America. Olivia had been fleeing the unwanted advances of Chef Mallard, head chef of Lanshire Hall, while Charlotte had been running toward the man who she thought would marry her and give her unborn child the name he deserved.

  A sigh escaped Charlotte’s dry lips. She longed for a cup of tea. Surely the hotel clerk would bring her meal before much longer. She rested her palm across her forehead, hoping to will the dinner tray to her door. But when the clerk didn’t arrive, her thoughts soon returned to Olivia and the town of Pullman. Both she and Olivia had arrived at their destination with plans for the future, albeit plans based upon a foundation of lies and deceit. Charlotte believed her own deceit had been repaid in full measure, for she’d suffered the humiliation of Randolph Morgan’s rejection. He had denied having fathered her unborn child and declared her no more than a common harlot. Randolph was interested in protecting his future with his wife and children—the family he had failed to mention to Charlotte when they’d first met at her family home in London.

  The stench from the street below seeped through a crack in the windowpane, providing an odious manifestation of her current life along with a reminder of the privileged life she’d abandoned in England. Her conduct during that first encounter with Randolph Morgan in London had been unbefitting a woman of nobility, and the confrontation with Randolph after arriving in Pullman hadn’t gone well, either. He had made his position quite clear: he had no intention of changing his marital status, not even for the daughter of the Earl of Lanshire. She shuddered at the memory.

  So many memories from her short time in Pullman. What of her child? Had Olivia kept him, or had she freed herself of the responsibility and taken little Morgan to an orphanage? What did Olivia think of her behavior, she wondered. ‘‘Surely she realized the child was better left in her care,’’ Charlotte muttered. ‘‘What would I have done with him?’’

  A hammering knock sounded at the door and interrupted her one-sided conversation. ‘‘Just leave the tray on the floor outside my door.’’

  ‘‘I need to talk to you, Miss Spencer.’’

  She rolled to one side and forced herself to a sitting position. Another loud knock. ‘‘Give me a moment, please. I’m coming.’’ She padded across the wood-plank floor on bare feet. She’d likely have a splinter in her foot before she reached the door, but the clerk’s impatience was obvious.

  With her body positioned against the door, she turned the key and opened the door a crack. The door pushed against her hip, and she shoved back as the clerk attempted to wedge his foot in the opening. Her heart thumped in an erratic cadence. Peering into the dank hallway, she said, ‘‘What do you want?’’

  His weight held the door tight against her body. ‘‘I need your rent. You’re already two days overdue. I’ve slipped three notes under your door. Have you read them?’’

  She glanced down. Her bare foot rested on a piece of paper. ‘‘No, but I’ll read them once you leave.’’

  He sighed. ‘‘I can’t leave, Miss Spencer. I got to have the money.’’ Her pulse quickened at his demand. She needed time to think. ‘‘I’ve been ill, and I’m not properly dressed. If you’ll leave my supper tray, I promise to come down first thing in the morning and pay what I owe you.’’

  ‘‘How much longer you planning to stay? A few days? A week? A month? What?’’

  His persistent behavior annoyed her, yet she did not dare appear unfriendly. ‘‘I fear I may be required to depart your establishment and find something less expensive. Have you any recommendations?’’

  Once again he sighed—this time much louder. ‘‘Are you talking cheaper or free, Miss Spencer?’’

  She cleared her throat. ‘‘Free might prove the best solution.’’

  ‘‘You ain’t gonna try and do me outta what you already owe me, are you, ’cause I can take this supper tray downstairs and have it for myself.’’

  ‘‘No!’’ She assumed her most regal tone. ‘‘I wouldn’t consider such subterfuge.’’

  ‘‘Right.’’ He hesitated a moment longer. ‘‘You can pick up a list when you come down to pay your final bill.’’ He stepped away.

  His movement, combined with Charlotte’s weight against the door, caused it to unexpectedly slam shut. She hoped he wouldn’t misconstrue the incident. Having the hotel clerk angry would only multiply her problems. When she could no longer hear his footfalls, she opened the door. Th
ankfully, he had left the tray. She carried it to the other side of the room and placed it atop the marred and stained chest of drawers. She wondered if her parents had ever stepped inside a place such as this. Just as quickly she pushed the thought from her mind and lifted the domed lid from the tray. Gravy had already begun to congeal atop the meat. She touched the green beans. Cold—all of it. But her growling stomach would not be denied.

  She sawed through the stringy piece of meat, uncertain of its origin even after she’d tasted a bite. What did it matter if she died of food poisoning? The world would be better off without her. She finished the meal, every cold bite and every lukewarm sip of tea, before returning to her bed. She sat on the edge of the sagging mattress and dumped the contents of her purse onto the worn coverlet. After counting her remaining money, she scanned the three notes left by the desk clerk. It appeared she would have sufficient funds to pay her bill if the price hadn’t gone up too much come morning. She couldn’t afford another day’s rent—of that, there was no doubt.

  With as much effort as she could muster, Charlotte pulled her valise from beneath the bed. She’d need to be packed and checked out early, for she couldn’t risk being charged for another day. Her reflection in the mirror indicated a good deal of time would be required for her toilette.

  ————

  The thunder and pounding rain that had kept Charlotte awake for most of the night had stopped by early the next morning. She longed to remain abed yet forced herself from beneath the dirty coverlet and prepared to meet the day.

  When she had finally dressed and fashioned her hair, Charlotte dropped to the side of the bed, exhausted. She needed to rest before she could trudge about the mucky streets seeking another place to call home.

  Only moments later a knock sounded at the door. ‘‘Are you still planning to check out today, Miss Spencer?’’

  ‘‘Yes. I’ll be down to settle my bill momentarily. I need to gather my belongings, and I’ll be on my way.’’

  ‘‘I’ll have a list of possible lodging and your bill when you come down.’’

  She could hear the relief in his voice and wondered if he had thought she would sneak off in the night. Truth be told, she’d considered the idea but only for a moment, for she didn’t know where to begin looking for a place to stay. The man had probably slept with an ear toward the door in case she attempted to slip out.

  ‘‘No doubt he’s as tired as I am.’’ She shoved her hairbrush and the few remaining items into the bag. After a final glance around the room, she headed downstairs. She’d not miss this place.

  With his hands folded and a halfhearted smile on his lips, the clerk stood waiting for her at the counter. He unfolded his hands as she drew near and slid her bill across the scarred wood. She placed her valise on the floor and opened her purse. After paying the bill, she’d have barely enough for a small breakfast.

  The clerk snatched the money from her hand as though he feared she might change her mind and return the cash to her handbag. He quickly slipped it into a drawer and then handed her a paper. He pointed to several names at the top of the sheet. ‘‘These here are some folks I know who live in Packingtown out behind the stockyards and meat-packing plants. They might be willing to let you stay a few days until you can find work.’’ He straightened his shoulders and nodded toward the list. ‘‘The rest of them places lend a hand to immigrants and folks who ain’t been able to find work. None of ’em is much to speak of ’cept maybe Hull House, but something is better than nothing.’’

  After reviewing the list, she asked for directions to one of the places he’d called a settlement house. She waited while the clerk sketched a scanty map on the back of the paper. Though a settlement house sounded most unpleasant, living with strangers in a hovel behind the meat-packing plants held absolutely no appeal. The stench from the streets outside the hotel would be nothing compared to the choking smells of the stockyards and slaughterhouses.

  Charlotte absolutely couldn’t go to Hull House, for she had met Jane Addams on one of the woman’s trips to London two years ago. During her visit, Charlotte had been among a group of four women who had discussed Miss Addams’s ideas for working with the immigrants and the impoverished. Truth be told, Charlotte hadn’t actually contributed to the conversation. She’d listened but had found the entire topic rather boring. Though she doubted Miss Addams would remember her, she dared not take the chance.

  Map in hand, she picked up her valise and headed toward the door. ‘‘Thank you for your kindness.’’

  ‘‘You be careful out there, miss. Wouldn’t want nothing bad happening to you.’’

  Charlotte nodded and hoped she could follow the directions. The man’s warning sounded ominous, so she looked up and down the street before starting off, though she didn’t know how she could possibly protect herself. The area surrounding this hotel was seedy at best, but she now wondered if she was off to seek housing in an even more frightful area of the city.

  Her feet had begun to ache by the time she made the final turn onto Ashland Street. Fortunately, the map had taken her to an area lined with neat cottages, two-story frame houses, and well-manicured yards. She checked the house number and hoped the clerk hadn’t given her an incorrect address. The neighborhood appeared to be one for private homes rather than for a settlement house.

  She tapped on the front door. Several minutes passed before a tiny woman with gray hair fashioned in a tight knot appeared and greeted her. Not certain whether she’d actually arrived in the right location, Charlotte pointed to the paper. ‘‘I’ve been told this is a settlement house where I may receive room and board free of charge.’’

  The woman stared at her with judicious blue eyes. ‘‘That’s not entirely true, my dear, but do come in and we’ll talk.’’ She pointed to the corner. ‘‘You may place your bag over there.’’

  Charlotte did as instructed and then followed the woman into the parlor. The furniture was worn, but the house was tidy and clean. Charlotte doubted that she could find a speck of dust anywhere.

  The older lady pointed to the divan. ‘‘Have a seat and I’ll explain the rules.’’

  ‘‘Rules?’’

  The woman gave an emphatic nod. ‘‘I’m Mrs. Priddle, the owner of this house. When my husband, Charles, died over ten years ago, I decided to lend a helping hand to women and children in need. This is not, however, a place where you will receive free room and board.’’ Mrs. Priddle settled back in her chair. ‘‘I’m a staunch believer in helping those who are also willing to help themselves.’’

  This wasn’t what Charlotte had envisioned. She wanted to be assigned a room where she could hide away until she decided what to do about her future. A place where she’d be left to herself and her meals would be delivered twice daily. ‘‘But I don’t have any money to pay. That’s why I’ve come here.’’

  Mrs. Priddle nodded. ‘‘I suspected as much. Those with money don’t arrive on my doorstep. Tell me about yourself. Let’s begin with your name; then you can tell me a bit about your abilities.’’

  ‘‘I am La—Charlotte Spencer. My abilities? Well, I can embroider and needlepoint fairly well. I play the piano and can sing, though my music teacher wasn’t overly impressed with my voice.’’ She looked heavenward. ‘‘Of course, I can read and write.’’

  ‘‘Cleaning? Gardening? Cooking? Laundry? Do you have ability in any of those areas?’’

  Charlotte slowly shook her head. ‘‘I’m afraid not.’’

  ‘‘You are obviously from England, Miss Spencer. From what you have told me and my own observations, I am guessing that you have led a privileged life. That, of course, is none of my business. There is no requirement to reveal your personal history, but if we both agree that you will live here, I’ll need your assurance that the police will not come knocking on my door to locate you.’’

  Charlotte considered whether Olivia or her parents might send the authorities to find her, but quickly dismissed the notion. She’d been gon
e from Pullman for seven months. If people had been looking for her, they would have ceased their search long ago. Unless Olivia had contacted her parents while they were visiting in Pullman, they’d have no idea Charlotte had ever set foot in this country.

  ‘‘What are your rules, Mrs. Priddle?’’

  The older woman smiled, and the wrinkles deepened around her eyes. ‘‘I was coming to that. First, residents of Priddle House must earn their keep, either by performing the tasks I mentioned earlier or by working outside the home and contributing their earnings to aid in the maintenance of the house. Second, you are responsible for the upkeep on your own clothing, unless you prefer to pay one of the other Priddle House residents to perform such duties. Third, since you will share your room with others, you are expected to be courteous and neat. Fourth, you must attend the daily Bible studies, one at noon and one in the evening. If you work outside the house, you attend only the evening session. If you work in the house, you have the privilege of attending both.’’

  Charlotte wasn’t certain she considered attending two Bible studies each day a privilege, but she wouldn’t argue that point with Mrs. Priddle. And she didn’t know what work she could perform that would qualify her for admittance.

  ‘‘Well, Miss Spencer, now that you’ve heard my rules, do you wish to move in to Priddle House?’’

  ‘‘I would very much like to remain here, and I can assure you that the police will not come looking for me.’’ Charlotte folded her hands in her lap. ‘‘I fear I have little to offer in the way of domestic assistance. I’ve never been employed.’’

  ‘‘Tut, tut. We can take care of that as long as you’re a willing worker. Nothing I appreciate more than a willing worker, Miss Spencer.’’ The older woman squared her shoulders. ‘‘And I believe I have the perfect solution for you. Several of my educated ladies such as you have gone to work at the dry goods stores on State Street. Have you heard of Marshall Field and Company, Miss Spencer?’’