‘‘Perhaps it is some of both. He does have a flair for the dramatic. You two appear to be getting along quite well. He dotes on your every move.’’
The color heightened in Mrs. DeVault’s cheeks. ‘‘I must admit we have formed a fast friendship. But enough about me. I want to once again tell you how pleased I am that one day soon you’ll become my daughter.’’ She squeezed Olivia’s hand. ‘‘Since I don’t have any daughters, we can forget that ‘in-law’ portion, don’t you think?’’
‘‘I would be honored, but I don’t think we’ll be making plans in the immediate future. You heard Fred say that he wants to wait until after the strike is settled and he knows what the future holds for him.’’
‘‘Oh, posh. If we wait until life is in order before making our decisions, we’ll never make any,’’ the older woman rebutted. ‘‘I believe I’ll tell him just that.’’
‘‘You certainly have my permission,’’ Olivia said with a grin. ‘‘Did Fred discuss anything else with you last evening?’’
The scent of roses floated on a light breeze drifting from the park, and Mrs. DeVault inhaled deeply. ‘‘Lovely, aren’t they? The roses, I mean.’’
Olivia agreed and wondered if the woman planned to avoid her question with talk of the roses, but Mrs. DeVault surprised her.
‘‘After all of our guests departed yesterday, Fred questioned me at length about René . He fears I’m making a fool of myself.’’
Olivia gasped.
‘‘Oh, not to worry. Fred would never actually say such a thing. But I knew what he was thinking. He is, after all, my son. And he’s not the best at hiding his feelings from me. I had been expecting his little talk.’’
Two of the dishwashers headed back toward the kitchen. Olivia glanced at the tower clock. She hoped she and Mrs. DeVault would have time to complete their talk before they must return to the kitchen.
Olivia leaned forward. ‘‘What did he say?’’
‘‘He asked if René had made unwelcome advances.’’
Olivia muffled a laugh. ‘‘And what did you tell him?’’
‘‘I told him René is a perfect gentleman and he need not worry on that account. However, when he said that women of my age usually preferred needlework to courting, I set him straight.’’ She looked toward the kitchen door. ‘‘I’d much rather spend my evenings enjoying a band concert with René or enjoying his company over a cup of tea than sitting alone with my embroidery. I think he was somewhat surprised by that.’’
‘‘I have no doubt.’’
‘‘However, I do believe it’s good that we openly discussed the matter. René wanted to speak to Fred and explain his intentions are honorable, but I asked him not to. I see no need for him to do that.’’ Mrs. DeVault peeked at her watch. ‘‘We’d better get back to work before the chef sends someone to fetch us. I wouldn’t want to make him angry.’’
The two women smiled and walked arm in arm across the lawn. Olivia loved the idea of Mrs. DeVault being her mother one day. She hoped Fred would warm to the idea that Chef René might become his stepfather sometime in the future, too.
Matthew stood on the corner and watched the entrance to Marshall Field and Company. His editor had approved the article he’d written; now he hoped to catch a glimpse of Charlotte leaving work. Had he not been banned from the store, he would have gone inside and attempted to secretly watch her as she helped her customers. Matthew didn’t know if Mr. Field actually had a list, but he did know the man had no tolerance for anyone who sided with the unions. Matthew’s opinions on labor issues were no secret, as his views had been spelled out in newspaper articles carrying his byline.
Matthew tried to picture Charlotte showing the latest fashions from Paris or assisting the likes of Mrs. Pullman or Mrs. Armour with the selection of a new hat or a pair of gloves. Charlotte would know exactly which items would please Chicago’s wealthy social set.
The throng of workers emerging from the store meant the emporium was closing for the night. If all went well, Charlotte would be among them. Small groups of employees walked across the street, and he strained to the side to keep his vigil. There! He captured sight of the hat she’d been wearing yesterday and moved in her direction.
She was engrossed in conversation, and it was the older woman walking beside her who finally acknowledged him. ‘‘Were you looking for someone?’’
Finally Charlotte turned in his direction. ‘‘Matthew! What are you doing here?’’
‘‘I planned to escort you home from work.’’
Charlotte returned her attention to the older woman and begrudgingly introduced her as Mrs. Brandt, a fellow employee.
When they reached the opposite side of the street, Mrs. Brandt stopped. ‘‘I turn here.’’ The older woman hugged Charlotte and then quickly released her, seemingly embarrassed by her action. ‘‘I’m so pleased you’ve returned to us,’’ she said before hurrying down the street.
Matthew arched his brows. ‘‘Returned to us? What exactly does that mean?’’
‘‘Mrs. Brandt is a lovely woman who has no family. She considers her friends at the store her family. Thus the reference that I had returned to them.’’ She stepped out of the crowd congregated on the corner, and Matthew followed along. ‘‘I don’t recall your asking if you could meet me after work.’’
He grinned. Charlotte apparently was a woman who stood on formality—likely it was her noble English upbringing, he decided. ‘‘My apologies. I should have gained your approval beforehand. I thought perhaps I could spend a little time with you and Morgan this evening.’’
‘‘I will be joining the other residents of Priddle House for dinner. Funds are scarce, and our meals aren’t prepared with an eye toward unexpected visitors.’’
‘‘What about after supper? I’d enjoy spending some time with you. And it would give me an opportunity to meet the young girl you spoke of yesterday—Fiona, wasn’t it?’’
She nodded. ‘‘Yes. Fiona. I suppose if you’d like to join us after supper, I won’t object. I’m sure you’ll find the evening quite enlightening.’’
Matthew hailed a carriage, gave the address of Priddle House, and handed the driver several coins. Grasping Charlotte’s arm, he assisted her inside. ‘‘I’ll come by at seven o’clock.’’
‘‘Don’t be late.’’
He stared after the carriage and reveled in her parting words. Apparently she’d decided a visit would be enjoyable. With a spring in his step, he headed for the Good Eats Café . He’d have time enough for the evening special, a cup of coffee, and a chat with Hank before going to Priddle House.
A short time later, he entered the café and waved at a couple of newsmen seated at a nearby table. He turned down their invitation to join them. He didn’t want to get involved in a discussion that might cause him to be late for his visit.
He surveyed the specials written on a board over the counter. When Hank approached, Matthew rattled off his order. ‘‘I’ll have the chicken potpie, a piece of that chocolate cake, and a cup of coffee.’’
‘‘Sounds good. Make it two, minus the cake.’’ Matthew turned around to see Ellen Ashton standing next to him.
‘‘How are you, Matthew? You’ve been a stranger lately. You spending all of your time on the convention floor?’’ She sat down beside him.
‘‘Either there or at the office writing something my editor will give the nod to. How’ve you been, Ellen?’’
‘‘As good as a person can be with all this commotion swirling through town stronger than the Chicago winds. I’ll be pleased when it all comes to an end. Dealing with folks unable to keep life and limb together during this depression is difficult enough. The town is like a pot of water ready to boil over and scald the entire population.’’
‘‘Care if I use that remark in tomorrow’s issue?’’ Matthew nodded when Hank settled a cup of steaming coffee in front of him.
She grinned. ‘‘Tomorrow will be too late. The pot will either have boiled over or returned to a simmer, depending on the circumstances.’’
‘‘Guess you’re right. Too bad—would have made good copy.’’ He gulped a swallow of coffee and returned the cup to the matching green-rimmed saucer with a clank.
Hank brought two broad bowls of potpie and topped off Matthew’s coffee. ‘‘You two need anything else?’’
‘‘Just don’t forget that cake,’’ Matthew said. He patted his stomach. ‘‘I still consider myself a growing boy.’’
Ellen shook her head. ‘‘If you don’t cut down on cake, you’ll grow right out of that suit.’’ She took a bite of chicken and vegetables and nodded her approval. ‘‘How’s Fred holding up?’’
Between bites Matthew regaled Ellen with the events of yesterday afternoon. ‘‘Can you believe it? Fred finally asked Olivia to marry him.’’
‘‘That’s wonderful news. I’m certain Father will be pleased to know that Fred’s not going to move forward with a wedding until after he’s completed his duties as a union delegate. You know Father—first things first.’’
Matthew laughed. ‘‘I hate to disappoint your father, but I think Fred’s desire to hold off on the wedding has more to do with acquiring a job and supporting his wife than making your father happy.’’
They continued their conversation until Matthew had finished his cake and downed the last of his coffee. He reached into his pocket and counted out the exact change.
‘‘What’s the hurry? You could wait until I finish my meal and come down to the office. Father and several other men are going to have some sort of conclave.’’
Matthew pushed away from the table. ‘‘Any other night you couldn’t keep me away, but I’ve another engagement this evening.’’
‘‘There’s a glint in your eye, Matthew Clayborn. Who is she?’’
He leaned down. ‘‘Charlotte Spencer.’’
‘‘I don’t believe you.’’
He picked up his hat and winked. ‘‘Then you can ask her the next time you see her.’’
A short time later Matthew walked down Ashland Street toward Priddle House and spotted Charlotte standing on the front porch. His heart swelled at the sight. She was waiting for him. As he drew closer, she waved him on. He glanced at his watch. Exactly seven o’clock.
The sound of piano music floated from inside the house. ‘‘What’s the hurry?’’ he asked as he bounded up the front steps.
‘‘We begin prayer meeting at seven o’clock sharp each evening. I don’t want you to miss a thing.’’
‘‘Prayer meeting?’’ His voice cracked. ‘‘But . . .’’
‘‘Come along. We’re eager to have you join us.’’
Charlotte tugged him forward, and the two of them stepped into the parlor. Matthew peered around the room. With their Bibles already opened and resting on their laps, the women each nodded in turn as the introductions were made.
Then Mrs. Priddle pointed to a chair beside her. ‘‘You may sit here beside me, Mr. Clayborn. When we’ve finished our singing, you may lead us in our first prayer of the evening.’’
Matthew dropped to the seat and loosened his necktie. He could feel the beads of perspiration beginning to form along his upper lip. The woman wanted him to pray? In front of all these women? His hands trembled at the very idea. He glanced across the room. Charlotte grinned, obviously enjoying every minute of his discomfort.
Well, if this was a test, he planned to pass with flying colors. He was, after all, a wordsmith with at least three minutes to gather his thoughts while the women raised their voices in song. When they’d sung a melodious amen, Mrs. Priddle tapped his hand and gave a nod that nearly sent her gray knot of hair into a downward spiral.
‘‘Dear God, we are all thankful to be here tonight—especially me.’’
Fiona giggled and Mrs. Priddle shushed her.
‘‘I admit I felt like Jonah walking into the lion’s den when I entered the parlor this evening, Lord, but you’ve given me that same kind of courage tonight, and I’m asking that you shower blessings on the ladies who live in this house.’’ Matthew continued to beseech the Lord for several minutes before ending his prayer with a vigorous amen and a smile at Mrs. Priddle.
‘‘Thank you, Mr. Clayborn. That was lovely.’’ The old woman leaned closer. ‘‘For future reference, it was Daniel who walked into the lion’s den—not Jonah. A mere slip of the tongue, I’m sure,’’ she whispered while patting his hand in a motherly fashion.
He gulped and swallowed hard.
Did I really say Jonah? I
learned those Bible stories as a young boy. How could I possibly
make such a mistake?
Suddenly he realized that in his desire to impress Charlotte and Mrs. Priddle, he’d forgotten he should have been talking to God rather than the roomful of women. No wonder he’d made such a foolish error. So much for passing his test.
Forgive me, Lord
, he silently prayed.
After his meeting with the Pullman workers at the union headquarters in Kensington, Fred boarded the last train of the evening into Chicago. He wanted to be in the city early Tuesday morning, and there was nothing further to be accomplished in Pullman. The men of Pullman understood what was expected: maintain order and civility yet remain steadfast in their demand to negotiate. By this time they realized that their strike had been demoted to a secondary position, superseded by the American Railway Union’s demands and the conglomerate of railroads that had banded together as the union’s adversary.
Returning to Chicago would also provide him with an opportunity to visit Bill Orland. Although Fred had stopped by Lockabee’s Design and Glass Etching Shop on several occasions since Bill had begun his tenure there, the visits had been related to Bill’s etching questions. Both Bill and his wife had extended offers to come for dinner, but it never seemed to be the right time—until now. When he’d stopped in last week to extend a quick hello and inquire about the business, Bill had offered Fred a place to stay while he acted as a delegate to the convention. Tonight Fred had arranged to take him up on the offer.
Fred climbed the outside steps that led to the upstairs apartment and knocked. The door swung open, and Bill greeted him with a broad smile. ‘‘I was beginning to give up on you.’’
‘‘I hadn’t intended to return quite so late. I hope it isn’t going to cause you any inconvenience.’’
Bill shook his head and motioned Fred inside. ‘‘The children have gone to bed and my wife is doing her mending, so we’ll have a couple of uninterrupted hours to visit. I want to hear an inside view on how things are shaping up with tomorrow’s deadline.’’