Echoes of Mercy: A Novel Page 11

  “They wouldn’t be unsupervised.”

  Gordon narrowed his gaze. “Are you defying me, Miss Lang?”

  She closed her eyes and sucked in a long, slow breath. Then she turned a penitent look upon him. “No. I’m trying to explain. If I’m here at night, they would be under my supervision.”

  Wasn’t she something? He couldn’t stop a snide laugh from exploding. “How can you do your job and supervise children? One would take precedence over the other, and either way the factory’s productivity would suffer.” He pushed off from his desk and strode to his chair. “The answer is no. Now, if there’s nothing else—”

  Ollie stepped to Gordon’s desk and rested his fingertips on the beveled edge. “Mr. Hightower.”

  Although the worker spoke calmly and maintained a bland expression, Gordon found himself bracing for a storm. Moore’s unperturbed exterior seemed to hide a roiling undercurrent. Gordon’s legs went weak, and he dropped into his desk chair. Safely behind the barrier of his solid walnut desk, he gathered the courage to send Moore a sneer. “What?”

  “I respectfully ask that you grant Miss Lang’s request to be moved to a third-shift crater and that the cots in the sick bay be made available to Letta, Lank, and Lesley Holcomb until their father is released from the hospital and is able to care for them again.” The man’s lips quirked into a cunning smile. “The charitable act could garner approval from city leaders. You might even receive a commendation for extending such generosity and solicitude toward the underprivileged. The subsequent publicity could be quite beneficial to the factory, encouraging people to purchase even greater quantities of Dinsmore’s World-Famous Chocolates in support and appreciation of your benevolence.”

  Gordon opened his mouth to order the arrogant man out of his office, but the sound of applause came from the hallway. Both Moore and Lang turned toward the sound, their backs blocking Gordon’s view. Then a man’s voice—a deep, familiar voice that caused Gordon to break out in a cold sweat—boomed, “Hear, hear! Spoken like a true philanthropist. Mr. Hightower, I support this young man’s request and commend him for making the suggestion.”

  Rising shakily to his feet, Gordon squeaked out, “Mr. Dinsmore, sir. Y-you’re early.”

  Caroline

  Caroline stepped aside and surreptitiously examined Mr. Fulton Dinsmore, owner of Dinsmore’s World-Famous Chocolates Factory. His well-tailored suit, silk cravat, and dapper top hat, which he held in the crook of his arm, communicated effectively the financial success of his endeavors. Endeavors that were built upon the backs of underpaid, overworked children. She wanted to resent him, but a teasing twinkle in his deep-set eyes and the pleasant upturning of his lips beneath a neatly trimmed, graying mustache chased away any indignation. Something about the man appealed to her.

  Dinsmore strode into the room and gave Ollie’s hand several emphatic pumps. “Mr. Moore, how delightful to discover my recommendation of your employ has resulted in your taking an active interest in the furtherance of the company.”

  “Yes. Yes.” Mr. Hightower pulled his sleeves down to his wrists and shrugged into his suit coat as he rounded the desk. “You were quite correct in bringing this young man to my attention. And of course I’ll approve his … magnanimous request.” He released a laugh that fell short of true joviality and gave Ollie a few stiff pats on the shoulder. His face wore a tight smile, and his eyes glittered with suppressed fury.

  Dinsmore’s smile bounced from one man to the other. “I knew from the moment I laid eyes on Mr. Moore that he’d be an asset to the company.” A low chuckle rolled from the man’s throat. Tucking his thumbs into the little pockets on his vest, he beamed at Ollie. “So good to see you settling in, making suggestions, taking an active interest in the betterment of Dinsmore’s. Well done.”

  Ollie bowed his head. “Thank you, sir.”

  Hightower rubbed his palms together and emitted a nervous titter. “Well, then, Mr. Moore and Miss Lang, since I must now give Mr. Dinsmore my full attention, the two of you should …” He nodded his head toward the door, his lips pinching into a grim line.

  “Oh, of course.” Fulton Dinsmore waved a hand flamboyantly toward the hallway. “Don’t allow me to keep you from your assigned tasks, Mr. Moore and … Miss Lang, did he say?”

  For the first time the factory owner seemed to acknowledge her presence. She bobbed into a curtsy beneath his steady gaze, offering a meek nod. “Yes, sir.”

  “Miss Lang, thank you not only for your dedication to Dinsmore’s but to the children you’ve befriended. I find your commitments quite commendable, young woman.”

  He sounded sincere. Caroline thanked him with a smile and inched toward the door. Ollie turned as if to follow her.

  Dinsmore pointed at him. “Mr. Moore, I should like a conference with you at the end of your shift.”

  Ollie planted both feet and stood erect, reminding Caroline of a soldier on parade. “Yes, sir. I shall be certain to make myself available.”

  As she listened to the pair of tall men engage in their brief, well-mannered exchange, awareness blossomed in Caroline’s mind.

  “Four o’clock?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well.” Dinsmore offered a warm smile, removing any semblance of pomposity. “Four o’clock in the, er, janitor’s office.” Now humor glittered in the man’s eyes.

  Ollie seemed to swallow a smile. “My ‘office’ will be just fine, sir. I’ll turn a couple of buckets upside down so we can sit while we converse.” With a final nod in Mr. Dinsmore’s direction, he hurried out the door, ushering Carrie with him. He pulled the door shut behind them and aimed her for the stairway. “Now that Hightower has agreed to change your shift, you’re free to clock out. The boys will be back from school in less than four hours, so you won’t have a great deal of time to sleep, but—”

  Caroline dug in her heels and took hold of his sleeve, forcing him to stop, too. She searched his face, questions crashing through her mind like stormy waves upon a shore. “Ollie Moore, who are you?”

  Oliver

  Oliver blinked twice. He knew what she wanted to know and why she’d asked. Once again he’d slipped into his educated speech. Hightower hadn’t seemed to notice—the man was too self-focused to truly listen to anyone—but Carrie with her sharp attention to detail didn’t miss a thing. He wished he could snatch back his well-executed admonitions. But if he’d kept silent, Father wouldn’t have spoken in support, and Carrie would have been denied the opportunity to take care of Lank and Lesley. So which was preferable—to hold his tongue or to speak?

  Pretending ignorance, he stepped away from her. “What’cha mean?”

  She frowned up at him, keeping pace as he walked down the stairs. “You accused me of having an education, and now I accuse you of the same thing. The words you threw at Mr. Hightower. No mere factory worker would know the meaning of solicitude and benevolence. Yet they spilled from you with ease.” They reached the floor, and she stepped into his pathway, prohibiting his passage.

  “And don’t tell me you simply read a lot.” Intensity threaded her voice, which she held at a level loud enough for him to hear over the machines but not so loud as to be overheard by other workers. “Because I’m baffled by more than your speech. You offered to provide meals for Lank and Lesley, indicating your income is adequate to extend beyond your own needs. A janitor enjoys such financial freedom? And then there’s the way you carry yourself. With dignity. Superiority. I’ve rarely seen such confidence in common laborers.”

  He hadn’t realized how much he’d revealed of his station. Were the other employees also curious about him? No. Her astuteness went beyond that of a typical factory worker.

  She tipped her head and pinched her brows, her expression serious. “So who are you, Ollie Moore? What is your purpose here?”

  Oliver peered at her adorably freckled face and bit down on the tip of his tongue. If he told her the truth, word would spread. Perhaps she wouldn’t share his secret on pur
pose, but his parentage could slip out by accident. And when the other workers knew, his opportunity to gather the information he needed to become a good, knowledgeable, understanding leader would be lost. He couldn’t tell her the truth. Yet he ached at being forced to lie to her.

  “Carrie …” He growled the word and balled his hands into fists. “You ask too many questions.”

  Her eyes widened, and she placed her palms against her bodice. “Ollie! Are you … are you investigating something?”

  He carefully processed her query. One could argue he was investigating the inner workings of the factory, seeking the means to improve operations as well as the working conditions for the employees. He gave a tentative nod.

  Delight bloomed across her face. “Are you looking into the Bratcher death?”

  Bratcher? Once again she’d surprised him. “That was an accident.” Then he scowled, placing his hands on her shoulders. “How do you know about Bratcher’s death?” More questions rose from the recesses of his mind. “And how did you know how many child laborers the factory employs? How can you afford to give your wages to Letta and still pay for lodgings and for meals at Kesia’s?”

  She wriggled beneath his grasp, her face paling.

  He held tight. “You’ve made some conjectures about me.” The word conjectures echoed in his ears. The choice of words would only increase her pondering, but he pushed on. “Now I’d like to know the same things about you. Who are you? What are you doing here?” Bits and pieces of other conversations flitted through his memory, and an unwelcome idea filled his head. He leaned close and rasped a final question. “Are you like Bratcher, a rabble-rouser trying to enforce the same laws as those adopted in the textile industry? Because if you are, I—”

  He’d what? Toss her out the door? He held no authority to do so. Nor did he truly want to, but if she was involved in the movement to end child labor, his father’s factory—his factory—could suffer. Confused, he left the threat dangling.

  She threw her arms outward, dislodging his grip. “I’m no rabble-rouser, but I support those who rally to send children to school rather than to workplaces.” Snatching up her skirts, she turned and ran. But she’d gone a few feet when she came to a halt. He watched her back and shoulders heave with several great intakes of breath. Then she spun to face him again.

  Her freckles glowed like a spattering of copper pennies flung over snow-covered ground. She tossed her head as if shedding her irritation, and splashes of pink formed on her cheeks. The corners of her full, rosy lips tipped into a polite smile. “Thank you for convincing Mr. Hightower to place me on the third shift. If you wish to provide meals for Lank and Lesley, I will allow you the privilege, and I offer you my gratitude. But, Mr. Moore,”—her gaze narrowed, her eyes shooting darts of warning—“I’ll thank you to keep your hands to yourself from now on. Good day.”

  Before he could form a word, she turned and raced from the factory, leaving him with a bitter taste on his tongue and a fierce ache in his chest.

  At the end of his shift, Oliver pushed items against the wall of the supply closet and upended two sturdy buckets in the center of the floor. He commended his father for his choice of meeting locations even though they’d likely bump knees in the small space. But they would have privacy. No one but Oliver entered the supply closet. Their ears would be somewhat protected from the rattle of machinery and the hiss of boilers, but the noise outside the door would prevent others from overhearing, giving them an opportunity to speak freely.

  There was so much he wanted to tell Father. But little of it had to do with the factory.

  “Forget about her,” he ordered under his breath, giving a broom a vicious toss to the far corner. He’d already concluded Carrie was no commoner. She might be a mere factory worker now, but her background was surely as privileged as his own, putting them on an even social level. He cared little about such things anymore. Serving alongside common yet hardworking, honest people had carved away his long-held tenet of separation between the classes. But if Carrie was caught up in the end-child-labor movement as Bratcher had been, they’d always be at odds.

  Why couldn’t she see that all the youngsters in his father’s employ were paid well for their labor and were protected from danger? He’d hoped that observing how smoothly the factory ran would change her mind about children taking jobs. But apparently her opinion hadn’t budged an inch. Consequently, no matter how attractive, how intriguing, how admirable he found her, her beliefs were too off-putting for him to pursue her.

  He closed his eyes and envisioned her escaping across the floor. Again and again he forced himself to recall her retreating form, willing himself to see her departure as permanent—as a departure from his thoughts and affections. But despite his efforts, at the end of each reflection, her sweet, fervent face rushed in to replace the memory of her disappearing back. Oh, she was persistent. Even in his thoughts.

  He kicked the nearest bucket, sending it rolling toward the door.

  “Oliver?” Father stopped the skidding bucket with his foot. He sent Oliver a puzzled look. “Are you all right?”

  Oliver drew in a steadying breath and forced a smile. “I’m fine. Just a little clumsy.” He scooped up the bucket and settled it back where he’d had it before and then sank onto its rough bottom.

  Father gave the door a yank. The single bulb hanging from twisted wires gave off a harsh glow, highlighting the silver in his father’s hair. But he moved like a man half his age as he straddled the bucket and lowered himself to sit. He rested his elbows on his knees, assuming a casual pose that contrasted with his formal attire. Oliver couldn’t help but grin. What a pair they must be, Father in his fine double-breasted suit and Oliver in his work dungarees and suspenders.

  “How did your meeting with Hightower go?” Oliver asked.

  “Very well. The man is extremely organized. The bookkeeping is in order. Invoicing is balanced. Inventory matches what I viewed in the shipping warehouse. I have no complaints.”

  Oliver grimaced. “I half wish you did have complaints.”

  Father raised his brows. “Why?”

  Removing his cap and placing it over his knee, Oliver admitted, “So I could replace him.” He held his breath, waiting for his father to berate him. “You must have sound reasons.”

  To Oliver’s relief, his father seemed interested rather than accusatory. He said, “No solid proof of any wrongdoing, but I’ve heard rumors about his … impropriety with some of the female workers.” Recalling the way he’d grabbed Carrie’s shoulders and her warning that he keep his hands to himself, he experienced a wave of regret. Was he any better than Hightower? Abashed, he rushed on. “Many of the workers are afraid of him. He seems to purposely intimidate people.”

  A thoughtful frown furrowed his father’s brow. “I’ve glimpsed his brusque manner, of course, but credited it to the amount of responsibility he bears. He serves as manager, hiring agent, and bookkeeper, you know.”

  Oliver knew. It was the one point on which he and Father had disagreed. Oliver wanted to distribute the responsibilities among three employees, creating a checks-and-balances system similar to the one used by the government. But Father was satisfied with Hightower handling all three, claiming he must be doing well because the Sinclair factory had turned a tidy profit each year under the man’s leadership, exceeding even the profits made in their Chicago factory. As long as income well exceeded expenses, Father wouldn’t release Hightower from his self-appointed position as dictator of Dinsmore’s Kansas factory.

  “The man is bound to be a bit high-strung, considering his work load,” Father continued. “Perhaps people have misinterpreted his intentions.”

  Oliver shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “So tell me what you’ve learned thus far.” He sat up like a chipmunk, pride puffing out his chest. “What plans have you made to improve Dinsmore’s World-Famous Chocolates?”

  Oliver spent the next twenty minutes sharing ideas for a new line of candies. H
is father laughed when Oliver mentioned molding chocolate into roses, teddy bears, and farm animals, but when he suggested placing the candies into specially designed tin boxes meant to emulate a vase, a child’s toy box, and a barn, his father’s laughter turned to a contemplative murmur.

  “I like the idea, Oliver.” He nodded slowly, his smile growing. “Simple molded chocolate will cost less to manufacture since there won’t be any filling, but given the visual appeal, we can still charge the same as for an assortment of truffles or caramels. I can see parents gifting a child with whimsical chocolates or a beau bringing a box of chocolate roses to his sweetheart. In time perhaps we can build the line to include other shapes for specific holidays.” He clapped Oliver’s shoulder, beaming broadly. “Well done!”

  At that moment with pleasure flooding through him, Oliver might have been a schoolboy rather than a twenty-nine-year-old man. A knot formed in his throat, and he cleared it before speaking. “I want to do well, Father. I want Dinsmore’s to carry into the next generation.”

  “That’s what I want, too.” Father angled his head, a hint of teasing in his expression. “But we can’t have you so tied to the factory you neglect to form your own family, or into whose hands will Dinsmore’s pass?”

  Oliver ducked his head and refused to rise to his father’s bait. He wouldn’t marry one of the daughters of his parents’ social circle just so Father would have a grandchild to carry on the Dinsmore legacy. He wanted to truly love the woman, the way Father loved Mother. And thus far the only woman who had managed to work her way into his heart was a fiery crusader who’d just warned him to keep his hands to himself.

  Father’s hand descended on Oliver’s knee and squeezed. “Son, it seems you have an issue with Hightower’s means of management. When I sign the business over to you, you’re free to make changes. But don’t change things based on your personal feelings about the man.”