An Uncertain Dream (10 page)
Her mother dabbed the corner of a lace handkerchief to her eye. ‘‘I think the least you could do is remain for an appropriate bereavement period.’’ She flipped her hankie in the air. ‘‘And you should be ashamed for wearing that yellow dress during mourning. In truth, I think you should remain here for at least six months, or even a year. I need you to help me through this difficult transition.’’
‘‘The color of my dress may give the local dowagers gossip for their next social, but it doesn’t denote the depth of my grief.’’ Charlotte stood up. ‘‘There’s no need for tears. We both know that my remaining in England would serve no useful purpose. I’ve done all that I can. Mr. Proctor has assured me that if you have any concerns, he will assist you.’’
‘‘He can’t do anything to halt the rumors that are on every gossip’s tongue. I don’t know how I’ll ever survive. We’re the laughingstock of London. Your father has done me a great disservice.’’
‘‘I agree that his gambling was irresponsible, but he didn’t set out to hurt either of us intentionally. With each roll of the dice and each game of cards, he hoped he’d recoup his losses.’’
‘‘Well, he didn’t! Now I’m alone and penniless with a daughter who is running off to live in another country.’’
Arguing with her mother was pointless. They’d traversed this path numerous times since her father’s death. Though she knew her mother had intended to wear her down until she agreed to remain in England, Charlotte had remained steadfast. And she certainly wouldn’t change her mind now that the day of departure had arrived. There was little doubt that once she boarded the ship, her mother would settle into a routine at the estate of Lord and Lady Chesterfield. Indeed, she’d likely return to her previous habit of visiting the marchioness at Hargrove every day.
The mantel clock chimed the hour, and Charlotte gathered her gloves from the walnut dressing table. ‘‘We must depart or we’ll miss our sailing. Do come downstairs and bid us farewell.’’
Her mother stood and nodded, seeming to accept the fact that she’d lost the battle. Though the countess had waged a valiant struggle to keep her daughter in England, Charlotte knew her mother would accept the loss graciously. Proper breeding dictated genteel behavior, even in the face of defeat.
Fred sauntered down the street, taking in the sights and sounds of Chicago. He never tired of the constant hubbub of the city. No matter the time of day, it seemed the streets and sidewalks always teemed with people in a hurry to get somewhere. A man pushed past him and then another. He wondered if he’d soon be spun around in a circle or knocked flat to the sidewalk. Deciding neither idea appealed to him, Fred picked up his pace.
He’d be early for his appointment with Mr. Ashton, but at least he could sit down without the concern of being mowed down. After he had continued for nearly another block, the clasp of a hand on his shoulder brought him to a halt.
With a sideward glance, Fred noted the fingers digging into his shoulder and tilted his head. ‘‘Matthew! Good to see you.’’
Matthew matched Fred’s stride and grinned. ‘‘Where you heading in such a hurry?’’
‘‘I’m not in a hurry.’’ He pointed his thumb toward the people behind him. ‘‘Just keeping pace with the crowd.’’
Matthew laughed. ‘‘You have time for a cup of coffee? My treat.’’
‘‘In that case, I have all the time in the world.’’
Matthew grabbed Fred by the arm and pulled him toward a side street. ‘‘Great little place down here. Good food, cheap prices, and out of the way.’’
The words
Good Eats
had been painted in white block letters on the brick exterior of the building. If the chipped paint was any indication, the eatery had been there a long time.
Matthew greeted several customers and waved to a man behind the counter. ‘‘Two coffees, Hank.’’ He turned to Fred. ‘‘Want a piece of pie? They’ve got great pie.’’
Fred shook his head. ‘‘Coffee’s fine.’’ He followed Matthew to the rear of the restaurant, where they sat down at a small round table. The man Matthew had greeted soon appeared with two cups of coffee and placed them on the table with a clank. ‘‘Got a good lunch special today—better come back in a couple hours.’’
Matthew nodded. ‘‘If I’m still in the neighborhood, you know I’ll be here.’’
Hank grinned and returned to his station behind the counter.
Fred took a sip of the coffee and offered an appreciative nod. ‘‘Good coffee.’’
‘‘Newspaper reporters always know where to get a cheap meal and a good cup of coffee.’’ Matthew downed a gulp and returned the cup to the table. ‘‘My boss assigned me to the convention. I had to twist his arm a little, but he finally agreed I was the best man for the job. You going to be one of the delegates?’’
Fred nodded. ‘‘We held elections last week, and I was picked as one of the representatives.’’
‘‘Being elected as a delegate to the national convention is quite an honor, Fred. Of course, you’ll be required to spend a great deal of time in Chicago attending all of the meetings, but I’m sure it will prove exciting, especially since one of the big items on the agenda will be whether the national membership should support the Pullman workers in their strike. Word has it that the American Railway Union claims over four hundred fifty local unions and fifteen thousand members nationally. Eugene Debs has proved himself to be a fine leader of the union, and he wants fair treatment for the workingman.’’
‘‘I’m amazed to think I’ll hear him speak and be asked to vote on the issues presented to the assembly. It’s a humbling responsibility.’’
Matthew leaned across the table. ‘‘I think the entire country is going to see history in the making before this convention ends. We can only pray that real benefit will be afforded to all those who are suffering during this strike.’’
Fred downed the remainder of his coffee. ‘‘I couldn’t agree more. And you’ve been doing your part to help, too. When word got out that the brickyard workers were going on strike, too, those news articles you wrote caused quite a stir.’’
When the Pullman workers went out on strike in May, the sizable group of unskilled immigrants from Italy and Bohemia who worked in the brickyards continued working, primarily because they’d not been invited to join the American Railway Union. But shortly after the strike began, they organized and demanded wage increases, and when their demands were refused, they, too, walked out.
Eager for a fresh story, reporters swarmed the town and made their way to the seldom seen frame homes adjacent to the Pullman brickyards to speak to the workers. Subsequent news articles reported unpaved streets lined with three-room hovels that lacked any indoor plumbing yet fetched eight dollars a month in rent. The reports brought unwanted attention to a section of Pullman that had been overlooked by the outside world and caused a good deal of embarrassment for the company, which pleased most residents of the town.
The waiter offered another cup of the steaming brew, but the men declined. ‘‘If you have no objection,’’ Matthew said, ‘‘I’ll walk along with you. Mr. Ashton may have some information that will give my article a different slant than some of the others. We’re all scrambling for news until the convention actually begins on the ninth.’’
Fred nodded. ‘‘You’d think it was already in progress. Seems like there’s a lot more folks in town than usual. The train station was brimming with people.’’
‘‘The railway union has gained national attention. Reporters from the eastern press and national wire service have been arriving for days now. I believe it’s going to prove beneficial to the Pullman employees that the annual convention was scheduled for this time and place.’’
‘‘Some say it is the hand of God at work,’’ Fred said.
‘‘And you?’’ Matthew asked.
Fred shrugged. ‘‘I’m not certain. Either way, I know it’s a good thing the convention will bring attention to our plight.’’
‘‘Before this is over, the entire country will be interested in what’s happening here,’’ Matthew said as they entered Montrose Ashton’s law office.
The white-haired attorney pointed his familiar unlit cigar in their direction. ‘‘Are you concocting another headline, Matthew?’’
‘‘No. I thought I’d have you do that for me. When Fred said he was coming to visit, I invited myself along. Thought you might have some insider information for me.’’
The older man flapped a newspaper in the air. ‘‘From what I’m reading in here, looks like those easterners think the nation’s headed toward catastrophe.’’
While Mr. Ashton and Matthew bantered back and forth, Fred picked up the paper and perused the lengthy article about groups of men, former members of Coxey’s Industrial Army, who were now roaming the countryside seeking assistance. He’d heard about Jacob Coxey. With so many out of work after the Panic of 1893, Coxey organized a march on Washington, D.C., to petition Congress for measures to help relieve unemployment. Numerous groups of men from across the country gathered to join Coxey’s march. They had arrived in the nation’s capital in late April this year, where Mr. Coxey had hoped to persuade Congress to issue federal bonds to build public roads and put the unemployed to work. Instead, he’d been arrested and Coxey’s Army had disbanded.
‘‘Do you believe this?’’ Fred asked while pointing to a comment in the article he’d been reading. ‘‘Jacob Coxey named his son Legal Tender Coxey.’’
Matthew glanced at the paper and nodded. ‘‘Hard to believe a man would go so far to prove he’s not a socialist.’’
Fred shook his head in disbelief. ‘‘Poor kid. I won’t ever complain about being named Frederick again.’’
Mr. Ashton dropped into his leather chair. ‘‘We had best get down to the business at hand. I want to discuss the impact you can have on this convention and the men in Pullman, Fred. You’ve gained their respect and proven you hold sway with them. Mr. Debs has asked me to find the right man to act as a liaison during the convention, someone who will keep the men in Pullman advised that we will need their ongoing support through this process. It may take longer than they anticipate.’’
‘‘Wouldn’t Thomas Heathcoate be the proper person for that? He’s chairman of the Strike Committee.’’
‘‘Heathcoate will be too busy here in Chicago during the convention. I doubt he’ll have time to visit his family in Pullman, much less keep the strikers informed. Can Mr. Debs depend upon your help?’’
The very idea that Mr. Debs had requested Fred’s assistance boggled his mind. ‘‘Yes! Of course! You know I’m dedicated to helping the union succeed.’’
‘‘Good! I’ll inform Mr. Debs that we have our man.’’ Mr. Ashton tapped the newspaper Fred had placed on his desk a short time ago. ‘‘Jacob Coxey and his army are old news. When the American Railway Union convention starts, you’ll not be reading about Coxey or his son in the Chicago newspapers.’’
‘‘Or in the newspapers of any other city, for that matter,’’ Matthew agreed.
The conviction in Matthew’s voice was enough to make Fred wonder if they’d soon meet with the same fate as Jacob Coxey. Although Fred possessed the courage of his convictions, he certainly didn’t want to end up in jail.
Pullman, Illinois
Friday, June 8, 1894
Olivia rounded the corner of the hotel and inhaled the sweet scent of the early summer blooms. The roses that framed the garden near the hotel kitchen had begun to blossom in a profusion of color, and the bud-laden bushes promised a summer of beautiful flowers. The peonies and lilacs had already made their annual appearance, and it would be another year before their colorful blooms lined the park.
Mrs. DeVault and Chef René were enjoying an early morning cup of coffee when Olivia entered the kitchen. Instinctively she looked at the clock.
‘‘You are not late, Miss Mott,’’ Chef René said. ‘‘Mrs. DeVault and I happen to enjoy an early morning cup of coffee. It gives us an opportunity to visit before we begin our day.’’
Olivia eyed the two of them. If she overlooked Chef René’s white work jacket and Mrs. DeVault’s starched cook’s apron, they could pass for any married couple enjoying a morning coffee. Chef René , with his dark brown eyes and sagging jowls, seemed to devour every word Mrs. DeVault uttered. And Mrs. DeVault’s blue eyes sparkled at the undivided attention. A plain china vase filled with plump red roses had been placed on the table near their coffee cups.
Olivia pointed at the flowers. ‘‘Lovely roses.’’
A faint blush tinged Mrs. DeVault’s cheeks. ‘‘René cut them for me this morning.’’
‘‘How lovely of him.’’ Olivia glanced at the chef, but his attention remained fixed upon Mrs. DeVault.
René?
Mrs. DeVault was no longer addressing her supervisor as
Chef
René . When had that change occurred? Feeling like an interloper, Olivia picked up the menu and pretended to study the day’s offerings while the older couple continued to converse quietly. What could the two of them possibly be discussing every morning? And when had this ritual begun? Though she’d noticed a spark of interest during Mrs. DeVault’s first day at work, Olivia had observed nothing since then. Had she simply overlooked a relationship that had been taking wing before her very eyes? She inched a step closer.
‘‘If you would like to join our conversation, you may pour a cup of coffee and sit with us, Miss Mott.’’
‘‘Oh, I don’t want to interrupt.’’ With a fleeting smile, she flipped the menu card in the air. ‘‘We are having additional guests today?’’
The chef nodded. ‘‘The board of directors will hold another meeting with Mr. Howard. He said to expect their arrival midmorning.’’
‘‘So we will need to prepare only the noonday and evening meals for them?’’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘‘Who can say? Mr. Howard said their meetings may not be concluded until tomorrow. I doubt any of them will remain until Monday.’’
Olivia frowned. ‘‘Unless they have a matter that requires their immediate attention. With the convention beginning tomorrow, I’m sure the board members are concerned.’’
Chef René wagged his plump index finger. ‘‘While in the kitchen, we are to concentrate on the food rather than the reason our guests have elected to stay at our lovely hotel.’’