In the Company of Secrets (25 page)
The man was sprinting across the street, waving his hat overhead and calling her name. Fred stopped as Mr. Howard approached. ‘‘What does
he
want?’’
Placing a hand atop her hat as a gust of wind coursed down the street, Olivia shrugged. ‘‘I’m certain I don’t know.’’
Fred frowned, obviously unconvinced.
‘‘Mr. Howard?’’ Olivia waited for his response.
‘‘I saw the three of you and wondered . . .’’ His brows furrowed. ‘‘That is, it would be easy to mistake you for a young family out for a stroll.’’ He glanced at Fred and then looked intently at Olivia. She couldn’t decide how to respond. He hadn’t asked a question, yet he obviously expected some reply.
Fred took a step closer to Olivia’s side and grasped her elbow with his free hand. ‘‘If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Howard, my mother is expecting us for supper. We don’t want to keep her waiting.’’
Mr. Howard looked down at Morgan for a brief moment. ‘‘I trust Mrs. Hornsby isn’t ill.’’
‘‘Not to our knowledge,’’ Fred said as he tightened his hold on Olivia’s elbow. ‘‘Come along, Olivia. We’re already late.’’
She tipped her head, thankful Fred had taken control of the situation. ‘‘Good evening, Mr. Howard.’’
He nodded formally before donning his hat. ‘‘Miss Mott. Mr. DeVault. I trust you’ll enjoy the remainder of your evening.’’
Olivia sighed, relieved to be away from the sticky situation. But she’d taken only a few steps when Mr. Howard called after her. ‘‘Don’t forget that you owe me an afternoon in Chicago, Miss Mott.’’
She noted the twitch in Fred’s jaw and steeled herself for his questions.
A week later, Olivia arrived at the hotel kitchen, harried and exhausted. Mrs. DeVault was filling the void during the daylight hours, but Olivia was required to care for young Morgan each evening and throughout the night. The lack of sleep was taking its toll. Unlike Charlotte, Olivia hastened to still the infant when he cried, pacing the floor or rocking him—whatever was needed. For that, she’d received Mr. Rice’s thanks but little slumber for herself. The infant was colicky, due in part to a change in his milk—at least, that’s what Mrs. DeVault advised.
The older woman had forecast a bleak result with such a change, and she had been correct. However, there had been no choice. Though Charlotte’s letter clearly stated Mrs. Logan had been paid for the remainder of the month, the woman contradicted the declaration and refused to supply further sustenance for Morgan. With an immediate resolution needed, Mrs. DeVault had decided upon fresh goat’s milk as a substitute. But young Morgan had objected to the new arrangement.
Although Mrs. DeVault had said he would adjust within two weeks, Olivia didn’t know if she would survive. She trudged up the steps and into the kitchen. Her feet felt as though heavy weights had been attached to them, and dark circles rimmed her eyes. Chef René had declared she resembled a raccoon, in spite of her attempts to obscure the offending discoloration with powder.
Turning from the giant stove, Chef René glanced in her direction and shook his head. ‘‘When will you get some sleep, Miss Mott? You cannot continue to work in this condition. The guests arrive for your tea at the end of the month. You must be prepared, Miss Mott.’’ He pointed his spoon in her direction. ‘‘If you are to be a chef, your first concern must be the kitchen.’’
Olivia dropped onto a nearby chair. They would be alone for another fifteen minutes before the kitchen boys arrived. ‘‘But there is a baby at my house who needs care. I can’t disregard his needs because of my own desire.’’
He pushed the pot of simmering oatmeal, one of the daily breakfast offerings, off to the rear of the stove and joined her. ‘‘His
mother
did. Why do you feel this child is now your responsibility? I am told there is a home for orphaned children in Chicago. Perhaps you should go there and see if they will take the infant.’’
Olivia cradled her arms across her chest, thinking of her own motherless childhood. How could she do such a thing to little Morgan? He deserved more than a home filled with unwanted children. Though her father had never shown her love or attention, she’d always known that Aunt Eleanor loved her. Furthermore, she’d seen the dark, dank places in London where these children lived. She had passed one each time she walked to visit Aunt Eleanor. No, her heart would not permit such a thing. She couldn’t provide Morgan with a luxurious home, but a child needed love more than finery—of that she was certain.
Chef René sat down beside her. ‘‘What do you think? You can take the child to the orphanage in Chicago tomorrow morning. I will permit the time away from work.’’
‘‘No.’’ Her word was a mere whisper. ‘‘The child is more important than my dream.’’
‘‘Non! I would agree if he were your own baby. But this is someone else’s child, Miss Mott.’’ He tapped his finger on the band of his white toque. ‘‘You must think of your future!’’
‘‘I’m too tired to think, Chef René . Today I’ll do well to make it through my tasks that require little thought.’’
‘‘What’s this I hear? Too tired to think?’’
Both of them shifted around at the sound of Mr. Howard’s voice. He’d obviously been listening to their conversation. Olivia hoped he didn’t plan to intrude. He seemed to think he had the right to direct both her work and personal life. She was aware that his insistent behavior revealed affectionate feelings that were more than a passing fancy. But to date, her attempts to dissuade him had proved unsuccessful.
Fred was likely correct: if she truly didn’t care for Mr. Howard, she shouldn’t accept his invitations. Thus far, the power he held over her employment with the company had controlled her decisions.
‘‘Miss Mott?’’ Mr. Howard interrupted her thoughts, always careful to address her formally during working hours.
‘‘Yes, Mr. Howard?’’
‘‘May I speak with you privately, please?’’ He then turned his attention to René . ‘‘May we use your office?’’
Mr. Howard knew they would both comply, for the questions weren’t actually requests. They were commands posed in a gentlemanly fashion. Before either of them responded, he motioned for her to follow him. Olivia glanced over her shoulder, but Chef René shrugged and raised his brows. He obviously had no idea what Mr. Howard wanted.
Once Mr. Howard closed the door, he pulled Chef René ’s chair around the desk and sat down beside her. ‘‘I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it, and I hope you won’t consider me rude, but I overheard your entire conversation with Chef René .’’
What should she say? That she thought his behavior highly improper? She merely gave a slight nod.
‘‘I believe I have a solution for your problem with the infant. However, I want you to think on what I’m about to suggest— for several days. Then you may give me your answer.’’ He reached across the arm of his chair and lightly grasped her hand. ‘‘You know that I am very fond of you, Olivia. We’ve not known each other long, but from the first moment I saw you, I knew I was ready to move forward with my personal life.’’
How could he have known such a thing the moment he saw her? Clammy beads of perspiration rolled down her back. She wanted to withdraw her hand yet feared his reaction should she pull away. Her mind raced. Exactly what was Mr. Howard suggesting? Apparently he construed her silence as agreement, for he continued.
‘‘If you married me, we could provide a loving home for young Morgan. He’s a fine infant, and I have the means to give him an excellent upbringing. You’d be able to quit your job and give him the nurturing he deserves. I believe this is a perfect solution—for all three of us.’’
The warm air wrapped around her like a suffocating wool blanket. She feared she might swoon. And with the door closed, the small room provided little ventilation. Gathering her courage, she withdrew her hand, plucked a piece of paper from the desk, and frantically fanned herself.
Mr. Howard immediately joined in and waved his white linen handkerchief back and forth in front of her. ‘‘This is why I want you to take time to consider my solution. I knew you would be—’’
Olivia held up her hand to stave off further explanation. She inhaled deeply, carefully choosing her words. ‘‘You and Chef René forget that Charlotte—Mrs. Hornsby—may come back at any moment. As I explained to Chef René , Mrs. Hornsby’s letter didn’t say she wouldn’t return.’’
‘‘And it didn’t say she would. We must assume that if she intended to do so, she would have clarified her plan.’’
‘‘I could argue the opposite, but there’s no way of knowing for certain. A decision of any type cannot be made at the moment.’’ She checked the clock. ‘‘I must get back to the kitchen, Mr. Howard.’’
He slid forward and once again captured her hand. ‘‘But you’ll consider my proposal?’’
The urgency in his voice matched the eagerness in his eyes, and she wanted to run from the room. She couldn’t believe he would suggest they should wed. They barely knew each other. Surely he couldn’t love her. The man could have his choice of many women. Why had he selected her? She had little to offer him . . . couldn’t even offer love. He was a nice enough man but not the man for her, not the man she hoped to marry one day. At least she didn’t think so. And she had no interest in a marriage of convenience. Did Mr. Howard believe she would grow to love him? Was he willing to take such a chance in order to provide a home for Morgan?
Her legs wobbled as she stood, and he placed a supporting arm around her waist. ‘‘I’m fine, Mr. Howard. It’s the heat; it’s stifling in here.’’
He leaned forward and turned the doorknob. Thankfully, a faint breeze drifted into the room. She glanced at his arm that continued to circle her waist, and he immediately released her. He wouldn’t want the staff to see him clutching the waist of the assistant chef.
‘‘We’ll discuss this further next week. Perhaps when we have our belated supper in Chicago?’’
She stepped into the hallway and twisted around. ‘‘I have the baby to look after now. I’m not formulating any plans for my days or evenings away from work.’’
The sparkle she’d noted in his eyes only moments ago disappeared. ‘‘In a city the size of Pullman, I imagine I could arrange for someone with excellent references to care for the child.’’
Unwilling to offer an affirmative response, she pointed toward the kitchen. ‘‘I must return to work. I’m certain Chef René is in need of help with the breakfast preparations.’’ She hurried off before he could detain her.
On several occasions throughout the day, Chef René broached the topic of her conversation with Mr. Howard, but she immediately silenced his inquiries with comments about the seating arrangement in the dining room or with a question regarding one of the recipes. By day’s end, he’d ceased his questions, though she knew he was more than a little interested in what had transpired.
He followed her outside as she prepared to depart for the evening. ‘‘I trust Mr. Howard didn’t speak ill of me during your meeting this morning?’’
The man didn’t give up easily. ‘‘Of course not. This was a . . . a private matter.’’ She sighed with relief when Fred rounded the corner of the hotel. She waved him forward. ‘‘I thought you’d forgotten me.’’
A gust of wind whipped his hair, and he ran his fingers through his mass of dark curls. Chef René glanced back and forth between the two and then rested his arms across his rotund belly. ‘‘Ah, so
that
is how it is.’’
Olivia arranged her white jacket across one arm and held her toque between her fingers. ‘‘We are friends. His mother is caring for Morgan.’’
Chef René tipped his head back and laughed, his sagging jowls jiggling. He wagged his head back and forth. ‘‘We, too, are friends, but you do not look at me with this same affection that I now see in your eyes.’’ He lowered his voice and winked. ‘‘I think Mr. Howard will be worried if he sees the way you look at this young man.’’
‘‘Who knows what will or won’t worry Mr. Howard?’’ Olivia attempted a nonchalant shrug and bid the chef good-night. She quickly fell in step alongside Fred. With the familiarity of a couple who’d known each other much longer, he took the food basket and swung it in one hand as they walked. His easy ways calmed her, and she laughed as he jested with her. Once their laughter ceased, he grew more serious.
