Whispers Along the Rails Page 19

  ‘‘Yes. I doubt there were many folks able to sleep through all of the commotion. I only wish I had gone to bed earlier.’’ She exchanged her flower-bedecked hat for the familiar white toque and placed her journal in the nearby closet with her purse. At least she was prepared for her meeting. Perhaps with Mr. Pullman here it would be cancelled and her efforts would be for naught.

  While Chef René prepared Mr. Pullman’s breakfast, Olivia reviewed the breakfast orders gathered from guests the preceding evening. She wondered if they would all arise at their prearranged time given their interrupted sleep. The kitchen staff must be prepared for either event. Most of the food would remain tasty in the special warming ovens. She slipped into her former position with ease and agility, happy to be preparing sausage and griddle cakes rather than a wordy report. Before she’d had time to worry overmuch, the appointed hour for her meeting with Mr. Howard arrived. She replaced the toque with her hat and, with the journal tucked under her arm, waved to Chef René, who offered a sympathetic smile in return.

  She passed several unoccupied desks in the outer offices and was surprised to see that even Mr. Howard’s clerk, Mr. Mahafferty, was absent from his desk. Voices drifted from inside Mr. Howard’s office. Likely going over duty assignments with his clerk, Olivia decided as she settled into a nearby chair.

  The voices grew increasingly loud, and from his tone, one of the men was apparently angry. Though she didn’t want to be accused of eavesdropping, ignoring the shouted questions and demands proved impossible. She wanted to depart yet worried Mr. Howard would appear and expect her to be prepared for their meeting. Indecision caused her to remain affixed to the chair.

  ‘‘I’m telling you that I expect answers, Samuel! I’ve only just completed rebuilding Market Hall after last year’s fire and now this. Seems too much of a coincidence to me. I think there’s something amiss. If this type of destruction continues, there will be severe ramifications for me and my stockholders. Do you realize what it costs each time I’m forced to rebuild? I will not stand idly by and see profits diminish. This town is intended to make a profit, and you had best see that it does!’’

  Olivia gulped. It was Mr. Pullman in Mr. Howard’s office! She gripped the chair arms and attempted to push herself upright. Unfortunately, her legs failed her, and she shrank into the cushioned chair. Heavy footsteps paced the floor inside the office. If only she could disappear. The pacing ceased and she held her breath while Mr. Howard responded. Unlike Mr. Pullman’s utterances, Mr. Howard’s words were muffled and indistinguishable.

  Then Mr. Pullman spoke again. ‘‘I believe the workers continue to align themselves into unions. They’re not foolish enough to meet within the confines of the town, but every fiber of my being tells me that there is trouble in the offing. I do not want further embarrassment during the Columbian Exposition, Samuel. You must keep this town under control. We have guests arriving from all over the world. Am I making myself clear?’’

  ‘‘Absolutely. Though I don’t believe this fire was intentional, you can depend on me to uncover any wrongdoing that may have occurred.’’

  Once again Olivia could hear the thumping of footsteps traversing the inner sanctum. The pacing stopped.

  ‘‘That’s exactly my point,’’ Mr. Pullman said. ‘‘You’re beginning your investigation with the belief that the fire was accidental. I want you to begin with the belief that it was intentional and try to prove my hypothesis incorrect.’’

  Olivia wondered if Mr. Pullman was leaning over Mr. Howard’s desk as he issued his commands. Before she could further consider the thought, she heard the scraping of chairs on the wooden floor, and Mr. Howard whisked open the door. She couldn’t be certain who appeared the more incredulous— Mr. Howard or herself. If her presence surprised Mr. Pullman, he gave no sign. He merely nodded and continued on his way.

  Mr. Howard glanced at his door and back at Olivia. ‘‘You heard?’’

  ‘‘Not everything,’’ she whispered. ‘‘I arrived at eight o’clock for our meeting and didn’t know what I should—’’

  He waved his hand and silenced her. ‘‘I should have sent word that I would be detained. And I should have made certain the door was closed.’’ His gaze settled on the journal tucked beneath her arm. ‘‘Since you’ve been waiting all this time, do come in, and let’s get started.’’

  As he sat down behind his desk, Olivia noted Mr. Howard’s complexion had turned a pasty shade of gray. ‘‘Did the fire cause much damage?’’

  ‘‘No. The alarm sounded quickly, and the firemen responded with great haste. A few minor repairs and no injuries. All’s well that ends well.’’

  From what she’d overheard, Mr. Pullman didn’t seem to be of the same opinion, but she didn’t argue. ‘‘I’m certain the workers will be relieved to know their jobs haven’t been compromised by the fire.’’

  He nervously tapped his pen. ‘‘There are those who believe it is the workers who are attempting to wreak havoc in order to gain Mr. Pullman’s attention. Have you not heard such rumblings, Olivia?’’

  ‘‘I’ve been out on the trains, Mr. Howard. How would I be privy to such comments? Besides, that theory makes no sense. The workers need these jobs to support their families. If they destroy the factories, they destroy their own livelihood. It is a preposterous notion.’’

  Mr. Howard leaned back in his chair and rested his head. ‘‘I find that you can’t always judge situations or people so simply. Sometimes the people you least suspect are the very ones who betray you.’’ He pointed to her journal. ‘‘Shall we begin?’’

  She shivered at the chill in his voice. Did he think she had something to do with the fire? Why would he think such an outlandish thing? Hadn’t he indicated to Mr. Pullman he thought the fire had been an accidental occurrence? Mr. Howard’s behavior baffled her.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Chicago, Illinois

  May 17, 1893

  Charlotte applied the finishing touches to her hair and smiled into the mirror. Who would have thought that the spoiled daughter of the Earl of Lanshire would one day learn to coif her own hair, and in such a becoming fashion, too? ‘‘All things are possible, even hairstyling,’’ Charlotte mused while backing away from the looking glass.

  Ruth grinned at Charlotte as she tiptoed across the room toward baby Sadie’s crib. ‘‘I can’t be certain, but I don’t believe the Bible passage you’re quoting refers to hairstyling.’’

  With a shrug, Charlotte pinned a small brooch to the neckline of her dress. ‘‘Perhaps not. But that verse has certainly made me realize that with God all things are possible. Even hairstyling,’’ she added with a grin. She picked up her purse and fluffed Sadie’s downy curls as she passed by. ‘‘You and Sadie have a good day.’’

  ‘‘You too, Charlotte. I hope you meet your sales quota before noon.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Ruth. I hope having all these folks in town for the Exposition is going to help all of us meet our quotas. The Merchant Prince isn’t happy when sales don’t meet his expectations.’’

  Ruth arched her brows. ‘‘Prince?’’

  ‘‘That’s the moniker the press and some of the store employees use when mentioning Mr. Field. The title fits him well. He reminds me of some—’’ She stopped midsentence, realizing she’d nearly offered information about her noble birth.

  Ruth frowned. ‘‘Who does he remind you of?’’

  ‘‘Oh, no one in particular, just some of the wealthy men I met years ago. I’d better hurry.’’ She rushed out the door and downstairs before Ruth could question her further.

  With a quick good-bye to Mrs. Priddle, Charlotte hurried outside. As usual, one of the green delivery wagons bearing the words Marshall Field & Company awaited her. After her first week at the glove counter, Mrs. Jenkins had gone to Mr. Field and made the travel arrangements on Charlotte’s behalf. Now, each morning and each evening, she rode to and from work in one of the special delivery wagons. She doubted the benefit wa
s afforded to many other employees, for the driver always went to the rear of the store, parked the wagon, and then assisted her down. The first day he advised her she was always to enter the store through the Washington Street entrance rather than the rear doors used by the delivery personnel. Except for the deliverymen, she’d never seen any other employee ride in one of the wagons. No one had ever mentioned the privilege, nor had they questioned her. And who would question Mr. Field’s decision?

  She hurried around the corner and waved a gloved hand at the doorman. ‘‘Good morning, Joseph.’’

  He tipped his hat and gave a small salute. ‘‘Good morning to you, Miss Spencer.’’

  Joseph Anderson never ceased to amaze her. He remembered the name of every employee and every shopper who had ever passed through the doors of the emporium. Mr. Field would be delighted if every employee in the store possessed a memory such as Joseph’s. One of the first instructions Charlotte had received from Mrs. Jenkins was that she work to develop a keen memory, especially for names and faces.

  And Charlotte had done her very best. She’d even written down names along with customers’ choices, using her newly acquired memorization technique of musical tunes to help her recall the items. She walked down the aisles that had begun to feel more familiar with each passing day.

  After Charlotte had placed her hat and cape in the storage closet provided for employees, Mrs. Jenkins beckoned her forward. ‘‘Mr. Field is waiting to meet with us.’’

  An involuntary gasp escaped Charlotte’s lips. ‘‘Is something amiss?’’ Try as she might, Charlotte could think of nothing she’d done that would necessitate a visit to Mr. Field’s office. Such meetings usually resulted in dismissal, or so she’d been told by several of the salesclerks. Not only would the lack of funds for Priddle House cause undue hardship, but Mrs. Priddle would be embarrassed if one of her ‘‘girls’’ should be dismissed.

  Apparently Mrs. Jenkins sensed her fear, for she squeezed Charlotte’s shoulder. ‘‘No need for worry, my dear.’’

  Charlotte attempted a smile, but her lips wouldn’t cooperate. Mrs. Jenkins remained the epitome of decorum as she knocked on Mr. Field’s door and then led Charlotte into the palatial surroundings. Mr. Field motioned them forward, a prince on his throne. Thoughts of her early morning conversation with Ruth flitted through her memory as she approached the mahogany desk.

  ‘‘Be seated, ladies.’’ Mr. Field tugged one end of his white mustache between his index finger and thumb while he waited until they settled into the luxurious armchairs. Looking directly at Charlotte, he began to speak. ‘‘As your supervisor, Mrs. Jenkins is required to report frequently upon your progress. Let me say that I am impressed, Miss Spencer. Mrs. Jenkins, Mr. Sel-fridge, and I concur that you are an excellent employee. You have demonstrated a higher quality than we normally observe in our staff, even after many years.’’ He glanced at Mrs. Jenkins. ‘‘I am told you possess a natural talent for aiding customers with superb choices and that you have exceptional taste in clothing and accessories.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Mr. Field.’’ Charlotte hoped their session would soon end. She feared his praise would soon lead to a complaint. Long ago she had learned that words of praise were usually followed by words of correction.

  From somewhere beneath his desk, Mr. Field pushed a buzzer. The door opened and several people filed into the office carrying a vast assortment of clothing and accessories. There were gowns, shirtwaists, skirts, woolen coats, fur-lined capes, along with a variety of scarves and jewelry. ‘‘I’m not one to simply trust the word of managers or supervisors, even ones so valued as Mrs. Jenkins or Mr. Selfridge. Therefore, Miss Spencer, I thought we would put you to a test of sorts. You don’t mind, do you?’’

  Fear clutched at her belly. She shouldn’t have eaten breakfast. Charlotte stole a quick look at Mrs. Jenkins. The older woman provided no assistance. Her features were fixed in a stoic expression that would offer no help with Charlotte’s decision. Apparently Mr. Field didn’t expect a response, for he was hastily directing the placement of the clothing and accessories throughout his office.

  When he was satisfied with the arrangement, he dismissed everyone except Charlotte and Mrs. Jenkins. ‘‘Now, Miss Spencer, pretend I am a male customer and I approach you to request assistance selecting clothing for my wife. From the items in this room, I would like you to choose two complete ensembles.’’

  Charlotte considered Mr. Field’s request before offering a response. ‘‘Before I selected any items, I would ask if you could furnish me with a likeness of your wife—a photograph or painting. If not, I would ask for her complete description so that I might choose colors and styles most becoming to her figure. Next I would ask you about your wife’s social obligations and activities in order to choose items that would prove most useful.’’ Charlotte stepped toward one of the gowns and then looked at Mr. Field. ‘‘Though her husband might think this gown lovely, a woman who does not attend the opera or formal balls has no need of such an item. No matter the beauty of the fabric, she would surely be annoyed with him if he purchased this gown for her, don’t you think?’’

  Mr. Field appeared to weigh her response and then agreed. ‘‘I like this idea. Follow me, ladies. If we can find a gentleman shopper, we shall put Miss Spencer’s theory to the test.’’

  Though he didn’t find a gentleman amidst the aisles of finery, Mr. Field was not deterred. He bid them wait while he walked outside. Soon he returned with a gentleman in tow. ‘‘This is Mr. Flynn. He has agreed to be our candidate. I’ve told him that you will choose items for his wife. He has agreed to return with Mrs. Flynn later this afternoon. She will assess your choices.’’

  The man nodded his agreement. ‘‘You also said my wife could keep all of the items free of charge.’’

  ‘‘If you supply Miss Spencer with the information she needs to select the ensembles, and the two of you return and answer our questions later today, the items will be hers to keep—without charge.’’

  The man beamed. ‘‘When do we start picking out?’’

  Charlotte drew near the man and requested he join her in the dress salon on the second floor. ‘‘There is a small office where we may converse without interruption. If you like, I’d be pleased to request coffee and a few pastries delivered for your enjoyment while we talk.’’

  Mr. Flynn followed on her heels, obviously delighted he’d been chosen for the task at hand. Once situated in the office with his coffee and a cinnamon bun, Charlotte proceeded. As she’d expected, he had no photograph or other likeness of his wife. He did proudly mention an oil painting of his wife that hung on their living room wall—one that had been painted by a family friend when his wife was a young child. Though it could be of no assistance to her, Charlotte agreed the painting sounded quite lovely.

  Mr. Flynn detailed his wife’s social commitments, which primarily centered upon church, her reading club, and an occasional afternoon tea. As he finished his refreshments, Mr. Flynn pointed to one of the clerks outside the small office. ‘‘She looks much like my wife—same size and hair color.’’ Charlotte signaled to the clerk, who entered the office. Mr. Flynn bobbed his head. ‘‘Except my wife’s eyes are hazel instead of blue. Does that help?’’

  ‘‘Indeed, it does, Mr. Flynn. Based upon the information you’ve given me, I’ll make some choices I believe your wife will enjoy.’’ She escorted him to the front door. Once he departed, she set about shopping, all the while wondering if Mrs. Flynn would prove as agreeable as her husband.

  After choosing a final piece of jewelry, Charlotte assembled the items, pleased with her choices. Given the sparkle in Mr. Flynn’s eyes as he had talked about his wife, Charlotte returned to fifth floor and made one final selection. Her task now completed, she returned to her duties in the accessories department.

  Once she’d finished assisting her customer, Mrs. Jenkins joined Charlotte behind the glove counter. ‘‘Mr. Field was impressed with your ideas this morning. I
trust Mr. Flynn cooperated in the process.’’ She straightened a pair of kid gloves while she spoke.

  ‘‘He was most helpful, although a picture of his wife would have proved an added benefit. He did offer detailed information, and I’m now anxious to meet his wife. I do hope she will be pleased with the selections. Will you accompany me to Mr. Field’s office later this afternoon?’’

  She nodded. ‘‘He said that he will send for us when we’re to join him.’’

  The remaining hours passed slowly, and Charlotte thought three o’clock would never arrive. When she hadn’t been summoned by three-thirty, she wondered if Mr. and Mrs. Flynn had failed to arrive, and when the atrium clock chimed to announce the arrival of four o’clock, her spirits drooped to a new low. Would Mr. Field consider her a failure and discharge her from his employ if the Flynns didn’t reappear? The effect upon Priddle House would be dramatic. Mrs. Priddle had come to rely on Charlotte’s weekly paycheck to help cover expenses— especially now, with so few of the women working outside of the house.

  Her gloomy thoughts persisted until Mr. Field’s assistant finally appeared at four-thirty and spoke to Mrs. Jenkins, who then signaled Charlotte. As the two of them made their return to Mr. Field’s office, Charlotte touched Mrs. Jenkins’s arm. ‘‘Have the Flynns returned?’’

  ‘‘I have no idea, my dear, but we shall soon find out.’’ Mrs. Jenkins tapped on Mr. Field’s door; at his response, the two of them entered.

  Charlotte saw that Mr. and Mrs. Flynn had indeed arrived. Both of them appeared pleased. Mrs. Flynn was attired in one of the suits Charlotte had chosen, and it seemed a perfect fit. With her husband’s detailed description as well as the comparison to one of the salesclerks, Charlotte would have recognized Mrs. Flynn without an introduction. She was a comely woman who appeared somewhat uncomfortable in her current role.