A Shelter of Hope (17 page)

Simone shook her head and reached for the pen.

“Besides,” Jeffery replied, sobering a bit, “the work is hard. You aren’t just handed that money without a great deal expected in return. You’ll work six- and seven-day weeks, ten to twelve hours a day.”

“Hard work doesn’t frighten me, Mr. O’Donnell. I’ve worked hard all my life and received little or nothing in return.”

Just then a commotion sounded outside the office door, and Jeffery rose to see what the problem might be. Simone instantly came to attention when the door burst open and Rachel came in with a short man clad all in white. The man complained that his room was too small and that he had no place in the kitchen for all of his equipment.

Simone found his animated expressions and hand gestures completely captivating. She watched for a moment, amused by the man’s grandiose display.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Flaubert,” Rachel replied. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying.” She turned to Jeffery. “I brought him here hoping that perhaps you speak his language.”

Jeffery shook his head. “No, I don’t speak French.”

Simone suddenly realized that the man was indeed speaking her mother’s native tongue. When the other three fell silent to stare in confusion at each other, Simone questioned the man as to his problem and rather enjoyed the surprised expressions on everyone’s faces.

“Simone! You speak French?” Jeffery questioned.

An expression of utter delight came over the old man’s face, while one of relief washed over Rachel’s countenance.

“My mother was French,” Simone answered simply. Then turning to the old man, she repeated her question. “What is it that you wish them to know?”

“Ah, you are an answer to prayer,” the man told her. “There is no way I can stay in that tiny room. I must have space. And the kitchen is a disgrace. There is no room to work. I must have more room.”

Simone turned to Rachel. “He’s unhappy with his living arrangements. He says there isn’t enough space in his room or in the kitchen.”

“Is that all?” Rachel declared more than questioned.

Simone took it as a serious question, however, and asked the man, “Is there anything else?”

“Non,”
the man replied. “It is enough.”

Simone smiled and turned back to Rachel. “He said that’s enough.”

“Tell him we’ll do whatever we can to make the accommodations acceptable.”

Simone translated the information and felt a certain amount of gratification to see the man grow calmer.

“I am blessed,” he told her, reaching out to shake her hand, “to know you. This woman is quite good to me, but she knows nothing of my native tongue.”

Simone nodded, nervous at the touch of a stranger. “I know how it feels—being so new to something and no one seeming to understand you.”

The man still grasped her hand and patted it gently. “From what little I have observed, I have found it a good house to work for and live in. Except that the rooms are too small,” he said with a laugh. Then realizing the time, he dropped his hold and hurried for the door. “My soup will boil over!” he declared and rushed from the room.

“He has soup boiling,” Simone related to her stunned companions.

“Simone, I had no idea you could speak French,” Jeffery said in complete amazement.

“You didn’t ask.”

“Simone, I would like for you to be Mr. Flaubert’s translator. There’s supposed to be an interpreter coming to help, but until then I’d appreciate it if you would act in this capacity for us. Of course, you’ll continue to be trained as a Harvey Girl,” Rachel said and added, “I’m so glad you’ve come to us. Why, without you we might never have known what the problem was, and we would have risked losing a wonderful chef for our restaurant. What a brilliant young woman you are.”

Rachel Taylor seemed genuinely thankful, and it gave Simone a sense of worth and value that she couldn’t remember ever having felt before. No one had ever praised her in such a manner. She felt awkward and uncertain as to what she should say.

“I’ll be happy to help in whatever way I can,” she finally told Rachel. “Just tell me what you need from me.”

“I need you to sign that contract,” Rachel said with a laugh. “I don’t want there to be any chance of you getting away from us.”

“I don’t intend to leave,” Simone replied. And within her heart she thought perhaps she might never want to leave. Someone actually valued her for the help she could give. It created an entirely new sensation of feelings inside her. Dipping the pen in the ink, Simone put the paper on Rachel’s desk and began to sign her name.

“Nine months is a long time,” Jeffery whispered under his breath.

Simone smiled to herself. After what she’d spent a lifetime enduring, nine months didn’t sound like much time at all. In fact, nine months sounded like just the right amount of time to polish off the rough edges of her isolated childhood and establish herself as a refined and well-bred lady.

THIRTEEN

JEFFERY O’DONNELL checked his watch and realized he only had another half hour before the southbound was due in. He finished going over Rachel Taylor’s employee records and jotted down several bits of information before blotting the ink and closing the book. He stretched and felt twinges of pain in his shoulders—ample payback for his long hours bent over the desk.

He’d hardly managed to see Simone since their arrival in Topeka two days earlier. When he had seen her she was intently listening to the instructions of a dark-haired woman whom Jeffery knew to be the head waitress. And from what Miss Taylor had told him, Simone was one of her quickest and brightest students.

But she was also a mystery. Jeffery had little to go on for her background information, and even though he’d given Miss Taylor company funds to telegraph her mother for further details on Simone’s history, Rachel had come up empty-handed. Mrs. Taylor knew little more than they did. It appeared that her friend Grace had ridden with Simone on the train from Cheyenne to Chicago. Grace, however, had no idea how long the girl had been on the train prior to that, but Elvira Taylor confided that Simone was more than a little worn from her ordeal. Her appearance had been frightfully unkempt, and she was so pale that Mrs. Taylor had feared her to be diseased in some manner.

Jeffery shook his head. Who was Simone Irving? For all intents and purposes it was as if she had dropped into the real world from out of nowhere. He thought of her haunting face, the deep set of her blue eyes, and the soft ebony hair that cascaded down her back and begged his touch. She had appeared a petite, delicate flower when she’d first graced his doorstep, but the Harvey uniform made her look even smaller, maybe even younger, and that, too, was a worry to him. Harvey Girls applicants often found it necessary to lie about their ages. After all, many of the women came to him out of sheer necessity. There weren’t many honorable jobs for women in the 1890s. They could teach, be a nursemaid or nanny, or put their time in at one factory or another, but even those jobs were limited. Just last year Jeffery had met a woman physician who wanted to work on the Santa Fe line. The superintendent had put an end to that idea, even though the woman came highly recommended and was willing to relocate to the farthest reaches on the line. There simply were limited places where women could find acceptance and respect.

Women of Simone’s beauty usually married young and were well on their way to motherhood by the time there was any need to consider earning a living. They passed from their father’s care to positions as social matrons with husbands and children of their own. Simone had admitted to coming in from the Wyoming Territory, a place where women were sure to be at a premium, but still she remained single. Perhaps her parents were very protective, and when they died, Simone had no one on which to rely. She appeared, like many others, to have fallen on hard times.

Once again, Jeffery felt the overwhelming urge to find Simone. He longed to know her full story. To hear from her own lips what had happened to bring such misery upon her. He laughed at himself for acting so out of character. His own stoic mother would find his behavior uncalled for. She had raised him to be socially acceptable and gainfully employed. She also had in mind the kind of woman he needed for a wife. A woman of Simone’s meager background wouldn’t qualify to act as a chambermaid in the O’Donnell lakeside home in Chicago, much less as a suitable mate for her son.

But Jeffery’s real dilemma came in the circumstances of Simone’s employment. He was responsible for the women he employed and answerable to Fred Harvey for the choices he made. He also knew that it was expected that he know the detailed background of each girl hired, and up until he’d accepted Simone for employment, he had. If Mr. Harvey found him shirking his responsibility in keeping track of the moral character of his Harvey Girls, Jeffery knew there would be consequences to face.

Getting to his feet, Jeffery shook the lint from his brown serge coat and straightened his tie. He intended to find Simone and at least speak to her for a moment. Given the busyness of the Harvey House a half hour before the train arrival, Jeffery knew he was expecting a lot, but nevertheless, it was business. He needed more information on her for his investigation. At least that’s what he told himself.

The dining room down the hall was bustling with Harvey Girls. He smiled when he saw Rachel pick up a china plate for inspection, then shake her head. Fred Harvey had declared that even the slightest chip or crack would render the plate unusable for Harvey Eating Establishments. This was also true of torn linen, whether it be the tablecloths or the oversized napkins that the restaurant had become known for. Fred Harvey would hear of nothing but the best for his businesses, and even the furniture had been imported to meet this high standard. It was part of the allure of the Harvey House.

Not finding Simone among the uniformed trainees, Jeffery made his way across the dining room and into the kitchen. The interpreter had still not arrived to assist the chef, and it seemed logical that Simone might be here among the cooks, bakers, and food preparation staff.

The aroma of Monsieur Flaubert’s succulent pork roast greeted Jeffery. Flaubert was a genius in the kitchen, and Jeffery had made it his business to try most everything the man had created. As usual, Fred Harvey’s choice of chefs was to be applauded.

Jeffery nodded approvingly at the action inside the busy kitchen. Various preparation staff bustled up and down the extended counter, where salads were being given the final touches before the passengers’ arrival. Jeffery leaned down and pretended to inspect the salad nearest him. Lush avocado quarters, fresh from California, lay on a bed of lettuce with brilliant red tomato wedges as garnish for effect. It appeared both artistically aesthetic and appetizing. He smiled his approval to a nearby worker, then looked beyond the counter for some sign of Simone.

She stood with her back to him, completely engrossed in the rapidfire French conversation of Monsieur Flaubert. Moving closer, Jeffery heard her timid response grow more intent, and while he had no idea what they might be discussing, he felt confident that Simone’s words were in contrast to the opinion of the older gentleman.

“Simone?”

She jumped, startled by his unknown presence. Turning to face him, Jeffery saw an edge of fearfulness in her eyes. Why did she always look as though she’d just been caught in the act of some heinous crime?

“You were looking for me?”

Jeffery nodded. “I’d like very much to speak with you for a moment. You see, I’m catching the southbound after dinner, and there won’t be another chance for us to talk for a couple of weeks. I have to go south on the line and inspect the houses on the way.”

“I see,” Simone said, lowering her gaze to the floor. “What did you need to speak to me about?”

“For one, you might tell me what the overly excitable Monsieur Flaubert is complaining about this time,” Jeffery began, hoping to ease her discomfort. For all the time they had spent together, Simone Irving still remained as skittish as one of his father’s high-spirited Arabian stallions.

“Oh, he …” She paused to look over to where Henri Flaubert had turned his attention back to an oven full of baked veal pies. Simone twisted her hands nervously and glanced back to Jeffery. “It’s nothing, really.”