In the Company of Secrets (34 page)

Fred shook his head. ‘‘Please! Sit down, Olivia. I apologize. My comment was uncalled for, and I beg your forgiveness. I know you would never compromise yourself.’’

Ever the peacemaker, Mrs. DeVault frantically tugged on Olivia’s hand. ‘‘Yes, please forgive him. He’s not himself with these happenings at work today. Please do sit down.’’

Olivia couldn’t deny the older woman’s request. But Fred’s outburst and judgment of her behavior had wounded her.

Fred had no choice but to listen. His mother had reared him to respect his elders, and he’d not abandon her teaching, no matter what his age. It didn’t mean he must agree with what she said, only that he’d listen and consider what she said. On this occasion, he knew his mother was correct. He deserved her censure, for his words to Olivia had been rude and hurtful. Little wonder that Olivia had pointedly requested that Albert escort her home. And Fred’s mother hadn’t wasted a moment telling him so. The minute Olivia and Albert had departed the house, she’d ushered him into the kitchen and handed him a dish towel. While she washed dishes and scrubbed the pots and pans, she lectured him. He dried and listened. Yet he was glad that she was finally winding down.

‘‘You had best do more than say you’re sorry or you’ll lose that young lady. She’s a nice girl, Fred.’’ She waved a soapy finger in the air. ‘‘And I like her!’’

He couldn’t help but laugh at his mother’s antics. Now she was playing matchmaker. However, his mother was correct. He needed to do something to make amends—something beyond a simple apology. He could purchase flowers or take her out to supper, but Olivia would appreciate something out of the ordinary . . . something original—like her. But what? As he placed the dishes on the shelves that lined the far kitchen wall, he noticed his mother’s recipe box. Olivia had spoken to him of her mother’s recipes and how important they were to her. A new recipe box! Yes, he would make her a box that would hold her mother’s old recipes and would be large enough to include the new recipes from the hotel kitchen.

His mother heartily approved the plan but was of little assistance when he asked about dimensions for the new box.

Mrs. DeVault wiped her hands on her apron and shrugged. ‘‘I don’t know how many recipes she has. Maybe you need a very big box, but if she has only a few of her mother’s recipes, then not so big.’’ She removed her apron and hung it on a hook near the sink. ‘‘I know! I have a key to the house. You can go and measure Olivia’s recipe box after she departs for work in the morning. That way you can purchase the wood and begin right away. Perhaps you could make a matching rack for her spices, too.’’

He grasped his mother by the shoulders and kissed her cheek. ‘‘You always could figure out a way to solve my problems.’’

‘‘Go on with you. If you’re thinking you’ll wheedle another piece of pie with your compliments, you should know me better than that.’’

He laughed, pleased with his plan. First thing in the morning he’d go and take the measurements. Then he’d head off for the lumberyard, where he’d purchase some scraps of wood. With luck he would find some nice pieces of cherry. He would frame a glass lid for the box and etch her name in the glass. Then again, maybe glass wasn’t such a good idea. It would break too easily in the kitchen. He’d think of something to make it extra special, though.

The next morning, Fred paced back and forth in the hallway, checking the mantel clock each time he passed the parlor. He didn’t want to hurry to Olivia’s flat while it was dark outside, for Mrs. Rice might mistake him for an intruder. He decided that if Olivia’s next-door neighbor saw him enter the house, he’d explain that he was preparing a surprise for Olivia. If Mrs. Rice was anything like his mother, she’d relish the role of a willing participant in his secret. When the clock chimed at eight-thirty, he hurried out the door. The streets were quiet, with only an occasional shopper hurrying toward the Market and a few dawdling children, who would likely be tardy for school. Anyone scheduled for the morning shift would already be at work.

Mrs. Rice didn’t make an appearance when he approached the house. He’d make a point to knock on her door before departing. Better to take time and explain his presence rather than to fuel any gossip should she be watching him through the gauzy curtains. He put the key in the lock, heard the familiar clunk of the receding bolt, and turned the knob. The door opened easily, with only a faint creak to announce his entry. He walked inside—a trespasser. The thought stirred an eerily disturbing sensation deep in the hollow of his belly. Did thieves have these same feelings when they broke into someone’s home?

The moment he located the recipe box and checked the measurements, he would be on his way. He made his way to the kitchen, pleased when he immediately saw the oblong box sitting beneath one of the shelves near the stove. It was of rough pine, bigger than he’d expected. Perhaps he’d made a mistake in thinking she might need a new box, though if it was full, she’d soon need something larger. He lifted the lid. The box certainly appeared full, but mostly because of several bulky folded sheets in the front. Perhaps these were recipes Olivia planned to transfer onto smaller paper that fit in the box. He withdrew the pages and unfolded them.

He struggled to make sense of what he was reading. At the top of the page were the words
Details for us to memorize
. A list of sorts had been written directly beneath the heading.
Charlotte
will now be known as Mrs. Hornsby. Her hypothetical
husband died. We supposedly met at a seamstress shop while she
was having her mourning clothes altered. Don’t address Charlotte
as Lady Charlotte
. More details continued down the page. At first he thought it might be Olivia’s journal. But this wasn’t a diary. Instead, it was a list of strange information about Charlotte and Olivia.

He continued to read until he finally realized what he held in his hands. This was a list of lies the women had committed to memory and spoon-fed to everyone they met. Charlotte and Olivia had woven together a web of lies that were memorialized on these pages. He didn’t want to continue reading, yet he couldn’t look away. When he’d read the final page, he folded the pages and put them back in the box. Fingers trembling, he slowly closed the recipe box with a sense of revulsion.

Who was Olivia? What about her was true, and what was false? There was no doubt that she was Albert’s cousin. She obviously was an expert liar, for even Albert had believed all she’d told him. When had the lies begun, and who, exactly, was Mrs. Hornsby? She obviously was a woman of wealth and class if she had been
Lady
Charlotte. He couldn’t sort it out. Not here. Not now. He needed to get out of this house.

He shoved the box back into place and hurried out the front door. Too late, he remembered his plan to speak with Mrs. Rice but pushed the thought aside. If Olivia questioned him, he’d merely say her neighbor had been mistaken. He’d see if his lies were as believable as hers had been.

His mother turned from her dusting when he entered the house. He shrugged out of his jacket and waved when she peeked around the doorjamb. ‘‘That was a hasty trip. Where is the wood?’’ She stepped into the hallway and scanned the area.

He shook his head. ‘‘I decided the recipe box wasn’t such a good idea. I’m not feeling well. I think I’ll go upstairs and get some sleep. I wouldn’t want to be sick my first day on the new shift. Mr. Howard would probably consider my absence a protest to the change in hours and fire me.’’

‘‘Is it your stomach or head that’s bothering you? I can go to the druggist and request something to help, or I can make you some soup from the leftover chicken.’’

He continued up the stairs, the truth of what he’d seen weighing down upon his chest. ‘‘Don’t go to the pharmacy. If you want to make soup, I’ll eat some before I go to work.’’ He looked over his shoulder and noted his mother’s frown as she peered up the staircase. ‘‘Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I merely need to rest.’’

He sat on the edge of his bed and covered his face with his palms. Only last night he had thought of Olivia as someone extraordinary and special. This morning’s revelations had proved his belief to be true, but not in the way he’d thought. The fact remained that he had no idea who she was or what was truth and what was deceit. Right now, he didn’t even want to attempt to sort out fact from fiction.

So far as he was concerned, she was no more than a chimera, a fleeting illusion of the woman he had hoped to one day marry. In the time it had taken to read those few pages, the young woman he’d grown so fond of had disappeared. He fell back across the bed and stared out the window. Instead of moping, he should be thankful he’d discovered the truth before he’d fallen in love with her. Unfortunately, that thought didn’t heal his intense sorrow, for deep within he knew he’d already committed his heart to Olivia.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Mr. Howard waited outside the kitchen door, holding his felt derby in one hand and a single yellow rose in the other.

Chef René glanced up and arched his bushy brows. ‘‘A rose?’’ His question was no more than a whisper.

Olivia removed her toque and white jacket, then stepped closer. ‘‘That’s a
yellow
rose, not red. Yellow means friendship.’’

Chef René bent over a cookbook and traced his finger down the page. ‘‘It may be yellow to you, but to him it is red.’’

Olivia shook her head in denial, but she feared the chef ’s assessment was correct. Mr. Howard’s eyes sparkled with anticipation, a look she longed to receive from Fred, but not from the company agent.

She thanked him for the rose and suggested a small vase in the kitchen would keep it fresh until tomorrow. She didn’t want to walk about town carrying a rose in her hand. What if someone saw her and mentioned it to Fred?

Furthermore, she didn’t want Mr. Howard to consider this search for new living quarters as anything more than one friend helping another. Of course, he wasn’t really her friend, but he wasn’t a beau, either. He waited patiently while she poured water into the vase and placed the rose inside.

The moment they walked outdoors, he offered his arm. She wanted to refuse, but her courage waned. He patted her hand as she tucked it into the crook of his arm, a much too possessive action. First the flower and now patting her hand as though they were a couple. She didn’t want to encourage his affectionate behavior.

‘‘Did you bring the list?’’ Perhaps she could break this arm-in-arm arrangement by perusing his inventory of available apartments.

‘‘No need for a paper. I have them all up here.’’ He tapped his head.

Nearing the far corner of the hotel, he made a sharp turn. She tugged on his arm. ‘‘I can’t afford to rent rooms on this street.’’ Though she didn’t mention it, she doubted any of the well-paid supervisors who lived on 111th Street would even consider renting out rooms.

‘‘My next-door neighbor, Mrs. Barnes, mentioned she would be delighted to have you as a boarder, and I thought you’d like to look there first.’’ He continued walking. ‘‘Her daughter recently married. Only last night she mentioned being lonely for another woman in the house. Needless to say, I thought of you, and she was delighted with the idea.’’

‘‘That’s kind, but I’m on a strict budget, Mr. Howard.’’

Once again he patted her hand. ‘‘Samuel. I
insist
you quit addressing me so formally when we’re alone. As for the room and board, she’s not in need of funds. Unlike the other women who rent out rooms, she is willing to take a lesser amount.’’ He tipped his head close. ‘‘One I know you can afford.’’

Certainly he was well aware of her wages. He’d hired her. Still, she thought him presumptuous to assume he knew what she could or couldn’t afford. He had no idea what other obligations she might have. She feared he was already persuaded she’d take the room. And though she didn’t want to live next door to him, she worried his preplanned arrangements would make it difficult to refuse without a credible excuse.

‘‘Here we are.’’ He escorted her up the front steps and knocked. Mrs. Barnes had obviously been awaiting their arrival, for she immediately opened the door. A pleasantly plump woman, she greeted them with a welcoming smile. The woman’s soft brown eyes reminded Olivia of Aunt Eleanor. Tucking a strand of her graying auburn hair behind one ear, the woman invited them inside. Despite the fact that Mrs. Barnes was evaluating her suitability as a tenant, Olivia was drawn by the woman’s comforting air of kindness and gentility. She appeared genuinely pleased to have them come calling.

‘‘I do hope you’ll forgive my husband’s absence. He had some additional work to complete in his office.’’ She smiled and shook her head. ‘‘Horace can’t sleep unless his books are reconciled each night. I’m sure you understand, Mr. Howard.’’

‘‘Of course. Horace is a dedicated and valued employee.’’

Mrs. Barnes beamed at the compliment. ‘‘Why, thank you.’’

She directed them into the parlor. Unlike Olivia’s flat, the stairway and woodwork were a lustrous cherry that had been finished in its natural color, and the double parlor they entered was extravagantly appointed and spacious.