An Uncertain Dream (14 page)
‘‘I’d prefer to surprise both of them. Please don’t mention you’ve seen me.’’
He held a finger to his lips. ‘‘Your secret is safe with me. At least for a short time. When do you plan a visit to Pullman?’’
The man didn’t hesitate to ask questions. She supposed such behavior was second nature to him. ‘‘I’m going to arrange a visit next Sunday afternoon. If you’d be so kind as to refrain from mentioning my arrival until after that time, I’d be grateful.’’
‘‘I’ll do my very best. I promise.’’ He tipped his straw hat and offered a charming smile. ‘‘Enjoy your shopping.’’
She nodded. Let him believe whatever he wished. Friend of Olivia or not, she didn’t wish to confide her true reason for visiting the emporium. Besides, with his inquisitive nature, it would take Mr. Clayborn only a short time to discover why she’d returned to Chicago, which was one reason why she’d told him to keep her presence a secret. With only a modicum of questioning, Fred would unwittingly divulge every remnant of her past to Matthew Clayborn.
She had accepted the consequences of the poor decisions she’d made in the past, and she’d asked for and received God’s forgiveness. But that didn’t mean she desired her private life to be discussed with total strangers—especially with someone who made a living writing for newspapers.
As he had for many years, Joseph Anderson stood sentry at the entrance of the store. He tipped his hat in greeting, but Charlotte could tell the moment he’d remembered her. His eyes shone in recognition, and he revealed a row of uneven teeth when he smiled.
He stepped forward and pulled open the door. A small man with graying hair, he looked like a grandfather who should be surrounded by a roomful of descendants at a family dinner rather than guarding the doors of Marshall Field and Company.
‘‘Miss Spencer. What a special treat to see you. We’ve missed you here at the store.’’
‘‘Why, thank you, Joseph. It’s good to be back in Chicago.’’ Perhaps it was the warmth of his welcome or the fact that he reminded Charlotte of her father, but she felt as though she wanted to hug the doorman. She stifled the urge and inquired if Mr. Field had arrived.
‘‘He has, ma’am. I’m sure he’ll be very pleased to see you.’’
‘‘Let’s hope so, Joseph. And Mrs. Jenkins?’’
Joseph shook his head. ‘‘She took ill and hasn’t been able to return to work. Someone said she went to stay with a relative in Springfield, but I’m not sure.’’
He turned to greet another customer, and Charlotte entered the main floor of the store. Her stomach knotted with a mixture of fear and excitement. What if Mr. Field didn’t remember her? She silently chided herself for her foolish thoughts and strode to the elevator.
I must remain positive
, she told herself while she marched down the hall to Mr. Field’s office. If good fortune was with her, she’d discover that Mr. Field had a new clerk managing his appointment calendar.
She tapped on the door and waited, but when no one answered, she turned the knob and peeked inside. The clerk’s desk was unoccupied. She tiptoed into the office, feeling like an intruder. ‘‘Hello? Is anyone here?’’
‘‘Who’s out there?’’
Mr. Field! She hadn’t forgotten his voice. Charlotte tentatively stepped to the doorway and folded her hands like a schoolgirl. ‘‘Good morning, Mr. Field.’’ He hadn’t changed one iota. His white hair and perfectly trimmed mustache were exactly as she remembered.
He stood and waved her forward. ‘‘Miss Spencer! What a delightful surprise. I had no idea you were in Chicago. When did you arrive? Do sit down!’’
Charlotte exhaled a sigh of relief. She had crossed her first hurdle. Now she hoped the remainder of the obstacles would prove as painless. Mr. Field occasionally stroked his mustache while she explained her decision to return to Chicago.
‘‘I am aware the economy is not at its best.’’ She twisted her lace gloves between her fingers. ‘‘But it’s my hope that there is a position available.’’
He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the desk. ‘‘I am delighted to hear you are interested in returning to the store. I would be happy to have you reinstate the personal shopper service to our customers.’’
‘‘With the downturn in the economy, I was afraid you wouldn’t have need of my services. I am most pleased to accept the position.’’
‘‘Although we’ve seen less profit than I’d like over the past months, the ladies and gentlemen who will use the services of a personal shopper have not been financially affected like those of lesser means. I believe we will have sufficient customers to keep you busy.’’
Charlotte could scarcely believe her ears. She would return to work at the same rate of pay she’d been receiving prior to her departure, and she would be assigned to her previous duties and responsibilities. God had answered her prayer.
‘‘When would you like me to begin?’’
‘‘Shall we say a week from today—Monday, June twenty-fifth?’’ He glanced at his calendar. ‘‘That would permit me sufficient time to run ads in the newspaper to announce your return to our employ. I suspect you’ll be deluged with customers.’’
Charlotte was less optimistic, but she didn’t question Mr. Field’s assessment. He was, after all, the man who had continued to reign as the Merchant Prince.
‘‘Will you be living at Priddle House, Miss Spencer?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
He looked surprised that she would choose to return to the dwelling where she would contribute the majority of her earnings toward the expenses of others. But then, Mr. Field didn’t realize how much Charlotte owed Mrs. Priddle. Without the little gray-haired woman’s prayer and guidance, she might never have accepted Jesus as her Savior.
‘‘I’m certain Mrs. Priddle is as pleased as I am to have you back in Chicago. Let me escort you downstairs. There are few changes since your departure, but we do have one new supervisor I would like you to meet.’’
All eyes were upon them as Mr. Field escorted her up and down the aisles of the store while drawing her attention to the latest arrivals. They entered the fabric section, and Charlotte slowed to admire a length of silk.
‘‘Here’s Mr. Rehnquist now.’’ Mr. Field beckoned to a beady-eyed man who hastened to Mr. Field’s side.
‘‘Mr. Rehnquist, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Charlotte Spencer. Miss Spencer has recently returned from London, and I’ve hired her to return to her previous employment here at Marshall Field and Company. You may have heard some of our other employees mention her. Miss Spencer worked as our personal—’’
‘‘Shopper,’’ Mr. Rehnquist said and then immediately apologized for the interruption.
‘‘No need for an apology. I’m delighted to know Miss Spencer’s abilities haven’t been forgotten by my employees.’’ Mr. Field held Charlotte’s elbow. ‘‘Mr. Rehnquist is supervisor of the lace and fabric section. His predecessor wasn’t meeting sales quotas for this department and is no longer with us.’’
Charlotte recalled the sales quotas. Though she’d never been forced to meet any specific sales numbers, she wondered if that would change. She had always maintained excellent sales, but even so, she found the idea of a quota daunting.
‘‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Spencer. I look forward to working with you.’’ Mr. Rehnquist stared at her with such intensity that she looked away.
After stops at several other sections of the store, Mr. Field bid Charlotte farewell. She passed through the Accessories Department and then back through Lace and Fabric while making her way to the door. A tap on her shoulder caused her to stop and turn.
‘‘Mr. Rehnquist. You startled me.’’
‘‘I wanted to speak to you before you left. I am a great admirer of the work you performed here at the store.’’ He brazenly reached forward and grasped her wrist. ‘‘I wondered if you would join me for supper this evening. I would very much like to become better acquainted.’’
‘‘Please release me,’’ Charlotte said, twisting her arm from his hold. ‘‘I have no desire for communication outside of the store, Mr. Rehnquist.’’
He narrowed his eyes and permitted his gaze to travel the length of her body. An involuntary shudder coursed through her body as she turned and walked away. She hoped future contact with Mr. Rehnquist would be nominal.
Pullman, Illinois
Wednesday, June 20, 1894
Fred waited, his impatience mounting with each tick of his pocket watch. He knew Olivia couldn’t join him until ten o’clock. The kitchen staff took their break at the same time every morning—after breakfast had been completed and the kitchen cleaned for preparation of the noonday meal. There had been no reason to arrive early except he hoped that just this once she might complete her tasks early. The two of them had seen little of each other since the convention had begun, and Fred had promised to stop by this morning before leaving for Chicago. His recent days had been filled with meetings in Chicago, but Olivia’s—well, hers hadn’t changed at all. Few in Pullman had continued to work since the strike. However, the hotel employees and those who worked in the businesses that provided the town with necessary services were among that number.
Although Fred would be late for what was sure to be an inspiring meeting, he missed Olivia and longed to spend at least a few minutes with her this morning. Besides, he’d been one of the few who had remained until eleven o’clock the previous night. A decision had been made to serve notice upon the company. He had been one of the men who had helped draft the notice of intent. In truth, he’d merely watched and listened, but since he and Thomas Heathcoate were the only representatives of their delegation who had stayed behind, Fred’s name was among those credited with drafting the important missive. All of the unions had overwhelmingly responded that the boycott of the Pullman railcars was the only avenue left to them. The company had thrown down the gauntlet with its refusal to negotiate.
‘‘There you are. I thought you had decided not to come.’’ Olivia came hurrying toward him, swinging her white toque in one hand. His heart thumped a chaotic rhythm at the sight of her. He loved her, of that there was no doubt. Oh, he’d never actually said the words, but he was certain she knew how he felt. How could she not?
Her eyes shone with a mischievous twinkle. She held one hand behind her back. He tipped his head to the side hoping to see if she held anything in her hand or was merely teasing him.
‘‘What are you hiding?’’ he asked.
She giggled and extended a folded piece of stationery. ‘‘Look inside.’’
‘‘I don’t understand. What is this?’’
‘‘My new address. I’m moving.’’
He stared at her, astonished by the announcement.
‘‘Aren’t you going to say anything? I thought you’d be pleased. You’re the one who’s been after me to move for all these months.’’ Her lips curved into a beguiling smile.
‘‘What about Mrs. Barnes? I thought you worried she would slip into a state of depression if you moved from their home.’’
Olivia motioned him toward an empty bench. ‘‘Lucinda is returning home,’’ she whispered.
‘‘The Barnes’s married daughter? Why would they return to Pullman?’’
‘‘Not
they
, only Lucinda. It seems there is some marital discord, and she wants to return home for an extended stay. At least that’s what Mrs. Barnes told me. I don’t think she knows what to expect, but I offered to relocate.’’ A wisp of her brown hair blew across Olivia’s forehead and she swiped it into place. ‘‘Mrs. Barnes accepted my suggestion. She said Lucinda is distraught over the dissolution of her marriage. Mrs. Barnes believes my presence might cause her daughter undue distress.’’
He looked at the piece of paper once again. ‘‘You won’t be living far from us. Isn’t that where Jules and Sarah Mayfield live?’’
‘‘Yes. They had an extra upstairs bedroom. My accommodations will be somewhat meager, but I know they are in need of the additional income.’’
Fred tucked the piece of paper into her hand and gave a nod. ‘‘And I will be pleased to have you living nearby.’’
‘‘Your mother and I could walk to work together if I wanted to leave earlier in the morning, though I’m not certain I’ll want to do that every day.’’ She chuckled and surveyed the grassy expanse until her attention settled on his mother and Chef René .
Fred turned toward the older couple. His mother was sitting close to the chef and appeared to be whispering in hushed tones. ‘‘What is all of that?’’ Fred nodded toward his mother.
‘‘Your mother and Chef René seem to enjoy keeping company with each other. I thought perhaps she had—’’
He shook his head. ‘‘No. Nothing at all.’’ The sight was somehow disquieting. His mother involved in a romantic relationship?
No
. Wasn’t she beyond an age at which she would care about romance or a husband? Perhaps they had merely formed a friendship. ‘‘They have become friends?’’
Olivia glanced back at the couple. ‘‘I believe they are more than friends. I think they have begun to care for each other in— well, in a romantic fashion. Quite sweet, don’t you think? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if they should decide they are suited and wed?’’
Fred tugged at his shirt collar. ‘‘Marriage?’’
Olivia giggled. ‘‘What’s wrong with marriage? They are both alone and have much in common.’’
‘‘I disagree. They are opposites in most every way.’’ Fred wondered if Olivia had encouraged the relationship.
‘‘You barely know Chef René . I think you’re making an unfair assessment, but I certainly don’t plan to argue the matter.’’
Olivia waved to one of the upstairs maids who walked toward the hotel carrying a huge bouquet of fresh flowers. Even if the folks in town didn’t have enough to eat, the hotel guests would have fresh flowers in their rooms this morning.
‘‘Have any new decisions been made regarding the strike? I saw Albert for a short time last evening. He said you and Mr. Heathcoate remained at meetings until quite late.’’
‘‘An ultimatum will be served on the company today. The union locals of the American Railway Union throughout the United States have voted to give the company until the twenty-sixth of June to address the many grievances of the Pullman employees. If management fails to do so, the union will refuse to handle Pullman cars and equipment. Mr. Debs is afraid Mr. Pullman won’t meet our demand.’’ Fred nervously pressed the brim of his cap between his fingers. ‘‘So am I. We all believe Mr. Pullman gave Mr. Howard strict orders that no negotiations were to take place—under any circumstances.’’
