Whispers Along the Rails Read online

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  May 5, 1893

  Olivia squirmed in her seat as the Pennsylvania Limited rolled eastward toward New York City. This first trip on her own had caused both a good deal of fear and a surprising sense of exhilaration. At the moment, she was uncertain which emotion had taken hold of her, for she could feel the uncomfortable stares of the gentleman sitting across from her. She had attempted to avoid him, to no avail. The man would periodically depart for the dining car or perhaps the smoking car, return, and take the seat opposite her. She’d given thought to expressing her concerns to the porter but decided against the idea. What if the man was an important railroad investor and she insulted him? His perfectly pressed suit and polished shoes bespoke a man of means. She pulled out her notebook and added to the notations she’d begun earlier in the day. There was little to write, for other than the gentleman seated across from her, she’d found nothing about which to complain. The staff proved attentive, the coach luxurious, and the scenery interesting.

  Keeping her head bowed, Olivia peeked from beneath her thick lashes and attempted to steal another glance at the man. He grinned in return, and she felt a flush of warmth rise in her cheeks. She wanted to look away, but the sparkle in his midnight blue eyes held her captive.

  He leaned forward a mere inch or two and tipped his head. ‘‘Matthew Clayborn of Chicago.’’ His introduction was clipped and crisp. ‘‘And you are?’’

  ‘‘O-Olivia Mott—Miss Olivia Mott—of Pullman.’’ She stammered out the reply and immediately wished she could shove the words back into her mouth. This man was a total stranger, yet she’d given her name and place of residence. Mr. Howard said she should never identify herself as a resident of Pullman. Olivia wasn’t certain why it mattered, but he’d been quite emphatic about that particular point.

  Mr. Clayborn pointed toward her notebook. ‘‘You’re a woman after my own heart—a writer.’’ He raked his fingers through his sandy blond hair. Several strands on either side of his head protruded in disarray.

  Though she attempted to stifle a grin, Olivia’s efforts proved ineffective. After she touched a hand to the side of her head, Mr. Clayborn immediately followed suit.

  He continued to finger-comb the sides of his hair. ‘‘Bad habit, especially after visiting the barber’s chair. Those concoctions they use can make your hair stand straight on end. Is that better?’’

  Olivia giggled at his unaffected nature. Given his clipped introduction, she’d expected the opposite. ‘‘Perfect.’’

  ‘‘Tell me about your writing, Miss Mott. Are you a novelist? Or perhaps you write for a newspaper? Another Nellie Bly?’’

  Olivia had heard stories of the famous Nellie Bly and her feats. Miss Bly was a woman who was afraid of nothing. A woman willing to challenge and champion the causes of equality and human rights through her many courageous deeds and newspaper articles. ‘‘I’m neither a reporter nor a novelist. Merely a woman writing in her journal.’’

  ‘‘Really?’’ Before she could snap the book out of reach, he stuck his finger between the pages and peered at her notes. His icy blue eyes stabbed her with a sharp look. ‘‘Your journal doesn’t appear to contain the musings of a traveler, Miss Mott. You seem to be jotting down the notes of a reporter. I do understand your reticence to admit the nature of your employment, but there are those of us who are a bit more enlightened than the average man. I personally admired Nellie Bly’s determination and grit. She was willing to suffer to bring about change and help others.’’ He tapped his finger atop the Bible resting beside him. ‘‘An imaginative mind could draw a rather simple analogy between Nellie Bly and Jesus, don’t you think?’’

  Olivia frowned. She wasn’t accustomed to making such comparisons, since she was only beginning to learn the truths of the Bible. Perhaps Mrs. DeVault would understand such an assessment, but a newspaper reporter, even one as noted as Nellie Bly, didn’t seem at all comparable to Jesus. ‘‘I’m afraid I don’t share your depth of knowledge, Mr. Clayborn.’’

  He chuckled. ‘‘Most believe I have no depth of knowledge— at least where the Bible is concerned. And my analogy is rather weak, but Miss Bly willingly suffered when she went into that mental institution. Through her articles, she created change for those living inside the walls of those facilities. On a much deeper level, Jesus suffered and died for us so that we might have eternal life. Through the Bible, He leaves us His story so that we may change our own lives and spend eternity with Him.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘Not a very eloquent summation, I fear.’’

  Olivia tucked the journal into her valise. ‘‘There is a vague similarity, yet I doubt whether you need worry about a preacher asking you to prepare his sermons.’’

  ‘‘Point taken.’’

  They both glanced toward the far end of the coach where the taunting laughter of a young boy continued to grow incessantly louder. Olivia watched the porter, who was dutifully caring for the child while his parents enjoyed themselves in another car. Olivia estimated the boy to be four or five, certainly old enough to understand proper behavior. The lad had made a game of yanking off the porter’s cap, tossing it upon the floor, and hollering with delight. With each episode, the porter silently picked up his hat, brushed it off, and returned it to his head. Olivia wondered how long the older man would suffer the child’s rude behavior before correcting him.

  Mr. Clayborn gave a long, low whistle. ‘‘That porter certainly has more patience than I could ever muster. That youngster needs the strong hand of discipline properly applied.’’

  Olivia covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. ‘‘I’m certain the porter agrees, though you could never tell by looking at him.’’

  He shook his head. ‘‘Sad, isn’t it?’’

  Olivia arched her brows, hoping for further explanation.

  He nodded toward the porter. ‘‘That the staff members are forced to accept rude behavior from their passengers in order to make a living.’’ He shifted closer. ‘‘Tips, Miss Mott. These men must accept all form of ill-treatment if they are going to receive the tips they need to support their families. They can’t possibly live on the paltry wages George Pullman pays them.’’

  Olivia met his steady look. How had he come to know the amount of wages paid to Pullman employees? She didn’t know if she should trust Mr. Clayborn, and her imagination suddenly took flight. Was this a test? Had Mr. Howard placed this man in her path to see if she could capably handle her new position? If so, she’d failed miserably. Already Mr. Clayborn could report that she’d informed him she lived in Pullman. He had also been able to peruse some of her notes without much difficulty.

  He pointed to her valise. ‘‘Those notes you’re making. I don’t for one minute believe you’re merely writing a daily journal. A lady’s journal would consist of musings about the beautiful scenery or interesting traveling companions she’d met. That’s not the type of writing I observed in your book.’’

  ‘‘You saw only a few scattered entries, Mr. Clayborn.’’ She lifted her head to a jaunty angle. ‘‘And might I add that your behavior is nearly as rude as that of the mischievous child sitting at the front of the coach.’’

  He rocked back in his seat as though she’d slapped him. ‘‘I apologize. You see, I’m a news reporter myself, and I thought I’d found a like-minded soul. Please forgive my prying, but it’s a trait of reporters. It’s what we do, how we gather information for our stories.’’

  She narrowed her eyes. As if he’d been reading her thoughts, Mr. Clayborn reached into his suit jacket, retrieved a card, and offered it to her. Mr. Clayborn’s name had been printed in bold black letters on the thick stock paper. Directly beneath his name, Olivia read the words ‘‘Reporter, Chicago Herald.’’ It appeared Mr. Clayborn was who he proclaimed, yet she still remained suspicious of the man.

  ‘‘And what news article are you writing, Mr. Clayborn?’’

  He winked and inclined his head in her direction. ‘‘We’re not supposed to give ou
t that kind of information, Miss Mott. I don’t want another reporter to get the scoop first.’’

  ‘‘Scoop?’’ The only scoop she knew about was the one she used to ladle sugar or ice cream. Why a reporter would fear someone else would get a scoop first, or even want one for that matter, seemed an odd thing.

  ‘‘Scoop. Story. We don’t want someone else to beat us out of our story.’’

  This man certainly had a strange way of talking. Perhaps he was a reporter. It seemed all professions had their own vocabulary and special phrases. She didn’t understand some of the terms Fred and Albert used when they spoke about electroplating, and they didn’t understand many of her cooking terms.

  She decided to inquire a bit further. ‘‘And how long have you worked for the Chicago newspaper, Mr. Clayborn?’’

  ‘‘Five years. Before that, I reported for the Pittsburgh Dispatch—the same paper where Nellie Bly got her start.’’ His chest swelled as though that piece of information would somehow make him more important in her eyes. ‘‘And please call me Matthew.’’

  ‘‘We barely know each other. I don’t—’’

  ‘‘Who is going to know, Miss Mott—Olivia? I don’t know another passenger on this train, and I’ll wager you could say the same. And you can rest assured the porters and wait staff in the dining cars aren’t going to tell.’’ He unfolded his long legs and tapped his index finger on his pursed lips. ‘‘Secrets. Pullman porters know better than to speak about anything that happens in their car. They know how to keep secrets. And if they don’t, they’re soon out of work.’’

  The parents of the unruly child were strolling back to their seats. Olivia watched as the father flipped a coin with his thumb and forefinger. Prisms of golden sunlight poured through the windows, and the porter’s ebony face glistened. He jumped forward and adroitly snatched his tip midair. The little boy wailed in protest, and Olivia watched his father dig another coin from his pocket and hand it to the child. Olivia turned away.

  ‘‘In a few more years, they’ll wonder why their son has become completely unmanageable.’’

  Olivia scooted back into the cushioned seat. ‘‘In my opinion he’s already incorrigible, but I’m certainly no expert on child rearing.’’

  ‘‘Nor am I. And seeing that child’s unruly behavior makes me wonder if I ever want to be.’’ Matthew turned his attention toward her valise. ‘‘Exactly what takes you to New York, Olivia? Perhaps a holiday? Or possibly an assignment for the Pullman newspaper? Pullman does have a newspaper, doesn’t it?’’

  She nodded. ‘‘A weekly publication—primarily local news.’’

  Matthew rubbed the shadow of blond stubble on his jaw. ‘‘You’ve set my investigative instincts on edge with your secretive nature. Thus far I’ve concluded you are unmarried, and therefore you are employed in some manner by the Pullman Palace Car Company.’’ Before she realized what was happening, he leaned forward, grasped her hand, and turned it over in his own. ‘‘Not a laundress. Your hands are much too soft.’’

  She yanked her hand away. The man would not relent. He didn’t need to be a news reporter or have investigative talent to realize she wasn’t married. She’d introduced herself as Miss Mott, and he’d examined her hand. He could see that she wore no wedding band. And it was common knowledge that only employees and their families could live in Pullman. What could she say? She didn’t want to fall back into her old habit of lying. Such behavior would be a genuine disappointment to Mrs. DeVault—not to mention the Lord! Finally she beckoned him forward. ‘‘If you promise not to reveal my identity, I’ll tell you.’’

  He rubbed his hands as though they were conspiring to commit a dreadful crime. ‘‘Your secret is absolutely safe with me.’’

  She hoped she wasn’t making a terrible mistake. ‘‘I’m the assistant chef at Hotel Florence.’’

  He rocked back in his seat and laughed. Not a mere guffaw, but a robust belly laugh!

  Olivia folded her arms across her waist and glared as tears pooled in his eyes and slowly trickled down his cheeks.

  Continuing to laugh, he reached into his pocket and extracted a handkerchief, dabbing his cheeks with the linen square. He looked up and met her angry stare. Immediately, his laughter came to a halt. ‘‘I’m sorry. I’ve offended you with my reaction, haven’t I? Surely you expected I would laugh at your response.’’ He waited a moment, but when she said nothing, his smile vanished. ‘‘You didn’t really expect me to believe you’re a chef at Hotel Florence, did you?’’ He slapped his palm to his forehead. ‘‘You did expect me to believe you. And now you’re angry because I don’t believe your little fabrication.’’

  ‘‘Fabrication!’’ Her chin jutted forward as she squared her shoulders and sat up straight. ‘‘You’re accusing me of lying when I’ve told you the truth, and you think I shouldn’t take umbrage at your insulting behavior?’’

  ‘‘Please don’t be offended, Miss Mott, but I have personal knowledge that Hotel Florence employs a rather rotund French chef—a male French chef. You, Miss Mott, are neither French nor a man.’’

  His smug look of satisfaction served only to irritate her further. ‘‘How astute you are, Mr. Clayborn. You are correct on those accounts, but your reporter’s instincts have failed you. You do not listen. I said I was employed as the assistant chef at Hotel Florence. Chef René is the executive chef. He is, as you say, both French and a man.’’

  He eyed her suspiciously. ‘‘I’m still not convinced, Miss Mott. A female chef—assistant chef—would be a rather forward-thinking idea even for a city the size of Chicago or New York. But in Pullman? Hard to believe.’’

  ‘‘Not so difficult as you may think, Mr. Clayborn. Innovative men such as George Pullman produce change.’’ She pointed to the upper berths that were hidden away behind carved rosewood marquetry. ‘‘Only a few years ago men such as yourself wouldn’t have imagined sleeping on a train that offered comfortable beds and electric lights. Nor would you have entertained thoughts of the vestibules, dining car, barbershop, or the library and smoking car that are available on this very train. His progressive ideas have greatly benefited the public.’’

  Mr. Clayborn laughed. ‘‘The public has not benefited nearly so much as George Pullman. His passengers and employees have made him one of the wealthiest men in this country, Miss Mott, yet it’s obvious you are quite smitten by the man.’’

  ‘‘Not by the man, but by what he has accomplished, Mr. Clayborn.’’

  ‘‘On the backs of his workers, Miss Mott.’’

  They were moving headlong into another disagreement. Mr. Clayborn’s argument closely resembled what she’d heard from Fred when he talked of worker unionization. ‘‘Not all of us ascribe to such beliefs. There are many happy residents in Pullman.’’

  He gave her a sidelong glance. ‘‘We’ve digressed from our original discussion, Miss Mott, but I’d enjoy continuing our talk in the dining car. With your expert knowledge of food, I’m certain you’ll be able to help me with my dinner selection. Will you join me?’’

  She didn’t fail to note his intonation. His invitation was a challenge, one she would not refuse. ‘‘I would be delighted, Mr. Clayborn, but I don’t dine at five o’clock. I plan to wait until seven.’’ She would see just how anxious he was to put her to the test.

  He rubbed his hands together. ‘‘Done! Seven o’clock suits me just fine.’’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Two hours later the steward met Olivia and Mr. Clayborn at the door of the dining car, his broad smile revealing an even row of white teeth that matched his starched cotton jacket. Except for the fact that he wore a pair of neatly pressed navy blue pants rather than black trousers, he could have passed for the steward at Hotel Florence.

  The waiter’s attire differed from that of the steward only in the long white apron that dropped to the top of his shiny black shoes. And while the porters were ebony skinned, the complexion of the dining car attendants was a shade lighter. Perhaps
another one of Mr. Pullman’s many rules.

  Olivia immediately took note of the sumptuous table settings. The pristine white tablecloths had been starched and pressed to perfection. Each table had been set with the specially manufactured Calumet china. Each dish bore the distinctive Pullman name printed in midnight green and rimmed with dual bands of midnight green and brilliant gold. A crisp white linen napkin lay neatly folded atop each dinner plate. Polished silver and fine glassware twinkled in the radiance of sunlight that spilled through the window. A variety of greens and fresh flowers were perfectly arranged in crystal vases and centered on each table. The steward held their chairs and then motioned their waiter forward.

  Careful to secure a folded linen towel around the pitcher to catch any drips, the waiter filled their goblets with ice water, handed each of them a menu that set forth the evening’s dinner offerings, and silently disappeared to permit them adequate time in which to make their choices.

  Mr. Clayborn perused the list for a moment. ‘‘What do you suggest, Miss Mott?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know your food preferences, but I plan to order the French slaw, double lamb chops with mint jelly, asparagus with cream sauce, and duchess potatoes. I believe I’ll decide upon dessert after I’ve finished my meal.’’ Her mouth had already begun to water in anticipation of her selections. She glanced across the table and pointed at the menu. ‘‘I see they have blue points on the half shell. Do you enjoy oysters?’’

  He shook his head. ‘‘Not particularly. They’re rather slimy in my estimation. I prefer more common fare.’’

  She nibbled at her bottom lip to keep from laughing. Obviously Mr. Clayborn was going to test her prowess. Little matter, given the numerous choices on the menu. ‘‘Then I suggest the stuffed turkey, mashed potatoes with gravy, marrowfat peas, and perhaps a serving of pickled beets or lobster salad au mayonnaise.’’

  He contemplated her choices for a moment, exchanged the marrowfat peas for sugar corn, and disregarded her suggestion for the lobster salad. Perhaps he didn’t like seafood of any type. The waiter beamed an approving smile, though Olivia was certain he would have done so regardless of their dinner choices.