An Uncertain Dream (6 page)
‘‘Go on! I’ll follow in a moment.’’ Charlotte tossed back the light coverlet and sat up. After pushing her feet into her slippers, she snatched her dressing gown from the bed. Still shoving her arms into the sleeves, Charlotte raced through the silent hallway. In the eerie nighttime quiet, even her soft slippers beat an echoed cadence.
Panting for breath, she raced into her father’s bedchamber and came to a halt. The hush of death cloaked the room, and she dropped to the chair by his bedside. She stared across the bed at Wilda. ‘‘The doctor?’’
‘‘He hasn’t arrived, but there’s no longer any—’’
Charlotte nodded. ‘‘I know. I’ll stay here. Send one of the servants to fetch my mother.’’
‘‘But it’s the middle of the night, your ladyship. Shouldn’t we wait until morning?’’
‘‘No! Fetch her immediately—she
must
return home!’’ The urgency in Charlotte’s voice sent the servant scampering from the room. Her mother’s return before daylight would help stave off unwelcome rumors. There would be enough gossip once her father was in the ground.
Pullman, Illinois
Saturday, May 19, 1894
The clanging pans and Chef René’s angry commands were enough to alert Olivia that something had gone amiss prior to her arrival at the hotel kitchen. She approached the door with foreboding. A cloud would hover over the kitchen until the problem was resolved.
She straightened her shoulders and assumed a carefree attitude as she entered the door. ‘‘Good morning to all of you.’’ Her greeting fell on deaf ears, or so it seemed. No one responded. Ignoring the silence, she shoved her arms into her white chef ’s jacket.
‘‘You are late!’’ The chef ’s words reverberated through the air like a clanging bell.
Olivia glanced at the clock. ‘‘I am exactly on time.’’ She donned her toque and stepped to the counter.
‘‘Non! You should be in the kitchen prepared to commence work at least five minutes in advance. Otherwise you are considered to be late!’’ He slammed a skillet atop the stove.
‘‘When did that rule take effect?’’
He ignored her question and pointed toward the baking kitchen located downstairs. ‘‘Do you see any light or hear any activity from down there?’’
Olivia leaned forward and peeked around him. ‘‘No. Where are Edna and Fanny?’’
‘‘Both gone!’’ The angry words exploded from his lips.
‘‘Well, you must tell me more than that. Gone where? And when shall they return?’’
‘‘How should I know where they have gone, but I know they will not return. Do you think I would give them another position in my kitchen when they would leave me like this? With the hotel filled to capacity?’’
She had hoped to calm the chef before his anger escalated and caused him chest pains. ‘‘I will go downstairs and begin the baking. I can quickly prepare muffins and biscuits. Tell the waiters they are to offer only those two bread choices this morning. I feel sure the diners will survive.’’
Her words seemed to soothe the chef, for the redness began to fade from his cheeks. ‘‘Now, tell me why Edna and Fanny quit.’’
Olivia knew the two women well. They wouldn’t have left without any explanation. Married to the Thompson brothers, both Edna and Fanny had been working in the hotel kitchen for more than five years. Unlike many of the wives, both of them had been supportive of their husbands’ participation in the union as well as the strike. Fred counted on them when he needed trustworthy help.
‘‘They said a relative promised work to both of their husbands in Pennsylvania. This relative also assured them there would be work for Edna and Fanny. Since no one seems to know how long this strike will last, they decided it would be best to eat the bird in their hand.’’
Olivia grinned.
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Something about a bird in the hand and another one in a bush. Words that made no sense to me and had nothing to do with baking bread and pastries. I did not care to hear such nonsense.’’ He turned and glared at the kitchen boy after a pot clattered to the floor. ‘‘We must find at least one replacement today. Go down and begin mixing your muffins and think of someone I can hire. Someone who knows what must be done in a pastry kitchen.’’
Olivia descended the stairs and set to work. She measured and stirred the muffin ingredients while she considered who might be capable of handling the position to Chef René’s satisfaction. His first priority would be an excellent baker; his second requirement would be an employee he could rely upon.
Mrs.
DeVault!
The older woman would be absolutely perfect. And the added income would be an answer to Mrs. DeVault’s prayers. She and Fred had opened their home to Paul and Suzanne Quinter and their three children when Paul was dismissed from his position as a steamfitter back in January. Now without Fred’s income, Mrs. DeVault worried how she would feed so many mouths.
Olivia could barely contain her excitement. She rang for one of the kitchen boys to come down and help carry the muffins and biscuits into the hot closet off the dining room. Once she checked that everything was properly stored upstairs, she returned to the kitchen and remained in the background while Chef René issued serving orders to the staff.
‘‘Let’s hope there are no complaints. I saw Mr. Howard enter the dining room, and you know he prefers toast with his breakfast.’’ Chef René wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead.
Olivia caught sight of a young boy passing by the hotel door with sunken cheeks and little flesh on his bones. ‘‘If he complains, you can tell him there are hungry children who would be happy to have the muffins and biscuits. I’ll be certain there’s apple butter on the table for his biscuits.’’ She grinned. They both knew Chef René dared not speak to the company agent in such a manner, but her words appeared to relieve the fretting chef.
‘‘I have thought of someone to work in the bake kitchen.’’
He stared at her for what seemed an eternity. ‘‘Well? Are you going to tell me or must I guess?’’
‘‘Mrs. DeVault,’’ she announced with pride.
He sat down on a nearby stool. ‘‘The mother of your Fred?’’
She muffled a chuckle. ‘‘Yes. She is an excellent cook and baker, dependable, she has no husband or small children who will need her at home, and the wages will be of great help, of course. What do you think?’’
‘‘If she is all that you say, you must go and fetch her while we have a free moment. Tell her we need her to begin immediately.’’ As if to rush her along, he waved toward the door.
She hadn’t thought he would respond with such immediacy. ‘‘I’ll see if she wants to accept the position and if she is willing to begin right away.’’
He arched his brows. ‘‘You
said
she needed the wages.’’
Olivia turned on her heel. There was no use in arguing over the matter. She yanked the toque from her head and hung it on the chair spindle. Chef René’s admonition to hurry followed her across the lawn. Without looking back, she waved her hand overhead and picked up her pace. She didn’t intend to run down the streets like a child at play.
The two older Quinter children had scratched out squares and were playing hopscotch on the front sidewalk when she arrived. ‘‘Good morning, girls. Are you having a fine Saturday?’’
They bid her good morning. ‘‘Except Lydia cheats,’’ Hannah said.
‘‘Do not!’’
‘‘Do too!’’
Olivia stopped beside the front steps. ‘‘You know, I would have been delighted to have had a sister to play games with me when I was young. You girls are very fortunate to have each other.’’
Hannah wrinkled her nose. ‘‘You can have Lydia for your sister, if you like. I can get along without her.’’
Olivia laughed. Her words had obviously had little impact. She walked up the steps and knocked on the front door.
‘‘You can go on in,’’ Lydia said, following her to the door. She grasped Olivia by the hand and pulled her inside. ‘‘Mrs. DeVault!’’ For a young girl, she certainly had a loud voice. ‘‘Miss Olivia’s here to see you.’’
Fred’s mother peered around the kitchen door at the end of the hall. ‘‘Olivia! What a surprise. Shouldn’t you be at the hotel?’’ She squinted as Olivia drew near. ‘‘Are you ill?’’Without waiting for a reply, the older woman turned toward the stove. ‘‘I can make some tea.’’
‘‘I haven’t time for tea, and I’m not ill. I’ve come to offer you a position as a baker at the hotel—that is, Chef René would like to discuss that possibility with you. Actually, he’d like you to come over right away.’’
The woman’s work dress was covered by a worn apron. Proper attire for cleaning, but not the clothing that ladies wore when walking about town. She brushed her hand down the front of the apron and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘‘Look at me. I couldn’t possibly go anywhere at the moment.’’
‘‘But you are interested in the position?’’ Olivia bobbed her head while asking the question. She hoped her affirmative nods would influence the woman’s reply.
‘‘Yes, of course. We need the money. And I am told I excel in the kitchen. I’m sure Suzanne would be willing to take charge of the entire house.’’ There was a growing enthusiasm in Mrs.
DeVault’s voice. ‘‘I’ll be there in an hour. Will that suffice?’’
Olivia tightened her lips. ‘‘If you could come more quickly, I know Chef René would be grateful. We have many guests to feed, and with—’’
‘‘I understand. I will hurry.’’ Mrs. DeVault removed her apron in one swift movement and hung it beside the kitchen door.
After bidding the two Quinter girls good-bye, Olivia retraced her steps to the hotel. Since the first day of the strike, the outward charm of Pullman hadn’t changed. The strike hadn’t interrupted the sense of decorum and sensibility that had always defined the community. However, the small groups of men who now gathered to visit in the park or play lawn tennis were a marked reminder that nothing was as it seemed at first blush. Since the strike, much had changed. The Chicago newspaper reporters continued to visit each day and write their reports. Mostly, they continued to favor the workingmen and their plight while chastising Mr. Pullman for fleeing to his island retreat in the St. Lawrence River to escape the chaos now swirling within his own company.
‘‘He’s simply attempting to starve you out,’’ Matthew Clayborn had commented when he’d spoken to Fred and Olivia two days past. ‘‘He’s followed this same pattern each time there’s been a walkout or talk of a strike. I fear your strike is going to produce little if you don’t gain additional leverage.’’
Fred had agreed that such a pronouncement would discourage the men, and while they’d continued to discuss the future of the strike, Olivia had taken her leave. She didn’t want to hear their plans. A fear rested in her heart that she might slip and accidentally repeat something she heard.
She waved at her cousin Albert. Since the strike he’d been frequenting the park near the hotel. ‘‘How is Martha faring?’’ she called.
He jumped up from the bench and ran toward her. ‘‘She’s uncomfortable and anxious for the child’s birth. You should come by and visit her. She’s lonely.’’
His request shamed her. On several recent occasions, she’d considered a visit but had put her own needs before those of her cousin’s wife. ‘‘Fred and I will stop for a visit tomorrow afternoon.’’ Olivia had hoped to spend Sunday afternoon picnicking by the lake with Fred, but a visit with Martha was more important. A robin chirped nearby and filled the silence between them. Albert’s eyes had shifted away from her at the mention of Fred’s name.
‘‘If you come alone, I can go and play a game of lawn tennis and permit the two of you time for a private chat.’’
Olivia didn’t argue. She expected to see Chef René appear on the hotel lawn if she didn’t soon return. There was little doubt Martha would want to hear the latest news from the hotel, but that wasn’t reason enough to exclude Fred from the visit.
The kitchen door banged behind her, and Chef René glanced over his shoulder. ‘‘I thought perhaps you had joined the men in their strike.’’
She ignored the sarcasm and donned her tall white hat. ‘‘My cousin stopped me to ask that I visit Martha. I could hardly ignore him.’’
‘‘The potatoes await a cream sauce. There is fresh parsley from the garden. Use it for seasoning.’’ He continued to braise the lamb chops. ‘‘Have you nothing to say about Mrs. DeVault, or have you so soon forgotten why you were gone?’’
The man could test the patience of a saint. ‘‘She said she would be pleased to interview for the position, but she needed time to prepare.’’
‘‘What is to prepare except the food in this kitchen? Did you not tell her I need help at this very moment?’’
‘‘Yes, but she was in the midst of performing her household chores. She needed time to—’’
The chef tipped his head and looked heavenward. ‘‘She does not need fine clothes or perfectly arranged hair to work in my kitchen. A baker needs strong hands for kneading the bread and rolling the piecrusts.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘I will never understand women.’’
Olivia chuckled. ‘‘Then perhaps you should become better acquainted with a few ladies so that you will learn more about our ways.’’
He ignored her retort, but Olivia knew his irritation was simmering like a chicken stewing in one of his large cooking pots. She had best say no more or he would boil over. She continued with her assigned duties and paid no heed to his behavior. Both of them moved about the kitchen like a well-oiled machine while the kitchen boys and scullery maids jumped forward to assist at their signals.
A mere half hour had passed when Mrs. DeVault tapped on the screened kitchen door. Her speedy arrival ensured she had passed Chef René’s first test. He wiped his hands on a nearby towel while he formally introduced himself. Olivia watched his earlier irritation disappear. Leading Mrs. DeVault through the kitchen, he presented each member of the staff and offered explanations regarding their duties. It seemed he had completely forgotten the lamb chops and creamed potatoes. He had become the epitome of chivalry.
‘‘Perhaps you should give Mrs. DeVault a tour of the lower kitchen. If you are going to hire her, she might want to begin dessert preparations for the evening meal.’’