‘‘We have a few moments before I must turn my attention to the leg of lamb. Take me to see what you’ve created for the tables.’’ René wiped his wet hands on the towel tucked at his waist.
One of the pastry assistants and a dishwasher grinned as he made the request. Olivia remained convinced neither of the young women liked her. Most likely they were hoping he’d find her decorations unsuitable. She, however, remained confident. Certainly Charlotte knew more about entertaining than those women could ever imagine. Olivia pushed open the doors to the dining room and, with a flourish of her arm, bid Chef René enter.
His thick lips curved upward as he surveyed the tables from afar. But when he approached one of the tables for a closer review, his smile deteriorated into a harsh scowl. He turned and pointed at the tables, his eyes wide as they reflected either anger or horror—she couldn’t determine which. ‘‘What were you thinking? Look at these tables!’’ His words echoed throughout the huge empty room like a clanging bell.
With the timidity of a small child, Olivia edged nearer and then gasped at the sight. Countless ants marched up and down the table in long formations that occasionally veered off to circle a bread plate or climb the stem of a water goblet before making a return descent to the starched white tablecloth. And not only on this table closest to her. She raced to each of the perfectly arranged tables and then skidded to a halt. At each one, she was greeted by the same sight—ants.
She checked the windows, but they remained tightly closed. How had this happened? ‘‘The tables were perfect when I came to the kitchen this morning.’’ She pointed at the windows as if to affirm that she’d not been the one to permit the insects entry.
The chef marched about the room waving his arm at the offending insects. ‘‘We are on a time schedule, Miss Mott. I need everyone in the kitchen helping with meal preparations. Instead, my helpers will be required to spend their time washing dishes and glassware. All because I trusted you to deck the tables.’’ He stopped pacing and massaged his forehead. ‘‘Why me? Why must I be plagued with employees who cannot perform the simplest of tasks without supervision?’’
Olivia wasn’t certain if he expected an answer, but when he once again began pacing the floor, she muttered, ‘‘The tables were quite beautiful only a short time ago. I truly don’t know what happened.’’
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.
CHAPTER NINE
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 maintaini
ng 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.
CHAPTER TEN
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.’’
She wanted to object, for one of the kitchen boys could check on the cards while she continued stirring the hollandaise sauce. But her objection would only cause disruption in the kitchen, and that wasn’t needed during the final moments of meal preparation. She marched down the hall, her shoes slapping heavily upon the tiles—in case Chef René hadn’t noted her level of agitation.
As she rounded the corner, the sound of loud angry voices drifted in through the open windows along the veranda. A tall Negro waiter, his white jacket as stiff as the menu cards, stood sentry outside the dining room door. He moved aside as Olivia approached. If he heard the shouts outside the hotel, it wasn’t reflected in his stoic expression. While she quickly surveyed the room, the heated argument escalated. She exited the dining room and stopped in her tracks, straining to listen. Charlotte!
She cast a look toward the front desk. Mr. Billings, who normally would have hastened to arrest any commotion, was away from his usual post. Fear gripped Olivia’s heart as she raced to the front door. She weakened at the sight that greeted her. Stomach bulging, hair flying in total disarray, and blue eyes darkened with fury, Charlotte looked like a woman gone mad. She was clinging to Randolph Morgan’s arm, obviously intent upon forcing him to listen to her. Olivia glanced at the clock. The other guests would soon be arriving.
Chef René would expect her hasty return to the kitchen, but she couldn’t ignore the unfolding spectacle. Throwing caution to
the wind, she hurried down the front steps of the hotel and looped arms with Charlotte. ‘‘Why don’t we go home? I believe Mr. Morgan is expected inside.’’
Charlotte turned a wild-eyed stare at Olivia while still maintaining a fierce grip on Mr. Morgan’s arm. ‘‘He’s denying his own child, Olivia. What kind of man would do such a thing?’’
Olivia leveled a steady bead on the man. ‘‘One who is both married and a coward, your ladyship. One who cares only about himself, I would assume.’’
‘‘How can you possibly expect me to think this child you’re carrying is mine, Charlotte?’’ He leaned a bit closer. ‘‘I’m certain you were as free with other men as you were with me.’’
Charlotte broke loose of Olivia’s hold and swung her arm. A gust of air passed Olivia’s face as Charlotte landed a perfectly aimed blow across Mr. Morgan’s cheekbone. Shock registered in his eyes, and he slowly rubbed his face. When he lowered his hand moments later, red streaks emblazoned his cheek. Charlotte took another menacing step toward him. ‘‘How dare you speak such an outrageous lie! You know this is your child I’m carrying.’’
He shook his head and smirked. ‘‘I know nothing of the kind. And should anyone inquire, I would be forced to tell the truth: the only time I’ve been in your presence is while dining at the home of your parents in London.’’
Charlotte gasped and lunged at him while Olivia attempted to wedge herself in front of Mr. Morgan. ‘‘Please, Charlotte, don’t!’’
He tilted his head to one side. ‘‘You should listen to your maid, Lady Charlotte.’’
Olivia glared at him. Couldn’t he see her uniform? She longed to tell him she wasn’t Charlotte’s maid and if he considered himself marginally intelligent, he would discontinue his argumentative remarks and go inside. However, she dared not say anything to a man of Mr. Morgan’s stature. Olivia inwardly groaned when Charlotte’s chin jutted forward.
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