Page 3 of Ellen Found
I can’t discard this journal. Gwen might want to read it someday to know more about her dear mother. Also, I want to write about this construction, as Mr. Child’s lead carpenter. We’ve been building the Old Faithful hotel since June. This was my chance to retrieve Gwen from Clare’s sister in Helena. She didn’t relinquish my child willingly, but Gwen is mine. Gwen has attached herself to Ellen Found, a quiet woman Mr. Child hired to assist Mrs. Quincy in the kitchen. She has a fearsome cat and a sweet smile. (Hers, not the cat’s.)
THREE DAYS LATER, traveling in a yellow tourist stagecoach from Mr. Child’s transportation company, Ellie arrived at the construction site. They spent one night at a hotel in Gardiner, and another night at a soldiers’ station inside Yellowstone Park. Even better, Ellie made an acquaintance.
Two acquaintances. She noticed the man and child in The Bozeman’s lobby after breakfast. Mr. Child knew them, so she assumed he was one of the workers. That was that, at first.
It was a short walk to the depot from The Bozeman. To her delight, Ellie found an empty seat that contained a discarded newspaper. The porter offered to take her carpetbag, but stepped back when he heard Plato’s rumbling growl from within.
She admired the scenery as they clacked along, reveling in unheard-of leisure, then opened the newspaper. She was deep in an article titled “American Renegade Killed. Desperate Fighting in Small Boat with Filipinos” when someone cleared his throat and Plato hissed.
“Oh, Plato,” she said. There stood the man with the little girl. “Yes, sir?”
He had wonderful blue eyes and a close-cut beard as dark brown as his hair. “Pardon me, but my daughter needs to use the ladies’ room. I’d rather she didn’t go alone. I am Charles Penrose.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir.” She had heard that lilting accent before, reminding her of miners who came to the Mercury Street Café on Tuesdays when they served pasties. “I’m happy to help,” she said, even though a train’s lavatory was a mystery to her. “Where is it?”
He pointed to the front of the car. I hope it’s free , Ellie thought.
“This is Gwener,” he said. “ Gwener is Cornish for Friday, her birth day. I call her Gwen.” He gave his daughter a gentle push. “Go along, Gwen. The nice lady will help you.”
The nice lady did. The two of them navigated the swaying car to a door with Ladies in gilt lettering. Inside was a small room with a sink and a cloth-roller bar. The other room contained the toilet.
Gwen came out promptly enough, her eyes wide. “Miss, you can see the tracks below!” Her words had a pleasant lilt, but it was not as pronounced as her father’s.
Ellie pointed to a sign. “‘Passengers will please refrain from flushing when the train is not in motion,’” she read. Gwen giggled.
Ellie steadied Gwen as she returned to her seat. Ellie put away the newspaper and admired early snow on mountain peaks, far better than a dingy café in a mining town. She fed breakfast scraps to Plato, hunter of mice and scourge of people. You’re all I have , she thought, then looked ahead to see Gwen smiling at her.
She usually never put herself forward, but Ellie beckoned to the child, who talked with her father, then made her way cautiously toward Ellie.
Plato went back into his carpetbag. Ellie patted the seat and Gwen joined her. “You have a cat? I like cats. Is he shy?”
“Hard to say.”
Gwen handed Ellie a book. “Da said you might read to me. I can read, but isn’t it fun to be read to?”
Ellie had no idea, but she nodded. “ Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm .”
“Da gives me a book on birthdays and Christmas,” Gwen explained. “What do you get on your birthday? ”
“A year older,” Ellie said, amused.
“No presents?” Gwen’s eyes were wide with surprise.
“No.” Ellie admired the cover, wondering how some people had so much, and others so little. “Where are you in the book?”
“I’m on chapter four. Again.” She leaned closer. “Da has read this book over and over and is about to bop me on the head with it.”
Ellie laughed. “I’ve never read it, so I won’t bop your head.”
Ellie read out loud to Gardiner, Montana, then on into the next day when Mr. Child directed his six workers plus Gwen onto one stagecoach, with two freight wagons following. “Park visitors use such coaches in the summer,” he said, directing his remarks to his new hires.
“Crowded like whelks in a basket,” Mr. Penrose said to Ellie as they sat down, his daughter on his lap. He pointed to the stone arch just outside Gardiner. “‘For the benefit and enjoyment of the people,’” he read. “People are already calling it the Roosevelt Arch. The president himself dedicated it last spring, when he visited the park.”
Ellie looked skeptically at the scenery, which was less than impressive. Mr. Penrose must have noticed her expression. “Not too dramatic, is it? Wait ’til you see the geyser basin at Old Faithful.”
Mr. Child motioned to him. “Let’s have a meeting now, Charles. Move up.”
“Coming, Mr. Child,” he said. “May I leave Gwen with you?”
“Certainly. We have a book.” She couldn’t resist. “ Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm . You may have heard of it.”
He rolled his eyes.
The builders conferred all morning in the four front rows. Lunch came from hampers, which Ellie organized because she decided to start earning her salary now. She helped with dinner as well, eaten at the log cabin soldiers’ station beside the Gibbon River. The men grabbed fishing poles and joined the soldiers at the river, where they caught dinner.
Ellie and Gwen set the table inside the station. Soon potatoes were frying into crispy, salted rounds. The corporal tasted one. “Miss, come back often.”
She protested, but they all helped with the dishes. Ellie walked with Gwen down to the Gibbon River after dishes, while Mr. Penrose watched. “Don’t stray,” he cautioned. “Bears are chunking up for winter, and you’d be a tempting morsel.”
Ellie laughed at that. “It’s no joke,” he said seriously.
Very well, then. Conversation. Conversation. “What is this inn like?” she asked.
“It’s huge. The foundation is massive, concrete layered over with rhyolite, a volcanic rock found here. The first two floors are lodgepole pine with the bark still on. Mr. Reamer wants it rustic, bringing the outside inside.” He rubbed his hands together. “The walls are up and sturdy, and we’re almost done shingling the roof. Oh, the roof. Amazing.”
“It’ll be done by next summer?” she asked, feeling dubious, and she hadn’t even seen it.
“It has to be.” He nodded toward Mr. Child, who walked with Mr. Reamer, the architect. “He’ll lose his shirt to the Northern Pacific if it isn’t. At least we can work indoors for the winter. You’ll never believe the cold.”
“I know cold,” she said quietly, thinking of her unheated room under the Mercury Street Café.
He gave her an appraising glance. “I believe you. You’ll earn every penny of your salary.”
“I intend to.” She sensed kindness in this capable man who loved his daughter. “Same as you.”