Ellen laughed and shook her head. ‘‘The doorman would stop me before I could set foot inside. I’m banned from Mr. Field’s wondrous establishment.’’
‘‘Banned?’’ Fred thought he’d misunderstood. ‘‘But why?’’
‘‘Mr. Field has issued orders that any customers known to be affiliated with unions should be immediately escorted from his store by house detectives. Though I don’t belong to a union, nor does my father, we are much too closely associated with the unions to be permitted in Mr. Field’s domain.’’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘‘I suppose you could say I’ve been relegated to those who must shop at the Boston Store.’’
He frowned. ‘‘Boston Store?’’
Ellen chuckled. ‘‘Yes, the Boston Store. There’s a little song about shopping at Mr. Field’s establishment: ‘All the girls who wear high heels, they trade down at Marshall Field’s; All the girls who scrub the floor, they trade at the Boston Store.’ The tune is a prime example of the class distinction between those who can afford to shop in Mr. Field’s store and those who cannot. In my case it’s a distinction of not adhering to Mr. Field’s beliefs. Shopping elsewhere is a small price to pay, wouldn’t you agree?’’
‘‘Absolutely. Why don’t we go and enjoy an ice-cream soda at the confectionery. Unless you’re banned from there, too.’’ He grinned. Arm in arm, they crossed the street to Kranz’s Viennese Confectionery Shop.
While the two of them enjoyed their sodas, they continued their discussion of Mr. Field and his strident policies. A short time later they departed for the train station. So did the man who had been following them for the last hour.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Pullman, Illinois
June 5, 1893
Chef René greeted Olivia with a halfhearted smile when she reentered the kitchen after a hectic morning in the downstairs baking kitchen. Both Fanny and Edna had taken ill, and though Fanny had made an early morning appearance, Chef René had immediately sent her home. Ailing employees were not permitted in the kitchen—a rule of management that was strictly enforced by Chef René.
‘‘I see you have survived the rigors of the baking kitchen. Let us hope that at least one of the women is well enough to return tomorrow.’’
Olivia fully agreed. Though she enjoyed baking pastries, decorating cakes, and creating fruit and flowers from marzipan, spending hours kneading and mixing dough for the loaves of bread and fresh rolls served with each meal in the hotel was not among her favorite chores. ‘‘I’ll say a special prayer for both of them this evening.’’
Chef René chuckled. ‘‘You had best begin now. I’m sure they’re not the only ones needing God’s attention.’’ Olivia grinned as he swiped his hands on a smudged green-and-white dish towel that hung from his waist. ‘‘I almost forgot. Mr. Howard stopped by to talk to you this morning. When I explained we were short of help and you were assisting in the baking kitchen, he asked that I have you stop by his office later this afternoon when we’re not so busy.’’
‘‘And when might that be?’’ Olivia inquired while glancing around the kitchen.
Beads of perspiration lined his forehead and glistened in the sunlight streaming through the east window of the kitchen. ‘‘Perhaps you could go now, before we begin preparations for the evening repast?’’
Evening repast? With the foreign dignitaries arriving for the Columbian Exposition, Chef René was beginning to take on a few airs of his own. The thought amused her, for Chef René’s delectable cuisine was enough to impress even the most demanding critic. Olivia removed her flour-dotted jacket and toque and hung them in the hallway closet. ‘‘I doubt I should be gone for long. Especially since Mr. Howard realizes we are short of help.’’
The chef returned to the open cookbook he’d placed on the counter a short time earlier. ‘‘I shall not depend upon what Mr. Howard does or doesn’t know about our staffing difficulties. I will know you have returned when I see you enter the door.’’
She couldn’t argue with his response. If Mr. Howard wished to detain her, neither Olivia nor Chef René could object. It was simply the way of things in Pullman. Given the time of day, perhaps he wouldn’t be busy. Unless a dignitary or unexpected stockholder arrived in town late in the day, Mr. Howard seemed to conduct his meetings during the morning.
The scent of fragrant climbing roses greeted Olivia when she exited the back door and ran down the stairs. The heady perfume was nearly as exhilarating as the sumptuous smells that filled Chef René’s kitchen each day. The June sun warmed her back, and she crossed the street with a spring in her step, pleased for the return of summer and the leafy trees and blooming flowers that accompanied the season.
Mr. Howard’s clerk, Mr. Mahafferty, looked up from beneath hooded eyelids and pointed Olivia toward a chair. Had the office walls been crumbling around him, Olivia doubted the man could muster a jot of enthusiasm. He appeared locked in the doldrums of life, a man simply performing a role in which he’d been cast. She thought him rather sad and was reminded of a gloomy morning months ago when Mrs. DeVault had explained the fullness of life that is gained through knowing Jesus. The older woman had read a Scripture passage: ‘‘The thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy: I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.’’ Mr. Mahafferty needed to read that Scripture so that he might live his life more richly.
Before Olivia could mention either Mrs. DeVault or the Scripture, the man pushed back his chair and excused himself. ‘‘I’m expected to take notes at a meeting in another part of the building. Mr. Howard will be with you shortly.’’
Olivia thanked him, but after he’d departed, she decided to jot down the passage on a piece of paper and leave it on his desk. Whether Mr. Mahafferty ever read the Scripture or not would be entirely up to him—and God. She stepped to the other side of the room and sat down behind the desk. Swallowed up by the high back and deep seat of the large chair, Olivia took up the pen and wrote John 10:10 on a sheet of paper.
She had replaced the pen in its ebony holder when the door latch leading to Mr. Howard’s office clicked, and she heard his voice.
‘‘We haven’t yet completed our discussion, Geoffrey.’’
Olivia held her breath. Once the door snapped shut, she would return to the chair across the room. But the door didn’t close. Muffled voices drifted into the room. She remained fixed in the large chair behind Mr. Mahafferty’s desk, afraid to move yet afraid to remain in the chair. What if Mr. Mahafferty returned and found her sitting at his desk? What if Mr. Howard walked out and thought she had intentionally hidden there in order to eavesdrop? Her hands quivered as the men continued to talk, Mr. Howard’s voice growing louder by the minute.
‘‘I want to know exactly why you’re so certain there is nothing more than a romantic liaison between Fred DeVault and Miss Ashton.’’
Olivia perked to attention at the mention of Fred’s name.
‘‘Quite frankly, I’d stake my life on the fact that he’s a union organizer. I don’t believe his meetings in Chicago are purely romantic in nature.’’
A man laughed, followed by the sound of chair legs scraping across the floor. Olivia scooted farther down in the chair.
‘‘This isn’t a humorous matter, Mr. Townsend.’’ Mr. Howard’s anger shot through the air like a pistol report. ‘‘Do you not realize the danger these demon unions present to our stockholders? Why do you think you’ve been employed by this company? Certainly not to laugh and make light of serious situations. I doubt Mr. Pullman would be pleased with your attitude.’’
Mr. Townsend? Wasn’t that the name of the man who’d been in the Pullman depot when Mr. Howard met her train after her unaccompanied trip to New York? Mr. Howard said the man had previously worked for a competitor but was considering a position with Mr. Pullman.
‘‘Your veiled threats and self-righteous words might impress Mr. Pullman, but my investigations have uncovered more than you might imag
ine, Mr. Howard. If I were a man in your position, I’d think twice about going to Mr. Pullman or the stockholders with a report that I’m not performing in their best interest.’’
Olivia wished she were somewhere else. Anywhere but in this reception office hearing these two men level charges against each other.
‘‘Exactly what are you implying, Geoffrey? If you’ve discovered another matter of concern, I don’t see it in this report.’’
Olivia could hear shuffling papers, and she pictured Mr. Howard riffling through page after page of paper work to corroborate his rebuttal.
‘‘Does the idea of improper job assignments prod your memory, Samuel?’’
‘‘What are you suggesting? I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.’’
The earlier anger she’d detected in Mr. Howard’s voice had been replaced by a slight tremor. Did he have something to fear?
‘‘No need to divulge all of the gory details. Let’s just say that I believe we’re both men who open the door when opportunity knocks. Whether compensation is slipped under the table or arrives in a pay envelope, it’s all the same to both of us. Right?’’
Though Olivia strained toward the door, she didn’t hear Mr. Howard’s response. She wasn’t certain if he had replied at all, for her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Mr. Townsend’s scornful laughter.
‘‘No need to worry overmuch, Samuel. For now, we need only resolve the issue of Mr. DeVault and Miss Ashton. I want to reaffirm my earlier conclusion that what is occurring between them is no more than a lovers’ tryst. Believe me, had you seen them together—a young couple locked in passionate embraces, kissing, walking arm in arm while lovingly gazing into each other’s eyes, you would agree that Mr. DeVault’s sole purpose for visiting Ashton’s law office is to woo this young woman. In all my years I’ve never observed a labor uprising being planned while enjoying an ice-cream soda or in a flower mart while selecting roses.’’
Hearing Mr. Townsend blithely relate the assignations caused bile to rise in Olivia’s throat. She swallowed hard. Surely Mr. Townsend’s information was erroneous. Yet hadn’t she seen Ellen and Fred together with her own eyes? She silently chided herself for holding out hope that Fred might still care for her. How could she even consider such a thing!
‘‘Perhaps you’re correct, but I don’t want any blunders. I’m the one who hired you, and I’ll be held accountable if your findings prove inaccurate.’’
The sound of scraping chairs and footfalls signaled the meeting must be drawing to a close. Blood pulsed fiercely through Olivia’s veins, pounding in her head. She must do something, now. Yet if she stood up, one of them would see her. After a quick glance toward the floor, she slid downward and folded herself into the deep kneehole of Mr. Mahafferty’s oak desk. Her disappearance occurred none too soon, for she’d barely tucked the fullness of her skirt beneath her when the two men passed by the desk, still talking in hushed tones.
After waiting several minutes, Olivia peeked around the edge of the kneehole before slowly climbing from beneath the desk and scurrying to a chair on the other side of the room. When Mr. Howard returned to the office, she hadn’t had time to digest the distressing information she’d overheard only moments earlier.
His jaw went slack as he entered the room. ‘‘Olivia! Where did you come from?’’
She forced a demure smile. ‘‘Why, the hotel, of course. Chef René said you stopped by the kitchen earlier today and wanted to see me. Did I misunderstand?’’
Obviously bewildered, he shook his head. ‘‘No, no. You understood correctly.’’
Before he could question her further, Mr. Mahafferty returned, and Mr. Howard directed her into his office. Olivia brushed a piece of carpet fuzz from the cuff of her shirtwaist in a forced attempt to remain nonchalant. ‘‘If this isn’t a good time for you, I can return later.’’
She hoped he’d accept her offer, but he shook his head. ‘‘Now is fine. I merely wanted to give you fair warning that you’ll likely be going back out on the trains within the next week or so.’’ He shuffled through the papers on his desk. When he looked up, he appeared surprised to see her still sitting across the desk. ‘‘As soon as I’m certain, I’ll let you know.’’
Obviously she’d been dismissed, though he hadn’t actually declared an end to their brief meeting. When she reached the door of his office, she glanced over her shoulder. ‘‘If at all possible, I’d prefer to remain in Pullman. With all the extra visitors in town due to the Columbian Exposition, my help is greatly needed in the kitchen.’’ When he didn’t immediately respond, she continued her pursuit. ‘‘Do you think my request might meet with a favorable response?’’
He batted the air as though swatting a bothersome fly. ‘‘I don’t have time to further discuss the matter. I said I’d let you know.’’
The anger in his voice startled her. He’d obviously forgotten that she had come here at his directive. From the conversation she’d overheard, she knew they both had matters of greater import to worry about this day.
————
Chicago, Illinois
June 12, 1893
Mrs. Jenkins hurried to Charlotte’s side. ‘‘Mr. Field sent word he wants to see you in his office—alone.’’ She stepped close and lowered her voice. ‘‘Has there been some problem of which I’m unaware?’’
Charlotte shook her head. Mr. Field had cancelled their previously arranged meeting without fanfare. There had been no explanation, merely a message from Mr. Field’s clerk stating the Monday morning meeting had been cancelled. Though she’d been disappointed, Charlotte had continued working behind the counter and hadn’t expected to hear anything further from the store owner. ‘‘Except to say hello when he’s walking the floor each morning, I haven’t talked to Mr. Field since the day we went to his office and I shopped for Mr. Flynn’s wife.’’ Mrs. Jenkins’s frown didn’t relieve the queasiness that had suddenly taken up residence in the pit of Charlotte’s stomach. ‘‘Do you think I’m going to be terminated?’’
Mrs. Jenkins offered a weak smile. ‘‘I see no reason. You’ve been an excellent employee. Our sales are increasing every week, and I’ve not heard of any complaints.’’ The older woman patted her arm. ‘‘If it’s bad news, I’ll do what I can to help you secure a position at the Boston Store. It won’t pay nearly as well, but it will be honest work, and I know one of the supervisors. Now hurry along. You mustn’t keep Mr. Field waiting.’’
Charlotte thanked Mrs. Jenkins for her kind offer, though she wondered how meager the clerks’ wages must be at the Boston Store, for she thought the salary paid by Mr. Field was miserly—as did all of the other clerks. The gossip that circulated throughout the store indicated the company partners and managers were paid quite handsomely, although Mr. Field kept them in a state of perpetual apprehension and fear with his cold and abrupt behavior. During lunch last week, one of the salesclerks in the furrier department had confided that Mr. Field always announced bonuses and promotions at the annual company dinner. Last year Mr. Field had surprised one of the managers with an announcement he was accepting the man’s resignation from the company. Charlotte wondered if Mr. Field would also be accepting her resignation in the next few minutes.
She tapped on the door and waited to be acknowledged. Perhaps her years of learning proper etiquette and social skills required of nobility could be of assistance if she must persuade Mr. Field to keep her on his staff. On the other hand, she could set aside all pretenses and tell him the truth: she needed this job in order to help pay bills and purchase groceries for herself as well as the other women at Priddle House. Yes, she’d simply be honest and let God do the rest.
Charles Sturgeon, Mr. Field’s clerk, led Charlotte into the sparsely decorated office. Her employer’s austere surroundings were becoming familiar. Mr. Field remained stoic as she approached. Not one hair of his perfectly trimmed white mustache twitched. ‘‘Sit down, Miss Spencer.’’ She’d barely settled
in the chair when he leaned across his desk and offered her an envelope. ‘‘This was personally delivered to me by a valued patron whom you recently served in the accessories department. The letter is sealed, but the patron did advise me that your service went beyond expectation; that you, Miss Spencer, extended the gracious assistance that continues to make Marshall Field and Company renowned for its merchandise and service.’’
Mr. Field’s gaze remained fixed on the envelope. There was little doubt he desired to know the contents, but Charlotte tucked the missive into the pocket of her skirt. She preferred to read the letter in private. Her heart flip-flopped as she wondered if Mrs. Pullman had taken time to write a thank-you note. The woman had appeared most pleased with the assistance Charlotte had offered with the evening bag selection. Likely that was the reason Mr. Field remained interested in the letter.
Employees knew of the solidarity that existed between Mr. Pullman and Mr. Field. The men were titans of business as well as neighbors, each living in an elegant mansion on Prairie Avenue. Mr. Field was said to wait frequently at the end of the block for Mr. Pullman. With their carriages following behind them in case of inclement weather, the two would stroll down Michigan Avenue to the Pullman Building, where Mr. Field would stop for coffee before walking on to his mammoth retail store. And unless otherwise occupied, the two would often join their counterparts for lunch at the Chicago Club, where reserved seats awaited them at the millionaire’s table. Occasionally they would be joined by Robert Todd Lincoln or General Phil Sheridan—if not for lunch, then later in the evening at Mr. Field’s mansion for a game of poker.
She scooted to the edge of the chair, hoping to be dismissed, but Mr. Field shook his head. ‘‘There is another matter I wish to discuss with you, Miss Spencer.’’
She swallowed, fearful of what might follow. Mrs. Jenkins had told her Mr. Field’s employees could never be completely comfortable with the man and his sudden changes in disposition.
Whispers Along the Rails Page 21
