Judith Miller - [Postcards from Pullman Book 03] Page 3

  Her breath caught in her throat. She hesitated, certain he would declare his love for her. Instead, he only mentioned a meeting that had been scheduled for later in the evening.

  CHAPTER THREE

  With a sigh, Olivia rested her back against the trunk of a large oak that offered her shade during the morning respite. As promised, she had arrived earlier than usual, but the many breakfast orders had kept her on the run from the instant she had entered the kitchen. She had hoped for a moment to visit with Fred during the morning, though she hadn’t yet spotted him among the group of men assembled in the park. The striking workers were playing baseball and lawn tennis as though they were on holiday. She wondered if their carefree attitude would disappear once they learned Mr. Pullman had fled the city for one of his summer homes far from Chicago. At least that’s what Mr. Howard had told Chef René earlier that morning.

  Her attention settled upon a man walking with a determined stride toward the entrance of the car works. She couldn’t distinguish his features, yet there was something familiar about him. While he stood in front of the building reading the sign that had been posted the previous night, she continued to study him. He turned in her direction. She shielded her eyes from the sun and watched him rake his fingers through his sandy brown hair. Was that—could it be Matthew Clayborn? When he waved his hat, she knew he’d spotted her and she’d been correct. He loped across the street and came to a halt directly in front of her.

  ‘‘Olivia! I was hoping to see you or Fred. What a stroke of good fortune.’’ He settled his hat on the back of his head. ‘‘I’m covering the strike for the Chicago Herald, and I want to get my story from the perspective of the employees rather than the managers or supervisors. My editor thought it would give our newspaper a distinctive slant and would set us apart from the other Chicago newspapers.’’

  ‘‘I’m not one of those on strike, Matthew, but you’ll likely have little difficulty locating Fred. If you don’t find him among those men playing baseball, you can stop by his flat. I’m certain his mother can advise you of his whereabouts.’’ She glanced over her shoulder toward the hotel.

  ‘‘Worried you’ll be seen fraternizing with the enemy and lose your job?’’

  She stiffened at the note of condemnation in his voice. ‘‘Though you may find it difficult to believe, I can be of more use to the cause if I continue my employment at the hotel— unless I’m seen talking to newspaper reporters.’’

  He donned his hat and strode off without another word. It had been her contact with Matthew, back when she’d been riding the rails, that had led to her confrontation with Mr. Howard. She’d been placed in a precarious position during that time and had been forced to wrestle with a difficult decision. She had prayed long and hard when Mr. Howard had issued his ultimatum last November.

  Although Olivia was confident Mr. Howard never believed she had given Matthew Clayborn any of her notes regarding the treatment of the Pullman porters or the dining car staff, nevertheless he had threatened to fire her.

  That is, until she had countered with knowledge of his unethical practice of hiring unqualified employees whenever enough money would cross his palm. Money that had been placed in Mr. Howard’s pocket without Mr. Pullman’s knowledge, and hiring practices that the company owner would have known to be detrimental to his car works.

  Once she’d revealed knowledge of his wrongdoing, Mr. Howard had offered a bargain. If she remained silent, he wouldn’t fire her. After much prayer, she’d returned with a counteroffer. She would remain silent if he would immediately cease the unethical hiring practice and would make restitution to Mr. Pullman or to those who had paid for their positions. She believed her offer provided an opportunity to put an end to Mr. Howard’s shoddy dealings. She had no way of knowing if he’d ever complied with her repayment provision, but the unethical hiring practice had ceased. Even now, she harbored doubt whether she’d heard God whisper His answer or if she’d merely listened to her own heart. Knowing the difference had proved to be an unexpected conundrum. She had questioned several believers regarding that particular issue, but they’d all said the same thing: continue to meditate on God’s Word and spend time in prayer. Day after day she had done that very thing, but when she’d made her agreement with Mr. Howard, God’s answer hadn’t been entirely clear.

  ‘‘Are you planning to spend the entire day lounging against this tree, Miss Mott?’’

  Olivia startled at the sound of Chef René’s voice. ‘‘No, no. Of course not. Have I kept you waiting?’’ She jumped to attention and brushed an invisible wrinkle from her jacket. ‘‘You are ready to begin the noonday preparations?’’

  ‘‘I have already begun, and I am waiting for you to assist me.’’ He stretched his arms outward. ‘‘I have only two hands. Can I stir all of the pots myself?’’ Without waiting for her response, he lumbered toward the kitchen, waving her onward.

  Olivia laughed. ‘‘You have kitchen boys and scullery maids who can stir your pots.’’

  ‘‘You are correct, but I have only one Miss Mott to prepare fine gravies and sauces. Come along. We don’t want to keep the board of directors waiting when their meeting ends.’’ He held the kitchen door open and then followed her inside.

  The gravies and sauces would be ruined if she prepared them this early, and she wondered exactly why Chef René had hurried her indoors. She glanced about the kitchen. ‘‘It appears everything is well cared for.’’

  ‘‘Everything except your behavior. Did you consider that someone might see you speaking with that newspaper reporter? What if Mr. Howard thinks you are sharing disparaging information with Mr. Clayborn? Do you so quickly forget what happened the last time that man wrote an article about the Pullman employees?’’

  ‘‘I haven’t forgotten.’’ She patted his arm. ‘‘And in spite of my friendship with Mr. Clayborn, I still remain an employee of the hotel. God has taken care of me, Chef René . I pray He will continue to do so.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps God expects people to use their good sense, also. Non?’’ He shooed one of the kitchen boys out of his path as he trundled across the room toward the stove.

  ‘‘So you do believe in God. If I’ve accomplished nothing else, I’ve managed to gain that much information today.’’

  ‘‘I never said I didn’t believe in God, Miss Mott. I said I had no use for attending church. There is a difference. And I believe you had better accomplish more than that if you wish to maintain your employment. Please go and see that the dining room is in order. I am told we are short of staff.’’

  The chef ’s brusque instructions didn’t dampen Olivia’s spirits. His mention of a belief in God had given her hope. He didn’t know it, but she’d been praying for him ever since he’d suffered from heart problems. Rather than circle outside the kitchen, Olivia cut through the carving room. Angry voices emanated from the meeting room where the board of directors were gathered, and she stopped short outside the door.

  Flattening herself against the wall, she strained to listen. She couldn’t distinguish the voices, but there was little doubt the men were unhappy with Mr. Pullman.

  ‘‘The least George could have done was meet with us before he ran off to avoid the press. He’ll have to return and face them eventually, for I suspect there’ll be little progress made in the next three months. Who knows? It could go on longer. If the workers have prepared in advance, it’s going to take more than a couple weeks to wear down their resistance.’’

  ‘‘The shops must remain closed until we can break the union,’’ someone else commented. ‘‘The board need only follow the same path we have in the past: do nothing until their ability to resist has crumbled. After all, the financial power of the company far surpasses the workers’ limited means.’’

  Shouts of ‘‘Hear, hear!’’ were followed by a smattering of applause.

  ‘‘Mr. Pullman has specifically cautioned against interviews. All requests for information may be directed to me.’’ Olivia
recognized Mr. Howard’s voice.

  ‘‘And what statement will you give them, Samuel?’’

  ‘‘That the union is solely responsible and the company is indifferent as to length of the strike. Mr. Pullman hopes to minimize any adverse publicity by keeping our comments to a minimum.’’

  A platter crashed in the kitchen, and Olivia jumped away from the wall with a start. After a quick glance over her shoulder, she hurried to the dining room. If she didn’t soon return to the kitchen, Chef René would come looking for her.

  The appearance of Matthew Clayborn in the park came as no surprise to Fred. In fact, Fred had expected him to arrive the previous evening. No doubt Matthew’s editor hadn’t given him permission to come to Pullman until this morning. And Matthew would have competition for his story, for a number of other Chicago newsmen had already arrived.

  ‘‘Good to see you. I hoped you’d be assigned to cover the strike.’’ Fred clapped him on the shoulder. ‘‘We want reporters we can depend upon to tell our story accurately.’’

  Matthew nodded. ‘‘I can tell you there is sympathy for your cause, but many believe the present business conditions are going to prove the strike a foolish mistake—that you are bound for failure.’’

  Fred stiffened at the assessment. ‘‘Would they have us continue to sit here and do nothing? Most families haven’t enough money for food, and they go deeper into debt each month. We’ve tried to convince Mr. Pullman that the rents should be lowered to correspond with the decrease in wages the company has instituted, but he’ll hear nothing of it and says the car works and the town company are independent of one another. He fails to mention he owns both. The man gives with one hand and takes with the other.’’

  The two men dropped to the grass, and Matthew jotted notes while Fred related the plight of journeyman mechanics in the Freight-Car Construction Department. ‘‘In the past year, their wages have decreased from fifty-three dollars a month to a little less than fourteen dollars, yet the rent on a single-family house remains the same—nearly sixteen dollars. Money for their rent is withheld from their pay, so they have nothing left, and their debt increases each month.’’ Fred doubled one hand into a fist and jammed it into the palm of the other. ‘‘The whole thing makes my blood boil. If they are two different companies, how can he withhold wages paid by the car works for rent owed to the town company?’’

  ‘‘You make a valid point. But knowing George Pullman, I’m sure there’s something written in your employment agreement or rental contract whereby you grant permission for the rent to be deducted.’’ Matthew nodded toward the folks who had gathered to listen to the Pullman band playing a rousing tune in Arcade Park. ‘‘At least there’s still a bit of enjoyment to be had in all of this. A model strike in Mr. Pullman’s model town, wouldn’t you say?’’

  Fred grinned. ‘‘We’ve discouraged any form of property damage or violence by the workers.’’

  ‘‘I think that’s wise. For now, the newspapers and the public appear to consider Pullman the rogue. However, there is growing sentiment that the unions are becoming too demanding.’’ Matthew shifted positions and rested against the tree. ‘‘Was it Mr. Ashton who advised the workers to ally with the American Railway Union?’’

  ‘‘Yes. He said the union was strong, and Mr. Debs explained that all workers, no matter their occupation, qualified for membership since the company operates over twenty miles of rails in the town.’’

  Matthew tucked his notebook into his pocket. ‘‘I imagine I’m going to be spending a good deal of time here in Pullman. I’m glad it will give us an opportunity to see each other again, but I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.’’ He glanced toward the hotel. ‘‘What’s become of you and Olivia? The last I spoke with Ellen Ashton, she said the two of you had made amends.’’

  Fred laughed. Matthew made it sound as though they’d reached a formal agreement to settle their differences. Then again, in some respects he supposed they had. Not anything formal, of course, but he and Olivia had promised there would be no more lies between them.

  ‘‘Through all our difficulties, I’ve never stopped caring for Olivia, but there have been problems we’ve had to overcome. I imagine that’s true for most couples.’’

  Matthew arched his brows. ‘‘Sounds as though you’re preparing for a serious commitment.’’

  ‘‘One day, but now isn’t the time. There’s too much upheaval at the moment.’’

  ‘‘Don’t wait too long or someone may steal her away from you, my friend.’’

  Fred clenched his jaw. ‘‘Does that mean you’re interested in Olivia? Because if it does—’’

  With his palm turned toward Fred, Matthew stretched his arm forward. ‘‘Whoa! I wasn’t speaking for myself, although I’d be among the first to admit Olivia is a lovely young woman.’’ He chuckled when Fred inched closer. ‘‘I am pleased for both of you. But I’m not sure this strike should be a reason for determining the course of your future with Olivia. In fact, she’s one of the few who remains gainfully employed.’’

  ‘‘Exactly!’’

  ‘‘Ah. I sense a bit of pride welling in your chest, Fred.’’ Matthew pulled a blade of grass and tucked it in the corner of his mouth. ‘‘There will be many who wish for a wife who can help support their families in the months to come.’’

  ‘‘Months?’’ Fred shook his head. ‘‘We’re hoping the company will capitulate before then.’’

  ‘‘And the company is confident the workers will capitulate long before it must give in. It’s the same with every strike. Unfortunately, history predicts the workers will lose their battle.’’

  ‘‘Not this time, Matthew. I believe we’re better prepared than those who have gone before us.’’ He spoke with bravado even though his words were filled with a degree of puffery. The winter had been too long and hard, the paychecks too small, or nonexistent, for any of them to be prepared for a long siege. Perhaps his pride had taken hold of him in more ways than one.

  A young woman rushed toward the park, frantically waving her handkerchief overhead. ‘‘The Arcade stores are no longer giving credit!’’ she hollered while running toward her husband with wild abandon. ‘‘What will we do? How shall we survive?’’

  ‘‘How will all of you survive, Fred?’’ Matthew pulled the blade of grass from between his lips.

  Fred tilted his head. ‘‘I believe we’ll have to seek aid from any charitable group willing to come to our rescue.’’

  ‘‘I’ll mention your need for help in my news article.’’ Matthew pushed himself to his feet. ‘‘Speaking of my work, I must return to Chicago.’’

  Fred could rely upon Matthew to write the truth, and if Matthew’s article should be slanted in one direction or the other, he would steadfastly align with the striking men. The residents of Pullman were going to need all the support they could muster.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  London, England

  Sunday, May 13, 1894

  Lady Charlotte clapped her hands and extended her arms toward her son. ‘‘Come here, Morgan.’’ The toddler giggled and ran to her, his chubby legs carrying him across the nursery in zigzag fashion. His clear blue eyes sparkled with undeniable childish delight.

  ‘‘You have become such a fine big boy, haven’t you? In three months, we shall celebrate your second birthday with a proper party.’’

  He nodded his head, and his blond curls bobbled in wild abandon. ‘‘Paree,’’ he repeated.

  She laughed at his attempt to mimic her. ‘‘No. Partee.’’

  Rather than participate in a lesson in pronunciation, he picked up his ball and tossed it in the air. All who saw him said young Morgan’s eyes were a near match to her own. Yet Charlotte knew her eyes revealed neither sparkle nor delight, for she had experienced little happiness since her return to London, except for the reunion with Morgan and her parents, of course.

  Her father lay dying in his bedchamber, and her mother remained unwilling
to accept the doctor’s recent declaration that the Earl of Lanshire didn’t have long for this world. Since her return to England, it seemed Charlotte and her mother had exchanged places within the family. The daughter, once considered headstrong and undisciplined, had gently eased into her role as Morgan’s mother and had been forced into the role of mistress of Lanshire Hall. The servants looked to Lady Charlotte for instruction regarding the care of her father as well as the day-to-day management of the household, while the Countess of Lanshire spent her afternoons visiting with friends or on holiday at their country estates. Rather than concerning herself with the impending death of her husband, the countess worried where the family would vacation during the upcoming summer months.

  To make matters worse, Ludie, the servant who had acted as Lady Charlotte’s personal maid from the time she was a young girl, had resigned her post at Lanshire Hall several months before Charlotte’s return to England. Other than one or two of the servants who had remained on staff after Charlotte’s hasty departure to Pullman, Illinois, in 1892, the mansion was now filled with strangers.

  Her mother’s sour-faced maid had been assigned to assist Charlotte as well as perform her usual duties for the countess. The woman’s resentment had quickly become evident, and Charlotte soon released the woman from providing her with any further service. Instead, Beatrice, the young girl who helped with Morgan’s care, offered to aid Lady Charlotte with her toilette each day, which seemed rather silly now. Charlotte had, after all, cared for herself during her time at Priddle House, a fact her mother hadn’t believed until she had recently observed Charlotte fashion her own hair.

  The countess stepped into the nursery, carrying a light brocade parasol embellished with a flounce of silk, lace, and ribbons. ‘‘I’m off to Hargrove for a visit with the marchioness. Do look in on your father. He appears to be improving quite nicely this morning. I believe he’ll be able to discuss our summer plans by this evening.’’