Rainy Day Dreams: 2 (14 page)

Kathryn sucked in an outraged gasp and planted her hands on her hips, eyes blazing. “I did no such thing! I only saw what was laid out in plain view.”

“You had no business there to begin with,” he snapped.

Madame’s gaze slid between the two of them. To her credit, she maintained an unruffled manner. “Cleaning is a service we offer our guests, Mr. Gates. I’m sure my
assistant
”—her gaze skipped sideways to Kathryn and then back to his face—“meant no harm.”

Her composure had a calming effect on him. No doubt she was
right. He was tired from a full day’s labor and overly sensitive when it came to those paints. And especially about that painting. Coming so close on the heels of Will’s warning, Kathryn’s unwitting intrusion had angered him unreasonably and prodded him into an embarrassing display of emotion.

He willed the angry buzzing in his ears to stop and rubbed his eyes with a finger and thumb before answering. “I’m accustomed to cleaning up after myself. I’d prefer to do so.”

She shrugged her pudgy shoulders. “Less work for us.” Then she turned and disappeared back into her lair.

Taking a deep breath, he turned to Kathryn. Outrage still simmered in her glare.

“I apologize for shouting at you.” There. He’d done as courtesy demanded. Hopefully that would be enough.

Her anger dimmed into resentment and she gave a cautious nod. Jason turned on his heel and headed for the stairs.

Behind him, she cleared her throat. “Would it be possible for you to show me the technique for achieving that peculiar lighting effect?”

She had nerve, he had to give her that. A trait he found particularly annoying in a woman. He did not pause, but tossed his answer over his shoulder as he ascended the stairs.

“No. It would not.”

Five

F
ew patrons sat at the tables in the restaurant when Kathryn arrived that evening. She entered and stopped in surprise, glancing around the room.

At her worktable in the corner, Evie caught sight of her and waved her across the room.

“I hoped you’d stop by tonight. It’s pretty lonely here with all the men out working on the blockhouse. Sit here.” She wiped her hands on her apron and pulled out the closest chair. “I’ll get your supper and you can keep me company while I work.”

Kathryn slid into her seat and Evie set a cup and saucer in front of her. Before long a pot of steaming tea joined them. Kathryn filled her cup. The pungent odor of the tea soothed the sour mood brought on by the encounter with Jason and his stubborn refusal to teach her. She inhaled deeply and heaved a sigh into her teacup.

Evie turned from her worktable. “Goodness, that was a heavy sigh. Is something wrong?”

She managed a weak smile. “I had a disagreeable encounter with Mr. Gates this evening.”

“Oh?” Her smile became sympathetic, and she continued her efforts. “He is an interesting man. Many men are quiet, but him more than most, I think.”

The echo of his shout for Madame still rang in her ears. “I wouldn’t call him quiet.”

“No?” She tilted her head. “Introspective, then.”

That Kathryn could agree with. Most artists of her acquaintance were pensive, some preoccupied with their thoughts to the point of excluding the real world. Completely understandable, when their inner musings were filled with artistic contemplation that rendered external daily routines mundane. Though after this afternoon’s display, Jason proved himself more temperamental than most.

Evie set a plate in front of her. “I hope you like venison.”

“It’s one of my favorites.”

A thick slice of meat dominated the plate, alongside a mound of golden potatoes glistening with butter. The aroma, though tantalizing and rich with spices, failed to stir her feeble appetite. She took up the meat knife and cut a bite-sized piece. Evie watched for her reaction while she chewed.

“Very good. Some of the best venison I’ve ever had.”

A relieved smile lit Evie’s features and she returned to her work table.

The food was delicious, and normally Kathryn would have devoured every scrap and looked for more. She had no patience with women who denied their healthy appetites to pick at their food in order to impress men.

But today she found herself tempted to push the plate away and sit brooding over her teacup. Why would Jason react so angrily to a sincere appreciation of his work? And why the peremptory dismissal of her simple request? Perhaps he was one of those secretive artists who believed that sharing their technique somehow threatened their standing. The idea frustrated her in the extreme. Monsieur Rousseau freely shared his knowledge and skill, and felt that in doing so he furthered the cause of art. Maybe if she explained her teacher’s stand on the matter Jason would see reason. After all, she only wanted a simple demonstration, not a commitment to teach her in
the long term. Soon she would be gone and back in San Francisco. Why would it hurt to show her a few techniques in the next week?

Unless the next ship, too, had no room for her.

The thought brought with it a stark reminder of her precarious financial state. How long would her money last? And how much would the next ship charge for passage home? She cut another bite of the delicious venison. If she ate well at supper time she could save the expense of breakfast. Or if her situation became desperate, she could always force herself to suffer Madame’s company over porridge and tea in the mornings.

In fact, she had no idea how much a meal was. Last night she had been so distracted by the ill tidings that she’d completely forgotten to pay for her supper. Evie must think her a freeloader. She jumped up so suddenly her chair fell backward.

Evie turned, eyes wide. “What’s wrong? Is it the venison?”

“I didn’t pay you last night. I am so sorry.” She fumbled for her reticule, which had fallen from her lap to the floor when she rose. “Please forgive me. I’m accustomed to Papa taking care of these things.”

Amused laughter filled the restaurant, drawing the attention of the few customers seated around the room. “My dear, don’t worry so. I didn’t remember myself until you said so just now. People hereabouts are accustomed to paying when they can.” Her laughter settled into a smile. “I trust you. Now sit down and finish your meal.”

Relieved, Kathryn set her chair right and returned to her venison. She sliced into a perfectly roasted potato. No doubt there were some who took advantage of Evie’s kindness, but she did not intend to be one of them. Papa modeled integrity in all his dealings, and she would do the same. But how much should she allot for food? She eyed the full plate before her. Best to figure out the costs before she ate her way through all her money.

She cleared her throat. “What is the cost of a meal?”

“Twenty-five cents for supper.” With a long metal fork she
opened the door of the big oven and delicious-smelling heat escaped into the room. “Ten for breakfast, unless you want eggs and then it’s twelve.” Her hands protected by a thick towel, she drew out a metal sheet covered with a row of potatoes and deposited it on the surface with a clang. “I serve a proper tea on Tuesdays and Fridays for ten cents. I make sweet bread and tea cakes special on those days.”

A quick mental calculation made clear a sobering fact. Until she knew the exact price of her passage back to San Francisco, she had better make do with eating a substantial breakfast and forego supper. Perhaps that last-minute donation before she boarded the ship had been a bit hasty. But it had felt so good to be able to do something substantial for the cause of women’s rights.

She looked up to find Evie studying her with a speculative stare and arranged a quick smile on her face. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay as I go along.”

The woman’s face cleared. “Oh, I’m not worried. In fact, I was wondering something.” She averted her gaze, looking a touch uncomfortable. “But I don’t want to offend you by asking.”

Her manner piqued Kathryn’s curiosity. “I’m not easily offended.”

Evie’s stare went on for a long moment, and then she seemed to reach a decision. “Okay, I’ll just ask.” She pulled out the chair directly opposite Kathryn’s and dropped into it. “Noah told me this morning that his work at the blockhouse is going to take all his time, at least during daylight hours. Of course I told him I could manage here without him, but to be honest, it’s harder than I thought. What with cooking and delivering the food to the tables and making sure everyone has clean plates and forks and plenty of coffee…well, I just can’t manage on my own.” She placed her forearms on the table and wilted over them. “Frankly, I ran myself to exhaustion this morning. And he was still here part of the time.”

Her intent dawned on Kathryn. “Are you asking me to help?”

“Only if you want to,” Evie hurried to say. “I’m afraid I can’t pay
you much, certainly not what Madame is paying you as her assistant. But of course your meals would be free. And it wouldn’t have to interfere with your work at the Faulkner House, because the busy part of breakfast is usually over quickly and then the men go to work at the mill.”

Pay? Kathryn’s lip curled with scorn at the idea of Madame prying her hand open wide enough to pay her for cleaning guest rooms.

Evie leaned back in her chair. “I’ve offended you. I’m so sorry. You probably have maids and cooks and everything back home, and the idea of working in a restaurant is abhorrent to you.” She started to rise. “Please forget I said anything. I’m sure I can convince one or two of the Moreland girls to help.”

“You misunderstand.” Kathryn half-rose from her chair too and gestured Evie to stay. “I’m not offended in the slightest. I…”

What would her friends at the art studio say if they knew she had taken employment first as a hotel maid—no matter what lofty title she gave her duties—and then as a waitress in a restaurant? On the other hand, what did it matter? Her duties this morning had been accomplished in less than two hours and the rest of the day had been spent in dreamy contemplation of the techniques she would learn from Jason. Obviously that was not to be. Besides, it was only for a week or so, and the arrangement would solve the problem of paying for meals.

She smiled at Evie. “I don’t know who the Moreland girls are, but please don’t ask them. I can’t think of a nicer place to spend my days than here in your company.” That, at least, she meant wholeheartedly.

“Oh, thank goodness.” Evie wiped her forehead with an exaggerated gesture. “The oldest Moreland girl chatters incessantly, and I’m not sure I can handle her first thing in the morning.” She smiled into Kathryn’s eyes. “Besides, I look forward to getting to know you better, even if it is for such a short time.”

When Evie returned to the stove, Kathryn tackled her supper with renewed appetite. At least one element of her stay here in Seattle might prove to be enjoyable, even though it would be brief.

Dear Papa,

I pray this letter finds you and Mama well. If not, we have that in common since I am most assuredly
not
well, in the accepted definition of the word. Please tell Mama not to worry over my health. I do not refer to my physical well-being, but to my mental condition due to the circumstances in which I find myself.

Seattle is not at all as you were led to believe.

Kathryn lifted her quill and stared at the fire blazing in the Faulkner House’s bare common room as she contemplated the last sentence. Madame’s writing desk was small but well supplied, and at least the woman did not begrudge her the use of paper and ink. While Kathryn would have liked to take an accusatory tone in her letter, no doubt Papa would react poorly to accusations of willful mistreatment. The better approach was to assume that he would be as shocked as she at the situation in which she found herself.