Chapter Two

“Whoever heard of a Buchanan working as a waiter?” Marlowe Buchanan lowered his dart while simultaneously raising an eyebrow at his younger brother’s appearance.

If one didn’t know better, they’d assume that the lowly busboy had erred by wandering into the extravagant private car. His white shirt and white pants fit loosely compared to the dandy’s tailored suit, but both men had the same clean-shaven cleft chin and golden-flecked hair, traits they’d inherited from their railroad-baron grandfather. Graham had also inherited his grandfather’s taciturn manner, which had allowed the patriarch to surprise the world when he came out of obscurity as a wealthy man.

“The Harvey House doesn’t hire waiters, only waitresses,” Graham said. “I can’t fake being a chef, so busboy is the only avenue left to me. And you’re destroying the wallpaper,” he added as Marlowe’s dart sank into the hand-painted bouquet of orange blossoms adorning the wall of the car.

“And you’ll likely destroy more than that, going incognito.”

“How else do you propose we uncover the malfeasance? The state officials insist that liquor is being smuggled into Emporia on our trains. They could confiscate our cars if they find it before we do.” Graham pulled the dart out of the wall. He walked over to his brother, then, with his back to the dartboard, threw the dart over his shoulder. Turning, he saw the nick in the woodwork and the bent dart lying on the ground. He shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”

Marlowe pushed aside the curtain and peered out the window. “You should wait until we hear from Father’s detective. What if you’re in over your head? This isn’t like wooing investors or negotiating rights-of-way.”

Faustus Buchanan made good use of both of his attractive, intelligent sons, but Graham wanted a different challenge. Rather than sit in his office looking over manifests and searching for discrepancies on paper, he’d search in person. Over the last year, they’d seen railman after railman along this stretch of track quit. Sometimes it was baggage clerks, sometimes it was freight men, and sometimes it was the employees of the Harvey House at Emporia.

Those who’d walked away from the job were tight-lipped, never disclosing their reasons. When his father had received word that an investigation concerning smuggling on their railroad was pending, the pieces fell together.

“I have a letter of recommendation from the Harvey hiring office,” Graham said, “and no one in Emporia knows me. I’m just another employee.”

“I’m sure no one will think it odd that a twenty-three-year-old man with aristocratic manners and a patrician accent is working as a busboy. Not the least bit suspicious.”

Graham pulled on his white cap. “You underestimate me.”

“Actually, if I thought less of you, I’d think you could be mistaken for a common laborer. As it is, you don’t stand a chance. Just do me this favor, little brother. When you are discovered, give up the game and wire for help. I imagine there’ll be some people who don’t appreciate you trying to infiltrate their circle. This isn’t the time to go it alone. You have to communicate with us. The telegraph office is at your disposal. Use it.”

Graham picked up a ragtag carrying case that he’d bought from a passenger earlier that week. Funny to think that all he needed was inside one valise. He didn’t know how long he’d be gone, but he was determined to succeed at the task he’d chosen. He’d persevered through challenging academics, bitter negotiations, and exhausting marathons of paperwork, but how did that compare to the monotony of physical work and routine drudgery? Was he up to the task? There was only one way to find out.

“Thanks for your concern, Marlowe. Don’t spare me another thought. I’ll wire when I’ve got it figured out.”

His brother followed Graham to the doorway. “In other words, you’ll only send for help when you no longer need it.” Marlowe rolled his eyes. “One of these days, Graham. One of these days.”

She was too late. Everywhere around the dining room, men were helping ladies with their chairs, ladies were gathering their bags, and the Harvey Girls were saying their cheerful good-byes. From the empty plates and satisfied stretches, it looked as if the dinner had been a success . . . all except for the table in the corner.

Mrs. Sykes hadn’t said a word. Not yet. Had she seen Willow talking with Calista when she should have been working? The sickness in the pit of Willow’s stomach wouldn’t go away until she knew. She ducked her head as she returned to her table and found it still lacking dessert.

“But I want to eat my custard.” The boy who’d toppled the glass of milk had not been tamed. “You promised we’d get dessert. We can’t leave now.”

Billie hurried toward them with two plates of dessert. The elderly couple had already given up and were walking away, as was the younger couple. The gentlemen were standing, but from the way they were eying the custard, Willow figured they were willing to fight the boy for one of the plates. Quick as a wink, she grabbed two more plates and rushed to her table just as the train whistle sounded. Ignoring the soiled apron tucked beneath her arm and her drenched sleeve, she slid the custards across the table.

The mother turned up her nose. “A lot of good dessert does us now,” she said. “Guess what the next hundred miles of my journey is going to be like.” She arranged the baby firmly on her hip before taking the boy by the hand. “Whoever heard of a waitress disappearing for the entirety of the meal?”

Back home, Willow had gone without dessert for whole weeks, but a Harvey customer expected the best. Swallowing her sense of justice, she said, “I apologize if you are displeased with your service. We regret—”

“Is there a problem, ma’am?” It was Mrs. Sykes.

“I’d say. We paid for a meal, complete with dessert, but it wasn’t served until the train whistle blew. What kind of service is that?”

Mrs. Sykes’s maternal smile showed the disappointment that only a doting mother could have in her favorite child. “We apologize that your experience did not meet the Harvey Standard,” she said. “Billie, please carry this kind lady’s custards to the train for her.”

“But, ma’am, that’s china,” Billie squeaked.

“Whatever we need to do for the satisfaction of the customer.” Mrs. Sykes laced her fingers together. “That’s the single priority here.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Billie pulled her skirt to the side to ease around Willow. The angry mother stuck her nose in the air, gave a huff, and stomped toward the train. Billie followed close behind, playing the hero who’d rescued the situation from Willow’s incompetency.

With the last of the customers exiting the dining room, Willow’s shoulders dropped. She didn’t have to see Mrs. Sykes’s gesture to know that she was expected to follow.

She ran her fingers along the soiled tablecloth of her table as she passed. It was time to clean the dining room. Why couldn’t she run upstairs, change uniforms, then get back to work? But evidently Mrs. Sykes thought that whatever she had to say was more important than getting the table cleared for the next train.

There was no privacy at the foot of the dormitory staircase, but everyone knew not to linger there when a discussion was taking place.

“Miss Kentworth, how did it happen that your station was shorthanded for the duration of the dinner?”

Willow breathed deeply to steady her racing heart. “First, the boy spilled his milk on the table. While I was attempting to clean the mess, the mother thrust her baby in my arms and took the boy outside. Then the baby erupted on me. Soaked clear through my apron and sleeve. All I could think to do was get the baby back to its mother.”

“Surely you thought through the consequences of abandoning your station?” Mrs. Sykes’s hair was piled in a soft pillow atop her head. Everything about Mrs. Sykes looked soft beside the precision of her uniform and her voice.

“The consequences didn’t matter,” Willow said. “I had to rid myself of the child, and serving in a smelly apron is not the Harvey Standard.”

“Neither is allowing our customers to get back on a train without the opportunity to enjoy their complete meal. Of the two, I can assure you which will cause the most dissatisfaction.”

Mrs. Sykes’s advice contradicted the training Willow had received in Kansas City. There, the girls had been reminded again and again of the importance of cleanliness, of presentation, and of professionalism. They’d never been taught what to do when the Harvey Standard of appearances conflicted with the Harvey Standard of service.

“I’ll know next time,” Willow said. Please, God, let there be a next time. I don’t want to go home, despite Calista’s concerns. “Next time I’ll finish serving the meal even if a child is in my arms.”

“But that wasn’t the only impediment to your work. I noticed that a passenger engaged you in conversation. You claim to have been in a hurry, but it seems you had time—” Mrs. Sykes’s mouth went tight, and her brow furrowed. “May I help you?”

Willow turned to see a busboy ambling toward them . . . and the forbidden stairs to the girls’ dormitory. He removed his cap to display a haircut that couldn’t be done in a kitchen with a pair of shears and a mixing bowl. Judging by his posture and age, he should have advanced far beyond busboy by now. Unless he was a dolt who couldn’t tell when he was interrupting a private conversation.

“Yes, ma’am, I’m reporting for work. Are you the head waitress?”

If Mrs. Sykes was as taken aback by his cavalier attitude as Willow was, this young man was in big trouble.

“Pardon me, sir.” Mrs. Sykes might look motherly, but it was a mistake to miss the ironclad authority beneath the full bosom and bouffant. “It’s not my practice to answer to busboys.”

Pure orneriness, if there was such a thing, had Willow fighting back a smile at his shocked expression. But he hadn’t learned his lesson. “My apologies, ma’am. I’m looking for someone to answer to myself and thought you might be helpful. If I’m mistaken . . .”

“You are not mistaken. Only the manager outranks me at this Harvey House, and you are preventing me from a discipline concern at this moment.”

“Discipline concern?” For the first time, he looked at Willow. His eyes were direct, intelligent, and not the least bit humble. As fearful as she was over her employment, Willow was even more worried for him. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked.

“Our interview has concluded,” Mrs. Sykes said to Willow. “This busboy needs to meet the manager immediately.”

Willow took one last look at the handsome fellow, certain she’d never see him again. It was a pity. He’d saved her from explaining the unexplainable appearance of her cousin. She wished she could do something in return.

As usual, Marlowe was right. Pretending to be a busboy wasn’t as easy as Graham had thought, and he’d yet to wash a single dish. For years he’d been accustomed to railroad employees answering to him. Even in most Harvey Houses, he was treated with care. The managers knew that all their food and supplies shipped for free on his father’s railroad. They knew they could come to him with their concerns and problems. Being left out of a management decision was a new experience for him.

Graham followed the matron as she chugged through the dining room to the kitchen door.

“Please don’t go any farther.” Her voice sounded as sweet as spun sugar as she allowed the kitchen door to swing closed in his face.

He hadn’t fooled the girl. She’d immediately recognized his error in addressing the head waitress. Graham stepped aside as a stout boy rushed into the kitchen with a tray of dirty dishes. He wondered what else the girl had seen while working in Emporia. He’d noticed that she’d snuck away from her station to talk to the young lady who’d arrived on his train. Graham had spent his life on trains. He knew how travelers behaved, and that lady had not behaved like a simple traveler. Over the last few weeks, he’d crossed her path repeatedly between Kansas City and Emporia, but she’d always ducked out of sight when he approached. What was she up to, and how was the Harvey Girl involved? He wouldn’t mind talking to the waitress. Someone as observant as she was might be helpful. Someone as beautiful as she was . . .

Graham felt like a churl, not holding the door for the next busboy carrying dishes, but he could tell there was a system and that if he interfered, he’d cause more problems than he’d help. With a sigh, he looked down at his own uniform. Being underdressed was a new experience for him. Next to the uniforms of the ladies, he might as well be decked out in beggar’s rags. He had to remember that a busboy’s introduction wasn’t as coveted as a Buchanan’s.

The door swung open again. The head waitress passed serenely by without comment. Graham suspected that she was an excellent worker who brooked no nonsense from her charges. Once this adventure was over, he’d have to look into getting her a bonus. If she fired him, well, that would show even more that she was a good employee.

Behind her came the manager. Perhaps it was his pencil-thin mustache or his too-perfect posture, but Graham had him pegged as a Brit before he ever opened his mouth and proved it with his accent.

“Who am I addressing?” he asked with his mouth tight like he was trying to suppress a yawn.

Luckily, Graham had already planned his alias. “Buck Graham,” he said. Better to keep as close to the truth as possible. “I’m reporting for duty from the Kansas City employment office.”

The Brit kept his nose elevated as he surveyed Graham from on high. “Mr. Graham, you’ve made a poor impression on Mrs. Sykes. I can’t imagine what possessed you to interfere with the reprimand of an employee, but I trust you won’t do it again.”

“Of course not, Mr. . . . ?”

The manager’s eyebrow twitched. “It’s Mr. Cecil, and in general it behooves lowly busboys to let their superiors introduce themselves when they are ready. Perhaps you’ve never been in society, but forcing an introduction is bad form.”

Actually, he had been in society, but Graham had never had to beg for an introduction before. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “This is very different than what I’m used to.”

“Quite. Well, you look promising. Mrs. Sykes won’t be pleased that I haven’t sent you packing, but I’m having difficulty keeping the kitchen staffed, and we are short a busboy at present. There’s a stack of dishes and a sink of hot water reserved for your pleasure. Help yourself, Mr. Graham.”

Mr. Cecil turned to go, but Graham stepped forward. “I beg your pardon again, sir, but you mentioned that you are losing staff. Why do you think they are leaving?”

If Graham had been given a second chance, he nearly lost it that fast. Mr. Cecil’s liver-spotted cheeks drooped in disapproval. “You are not being paid to talk, Mr. Graham. If I wanted a conversation, I could find people infinitely more agreeable to converse with than you.”

Fair enough. People quitting, staff resigning, shorthanded kitchens making management edgy—it looked like the problems were just as he suspected, but were they a sign of felonious activity?

Graham adjusted his cap and made his way into the steamy kitchen. He had work to do.