In the Company of Secrets (11 page)

Thoughts of the sermon came to mind as she donned her work dress on Monday morning. She slipped her arms into the white jacket and carried the toque in her hand, almost pleased to be returning to work.
Almost
. Sunday had been filled with church, dinner with the DeVaults, and an afternoon of fielding questions, all of which had left her exhausted and angry that she found herself in this position. She could only hope things would go smoothly today.

Chef René stood at the ready when she entered the kitchen and beckoned her to his office. Her stomach coiled into a knot. He pointed to a chair. She sat and then waited while he perused several notes on his desk before dropping his bulky body into the chair across from her. ‘‘We will be hosting a contingent of important guests tomorrow. Mr. Pullman is hosting a delegation of Chicago businessmen who will spend the day in our hotel. We will serve their noonday meal.’’

Olivia gulped. She hoped he wasn’t going to ask her to plan the menu. ‘‘How may I be of assistance?’’

He looked heavenward for a moment, and she wondered if he might be seeking divine inspiration. ‘‘I recall that your letter of recommendation stated you are well qualified to deck tables for dinner parties. Rather than helping in the kitchen, I believe I’ll have you take charge of the tables. Arrange seating for fifty. The waiters will need two buffets for serving, and make certain there is adequate space for them to enter and exit the room.’’

Her heart pounded at a frenetic pace. For a moment, she thought it might leap from her chest. Had he actually asked her to deck the dining room tables? Mrs. Wright had always been in charge of such matters at Lanshire Hall. Olivia didn’t have the first idea of how to decorate for a formal gathering. Mrs. Wright had expertly created all types of arrangements for dinner parties hosted by the countess, and Chef Mallard often carved ice sculptures for the large events. But she’d never helped with such matters. A fleeting glance as she passed by a bedecked hall was the most experience she could bring to such an assignment. Why had Charlotte been compelled to go to such lengths in the spurious letter of recommendation?

‘‘Miss Mott!’’

Wide-eyed, Olivia started. ‘‘Yes?’’ She wondered how many times he had called her name.

‘‘There is a closet off the main dining room where you’ll find items that may be of use to you. Since this is merely a business meeting and no ladies will be present, please refrain from using a
theme
for the decorations.’’ He curled his lip in distaste when he mentioned the possibility of a theme. ‘‘Of course, it goes without saying that you will want to impress Mr. Pullman and his guests.’’

She opened her mouth, but the words stuck deep in her throat, all wadded up and cottony. Unable to offer an objection, her body trembled at the thought of what lay ahead. Chef René waved her toward the closet with an admonition to return to the kitchen once she’d chosen the items she would need. Although today she could decide what would be needed, the room couldn’t be decorated until morning because hotel guests would dine in the room this evening. Not that it truly mattered. Even if she’d been given an entire week, she couldn’t accomplish the assigned task.

Her mind raced while she reviewed the contents of the musty closet. Vases and bowls of every size and shape, candelabra of crystal, silver, and gold, and crisp table coverings and napkins lined the shelves. She could stare at the items for the remainder of the day, but she’d still be unable to accomplish the task at hand.

While Olivia traced her fingers along one of the silver bowls, she had an idea. With her years of attending dinner parties and other social gatherings, surely Charlotte would be able to lend insight. Olivia leaned against the closet door. She longed to race back home and inquire, but her questions would have to wait until this evening.

‘‘You are done so soon?’’

She hadn’t heard Chef René ’s approaching footsteps. ‘‘Yes. I discovered a lovely assortment of pieces.’’

‘‘Then I shall expect something magnificent.’’

Olivia cringed. The chef could anticipate magnificence, but he would likely observe disaster.

The moment Chef René dismissed her for the evening, Olivia hurried home in not exactly a full-fledged run, but close. She didn’t want to appear completely unladylike, but she’d moved quickly enough to remain breathless after she entered the house. ‘‘Charlotte!’’ The name came out as more of a gasp than anything else. She sucked in a breath of air and tried again.

She caught sight of a flagging handkerchief waving from the divan and entered the parlor. ‘‘Are you not feeling well?’’ Panic clung to her question.

‘‘Just resting. I’m bored.’’

‘‘Good. I’ve just the thing to resolve your boredom.’’

‘‘What?’’ Charlotte remained in her supine position and eyed her suspiciously.

Undeterred, Olivia wiggled into a spot on the end of the divan and explained her plight. Charlotte’s eyelids drooped to half-mast as she shifted positions. ‘‘And what do you expect from me?’’

‘‘Help! I need your help.’’ She jumped up from the sofa. Panic clutched her in a viselike grip as she noted Charlotte’s languid expression. ‘‘Get up!’’

Charlotte sighed and slowly pushed herself into a sitting position. ‘‘I’m up, but I don’t know what good that will do for you. I’ve never decked a room.’’ She gave another flit of her lace handkerchief. ‘‘That was one of Mrs. Wright’s duties.’’

‘‘Yes, I understand you’ve never performed the actual work. But at least you know how the room should appear and how I might decorate the tables.’’ Olivia clenched her teeth. ‘‘Besides, this is your fault.
You’re
the one who wrote that ridiculous letter stating I was accomplished in every imaginable task.’’

‘‘I wrote an eloquent recommendation, and this is the thanks I receive. You wouldn’t have been hired had it not been for that letter.’’

With a forced effort, Olivia agreed with the woman and then requested her expert advice. The words of praise and flattery had the desired effect, along with a promise to bring home a plate of whatever Chef René prepared for the guests attending tomorrow’s meal.

Charlotte paced back and forth and then stopped in front of the parlor window. She pointed toward the blooms that dotted the Pullman flower beds in a profusion of color. ‘‘You can use those. Along with some greenery and several candelabra on the sideboard, the flowers will be sufficient.’’ She turned to Olivia and shrugged. ‘‘Simple enough.’’

Perhaps in
her
mind, but not in Olivia’s. ‘‘Will you go to the hotel and help me choose the vases and candelabra later this evening?’’

After Olivia offered to prepare a lemon dainty for dessert, Charlotte agreed. Since arriving in Pullman, Charlotte had given little thought to her meals, but she had developed a fancy for sweets that was insatiable. A good thing for Olivia, since baking was her one area of expertise, but not good for Charlotte, whose girth seemed to balloon with each passing day.

While Olivia dined on baked chicken and a generous helping of green beans, Charlotte devoured the lemon dainty. When she finally pushed away from the table, Charlotte had eaten the entire dish of pudding. Rejuvenated by the sugary treat, she willingly accompanied Olivia to the side door leading into the hotel kitchen. Olivia motioned her to wait while she checked on Chef René ’s whereabouts. She certainly didn’t want to run headlong into the rotund chef. Fortunately, his office was unoccupied.

She waved her ladyship toward the decking closet. Their selections didn’t take long, and Olivia deposited the items in the dining room. The hotel seemed eerily quiet. Except for the desk clerk who relieved Mr. Billings each evening, no one was about, and he appeared more interested in reading a book than seeking an explanation for their presence.

Behind the closed doors of the dining room, Charlotte assisted while Olivia covered the tables with crisp white cloths. With surprising deftness, Charlotte arranged a place setting, surrounded it with the proper glassware and silver, a napkin, a salt cellar, and the remaining necessities for a proper meal. When she’d finished it to her satisfaction, she instructed Olivia to arrange eight settings at each of the tables and place Mr. Pullman at the head table, along with the largest of the floral arrangements.

‘‘Be careful to keep the floral arrangements low to the table. You don’t want to block Mr. Pullman’s view of his guests.’’ She wagged a finger. ‘‘Tall, bushy arrangements will mark you as an amateur. Cut the flowers first thing in the morning and use fresh water in the vases. They will be perfect for the noonday meal.’’

On the way home, Olivia made a mental note of the instructions. She had no hope of arranging flowers with the expertise of Chef René , but with a plethora of showy flowers, she could arrange something that should prove at least acceptable. In a burst of desire to please, she decided she would rise early, complete her duties in the dining room, and then offer her services to Chef René in the kitchen. Yes, that should impress him and also reinforce her genuine desire to learn and succeed as a chef.

Later that night she fell asleep while mentally calculating exactly how many flowers she would need for each arrangement and how long it would take to cut and arrange them. Her dreams were filled with visions of flowers and candles.

Shears in hand, she departed the next morning before sunup. While most of the residents of Pullman slept, Olivia visited the public flower gardens, careful she didn’t cut too many from any one area. Occasionally she located a few late blooms of one variety or the early blossoms and buds of yet another, pleased when each addition provided another delicate hint of color.

She arrived at the hotel with four overflowing baskets. Delighted with her find, she filled containers with water and carried the vases into the dining room. In the rosy hue of sunrise, Olivia arranged the plethora of flowers—mostly peonies, dotted with a few early daisies, mock orange, and wild sweet William—in the squat vases Charlotte had chosen. After circling the base of each container with sprigs of greenery and inserting tapers into the candelabra, she silently declared she’d done her best. If nothing else, the aroma should delight the visitors.

Donning her chef ’s attire, she entered the kitchen before breakfast preparations had been completed. Chef René scowled and pointed at the door. ‘‘The banquet room, Miss Mott.’’

A tinge of pride colored her words as she announced completion of the assigned project. ‘‘I began decking the dining room at sunup and have completed the task. I wanted to be free to assist you in the kitchen.’’

The chef ’s white hat ascended an inch as he raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘‘I’m impressed, Miss Mott. Perhaps you’re going to work out after all.’’

Her spirit soared like a kite sailing on a stiff March breeze. Amazing what a few kind words could do for the soul. Chef René set her to work and offered encouragement as she buttered and seasoned croutons and prepared the ingredients for the potage of puréed peas that would be served with the delicate croutons. As she continued to work with confidence, he assigned her the preparation of the Allemande sauce that was to be served atop the fish course.

‘‘You know, Miss Mott, it is said the British have but three sauces and three hundred sixty religions, whereas the French have three religions and three hundred sixty sauces. However, I agree with our famous French chef, Antonin Carême—all can be placed into four families. From those four, all others descend.’’

She truly wanted to know the four sauces, but at the moment she merely wanted to remember the recipe for Allemande sauce. She had watched Chef René prepare it only twice previously, and the man’s recipes were locked away in his memory. She hoped she’d be able to recall the measurements and few ingredients. In any event, the sauce couldn’t be prepared this early in the morning. She thanked him profusely for his show of confidence and hurried to retrieve another tray of croutons from the oven.

‘‘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.’’