Chapter 13

Sweat dripped from Elise’s overheated face. It plopped into the steaming trough like raindrops. She’d long past stopped trying to wipe her forehead and face.

“Swirl that dolly harder,” barked Agnes Engle, who was at the other trough pounding and rotating her dolly against the linen as if she’d been born doing the task.

After almost a week of laundering, Elise’s muscles screamed. With a grunt she attempted to obey Agnes’s instructions, but her arms couldn’t move faster or beat more vigorously even if someone had whipped her back.

Beatrice Engle was wringing out the linens that had already been dollied. Elise was impressed with how steadily the woman worked, wringing and rinsing and wringing once more before placing the linens into an enormous copper pot filled with boiling soapy water. Once in the pot, she let the laundry simmer for half an hour before removing and rinsing at least once if not two more times.

The Engle sisters had been disgusted with Elise’s ability to assist them. And rightly so. With their shirtsleeves rolled up past their elbows, the women’s arms were double the size of Elise’s. With her spindly arms, she felt like a newborn calf next to mother cows. Their stature and strength allowed them to tackle each part of the process with an ease Elise couldn’t muster no matter how hard she tried.

Not only were they muscular, but they also had years of experience in commercial laundries in New York City. Elise hadn’t laundered clothes before, except for the simple washing of her family’s garments.

Now she’d been working since four o’clock in the morning and still piles of clothes and sheets awaited their attention. In fact, the mounds were never-ending, apparently the accumulation of a month’s worth of laundry from every single construction worker in Quincy.

And maybe every resident and rodent in the surrounding hundred-mile vicinity.

The Engle sisters worked nonstop, breaking only for a brief breakfast and lunch. Elise labored with them each day until six or seven in the evening, before heading back to the depot restaurant for a meal and then returning to their dormer room on the third floor of the hotel.

The unheated room contained five single cots, enough for the workers Thornton had originally hired. The sleeping quarters were cramped, the women’s belongings stuffed into every nook and cranny. Elise had resorted to rolling out her blankets on the floor. She couldn’t deny she was jealous of the other women, though she knew she shouldn’t be since sleeping on the floor wasn’t anything new. After all, she hadn’t slept in a bed in years, not since Vater died and they’d moved in with Uncle Hermann.

The truth was she’d been too tired to care where she slept. After the long days of doing laundry, she’d hardly been able to stay awake to eat her supper. She’d fallen asleep the moment she sprawled out on the floor.

Although she’d heard that Thornton arrived in Quincy two days ago, she hadn’t seen him yet and certainly wasn’t seeking him out. An encounter with him would only raise the eyebrows of the other women. While none of them had questioned her about Thornton, she had no doubt their speculations about why Thornton hired her would be less than pleasant.

She planned to avoid him for as long as possible. Yet in a town smaller than a New York City tavern, certainly she would see him again eventually. Unless he was avoiding her too. She didn’t know why that thought bothered her. She should be relieved. But after the way he’d sought her out and flattered her on their trip, she didn’t understand how he could so easily dismiss her from his mind.

Maybe she hoped he wasn’t the kind of man Fanny had painted him to be. Maybe she hoped she was a better judge of character than Fanny had given her credit for. Maybe deep down she hoped he truly liked her for who she was and not for what he could gain from her.

“Good afternoon, ladies.” Mr. Hewitt spoke from the doorway.

At the sound, Agnes stiffened and plunged her dolly into the trough more vigorously, while Elise ceased her struggle to beat the linens and leaned against the handle of the dolly. Blessed relief.

“I see you’re hard at work.” Mr. Hewitt came at least once a day to check on their progress, inspecting everything they were doing and jotting notes on his pad.

Neither of the Engle sisters responded but instead focused on their work as if he weren’t there. Elise wasn’t sure if they were trying to prove what hard workers they were or if they resented his scrutiny.

Elise was too weary to care what Mr. Hewitt thought of her. In some ways, she hoped he’d see she wasn’t suited to laundering and assign her something else to do. Maybe he’d let her help Fanny with the sewing. Fanny was working with the tailor and his family, sewing from early morning until dusk with hardly a break in between. While the long hours and toil weren’t anything new, the tailor was difficult to please, according to Fanny, who complained about him every evening once they were back in the dormer room. Just last night, she’d come to dinner with a bruise under her eye from where he’d hit her after she failed to make her stitches small enough.

“Although today is payday,” Mr. Hewitt said, glancing down into one of the bubbling copper pots, “I deducted from your unpaid traveling expenses and so I won’t be giving you money. If you need to purchase anything, you may add it to the tab at the general store, and it too will be deducted from future payments.”

“How much did we earn this week?” Elise asked. The first day they arrived, no one had questioned Mr. Hewitt about the amount of their pay. Miss Shaw hadn’t made any indication either. Elise supposed the other workers felt the same as she did, that they were grateful for the employment, no matter the wages.

But now, after a week of hard labor, Elise wasn’t so sure she was grateful.

Mr. Hewitt stepped away from the steaming pot with fogged spectacles. He removed them and began wiping the lenses with the edge of his vest.

Elise peeled a strand of hair from her forehead and smoothed it back with the rest of her damp hair. “Would you be so kind as to tell us our traveling expenses as well as our weekly earnings?”

“I am keeping individual tabs for each of your accounts back in the office,” he replied as he wiped at his spectacles. “Not only of your traveling expenses, but also for your weekly room and board. So if you’d like to see your totals, you’ll need to come to the office. ”

Elise dreaded to see the amount of debt she’d accumulated. Miss Shaw had indicated that the cost of the train ticket had been $15.20—a slight reduction in the normal fare—but that hadn’t included any of the meals during the journey. “Very well. But surely you can tell us how much we’re earning.”

Mr. Hewitt replaced his circular spectacles onto his nose, peered through them, then removed them and began wiping again. “We are paying each of you one dollar and fifty cents per week, which works out to exactly one dollar after deducting the cost of your room and board.”

“Only one dollar a week?” Elise knew she shouldn’t feel shocked or angry. The Engle sisters didn’t blink or even pause in their steady labor at the pronouncement. But Elise felt a rush of frustration at the realization her painful efforts from before dawn until after dusk would only earn her one dollar a week.

“It’s a very fair wage for a woman.” Mr. Hewitt held up his glasses and examined them. “I’m quite certain you wouldn’t make anything close to one dollar and fifty cents a week if you’d remained in New York City.”

His words cut off any reply she could make. She wouldn’t have been making anything if she’d stayed in the city. She was lucky to have any work at all. On the other hand, such intense labor as laundering surely deserved more compensation than one dollar and fifty cents a week. Didn’t it?

When she’d worked in the tenement as a seamstress, she made one dollar and sixty cents per week, only ten cents more than now. But she was certainly working more hours here. And it was harder work.

Besides, at a dollar a week, she’d earn just four dollars a month. At that rate, she wouldn’t be able to pay off her traveling expenses for four months, if not longer. Four months of beating laundry with nothing to show for it. Four months of not being able to send any money back home to Marianne and Sophie. With such low wages, it would take years to save enough to purchase train tickets for them to join her in Quincy.

She swallowed the bitterness that rose in her throat. So much for her dream of finding a better life in the West, of starting over, of perhaps even making a new home for her family and fulfilling her promise to Mutti to take care of Sophie and Marianne, as well as provide for Olivia and Nicholas. With the way things were going, all she’d managed to do was place thousands of miles between them with no hope of being reunited.

But then what did she expect? Hadn’t Fanny warned her how the Quincys treated the railroad workers they hired? What made her think they’d be different toward anyone else they employed, especially women? She’d never understood why women were paid less than men. When she worked in the sweatshop sewing vests, she’d resented the fact that she could often work faster and more meticulously than some of the men, yet they were paid nearly double her wages.

Mr. Hewitt finally replaced his spectacles and waved his hand at the dolly she was still resting against. “Miss Neumann, since you apparently like to dally at your work, perhaps I should consider reducing your wages.”

Reduce them? He wouldn’t dare. Her ire was already stirred. His threat only whipped it into a froth. “Why, Mr. Hewitt, I thought a good Northerner like yourself and the Quincys would certainly be abolitionists.” Although Elise wasn’t well-educated on the slavery debate, recently everyone was talking about the skirmishes in Kansas between those who opposed slavery and those who were for it.

“Of course, we’re abolitionists.” Mr. Hewitt looked at her warily. “The Quincys have never owned slaves and never will.”

“Is that really true, Mr. Hewitt?”

He puffed out his chest. “It is most certainly true.”

“With the long hours, low wages, and difficult work, we women might as well be your slaves.”

The room became so silent that Elise could hear the distant hammering of the construction workers above the bubbling of the soapy water in the copper pots. The Engle sisters had halted their work and were staring at Elise with wide eyes.

Mr. Hewitt’s boyish expression turned sullen. “Well, Miss Neumann, if you think you’re being treated like a slave, then I have the perfect solution for you.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“You may pack your bag and leave on the next train.” He made folding motions with his hand that would have made her smirk under normal circumstances. But the reality of what she’d just done hit her with the force of a steam whistle blowing its top.

She’d just gotten herself fired.

Thornton knew he was being a coward, hiding away in his office whenever the newly hired women employees came around the depot. But he wasn’t ready to face Elise yet. He didn’t know if he was strong enough to tell her the truth, that they could only be friends. He was afraid if he saw her, he might do something stupid, like pull her into his arms and kiss her again, which would only complicate the situation even more.

Besides, he didn’t want to see the hurt and disappointment on her face when he apologized for leading her on. She was sure to be heartbroken. And it would all be his fault. He should have been more careful during the train ride to keep an appropriate distance from her, instead of leading her to believe there could be more between them.

He stared at the open ledger in front of him and flapped his pencil back and forth. His windowless office was stuffy and dark and depressing. The flickering light of the oil lamp on the cloudy day didn’t cheer him. Neither had Hewitt’s news that Quincy now had more construction projects than Bradford’s town of Wellington to the north.

Instead he shoved away from his desk and stood, stretching his arms toward the ceiling and holding in a yawn. He’d stayed up too late reading one of the books he’d purchased when he was back in New York City. This one was a first edition of Institutes of Christian Religion by John Calvin, an excellent addition to his rare-book collection.

“Time for another cup of coffee,” he mumbled and reached for the mug on his desk. The black liquid at the bottom was thick with coffee grounds.

If only Mrs. Gray could make a pot of coffee worthy of being called by the name. What was it about train depot coffee, anyway? In all his stops, he couldn’t think of one place that actually had decent coffee. Did the stationmasters have a conspiracy to make travelers’ lives miserable? Maybe they were having a contest among themselves to see which depot could serve the worst coffee?

He ambled out of his office, nodded at Mr. Gray. Tall and thin, with a smattering of gray in his beard and mustache, the stationmaster was writing in the ledgers spread out before him, keeping meticulous notes of the number of passengers, wagons, income, and a myriad of other details. With Mr. Gray’s years of experience running stations in rural New York, Thornton was grateful he’d been willing to transfer to Quincy so quickly.

Thornton moved past the ticket counter into the deserted waiting room. Only the room wasn’t deserted. A lone woman sat on one of the benches with a bag at her feet. In contrast to the scuffed leather of her worn boots, the bright blue and gold of her fancy bag seemed out of place.

When his gaze traveled up to the woman’s profile, to the pert nose and chin, his heart gave an extra beat. “Elise?” Her name fell out before he could stop it.

She turned abruptly, causing her long hair to swish. He’d never seen her with her hair outside of a coiled braid. Now it fell in thick waves over her shoulders and down her back. The damp blond was a shade darker as though she’d recently washed it, and it was simply breathtaking. When her blue eyes connected with his, he couldn’t speak past the tightness in his lungs.

Although he’d tried over the past days not to feel anything for her, all at once his longing for her came rushing back like a wave that couldn’t be contained. In person, she was so vibrant and fresh and beautiful and alive, he wanted to be with her. Just the sight of her made him forget every objection he’d had to spending time with her.

“Hi,” he said, not caring that he was grinning like a young boy experiencing his first crush. “How are you?”

She didn’t return his smile. In fact, her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared before she lifted her chin and looked away from him. “I’m doing splendidly.”

Her words were icy. And he caught the hint of sarcasm in her pronunciation of the word splendidly. His grin faltered. He followed her gaze to the clock behind the ticket counter. It was only three o’clock in the afternoon. Shouldn’t she be working? “What are you doing here at the depot?”

“Oh, I’m sitting here because I haven’t had the chance yet to test out the benches.”

He arched a brow. “And do they meet your specifications?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to sit here for at least two more hours before I’ll be able to tell.”

His attention returned to the clock. If the Chicago-bound train coming north was on time today, that meant it would be arriving around five. In two hours. He glanced again to her bag, to her coat, to her hat on the bench beside her.

“You aren’t leaving, are you?” he asked, a strange urgency forming in his gut.

“Whatever gave you the idea I’d ever want to leave this little paradise?”

He glanced at her bag again. “Then you’re not going?”

She blew out an exasperated breath. “Yes, of course I’m going. On the five o’clock train.”

The panic in his stomach swelled. “But you just got here. I thought you needed the work.”

“I need paid work. Not slave labor.”

“Slave labor?” What was she talking about? Hewitt had mentioned that he’d placed Elise with the two washerwomen, even though they didn’t technically need her help. His assistant indicated it was an easy job for Elise, since the other two women were tough and experienced and could carry most of the weight of the work. Thornton had assumed it was an ideal situation for her, that she wouldn’t be overly taxed and tired.

“Why don’t you talk to your slave driver?” She tossed a nod toward the door, where Hewitt was entering, his notebook in one hand and his pencil in the other. He was studying his figures and notes and hadn’t noticed Thornton standing in the middle of the depot.

“Hewitt,” Thornton called.

The young man looked up with a jerk of his head. “Sir?”

“What’s this I hear about you being a slave driver?”

“I-I don’t understand . . . what do you mean, sir?”

“Apparently, Miss Neumann feels as though she’s being treated like a slave.”

The man’s sights dropped to Elise. His confusion was wiped away with a scowl. “Oh. Her. Don’t mind her. She’s just sore because I fired her.”

Thornton’s racing heartbeat came to a standstill. “You fired her?” His tone came out harsher than he intended, causing Hewitt’s eyes to widen.

“Yes, sir. She was complaining about the work and her pay. I addressed the problem swiftly and severely to teach all our employees a lesson that we expect them to work hard without complaint.”

Elise snorted. “The only lesson you taught was just how inconsiderate and unjust the Quincys are. But I guess that should come as no surprise, should it?” Her eyes spit accusations at Thornton.

So his identity was no longer a secret. Somehow she’d learned who he really was. He should have guessed she would eventually. In some ways he was relieved the truth had come out.

“The Quincys treat their employees just as well, if not better, than almost anyone else,” Hewitt said. “You should have realized just how lucky you were that Mr. Quincy hired you in the first place.”

“Lucky?” Her voice rose. “Lucky to work fourteen hours every day? Lucky to work in the heat and the steam and with the lye that chafes my hands until they bleed?” She held up one of her hands and revealed red, chapped skin that was cracked in numerous places.

At the sight, Thornton’s stomach clenched. He started to reach for her hand, but she rapidly returned it to her coat pocket.

“Lucky I’ll have to work for months before I get myself out of debt to the Quincys? Lucky I won’t have a single penny to send home to my sisters to help them?”

With each of her assertions, Thornton’s dismay swelled.

She stood, shoved her shoulders back, and faced Hewitt with all her wrath. “Exactly how lucky am I, Mr. Hewitt? Why don’t you tell me what I have here to be so grateful for?”

“You had a job,” Mr. Hewitt insisted.

“A job that will kill me before I can pay off my debts.”

“It’s a job.” Hewitt’s tone brooked no further argument. “Any number of women out east would trade places with you in an instant if given the chance.”

“Then let them.” She plopped back onto the bench and reached for her carpetbag. Thornton caught the faint tremor in her hand before her fingers closed around the handle and she tucked the bag closer to her legs.

“We didn’t need you anyway,” Mr. Hewitt said. “You were an added expense we simply can’t afford.”

Thornton shook himself free of the sickening sense of surprise that had held him captive during the exchange between Elise and Hewitt. Was she speaking the truth about how unbearable the work conditions were? In the short times he’d spent with her, he hadn’t taken her for the type of woman to exaggerate a situation. She was a proud woman, and he suspected she’d downplay her hardships rather than try to win sympathy from others.

She’d certainly been desperate to consider leaving her family to venture into the unknown. He’d witnessed her sorrow during the trip. She wouldn’t have left her siblings if she’d had any other choice. So to allow herself to be fired? From her new job? The first week of her employment?

Something was wrong. And he needed to get to the bottom of the predicament.

“Mr. Hewitt,” he said, cocking his head toward his office, “I’d like a word with you alone.”

Hewitt hesitated.

Thornton began striding toward the ticket counter. “Now.”

“Yes, sir.” The young man scurried after him.

For the next quarter of an hour, Thornton stood in his office listening to Hewitt describe his encounter with Elise earlier in the day. From the way Hewitt described Elise, she was nothing more than a greedy jezebel who wanted a handout rather than working hard for her wages.

Yet, after a perusal of Hewitt’s detailed notes regarding the hours and pay scale for the women, Thornton could understand Elise’s frustration. How could she help her sisters if she would remain in debt to him for months?

“Can we not pay the women more?” Thornton asked.

Hewitt shook his head. “Part of the reason we hired them was because they provided a cheaper source of labor, which allows us to invest in other things—like the schoolhouse.”

Thornton could perhaps waive their train fare for the ride to Quincy. It was the least he could do. Quincy Enterprises and its railroads didn’t charge the Children’s Aid Society for the children they brought west for placing out. They could do the same for the women, couldn’t they?

He rubbed a hand across his eyes and tried to wipe away the weariness. The blast of the train whistle told him the southbound train was arriving. It wasn’t Elise’s train. Thankfully. But the screech of metal against metal reminded him he had to figure out something for Elise or she would be gone from Quincy and out of his life all too soon. And he wasn’t ready to let her go. Not yet—even though a part of him warned that hanging on to her would only complicate matters.

Hewitt pushed his spectacles up on his nose and glanced toward the door. He needed to take inventory of the new supplies arriving.

“Go on,” Thornton said, letting his shoulders sag. “But our conversation isn’t over. Clearly we need to come up with a better plan for the women.”

“Very good, sir.” Hewitt gave a salute, but it lacked conviction. Then he exited the office and strode toward the back door of the depot.

Only a few passengers were getting off. Quincy didn’t have much to entice any travelers to linger, not even a savory depot meal or pleasant cup of coffee. Thornton had to change that somehow, someway if he hoped to make Quincy successful. But for now, he simply had too many other issues demanding his attention.

One young man hurried across the platform and yanked open the depot door. When he stepped inside, he started toward the ticket counter with a purposeful gait. His tired, sun-bronzed face was set with resolve.

At the sight of the young man, Elise jumped up and called out, “Reinhold?”

The man halted so abruptly he almost tripped over his own feet. He swiveled toward Elise, and every trace of tiredness left his face. His eyes rounded, and a smile of such relief lit his face that Thornton guessed him to be family.

“Praise Gott,” the young man said, starting toward Elise with long strides that echoed all the determination in his expression.

“Reinhold!” she said again, then ran toward the man and flung herself into his arms.

A sharp pang sliced into Thornton’s chest. He’d expected Elise to react to him that way, like she had when they’d parted at the depot in Chicago. But she’d been anything but happy to see him.

Reinhold’s arms slid around Elise, and he pulled her into an all-encompassing hug. He buried his face against her shoulder and her hair, and for a long moment held her tightly. When he lifted his face, consuming love shone from his eyes.

The jab in Thornton’s chest intensified. The man wasn’t family. A family member wouldn’t cling to Elise for quite so long or quite so possessively. And he wouldn’t look as though he’d just walked into heaven instead of a train depot.

Elise struggled to pull back, and Reinhold reluctantly released his hold on her. Thornton could see him work to hide his emotions so that by the time she looked at his face, his eyes were veiled and his expression controlled.

“What are you doing here?” Thornton heard Elise ask, her tone still excited, her face the happiest he’d seen it. Did she love this man in return? And if so, why had she never mentioned him?

Thornton’s ire stoked to a low-burning flame. If she cared for someone else, why had she spent time with him? Just as quickly as his irritation fanned to life, the cold waters of reality doused it. Who was he to condemn her, when he’d done the same? He hadn’t ever mentioned the fact that he was courting Rosalind Beaufort with the intention of marriage. How could he fault Elise for not being candid when he’d been less so, not only about his future plans but about his family?

“I came west to find work,” Reinhold said. “Since I had to come, I figured I might as well find you too.”

She didn’t resist when he reached for her hands. “Did you see Marianne and Sophie and the two little ones before you left?” she asked. He nodded, but before he could speak, she barraged him with more questions. “How are they? They’re still staying with Miss Pendleton, aren’t they? Are they getting enough to eat? Has Marianne found employment?”

Reinhold patiently responded, his answers soothing the worry lines in her forehead. The sting in Thornton’s chest prodded him forward. He wanted to be the one to alleviate Elise’s troubles, to wipe away her anxiety and earn her smiles. He crossed the waiting room until he stood next to them.

At his presence, Reinhold quickly broke away from Elise and put a proper distance between them. Thornton’s ready scowl eased as he appraised Reinhold. He was shorter than Thornton by a couple of inches, but was much stockier, his muscles and build showing him to be a man who was accustomed to heavy lifting and hard labor. He had a pleasant face, certainly not as good-looking as Thornton’s, yet he wasn’t sore on the eyes by any means.

“I see we have a new arrival,” Thornton said. “A friend of yours, Elise?”

Wariness immediately dropped over her features, and she seemed to be waging an inner war over whether or not to speak to him. Her courtesy must have won the battle, for she nodded and replied, “Yes, this is Reinhold Weiss.”

Reinhold studied Elise’s face as though reading a message there before he looked Thornton up and down. A sudden spark in Reinhold’s eyes said he’d guessed Thornton’s attraction to Elise and didn’t like it. But as with his other feelings, he shelved it out of sight and instead respectfully stuck out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr.—”

“Mr. Quincy.” Thornton returned the handshake, perhaps a little too tightly. He waited for the implication to make its impact. As Reinhold’s eyes widened and his shoulders straightened, satisfaction sifted through Thornton. The man was apparently as bright as he was strong.

“I couldn’t help overhearing that you’re looking for work.” Thornton released his grip on Reinhold and stepped back.

“That I am, sir.”

Elise shot Thornton a dangerous look, one that warned him against hurting Reinhold. So she cared about this man? For just an instant, Thornton had the impulse to send him to a different town so he was far from Elise. But what would Elise think of him if he did that? She already thought he was a cad of the worst kind. Maybe helping Reinhold would help win back Elise’s favor. Besides, it was the right thing to do.

“Well, if you’re looking for work, then you’re in luck,” Thornton said. “I might have employment I can offer you.”

Reinhold nodded. “I’d be grateful, sir.”

“What’s your trade?”

“No trade,” Reinhold admitted reluctantly. “But I have worked in construction.”

“He helped to build tenements,” Elise added with a note of pride.

Thornton scrutinized Reinhold, noting again his weathered skin and brawniness. Though he’d already hired a dozen new construction workers, he could always use another, especially if Reinhold had experience. “Good. Then you’re hired.”

Reinhold’s face registered surprise, and he smiled tentatively. “Just like that?”

“Just like that. Elise’s word is good enough for me.” Elise’s expression toward him softened, and he took hope in it. Maybe he could yet repair the damage he’d done and build some kind of bridge with her. “Find one of the construction crew supervisors about town. Tell him I hired you and have him put you right to work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Reinhold said. “I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.”

Reinhold turned to Elise eagerly. “Won’t everyone at home be glad when they hear I found work in the same town as you?”

Elise’s smile slipped away, and she glanced down at her carpetbag. Reinhold’s gaze shifted to the luggage as well before darting back up, his face stricken. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

She started to nod, but then Thornton interrupted. “Of course she’s not.”

“I was fired from my job today.” She met Thornton’s gaze with a chilly one, all the hurt and bitterness from earlier securely back in place.

“Fired?” Reinhold looked as if he wanted to reach out and grasp Elise like one might grab a silky scarf the wind was blowing away.

“What Elise meant to say is that she’s had a job change today,” Thornton said.

“No, I was most certainly fired—”

“She’s been hired into a new position.” Thornton scrambled to find any excuse to keep Elise from leaving. He glanced around the depot, to the door leading to the street, to the windows. What other work was there for a woman like Elise in Quincy? “Yes, I thought she might be better suited to something besides laundering.”

“She’s a good seamstress,” Reinhold offered.

“Quincy already has a seamstress,” she explained.

Think, Thornton, think . . .

Mrs. Gray limped out of the dining room carrying a steaming cup of coffee. “Mr. Quincy, here’s that cup of coffee you wanted.” The woman was petite and thin—too thin. She’d suffered from polio earlier in her life and as a result had always had difficulty walking. But she was as kindhearted as her husband, even if she wasn’t much of a cook.

Thornton took the cup from her and tried not to notice the coffee grains floating in a greasy film at the top. “Thank you, Mrs. Gray. You’re a dear.”

She patted his arm before retreating to the dining room.

He blew across the top of the liquid in an attempt to cool it and buy himself a little more time to find a solution regarding what to do with Elise.

Elise took one look at the sludge inside his cup and her nose crinkled in clear disgust.

“She means well,” Thornton whispered in reply, “but apparently making good coffee takes a certain special kind of person.”

Both of Elise’s brows rose as if to say, You must be jesting. How hard is it to make coffee?

The cogs in Thornton’s mind finally began to churn. He glanced from Elise to the dining room and back. “That certain special kind of person is you, Elise. As a matter of fact, I’m hiring you to be in charge of my dining room.”

It was the perfect solution. Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier?

“In charge of the dining room?” Her voice rang with surprise, and she turned her full attention to the deserted room.

“Yes. I need a good cook. Even more than that, I desperately need someone who knows how to make coffee that isn’t a choking hazard.”

“Elise knows how to do both,” Reinhold said.

Her brow was still lifted, her beautiful blue eyes skeptical.

“Of course, as manager,” Thornton continued hurriedly, “I’ll double your wages.”

“Double?”

“Does that sound reasonable to you?”

“Yes.” She visibly swallowed hard. “That would be fine.”

“Good.” He was tempted to pat himself on the back but refrained and instead grinned.

She didn’t smile back, but her eyes lit with what he hoped was excitement. “When should I start?”

He handed her the cup of coffee. “How about now. With a fresh pot of coffee?”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Great. While you do that, I’ll inform Mrs. Gray she’s getting some help. I have a feeling she’ll be relieved.”

He knew Mrs. Gray would be happy to hand over the responsibility of the kitchen and instead assist where needed. But Hewitt would be a different matter. The young assistant would skewer Thornton with his pencil when he discovered the plan. Nevertheless, Thornton couldn’t quell the rising thrill he felt at coming up with a manageable solution to the problem of Elise’s employment.

She might still despise him. But he’d made a step forward, hopefully, in regaining the friendship he’d lost. And that was all he wanted, wasn’t it—friendship?