Page 6 of Ellen Found

Great banquet. Ellen Found is even more of an asset than Mr. Child realized when he hired her. She has a quiet way of taking charge. I doubt she is aware of it, but I am.

“THEY TUCKED IN their shirttails,” Mrs. Quincy whispered to Ellie. “Even One-Eyed Wilson.”

The builders congregated in the dining room, sneaking peeks at the mounds of mashed potatoes, gravy with no lumps, boring canned peas, stewed tomatoes with chunks of bread, and rolls glistening with butter. To her surprise, Mr. Penrose and Gwen were among the guests .

Brought by soldiers from Fort Yellowstone, the elk roast took up considerable real estate on the next table. Excellent. Mr. Child wanted elk, and here it was. Somehow even the heavy China plates and bowls looked elegant.

The door opened and Mr. Child and Mr. Blackstock, his railroad guest, entered, swiping at the snow on their overcoats. Mr. Child was joined by Rob Reamer, the architect, who looked at the tables and nodded as if this sort of thing happened every day.

Mr. Child took the arm of a commanding-looking woman wearing a hat too frivolous for a snowy day. Mrs. Quincy whispered, “Mrs. Adelaide Child herself, the law-dee-daw lady who threw me over for a French chef.”

“Her loss,” Ellie whispered back. “Let’s serve dinner.”

Mrs. Quincy had argued for a separate table for the dignitaries, but Ellie had quietly and kindly overruled her. To her relief, she was right, watching with satisfaction to see the railroad executive in animated conversation with the one-eyed roofer. The architect appeared in deep conversation with a German in charge of steam boilers, soon to provide electricity.

She wasn’t prepared for Mr. Child to gesture her over. Mrs. Quincy gave her a prod in the back, and she found herself under the scrutiny of the Mrs. Child.

“This is the resourceful miss who is adventurous,” Mr. Child told his wife. “She is also responsible for tablecloths for my workers’ breakfast.” He smiled. “I hear they were suitably impressed!”

“Do you do that every morning?” Mrs. Child asked. To Ellie’s relief, she sounded genuinely interested.

“Yes, ma’am,” Ellie replied. “To me, it’s a... a rehearsal of what this hotel will look like in June.”

Silence. Worried, Ellie glanced at Mr. Child and saw his approval. “Keep doing this,” he said. “We need to understand what a great enterprise looks like.” He turned his attention to the serving table. “Do I see cake ?”

“You do, sir,” Ellie said. She understood cake, but she had never attempted piping on little rosettes before, done with a pastry bag made of rolled, stiff paper. Maybe no one would look too closely at the writing.

Mrs. Child came closer. Ellie held her breath, hoping it would survive the scrutiny of someone like Mrs. Child, who had a French chef.

“‘Old Faithful Inn,’” Mrs. Child read. “You should have piped on our geyser.”

“All I had was red food coloring,” Ellie said and couldn’t help a smile. “It would have looked like a burst artery.”

Everyone laughed, a good-hearted, we’re-in-this-together sound. The cake slices went around, and all was well.

“Better look out, Ellen,” Mr. Penrose said when he picked up two plates. “Mrs. Child might nab you for her mansion in Helena.”

“I won’t go,” she said, her face warm. “I like it here where I have ...” She looked at him, admiring his blue eyes and frank face. “Friends.”

“Count me among them,” he said.

To Ellie’s surprise, when the meal was over, everyone except the guests cleared the table. She and Mrs. Quincy headed for the kitchen, but Mr. Child stopped them. “That will keep. Please join us. Mr. Penrose, there’s an empty chair next to you.”

She sat, too shy to look at the boss carpenter, but happy to smile at Gwen. Mr. Penrose leaned closer. “Bravo, Miss Found. You are an event planner, obviously.”

“No . . . I . . .”

“Papa is right,” Gwen said. “I wouldn’t argue.”

“I won’t,” she whispered, stifling her laughter.

“Mr. Reamer, the floor is yours,” Mr. Child said.

The architect pushed his glasses higher on his nose. He turned to an easel and put up an artist’s rendition of the inn at Old Faithful. He took his listeners through dismal years of poor lodging—one was actually called the “Shack Hotel”—and bad food at one of the world’s most amazing places.

“Mr. Blackstock, earlier impresarios didn’t dream big enough,” he said, addressing the railroad executive. “What we have in Yellowstone are forests and geysers and hot pots and utter magnificence. ”

“Otter magnificence,” one of the workers called out. “I saw some in August!”

It was the perfect, spontaneous touch. Everyone laughed and suddenly seemed to own the project. Ellie felt it inside her. Mr. Reamer relaxed; he must have felt it, too. “What I am doing with this ...”—he gestured toward the dark cavern beyond the dining room—“otter magnificence”—more laughter—“is bringing the outdoors indoors.”

More renderings appeared, one showing fanciful woodwork made of twisted lodgepole pines that in other projects might have been discarded. “Let the forest speak, I say,” Mr. Reamer told his audience. He raised his pointer toward the ceiling in the next room. “Whimsical dormer windows here and there will mimic the play of sunlight in our wonderland.”

Mr. Reamer continued, after a dramatic pause. “No one will come to this inn, experience our hospitality, and leave without an appreciation of what we have to offer the world. Yes, the world.” He paused again for dramatic effect, then pulled out the final rendering, a completed hotel. “Old Faithful Inn will set the standard for all national park lodging. Thank you.”

He sat down. Mr. Blackstock broke the silence, pulling out a check and waving it. “Will this help?” he asked. “The Northern Pacific Railroad believes in you!”

Everyone rose and applauded. Mr. Penrose put Gwen to his shoulder and stood. The child looked around with sleepy eyes, then nestled against her father again. Ellie felt the loveliness of a moment only she witnessed. All other eyes were on Mr. Child and the railroad executive, as he handed over the check that would complete the project.

“June first!” Mr. Blackstock proclaimed.

That was everyone’s signal to leave the powerful men alone to talk. Mr. Penrose walked among the workers who followed him into the kitchen, rolled up their sleeves, and started on the dishes.

Mr. Penrose looked around. “Is there somewhere I can put Gwen?”

Ellie opened the door to her room. “She’ll be fine here.”

“Posh digs, Miss Found,” he teased, looking around in appreciation. “I like it. ”

“I’ve never lived anywhere so wonderful in my life.”

Maybe she was too fervent. Mr. Penrose gave her such a look, the sort of look she knew she would remember forever. He set his child down and Ellie covered her with a light blanket. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s a nice room.”

“You can’t imagine,” Ellie told him.

“Maybe I can. Kindly call me Charles.” He smiled. “So I can call you Ellen.”

“Everyone calls me Ellie.”

He shrugged. “I like Ellen.”

The dishes were soon done. With a red-haired roofer’s help, Ellen turned over two mostly clean tablecloths and set the breakfast table. “I wish it could be something besides oatmeal,” she told Red Hair.

“Convince ol’ Harry Child to get us some laying hens,” he said. “I’m a tenant farmer from County Cork.” Ellen smiled at his wonderful accent.

“Add a pig or two,” chimed in One-Eyed Wilson. He nudged the other man. “We have enough shanty Irish working here not to mind a pig in the bunkhouse!” Red Hair glared at him.

“I can convince ol’ Harry.”

Ellen turned to see Mrs. Child, who raised her eyebrows as the strong men cowered. The two men quietly melted into the gang finishing the cleanup.

“Let me see your room,” Mrs. Child said. She made a face. “The men’s bunkhouse is a disaster! They scattered like rats when I came in.”

Mr. Child joined her. “They weren’t expecting you, Adelaide. And you forgot to knock.”

Ellen kept a straight face only through years of being a servant who, she had been informed by the copper king’s wife, was never to be seen or heard. “This way, Mrs. Child,” she said, and put a finger to her lips. “There is a sleeping child.”

She opened the door to see Mr. Penr—Charles—picking up his still-sleeping daughter. “Thanks for the loan of your room,” he whispered.

Mr. Child and Charles conversed quietly in the doorway while Mrs. Child surveyed the room. She jiggled the mattress. “Firm, but not too firm.” Mrs. Child pointed to the hooks in the wall, where Ellen’s other dress, the sadder one, hung. “You should hang up all your dresses.”

“This is all I have,” Ellen said, head up but cringing inside.

Mrs. Child turned to her husband. “Harry, I have a wonderful idea.”

“Yes, my dear?”

“I’ve decided to speed up my plans for hotel uniforms.”

“Yes, my dear.”

“Ellie will be my model. I’ll be here tomorrow with my tape measure,” she announced, then followed her husband and a grinning Charles Penrose out the room.

Mrs. Quincy joined her. “‘Yes, my dear,’” she teased. “In case you wondered who wears the pants in that family.” Her voice hardened. “I only wish she had been nicer to me.”

“Maybe she regrets it.”

“Do you give everyone the benefit of the doubt?” Mrs. Quincy asked as she opened the door to her own room.

Do I? There’s no harm in that , she thought. It’s all I want . “I suppose I do,” she replied.

She searched for Plato and found him crouched over another mouse carcass in the pitch-dark lobby. “I saved some crispy elk pieces for you.”

“Any for me? I like crispy bits too.”

Funny how she already recognized his voice. “Mr. Penrose—”

“Charles.”

Hands on hips. “Mr. Penrose, you’re too quiet!”

“I learned that after Gwen was born,” he said. “Let sleeping children lie. She’s in her bed, and I come at Mrs. Child’s request. Well, perhaps her command.”

“Look out for Plato.”

Plato hissed. “Is it men he doesn’t like, or is it everyone except you?”

“Everyone,” she said, enjoying the mild banter. “What does the lady want?”

“I am to measure your foot for shoes.”

“I... suppose she couldn’t help seeing... I could use some good shoes.” It was true. Why protest? Everyone knew it, including this man with kind eyes .

“Take off your shoe and stand on the paper.”

She did as he said and stepped on the sheet. He grasped her ankle and outlined her foot. “Mrs. Child is observant,” she said, keeping her voice light, wanting to cut the odd tension.

“Not her,” he said quietly. “Me.”

The nuns had warned her about predatory men years ago. But as she stood there, one shoe on, one off, Ellen knew this man was no predator. She knew that she had fallen among friends.

“Thank you, Mr. Penrose.”

“Charles,” he reminded her. “You’ll have shoes. Winters are cold here.” He nodded toward the door, perhaps wanting to change the subject. “Feel that rumble?”

She followed him outside to the porch, rubbing her shoulders against the cold, to watch Old Faithful erupt.

Ellen watched, thinking of cold men on a steep roof. “Thank goodness the roof is done.”

“We’ll finish the inside this winter.” He sniffed the cold air. “Not a minute too soon.” He nodded to her as if she mattered. “Goodnight, Ellen. You will have shoes.”