I won’t ever complain about being named Frederick again.’’
Mr. Ashton dropped into his leather chair. ‘‘We had best get down to the business at hand. I want to discuss the impact you can have on this convention and the men in Pullman, Fred. You’ve gained their respect and proven you hold sway with them. Mr. Debs has asked me to find the right man to act as a liaison during the convention, someone who will keep the men in Pullman advised that we will need their ongoing support through this process. It may take longer than they anticipate.’’
‘‘Wouldn’t Thomas Heathcoate be the proper person for that? He’s chairman of the Strike Committee.’’
‘‘Heathcoate will be too busy here in Chicago during the convention. I doubt he’ll have time to visit his family in Pullman, much less keep the strikers informed. Can Mr. Debs depend upon your help?’’
The very idea that Mr. Debs had requested Fred’s assistance boggled his mind. ‘‘Yes! Of course! You know I’m dedicated to helping the union succeed.’’
‘‘Good! I’ll inform Mr. Debs that we have our man.’’ Mr. Ashton tapped the newspaper Fred had placed on his desk a short time ago. ‘‘Jacob Coxey and his army are old news. When the American Railway Union convention starts, you’ll not be reading about Coxey or his son in the Chicago newspapers.’’
‘‘Or in the newspapers of any other city, for that matter,’’ Matthew agreed.
The conviction in Matthew’s voice was enough to make Fred wonder if they’d soon meet with the same fate as Jacob Coxey. Although Fred possessed the courage of his convictions, he certainly didn’t want to end up in jail.
C HAPTER E IGHT
Pullman, Illinois
Friday, June 8, 1894
Olivia rounded the corner of the hotel and inhaled the sweet scent of the early summer blooms. The roses that framed the garden near the hotel kitchen had begun to blossom in a profusion of color, and the bud-laden bushes promised a summer of beautiful flowers. The peonies and lilacs had already made their annual appearance, and it would be another year before their colorful blooms lined the park.
Mrs. DeVault and Chef René were enjoying an early morning cup of coffee when Olivia entered the kitchen. Instinctively she looked at the clock.
‘‘You are not late, Miss Mott,’’ Chef René said. ‘‘Mrs. DeVault and I happen to enjoy an early morning cup of coffee. It gives us an opportunity to visit before we begin our day.’’
Olivia eyed the two of them. If she overlooked Chef René’s white work jacket and Mrs. DeVault’s starched cook’s apron, they could pass for any married couple enjoying a morning coffee. Chef René , with his dark brown eyes and sagging jowls, seemed to devour every word Mrs. DeVault uttered. And Mrs. DeVault’s blue eyes sparkled at the undivided attention. A plain china vase filled with plump red roses had been placed on the table near their coffee cups.
Olivia pointed at the flowers. ‘‘Lovely roses.’’
A faint blush tinged Mrs. DeVault’s cheeks. ‘‘René cut them for me this morning.’’
‘‘How lovely of him.’’ Olivia glanced at the chef, but his attention remained fixed upon Mrs. DeVault.
René? Mrs. DeVault was no longer addressing her supervisor as Chef René . When had that change occurred? Feeling like an interloper, Olivia picked up the menu and pretended to study the day’s offerings while the older couple continued to converse quietly. What could the two of them possibly be discussing every morning? And when had this ritual begun? Though she’d noticed a spark of interest during Mrs. DeVault’s first day at work, Olivia had observed nothing since then. Had she simply overlooked a relationship that had been taking wing before her very eyes? She inched a step closer.
‘‘If you would like to join our conversation, you may pour a cup of coffee and sit with us, Miss Mott.’’
‘‘Oh, I don’t want to interrupt.’’ With a fleeting
Mr. Ashton dropped into his leather chair. ‘‘We had best get down to the business at hand. I want to discuss the impact you can have on this convention and the men in Pullman, Fred. You’ve gained their respect and proven you hold sway with them. Mr. Debs has asked me to find the right man to act as a liaison during the convention, someone who will keep the men in Pullman advised that we will need their ongoing support through this process. It may take longer than they anticipate.’’
‘‘Wouldn’t Thomas Heathcoate be the proper person for that? He’s chairman of the Strike Committee.’’
‘‘Heathcoate will be too busy here in Chicago during the convention. I doubt he’ll have time to visit his family in Pullman, much less keep the strikers informed. Can Mr. Debs depend upon your help?’’
The very idea that Mr. Debs had requested Fred’s assistance boggled his mind. ‘‘Yes! Of course! You know I’m dedicated to helping the union succeed.’’
‘‘Good! I’ll inform Mr. Debs that we have our man.’’ Mr. Ashton tapped the newspaper Fred had placed on his desk a short time ago. ‘‘Jacob Coxey and his army are old news. When the American Railway Union convention starts, you’ll not be reading about Coxey or his son in the Chicago newspapers.’’
‘‘Or in the newspapers of any other city, for that matter,’’ Matthew agreed.
The conviction in Matthew’s voice was enough to make Fred wonder if they’d soon meet with the same fate as Jacob Coxey. Although Fred possessed the courage of his convictions, he certainly didn’t want to end up in jail.
C HAPTER E IGHT
Pullman, Illinois
Friday, June 8, 1894
Olivia rounded the corner of the hotel and inhaled the sweet scent of the early summer blooms. The roses that framed the garden near the hotel kitchen had begun to blossom in a profusion of color, and the bud-laden bushes promised a summer of beautiful flowers. The peonies and lilacs had already made their annual appearance, and it would be another year before their colorful blooms lined the park.
Mrs. DeVault and Chef René were enjoying an early morning cup of coffee when Olivia entered the kitchen. Instinctively she looked at the clock.
‘‘You are not late, Miss Mott,’’ Chef René said. ‘‘Mrs. DeVault and I happen to enjoy an early morning cup of coffee. It gives us an opportunity to visit before we begin our day.’’
Olivia eyed the two of them. If she overlooked Chef René’s white work jacket and Mrs. DeVault’s starched cook’s apron, they could pass for any married couple enjoying a morning coffee. Chef René , with his dark brown eyes and sagging jowls, seemed to devour every word Mrs. DeVault uttered. And Mrs. DeVault’s blue eyes sparkled at the undivided attention. A plain china vase filled with plump red roses had been placed on the table near their coffee cups.
Olivia pointed at the flowers. ‘‘Lovely roses.’’
A faint blush tinged Mrs. DeVault’s cheeks. ‘‘René cut them for me this morning.’’
‘‘How lovely of him.’’ Olivia glanced at the chef, but his attention remained fixed upon Mrs. DeVault.
René? Mrs. DeVault was no longer addressing her supervisor as Chef René . When had that change occurred? Feeling like an interloper, Olivia picked up the menu and pretended to study the day’s offerings while the older couple continued to converse quietly. What could the two of them possibly be discussing every morning? And when had this ritual begun? Though she’d noticed a spark of interest during Mrs. DeVault’s first day at work, Olivia had observed nothing since then. Had she simply overlooked a relationship that had been taking wing before her very eyes? She inched a step closer.
‘‘If you would like to join our conversation, you may pour a cup of coffee and sit with us, Miss Mott.’’
‘‘Oh, I don’t want to interrupt.’’ With a fleeting
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