In the Company of Secrets (9 page)
Fred watched his mother brush melted butter atop the perfectly rounded mounds. He was thankful they had enough income that she wasn’t required to seek work in the huge laundry or sewing departments where some of the town’s women labored. Intermittent income from her midwifery duties provided a bit of money for what she often referred to as her rainy-day fund.
He’d seen the arrival of carloads of soiled uniforms and linens that needed to be washed and then pressed on the huge mangles and shirt-pressing machines. Occasionally he’d visited Homer Lindsey on the second floor of the laundry, where fifteen hundred pounds of soap were made each day, then piped downstairs and delivered to the huge washers, where the dirty items were restored to snowy white perfection. Homer’s wife worked as a seamstress in the linen department, and they hoped to save enough to buy a house of their own in Roseland one day. Fred doubted they’d ever reach the goal, given their wages, but he didn’t voice his opinion to Homer.
‘‘Martha mentioned one of the hotel maids has quit her position to take a job in the knitting mills next week.’’ Albert appeared pleased he’d remembered to pass along the information. ‘‘You might tell some of the ladies they could apply at the hotel.’’
While most everything required for the building and repair of the Pullman railroad cars had purposefully been incorporated into the multiple buildings that formed the Pullman Car Works, the positions for men far outweighed those available for women. And it seemed Fred’s mother was often searching out prospects for one lady friend or another.
‘‘If George Pullman paid a decent wage, the women wouldn’t be required to work in order to make ends meet.’’
Once again, his mother waved a warning. ‘‘Enough of such talk. Let’s enjoy our supper. I’m anxious to go visit with Albert’s cousin and meet Mrs. Hornsby.’’
Fred grinned at his mother. ‘‘You win, Mother. I promise I’ll not say another word against Mr. Pullman or the town—at least until after supper.’’
Charlotte remained sound asleep while Olivia prepared to depart for work the next morning. She was grateful she wouldn’t be forced to listen to her ladyship whine about their poor accommodations or her need for a maid to help fashion her hair. Upon seeing the sparse furnishings in the kitchen last evening, Mrs. DeVault had insisted Charlotte come and take her meals with her the next day.
After the guests had departed the night before, Olivia had once again shoved her notes at Charlotte. ‘‘Study these again before you go to sleep and before you depart for your visit with Mrs. DeVault.’’
Though Charlotte had immediately objected, she conceded defeat when Olivia mentioned several errors made during the evening. Had it not been for Olivia’s quick recoveries, they would have been subjected to a genuine interrogation. Now she could only hope Charlotte would heed her advice.
Attempting to assure herself all would go well on her first day in the hotel kitchen, Olivia squared her shoulders as she entered the room.
Chef René was on duty, his gaze darting about the kitchen until it finally came to rest upon her. ‘‘So you have arrived.’’ He grinned. ‘‘I wondered if you might flee during the night.’’
With a flourish, he pointed to her flower-adorned hat and sensible broadcloth cape. ‘‘Place your personal items in the outer hallway. Never bring them into the kitchen.’’ Upon her return, the chef greeted her with a double-breasted white cotton jacket. He extended it toward her. ‘‘It will be too large, but it is all that is available at the moment. We can have one tailored for you.’’ The words rolled off his tongue in his lilting French accent.
She shrugged into the oversized jacket and gingerly rolled up the sleeves that extended well beyond her fingertips. The two rows of buttons were at her sides rather than running down the front of the jacket, but she didn’t complain. However, she took a backward step when the chef pointed to a tall white toque that resembled his own chef ’s hat.
‘‘Put it on. All chefs in my kitchen must wear a jacket and hat—it sets them apart.’’
Olivia wasn’t certain she wanted to be set apart, especially by the oversized jacket and huge white hat. Even with her hair pulled into a knot at the back of her head, the hat slipped down and balanced precariously over one eye.
When the remainder of the kitchen staff arrived, they surveyed her with what she could only guess was a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Perhaps she could borrow a needle and thread from Martha or one of the other women and tighten the band of her hat.
She was still engrossed in dealing with the problem toque when Chef René stepped to her side. ‘‘Would you like to prepare a cheese soufflé , or do you have a breakfast specialty with which you’d prefer to surprise me?’’
Her stomach catapulted into a frenzy of unwelcome activity. She hadn’t eaten before leaving home, yet she was forced to swallow down the lump in her throat. ‘‘I thought for my first day it would be helpful if I could watch and learn where you keep your utensils and what methods you prefer to use in your kitchen.’’ Would he see through her reply?
A slow smile curved his lips. ‘‘You have a valid point, Miss Mott. For today, you may observe. Tomorrow you will cook.’’
She didn’t fail to notice the frowns she received from the kitchen staff. While they scurried about in a frenzy of activity, she sat on a stool and watched, her hands primly folded in her lap. With each course, she studied the chef ’s movements, as though merely watching this man would cause her to immediately evolve into a chef. She’d been observing Chef Mallard for over a year and hadn’t mastered
his
techniques. However, she used the time to advantage today.
There were, she discovered, differences in this kitchen. Each person knew exactly what was expected, and the staff moved to and fro like a well-oiled machine. The plates were removed from the warming oven at the precise moment the eggs Benedict were coddled to perfection. The hollandaise sauce peaked to a rich, creamy texture at the exact moment it was to be ladled over the eggs. The tall Negro servers appeared at the door of the carving room, where they retrieved the silverdomed plates from the hot closets and silently carried them to the awaiting hotel guests. Unlike the harried frenzy and crashing pots and pans in Chef Mallard’s kitchen, a quiet accord of movement surrounded Chef René ’s staff as they accomplished their purposes.
Breakfast was served until nine o’clock each morning, at which time the doors to the dining rooms were closed, and the entire staff ceased their work promptly at ten o’clock. Some departed out the side door and gathered under one of the large maple trees that flanked one side of a budding flower garden; others hurried off in diverse directions. Chef René departed toward his office, and Olivia remained perched atop her stool.
‘‘Olivia!’’ Martha Mosher stood outside the kitchen door and crooked her finger. She grinned as Olivia jumped down and the toque bobbed forward and once again sagged across her right eye. ‘‘Is all going well?’’
Pushing the hat from her eyes, Olivia shrugged. ‘‘I’m merely observing today.’’ She glanced toward the side door. ‘‘Some of the others have been casting angry looks in my direction.’’
‘‘I don’t doubt it. They’re hard at work while you relax. Is there any reason why you couldn’t assist them washing the dishes once the meal has been served?’’
Martha was correct, and Olivia decided she’d do just that after the noonday meal. When Chef René returned, she carefully watched his food preparations. Later, when the dishes began to accumulate, she slid from the stool and made her way to the sink.
However, Chef René called an abrupt halt to her activity. ‘‘Chefs cook. Dishwashers wash dishes. Waiters serve. Sit down and observe! I am going to prepare a dish that is enjoyed by our hotel guests: Aubergines Bohémienne. You will be expected to prepare this dish from time to time.’’
She didn’t understand what the chef would be cooking, but Olivia compliantly returned to her stool and watched as he began to dice a large eggplant.
When the workday finally ended, Martha met her in the park across from the hotel and explained there were likely hard feelings because the chef was showing her preferential treatment. ‘‘It makes the others feel less important.’’ Martha attempted to reassure Olivia before she headed off toward home. ‘‘Things will be better tomorrow. Once you actually begin working, their resentment will disappear.’’ She pointed at Olivia’s toque. ‘‘I hope you plan to put a tuck in that this evening.’’
Olivia laughed. ‘‘I think that will be my first order of business tonight.’’ Although she could easily stitch the hat so that it would fit snugly, she knew her lack of culinary abilities could not be so easily remedied.
Olivia bent forward and rested her head atop her folded arms. How had she survived the past five days? Chef René had looked at her with disdain when she’d attempted to carve the mutton with an unsharpened knife; he’d scowled when she’d not whisked the eggs to perfection; he’d slapped his forehead in disgust when she’d ordered the potatoes cubed instead of sliced; and he’d abruptly exited the kitchen when she had prepared a lumpy lemon sauce. Through it all, the staff continued to hold her at bay with their frowns and silence. Instead of offering sympathetic words, they ignored her. She wanted to ask what she had done to cause their dislike but feared what they might say.
When she asked Martha that very question after work, her new friend gave her a sidelong glance. ‘‘Have you not noticed Chef René is forgiving when you make a mistake, yet with the other staff he is relentless?’’
‘‘He scowls or hurries from the room when I fail,’’ Olivia defended.
‘‘Perhaps, but he is much harsher with the others.’’
Olivia had been too concerned over her own failures to notice the chef ’s reaction to anyone else. In fact, she couldn’t say with authority that she’d had time to observe anyone else make a mistake. She’d been too busy attempting to resolve her own messes. ‘‘I can’t say that I’ve noticed.’’
Martha nodded. ‘‘He treats you differently, Olivia. They don’t know why, nor do I. It makes them jealous, and you’ve become the object of their anger rather than Chef René .’’
Now what?
She could hardly march into Chef René ’s office and ask him to yell at her. On top of thinking her an inept cook, he’d think her a blathering idiot. ‘‘What can I do?’’
‘‘I truly don’t know. But for tonight, let’s not worry over work. Mrs. DeVault invited us to supper. Fred and Albert are going to practice with the baseball team and want us to come and watch. We can cheer them on.’’
Martha’s words had a rallying effect upon Charlotte, who had been lying on the divan ignoring them since they’d entered the house. ‘‘How can you even think of such a thing? I’m alone all day long, and now you’re going to go off and enjoy yourself for the entire evening?’’ She formed a pout and folded her arms across her chest.
Waving a hand, Martha shook her head. ‘‘You can join us for supper, too. Mrs. DeVault said she’d walk you home afterward.’’
But Charlotte’s displeasure didn’t completely dissipate.
‘‘Seven o’clock. Don’t be late,’’ Martha said on departing.
Although Mrs. Hornsby had made every attempt to force a change of plans, the men remained steadfast. They wanted Oli- via and Martha to accompany them to their baseball practice. Though Fred sensed Olivia’s hesitation, he hoped she wouldn’t succumb to Mrs. Hornsby’s wishes. The woman appeared to have a certain power over Olivia that he couldn’t quite figure out. Then again, perhaps Olivia merely gave in due to her friend’s recent loss. Still, he didn’t think Mrs. Hornsby acted like a woman in mourning. She behaved more like a petulant child set upon having her way.
Fred found her conduct most annoying and wondered if his mother would tire of the woman’s immature antics before the evening drew to an end. He felt a brief tinge of guilt as they departed and left his mother alone to entertain the sullen woman.
They automatically formed into couples, with Albert and Martha walking a few steps ahead of Fred and Olivia. Once they settled into a comfortable pace, Fred broke the silence. ‘‘How are you enjoying your work?’’
‘‘I can’t say it’s going very well,’’ she said and told him of the myriad mistakes she’d made throughout the week.
Fred found her admissions puzzling. He couldn’t imagine how she’d been hired for her position if she didn’t possess the proper training and abilities. ‘‘When I secured my job,’’ he told her, ‘‘I was required to sign a contract as well as submit recommendations. The Pullman representative who hired me even talked with my previous supervisor. Were you not required to do the same?’’
She looked like a frightened animal hoping to find an escape, yet there was no reason his questions should make her fearful. He waited, anxious to hear her response. She stammered a reply that made little sense, but before he had time to ask for an interpretation, she changed the subject.
‘‘I understand Mr. Pullman has a library located on the second floor of the Arcade for the town’s residents.’’ She chattered on for several minutes about the good-hearted gesture and Mr. Pullman’s thoughtfulness in making such a fine donation to the city. ‘‘Do you frequent it often?’’
