The waiter looked at Matthew. ‘‘Coffee with your meal or afterward?’’
‘‘Both,’’ Mr. Clayborn responded. ‘‘I’m certain I’ll be ordering a slice of apple pie with the New York ice cream for dessert, too.’’
‘‘Yes, suh. I’ll be sure to hold a piece of that apple pie just for you.’’ He nodded and departed to place their order.
Mr. Clayborn removed a notebook and pen from his pocket and relaxed in his chair. ‘‘Tell me, Miss Mott, exactly what is the difference between a marrowfat pea and a plain old pea.’’ He poised the pen as though anxious to make note of her response.
She giggled. ‘‘There is a very distinct difference. The marrowfat pea is much larger than a regular pea.’’
‘‘I believe I can remember that without writing it down.’’ He tapped his pen on the table. ‘‘And cold custard à la chantilly?’’
‘‘Cold custard with sweetened whipped cream, sometimes flavored with vanilla bean. I believe you are testing me, Mr. Clayborn.’’
He tucked the notebook back inside his jacket pocket. ‘‘I know so little about food that you could tell me anything and I wouldn’t know if I’d received the proper answer. Then again, I could always go and ask the chef.’’
She perked to attention. ‘‘You know the chef on this train?’’
He nodded. ‘‘I know the stewards, porters, cooks, buffet attendants, barbers, waiters, and conductors who work on this train.’’
‘‘And how can that be?’’
He laughed. ‘‘Now I think you are testing me, Miss Mott.’’ He took a sip of his water. ‘‘I travel frequently and use the Pennsylvania Limited whenever possible. In time you get to know the employees.’’
Olivia wasn’t certain she believed him. The waiter hadn’t acted as though he’d ever seen Mr. Clayborn before this evening. When Olivia mentioned that fact, he appeared unruffled.
‘‘A Pullman employee would never approach a passenger in a familiar manner.’’ He held a finger to his lips. ‘‘Secrets. Remember? If you wish, I’ll prove that I am known by the staff aboard this train. Indeed, I’d enjoy making a wager with you.’’
She arched her brows. ‘‘I don’t believe in gambling, Mr. Clayborn.’’ What kind of woman had he taken her for?
‘‘Not even if I can arrange a meeting with the chef and a tour of the kitchen?’’ He grinned. ‘‘No money involved, Miss Mott.’’
She hesitated. If there was no money involved, perhaps the wager would be harmless enough. ‘‘Then what are the terms of your wager, sir?’’
‘‘If I secure a meeting with the chef and tour of the kitchen, you agree to travel as my companion for the remainder of the journey—except during the nighttime hours, of course.’’
The offer was too good to reject. Their private berths would be ready within the hour, and arrival in New York was scheduled for eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. His wager would entail visiting with him for only a few more hours. What could be easier? The man was excellent company—except for his inquisitive nature. ‘‘Yes, of—’’
He held up his index finger. ‘‘There’s more.’’
Her lungs deflated in a weary sigh. She should have known. His offer had seemed too good to be true. ‘‘What else?’’
‘‘At any other time when we may be traveling aboard the same train, you’ll agree to this same arrangement.’’
She frowned, and a small V formed between her brows. ‘‘You can’t be assured that we’ll always be assigned to the same coach.’’
‘‘But you can. I just happened to notice you carry a special pass, and that pass allows for seat reassignment.’’ With a lopsided grin, he nodded toward her purse. ‘‘I imagine just one flash of that gold card you carry would send any Pullman conductor scurrying to change your seating assignment.’’
Olivia cringed and wondered if anyone else might have observed the gold card. Mr. Howard had advised her to keep the card well hidden and to use it only in an emergency. Otherwise, she was to use cash like most other passengers. For a fleeting moment she wondered what else Mr. Clayborn had observed. First her notes and now her pass card. The way he’d been sticking his nose into her business, it was a wonder the man’s well-shaped snout hadn’t grown by several inches since boarding the train. However, she doubted whether they’d ever encounter each other again, and she desperately wanted to examine the kitchen and speak to the chef.
Before she answered, the waiter was at their table. With crisp military precision, he placed white china plates atop the patterned chargers and refilled their coffee cups from the silver server. The elegant arrangement of the food would have pleased even Chef René. After only one bite of lamb chop, her decision had been made. ‘‘I’ll agree to your wager, Mr. Clayborn.’’
‘‘Once your meal was served, I was certain you’d have little difficulty with your decision. The food on this train is by far the best I’ve ever eaten, and believe it or not, I’ve dined in some elegant restaurants.’’
There was no smugness in his voice, only a deep appreciation for the meal he’d been served. They conversed little throughout the meal. After a bite of the asparagus, Olivia pointed her fork toward the vegetable and rolled her eyes toward heaven. ‘‘Perfect.’’
Mr. Clayborn grunted his agreement while forking another bite of stuffing. ‘‘You should try this next time. You won’t be disappointed. It’s every bit as good as it looks.’’
While he later devoured his warm apple pie topped with ice cream, Olivia enjoyed a slice of pineapple cake topped with a sumptuous fruity glaze. Though she was overfull and unable to completely appreciate the cake’s subtle flavor, she couldn’t resist even the final bite. She leaned back in her chair and yearned to loosen her corset lacings.
As if he’d read her mind, Mr. Clayborn unbuttoned his jacket. ‘‘Now then, let me see if I am going to win this wager that we’ve agreed upon.’’
He signaled for the waiter, who silently approached and leaned forward. She couldn’t hear what Mr. Clayborn was saying, but the waiter bobbed his head several times and then straightened. ‘‘I’ll be right back with your answer, suh.’’
‘‘He’s going to see if he can gain permission from the chef and the conductor for our visit.’’ Mr. Clayborn eyed the silver coffee pitcher that remained on the table. ‘‘More coffee?’’
Olivia shook her head. If she attempted to swallow even a mouthful of liquid, she would surely burst. Within minutes the waiter returned and bent forward to speak with Mr. Clayborn. She leaned a bit closer, hoping to discover what the waiter had to say, but her efforts proved futile. If she was going to succeed in her investigative endeavors, she’d best learn a few of Mr. Clayborn’s tricks. The waiter straightened and stepped back to assist Olivia with her chair.
‘‘Both the chef and conductor have agreed that we may visit the kitchen.’’ He pushed away from the table and stood. ‘‘Even your pass wouldn’t gain you entry to this kitchen.’’
The pride in his voice reminded her of a small child anxious to taunt a playmate. Olivia didn’t tell Mr. Clayborn, but she wouldn’t have ever considered using her pass to request a visit to the kitchen. Mr. Howard had advised her to blend in with the other passengers and never draw attention to herself. Unfortunately, she had remembered the latter portion of that admonition too late. So much for remaining inconspicuous. Not many people requested visits to the kitchen and even fewer were granted the privilege. She doubted whether the dining car staff would soon forget her, but it was too late to back out. Moreover, such behavior would only serve to gain further unwanted attention. The moment they stepped away from the table, a buffet attendant silently approached.
The snap of a crisp tablecloth cracked through the air as they walked down the aisle. Moments later, Olivia glanced over her shoulder. Their table had already been reset to accommodate another duo of hungry travelers. She ought not be surprised. There was little time for dallying on Mr. Pullman’s railcars. The movement of every dini
ng car employee had been calculated to speed the hordes of hungry passengers through the dining car while still conveying a sense of elegant dining at a leisurely pace. And through it all, the employees never stopped smiling.
Olivia wondered if the waiters, behind those gleaming smiles and polite comments, longed to dislodge those diners who remained long after their meals had been completed. If the porters and waiters were as dependent upon their tips as Mr. Clayborn indicated, they must surely dislike the passengers who lingered. Yet each of the employees continued to smile. What rule was it that required smiles and hospitality at all times? She couldn’t remember the number, but obviously the men had taken that one to heart.
Mr. Clayborn stepped to one side and gently grasped her arm, propelling her forward. ‘‘Miss Mott, I’d like to introduce you to the chef of the Pennsylvania Limited, William Richmond.’’ He gave the chef a sideways glance. ‘‘Correct?’’
‘‘That’s right, Mr. Clayborn. Pleased to meet you, miss.’’ The chef continued working while he spoke. He turned a fat juicy steak and nudged one of the cooks to stir the cream sauce. Olivia followed his gaze as it darted about the tiny kitchen. Four men stood back to back without a hairsbreadth between them. She thought of Chef René. He could never cook in such a kitchen. Even absent the other men, she doubted he could fit in the narrow space. Looking about, Olivia marveled at the variety of conveniences that had been fitted into the compact space.
‘‘I’m amazed you can prepare a meal in this small work area.’’
The chef laughed, his limp toque drooping to one side. ‘‘Economy of space. Every canister and tool has its proper spot, and woe to the man who moves anything from where it belongs.’’ He proudly pointed out the three-tiered range. ‘‘One for baking, one for broiling, and the other for boiling water and meeting any other cooking needs.’’ He pointed to the shelves and cupboards on either side of the range where the kitchen equipment and supplies were maintained. ‘‘Plenty of storage space if everyone keeps things tidy, and we even got this fine carving table connected by pipes to the steam boiler. Keeps the food good and hot.’’ A waiter arrived with additional orders, and the chef waved the man forward. ‘‘Sorry, but that’s as much time as I can offer right now. Too many orders coming in.’’
Olivia thanked Chef Richmond profusely for his time. Before they departed the dining car, Mr. Clayborn pointed out the side door. ‘‘Food can be loaded to the kitchen by using this side door.’’ He grinned and buttoned his jacket. ‘‘Or unloaded.’’
‘‘Unloaded?’’
He hesitated. She must have sounded overly interested, for his demeanor turned suspicious and he appeared to be searching for the proper explanation. ‘‘Right. Whatever needs to be accomplished—loading or unloading. Soiled linens and the like.’’
She didn’t pursue the topic. Quite obviously he was avoiding her question. His response was downright silly. Why would they load and unload the dining room linens near the kitchen when the task could be accomplished much more easily at the far end of the train where the items were stored? No need to pursue the matter right now. He’d already expressed misgivings about the notes she was keeping. She had best not appear too curious, but she’d make note of his comment in her journal. If the linens were actually being loaded into the kitchen, time and effort could be saved by using the far door.
Mr. Clayborn opened the door to the vestibule that connected the dining car with the next railcar. ‘‘Would you like to stop in the library car before settling in for the night?’’
During her training journeys on the rails, Mr. Howard had advised her that the library, also known as the concession car, was a social gathering spot where men could enjoy a cigar, a glass of port or whiskey, and a newspaper. She remembered his cautionary words: ‘‘Most women don’t enjoy the atmosphere or amenities offered in the library car. You would seem out of place. The ladies find the parlor car more to their liking.’’ Although her appearance might be overlooked since she was in the company of Mr. Clayborn, she knew that, at least for the present, she was not expected to share any cost-saving ideas regarding operation of the library car. And if Mr. Clayborn visited the library car and she returned to the sleeper, there would be ample opportunity to write in her journal.
Once they’d passed through the vestibule, she glanced over her shoulder. ‘‘I believe I’ll return to the sleeper, but please feel free to visit the library without me.’’
She sighed with relief when he heeded her suggestion. There was little doubt Mr. Clayborn’s acquaintance had been an asset, but she needed time alone when she could let down her defenses. She hadn’t anticipated the presence of someone like Matthew Clayborn. The strain of weighing each word had proved difficult, and she hadn’t been adept at maintaining secrecy. Within no time Mr. Clayborn had managed to discover she lived and worked in Pullman, was an assistant chef for the Hotel Florence, and was keeping notes in her journal. Thus far, she didn’t consider herself much of a success at this new venture.
The porter was preparing the beds when Olivia returned to the sleeper. She sat down on the opposite side of the car while he folded down two opposing seats to form the lower berth and popped the upper berth from the ceiling. He glanced over his shoulder and tipped his hat. ‘‘I’s gonna have this here bed made down for you in no time.’’
With the other passengers off to the dining car, parlor car, or library car, Olivia settled into the brocade-upholstered seat and continued to observe the porter’s agility. While humming an unfamiliar tune in a soft resonating tone, he clipped the curtains to a carved wooden rod that traversed the length of the car and affixed the headboard. Within a period of less than three minutes, the blankets, pillows, and linens were tucked, folded, and aligned with faultless precision. She mentally calculated the length of time she utilized when making her bed each morning, and she didn’t have to set up the bed or climb a ladder to accomplish the task. She could offer no insight that could possibly help in saving time or money with this particular task.
While the porter continued making down beds, Olivia pulled out her notebook and jotted her observations. It didn’t take long. She did write down her question regarding unloading and loading linens in the kitchen car, and she noted the excellent service in the dining car as well as the agility and kindness of the porters before she snapped the book together and returned it to her valise.
Once she’d closed the curtains to her berth, Olivia struggled to disrobe and don her nightclothes and soon discovered the procedure was no easy task in the cramped space. She wondered how two people of any size could possibly accomplish the feat without causing bodily harm.
As the other passengers slowly made their return, she heard murmured complaints from several men who were unhappy to find that their beds had already been made down, along with the cries of the undisciplined child at the other end of the coach. It seemed that he didn’t want the day to come to an end, either.
Before closing her eyes, she silently prayed—mostly for herself. This job wasn’t something to which she had aspired. Already she knew it wasn’t a position that would bring her any joy. Perhaps if she could discover an abundance of time- and money-saving ideas during her first few journeys on her own, Mr. Howard would see fit to reinstate her as the full-time assistant chef at the hotel.
————
The next morning, Mr. Clayborn greeted her with an invitation for breakfast. She accepted his offer, and once they were seated in the dining car, his lips curved in a lopsided grin. ‘‘How did you sleep last night?’’ The waiter poured steaming coffee into their china cups and handed each of them a menu.
‘‘Not particularly well, though through no fault of the accommodations. We did have a rather noisy group in our car, don’t you think?’’ A variegated whirlpool appeared as Olivia stirred a dollop of cream into her coffee.
He laughed and spooned sugar into his coffee cup. ‘‘I’ve been on worse. You wouldn’t believe some of the tales I’ve heard the porte
rs tell when they’re back in the smoking car shining shoes.’’
‘‘What kind of tales? You’ve captured my attention, Mr. Clayborn.’’
He shook his head. ‘‘They are stories I would never repeat to a lady. Suffice it to say, I don’t know how the porters maintain their composure in such distasteful situations. I fear I would be an utter failure.’’
Olivia wouldn’t ask for additional details. Even if his stories would provide her with further information for the company, she’d not embarrass herself or Mr. Clayborn. Best to change the subject. ‘‘How long will you remain in New York?’’
He rested his elbow on the table and cupped his chin. ‘‘I’m not entirely certain. Depends on where my story leads me. I never purchase my return ticket until I’ve completed my work. Could be tomorrow, could be next week.’’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘‘It’s part of the reason I remain single. Like a lot of the men who work on these trains, I keep a difficult schedule. And difficult schedules don’t make for a happy family.’’
‘‘But you told me last night that most of the men are married.’’
‘‘They are. I know of one who has a wife at each end of the line. If he ever gets transferred to a different route, it will wreak havoc on both ends.’’ With a flick of his wrist, Mr. Clayborn snapped open his napkin and placed it across his lap.
She expected to see a spark of humor in his eyes, but one look told her he hadn’t spoken in jest. Unless they were conferring about an ancient biblical figure, Olivia didn’t care to discuss the idea of multiple wives with Mr. Clayborn. ‘‘You snapped that napkin with the same agility I observed last night when the porter made down the beds.’’
He cupped his hand to his mouth and leaned closer. ‘‘The waiters refer to the porters as sheet shakers or pillow punchers.’’ He grinned. ‘‘Sure does get the porters all riled up.’’
Whispers Along the Rails Page 15