In the Company of Secrets Page 11

  ‘‘Oh, and Miss Mott . . .’’

  She turned and met his austere stare. ‘‘Yes?’’

  ‘‘I’m told that some liquor has been disappearing from the hotel bar. Two to three bottles a week.’’ His eyes darkened. ‘‘I’m told these occurrences began at approximately the same time you came to—’’

  She stepped closer to the smooth marble-topped counter. ‘‘Are you accusing me of—’’

  Mr. Billings leaned forward and waved his index finger back and forth. ‘‘Do not interrupt me, Miss Mott.’’ He stood back, grasped the hem of his vest, and tugged with such vigor that she thought it might soon reach his knees. ‘‘The only persons who have keys to that room are Chef René and me. Even the barkeep does not have a personal key, and the bottles are counted each evening before closing.’’

  Olivia waited until she was sure he’d finished speaking. ‘‘And for that reason you feel you should accuse me of this despicable act?’’

  He cleared his throat and looked down his nose as though she were a fly that he was anxious to swat. ‘‘I believe I stated more than one reason, Miss Mott. The keys and the timing. In addition, I don’t believe Chef René or Mr. Howard performed a proper check into your background or references.’’

  Perspiration dampened her hands and beaded along her upper lip. She swallowed the lump that had begun to form in her throat. Should she mention that Eddie and Georgie had been hired two days after her own employment at the hotel or that Mr. Billings could find two empty bottles in their room at this very moment? Oh, how she wanted to shout that information across the desk and watch Mr. Billings’s arrogant look evaporate. But what right did she have to accuse Georgie or Eddie? She had no proof the bottles had come from the hotel bar. Her accusations would be as tenuous as those of Mr. Billings.

  Best to take the offensive. She squared her shoulders and jutted her chin, hoping her deportment somewhat resembled the demeanor she’d seen Charlotte assume from time to time. ‘‘I am highly offended.’’ When he glowered, she remained steadfast. ‘‘I plan to report your false accusations to Chef René . He may proceed to investigate further, if he so desires. I believe the chef will confirm that I have never had access to his keys. And I do not imbibe alcoholic beverages.’’ She turned on her heel and marched off, careful to keep her head high and her back as straight as a broomstick.

  ‘‘I will talk to Chef René myself,’’ Mr. Billings called after her.

  Olivia pretended not to hear. She’d see Chef René long before Mr. Billings would. Indeed, the rotund chef now stood in the kitchen doorway with his beefy hands on his hips and a scowl on his face as she approached. Had she not known better, she’d think Mr. Billings had already alerted him.

  ‘‘Where have you been, Miss Mott? I sent you to locate Georgie, and you finally come back after almost a half hour and’’—he bent back and forth and pretended to look behind her—‘‘I still don’t have Georgie in my kitchen.’’

  ‘‘My apologies, Chef René . Georgie is ill, and I remained long enough to ensure he wasn’t in need of immediate medical care. Then as I returned to the lobby, Mr. Billings detained me.’’ She lowered her voice and leaned closer. ‘‘I must speak to you privately when you have a few moments.’’

  All discussion of Georgie was forgotten. Chef René was much more interested in what Mr. Billings had to say. He crooked his finger for her to follow. ‘‘Out here where the staff will not hear.’’ Marching to the side door, he led her outside to a grassy expanse well beyond the kitchen door. ‘‘Well? What did that pompous man say to you?’’

  Chef René folded his thick arms across his chest, and a haughty expression slowly took form as she explained Mr. Billings’s accusations.

  He raised a finger into the air. ‘‘Ha! Who does that man think he is to question my employees? We shall see about this! I will talk to Mr. Howard—to Mr. Pullman, if necessary! Mr. Beelings’s accusations have been directed against Chef René as well as against you, Miss Mott.’’ He shifted his head with a vigor that sent his white hat fluttering to the ground in a graceful landing.

  She stooped down and retrieved his hat. ‘‘Mr. Billings said I shouldn’t speak to you about this matter, but I pretended I didn’t hear him.’’

  The chef rubbed his sagging jowl. ‘‘Did he?’’ He winked and nodded. ‘‘Then I shall be well prepared when he approaches me. Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention, Miss Mott. I knew you were a young lady of integrity—someone I could trust.’’

  His praise set her mind awhirl. If he knew the truth, he’d think her far from trustworthy. In fact, he’d likely discharge her that very moment. She dug the toe of her shoe into the grass, her face warm with embarrassment.

  With his thickly padded thumb, Chef René lifted her chin until their eyes met in a somber gaze. ‘‘I know your letter wasn’t genuine. Nevertheless, I still believe you are a young lady of integrity.’’

  Hot tears began to pool in her eyes. ‘‘How did you know?’’

  He laughed. ‘‘I was certain before I hired you, Miss Mott, but it took only two minutes in my kitchen to confirm what I already believed.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘You worked in a kitchen, but you held no position of responsibility. However, you are a good student—how you say? Inspired. Chef René will make you into a fine chef, a true protégée, so long as you stay committed to learning.’’

  She enjoyed the way he referred to himself as though he were some distant third party. ‘‘I’m very committed and honored that you consider me talented enough to be your protégé e.’’ She gave him a shamefaced glance. ‘‘But why is it you never said anything about my lack of training?’’ The moment she’d spoken the words, she wondered if he had been setting a trap. Her heart pounded against her chest and her stomach roiled. She hoped she wouldn’t faint.

  His lips curved into a wide grin. ‘‘I did the very same thing when I was your age because I knew I was destined to become a great chef.’’ He patted her shoulder. ‘‘We shall survive Mr. Beelings and his accusations. Mr. Howard and Mr. Pullman will prove to be strong allies.’’

  She didn’t want Mr. Howard to be her ally—or Mr. Pullman, either. She’d rather they stay out of the matter. Chef René might be willing to accept her forged credentials, but Mr. Howard and Mr. Pullman would be another story altogether. Chef René appeared unconcerned as they walked side by side to the kitchen door, but her worries continued to mount. Now that she’d admitted to one of her lies, he could use it against her at any time. Thoughts of Chef Mallard’s unwanted advances flitted through her mind. Would Chef René expect some favor in return for his silence? She could only hope he would prove trustworthy.

  When she finally was dismissed from the kitchen to partake of her late midday meal, Olivia raced to the fourth floor. Gasping for air yet unwilling to waste a moment, she continued down the hallway and flung open the door to Georgie’s room. He didn’t appear to have moved since she’d last visited him. He turned his bleary eyes upon her.

  ‘‘I don’t have much time, so listen carefully. And you’d better tell me the truth, Georgie.’’ She gave him a stern look.

  Her legs continued to tremble, and she longed to sit down and rest a moment. The sparsely appointed room contained only two narrow cots, two suitcases, and a stack of boxes that served as a makeshift bureau for some of the kitchen boys’ belongings. No chair in sight. And she would never consider sitting on the edge of a young man’s bed. Leaning her weight against the wall, she hoped she would soon regain her strength.

  Georgie rolled over and flipped his gangling legs over the side of the bed. His bare feet slapped against the wood floor. The room would seem a bit more homelike if Georgie would put a rug between the beds, but she didn’t mention that. The empty bottles remained in the corner of the room. Olivia pointed at them.

  ‘‘You stole those from the hotel bar, didn’t you?’’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘‘And don’t you lie to me.’’

  ‘‘Maybe, maybe not.’�
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  There wasn’t time for his nonsense! She leaned forward and pinched his ear. ‘‘Your thievery is going to get Chef René in trouble, and maybe me, too, so quit playing your silly games.’’

  ‘‘Eddie stole it, but I drank most of it. Don’t tell him I told you.’’

  Eddie—the tall redheaded boy who was always winking at the young girls that passed by on their way to work at the laundry. ‘‘Is that Eddie’s bed?’’ She tipped her head at the unoccupied cot.

  ‘‘Yes, ma’am. He’s down at work, ain’t he?’’

  She nodded. ‘‘How’d he get Chef René ’s key to unlock the door to the bar?’’

  ‘‘He didn’t need it. Eddie can pick a lock quicker than I can unlock it with a key.’’

  The thought of the boy running about the hotel picking locks was more than a bit disconcerting. ‘‘Any lock?’’

  ‘‘Don’t know about that, but he’s done pretty good so far. Some nights he goes back to the kitchen and gets us extra food. Other nights, he wants a few drinks and goes to the bar. He’s never had trouble with either of those doors.’’

  ‘‘Mr. Billings has discovered the missing liquor. He’s accusing Chef René of being careless with his keys. Either you or that hobbledehoy with whom you share this room need to tell the chef the truth.’’

  A shock of greasy brown hair fell across one eye as he looked up at her. ‘‘Or?’’

  How she wished he hadn’t called her bluff. Conflict wasn’t her forte. But Georgie must understand this was serious. ‘‘If one of you doesn’t tell him, then I will.’’ She hoped her voice had been firm enough to convince him. A picture of Eddie picking the lock on her front door flashed through her mind. If he became angry over her interference, he might break in during the night and harm her. The mere thought caused her to shudder.

  Georgie hunched forward and buried his pasty-complexioned face inside his cupped hands. ‘‘I’ll tell Chef René . But not until I have a chance to talk to Eddie.’’

  Olivia strained to hear the muffled response. ‘‘You must go to him before morning.’’

  Georgie bobbed his head.

  ‘‘Does that mean you will?’’ She needed to hear him give his word.

  He lifted his face from his palms, his eyes bloodshot and watery. ‘‘Yes. I promise.’’

  ‘‘I’m going to trust you’ll do as you’ve promised.’’ She left the room and closed the boy’s door. Only time would tell if he would keep his word.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Mr. Howard arrived at precisely seven o’clock. The moment Olivia opened the front door, he handed her a small bouquet of daisies. She sneezed—three times—and wondered if her reaction to the flowers signaled an evening of disaster.

  Feeling awkward and unsure of herself, she muttered a thank-you for the flowers and apologized for the sneezing episode. She hoped the brief expression of regret covered all of her social blunders thus far. Before descending the front steps, Mr. Howard offered his arm. When she pretended not to notice, he lightly grasped her hand and tucked it into the crook of his left arm. Apparently she’d made yet another faux pas.

  Offering a reassuring smile, he patted her hand. The softness of his palm surprised her. The few men in her life had been laborers with rough hands, hard and weathered by years of manual labor, though her father’s may have grown soft in later years when he’d not done much except wrap them around a mug of ale.

  ‘‘Your dress is lovely. I would say that yellow is a particularly good color for you.’’ He leaned back a bit and gave her a closer appraisal. ‘‘Yes. Yellow is definitely your color.’’

  She wasn’t certain how to respond. A man who decided what color complemented her complexion was something new to her. The only time she could recall a man commenting on her clothing was when her father ranted at the mention of her need of a new dress. Olivia was about to tell Mr. Howard that the dress belonged to Charlotte and that she herself owned nothing even vaguely similar to such finery when he interrupted her thoughts with a question.

  ‘‘Would you prefer to visit the library, the shops in the Arcade, or perhaps stroll to the athletic fields and see if any of the teams are practicing this evening?’’

  Unlike Mr. Howard, she’d been on her feet all day, and the thought of walking held little appeal. ‘‘The library would be nice.’’ There were chairs in the library where she could sit and rest her aching feet while perusing a book. And since the librarians enforced the Quiet signs in their domain to a fault, there’d be little opportunity for Mr. Howard’s questions.

  Though he’d requested she call him Samuel when they were alone, she hadn’t yet been able to do so. Not that she didn’t like him. It was just that his questions and demeanor continually reminded her of the power he possessed in this community. One mistake and she could find herself unemployed. Unfortunately, as time passed, it became more and more difficult to remember what she’d told to whom.

  His shoulders sagged somewhat. ‘‘You’re certain you wouldn’t prefer the athletic island? I believe there’s some rowing practice this evening.’’

  Her choice had disappointed him, but Charlotte’s shoes were already pinching her sore feet. Besides, Fred might be at the island practicing baseball or cricket, and she didn’t want to make an appearance with Mr. Howard. Fred might think her arrival an attempt to provoke jealousy, which was the furthest thing from her mind.

  ‘‘Why don’t we stop at the drugstore for a glass of lemonade before going upstairs?’’ Mr. Howard suggested as they neared the Arcade.

  She didn’t want to stop for lemonade, but she’d already disappointed him with her choice of the library, so she reluctantly agreed. Still, she worried he would expect her to engage in lighthearted conversation, and she’d already exhausted her limited repertoire of small talk.

  It was shortly after their lemonade had been served when she saw Fred walk into the shop. She averted her eyes, hoping he’d not seen her. Mr. Howard rested his arms on the table and leaned toward her. ‘‘Isn’t that Fred DeVault, the man your cousin Albert rooms with?’’

  She turned a furtive glance to the other side of the room. Fred was looking at her, and her fingers went limp as she lifted her hand to wave. She turned her attention back to Mr. Howard, hoping Fred would soon depart. Instead, he paid the cashier and strode in their direction. She could barely breathe by the time he came to a halt beside their table.

  His crisp shirt stretched tight across his muscular frame, and his dark wavy hair glistened beneath the gaslights. ‘‘Martha delivered your message,’’ he said abruptly.

  ‘‘Hello, Fred. It’s good to see you.’’ Heat rose in her cheeks and her voice warbled like a distressed songbird. So much for her attempt to remain calm. ‘‘You know Mr. Howard.’’ What an inane remark. Of course he knows Mr. Howard. Everyone knows Mr. Howard.

  Fred extended his hand. ‘‘Evening, Mr. Howard. I trust you and Olivia are enjoying your lemonade.’’

  ‘‘Indeed we are. Thank you for stopping by to say hello.’’ Samuel lifted his glass and took a sip of his drink.

  Fred took his cue and, with an easy long-legged stride, crossed the width of the room and exited the store. Olivia watched him through the glass window as he headed down the interior hallway of the Arcade. Had Martha also told Fred of her engagement with Mr. Howard this evening?

  ‘‘You have Martha deliver messages for you?’’

  She snapped to attention, surprised by his question. Next he’d want to know what messages she was sending to Fred and why. ‘‘You’ll recall my cousin rooms with Mrs. DeVault—Fred’s mother. Martha and Albert see each other every evening.’’ She hoped her answer had been convoluted enough to allay further inquiry. In case it didn’t, she decided to end with a question of her own. ‘‘How did you secure your position in Pullman, Mr. Howard?’’

  ‘‘I’ve worked for Mr. Pullman for years—it was a natural transition. He needed a company agent that he could trust and thought I was the prope
r fit for the job. So did I.’’ He reached across the table and covered her hand with his.

  Olivia hoped Fred wasn’t watching through one of the windows that lined the interior passageway.

  ‘‘Why is it you address Mr. DeVault as Fred, yet you won’t address me as Samuel, even though I’ve asked you to do so on several occasions?’’

  She slid her hand from beneath his palm and took a sip of lemonade. ‘‘I’m afraid if I become accustomed to referring to you as Samuel, I might err during working hours.’’ That was a true enough reply.

  ‘‘I trust you wouldn’t have much difficulty. Won’t you at least try?’’

  He’d cornered her, and there was no escape. ‘‘Yes. I’ll do my best.’’

  He patted her hand, obviously pleased by her response. When they’d finished their lemonade, the two of them walked out of the shop and into the expansive Arcade hallway. Olivia never tired of this particular building. It had become one of her favorite places in Pullman. Sunlight spilled into the structure through a wide stretch of glass roofing that covered the central passageway and offered natural illumination during the day and a view of the stars at night. Though Olivia had never shopped in such a fancy place as this, Charlotte had been less impressed. She said the architecture imitated similar examples of the arcades in Paris, Berlin, and Vienna. Olivia didn’t care if the idea had been copied or not—she found the building enchanting. She had expected Charlotte to tell her the American version was a poor example of those in Europe. Instead, she had been surprisingly complimentary. Of course, that had been immediately after their arrival and before Charlotte’s world had come to an end, as she dramatically referred to her present life.