Whispers Along the Rails

by Judith Miller

  His mother’s chair scraped on the floor as she pushed away from the table and stood. ‘‘I think your imagination has gotten the best of you, son.’’

  Fred rested his chin in his palm, amazed at his mother’s naïve attitude. Olivia likely shared his mother’s view, unless she’d willingly agreed to play the role of a needy woman seeking legal advice while acting as a spy for the company. Would she have agreed to befriend Ellen Ashton in order to gain information for Mr. Howard? Perhaps he had convinced her that unionization would ultimately harm the residents of Pullman and she’d become an agreeable participant in an evil plan. He wouldn’t put such an idea past someone like Samuel Howard. In spite of the warmth in the kitchen, a chill coursed through his body.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Chicago, Illinois

  May 3, 1893

  Charlotte took her position behind one of the glass cases that displayed an unending variety of Parisian-made kid gloves, interspersed with delicate linen handkerchiefs and beaded evening bags. After only a few days in the store, she had suggested the arrangement as a method of increasing sales in their department. Both Mr. Selfridge and Mrs. Jenkins had lauded the idea and given their approval. Days later, Mr. Field noted the increased revenue in their department and had praised Mrs. Jenkins for her innovative concept. When the older woman had attempted to deflect the commendation to her subordinate, Charlotte had demurred. Though Charlotte hadn’t considered the matter of any great consequence, the selfless act had resulted in Mrs. Jenkins’s ongoing gratitude. This morning the older woman smiled and waved to Charlotte as she hastened toward the front of the store.

  A double row of carriages had already begun to form outside the Washington Street entrance, each carrying a woman of means who awaited the pleasure of entering Mr. Field’s vast cathedral of stores. The moment the doors were unlocked, the ladies of the upper class began to enter, each one being met by an official greeter. They entered and strolled the aisles at a leisurely pace. Nothing was hurried in this vast emporium that catered to the discriminating tastes of the wealthy. Marshall Field’s dry-goods establishment had been created for them to enjoy the freedom of unaccompanied visits to a place in the city where they could fill their days with shopping, visiting, enjoying tea, and reading. All the comforts of home were available between their visits to the dress salons and fitting rooms.

  In contrast, women such as Mrs. Priddle would shop at the Boston Store, a department store that catered to the common crowd. The older woman considered the life of the wealthy to be unimaginative and boring. Charlotte hadn’t disagreed with Mrs. Priddle’s assessment. To do so would require too much explanation. However, her previous life had prepared her for the foibles of the affluent customers she now served each day.

  Charlotte had learned the names of the wealthy women who typically spent three and four days a week in the store, especially those who had a penchant for accessories and were always anxious to see the latest arrivals in her department. She was opening the display case to replace the current array of gloves with the latest shipment when Mrs. Pullman approached her counter. Though Mrs. Pullman frequently shopped in the store, she’d stopped at her accessories counter on only one other occasion. Her eldest daughter, Florence, had been with her, and Mrs. Jenkins had taken charge. But Charlotte had remembered Mrs. Pullman’s face and now greeted her by name.

  ‘‘If I may be of assistance, please let me know, Mrs. Pullman. I will be happy to serve you.’’ That said, she stepped back. Never rush the customer. Allow her time and space to enjoy the shopping experience, and she will make a purchase—one of Mr. Field’s rules.

  Mrs. Pullman continued to examine the gloves and then tapped the glass. ‘‘May I see that evening bag?’’

  Charlotte removed the beaded reticule from the case. It was one of her favorites. Though she deemed it a poor choice for a woman of Mrs. Pullman’s years, she remained silent. Mrs. Pullman opened the clasp and turned the bag over several times, examining the handwork, and then looked into Charlotte’s eyes. ‘‘What is your opinion of this evening bag?’’

  Charlotte hesitated. ‘‘I am personally quite fond of the bag, Mrs. Pullman. Is it a gift for your daughter?’’

  Mrs. Pullman smiled. ‘‘How did you know?’’

  ‘‘I saw her when the two of you were in the store several days ago. When you asked to see this bag, I thought of her. I’m certain she would be delighted to receive it.’’

  Mrs. Pullman handed Charlotte the evening bag. ‘‘Then I shall see that she has it. Now, I believe I’ll need a lovely handkerchief to tuck inside, don’t you think?’’

  Once the woman had decided upon a delicately embroidered handkerchief, she departed, off to evaluate newly arrived merchandise throughout the store, enjoy a cup of tea, or visit with the other dowagers. Charlotte wrapped the gift according to the store’s exacting instructions and then called for a bundle boy.

  With the package tucked snugly beneath his arm, the boy rushed off as though the very world depended upon his immediate delivery of the beaded handbag and handkerchief. Truth be told, his world did depend upon that very thing, for if Mrs. Pullman should arrive at her carriage before the package, his termination would be immediate.

  Mrs. Pullman’s early morning purchases had created a void in the display case, so Charlotte searched for the perfect replacements. She unwrapped several evening bags that had come in the latest shipment and decided upon a bag of black silk with an unusual decoration in a Japanese embroidered design. The bag was edged with black ribbon, a crystal fringe, and a black ribbon draw. A perfect replacement, for it was entirely different from its predecessor. Yet another of Mr. Field’s rules. Charlotte closed the case as Mr. Selfridge bustled past her counter at a rapid pace.

  The sound of an irritable young girl soon captured Charlotte’s attention, and she turned. Her breath caught as she locked gazes with the man escorting her. The young girl yanked on his arm while the man continued to stare at Charlotte. She didn’t fail to detect the fear in his eyes. Randolph Morgan!

  With fingers trembling and stomach roiling, she attempted to remain calm and absorb the sight of him surrounded by his wife and children. At least she assumed the woman was his wife and the two young girls his daughters. One couldn’t be certain with Randolph, she told herself. Just as quickly, she pushed aside the thought. Randolph would never escort anyone other than his wife and children into one of Chicago finest stores. He might be willing to provide support for a secluded mistress or to escort a woman of nobility while visiting a foreign country, but far be it from Randolph Morgan to enter Marshall Field’s fine emporium with anyone other than his wife. He wouldn’t want to be ostracized from Chicago society.

  Randolph’s present intentions were obvious: he wanted to avoid Charlotte at all costs. She observed his attempt to turn his daughter in the opposite direction, but the girl was headstrong, determined to make her way to the gloves and handbags in Charlotte’s glass case.

  The possibility of humiliating him in front of his family created a sense of delicious pleasure for a moment—until she saw the little girl’s adoring eyes as she tugged on her father’s hand. He stooped down in front of her. Though Charlotte couldn’t hear the conversation, she was certain he was making his best argument against shopping in the accessories department. Meanwhile, Mrs. Morgan had sauntered off to examine a sumptuous array of veiling in the next aisle and appeared not to notice the unfolding drama. Randolph rubbed a thumb across the little girl’s plump cheek—a stray tear, perhaps?

  The girl reminded her of Fiona. They were likely close to the same age and bore the same fair complexion. She wondered if Randolph’s daughter played the piano. The child continued to gaze longingly toward the counter and offered Charlotte a winsome smile. An unbidden remembrance of their Bible study from last evening overwhelmed her. Mrs. Priddle had read from the book of Matthew and then talked about Jesus and the illustrations He had used in teaching His disciples. Mrs. Priddle had talked about feeding
the hungry and visiting the ill and how each act of kindness we performed for one another was the same as if we’d done it for Jesus. What was it she’d said? True believers reflect the love of Jesus in how they treat others. Yes, that was how she’d put it. Charlotte considered the pain Randolph had caused her and the longing she continued to feel as she watched him with his family. Although Mrs. Priddle’s words were easily spoken, they’d not be so easily followed. Yet whom would she hurt the most? His children? His wife? Randolph would bear some of the pain, but would it be worth the damage she would inflict upon his wife and children, who had done nothing but love him?

  The little girl managed to slip away. Before Randolph could stop her, she was standing in front of Charlotte’s counter and pointing at a pair of dainty gloves. With an air of expectancy and delight shining in her eyes, she asked if she might try them on. Charlotte slid open the glass door as Randolph approached.

  ‘‘There you are—they may be a size too large, but I have a smaller size if your father approves the purchase.’’ She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t.

  ‘‘What has she talked you into, Randolph? Not another pair of gloves. Really, Margaret, you don’t need more gloves. Let’s go upstairs, and we’ll see about a new dress.’’ Mrs. Morgan turned and retrieved her other daughter by the hand. ‘‘Vivie wants to go upstairs.’’

  The gloves sagged on Margaret’s small hands like burlap bags. They were several sizes too large. The girl removed them, and Charlotte expected her and her father to walk away. Instead, Randolph smiled at his daughter and asked for a smaller size. ‘‘A young lady can never have too many gloves. Isn’t that right, Margaret?’’

  The little girl nodded enthusiastically as Charlotte handed her the gloves. Her annoyance obvious, Mrs. Morgan returned to the counter with their younger daughter at her side. ‘‘I suppose if we’re going to spend time in accessories, you can show me that evening bag.’’

  Charlotte removed the black silk bag from the counter. ‘‘Our new shipment of bags arrived yesterday. I placed this one in the display case only a few minutes ago.’’

  Mrs. Morgan appeared pleased by the revelation. ‘‘How many do you have in stock?’’

  Charlotte understood. Mrs. Morgan didn’t want anyone else to have the same bag. ‘‘It’s the only one—an original. You’ll not see a duplicate, either here or abroad.’’

  ‘‘Good. I’ll take it.’’ She glanced down at Margaret, who had slipped her hands into the soft kid gloves. ‘‘And I suppose we’ll take those, too. What about you, Vivie? Do you want some gloves?’’

  The younger girl wagged her head back and forth while Margaret removed the gloves and handed them to Charlotte.

  ‘‘We’re going to have lunch in the tearoom. Do you get to eat in the tearoom every day?’’ the girl asked.

  ‘‘Really, Margaret! I doubt the salesgirl is interested in our luncheon plans.’’ Mrs. Morgan grabbed Vivie’s hand. ‘‘I’m going to take Vivian upstairs to begin looking for a dress. I trust you two will come along once you’ve taken care of the bill, Randolph?’’

  ‘‘Yes. We’ll join you shortly.’’

  Charlotte tallied the bill while Margaret continued to stare at her. ‘‘Well? Do you eat in the tearoom every day?’’ she whispered.

  ‘‘No, I don’t eat there often. If I ate there every day, it would no longer be special, don’t you agree?’’ She handed the bill to Mr. Morgan, careful not to touch his hand. The amount would be added to his account and the statement sent at the end of the month.

  Margaret’s brow furrowed. ‘‘I suppose you’re right. But I like to eat there when we come shopping.’’

  ‘‘I’m sure you do. It’s a wonderful place. And I suggest the chicken potpie. It’s my very favorite.’’

  Margaret beamed. ‘‘It’s my favorite, too. And the lemon cookies.’’

  Charlotte agreed. ‘‘An excellent choice.’’

  Randolph’s shoulders relaxed. The fear in his eyes had been replaced with curiosity. ‘‘Thank you for your kind assistance.’’

  ‘‘You’re welcome. Do come again, Margaret,’’ Charlotte said.

  For the present, she’d shown Randolph Morgan as much kindness as she could. Charlotte hoped her actions had given him evidence of her newfound faith. She watched Randolph envelop the little girl’s hand. He beamed at the child with an undeniable adoration, a poignant reminder that little Morgan had neither father nor mother in his life.

  ————

  Fred had ceased his daily visits to Lockabee’s Design and Glass Etching Shop two weeks ago when it had become evident that Bill Orland had gained an excellent working knowledge of the etching process. Bill just needed more confidence in his ability, and that would come with additional practice. He was a quick study and had rapidly acquired the necessary skills to manage the day-to-day operation of Mr. Lockabee’s shop. Fred had promised he’d return once a week to answer any specific questions or to help with a special project, but Bill didn’t really need him. Fred planned to completely withdraw as Bill’s instructor by the first of next month. Bill’s self-assurance would increase once Fred completely stepped out of the picture.

  While he ambled down the street toward the train station, Fred decided the benefits of helping Bill had far outweighed any of the inconvenience. Granted, the frequent trips to Chicago proved taxing at times, but seeing Bill and his family flourish had been worth it.

  ‘‘Fred! Hold up!’’ Waving his hat overhead, Harlan Ladner loped across the street and fell into step alongside Fred. ‘‘You have a few minutes to talk?’’

  ‘‘I was heading into Chicago, but I can catch the next train if need be.’’

  Harlan shook his head. ‘‘I can’t be late for work, but I wanted to fill you in on what’s been going on in the paint shop.’’

  Thus far there had been no repercussions from the meeting back in March, and Fred continued to hope that the incident wouldn’t deter the men in the paint shop from aligning themselves with those who favored unionization. Neither Harlan nor the other men had appeared at the meeting in April, and Fred hadn’t pursued the matter. He understood their fears. They’d come around when the time was right.

  Fred had expected Mr. Vance to retaliate prior to this time. ‘‘Something new happening in the paint shop or more of the same treatment? Has Mr. Vance said anything?’’

  ‘‘I’m sure he knows something. He’s been cold as ice. The man never cracks a smile, and nothing’s changed with the work assignments. If anything, he’s showing even more favoritism toward those new hires. It takes everything I’ve got to keep from telling him off.’’ Harlan shoved his hat back on his head. ‘‘My wife tells me I better learn to keep my mouth shut, or we’ll be looking for a new place to live.’’

  Fred nodded as they continued on. ‘‘I think your wife is as set on staying in Pullman as my mother.’’

  ‘‘Now, that’s the truth. The women sure do like it here.’’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘‘You remember that fella that turned up at the meeting in March?’’

  ‘‘How could I forget?’’

  ‘‘Mr. Vance told us the fella was his cousin and only here for a short visit, but it seems he’s still in town. I didn’t think too much about it, but one of the other men heard Mr. Howard and Mr. Vance talking the other day.’’

  Fred and Harlan came to a halt across the street from the train depot. ‘‘Talking about what? Mr. Vance’s cousin?’’

  ‘‘Exactly. Seems he’s not really Mr. Vance’s cousin.’’

  ‘‘What makes you so sure?’’

  ‘‘Mr. Vance said his wife didn’t like having a stranger living in the house with them and wanted to know how much longer the fella was going to be in town. Sounds kind of suspicious, don’t you think?’’

  Fred scratched his head. ‘‘It does. I’ll do some checking around and see if I can discover any information. We missed you at the last meeting.’’

  ‘‘To tell you the truth, I
think it’s better if we stay away until we figure out what’s going on. If Mr. Vance is having us watched, it will only cause trouble if we show up at the meetings.’’ He clapped Fred on the shoulder. ‘‘Our not being there doesn’t mean we don’t support taking a stand sometime in the future. And we’ll come back to the meetings once we figure out exactly what’s going on.’’

  ‘‘John Holderman tells me that some of you have been coming over in the evenings to help with training. I know the men appreciate it.’’

  ‘‘It’s the least we can do. Mr. Vance did ask me how come several of us had taken such an interest in going to Kensington.’’ Harlan grinned. ‘‘I asked him how he knew where we were spending our time.’’

  ‘‘Good for you! What’d he say?’’

  ‘‘Said he’d had business over in Kensington on several occasions, and every time he was headed in that direction, he saw one or two of the men from the paint shop.’’ Harlan laughed. ‘‘Funny thing is, I think he expected me to believe him. What business would Mr. Vance have in Kensington?’’

  ‘‘None that I know of,’’ Fred replied.

  The train whistle sounded in the distance, and Harlan glanced toward the clock tower. ‘‘I better get going or I’m going to be late for work. I’ll let you know if any other information comes my way.’’

  ‘‘And I’ll do the same.’’ Fred waited until Harlan departed and then hurried across the street.

  He rushed to the ticket counter and purchased a round-trip ticket to Chicago. With only minutes to spare, he exited the depot, darted down the platform, and boarded the train. After dropping into a window seat, Fred considered Harlan’s news. He hadn’t wanted to express concern over the information Harlan delivered. Yet it appeared the company hoped to discover more information than the supervisors or resident gossips could provide. Did Mr. Howard plan to infiltrate the town with men hired to spy on the employees? A chilling concept.