An Uncertain Dream (7 page)
Chef René wagged his finger. ‘‘We must not neglect our good manners, Miss Mott.’’
What had happened to the impervious man who’d chided her for her dalliance only a short time ago? ‘‘Perhaps I should take over with the lamb chops.’’
‘‘But of course. I shall leave you in charge while I escort Mrs. DeVault downstairs and explain her duties.’’
Explain her duties?
No interview, no meeting with Mr. Howard? Olivia realized the chef was desperate for a bakery assistant, but she had expected him to at least question Mrs. DeVault regarding her abilities. Was he going to rely solely upon her recommendation of the older woman? If so, Chef René would hold her responsible if Mrs. DeVault proved to be a poor addition to their staff. And who could know if the older woman would hold up under the pressures of the daily baking and Chef René’s expectations.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have suggested Fred’s mother for the position. If this work arrangement didn’t prove successful, it could cause a strain between her and Fred. She whisked the cream sauce with renewed vigor and signaled for one of the kitchen boys.
‘‘Ask the headwaiter to make certain the dining room is in readiness. I won’t have time to discuss arrangements with him before the noonday meal.’’
The young man’s chest swelled with pride. He squared his shoulders and hastened to do her bidding. Sounds of laughter drifted from the lower kitchen, and Olivia glanced toward the stairway. One of the kitchen boys ceased scrubbing the pots and pointed a dripping finger while several female dishwashers giggled in unison. Olivia waved them back to work and hurried to the top of the stairs.
‘‘Once you’ve completed your instructions, I could use your help with the final preparations, Chef René .’’
A short time later the chef ambled toward her. ‘‘While I was ill, you managed this kitchen without any help. Now that I am well, you cannot manage for even a few minutes without me?’’
‘‘We could hear your laughter up here,’’ she whispered. ‘‘I feared unseemly rumors might circulate.’’
He dipped his head near her ear. ‘‘I am a Frenchman, Miss Mott. I relish the thought that anyone thinks I am worthy of such talk.’’ His hearty laughter caused the staff to turn and watch the two of them. ‘‘You see? Now I have given them something else to discuss.’’
Olivia had never before observed Chef René finish meal preparations in such a lighthearted manner. Even when one of the kitchen boys dropped a platter a few minutes later, he didn’t shout or lose his temper. Once their duties were completed and the time had arrived for their afternoon respite, Olivia hurried downstairs to chat with Mrs. DeVault. The older woman had used the last several hours to advantage: one edge of the baking table was lined with her fruit pies.
During Olivia’s first year of employment, she had been required to bake samples of all the pastries that would be served at one of Mrs. Pullman’s teas. Before agreeing Olivia could adequately perform the task, Chef René had insisted upon tasting each one in advance. She now wondered if he had required the same test of Mrs. DeVault.
‘‘I see you have been hard at work. Is there anything I can do to assist you?’’
The heat from the ovens had caused a pink hue to rise in Mrs. DeVault’s cheeks. ‘‘I believe it’s going well. Chef René said he would check on me later this afternoon. I don’t recall you ever mentioning his charm.’’
Olivia muffled a laugh. She considered the chef a fine friend and a marvelous chef, but charming? She’d never thought of him in that vein. Before she could respond, she heard footfalls on the stairs.
‘‘Ah, Mrs. DeVault. I see you are attempting to make my mouth water with all these delectable fruit pies.’’ His tone was as sweet as the sugar Mrs. DeVault had mixed into the baked goods. His smile faded when he caught sight of Olivia at the far end of the baking table. ‘‘I wanted to make certain all was going well for you, but I see Miss Mott has—’’
‘‘I’m pleased you came down, Chef René ,’’ Mrs. DeVault said. ‘‘I thought you might want to taste a piece and see if these meet the hotel’s standards. I know you serve only the finest food.’’ She beamed in his direction.
Olivia remained in the background, watching and listening to the two of them. If she didn’t know better, she’d think they had been smitten by Cupid’s arrow. Of course, she realized Chef René and Mrs. DeVault would never be interested in romance, especially with each other. They were complete opposites.
‘‘I trust that anything you bake will be
magnifique
.’’ As if to punctuate his approval, he gathered his fingertips into a tight knot and briefly touched them to his lips.
The color heightened in Mrs. DeVault’s cheeks. ‘‘You are too kind. Do sit down and let me cut you a slice.’’
Mrs. DeVault was acting like a schoolgirl, giggling and blushing at each exchange, and Chef René appeared to be captivated by her charms. A rush of inexplicable discomfort washed over Olivia. Though she’d arrived before Chef René , she felt like an unwelcome intruder.
She wished only to escape and return upstairs. ‘‘Don’t let me interrupt the two of you. I believe I’ll go outside for a breath of fresh air.’’
Mrs. DeVault turned and looked at Olivia as though she’d completely forgotten she was in the room. ‘‘Oh, I’m sorry, my dear. Would you like a piece of pie, too?’’
‘‘No, thank you.’’ Olivia rounded the table and shook her head while moving toward the steps. ‘‘I’m pleased to see all is going well.’’
Olivia retreated up the stairs and wandered outside to a bench beneath the large oak. She plopped down and wondered at what she’d just observed. Why should she be surprised that the two older adults had been drawn to each other? A kind and generous woman, Mrs. DeVault also possessed an infectious cheerfulness. And by Mrs. DeVault’s own account, Chef René could be quite charming. They were both alone, and certainly love could flourish under such circumstances. What would Fred think of such an idea? Once again, Olivia wondered if she’d made a mistake in recommending Mrs. DeVault. Lost in her thoughts, she watched some men playing ball with several young boys.
‘‘Ah, here you are!’’
Unsure how long she’d been daydreaming, Olivia jumped up at the sound of Chef René’s voice.
‘‘You have brought me an excellent baker, Miss Mott. Not only is Mrs. DeVault a fine cook, but also she is a most congenial woman. She is going to be a good addition to our staff.’’
Olivia thought the chef appeared several years younger than he had earlier in the morning—surely her imagination was playing tricks on her. ‘‘So you have hired her for a permanent position?’’
He nodded. ‘‘Oui! I would be a fool to do otherwise.’’
‘‘Answered prayer,’’ Olivia whispered.
‘‘What’s this you say about prayer?’’
‘‘Mrs. DeVault has steadfastly prayed that Fred or Mr. Quinter would locate work during the strike so there would be funds enough to purchase food for the family. Her prayer has been answered.’’
‘‘Not so, for it is Mrs. DeVault who has located the work, not your Fred or this Mr. Quinter.’’
‘‘It makes little difference who earns the wages. They need money to purchase food. It is an answer to prayer.’’
He shrugged his broad shoulders and waved her toward the kitchen without further comment. Mrs. DeVault might easily win Chef René’s heart, but Olivia wondered if the older woman would have as much success winning him to God.
Fred loped up the front steps of the local headquarters of the American Railway Union located on Howard Street in Kensington. He counted his small part in helping form the local union as one of his greatest achievements. Scattered throughout the country, the local unions were joined together under the national umbrella of the American Railway Union. The organization had ruled that the train tracks running through the Pullman Car Works entitled employees of the company to membership in the larger national union. As expected, the majority of the striking men had arrived for the meeting. Since most had little else with which to occupy their time, they’d trudge the mile and a half to Kensington and congregate at the union headquarters each day. In addition to passing the time, they were close at hand if any news developed. Fred called greetings to several small groups gathered nearby.
Thankfully, the prevailing attitude of the men had remained calm. Although they’d initially been disappointed by Mr. Pullman’s departure from Chicago, the striking workers believed the ongoing meetings of the board of directors would soon lead to positive results. They had continued to abide by the union’s call for order in the community, although many complained about their credit being suspended at the Market and Arcade stores.
‘‘There’s nothing the union can do in that regard,’’
Fred had told them.
‘‘The shopkeepers in the Arcade and Market rent their
space from Mr. Pullman. They must abide by his rules whether
they want to or not.’’
However, he understood their concern: their families needed food, and they had no money. The strikers had depended upon using credit at the local shops.
He didn’t want trouble to develop between the strikers and those, like Olivia, who continued to work in the town.
‘‘We must
remember that we need the services offered by those people,’’
he had emphasized.
‘‘We don’t want the men at the firehouse to walk
away from their jobs. And those who work in the hotel and stores
are sympathetic to our cause. Many have already furnished aid,
and we must remember they are not embroiled in this strike. This
strike includes only those who work inside those iron gates at the
car works.’’
Fred didn’t know if the men had taken his message to heart, but the complaints had subsided, at least when he was present. He had directed the men to use their efforts toward requesting donations of food and clothing and suggested that the workers emphasize their difficult struggle to anyone who would listen to their plight and spread the word. He had pledged to do the same. Union officials on both the regional and national levels continued to stress that keeping the public on their side remained of paramount importance. The strike hadn’t drawn much coverage from the national press, but the Chicago newspapers consistently reported the day-to-day activities in the town. Union officials didn’t want to lose the momentum created by the sympathetic response of Chicago residents.
Once the men were seated and Thomas Heathcoate had called them to order, he signaled Fred to come forward and take charge of the meeting. ‘‘I have some good news to report,’’ Fred said. The men leaned forward.
‘‘We have received a substantial donation that will assist us in feeding needy families for a time.’’
A rallying cheer went up from the crowd after Fred announced they had received a large donation of flour, potatoes, and meat worth fifteen hundred dollars from Chicago Mayor Hopkins. The mayor, donating the food through his general store, had also pledged a thousand dollars in cash to assist the needy families.
Fred waved for silence. ‘‘The mayor has also approved the solicitations being made by the Southside policemen. He has taken the position that there is no legal objection to the police doing charitable work.’’ Fred waited until the shouts of approval ended. ‘‘In addition, some doctors and nurses have pledged to volunteer their services, and for those in dire need, several drugstores have agreed to fill prescriptions at no cost. Also, a number of prominent Chicago ladies have been calling financial institutions, seeking donations.’’
While he realized the collected funds and donated food wouldn’t last long, Fred marveled at the outpouring of generosity offered to the citizens of Pullman. Because the entire town was in need of help, the residents of Chicago and other nearby communities had banded together and responded as if the town had suffered a natural catastrophe—and in some respects, that is exactly what had occurred. Their pleas for help were being heard.
Occasionally rumors of a malaria outbreak in the town or residents going insane from hunger were reported in the newspapers, but the local union officials made every attempt to quell such stories as quickly as possible. While they wanted the newspapers to report their circumstances, they didn’t want exaggerated or fictitious stories, especially those that could cause a panic.
‘‘One of our Kensington merchants has provided free storage space for the food donations. Once we dismiss, the Relief Committee will meet to make arrangements for delivery of the goods from Chicago to Kensington. A notice will be posted on the doors outside listing the times and dates for distribution.’’
Though there wasn’t any news regarding negotiations, the men departed the meeting in good spirits, and Fred was pleased by their approval of the union’s work on their behalf.
He walked home, eager to tell his mother and the Quinters the latest news. Paul Quinter had made another journey to Chicago looking for work and hadn’t been present for today’s meeting. He would undoubtedly be pleased to hear of the food and medical care that would be available for his family.
As he bounded up the front steps and entered the house, Fred called out a greeting to his mother. He sailed his hat toward the hall tree, pleased when it made a perfect landing on one of the protruding hooks. Reaching the kitchen doorway, he stopped short.
Mrs. Quinter stood at the stove with baby Arthur balanced on her hip. ‘‘Your mother asked me to prepare supper,’’ she said.
Fred glanced over his shoulder toward the stairway. ‘‘Is she ill?’’
‘‘No.’’ Mrs. Quinter dropped a handful of carrots into the pot on the stove and returned to the table for more.
She would save time by placing them all in a bowl rather than making several trips back and forth,
he thought, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he awaited the woman’s reply.
‘‘She’s at work.’’
Fred waited for her to furnish additional information. When it didn’t appear she would, he urged her on. ‘‘Where is she working? I knew nothing of this.’’
Mrs. Quinter offered the few tidbits of information she possessed while she continued to prepare a stew that seemed to lack much in the way of meat. This dearth was a reminder of the news he’d delivered a short time ago at the union meeting, but before he could share the information, Paul Quinter shouted a greeting to his wife. Mrs. Quinter peeked around Fred and called for her husband to join them in the kitchen.