Whispers Along the Rails Read online

  ‘‘Yes, I’m somewhat familiar with the store you’re referring to, but I doubt . . .’’

  The knot of hair perched atop Mrs. Priddle’s head wobbled precariously as she shook her head. ‘‘No room for doubts. Trust me. I’ll have you a position in no time.’’

  ‘‘But I don’t—’’

  The clock on the mantel began to chime, and Mrs. Priddle held her index finger in the air. ‘‘Come along. It’s time for Bible study. We meet in the dining room before we eat our dinner.’’

  Charlotte silently followed along. She wasn’t interested in the Bible study, but she certainly wanted the dinner that would follow. She hadn’t eaten since last night, and her stomach had been growling in protest for the past half hour.

  Mrs. Priddle waved her arm in a wide arc. Apparently the ladies weren’t arriving quickly enough. Charlotte watched as six ladies scurried into the room and took their places at the table. One carried a toddler on her hip. All of them offered nervous smiles, as though they were uncomfortable at the sight of a newcomer.

  ‘‘Ladies, this is our new resident, Miss Charlotte Spencer.’’ Mrs. Priddle nodded toward the woman holding her child. ‘‘You’ll be sharing a room with Ruth, Sadie, and Fiona.’’ She tipped her head slightly. ‘‘Sadie is Ruth’s daughter. Fiona is at school; you’ll meet her later this afternoon. I’m sure you’ll find her a delight.’’ Mrs. Priddle completed the introductions and then opened her Bible. The others followed her lead. Charlotte glanced around the table and wondered what these women would think of her when they discovered she didn’t own a Bible. That hadn’t been among Mrs. Priddle’s rules, yet she wondered if she’d be ousted even before she’d unpacked her few belongings.

  The Bible study went on longer than Charlotte had hoped, but the hearty meal served afterward was worth the wait. After saying grace—the third prayer since sitting down at the table— Mrs. Priddle announced they would be having beef stew. Charlotte decided the dish would have been more aptly described as vegetable stew, for she discovered only one small piece of meat in her two servings. Still the flavor was good. Several of the women viewed her with wide-eyed stares when she had consumed a second helping of the hearty stew, but she’d been hungry enough not to care. And the biscuits were as light and fluffy as the ones Olivia used to make on Sunday mornings.

  Thoughts of Olivia vanished when Mrs. Priddle tapped her arm. ‘‘If you’ve eaten your fill, I’ll show you to your room. You can unpack and get settled.’’

  Charlotte wiped her mouth, nodded to the ladies, and followed Mrs. Priddle to the entry hall, where she retrieved her valise. With her stomach full, she decided a nap would do nicely. When they reached the top of the stairs, Mrs. Priddle entered the second door on the right, which opened into a bright cheery room with cotton lace curtains at the window and more furniture than Charlotte had ever seen in one room.

  There were two full-size beds, a child’s iron bed, two chiffoniers, a wardrobe, and a trunk at the foot of each bed. Very little of the threadbare carpet could be seen, for the overabundance of mismatched furniture.

  ‘‘Which bed will be mine?’’

  Mrs. Priddle pointed to the bed on Charlotte’s right. ‘‘You’ll share this bed with Fiona.’’

  Charlotte gulped. ‘‘Share?’’

  Mrs. Priddle didn’t seem to notice Charlotte’s distress. ‘‘We attempt to place no more than two in a bed, but it’s sometimes necessary to increase to three.’’ She smiled and glanced at Charlotte. ‘‘But never more than three. You may hang your dresses, skirts, and shirtwaists in the wardrobe. The two top drawers of the oak chiffonier are assigned to you. Make certain all your belongings are placed inside the drawers each morning before you come downstairs for breakfast. I encourage tidiness throughout the house.’’

  Charlotte placed her valise atop one of the trunks. She hadn’t planned on having to share a bed. Moreover, she thought the idea rather abhorrent. Possibly some other arrangement could be made. ‘‘Perhaps Fiona could change beds and sleep with Ruth. I’m unaccustomed to sleeping with another person, and I fear my tossing about will keep the girl awake. I don’t want her falling asleep during her school lessons on my account.’’

  Mrs. Priddle chuckled. ‘‘You need not worry about Fiona. The girl has had any number of residents share this room with her. She sleeps through most anything—even young Sadie’s crying.’’

  In her worry over Fiona, Charlotte hadn’t considered the wails of a baby that might occur during the nighttime hours. Listening to Morgan’s cries had nearly caused her to come undone. How would she be able to tolerate listening to someone else’s child?

  Mrs. Priddle patted her shoulder. ‘‘Don’t fret. You’ll become accustomed to the nighttime noises. Soon you’ll be able to sleep through most anything, just like the rest of us.’’

  Though she wanted to disagree, Charlotte remained silent. Obviously nothing she said would change Mrs. Priddle’s decision. She unlatched the hasp on her valise and gazed longingly at the bed. The moment her clothes were hung in the wardrobe, she would enjoy a nice long nap. She might not sleep tonight, but at least she would get some rest this afternoon.

  With purpose in her step, Mrs. Priddle returned to the hallway. ‘‘Once you’ve unpacked, do come downstairs. Until we locate a position for you in town, you can help Nettie in the kitchen. She can always use some extra hands.’’ Without a backward glance, she disappeared.

  Charlotte clenched her jaw. Hadn’t Mrs. Priddle heard her say she didn’t know the first thing about cooking or cleaning? More important, she didn’t want to learn any of those tasks. Nothing in her longed to prepare food, wash dishes, or make beds. She found the mere thought of those chores most distasteful. Though she considered languishing over the process of unpacking, Ruth’s arrival with baby Sadie quickly changed her mind. It was apparent there would be no privacy in this house.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Chicago, Illinois

  March 9, 1893

  For an instant, Charlotte thought she might suffocate. She clasped a hand to her chest, unable to believe Mrs. Priddle’s announcement. She forced herself to inhale a deep breath. She’d been here only three days, and now Mrs. Priddle expected her to begin work at Marshall Field’s department store. She had hoped the matriarch of Priddle House would find some sort of less-taxing work for her. Charlotte had suggested the possibility of teaching one or two piano lessons each week. But her suggestion had been dismissed when the older woman pointed out they lacked a piano and the income from such lessons would be minimal. She’d waved a dismissive hand and declared a position in town would be best. And now Mrs. Priddle’s expectations had been fulfilled. A job had become available this very day.

  ‘‘Are you certain?’’ Charlotte croaked.

  ‘‘Indeed, my dear. Answered prayer; that’s what it is. The Lord knows we need additional funds, and He’s sent you to fulfill that need. The money you’ll be contributing is going to help immensely.’’ Mrs. Priddle chirped about the room with a dustrag in one hand and a broom in the other.

  Charlotte didn’t want to ruin Mrs. Priddle’s moment of joy, but the woman’s announcement hadn’t filled her with the same emotion. Instead, a quiet desperation wrapped around her like a heavy shroud. She stepped closer and touched Mrs. Priddle’s thin arm. ‘‘I’m not certain you should be counting upon a paycheck just yet. Won’t it be necessary for me to interview for the position?’’

  Mrs. Priddle flipped her feather duster in the air. ‘‘An educated young woman such as you will have no problem with an interview. Mr. Field will be pleased to count you a member of his staff.’’ She ran the dustcloth across the oak mantel. ‘‘I told you the store gives preference to women who live here. We’ll all be praying for you, as well.’’

  How could Charlotte argue with those observations and comments? ‘‘There is one final problem, Mrs. Priddle.’’

  The woman turned from her dusting. ‘‘And what would that be, my dear?’’

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p; ‘‘I don’t have the proper clothing. I believe the ladies who work in the department store wear dark skirts and shirtwaists or simple dresses or suits. What few dresses I have would be totally inappropriate.’’

  After replacing the two matching candlesticks to the mantel, Mrs. Priddle waved Charlotte toward a hideaway beneath the stairs. ‘‘We have what I refer to as our community closet. Clothes that have been donated for circumstances such as this.’’

  Mrs. Priddle opened the door. Clothing of all sorts and sizes hung from a pole that had been installed down the length of the expanse. The gray-haired woman pushed aside several items and then removed a gored brown skirt made of panama cloth and a white waist of corded madras. The detachable collar was topped by a small lace tie. She held the items in front of Charlotte. ‘‘These will be perfect. And I believe they’ll fit just right. Go upstairs and try them while I see what else I can find.’’

  Charlotte didn’t argue, for the woman had already buried herself back inside the closet. She trudged up the steps and did as she was told. The clothes were common—more common than anything she had ever worn. The skirt was large around her waist. For a moment that surprised her, but she had lost considerable weight since departing Pullman. Now she would fit into all those beautiful dresses she’d left with Olivia. She removed the brown skirt and thought of her cashmere and lace gowns with a twinge of regret.

  She carried the skirt across her arm and returned downstairs. ‘‘The skirt is too large, but the waist fits.’’

  Mrs. Priddle poked her head from between several dresses. ‘‘Ruth can alter the skirt. I found several more for you to try. Thank the good Lord for donations. Just think where we’d be if we didn’t have these clothes.’’

  Charlotte knew exactly where they’d be. She could remain within the confines of the house, avoiding work at the department store. Clothes in hand, she marched upstairs, remaining there for the rest of the day, except for supper and Bible study, of course.

  ————

  Morning arrived all too soon, and Charlotte hadn’t slept well. Sadie had cried a great deal, Fiona’s sleep had been restless, and Charlotte’s personal unhappiness had contributed to her lack of sleep. She reluctantly donned the white shirtwaist and brown skirt. Fiona declared her beautiful, but Charlotte knew better. She looked like the other female salesclerks she’d observed. Granted, men occupied more of the sales positions, but women were beginning to take their place behind the counters of Chicago’s many department and dry goods stores.

  Mrs. Priddle and the other ladies were already at the breakfast table when she arrived in the dining room. They smiled at her with an expectancy that was disconcerting—as though their very welfare depended upon her. In a small way, she supposed it did. A rather formidable thought, since no one had ever depended upon her before. Except for her infant son, Morgan. And she’d certainly let him down. These ladies would soon learn that she didn’t handle responsibility well.

  Before she departed, Mrs. Priddle and the ladies gathered in a circle and prayed for her. Charlotte’s silent prayer was in direct opposition. She expected God would listen to Mrs. Priddle. She was, after all, the epitome of that perfect woman they’d been reading about in Proverbs, chapter thirty-one. Charlotte wished they’d soon complete that particular chapter, for she’d not be planting a vineyard, weaving cloth, or receiving respect from her family. The entire topic caused her extreme discomfort. The only good thing about going to work would be her escape from the requisite noonday Bible class.

  After finishing her breakfast, she departed with written directions tucked in her skirt pocket. Mrs. Priddle had suggested a pair of more serviceable shoes, but Charlotte had insisted upon wearing a pair of her own. Four long blocks from home, she wished she had taken the older woman’s advice. No doubt she would have several blisters before arriving at her destination. Charlotte stopped at the corner and withdrew the directions from her pocket. From all appearances, she’d traversed less than half the distance. If she’d had a few more coins, she’d hail a carriage.

  When she finally reached the corner of Washington and State streets, she had been walking for at least half an hour. Did Mrs. Priddle truly expect her to do this every day? Surely the older woman didn’t want her to brave this distance in the rain or cold weather. Finally Charlotte walked through the front doors of the familiar department store, and one of the many greeters stationed inside immediately approached to assist her.

  ‘‘I’m here to apply for a job.’’

  The man offered a warm smile and quietly informed her to take the elevator to the third floor. ‘‘Turn right. Midway down the hall you’ll see a door with the word OFFICE stenciled in gold-leaf letters. You may enter without knocking.’’

  Charlotte thanked him and walked to the elevators. Once outside the office door, she waited, gathering her courage. She wanted to turn and run. Several minutes passed before she forced herself to turn the knob and walk inside the room.

  A rather austere-looking man, appearing to be nearly as old as her father, looked up. ‘‘May I help you?’’

  ‘‘I’ve come to apply for a position as a salesclerk. Mrs. Priddle said I should mention she sent me.’’

  The man’s features softened a bit. ‘‘How is Mrs. Priddle?’’

  Charlotte took a step closer. The name Charles Sturgeon was engraved on a silver nameplate on the man’s desk. ‘‘She’s doing very well. Thank you for inquiring.’’

  ‘‘Name?’’

  ‘‘What? Oh, Charlotte Spencer. I must warn you I have no sales experience or any other work experience. I’ve never been employed.’’

  He traced a finger across his mustache. ‘‘We train our staff, Miss Spencer.’’ He nodded toward a chair. ‘‘Do take a seat.’’

  While he pulled several pages from his desk, she followed his instruction and sat down.

  ‘‘I assume you can both read and write.’’ He didn’t wait for an answer before pushing the papers across the top of his desk. ‘‘Fill these out. I’ll return shortly.’’

  Charlotte worked her way through the questions, though she wasn’t completely truthful. She certainly didn’t intend to list her parents’ names on the application as next of kin. Instead, she scribbled the word deceased and inserted Mrs. Priddle’s name as the person to contact in case of emergency.

  She’d completed the forms and had waited only a few minutes when Mr. Sturgeon returned with a tall, thin woman in tow. ‘‘Miss Spencer, this is Mrs. Jenkins. She is the supervisor in ladies’ accessories. We currently have an opening in her department. You’ll find Mrs. Jenkins can answer any questions you may have regarding your employment. She will also take charge of your training.’’

  The woman appeared pleased by Mr. Sturgeon’s remark.

  ‘‘Come along, Miss Spencer. We’ll go into the department office, and I’ll explain your hours of work, your pay, and tell you what is expected of employees working in Mr. Field’s establishment.’’

  They walked down the hallway for a short distance, made a left turn, and entered another office, where Mrs. Jenkins told Charlotte that she would begin her working career this very day and would be scheduled to work four days per week. ‘‘If you do well, we will increase your schedule to six days per week.’’

  Mrs. Jenkins didn’t realize that increased work hours wouldn’t act as an incentive for Charlotte to perform well. ‘‘What time do I report to work, Mrs. Jenkins?’’ Charlotte longed to hear that she’d work only four or five hours per day.

  ‘‘You will be working from nine o’clock each morning until six o’clock in the evening, with a half hour for your lunch. There is an employee cafeteria where you may purchase your meals at a discount, though you are not required to eat there. There is a music room and gymnasium for the use of all employees, and Mr. Field also grants generous vacations to his employees.’’ She sat a bit straighter as she mentioned the added benefits. ‘‘Mr. Field is a forward-thinking man who wants to provide his employees w
ith every opportunity to strengthen both body and mind.’’

  Charlotte had heard those same comments about George Pullman when she’d lived in his so-called utopia. Apparently wealthy capitalists enjoyed the idea of being considered progressive. ‘‘Other than the benefits you’ve mentioned, I’ve not been told what my pay will be, Mrs. Jenkins.’’

  The older woman shifted in her chair. Questions regarding pay seemed to cause her discomfort. ‘‘As a trainee working four days per week, you will receive five dollars. Please don’t advise the other trainees, as they are paid one dollar less. Mr. Field pays a dollar extra to Mrs. Priddle’s girls.’’

  So that’s how she would now be known: one of Mrs. Priddle’s girls. Indeed, her life had taken a dramatic change over the past year.

  Mrs. Jenkins stood. ‘‘I believe now we’re ready for a tour of the building.’’

  Charlotte did her best to appear impressed, nodding and smiling when Mrs. Jenkins paused at each feature. Not that the store wasn’t impressive, but she had whiled away endless hours in Mr. Field’s emporium during those first few months after fleeing Pullman. She’d consumed luncheon in the tearoom, rested in the lounges, read magazines in the library, and visited the writing room and the parlor. Today she was taken for her first visit to the nursery, as well as the meeting rooms provided for women’s organizations. Mr. Field even offered stenographic service, telegraph and telephone offices, and a checkroom for coats. Nothing had escaped the capitalist’s vision for keeping customers within the confines of his vast domain. He had combined the beauty of frescoed ceilings, monoliths, and splashing fountains with every possible convenience. Wealthy women could occupy their entire day with shopping, meeting friends for tea, attending meetings, and reading magazines. Apparently many of them did.

  As they traversed the store, Mrs. Jenkins brought up Henry Selfridge, the head of retail. ‘‘You may hear a few of the employees refer to him as ‘Mile-A-Minute Harry.’ Though I don’t approve, the moniker suits. He bustles through the store at an unbelievable pace at least a dozen times a day. You won’t fail to notice him.’’ She lowered her voice. ‘‘He’s the one who developed the concept of our Budget Floor in the basement of the store.’’ Her admiration of his marketing genius was obvious. Along with the wire bustles, pug-dog doorstops, oriental rugs, and fur-lined cloaks, Mrs. Jenkins didn’t fail to mention the store’s recent expansion, the twenty-three large elevators, twelve separate entrances, and the newfangled revolving doors. There was little doubt the female supervisor held Mr. Field and Mr. Selfridge in high esteem.