“My goodness!”
“Do you think I might have a quick word with Chef La Chance, regarding the dietary needs of Mrs. Willows? She is recovering from a rather extended period of … of exhaustion, and has asked that I might explain her needs to Chef La Chance.” Her fingers crossed, Maisie hoped she didn’t sound too clumsy.
“Well, certainly. Do put in good word for me with him, will you? He is in his office. Just a moment.” She knocked on the door at the far end of the kitchen.
“He’s very busy, but he will see you now for just a minute. Tell him how nicely I’m preparing a tray for your Mrs. Willows!” she whispered.
“I’m sure he will be delighted to hear that.”
Elliot Willows was seated at a large table facing the window with his back to the door. Charts and pencils and a stack of cookbooks were neatly set before him. He was bent over his work as he spoke.
“Oui. Une minute, s’il vous, plait!” he said over his shoulder. Excusez moi, mademoiselle. Tell me, please, which guest it is that you are wishing to speak to me about.”
“Mrs. Willows.” She watched his back muscles tighten and his shoulders rise as if he might spring from the chair and fly through the window before him. But he didn’t turn around.
“Did you mean to say Mrs. Willard? I have Mr. and Mrs. Willard on my list, but no one name Willow.”
“Excuse me, no, it’s Willows,” she answered formally. “Willows with an s.”
“I see,” he said, still facing the table. “I am so sorry, I am so frightfully busy. Um, could you um, perhaps come back later?” As he spoke he shifted into a heavy French accent, and his voice deepened in what Maisie saw as a transparent attempt to disguise his identity. She fought not to laugh.
“Mister Elliot,” she whispered urgently.
He wheeled around, with terror in his eyes. “Close the door,” he whispered, his face white with fear. “Do I know you?”
“I’m, Maisie. I was hired at Ravenscraig shortly before you left for your studies in Europe. I was pretty young then.”
“Maisie! Yes. My God! Are you telling me my parents are at Whitehall?”
“They are. Just arrived. I have come to fetch tea for your mother and Clarisse is getting it ready.”
“This will be the death of me!”
“No, it won’t.”
“Do you want money?”
“Of course not!”
“That’s right!” Elliot brightened. “It occurs to me that we have something in common. If you keep my secret, I will repay you by keeping yours.” He stood and stared down at her.
“My secret?” Maisie’s mouth went dry. “May I sit?”
“Yes, I know all about your secret.”
“What … or when did she tell you?” How could Emma have deceived her?
“Great Scot! What are you talking about? He, not she!” Elliot was confused. Was she trying to throw him off his path? “I know all about your secret medical studies with James. I know how fond my brother is of you. He wrote and told me all about it. I could have you sacked in a minute if you breathe one word of my secret identity to my parents! They would be very unhappy, indeed, at the thought of a romance between James and a member of the staff at Ravenscraig!”
Maisie stared back. James? Fond of her?
“Now you listen to me,” Elliot wagged a finger at her. “This job, this career, is the most important thing in the world to me, and as it appears we are both standing on the veritable precipice of ruin, I want to know exactly what your intentions are. Well, speak up!”
Maisie opened her mouth, but no words came out. She gasped.
Elliot’s hysteria immediately abated as he saw how stricken she was. Clearly, she was more frightened for her own future than she was concerned about destroying his.
“Sherry?” Elliot’s face loomed over hers.
“It’s Maisie, not Sherry.”
“I meant to drink. Here, take this. He shoved a glass into her hands. “Take hold of yourself, Maisie. That tea tray will be ready in a minute. We don’t have much time. All you need to know is that I will tell my parents about my life only when I am ready. If they learn now, I will be finished.”
She downed the drink. “Don’t worry. You can trust me. Emma asked me to help you.”
She told him about her discussion with Emma and his sister’s fervent desire to protect him. He was deeply touched. They made a pact to protect each other, for both immediately recognized a budding friendship. Greatly relieved, he fought down an urge to hug her as he wiped a tear from his eyes. She assured him that she’d keep a sharp eye out to keep him from running into his parents. The kitchen staff almost never came into contact with the guests; only the most extraordinary of circumstance would create such a meeting. They were certain they could keep their secrets.
“Maisie. Thank you,” Elliot sighed with relief as she got up to leave. He opened the door for her. Mr. and Mrs. Willows would be given superlative treatment by the kitchen staff at Whitehall and the tea tray would be ready.
James.
James had confessed to his brother that he was fond of her. Maisie floated back up the stairs with the tray of tea and crumpets and knocked gently at the door.
Chapter Forty-Two
The Jordan Report
February 19, 1905
Jim McGraw ran up the stairs and burst through the door of the composing room at the Winnipeg Star. Isaac glanced up as he typed steadily at the Linotype machine. “Ziggy!” Jim yelled over the clatter. “How much more time do you need? I’ve got something to show you.”
“Hey, Jim, I’ll be finished this page in half an hour.”
“Well, hurry it up. You won’t believe what I got my hands on.”
“Free tickets for the fights?” Isaac grinned.
“Nah. Better than that!” Jim came in closer and patted his coat pocket. “I’ve got a copy of the Jordan report.”
“So soon?” Isaac was astonished. “It won’t even be presented to City Council until tomorrow. Where’d you get it?”
“That’s none of your business. But it’s the real McCoy, all right. Hurry up. I’ll meet you at Mariaggi’s.”
“Give me fifteen minutes.” Isaac began typing as fast as he could.
In their usual booth at the back of the hotel coffee shop, Jim was immersed in Dr. Jordan’s report on typhoid as Isaac bounded in and flung his coat on the rack. “So? What does the Chicago doctor tell us about the water supply?”
“Hold your horses, cowboy,” said Jim, still reading. “As you would expect, it seems the good professor is not particularly eager to offend anyone who hands him a pay envelope. He is awful damn careful with his criticism of City Hall. All we have in this paper is a pretty good summary of the various potential causes of the typhoid and a few obvious recommendations that aren’t anything we haven’t already heard from our local bacteria boys in the health department.
“The one thing I can tell you is that folks are going to be screaming bloody murder about paying for this outside opinion.” Jim snorted as he tossed the report across the table at Isaac.
“What does he say about polluted drinking water?” Isaac asked as he scanned the report.
“Well, he’s not as conclusive as the Star’s mystery reporter. That was some pretty fine writing, my friend. And don’t think you didn’t get people talking about your theory. It’s all over town. The numbers of new cases are way up, just like you figured they would be after the December fire. It’s even in the report. Look here,” he pointed to a chart. “See? In the first two weeks of January there were one hundred and twenty cases of typhoid reported. We haven’t seen numbers that high since the end of last summer. I’d put money down that you are dead on with your theory.”
“But what does Jordan say?” Isaac searched through the report impatiently. “Where does he talk about the drinking water?”
“Oh, for the love of Pete, you got even less patience than I do. For Gawd’s sake, Ziggy, gimme the damn report. I’ll
find the section for you.”
He flipped through the pages. “Here, get a load of this. Jordan writes, ‘on two occasions in 1904, raw Assiniboine River water was turned into the city mains to boost the inadequate supply and meet emergencies caused by large fires.’ ”
“No kidding. He’s got it!” exclaimed Isaac.
“Hold on, Ziggy. Then he puts in these tables, see, showing the number of new typhoid cases, which he says, ‘reveal several interesting facts’. Then there’s a lot of malarkey commentary before he finally gets to the point. Here read this part.” Jim slid the report back across the table.
Isaac felt his spine tingle as he read aloud: “A striking increase of almost explosive character is shown in the next fortnight when the cases reported registered 120. It is a highly suspicious circumstance that the dates on which the Assiniboine water was pumped into the city mains, namely October 10th and December 28th, correspond with the dates of probable infection of the cases reported in the two periods referred to.”
He stopped reading and looked up at Jim. “He’s got the dates of the fires both wrong by a day, but he’s confirming the cause of the typhoid outbreak was the drinking water!”
“No, he ain’t doing no such thing. If you read this thing carefully you’ll see that all that the professor is doing is saying it could be a factor. He also talks about sewers and the possible contamination of the milk supply. If you flip to the back you’ll see his recommendations. He’s real keen on getting rid of the outhouses and having sewer connections built to all the homes as soon as possible. Like none of us could figure that out ourselves.” Jim snorted as he pulled the sheaf of papers closer and turned the page.
“Here’s a good one. This one will melt that curly hair right off your little head, Ziggy. Read this.”
Isaac looked at the line Jim was pointing to and again read out loud. “It is evident that it is not consonant with the public safety that any person ill with typhoid fever should be allowed to remain in a house without a sewer connection.”
Isaac shook his head in disbelief. “So, anyone with typhoid should just move in with someone who has a sewer connection. Where does this man think these people will go?” He went to the last page again. “And what about the danger of pumping in dirty water from the Assiniboine? I don’t see him addressing it at all in the recommendations.”
“Oh, it’s there, all right,” Jim assured him. “You can bet your ass that I hunted through that fancy language to find that sucker. Take a look at the teeny, tiny little mention at the end of the fourth recommendation.” He jabbed his finger at the copy.
“Water from the Assiniboine River should be used as little as possible,” Isaac read. “What?”
“See, Ziggy? I think he’s going out of his way to make sure everything is in nice, general terms. It’s easy to condemn the outhouses because they’re mostly in the North End, and the city’s been hearing folks yammering about them for years. But Jordan can’t actually condemn using the Assiniboine River water because our city fathers have probably done a real good job of letting him know the whole damn town would burn down, just like Chicago did in ’71, if we can’t use it to fight fires once in a while. Think about it. Professor Jordan is from Chicago, and I tell you, folks in that town still talk about the great fire as if it was last week.”
Isaac was completely deflated. “So what was the point of having had Jordan do the report?”
“It’s simple.” Jim leaned on his forearms. “This is Canada. When you pay an outsider, especially a big shot American, to tell you something you already know, people take it more seriously. This makes the city look like it cares about its citizens and wants to do something about the sanitation problems. The soft recommendations leave all kinds of wiggle room for the city councilors to take their time before putting any real money into cleaning things up. You wait. Now that the water system is back to normal and coming from the artesian wells only, we’ve got no more rich folks suckin’ up typhoid germs from the Assiniboine River. Typhoid goes back to being a problem in the immigrant neighborhoods and the story moves right off the front page.”
“That’s an incredibly cynical view, Jim,” Isaac sighed.
“Yup. That’s the way it is, Ziggy. Hey, but don’t be totally down about it. There are going to be some good things to come out of this. I think the city council is actually going to do something about getting a new source of safe water for the city.”
“You think the Jordan report will make that happen?”
“Nope.” Jim slurped his coffee and signaled the waiter for a refill. “I think the report’s small potatoes. I think the city is going to solve the water quality problem strictly because the upper class has been directly touched by the sanitation problems. I don’t think they’ll chance using the Assiniboine to fight fires a third time. You had a real influence in getting people thinking about water pollution, and you ought to be proud of yourself for sticking to your guns.”
“And the North End will continue to be ignored while the city spends a load of money on the new water supply.”
“Well, they’ve sure set the pattern for that, I would say.”
“Maybe I should write about that and slip that story into the newspaper, too.”
“Maybe not. They’re onto you, Ziggy, and it’s going to be a lot harder to get things into print on the sly.”
“You sure?”
“That I am. I heard it from the copy chief. I also heard they aren’t planning on reprimanding you if you stop doing it. But you gotta stop now. The boys in the front office aren’t nuts about the criticism they’ve been getting from their buddies at City Hall. The only reason they haven’t said anything to you is that they’ve sold more papers.”
Isaac couldn’t suppress a grin.
Jim folded the report and handed it across the table. “Here, I’m done with this. I’ll be getting my ‘official’ copy tomorrow at City Hall. You read this through. And then you know what I’d do if I were you, Ziggy?”
“What?”
“Well, don’t get your head all swelled up when I tell ya this, but you can actually write. You’re good. I think you oughta go and write a story about how much suffering is really goin’ on in the North End, how those greenhorns are starving because they’re so poor, all the while battling typhoid, scarlet fever, diphtheria and all that, not to mention freezing to death. But don’t write it for our paper. They’ll never take you seriously. Write it for that new national magazine out of Toronto. You know the one: The Dominion from Coast to Coast. They’ve bought a couple of articles from me. I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“Well, I thank you, Jim. Maybe I’ll try,” Isaac shrugged.
Jim stood up to leave and looked down at Isaac who seemed to be sliding into defeat. He reached over and clipped the back of his head.
“Hey! What’s that for?”
“That’s for feeling sorry for yourself, like a girl. Stop it right now. This isn’t something for you to try, this is something you really need to do, Isaac. This is why you belong in this business.” Jim McGraw pulled his heavy coat up onto his solid frame and left his young friend to wrestle with his conscience.
Isaac sighed. Then he opened the report and read it through, carefully. True enough, there was some good information that had been gathered, and the recommendations would do no harm. But he found himself bitterly disappointed that the politely worded Jordan report was not the hard-hitting document he expected to see as a tool to fuel social change. There simply was no political will in Winnipeg to alleviate the suffering in the foreign quarter.
He rubbed his eyes, feeling hopeless. It was only then that it occurred to him that this was the first time that Jim had ever called him Isaac. He thought about their conversation on his long walk home; by the time he reached the house on Selkirk Avenue, he knew what he wanted to do.
Two weeks later, Isaac Zigman went to the post office and sent his story to Toronto.
Chapter Forty-Three
Wi
nnipeg’s Shameful Secret
March 15, 1905
Rupert dug into his pocket for a handful of coins at the newsstand in Toronto’s Union Station. He was thankful to be able to stretch his legs and take a breath of air before rejoining Beth on the train for the last leg of their journey home. Starved for Canadian news after two months out of the country, he had loaded up with three newspapers and two magazines.
“I’ll also take that Vanity Fair for my wife,” he told the newsie. “You don’t happen to have a copy of the Manitoba Free Press?”
“Just a couple of old ones that came in last week on the train. You can have ’em for free. And if you’re from Winnipeg you might wanna read this,” he turned to the back of his magazine stand and pulled out a copy of The Dominion, Coast to Coast. “There’s a humdinger of a tale about Winnipeg in this issue. Just out today.”
“Well, yes, I’ll take it, thank you.” Rupert paid quickly and ran back to his private car, as the conductor shouted for straggling passengers. He handed his coat to Maisie, pleased to see Beth emerging from their private quarters to join him in the car’s parlor.
“My, how lovely you look,” he said admiringly. “I see that our Florida holiday has completely replenished both your beauty and good health. I am so delighted, my darling.”
“It was truly grand, wasn’t it, Rupert?” She reached for his hand. “It was so lovely to be around society people of that caliber. I will treasure our holiday forever, and I do hope that we will be back at Whitehall another time.”
“I’m sure we will, darling. Everyone seemed quite enchanted with your charming ways. What did you enjoy most?”
“I think that fabulous costume party, the Bal Poudre, to celebrate President Washington’s birthday. What a fabulous evening.”
“Really? I rather thought the alligator wrestling would have topped your list,” he teased.
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