In the Company of Secrets (4 page)
As he stepped around a small table, he dropped her reference letter atop a sheaf of papers piled on one corner. Olivia longed to know the contents of the letter. Lady Charlotte had obviously been quite complimentary. If she could answer the chef ’s questions to his satisfaction, perhaps she would secure a position.
Chef René gestured for Olivia to take a seat while he squeezed his rotund body into the chair opposite her. ‘‘Having this uncomfortable chair in my office keeps me at work in the kitchen.’’ His jovial laugh filled the room and set Olivia at ease. ‘‘Tell me, Miss Mott, what brings a lady of your accomplishments to Pullman, Illinois?’’
His dark brown eyes sparkled beneath his eyelids. Pleased by the ease of this question, she explained that her cousin Albert Mott was employed in Pullman and that his letters had expounded upon the advantages of the community and lured her to the town.
‘‘It seems to me that a talented chef ’s assistant with your astounding qualities would have remained in England. With luck, you might have ascended to the position of chef to the Earl and Countess of Lanshire.’’ Chef René rubbed his fleshy jowl. ‘‘When I review this letter, I am awed by all you have achieved. And at such a young age. Astounding!’’ The chef waved the piece of stationery in the air.
The engraved red and gold
L
winked at her as the letter fluttered back atop his desk. Olivia silently scolded herself. She should have insisted upon reading the contents before presenting the missive as a reference.
What
had Lady Charlotte written? She edged a bit closer, hoping for a glimpse, but her efforts proved fruitless.
‘‘Well, you have arrived at the perfect time.’’ The chef slapped his beefy hand on the table.
Startled, Olivia’s purse dropped from her lap, and she jumped to retrieve it from the floor. Securing the handbag, she peeked across the desk as she returned to an upright position.
The chef was watching her every move and obviously awaiting her response. ‘‘I have? Arrived at the perfect time, I mean?’’
‘‘Indeed!’’ He rose from his chair. ‘‘Mr. Pullman is in his upstairs office. I will speak to him. You may wait here for my return.’’
The chef pried himself from his chair and edged his way through the small room, obviously not expecting a response.
When he didn’t pick up the letter, a silent sigh of relief escaped her lips. She waited only long enough to be certain he wouldn’t immediately return before reaching across the table, retrieving the letter, and reviewing the contents. What had Lady Charlotte been thinking? Olivia marveled that Chef René hadn’t laughed her out of his office. Why had he even condescended to speak to her? Surely he didn’t believe she could perform the myriad duties detailed by the mistress of Lanshire Hall. Most any chef would have simply called her a fraud and pointed her to the door. Why hadn’t he?
At the sound of footsteps in the outer hall, Olivia dropped the letter back in place. If she had an ounce of sense, she would run from the room while there was still time. What would she do if Chef René actually offered her employment?
Chef René lumbered through the doorway. ‘‘You are hired, Miss Mott. Come with me.’’
She couldn’t move. Her backside felt glued to the chair. If she didn’t stand, he would think her a complete fool. Better now than when he discovered she couldn’t perform the numerous duties outlined in that overblown letter of recommendation.
‘‘No time to dally. We are to meet with Mr. Howard, the company’s agent.’’
The chef grasped her by the elbow and propelled her out of the chair. Without so much as a word, she followed in his broad shadow. Once outside the hotel, he motioned her onward.
‘‘May I inquire where we’re going?’’
He pointed a thick finger across the street toward the artificial lake and clock tower she’d viewed from the train. ‘‘To Mr. Howard’s office in the Administration Building. He will assign your living quarters and arrange for payment of your wages. You will begin work in the morning.’’
Who would have thought a man of Chef René ’s girth could walk so rapidly? Didn’t he realize she couldn’t keep pace with his long stride? The chef continued across the wide boulevard, with Olivia following in his wake. When Chef René arrived at the Administration Building, he pulled open the heavy walnut and glass door and turned. Olivia sighed. Finally. Perhaps he would see her lagging and take pity! Instead of the contrite apology she’d expected, he waved her on like the exasperated bobby she’d seen directing traffic in Chicago.
The chef shook his head in disgust when she stopped long enough to readjust her straw hat that had slipped to one side.
‘‘Why must we hurry so?’’ she asked.
‘‘Mr. Howard will leave his office promptly at eleven thirty. He is unavailable for employee appointments after that time. Mr. Pullman instructed me to speak with Mr. Howard today. Consequently, we hurry.’’ He pointed down the hall. ‘‘Follow me.’’
Did she have any other choice? At least the end of this race to meet Mr. Howard was in sight. Somewhere along this hallway she would enter an office and perhaps even be permitted to sit and rest for a moment. Unaware they had reached their final destination, Olivia bounced into René ’s broad backside as he came to an abrupt halt. She muttered an apology, but the chef seemed completely oblivious. After all, he had several layers of padding. She stifled a giggle. She
must
cease her desire to laugh when she found herself in these embarrassing circumstances.
Chef René knocked on the door and patiently waited.
‘‘Come in! Come in!’’
The deep voice emanating from the other side of the door sounded annoyed. Not a good sign . . . not a good sign at all. All thoughts of laughter immediately took flight. She followed the chef ’s gaze to a clock hanging at the end of the hall. Eleven twenty. Mr. Howard was likely anxious to be on his way home. In all probability, he had a wife who expected him home for the noonday meal. She could only hope his proclivity to remain on schedule would work in her favor and he wouldn’t bombard her with a multitude of questions.
Before she could further weigh the possibilities, Chef René ushered her through the doorway and into the agent’s office. She had anticipated a bald man with spectacles and a tight frown. To her astonishment, the man sitting across the desk was none of the things she’d expected. Perhaps this man was Mr. Howard’s assistant.
He pushed aside a stack of papers and stood to shake hands with the chef. ‘‘How may I help you, Chef René ?’’
‘‘May I introduce Miss Olivia Mott. She recently arrived from London with an incredibly fine recommendation from the Countess of Lanshire. Mr. Pullman instructed me to offer her a position as my assistant. She is to begin tomorrow morning.’’
Mr. Howard glanced in her direction before returning his attention to Chef René . ‘‘Any other instructions from Mr. Pullman?’’
Olivia remained a silent observer while the two men discussed her future. From all appearances, nothing was expected of her. She stared at the ticking clock on Mr. Howard’s desk. With its hand-painted violets and miniature roses, the china timepiece seemed strangely out of place on the massive unadorned desk.
The hands of the clock settled on twenty-five past the hour. If only she could reach across the desk and push the minute hand forward to eleven thirty, the agent would then surely shoo them from his office and hurry home to his wife. Her gaze remained fixed on the hands of the clock, which appeared to remain stuck at eleven twenty-five.
‘‘Miss Mott? Miss Mott?’’
Discomfited, Olivia met Mr. Howard’s perplexed stare. He likely thought her a complete dolt. Even worse, he might believe her apathetic. ‘‘I’m terribly sorry. Instead of admiring your clock, I should have been listening to the conversation. Please forgive me.’’
She attempted one of the coy looks she’d seen Lady Charlotte assume in the past. But when Mr. Howard raised his eyebrows and peered at Chef René , she feared her endeavor had fallen short.
‘‘I need to know if you are planning to arrange for living accommodations outside of Pullman or if you prefer to rent from the corporation.’’ He poised his pen above a ledger. ‘‘I recommend the latter, don’t you, Chef René ?’’
‘‘
Oui
. You will find your life much simpler if you reside close to the hotel. You should not consider any other arrangement.’’ He wagged his index finger back and forth.
With a bob of her head, Olivia agreed. ‘‘I prefer to rent from the corporation.’’
‘‘Excellent.’’ Mr. Howard made a check mark beside her name and closed the ledger. ‘‘Once you’ve completed your paper work, I will show you to your new living accommodations and explain a bit about life here in Pullman.’’ He pulled a printed page from the desk drawer and slid it toward her. ‘‘
After
you have completed your application for employment.’’
Olivia swallowed hard. The first paragraph of the application was an oath avowing all information submitted by the applicant would be true and correct under penalty of discharge. Combined with the oath was an additional warning:
Under such
circumstances, repayment of any wages paid would be required
. She didn’t want to answer the numerous prying questions, and she certainly didn’t want to sign her name to the oath.
‘‘Is my letter of recommendation insufficient?’’ She did her best to offer him the lovely dimpled smile that seemed to render success for Lady Charlotte. However, her lips wouldn’t cooperate. Best she couldn’t see in a mirror, for she feared her attempt had more closely resembled a quivering snarl.
‘‘All employees are required to complete and sign this paperwork. Even Chef René was required to fill out our application. Of course, we are always appreciative of recommendations such as the one you’ve supplied. Unfortunately, we’ve received an occasional letter of recommendation that couldn’t be trusted.’’
If she questioned the matter further, Mr. Howard would surely become suspicious.
More lies
. And this time, her false statements would be in written form—and bear her signature, as well! After penning her answers, she crossed her first two fingers and signed the paper. She truly didn’t want to continue with her lies, yet there appeared to be no alternative. She hoped God understood the meaning of crossed fingers. She slid the paper back toward Mr. Howard.
He scanned the responses before placing the form with her letter of recommendation. ‘‘Now then, let’s go and see your new accommodations.’’
‘‘Now?’’ Her voice warbled.
Mr. Howard pushed his chair away from the desk and stood. ‘‘Unless you have some other matter that requires your immediate attention.’’
The desk clock chimed a soft tune. Eleven thirty. Finally! Wasn’t it time for Mr. Howard to depart for his noonday meal? Why didn’t he ask her to come back tomorrow? ‘‘No, but I can return later if it would be more convenient. I don’t want to interrupt your schedule.’’
‘‘Now is fine, Miss Mott. I’m eager to hear more about you, and I know Chef René is anxious to get back to the hotel kitchen and oversee his staff.’’
Taking his cue, Chef René rose from his chair and started toward the door. Olivia wanted to run after him. Though she feared failure in his kitchen, she dreaded time alone with Mr. Howard more. He would surely subject her to a multitude of questions that she didn’t want to answer. That fact aside, she didn’t want to be the cause of his late arrival home. Years of servitude had taught her the foolishness of angering an employer’s wife.
He escorted her out of his office at a leisure pace and walked at no more than a saunter as they retraced the path she’d taken with Chef René only a short time earlier. Apparently Mr. Howard had forgotten he was expected home for the noonday meal. Once across the boulevard, he turned to the left. The houses that lined this street proved to be substantially larger and more ornate than those Olivia had previously viewed. They were, she decided, most impressive.
Mr. Howard pointed to his right. ‘‘This is my home. As you can see, I’m situated close to my office.’’
He looked quite young when he smiled. ‘‘I’m sure your wife appreciates that fact.’’ His smile disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.
‘‘My wife is dead, Miss Mott. She died nearly three years ago. Though this house is much too large for only one person, Mr. Pullman thought it best I remain in the housing assigned to the company agent.’’
‘‘I’m sorry to hear of your loss, Mr. Howard. Please forgive me.’’ Olivia stared at the scuffed toes of her shoes, afraid if she looked up she would detect a tear or two in his eyes. Why had she mentioned his wife? She needed to
think
before speaking. Perhaps she should change the subject. ‘‘I was wondering, Mr. Howard, do you perchance count a Mr. Randolph Morgan among your acquaintances?’’
He stopped midstep and stared down the length of his six-foot frame. ‘‘I know
who
he is, but we are not personally acquainted. Mr. Morgan is an investor and stockholder who executes special tasks for the Pullman business interests from time to time—primarily in England and other countries. However, the Morgans and their young children visit Pullman on occasion. Like most of Mr. and Mrs. Pullman’s acquaintances, they attend the summer games hosted in Pullman each summer.’’
