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While Love Stirs: A Novel (The Gregory Sisters)

By Lorna Seilstad

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Thursday, May 12, 1910
Charlotte Gregory stared at the elderly doorman. With his arm outstretched, he barred her access to Saint Paul’s recently opened Million-Dollar Hotel.
“Sir, what is the meaning of this?” She fought the urge to shove past him and march inside. Creating a scene was not the way to make a good impression on the hotel’s staff.
In front of her, the revolving door swished, and a stylish couple entered the establishment unimpeded.
Charlotte motioned her head in their direction. Perhaps the doorman would catch on.
He simply smiled.
She glanced down at her outfit. While not as fancy as that of the lady who’d been allowed inside, the cream-colored walking suit was one of her best, and her wide-brimmed hat was practically brand-new. Surely she looked good enough for a day visit to the prestigious hotel.
She tried to step around the man, but he moved to block her.
“Sir, I need to go inside. I’m here to apply for a position as the chef’s assistant. Now, if you’ll kindly let me pass—”
When he didn’t drop his arm, she darted to the right. She’d come too far to let a portly little gray-haired doorman stop her.
For a portly, gray-haired man, he moved quickly.
“Miss.” He dipped his head respectfully. “If you don’t have a gentleman escorting you, you’ll want to enter through the door on the side.”
“Isn’t this the public entrance?” She glanced at the curved front of the hotel and reread the signage.
“Yes, miss.” He gave her a disarming smile. “But you lovely unescorted ladies enter through a separate door—for the protection of your reputation, of course.”
“Of course.” Charlotte’s cheeks warmed. Why hadn’t she remembered that? She’d read about this kind of hotel etiquette before, but it still seemed absurd—especially in 1910. “In that case, sir, where exactly do I find this ladies’ entrance?”
“It’s to your left, miss.” He pointed his gloved white fingers to a door on the side. “It’ll lead you directly into the lobby. The hotel’s restaurant isn’t open yet, but the roof garden and the Palm Room Café are. May I recommend a cup of tea to ward off the chill of this lovely spring morning?”
The doorman’s deep, sonorous voice made it difficult to stay cross. Besides, he was simply doing his job. She only hoped this wasn’t an indication of the rest of her day.
“Thank you. Perhaps I will have a cup of tea.” To celebrate when I get the position. Charlotte nodded her head in thanks and slipped around the corner.
Unlike the grand entrance, the door for unescorted ladies sported no awning or fancy woodwork. But similar to the grand entrance doors, this one opened to the hotel’s lobby. Square marble pillars rose from the floor toward the high ceiling. A large potted palm tree hung its fronds over a collection of leather-clad furnishings. The dining room was situated to the left of the check-in desk. Even this early, enticing scents wafted from its doors. Onion. Chicken. Garlic. Thyme. Was the chef making something like coq au vin?
She stepped inside the restaurant and her breath caught. From the arched wood panels on the walls to the rich crimson carpeting on the floor, everything spoke of exquisite taste. The tables, all draped in their starched white linens, were set with fine china and silver. Crystal chandeliers sparkled throughout the room.
A waiter looked up from polishing a glass. “Sorry, miss, we’re not open for another ten minutes.”
“I know. I’m not here to dine, but I would like to speak to the chef.”
“The chef?” He rolled his eyes. “He doesn’t like to be interrupted while he’s creating.”
The waiter said the last word in his best French accent, and Charlotte giggled. “If you’ll direct me toward the kitchen, I’ll take my chances.”
He shrugged and inclined his head to the right. “Keep your head down if he starts waving pots around.”
Charlotte followed the tantalizing aromas and clanging pots until she reached the swinging door of the kitchen. She paused, uttered a silent prayer, and licked her dry lips.
When she entered the kitchen, the bustle of the room came to an abrupt halt. The chef turned to face her.
“Bonjour, Chef.” She approached him and held out her hand. “I am Charlotte Gregory, recent graduate of Fannie Farmer’s School of Cookery. I’m here to apply for a position in your kitchen.”
His brows furled. “My kitchen?”
“Yes. I have experience in various food preparation techniques, chafing dish cookery, and menu planning.”
“But you are a woman!”
Charlotte frowned at the incredulity in his voice. “Women have been cooking for centuries. Did your own mother not cook in your family’s kitchen? Were your first cooking lessons not at her table?”
“There will be no woman in the kitchen of Chef Boucher. Go.” He dismissed her with a swish of his hand.
“Chef Boucher, you’re making something akin to coq au vin, are you not?”
He dropped a handful of mushrooms into a sizzling skillet. “Oui.”
“You look like you could use some extra hands in here. What if I volunteer to help you today? Then, if you like what you see, we can talk about me securing a permanent position.”
The chef seemed to consider her offer, and Charlotte’s heart skipped a beat. She crossed her fingers at her side and sent up another prayer.
“No.” He shook his head. He raised his spoon in the air and swirled it around. “I will not have a woman cooking in my kitchen. Leave now. You are not welcome here.”
A flurry of movement on the floor drew Charlotte’s attention. She gasped. A mouse scurried up the leg of a preparation table and scampered across the work surface.
“Did you see that?” Charlotte’s voice squeaked.
“Oui.” The chef chuckled. “Apparently he wants you to leave as much as I.”
“B-but this is a kitchen. Aren’t you going to clean the table? Scald it?” She scanned the kitchen and, as if seeing it for the first time, noticed the grease-smeared stove and food-stained floor. “This place is filthy. What have you done to this brand-new, beautiful kitchen?”
The chef grabbed a butcher knife and marched toward her. “You insolent girl. You dare come into my kitchen and hurl insults?”
“Don’t you care about your patrons’ safety? How can you call yourself a chef?”
He waved the knife in the air, his face becoming as scarlet as tomato sauce. “You’ll not work in my kitchen or any other kitchen in this hotel! I’ll see to that personally.”
Charlotte lifted her chin in the air. “I wouldn’t work in your kitchen if I was starving.”
“Get out!” the chef roared.
With a final defiant glare, she whirled and slammed open the swinging door, then zigzagged her way around the tables.
Noon patrons now began filing into the dining room. The poor souls had no idea they were taking their lives into their hands by eating here. Anger burned inside her. How could anyone who claimed to love the art of cooking serve customers from a dangerously dirty kitchen? The hotel had only opened in April. Was the management aware of the chef’s lack of tidiness? She would inform them, but they’d probably do nothing as long as the restaurant’s patrons were satisfied. After all, the famous French chef had been touted all over the city.
“You’ll not work in any restaurant in the city!” the chef bellowed from the doorway.
Startled by his roar, Charlotte turned back. Her eyes widened as the knife he was still waving glimmered in the dining room’s lamplight. Keeping her gaze on the knife, Charlotte quickly backed out of the dining room until she struck a man’s solid chest.
She jumped and spun around. “I’m so sorry.”
“Are you all right, miss?”
Charlotte’s cheeks flamed as she tipped her face upward. Her breath caught at the depth of the man’s bottle-green eyes. “I’m fine.” She stepped away and glanced at the ranting chef. He continued to bellow his accusations across the room.
The green-eyed man followed her gaze. “Pardon me for asking, but are you stirring things up with the chef?”
“Let me put it this way. Do you value your digestive tract?”
His eyebrows drew close. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“In that case, sir”—Charlotte tugged one of her long sleeves back in place—“I suggest you find somewhere else to eat.”

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