In the Company of Secrets (12 page)
He yanked the towel from his waist and waved it in the air like a banner. ‘‘The
flowers
, Miss Mott! You’ve placed
peonies
in the vases.’’
She watched in horror as he plucked flower after flower from her artfully designed arrangements until she could stand it no longer. She grappled for his arm. ‘‘Wait! You’re ruining them!’’
He shoved the handful of flowers beneath her nose. ‘‘Look at these. Do you not see the ants crawling on them?’’ Fire danced in his dark eyes.
She meekly nodded. ‘‘Yes, but the ants are everywhere—not just the flowers.’’
‘‘Oui! But you carried the ants in here with the peonies. They love the sweet nectar of the budding flower.’’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘‘You must get busy and remove and change the linens. The table settings must be replaced. You will be the one to tell the girls they must wash all of these place settings. They will likely be as unhappy as I.’’
Olivia listened to the remainder of Chef René ’s orders. She dreaded telling the dishwashers, but there was no choice. She’d doubled their work for the day and must now attempt to rearrange the flowers without the colorful peonies. Her thought outside the closet door yesterday morning had been prophetic: Chef René had indeed observed disaster rather than magnificence in the dining room.
Samuel Howard stared out his office window toward Hotel Florence and considered his emerging feelings for Olivia Mott. A burst of hot air drifted through the open window. He tugged at his shirt collar and longed to unfasten the top button, but Mr. Pullman would never approve of an open collar. The weather had been unseasonably warm this summer. And with more than a month remaining in the summer, there would likely be no reprieve from the heat.
Samuel had never been a man who dallied during working hours, yet he’d become decidedly less productive of late. Instead of poring over his daily ledgers and correspondence, his mind now wandered and filled with thoughts of the lovely young woman working in the hotel kitchen.
He had marked the third anniversary of his wife’s death two weeks ago. Though he truly had believed he’d never find another woman who would compare with his Lydia, there was no denying the young English woman had captured his attention from the moment she first stepped into his office. He had waited to call on her, allowing her time to settle into her new position with the company and become accustomed to her new home. Undoubtedly, there had been much for her to learn, and he hadn’t wanted to appear overly forward. But now he believed the proper amount of time had passed, and he could make his interest known.
He hoped he hadn’t waited too long. On several occasions he’d noticed her in the company of Fred DeVault. At first he had shrugged off the notion that she might be interested in Fred. After all, they were practically thrown together, since her cousin lived with Fred and his mother. But he had observed the two of them alone on several occasions, and now he wasn’t quite so certain there wasn’t something more than friendship on Fred’s mind. If Olivia proved to be the woman who could replace his Lydia, he’d fight for her.
He picked up the china clock and traced his finger over the hand-painted violets and miniature roses. The timepiece had been a gift to Lydia, purchased while traveling abroad on their honeymoon. She had fallen in love with the beauty of the delicately painted flowers and greenery. Though he’d known the clock was grossly overpriced, he’d secretly purchased it and then presented it to her when they returned to Pullman. If he closed his eyes, he could still imagine her touch as she’d embraced him and whispered her thanks for his thoughtfulness.
He shook his head, determined to move forward with his life. A year after Lydia’s death, he’d given away her clothing and sent several items to her parents as remembrances. Although he doubted whether he could ever do the same with Lydia’s precious timepiece, he knew the time had arrived to pack away this final reminder of the past.
At eleven thirty, Samuel carefully tucked the clock into the crook of his arm and returned home. He wrapped the clock in a soft cloth and laid it in the bottom of the chest of drawers, prepared to open a new chapter in his life. If he hurried, he would have sufficient time to walk to the Arcade and purchase tickets for the Saturday night band concert.
He hurried out of the house and down the sidewalk with a spring in his step. Suddenly life seemed much brighter. He was still a young man—perhaps not as young as Fred DeVault, but young enough that he wanted more out of life than working every day and coming home to an empty house each evening. He wanted to share his life with a wife and a child or two. Shaking his head, he stifled a laugh. He was getting a little ahead of himself. First he must ask Olivia to attend the concert—later he could think of marriage and children.
Olivia couldn’t decide if she’d grown more fatigued with Charlotte’s ongoing complaints of boredom and loneliness or with Chef René ’s expectations. Weary from yet another day of rushing about in the hot kitchen, Olivia picked up the next day’s guest list and menu, as well as the two stacks of cards that needed to be handwritten before tomorrow’s dinner party. She’d promised Chef René she would inscribe them this evening, and he had readily agreed the chore could be completed at home. Olivia was certain he would have assigned her the task anyway. But offering to perform the duty carried a distinct advantage— at least that’s what she told herself. And she hoped it was another way to compensate for her previous mishaps.
Ever since the incident of the marching ants, as Chef René so aptly referred to it, she’d done everything in her power to regain the man’s confidence. And he hadn’t refused her offers to work extra hours while he relaxed or read his books, yet always maintaining a watchful eye on her progress. She soon discovered that he borrowed library books that detailed diverse cooking methods and recipes. Mostly he would sit in the kitchen, book in hand, and occasionally read a recipe aloud before scoffing at the directions or at ingredients—especially if authored by a British chef. Nothing delighted him more than a good argument with the pastry chef, who attempted to extol the merits of English cooking.
When the pastry chef had been assigned to cook on the Pullman dining cars last week, Chef René had attempted to spar with Olivia. However, she ignored his contentious remarks. She didn’t care whether he found the English recipes unsavory or wondrous. She merely wanted to go home, soak her feet, write the menu and place cards, and retire for the night.
Fortunately, Chef René had offered her leftovers from this evening’s banquet—his compensation for her willingness to prepare the menu and place cards, she’d decided. At least she wouldn’t be required to cook Charlotte’s supper. After retrieving a basket from the decking closet, Olivia packed two portions of salmon, a generous serving of both the potatoes and rice, and a jar of fish chowder. She placed the menu cards and place cards atop the basket while Chef René continued to read. He grunted his disapproval of some item in the book as she bid him goodnight.
‘‘Don’t forget we must begin early in the morning, and don’t forget to write out the menu and place cards this evening.’’
Olivia adjusted the basket on her arm and continued out the door. How could she forget? She would be up until at least eleven o’clock working on the cards unless she could convince Charlotte to help. Perhaps she’d hold the Salmon a` la Rothschild hostage until Charlotte agreed to help. After all, the woman did little but mope about. Her appetite increased with each passing day, as did her weight. And though she complained about her escalating size, she continued to eat everything Olivia prepared or brought home from the hotel.
True to her nightly ritual, Charlotte was pacing in front of the parlor window when Olivia arrived. ‘‘You’re late and I’m hungry.’’ The scowl on Charlotte’s face matched her angry words.
‘‘Good evening to you, too.’’ Olivia forced a smile as she brushed past Charlotte and headed for the kitchen. ‘‘I’ve brought home several delightful dishes.’’ As expected, Charlotte followed on her heels. Olivia placed the basket atop the kitchen table but grasped Charlotte’s wrist when she attempted to remove the enticing offerings. ‘‘Only if you help me write the menu cards for tomorrow’s dinner at the hotel.’’
Charlotte stepped back and wrested her arm free. ‘‘You’re bribing me? I pay most of the rent on this hideous dwelling, and yet you’re going to force my help before you’ll serve me supper?’’ Charlotte clutched her bodice as though she might faint from hunger.
Olivia nearly laughed aloud at her theatrics. ‘‘You truly should consider the stage, Charlotte.’’ She removed the menu and place cards from the basket and pointed toward the hall. ‘‘Why don’t you retrieve two pens and the ink, and we can begin.’’
‘‘
Before
we eat? I truly can wait no longer, Olivia. I promise I’ll help as soon as I’ve had my supper.’’
Though she questioned the wisdom of her decision, Olivia relented. Better to let Charlotte work on a full stomach. While Charlotte devoured the main course, Olivia explained they would likely be done in less than two hours if they both set their minds and hands to the task.
As she finished the final bite of her meal, Charlotte perused the items being offered at the next day’s dinner, her attention settling upon the final entry on the list. ‘‘Oh! Chocolate meringues with whipped cream and chocolate shavings!’’ The words rolled off her tongue as though she could almost taste one of the delicacies. ‘‘I do wish Chef René had prepared meringues for dessert tonight.’’ She peeked inside the basket, no doubt hoping one of the desserts might appear.
‘‘There’s nothing more to eat, Charlotte. Besides, we need to begin.’’
Charlotte reached for one of the place cards, and Olivia shook her head. ‘‘I’ll do the place cards, and when I’ve finished, I’ll help you complete the menu cards,’’ she said, adding that Charlotte’s delicate script was much finer than her own. But from Charlotte’s pout, she knew that her compliment hadn’t hit the mark.
Charlotte continued to pout as she took up her pen and perused the menu. ‘‘This is quite a feast. A special gathering, I take it?’’
Olivia shrugged. ‘‘Business associates, investors, and foreign dignitaries, I’m told.’’ Usually, she cared little about who would attend festivities at the hotel. However, a name at the top of the list she’d received from Mr. Pullman’s secretary had immediately captured her attention: Randolph Morgan. After having inscribed his place card, she’d been certain to leave it at the hotel, and before departing work, she had dutifully drawn a line through his name on the list.
If only Mr. Pullman’s secretary didn’t insist upon the return of all grocery lists, menu items, and guest lists related to the events their employer hosted at the hotel, Olivia would have eradicated Mr. Morgan’s name with a giant ink blot. Instead, she’d be forced to keep it out of Charlotte’s sight. She didn’t want to do anything that might reawaken Charlotte’s thoughts of confronting Randolph Morgan. The two of them had struggled through enough arguments about Mr. Morgan after their arrival in Pullman. Olivia had finally convinced Charlotte that contacting him would be of little use, and she didn’t want to revisit the matter. As far as Olivia knew, Randolph Morgan had no idea Charlotte was in Pullman. Olivia hoped it would remain that way.
The meal appeared to have sated Charlotte’s hunger for the moment, and she penned the menus with only an occasional question or comment. They were making fine progress except for the need to share a single blotter. Each of them seemed to require it at precisely the same time. When Charlotte sighed for the third time, Olivia conceded. ‘‘I’ll go and fetch the blotter from my room.’’
She was gone only a few moments, but fear struck her like a bolt of lightning when she returned to the room and saw Charlotte hastily pushing papers about the table. Olivia feared the woman had been reading the guest list during her absence, though she couldn’t be certain. The list had indeed been moved, but so had the other papers.
Kitchen preparations had gone smoothly throughout the morning, but as the hour of the guests’ arrival drew near, Chef René grew impatient. After sending one of the young dishwashers scurrying on an errand, he pointed to Olivia. ‘‘Make certain the menu and place cards are on the tables.’’
