Page 7 of Ellen Found

Morning coffee with Ellen. Can I tell you, dear journal, how nice that is? I had almost forgotten.

THE SHOES ARRIVED three weeks later, along with uniforms. Since she was cutting up onions, her tears needed no explanation.

“Try them on now.” Mrs. Quincy looked around. “Be sure to close your door! The builders are indoors and drop in at all hours for coffee and whatever else they can scrounge.”

What a change three weeks had brought. Mr. Schmitz’s “Vee vill haff electricity” came true. Three steam boilers, brought earlier in August, were encased in their own building behind the inn, voraciously scarfing down all the lodgepole pines that woodcutters produced. The steam powered the generators and produced electricity. Power tools and lifts went into action.

Inside the lobby, more scaffolding went up, which entertained Plato mightily. Now he could climb the scaffolding and threaten carpenters nailing narrow split logs high above the floor, covering the ceiling to match the walls below.

Now she had dresses. Ellen’s cautious mind had told her that Mrs. Child didn’t really mean it, but here they were, wrapped in brown paper.

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 how well 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 this silk ?

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 might really think. “She can help us in the kitchen. ”

She saw the relief in his expressive eyes. “When did you start 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.”

“So young,” she said.

“Both of them.” He eyed the Regulator on the wall. “Got a minute?”

“I’ll stop the clock’s hands if I have to. Tell me.” He needed to talk and she wanted to listen.

“Clare’s sister in Helena invited me to move in with her and her husband, and we did. I never have trouble finding work. I answered that same ad you did and started work here last May. Mr. Child put me in charge of the carpenters, and I answer directly to Mr. Reamer.”

“I knew you had a lot of responsibility.”

“Trouble came when I told Amanda I was taking Gwen along, too. She told me I was crazy to do that and an unfit parent.”

“Which you are neither.”

“Thanks,” he said with a brief smile. “Amanda has no children. She pleaded with me to leave Gwen with her. I can’t. Gwen is mine. Mine and Clare’s. It’s hard though. Can you clear it with Mrs. Quincy?”

Ellen knew she had no power or standing. What was she thinking? “I will,” she said firmly. “We’ll do fine.”

Where was her courage coming from? Maybe from the quiet man with heavy responsibilities and a small child. I like this man , she thought. The feeling was novel, and she wanted it to linger.

She had another thought. “I wish we could offer Gwen wages. Women need money of their own. At least, I always wanted that.”

She felt he was measuring her in that same way she had seen him stare at a board before he started to saw. “How about you offer Gwen one dollar a week, which I will slip to you on the sly?”

“Done,” she said. “Bring her over. See how easy that was? ”

She meant it as a joke. He appraised her again, serious. “A mere thank-you is inadequate.”

If Mrs. Quincy had objections when Ellen approached her about it, she stifled them. “We can use her help,” was Ellen’s clinching argument.

“I believe we can, Ellie,” was all she said. “You’re in charge of her.”

Gwen and her father came over after breakfast when Mr. Reamer gave the crew his daily list of projects. Charles helped Gwen off with her coat, kissed her cheek, and went about his business for the day.

“We have a lot of potatoes,” Ellen said, kneeling down. She found a potato peeler. “Let me show you how to peel them.”

The child nodded. “I’ll miss Mrs. McTavish and her little boy,” she said, taking the peeler and looking it over.

“They’ll be better off in a warmer climate, and she won’t cough so much.”

Ellen sat her down at the table and brought over a bowl of scrubbed potatoes. “We’ll work together,” she told the child. She glanced at Mrs. Quincy, who, to her surprise, watched them with an expression she might be tempted to call tender, were this anyone but Mrs. Quincy.

This turned into a day of surprises. Charles had said his daughter still liked a nap. After lunch, when Gwen started tugging on her eyelashes, Ellen took Gwen to her room, removed her shoes, and covered her with a blanket. When she came back later to check, Plato had curled up with Gwen.

“Good for you, Plato,” she whispered. “Every lady needs a bodyguard.”

Gwen made sure her father had an extra serving of mashed potatoes that night. “I mashed these,” she announced.

He hugged her. “Never better.” He smiled at Ellen. “Thank you. I know Gwen is in good hands.”

She saw how tired he was, how tired they all were. Until the newly built fireplace was ready, the lobby was still going to be cold. Even working indoors was no proof against Yellowstone in the winter.

He helped Gwen with her coat. “We’ll be eating here now, since the McTavishes are gone. I’m no cook. ”

“He isn’t,” Gwen agreed.

Ellen walked with them through the dark lobby. Charles stopped when his daughter stooped down to pet Plato, who had come up silently beside the child. “Uh... careful.”

“He’s my friend,” Gwen said.

Charles held out his hand slowly. Plato sniffed but did not hiss, and turned away. “He’ll be your friend too, Papa,” Gwen assured him. “I know it. Give him time.”

Give me time too , Ellen thought.