He was suddenly overcome with an urge to be kind. “Why don’t you go to your quarters, Maisie,” he said gently. “Lizzie and I can take care of the dessert service.” She looked intently at the butler, filled with gratitude. She suspected he knew of her affection for James and certain he didn’t know a thing about Elliot’s change of profession.
“Mr. Chadwick, may I have a word with you in the kitchen? Mr. Elliot has asked me to speak to you.”
Ten minutes later, armed with information that Maisie had provided, Mr. Chadwick entered the dining room with renewed confidence and a gleeful determination to perform his part of the surprise with perfection. It was truly the most delicious of circumstances. A butler could wait decades to witness this kind of drama in a family.
He stood near the sideboard and arranged the coffee cups and the Russian samovar for the tea. Alfred had hit the punch line of a story and everyone was laughing and saying what a charming storyteller he was. At the precise moment before conversation resumed, Mr. Chadwick discreetly approached the table and spoke quietly to his employer.
“Would you care for dessert to be served now, Mr. Willows?”
“Who would like dessert?” Rupert called into the celebration with uncharacteristic playfulness. They all responded with enthusiasm.
“Cordials for the ladies, Mr. Chadwick,” Rupert instructed, “and brandy for the gentlemen, if you please. We have much to celebrate at our dinner table this evening.”
James attempted to smile. He had made his choice. Better to lead with your head over your heart. He was not meant to have a life with a housemaid, regardless of his deep feelings for her. Perhaps it was best for all that Maisie had refused him. His heart would heal, and he would have Priscilla to run his social calendar. It was a fine idea. Priscilla came from the right kind of family, and, though a bit high-strung, she would be no embarrassment as he built his new medical practice. The offer to establish his practice in Kenora, on the Lake of the Woods, a hundred and thirty miles east of Winnipeg, had come at a perfect time. Priscilla would probably be happy to be leaving the rigors of the Winnipeg social life she had said so often that she disliked.
Meanwhile, Chadwick was tingling with anticipation. What a shocking story Maisie had told him! She had gone over all of the instructions very carefully, and he was certain he could accomplish what was needed. As he brought the serving cart close to the table he looked at Mr. Elliot, who with an almost imperceptible nod acknowledged it was time to ignite the dessert. The cart came alive with flames as the alcohol burnt off to the sounds of the ooohs and ahhhs of those present. Beth almost wept for joy as she brought her hands to her face and shook her head.
“Oh, it’s just as though we’re in Palm Beach again! Just look at that magnificent creation. Rupert, how on earth did you arrange this? Did Chef La Chance come himself to prepare this dish?”
She laughed in utter delight as Rupert tried to make sense of the presentation of the exquisite dish, duplicating exactly that which had so impressed them in Palm Beach. Only Maisie could have arranged this, and she wasn’t even in the room. He looked to Chadwick.
Chadwick smiled and bowed very formally to acknowledge their appreciation of the spectacle.
“Mr. Chadwick,” Rupert laughed. “This is stupendous! Who is responsible for this magnificent surprise?”
“Thank you, sir,” Chadwick savored the moment and responded with utmost formality. “But I can only suggest that you look to your left for the answer. May I present Chef Louis La Chance, of Paris and New York and most recently of Palm Beach.”
“Elliot!” cried Beth in admiration.
A collective gasp went through the room, and the brandy and cordial glasses were hastily refilled.
Rupert switched to scotch. Stunned by the revelation, he said nothing for a time, receding into his thoughts, happy to give the spotlight to his wife. Beth took command of the table with her ebullient patter, expressing how utterly delighted and thrilled she was with Elliot’s announcement.
The shock gradually abated. Rupert was deeply disappointed but saw no benefit in turning the event into a confrontation. Elliot had never been his favorite child, so why bother fighting it? The boy had always been a little odd, in Rupert’s view.
There was a time, years earlier, when Rupert had even questioned how it was possible that he could be the father of such a child. His speculation had prompted a terribly ugly scene with Beth, who was so deeply angered and hurt at the suggestion that she had been unfaithful that she almost ended their marriage. Secretly, Rupert was so uncomfortable with Elliot’s manner, he would have been relieved to learn that someone other than himself had sired the boy.
Now, sitting at the table, listening to Elliot explain how to make the perfect flambé was almost more than he could bear, but bear it he would. He would make the best of it for the sake of family peace and for Beth, who deserved her happiness. Willows and Son, it would be. C’est la vie.
As he sipped at his glass and watched the easy and joyful chatter around his dinner table, it occurred to him that, Elliot aside, he’d done all right for himself. He was among the wealthiest businessmen in Winnipeg, he had power and respect, and here Alfred was marrying into the highly respected Quartermain family. He pondered his good fortune and a new opportunity entered his mind. Elliot could prove useful, after all.
Flagler’s anointing of Elliot as a sought-after chef had created a golden path for Rupert to develop future business contacts in New York. Elliot was going to be famous, thanks to Henry Flagler. Rupert would profit from being Elliot’s father and supporter. Perhaps there could be a restaurant in their future.
There are worse things a man could have to deal with than a son who was a celebrated chef. That boot-faced Priscilla as a daughter-in-law was a prime example.
Maisie had a difficult week as she worked her mind around the complete severing of her relationship with James. By the time she went up to Selkirk Avenue the following weekend, she had regained her determination to set her own future. It was late on Friday night by the time Maisie and Ziporah made their way up to their room and huddled together like little girls to share their secrets.
“Are you sure you are all right, Maisie?” Ziporah looked into her cousin’s pale face with worried concern.
“Yes, I assure you that I will be fine. This is truly for the best, Ziporah. James and I could never have a life together. It would cost us so many relationships. What would be the point of going forward with all that pain? It was really a fantasy. A romantic daydream. I let get out of hand because, well, because I let it happen.”
“I understand, Maisie,” Ziporah hugged her. “But, fantasy or not, I also know you loved him.”
“I hope he’s happy,” Maisie said softly.
“You don’t like his choice, do you?”
“Oh, as if it were to me to decide what’s best for him.” Maisie flipped her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.
“I know, but you really don’t like her, do you?”
“It sounds so nasty to be tearing her apart, Ziporah, but, yes, I think he could have waited for a better candidate. Betsy Campbell wasn’t so bad, and I liked Molly Peterson quite a bit. She smiled a lot and seemed to be more, well, more caring. This one, this Priscilla Hawkesford,” she tossed her head in imitation of Priscilla’s haughty look, “is a woman of airs, I think you would say. She carries her nose in the air, as if there is an unpleasant smell in the room, and she was quite visibly upset at the dinner table when James mentioned that they would be moving to Kenora so he could open a practice there.
“He said he rather thought she enjoyed the Lake of the Woods, and she remarked, ‘Yes, for holiday and tennis and boating, but it’s quite another thing to think of actually living there year-round.’ Then she said she thought he had been joking about it when he first told her about it. Miss Hawkesford seemed to think that they were going to have a home in that new Crescentwood neighborhood here in Winnipeg. It’s all the rage, the new ‘best neighbo
rhood’ among their set. Mr. Alfred and his bride will be building their new home on Wellington Crescent.
“I could see that James was quite displeased, as she prattled on about her poor impression of moving away from Winnipeg. She quickly pulled back, though, when she saw he was upset, patting his arm and insisting that wherever he wanted to go she would be happy. It was right then that Mr. Chadwick came to me and thankfully allowed me to be excused from the rest of the dinner service.”
“So, he’s serious about moving there?”
“Quite serious, it seems,” Maisie said thoughtfully.
“He probably wants to distance himself from you.”
“Maybe. I must admit I will be quite happy if he moves. It will make it easier for me to continue at Ravenscraig.
“I admire your generosity of spirit, Maisie. It’s hard to get over a heartache like this.”
“There’s nothing to admire, I’m afraid, Ziporah. Simply put, I’m a fraud and an opportunist,” Maisie declared. “I’m also selfish, as I suppose it could be said that I used James to learn about medicine. I do hope that one day I will be able to atone for my sins by becoming a good doctor. A doctor with a real degree and real office. It’s what I dream of.”
“I think you’re ‘the amazing Maisie’, and that you are too hard on yourself. You didn’t use him. You helped him and he helped you. That’s very different.”
“Thanks, Ziporah. I so appreciate you sticking up for me. What would I do without you and our wonderful family? And of course I want to spend as much time as possible with Baba and Zaida before they leave for Palestine next month. I’ve asked for a little holiday time so we can visit more. Just look at the two of them. Baba and Zaida let nothing get in the way of their plans, even after all of the years they had to be apart. If there ever was an example of brute determination in our family, those two are it.”
“Yes, it’s quite astonishing when you think about it, moving thousands of miles away, across the world in fact, to live in Jerusalem. Isaac is writing about it, so we’ll have their story for our future children to read.”
“You see, Ziporah? The Zigmans are unsinkable.” Maisie picked up a photo of her grandparents. Look at everything this family has come through. Look how bright the future is. A romance that was not meant for me is not going to defeat me.” She smiled. “Perhaps now, I too, will have a chance at happiness. Maybe I will meet my new love at your wedding to Max in a few weeks. There is a good deal to look forward to this summer.
“Now, we’ve spent quite enough time talking about my troubles. I want to hear every detail about your plans and the apartment you two will be taking on Main Street. Tell all about your handsome tailor and your dreams, Ziporah.”
The two talked late into the night, and when the time came for Maisie to return to Ravenscraig the next day, she did so with a solid resolve to put her past behind her, to live up to the example of her grandparents. The future was hers to determine. All she needed was to stay focused and work harder.
Chapter Forty-Six
Red Lights on Annabella Street
March 2, 1909
Henry tugged his scarf tighter against the brisk March air as he headed toward the stable, his footsteps crunching in the damp snow. His frustration fed the growl in his stomach. He had had quite enough of that motorcar, yes sir, and it would have to wait one more day before he would take another run at getting it going. Why on earth His Nibs wanted to have it out while the streets were still full of snow, he could not imagine, but he would get that metal beast running or die trying.
But not today. Mr. Willows had sent word that he wanted to speak with him, and he needed to clean up and get over to the main house. No doubt the discussion would be about the Packard. With more and more cars coming into use in Winnipeg, how much longer would he even have employment as a coachman? Muttering to himself, he framed his reasons for not being able to fix the dratted vehicle.
He needed to be among the horses to take in their heady, humid smell, and feel the comfort of their deep and honest purpose; to hear their rich throaty greetings and to be warmed by their affectionate nudging for the expected carrots in his pocket. Horses bring out the best in a man. On God’s good earth, there is no greater truth. That infernal motorcar, on the other hand, is nothing but an oversized toy with lots of trouble. Not much use in these parts, that’s for certain. Too bloody cold to ride in during winter, and too unreliable against the hot weather of summer. And the spring! Now, there’s a rare treat. Another few weeks and it will be too muddy to take it out. Mr. Willows was in such a state last year when he got stuck outside the Eaton’s store. Only a team of horses could free the metal beast from the prairie gumbo called Portage Avenue. Now that was a sight. His Nibs in full rant with mud and sludge soaked up to his knees, veins bulging out of his neck and his beloved Packard firmly in the grip of the muck, stuck there as if chained to hell itself. All of this nonsense and extra work just to be a show-off to his rich friends.
“Ha! That infernal machine was lucky not to have been sold on the spot!” Henry sputtered as he slammed the tack room door against the cold and yanked off his scarf.
“Are you having a tough time of it, Henry?” Rupert was sitting at the worktable next to the neatly racked saddles on the wall. His legs were elegantly crossed as he glanced through a copy of The New Yorker.
“No, sir. Evening, sir.” Astounded to see Mr. Willows, Henry quickly removed his hat. It was the first time he had ever seen his employer in the tack room. “I mean, yes, perhaps I’m a bit frustrated today, sir, but that Packard will be purring like a kitten by tomorrow, or my name isn’t Henry the Eighth, sir.” Henry always resorted to his old joke when nervous and this time with a good result.
“Are you really the eighth born in your family, Henry, or have you just been having your fun with me all these years?” Rupert laughed out loud. At first, Henry was uncertain as to whether to be wary or charmed by Mr. Willows’ magnanimous bearing.
“You are very kind, sir.” A little deference was always safe ground with his master. “The car will be in good running order tomorrow, Mr. Willows.”
“Yes, yes, Henry. But it’s not the car that I wish to speak to you about. If the wretched thing is being uncooperative, we’ll have Maw’s Garage send someone around tomorrow to have a go at it. I am here to ask a favor.”
Henry’s heart stopped. This could mean anything from his having to travel down to Chicago to pick up a package, to having to shine a pair of boots. He felt his mouth go dry.
Rupert saw the fear and enjoyed it a moment longer than necessary. “Oh, please, not to worry, old chap. Let me explain. Please, do sit.”
Sit? Old chap? Maybe Henry did have reason to worry.
“You do know who C.P. Walker is?” Rupert asked, and Henry of course knew the famous man, but stayed quiet. “He owns the Walker Theatre,” Rupert continued. “I ran into him at the club today, and he asked me for help. You see, he has this big show coming in from New York this month, and he needs some help with horses.”
“To get him to the theater, sir?” Henry asked respectfully.
“No, no!” Rupert laughed out loud and slapped his knee as Henry felt his face turn red. “He needs help with horses on stage.” Rupert was pleased with Henry’s discomfort. He, too, had had a similar foolish moment with C.P. early in the afternoon and wanted to take the sting away with his sport with Henry.
“I am afraid I am not following, sir. What kind of theatrical play needs horses on the stage?” Henry asked.
“It’s called Ben-Hur. It is a spectacular success on Broadway and the Walker Theatre is presenting the show this month. You really should read a newspaper now and again, Henry.”
“Yes, of course, sir.” Henry felt his ears on fire. He had been so distracted with his new romance with Lizzie, that he’d forgotten that Ben-Hur was coming to Winnipeg.
“Well, let me see what I remember of the story.” Rupert tapped his fingers on the worktable. “It’s set in biblical
times and is apparently about a Jew, who comes to know Jesus and ultimately embraces Christianity. Somewhere along the way there is a horse race. The Jew is Ben-Hur. He has an enemy. Oh, what the devil is his name?”
“Messala, sir. He’s a Roman. It’s uh, not a horse race, but a chariot race,” Henry risked adding to the conversation.
“My dear man!” Stunned, Rupert couldn’t hide that he was also impressed. He arched his eyebrows and stared at Henry. “However do you know this?”
“I’ve read the book, Mr. Willows. Very exciting, I must say, that chariot race.” Feeling he might have gone too far, Henry cast his eyes down in embarrassment.
“Yes, well … yes, indeed.” Rupert was caught off guard. “There’s a book you say?”
“Yes, sir. It’s by a retired Civil War general by the name of Lew Wallace.”
“Well,” Rupert pushed on, anxious to reclaim his authority, “Walker needs a couple of good horsemen to help backstage with the horses for that chariot scene. There are to be twelve horses and three chariots in that scene. The horses are all traveling with the show and are highly trained, I’m told. Oh, and there is also a bloody camel along. It’s not pleased with Canada’s cold weather and Mr. Walker wants to cheer it up. I told him there was no better man in Winnipeg than you for the task.”
“Oh, my. Well, thank you, sir. Thank you very much.” On the face of it, the assignment sounded tremendously exciting. “It will be my honor to help your friend.”
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