In the Company of Secrets (18 page)

‘‘Best I check her progress and see how much longer she’s going to be. I’m glad I arrived before her water broke.’’ She glanced over her shoulder at Olivia, who was retreating from the room.

‘‘I’ll go and fetch you a cup of tea, or would you prefer lemonade?’’

Mrs. DeVault pulled back the sheet covering Charlotte’s legs. ‘‘A cup of tea would be nice, dear.’’

Once she was certain Mrs. DeVault had completed Charlotte’s examination, Olivia returned with a small tray bearing a pot of tea and two cups. ‘‘How much longer do you think?’’

‘‘Always difficult to tell with the first one, but she’s progressing nicely. I’m guessing she’ll be holding the babe in her arms by sunrise.’’ Mrs. DeVault took a sip of her tea. ‘‘No need for both of us to sit here, Olivia. Just like Mr. Rice next door, you’ve got to be up and off to work come morning. Best you try and get a few winks of sleep if you’re able.’’

She felt somewhat guilty leaving the room while Charlotte was in the throes of pain, but sitting by her bedside wouldn’t decrease the intensity of her labor. The thought helped salve her conscience as she plopped onto the side of her bed. And soon she dropped off into a restless sleep.

‘‘Olivia!’’ She jumped at the sound of her name. Mrs. DeVault was standing by her bedside. ‘‘You had best get up now or you’ll be late for work.’’

‘‘Charlotte?’’

‘‘You can stop in and say good morning to Charlotte and her son. A fine little fellow.’’

‘‘I slept through it?’’

Mrs. DeVault nodded. ‘‘Charlotte did quite well. She screamed only once after you went to bed. I imagine Mr. Rice got his few hours of sleep, too.’’

The baby was the sweetest little cherub Olivia had ever seen. Charlotte quickly offered him to her, and Olivia wished she didn’t have to go to work. She’d much rather sit and hold the little fellow. His curly blond lashes flickered, and he opened his eyelids to reveal beautiful smoky blue eyes. He latched on to Olivia’s finger with a firm clasp as his tiny lips formed a beautiful pink bow.

‘‘He’s beautiful, Charlotte,’’ Olivia said, pulling the blanket more snugly around him. ‘‘And born on August fifteenth. My own dear mother’s birthday. What will you name him?’’

Charlotte shrugged her shoulders. ‘‘I care little. He’ll assume no title, so it makes no difference. Perhaps I shall reverse his father’s name and call him Morgan Randolph Spencer. Of course we’ll be required to refer to him as Hornsby rather than Spencer. What think you of that, Olivia?’’

‘‘I don’t know if that’s—’’

‘‘Yes. I rather like that idea. Morgan, it is.’’ She crooked her finger, and Olivia stepped closer. ‘‘I’ve told Mrs. DeVault that I plan to bind my breasts and want her to find a wet nurse for the baby. My figure has been ravaged by the pregnancy and birth while Randolph continues to deny his child. I find the idea of nursing a baby repugnant.’’

‘‘Oh, Charlotte, I think you should reconsider.’’

‘‘Well, I thought Randolph should reassess his denial of paternity, but that didn’t occur. The child will at least carry his name, albeit in a different form.’’

The baby squirmed in Olivia’s arms, and her heart ached for him. Would Charlotte’s angry feelings for Randolph Morgan spill over to this sweet infant? She had hoped Charlotte would develop into a loving mother, but her decision against nursing the baby didn’t suggest such an occurrence.

‘‘He’s a beautiful little boy, and I’m confident he’ll bring you nothing but joy.’’ Olivia leaned down to hand the small bundle back to his mother, but Charlotte didn’t reach out. ‘‘You best take little Morgan. I’m going to be late for work if I tarry much longer.’’

Instead of reaching for the child, Charlotte tucked her arms around her waist. ‘‘I think I’ll ask Mrs. DeVault to take the baby home with her for a few days so I can rest.’’

Olivia’s jaw went slack. ‘‘
What?
Why, that’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard. You don’t want to be away from your baby. He needs
you
, not Mrs. DeVault.’’ Olivia pried Charlotte’s arms from her waist and cradled the child near his mother. ‘‘He may need his diaper changed. The blanket felt a bit damp.’’

Charlotte wrinkled her nose. ‘‘I’m not going to do
that
! If Mrs. DeVault won’t take him home, we need to find someone to come to the house and help me.’’ After a brief and rather sour look at the baby, she glared at Olivia. ‘‘Why didn’t you
tell
me?’’

‘‘Tell you what? That babies dirty their diapers?’’

Mrs. DeVault hurried into the room and pointed a warning finger at Olivia. ‘‘You better hurry if you’re going to get to the hotel on time.’’

Olivia sighed with relief. She would let Mrs. DeVault set Charlotte straight. Perhaps when she arrived home this evening, the matter of the baby’s care and Charlotte’s surly attitude would both be resolved.

Carrying her chef ’s jacket and toque, she raced to the hotel at breakneck speed, skidding to a stop as she entered the kitchen. She nearly mowed down Chef René when he unwittingly stepped in front of her.

‘‘If you went to bed at a decent hour, you might be able to get to work without the necessity of charging into the unfortunate souls who find themselves in your path, Miss Mott.’’ Chef René frowned and tugged on the hem of his jacket as he spoke.

She donned her white coat and hat while offering an excuse for her tardy arrival. She completed the tale by adding, ‘‘He’s a very pretty little boy.’’

Chef René grunted. ‘‘That’s what all you women say about babies. I have never seen one
I
thought pretty, but I shall not argue the point.’’ Shoulders squared, he marched across the kitchen with military precision. ‘‘Let us begin our breakfast preparations.’’ Brandishing a wooden spoon overhead, he barked his commands like a general preparing to send his troops into battle. Olivia stifled a giggle.

Weary from a lack of sleep and the night’s excitement, Olivia was thankful when the workday finally drew to an end. With luck, she would be able to rest for a short time this evening. She packed food for supper and was preparing to depart when Chef René called her to his office.

She stood in the doorway and leaned against the cool wood of the doorjamb, hoping Chef René would be brief. Charlotte would grow impatient if she was late getting home. Mrs. DeVault had agreed to remain at their flat until six o’clock. Olivia had been thankful for the offer, but Charlotte had complained she didn’t want to be alone for even an hour. After Mrs. DeVault explained she’d be certain all was in order before departing, Charlotte had begrudgingly agreed to the arrangement.

It was when Olivia had been getting ready to leave that morning that Mrs. DeVault had suggested they discuss additional help for Charlotte and the baby this evening.
‘‘I can come
over about eight o’clock, and we’ll talk.’’
But now Chef René wanted to discuss some matter. Who knew how long he’d keep her.

The chef pointed his thick finger at one of the chairs. ‘‘Sit! We will talk.’’

He’d given her no choice, and she did as he commanded.

Lacing his fingers together, he rested his arms across his substantial girth. ‘‘I was going to talk to you first thing this morning, but you were late arriving. So now we will talk.’’ He sat on the edge of his chair and leaned across the desk. ‘‘We have been given a special privilege, Miss Mott. One in which I hope you will excel.’’

She bobbed her head. ‘‘I will do my best, Chef René .’’

Thoughts of Charlotte slipped from her mind as Olivia scooted back in the chair, curious to hear about this fine opportunity of distinction. Chef René knew her capabilities better than anyone. No one could deny the chef ’s expertise as an instructor, and she’d accomplished much under his tutelage, yet she remained unsure if she possessed the ability to
excel
. However, his words of confidence had bolstered her enthusiasm for whatever project he might suggest. She waited patiently while he shuffled through several piles on his desk. There was no doubt the chef was more organized in his kitchen than with the paper work on his desk.

‘‘Ah, here it is!’’ His eyes gleamed with triumph as he clasped a piece of stationery between his thumb and forefinger and held it in the air. From this distance, she couldn’t read the document, but the stationery appeared similar to the expensive linen paper Charlotte had stolen from her mother months earlier. She deciphered a large
P
monogrammed at the top of the page. Her hands quivered, and she wondered if this might be a special request from Mr. Pullman.

Placing the missive atop the center pile on his desk, he patted it gently. ‘‘Mrs. Pullman has requested that a special tea be prepared for guests who will be attending the sailing regatta and athletic competitions in late September, when all of her friends have returned from their summer sanctuaries.’’

Olivia waited. She wasn’t certain what he expected her to say. Apparently he thought she didn’t understand his reference to the elite returning home from their summer vacations.

‘‘The wealthy all flee the cities during the hottest months. Most depart in June or early July to go abroad or travel to their vacation homes in other parts of the country. If the Pullmans aren’t in Europe, they go to their resort along the shore in New Jersey or to Castle Rest in the Thousand Islands—both places I hope I’ll never see again.’’ He daubed the beads of perspiration that had gathered along his forehead with a giant white handkerchief.

Though Olivia couldn’t imagine why he wouldn’t want to revisit such lovely sounding places, the chef ’s attention was once again on the letter on his desk. He lifted the page by one corner and handed it across the desk. ‘‘Read this.’’

Olivia quickly perused the letter. Mrs. Pullman would be entertaining the wives of influential Chicago businessmen at a tea to be hosted at Hotel Florence. In addition to enjoying their tea, the women would be discussing plans to raise funds for the new Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Beyond that, the letter didn’t state what else the women would be planning, which apparently was not something Mrs. Pullman thought of import to Chef René or the kitchen staff. The letter explicitly charged Chef René with impressing her guests with delightful delicacies and fine service throughout the afternoon event.

‘‘Since the English are renowned for their teas, I thought this would be an excellent opportunity for you to exhibit some of the delights developed in the kitchen of Chef Partridge.’’

Olivia giggled. ‘‘Chef
Mallard
.’’

He shrugged. ‘‘At least I remembered his name resembled some type of edible bird. What do you think about this? The hotel will be filled with guests during the weekend, and I will need to direct all of my attention toward meal preparations. I would be most appreciative if you could handle this
tea
.’’ He said the word as though it pained him. ‘‘If you do not believe you are up to the task, you must be honest with me.’’ Wagging his index finger back and forth, he leaned forward and rested his chest atop the desk. ‘‘I don’t ever want to see ants parading down my tables again. The ladies would run screaming from the hotel, and I would surely be discharged.’’

‘‘No more peonies. Besides, they don’t bloom in late summer.’’ She wondered if Chef René would be pleased after he heard the honest reply he’d requested. ‘‘There was a pastry chef at Lanshire Hall, but it wasn’t me. I wasn’t even the regular assistant to the pastry chef.’’

He clasped a hand to his chest as though she’d mortally wounded him. ‘‘Ah
non
.’’

‘‘I only performed as a helper when the regular assistant was not available, and I don’t know if my pastries will meet Mrs. Pullman’s expectations. If I could use my mother’s recipes—’’

‘‘Good! I care little whose recipes you will put to use so long as they are worthy of being served in Hotel Florence.’’ Suddenly he slapped his hands on the pile of papers. ‘‘Aha! I have the answer!’’

His shout nearly caused Olivia to fall from her chair. ‘‘And that is?’’

‘‘You will prepare your recipes for me, and we will give them a taste test.’’ He once again folded his hands across his great expanse of belly and grinned. ‘‘A good idea, non?’’

‘‘Yes. An excellent idea. I will bring my recipes tomorrow, and we shall begin.’’

He pushed on the arms of the chair and dislodged himself. ‘‘We shall begin tomorrow—after regular working hours.’’

‘‘But—’’

‘‘After the others go home, you will bake and I will taste.’’

Olivia wanted to argue, but it appeared as if the matter was settled, and the timing couldn’t be worse. When she disclosed she’d be working late every night for the remainder of the week, Charlotte would likely fly into a rage—or begin one of her crying episodes that could go on for hours. Olivia didn’t know which would be worse. In the meantime, she wanted to select several of her mother’s recipes before morning.

Approaching the house, she could hear the baby’s cries coming through the open bedroom window. Picking up her pace, she ran up the front steps and hurried inside. A quick peek into the bedroom revealed the infant lying on the bed, his tiny arms and legs flailing in time with his lusty cries. Olivia looked into the parlor and noted Charlotte reclining on the divan.

‘‘Could you do something to make him quit crying?’’ Charlotte asked as she waved her arm toward the bedroom. ‘‘He’s been screaming ever since Mrs. DeVault departed, and I can’t get a minute of peace.’’

‘‘Did you consider holding him? He’s kicked off his blanket.’’ She had no idea when the infant had eaten. She hoped Mrs. DeVault had convinced Charlotte to nurse the baby. ‘‘And his diaper is probably wet. No wonder he’s crying. When did he last eat?’’

‘‘Shortly before Mrs. DeVault departed at six o’clock.’’ Charlotte tugged at the cloth strips around her chest. ‘‘These bindings hurt,’’ she whined. ‘‘Why are you so late tonight?’’

She chose to ignore Charlotte’s question. ‘‘Did
you
feed him?’’

Charlotte wagged her head back and forth as she continued to rearrange the bindings. ‘‘Mrs. DeVault found some woman. She said she’d return this evening and talk to you.’’ She tightened her lips into a moue. ‘‘Are you going to do something about him?’’