Page 13 of Ellen Found
She spread the two outfits on her bed, dresses sewn to her specifications alone. Sensible black brogans came from the box, plus six pairs of stockings. “I have never had six of anything, Mrs. Child,” she murmured.
Which outfit first? Practical to the end, she pulled on the no-nonsense dark blue muslin, with its long sleeves and buttons at the wrist so she could tug them to elbow-length while working.
She buttoned up the front, pleased howwell the bodice fit. The brown paper also held two petticoats. Wordless, she held them against her face. She was too shy to open a smaller package that might, just might, be what she wore under her petticoat. She tore off a corner and put her finger inside. Was thissilk?
The other proposed uniform was a brown skirt and a green and white checked shirtwaist. She slipped on one of the two new petticoats first, then buttoned up the shirtwaist. The skirt brushed the top of her new shoes. She smoothed it over her hips, enjoying the feel of good material. Next came an apron, looking more like a pinafore, frilled along the bib. She patted the pocket and gasped as she pulled out a lacy brassiere.
Mrs. Quincy had to see this. She opened her door and tucked the brassiere behind her back quickly because two roofers from the highest portion of the interior roof had come for more heated nails. They grinned at her; maybe she hadn’t hidden the brassiere in time.
Back it went into her pocket, just as Charles Penrose came inside for nails.
Ellen amazed herself by twirling around for him, stopping when he applauded.
He held out his tin cup for nails. “Shoes, too?”
Ellen raised her skirt to show him.
“I’m relieved,” he teased. “Now you can run fast and not become a meal for bears bulking up for hibernation.”
“Charles!” she exclaimed, and he laughed. “I... I think the blue dress is for daily wear, and the brown skirt and shirtwaist is for special events, which I don’t need now. Should I return the skirt and shirtwaist, Mrs. Quincy?”
“Not on your tintype,” her kitchen boss said firmly. “You are now the owner of two new dresses.”
Well-dressed and enjoying it, Ellen unpacked crates of canned food, as welcome to her as the venison and moose meat now hanging in the temporary meat locker, a washroom locked and cold, safe from bears still nosing about, wondering where to hibernate.
As the days passed, Ellen began to look forward to Charles Penrose every morning before breakfast. “You make good coffee, and I don’t,” he said.
If she started earlier on the biscuits, she had time to sit with him. While he sipped and relaxed, Ellen started asking him what he planned for the day, which seemed to please him. “You’re interested in everything,” he told her one morning.
“Does that make me nosy?”
“It makes you smart,” he replied, which gratified her more than the neat rows of canned beans, corn, carrots, and tomatoes.
You have a fine smile, Mr. Penrose, she thought, after he nodded to her and returned to his quarters to ready Gwen for her day next door with the McTavishes.
She wished Charles would bring Gwen by for supper, then reminded herself that they ate with the McTavishes. She wanted to tell him how nice the mezzanine looked—and how much safer it was—now that the railings were in place. She reminded herself that he had a life outside of Old Faithful Inn.
He didn’t come the next morning. She walked from the dining room to the lobby’s entrance, assuring herself that she wasn’t looking for Charles Penrose. Just curious. That was all.
There he stood, looking out at the geyser field in front of the hotel. “Mr. Penrose?” she asked, uncertain. “I made you some biscuits.” She hoped that wasn’t brazen. “Is something wrong?”
“I need a favor,” he said, “if you think you can.”
Well, that is a novelty, she decided as they walked inside. Usually, people told her what to do. No one asked.
“It’s this: Mrs. McTavish is expecting another child and the post surgeon from Fort Yellowstone says she needs to leave right now. She has pleurisy that will only get worse as winter moves in.”
“Poor lady. Her husband is your chief assistant, isn’t he?”
“Aye. Jim tendered his resignation last night. What a blow. Well, a double blow. I’ve lost my right-hand man and the lady who watches my daughter.”
She knew what he needed, and she knew her answer. “Charles, Mrs. Quincy and I can watch Gwen right here.” She decided not to imagine what her boss mightreallythink. “She can help us in the kitchen.”
She saw the relief in his expressive eyes. “When didyoustart peeling potatoes?” he asked, making a little joke of his concern.
She understood. “I was ten. We were taught to earn our keep young.”And remember our place and never make a wave, she reminded herself.Gwen will never need those lessons. “See? Problem solved.”
Sensing there was more, she waited for him to speak. “My wife, Clare, died two years ago when Gwen was four.”
