The Harvey Girl Mystery - Part 1
Read this after the Prologue
Find Prologue HERE.
Being naive could prove fatal.
It might only surprise me, but I was ill-prepared to go out in the world on my own. Not that my ignorance would stop me. I had to find Father, if only for my mother's sanity; yet, I must admit to a compulsion to know the truth. Bitter though it may turn out to be, I would never believe my father had left us willingly unless he told me so himself.
We'd heard from the police that Father was seen at Grand Central Depot. A relief for sure, as he appeared well, yet it was so out of his character. He had boarded a train without sending word, and his destination was Kansas. Beyond that astounding fact, his plans were unclear. Such a departure held no worry for the authorities. Men traveled from home unannounced all the time, it would seem. For the local constabulary, the matter was closed.
For my mother, worry doubled. Her nerves longed for a simple resolution. None came. Sitting with her in our morning room, I had only one course of action—blatantly lie about my plans.
"Our world is shattered," I told her, eyes on the Brownfield tea set. Its pale blue design and spring flowers offered no comfort. The pot begged to be poured yet went untouched. Not even a warm beverage could soothe our hearts. "My mind is made up. I shall visit our friends in Philadelphia," I continued. "The Monroes will welcome both of us, and I entreat you to come with me."
I held my breath, hoping she would decline.
The grandfather clock ticked out the seconds, but time dragged. If I'd misjudged her response, I had no idea how to wiggle out of my subterfuge. I need not have worried.
"Oh, no," Mother wailed, "I must stay strong and wait for word from your father. I know it will come, and I shall be right here, as he would wish." Her cheeks flushed, and I reached for her hand. "You, however, should go to our friends."
I finally took a breath and nodded acceptance. My dear mother would never expect my duplicity. "As you wish, Mam," I agreed. "I will go to our friends and act as if nothing is wrong. It will stall the gossips."
Mother managed a weak smile. "We will have him back at home; you shall see, and then we will call for you."
I squeezed her hand, relieved at my success. With one lie behind me, the next to spill forth promised to be easier; however, I'd be journeying into territory where I had never staked a flag, yet what could I do? Only one avenue lay open to me if I wished to track my father, and that avenue was one of service. It was a desperate step, for sure, and one I might not have taken, but I found the most damaging clue regarding my father's disappearance.
Since the police had dropped the investigation, and Mother was beside herself, I took the initiative to review Father's recent correspondence. He'd left it in a silver tray on his desk. One could say it was there for the reading, and father should have taken better care if he did not want me rummaging around in his business. To my chagrin, I found several letters posted at stops along the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe railway. They were troubling letters promising a treasure trove of riches if only the right investor would join the search. My mother had been correct; father would ruin us all. To learn he was running after lost treasure, again, hurt my heart.
I knew I had to find him before he was utterly duped, or worse, hence my need for employment. No regular service would do, however. A governess, teacher or nurse could not cross the distance I foresaw. No, I needed the freedom to travel without attracting attention, something almost impossible for a young lady traveling alone.
More importantly, I had to protect my reputation. While my heart might be free to act on any whim, my mother would admonish me if I ruined any chance of an advantageous marriage. The tight parameters—especially considering the railway connection—left only one option: becoming a Harvey Girl.
Many in my social circle marveled at the recruitment of gentile ladies to head West and work at Harvey Houses along the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe railway. The fine dining establishments offered travelers a delicious meal served by refined ladies. Every account I read marveled at the exquisite elegance and dining, all served within the short period that trains stopped to replenish supplies and water.
The Harvey House waitresses were known as Harvey Girls. They'd taken over the task from waiters, who’d proven untrustworthy and caused disruption. By firing the lot and hiring only waitresses, Fred Harvey instantly improved the perception of his restaurants. In the ten years since the change, the Harvey Girls were praised for helping to settle the Wild West. Whether they did or not, infusing the railway stops with ladies from our East Coast cities certainly helped polite society thrive.
It would be an honor to work with other independent ladies like myself, although my mother would disapprove. Of course, she could not object to something she never learned about, and I would certainly never speak of it.
The Harvey House interview process proved daunting yet easy to arrange. Their standards were high, but so were mine. With a wage of $18.50 per month, along with room and board—and the lure of meeting travelers who might have news of father—the job filled all my needs. I, apparently, filled theirs as I earned my position as a waitress. They posted me to their flagship Harvey House in Kansas City, Kansas.
I had a tiny delay before my work began, having to journey first to Kansas City. It did allow me to witness the type of people who traveled by train. I met several remarkable characters, and by remarkable, I mean strange. Yet, perhaps I was the strange one. My idea of the people who formed our nation expanded, indeed, and I am better for it.
In particular, I met two men who stilled my heart. One was an artist who nearly beguiled me, and the other was a rascal who had me steering clear of his dastardly ways. If they represented the kinds of gentlemen I’d be meeting through my work, I feared that I’d not only need to be proficient at serving dinner but also dodging male attention!
The first was a man named Charles Gibson, a graphic artist. He showed me the most remarkable sketches of women. I took him to task about his overly corseted ladies with thin waists and hair piled high on their heads. The hairstyle poofed upward in the most gravity-defying way, and it would need the skills of a very talented maid to create. I certainly did not know one.
Charles was a bold man and laughed off my comments. He wondered if I considered myself a New Woman—a term I'd heard bandied about but knew to be too political for my set. He decided I was the epitome of his self-proclaimed Gibson Girl, whom he said favored boredom and verbally torturing men.
"I am neither, sir," I assured him, hoping he would drop the subject. While several passengers had settled into the lounge, he had latched onto me.
"Don't you want the vote?" he asked, gawking at my lack of fire and not waiting for an answer. You must look closer at my sketches, for you are a perfect fit for the ladies I draw." He plopped his sketchbook on my lap, showing me a bored woman with a pert nose. Her clothes fit her to perfection, and her hair was swept high in an exaggerated pompadour, with a snobbish smirk on her lips.
I had to admit I'd seen his work before but couldn't recall where. Honestly, his so-called Gibson Girl was not my idea of the perfect woman, and I shuddered to think of the sketch as anything a lady should duplicate in their daily life. The very idea of wearing a dress in such a tight manner made my ribs hurt.
"How does anyone get their hair to stand up like that?" I asked, finding it the least objectionable topic. I did not want to offend the man, as his artistic skills were mighty, but his drawings were surely only for advertisement.
"Rats," he said knowingly.
My surprise doubled. "Rats!" I instantly imagined a small rodent with a twitching nose and whiskers.
He chuckled. "Not the animal, my dear; the rats are made from your hair."
My surprise tripled.
"You save the hair from your brush," he continued, "then rat it all up into a ball hidden within the hairstyle's upsweep. The inner structure holds it all in place quite remarkably."
My nose involuntarily scrunched. It sounded dreadful and would still require the aid of a clever maid. "A bun would certainly suffice," I allowed.
His eyes raked over my face and he smiled, seeming to like what he saw. "Your hair curls quite naturally, so I doubt you would need to go to such lengths." He assessed me. "Have you ever considered modeling? You would bring such vitality to my ideal of the perfect woman."
"I already have a job, sir," I told him, "as well as a purpose and modeling is neither." I would have fixed him with my most bored expression to discourage further discussion, but he appeared to like a woman's disdain. Instead, I decided to ask him a very pointed question. "If you will, sir, have you ever encountered fortune hunters when traveling?"
He was taken aback. "In what manner would these fortune hunters take?"
"I believe it starts with a friendly conversation," I said, recalling the first letter to my father. It mentioned how he'd met the scoundrels, as a way to re-establish their connection. "A card game is sometimes offered, but then an adventure is talked of and how a treasure trove is waiting to be claimed."
Charles considered me, and I could see he knew of the ruse. Yet, he held back as if he needed time to make up his mind. He cleared his throat. "Take care, my dear, for I have witnessed such duplicity. I was able to extricate myself, but not without effort. These men are the worst kind."
"Are they still amongst us?" I asked, feeling a rush of hope that I might find something that would lead to them and thus to Father.
"Indeed, they are," he said.
"How would I know them?"
Charles wagged a finger at me. "You must not. Stay clear, I implore you."
"Oh, for sure I will, sir, but how am I to keep them at bay and protect myself?” I pouted in a way that I'd found useful in the past, especially with men. "If I come upon these men, they might snare me in their web before I am wise to their evil plot. If I knew them on sight, however, I would avoid them, most definitely.”
He considered my plea, softening in the face of my faked distress. "They travel as a duo," he said, squinting in earnest. "One a British gentleman, it would seem, and the other a brute of a man. He could throw a horse over a train."
I wanted to see that feat but kept my expression neutral. "I am indebted to you, sir."
"Perhaps you shall also do me a kindness, and at least allow me to sketch your lovely profile?" He winked.
I smiled politely, shaking my head in the negative. If Mam had taught me anything, a sweet disposition could sway the sea while turbulence stirred up only a whirlpool of regret.
He smiled in return and bid me a good day.
In future years, Charles Dana Gibson's art grew to much acclaim, and I was always thankful for his assistance that day; but I could never applaud his talented sketches, as I would not aspire to look like a Gibson Girl. As it turned out, being a Harvey Girl was all I could handle.
The second man I met on my journey to Kansas City accosted me when moving between train cars. The swaying along the track threw us together. He caught me by the shoulders and held me a moment too long. I looked up into his stormy eyes in reproach.
"Sir, do you make it a habit to wait between cars in hopes of aiding a lady?" My expression must have flared with disapproval, for he released me.
"Only to save them from a nasty fall," he said, voice deep and sultry.
I was immune to such roguish tricks. I barely even noticed his beefy biceps or the depth of those aqua eyes. I'd seen better. I pulled my skirts away from him, ready to move on without another word, but he had not finished.
"I overheard you asking about treasure hunters," he said.
"Overheard?" I cried, feeling a twinge that I'd missed spotting an eavesdropper.
"Steer clear of those men," he warned, "the British one and his thug."
I angled my head just a touch to the side, raising an eyebrow to look at him. "And who shall I thank for such a helpful suggestion?"
His eyebrow arched in response. "A Pinkerton Man."
My stomach dropped. The last thing I wanted to do was fall foul of the Pinkerton Agency. While their reputation was legendary, their operatives were not the sort of men I could associate with and protect my virtue. Mother would undoubtedly faint if anyone used my name and that of a Pinkerton in the same sentence, and here I was conversing with one.
Oh dear, oh dear, it was the absolute worst turn of events!