Whispers Along the Rails Page 6

  ‘‘And here we are back in accessories. You will be working the glove counter, Miss Spencer. Be sure to keep your counter well polished. Mr. Selfridge leaves his initials on any counter bearing dust.’’ Mrs. Jenkins motioned a young lady forward. ‘‘Miss Lathrop, this is Miss Spencer. For the next several weeks, she will be working the glove counter on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. I’ll be here at the counter with her throughout the day. You may return to handbags.’’

  Miss Lathrop didn’t speak to Charlotte and barely acknowledged Mrs. Jenkins’s instructions. After a tight-lipped glare in Charlotte’s direction, she turned on her heel and marched toward her assigned section. Charlotte followed Mrs. Jenkins behind the counter. ‘‘Miss Lathrop appeared unhappy. I’m willing to work elsewhere in the store.’’

  ‘‘This isn’t Miss Lathrop’s station, although I know she hoped to make it her own. She wanted to be permanently assigned to gloves, but she isn’t meeting expectations.’’ Mrs. Jenkins reached beneath the counter and rearranged several pairs of black kid gloves. ‘‘Miss Lathrop is one of those employees who hasn’t quite grasped Mr. Field’s motto.’’

  ‘‘Motto? I don’t believe Mr. Sturgeon mentioned a motto.’’

  Mrs. Jenkins beamed. ‘‘ ‘The customer is always right.’ In other words, give the lady what she wants.’’

  ‘‘And the gentleman, also?’’

  Mrs. Jenkins frowned and wiped an imaginary speck of dust from the countertop. ‘‘Of course we want our gentleman shoppers to be treated with the same dignity and satisfaction, but you’ll quickly discover the retail store caters to women. Men seem more comfortable in our wholesale store.’’

  ‘‘I’ll do my best to remember Mr. Field’s motto.’’ Charlotte decided Mrs. Jenkins took her work much too seriously.

  ‘‘Ah, and speaking of Mr. Field, he’s approaching our counter now. His daily tour of the building is more deliberate than Mr. Selfridge’s hurried circuit.’’ The supervisor tipped her head closer. ‘‘Mr. Field wants to be assured his customers receive the utmost care and courtesy while shopping. Each woman should consider shopping in his store an experience.’’

  Charlotte forced a smile. ‘‘I’ll keep that in mind, also.’’

  Mrs. Jenkins squared her shoulders and stood at attention as Mr. Field stepped to the counter. ‘‘No customers this morning, Mrs. Jenkins?’’

  ‘‘I’m certain we’ll have more than our share in short order, Mr. Field.’’

  Mrs. Jenkins sounded apologetic, as though it were her fault a host of women weren’t thronged around the counter begging to purchase a pair of gloves.

  Mr. Field appraised Charlotte with his steel gray eyes. ‘‘And who is this young woman? I don’t believe we’ve met.’’

  The store’s owner was an impressive man—trim, with close-cut, chalk white hair, a full mustache, and dressed in an elegant hand-tailored suit. He reminded Charlotte of a Continental diplomat rather than a merchant in this booming city.

  In her attempt to impress the man, Mrs. Jenkins tripped over her words and completely forgot Charlotte’s name. A look of utter desperation shone in her eyes, and Charlotte instantly took pity upon her.

  ‘‘Good morning, Mr. Field. I am Charlotte Spencer, one of Mrs. Priddle’s girls. Mrs. Jenkins has been kind enough to accept me as a suitable candidate for employment in the glove department. I am looking forward to her excellent training. She’s already informed me of your motto.’’

  He beamed at Mrs. Jenkins. ‘‘Excellent! I can always depend upon Mrs. Jenkins to offer our employees fine training. There were those who questioned my wisdom when I decided to promote a woman into a supervisory position.’’ He glanced toward a wealthy customer standing near a counter filled with detachable lace collars and cuffs. ‘‘If you ladies will excuse me, I believe I see a customer in need of assistance.’’

  The moment Mr. Field turned away, Mrs. Jenkins visibly wilted. ‘‘Thank you for coming to my aid, Miss Spencer. Whenever Mr. Field appears, I become tongue-tied. Thankfully, Mr. Selfridge interviewed me for the supervisor position, or I would never have been considered.’’ She led Charlotte to the end of the counter and lifted several boxes of gloves atop it. ‘‘I do hope you won’t repeat any of this to the other clerks.’’

  Charlotte shook her head. ‘‘I wouldn’t consider such a thing.’’

  ‘‘Good. Now then, let’s begin. I’m going to show you the necessary steps for pricing gloves.’’

  By day’s end Charlotte was uncertain if she would make it home. Earlier in the day she had removed her stockings in the female employees’ rest room and had located several blisters on each foot. And standing throughout the remainder of the afternoon hadn’t helped. Amidst the throng of other employees, she hobbled out the front door. She’d arrived on the corner of State Street and Washington when someone grasped her elbow.

  ‘‘Use this money to take a carriage, Miss Spencer.’’ Mrs. Jenkins pressed several coins into Charlotte’s hand before proceeding down the avenue, head high and the feather on her hat waving in the late afternoon breeze.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Pullman, Illinois

  Thursday, March 9, 1893

  Fred arrived at the train depot several minutes early and sat down on the same bench he and Olivia had occupied the previous week. The exchange with his mother this morning had been brief. While she prepared his breakfast, he had explained the reason for his trip to Chicago. He had considered discussing the glass-etching business with her days ago, but he knew his mother would fret.

  After seeing the concern in her eyes this morning, he knew he’d made the correct decision. He had carefully explained that his only interest was to promote Bill and his abilities, but she didn’t appear convinced. One day they might be forced to move from Pullman, and he wondered how his mother would react. Minutes later, the door to the depot swung open, and thoughts of his mother’s fears vanished from his mind.

  Bill ambled toward him with a broad grin and his sketches tucked under one arm. His hair was slicked down, and he wore his Sunday suit. Obviously he hoped to make a good impression. Fred wondered if he should have done the same. He didn’t know what time they would return to Pullman or if he would have sufficient time to go change before work, so he’d worn his work clothes. They were clean, but that’s the best he could say about them.

  Fred noted the hesitation in Bill’s eyes and quickly explained his choice of attire. Bill immediately relaxed—until they reached Chicago. As they stepped off the train, his shoulders stiffened. Fred hoped Bill would regain a sense of calm once they arrived at their destination. With a nod of his head, he directed Bill toward the front doors of the train station, hailed a cab, and gave the driver an address on South Water Street.

  ‘‘Here we are,’’ Fred announced as they stepped down from the cab. He gave Bill an encouraging pat on the shoulder. ‘‘Shall we go in?’’

  Bill grasped him by the arm. Fear shone in his eyes. ‘‘I can’t remember the man’s name.’’

  Fred laughed and pointed to the signage on the brick building. ‘‘Lockabee. Mr. Jacob Lockabee.’’ He looked into Bill’s eyes. ‘‘There’s no reason to be frightened. He’ll be fortunate to have someone with your talent. Now come along and let’s see what’s in your future.’’

  The ringing of a small bell over the front door announced their arrival at Lockabee’s Design and Glass Etching Shop.

  ‘‘Be with you in a minute.’’ A raspy, distant voice came from somewhere at the rear of the building.

  Fred motioned toward the far side of the room, and the two men sat down on a wobbly bench beneath the front window and waited for the owner to appear.

  Bill hunched forward. ‘‘Hope it doesn’t take him too long. I don’t want you to be late getting to work.’’

  ‘‘I have plenty of time.’’ Fred slapped the younger man on the back. ‘‘Remember, there’s no need to be nervous.’’

  They both looked up as a stoop-should
ered man with white hair and glasses entered the room. He glanced back and forth. ‘‘Gentlemen? How can I help you?’’

  Fred stood and extended his hand. ‘‘Mr. Lockabee, my name is Fred DeVault and this is Bill Orland. We live in Pullman. I believe you know my supervisor in the electroplating department, Lawrence Godfrey.’’

  Mr. Lockabee pushed his glasses up on his nose. ‘‘Ah yes. You must be the fellow he mentioned. So you’re interested in coming to work for me?’’

  ‘‘Not me. I’m unable to move from Pullman at the present time. That’s why I’ve brought Mr. Orland.’’ The two men nodded at each other. ‘‘Bill’s an excellent artist. His work lends itself to glass etching better than any work I’ve seen in years. He’s much—’’

  Mr. Lockabee waved toward the folder tucked beneath Bill’s arm. ‘‘That your work?’’

  Bill placed the folder on the counter. ‘‘Yes, sir.’’

  ‘‘Well, let’s take a look. No need talking. I find a man’s work speaks for itself.’’ Mr. Lockabee opened the folder and examined the first drawing. ‘‘Uh-huh.’’ He methodically worked his way through the sketches, occasionally glancing at Bill as he turned a page. When he finished, he closed the folder and leaned on the countertop. ‘‘You’ve got a lot of talent. I could sure use someone like you. How much experience have you got with etching?’’

  Bill’s smile vanished, and Fred was certain Bill was already counting himself out of the running. Fred tapped the folder. ‘‘He’s done every one of those drawings without any formal training. I’ve been trying to teach him the glass-etching process, but it’s been nearly impossible without having the equipment. I have years of experience, but I’m not working as an etcher at the present time, and there’s no apprentice program in the Pullman etching division right now.’’

  ‘‘Right now?’’ Mr. Lockabee arched his brows. ‘‘You think they’re going to begin some hands-on training in the future?’’

  Fred shook his head. ‘‘Never can tell what will happen down the road.’’

  Mr. Lockabee nodded. ‘‘I’d sure like to hire you, Bill. You’ve got some real talent, and Mr. Godfrey probably told you I’ve got some health problems. I need someone who can step in and help with the etching, too. My orders are running behind.’’

  Bill picked up the folder, obviously preparing to depart, but Fred grasped his arm. ‘‘What if I come in with him for a few hours each day to help train him? Then would you consider hiring him?’’

  Mr. Lockabee scratched his head. ‘‘You’d be willing to do that?’’

  ‘‘I would. I can’t promise to make it every day, but I’ll do my best.’’ Fred grinned and looked at Bill. ‘‘Besides, he’s a bright man and needs the work. He has a wife and children to feed, and that alone is incentive enough to make him a good employee. It’s not going to take him long to learn the trade. He’s got the process in his head, just needs practice.’’

  Mr. Lockabee settled on a stool behind the counter. ‘‘Then I suppose we better discuss your wages, Mr. Orland. That is, if you’re willing to accept the job.’’

  ‘‘Oh yes, sir—and call me Bill. I’m more than willing.’’ He clasped Mr. Lockabee’s hand and pumped it up and down.

  Mr. Lockabee explained his former living quarters were located on the third floor of the building. ‘‘They’re not bad. My wife and I lived up there for a few years before we bought our house. Of course the place needs a good cleaning, but maybe your wife would be willing to take on the task. If you want to find somewhere else to live, that’s fine by me, too.’’

  ‘‘Oh no! I mean, upstairs here would work out well for us. We’ve got a place over in Kensington we rent by the week. We could move in tomorrow.’’

  Mr. Lockabee laughed. ‘‘Like I said, the place needs some cleaning. There’s a grocery down the street where you can stock up on food and supplies.’’ The old man turned toward Fred. ‘‘You think fifteen dollars a week and a place to live is fair until he’s able to turn out etchings without supervision?’’

  Fred gulped. He wondered what the man would have offered him had he been applying for the position. ‘‘I’d say that’s very fair, Mr. Lockabee.’’

  ‘‘Good. And I’m going to pay for your train fare in and out of the city, too, Fred. Wish I could offer to pay you for your training time, but—’’

  ‘‘No need. I offered my services. Your willingness to pay for my train fare is more than generous.’’

  Mr. Lockabee extended his hand to Bill and then to Fred. ‘‘You tell Lawrence I appreciate his sending you fellows my way. You’re an answer to prayer, and that’s a fact. My wife has been worrying herself sick. She’ll sleep better tonight knowing I’ve found some help.’’

  Fred wanted to inquire about the possibility that the business might be for sale, but he supposed it didn’t matter. He wasn’t in a position to make an offer, and Mr. Lockabee likely wanted to see how Bill worked out before he discussed future possibilities for the business. In any event, the wage was high enough that Bill might be able to save a portion of his wages and be prepared if the opportunity arose.

  Their return to Pullman was filled with lively conversation. Bill’s excitement was contagious and his appreciation obvious. Before they parted company at the train depot, Bill grasped Fred’s hand. ‘‘I want you to know that I’m going to split my wages with you, Fred. I won’t argue. Unless you agree, I’ll go back and tell Mr. Lockabee I won’t accept the position.’’ Fred began to shake his head, but Bill stopped him. ‘‘I mean it, Fred. You’ll either agree to accept payment, or I’ll call a halt to the arrangement.’’

  Fred chuckled. ‘‘Well, I don’t want this opportunity to slip by. I’ll agree that you can pay me while I train you. We’ll argue about the amount later. Now I believe I’ll head for home. I’ve got several hours before work. A short nap would be good. I’m sure you’ll want to visit the training center and tell everyone your good news.’’

  Bill enthusiastically agreed before the men shook hands and walked off in opposite directions.

  ————

  Fred doubted he’d have time for a nap. His mother would want to hear every detail of the trip and receive assurance from him that nothing in their lives would be changing in the imminent future.

  The moment he entered the house, she hurried downstairs. ‘‘I was changing the beds, but I’ve time to sit down for a visit before you go to work.’’

  He nodded and continued toward the kitchen. ‘‘How about a piece of that apple cake and a cup of coffee?’’

  Once he’d taken a seat at the table, the questions came in rapid succession until finally he shook his head. ‘‘Can we stop long enough to eat our cake?’’

  She offered an apologetic smile and pulled up a chair. ‘‘Of course.’’

  After only one bite of the cake, a knock sounded at the front door. Fred motioned for his mother to remain in her chair. ‘‘I’ll go.’’ He went down the hallway and opened the front door.

  ‘‘Olivia! What are you doing here?’’ His abrupt question startled her, and she took a backward step. ‘‘I’m sorry. Do come in. I wasn’t expecting to see you.’’

  She hesitated and then smiled as his mother scurried down the hall. She’d obviously heard the sound of Olivia’s voice.

  ‘‘Olivia! How good to see you. Step aside, Fred, and let her in the door.’’

  He backed away as his mother took charge, ordering him to place Olivia’s bag by the hall tree and embracing the young woman in a warm hug. Though he had anticipated Olivia would return within the next week, her arrival caught him off guard. He’d not yet decided upon a plan of action—how to ask the questions for which he needed direct answers. And he wasn’t certain his armor had been tightened enough just yet.

  ‘‘Come join us. We were having cake. Fred, scoot your chair down a bit so there’s room for Olivia.’’

  He moved the chair and Olivia sat. His mother cut another piece of cake, and the three of them su
rrounded the table like a happy family.

  His mother didn’t waste any time. ‘‘Olivia, do tell us all about your journey. Fred said Mr. Howard accompanied you. That must have been a surprise. And I didn’t think you’d be gone so long.’’ She leaned closer. ‘‘Martha will be relieved to see you’re back. She’s been fretting over the wedding plans.’’

  Olivia occasionally glanced in Fred’s direction while she related that her training had been extended by Mr. Howard since she’d not studied the manual he’d given her.

  ‘‘And what of Mr. Thornberg?’’ Fred asked.

  ‘‘Once we boarded the train, Mr. Howard explained that Mr. Thornberg had taken ill. He’d sent word of his illness to Mr. Pullman, and Mr. Pullman directed Mr. Howard to supervise my training.’’

  It seemed strange to Fred that Mr. Pullman would be involved in the decision to train one of the young female employees, and he wondered if Mr. Howard hadn’t planned to conduct Olivia’s training from the very beginning. If so, had Olivia known of the arrangement all along? Unless Olivia mis-spoke, there’d be no way to prove that. He hoped he was wrong, but he would be mindful.

  Maybe a few properly phrased questions would get the answers he needed to hear. ‘‘Now that you’ve begun your training, Olivia, exactly what is it you’re doing? I’m somewhat perplexed by why Mr. Howard believes you are the one person who can perform the requisite duties.’’