‘‘Miss Mott! Where have you—’’
‘‘Come with me! Hurry!’’ She panted for breath while tugging him toward the door. ‘‘I don’t think there will be any luncheon today.’’
He jerked away and stared at her, his dark eyes shining with anger. ‘‘Where is the vase, Miss Mott?’’
She shook her head, and a dark curl escaped one of her hairpins. ‘‘You don’t understand. The strike has begun! At least a thousand workers have walked out of the car works, and more continue to follow. I saw them with my own eyes. Please come!’’ Beneath her jacket, Olivia’s heart pounded a ferocious beat.
‘‘
Non!
Surely not,’’ Chef René exclaimed, but he obviously sensed the urgency of her demand, for this time when she grasped his arm, he willingly followed. After they had circled the hotel and crossed the grassy expanse, he stared at the growing throng. ‘‘So
this
is why you were late.’’
‘‘Yes. I was caught up in the crowd.’’ Olivia watched for any sign of Fred as they wended their way through the gathering.
Chef René pointed toward a group of workers crossing the street. ‘‘I hope your Fred is not making a mistake with his union participation.’’
‘‘
My
Fred, as you call him, made his decision to stand with the union long ago. I think he’s prepared to go to almost any length to help the workers succeed.’’ She waved toward the mass of workers. ‘‘Something must be done to help them.’’
‘‘Have I not aided you in helping the workers through these past months? Unlike your Fred, one can lend assistance in a discreet manner.’’ A group of men shoved their way through the crowd and inadvertently pushed the chef against a tree. ‘‘This chaos is not a good thing. I am better suited to the order I require in my kitchen.’’
She patted his arm. ‘‘Each of us is different. I’ve had to accept that Fred can no longer hide his union affiliation. When the men decided to join the American Railway Union in March, he prayed over his decision, just as I prayed over mine last November.’’
‘‘
Oui
. But your decision permitted you to remain at my side in the kitchen. I fear that if your Fred is forced out of Pullman, he will take you along with him.’’
She shook her head while continuing to scan the sea of faces. ‘‘I think you’re safe awhile longer. He’s not yet declared his love.’’
‘‘Then he is a fool!’’ The chef shouted to be heard over the deafening crowd. He bent close to her ear. ‘‘Stay and see if you can locate Fred and find out exactly what is happening.’’ He gestured toward the hotel. ‘‘I am going back to the kitchen. Don’t be gone too long. I may need your help.’’
‘‘I promise.’’ She sighed with relief, thankful he hadn’t inquired further about the vase. A gust of wind whipped across the lawn and slapped at her skirts. Using her elbows when necessary, Olivia pushed her way through the mass of people. She stood on a nearby bench and finally spotted Fred near a large walnut tree, surrounded by a press of workers. Elbowing her way through the triumphant crowd, she stopped beside him.
His blue eyes flashed with jubilation. ‘‘Isn’t this a magnificent sight? Except for a smattering of unskilled laborers, the men at the brickyards, and the members of management, all of the workers have pledged support.’’ Fred scanned the crowd. ‘‘Nearly three thousand of us have walked out. More than enough proof to the company that we are serious about our need for higher wages and lower rents.’’
His enthusiasm was contagious; Olivia could feel her own excitement rising. ‘‘You’ve surely met with success. Has Mr. Pullman arrived to negotiate with you and the other local union delegates?’’
Fred’s wavy brown hair whipped in the breeze, and he brushed the errant strands from his forehead. ‘‘I don’t expect it will go as easily as that, but we’re hopeful he’ll come and declare his intentions. We pray that he will agree to negotiate, but I doubt he’ll do so.’’
The muscles of Fred’s arm flexed beneath her fingers, providing a stark contrast to the softness of Chef René’s arm as well as a reminder that she must return to the hotel kitchen. ‘‘Then I shall pray, also. We need to see an end to the inhumane conditions the workers and their families have been forced to endure.’’
Just then a nearby coal stoker raised his fist in the air and spewed out a curse. From the fetid odor that permeated the air, it seemed he’d been wearing the stained and sweaty shirt for more than a week. He swaggered past them, jostling Olivia into Fred’s arm as he passed by.
Fred grabbed Olivia in a protective embrace. ‘‘God knows we’ll need every prayer that is uttered.’’
Her gaze traveled toward the tower clock. ‘‘I must return to the kitchen or Chef René will regret having allowed me to visit with you. Please say you’ll come by this evening and tell me all that happens.’’
‘‘Our local union is holding meetings this afternoon. If all goes well, I’ll see you later.’’
Fearful trouble would erupt at any moment, she said, ‘‘Promise me you’ll remain safe.’’
‘‘There’s not going to be any violence. All union members have taken a pledge.’’ He squeezed her hand and then surprised her with a fleeting kiss on the cheek. Warmth crept up her neck, and she turned before he could see her blush. It had taken these past six months to regain Fred’s trust, but she’d have it no other way. Olivia wanted him to recognize that she was now the woman he’d thought her to be when she arrived in Pullman two years ago.
‘‘Fred! I was hoping to locate you.’’
Fred whirled around to see Albert Mott, Olivia’s cousin, pushing through the crowd. Albert grasped his hand in a firm handshake. ‘‘You know I didn’t want to strike, but I had no choice once the entire Glass Etching Department voted to walk out. I hope you fellows know what you’re doing.’’
‘‘I wish I could relieve your worries, but none of us knows exactly where this will lead. We’re going to have to place our trust in the Lord.’’
There was little doubt Albert’s fear rose from the responsibilities incurred by his marriage. And now that Martha was expecting their first child, he didn’t want to endanger his family’s income. But all members of Albert’s department had pledged their support to the union after hearing Joseph Jensen give his inflammatory speech. The men had listened intently while the man declared George Pullman and his board of directors unconscionable capitalists who cared nothing for their workers. After all, wage cuts and freezing houses had become the norm in the city of Pullman throughout the winter.
A single tear had rolled down Mr. Jensen’s cheek when he told how his youngest son had frozen to death while waiting outside the woodshop for shavings to heat the family’s flat. ‘‘I buried one son because I couldn’t afford a bucket of coal, but I’ll not lose another son without a fight,’’ he’d declared. When he’d raised his fist overhead, the men had joined in a rousing cheer and pledged their loyalty to the union.
Albert doffed his cap and wiped his forehead. ‘‘I can’t afford to be without work, Fred. Martha had to quit her position at the hotel a month ago, you know. With my wages barely covering the rent, we’re going deeper into debt each day.’’
‘‘That’s been the case for most families throughout the winter. You’ve been more fortunate than most, what with Martha’s wages.’’
‘‘I know, I know. But that doesn’t keep me from worrying about what this strike is going to do. How are we supposed to pay rent or buy food? How long do you think it will last?’’
‘‘No one can answer that question, Albert. Most of the men feel certain there will be a quick return to work. I’m not so sure—we’ll have to wait and see.’’ Fred clapped him on the shoulder. ‘‘If you’ll excuse me, Thomas Heathcoate is signaling me.’’
‘‘I hope when all is said and done, you won’t be sorry for your part in this matter.’’
Fred pulled his hat low on his forehead. ‘‘Whatever happens, I believe I’ve made an honorable decision. I can live with that.’’
He didn’t wait for Albert’s response. Fred had weighed his decision with much thought and prayer and knew the risks. He strode toward Mr. Heathcoate, the man who had been elected chairman of the Strike Committee at last night’s rally. The first action of the committee had been to form a rotating twenty-four-hour guard for the car works. The union members agreed this would prevent property damage and undue negative publicity. It would also establish a picket line to thwart the use of strikebreakers.
‘‘Well, we’ve done it, Fred. I wondered if the men would maintain their courage when the hands of the clock settled on ten thirty this morning, but they proved they’re men who abide by their word.’’
‘‘And women,’’ Fred commented while surveying the crowd.
‘‘We mustn’t forget the ladies. They have proved staunch supporters.’’
Thomas nodded. ‘‘You’re absolutely right. We must remain unified if we are to gain Mr. Pullman’s attention.’’ He reached inside his jacket and retrieved a piece of paper. He carefully ripped the page in half. ‘‘After going home last night, I made up a schedule for the guards. I would be most thankful if you’d inform these men.’’ He handed Fred one of the pieces. ‘‘Tomorrow will tell us more. We’ll see if Mr. Pullman arrives in his private railcar and agrees to talk. In the meantime let’s continue our good work.’’
Fred headed off with his list in hand, and one by one he advised each man of his assigned time of duty. All remained optimistic. Fred hoped their optimism would continue if the strike should last for more than a week or two.
Chef René met Olivia at the kitchen door. ‘‘What did you discover? Do they plan to continue with the strike, or do they merely hope to frighten Mr. Pullman?’’
‘‘They appear determined,’’ she replied, taking up one of the meat mallets. ‘‘They hope Mr. Pullman will soon arrive and enter into serious negotiations.’’
Chef René lifted his arm in an exaggerated motion and pinched his nose. ‘‘I hope they don’t hold their breaths. They will die waiting. I have witnessed these walkouts in the past.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Never are they successful.’’
‘‘But there’s never been a strike of such magnitude. In the past it’s been only one or two departments—not the entire car works.’’ She waved the meat mallet toward the window. ‘‘Look out there. They are united.’’
‘‘What do I know? Perhaps you are correct.’’ He shrugged and his crisp white jacket lifted from his shoulders and then dropped back in place. ‘‘For now, we must complete the noonday preparations. The luncheon is going on as planned.’’
‘‘Guests are no doubt enjoying the spectacle across the street.’’ Olivia had noticed the hotel visitors gathered on the spacious hotel veranda. They would have quite a tale to tell when they returned to their homes. ‘‘With all this commotion, I’d think they would desert the place like mice fleeing a sinking ship.’’
‘‘I have a feeling the hotel will be filled to capacity by tomorrow. Mr. Howard sent word that the board of directors will be dining with us tomorrow evening.’’
‘‘And Mr. Pullman?’’ Olivia inquired.
‘‘No mention was made of Mr. Pullman. To me, that means he will not be present. To you, that may mean something entirely different.’’ He leaned over and peeked inside the oven. ‘‘What do you think? Shall I add a taste of mint to the potatoes?’’
‘‘Mint jelly for the lamb is sufficient. Too much mint will overpower the meal.’’
He laughed. ‘‘I have taught you well, Miss Mott.’’
She arched her brows. ‘‘That was a test?’’
‘‘But of course! Do you think I would truly add mint to
two
of my dishes?’’ He pursed his lips and closed his eyes while shaking his head. ‘‘Non. Never would I do such a thing.’’ He nodded toward the dining room. ‘‘Did you put the vase in the dining room, Miss Mott?’’
In all the commotion she’d completely forgotten. She averted her eyes. ‘‘No.’’
A deep V formed between his wide-set dark eyes. ‘‘Where is the vase?’’
‘‘Broken.’’ Her response was a mere whisper.
He tilted his head toward her and cupped his hand behind his ear. ‘‘What did you say, Miss Mott? I
know
I didn’t hear you correctly.’’
‘‘A group of young men were shoving through the crowd.’’ She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. ‘‘The vase shattered when one of them grabbed my arm.’’
The chef studied her. ‘‘Please say you are jesting.’’
Olivia shook her head. ‘‘I wish that were the case. You will find the shattered pieces on the brick walkway inside the gates.’’
The chef massaged his forehead with the tips of his fingers. ‘‘Who gave you the vase? Mr. Mahafferty or Mr. Howard?’’
She didn’t know what difference it made, but with her future hanging in the balance, she dared not ask. ‘‘Mr. Mahaf-ferty.’’
‘‘Good. Then perhaps we are safe. Mr. Mahafferty believes in using the duplicate vase.’’
‘‘Duplicate? I thought the queen presented only one vase to Mr. Pullman.’’
‘‘Oui. But Mr. Pullman had a copy made. He feared the original might be broken.’’ The chef tapped his finger on the counter. ‘‘I want you to concentrate. Did you notice the royal insignia on the vase?’’
Olivia tried to picture the vase. She truly hadn’t taken a close look. However, while living in her homeland of England, she’d worked in the kitchens of Lanshire Hall and was familiar with the royal coat of arms. Surely she would have noticed it.
‘‘I remember seeing only a Pullman car etched into the glass and a date. Perhaps some other words below. I don’t believe it bore any insignia, but I can’t be certain.’’
His frown eased but only by a slight degree. ‘‘I hope you are correct. Later this afternoon, I will go and speak with Mr. Mahafferty. Until then, you may want to offer up a prayer or two.’’ The chef walked toward one of the open windows and surveyed the open expanse. ‘‘The workers appear to remain in high spirits. I wonder how long that will continue.’’
Even in the warmth of the kitchen, Olivia shivered. She wondered the same thing. The union leaders said they would prevail through sheer numbers and unity. But given the formidable power of Mr. Pullman and his board of directors, Olivia feared the accord of the workers would prove fruitless. From what she’d seen in the past, she doubted the workers could outmaneuver the likes of Mr. Pullman or even Mr. Howard, but she dared not give voice to her fears. Like the others, she wanted to believe the workers would triumph. Yet Chef René’s comment that there had been no mention of Mr. Pullman’s attending tomorrow’s meeting seemed an indication that the company’s owner had little interest in negotiations. She fervently hoped that was not the case.