Echoes of Mercy: A Novel Read online

  Hightower strode behind a massive, clean-topped desk that filled the center of the room. He frowned at the pair of women. “Come over here.”

  In unison they moved to the opposite side of the desk and stood side by side. Caroline’s belly churned. She linked her hands and let them fall loosely against the front of her wrinkled skirt, hoping the casual pose would hide her inward nervousness. How she hated this part of the process. No matter how many times she vied for positions, it never got easier. When she shared her reservations with her supervisor, Noble always chided her, reminding her that being chosen fulfilled the commission’s purpose.

  But it also meant someone else must lose.

  She glanced again at the other woman, who glared at Caroline like an angry bull. Beneath the bluster Caroline glimpsed a desperation that pierced her as deeply as the young girl’s wails of despair had. Lines fanned from the corners of the woman’s eyes. Gray hairs lay among her dark tresses, which she’d slicked back from her face into a severe bun. The thickened waist and sagging jowl spoke of years. Forty? Forty-five? Caroline couldn’t be sure, yet she knew the woman was old enough to have a family. Did she need this income to support several children?

  Once again her stomach clenched as remorse smote her. She fought the ugly emotion, reciting Noble’s gentle admonition in her mind. “You’re there to do good, Caroline. Set aside the guilties, and remember you’re the only one who can do the real job.” The “guilties,” as Noble called them, didn’t completely dissolve, but she calmed. Yes, she was here to do good. Good for Noble, for the Labor Commission, and for the current generation of Kansas youngsters and the generations to come. She would focus on those people rather than the needy individual standing beside her.

  Hightower had opened a drawer and removed two sheets of paper and a pair of stubby pencils. He slid the items across the desk. “Answer the questions. I’m going to prepare a test, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.” His wide strides carried him across the room and out the door.

  The other woman poked her tongue out the corner of her mouth, snatched up her pencil, and began scrawling words onto the waiting lines.

  Caroline lifted the page and glanced at it. Name, hours available to work, expected wage … She’d answered the questions more than a dozen times before on previous missions and knew the appropriate responses. Even so, she hesitated. Somehow putting lies down in black lead on cream paper made them more glaring.

  The other woman gave Caroline a conniving look. “You need me to …”

  Pride swelled. She’d never set foot in a schoolhouse, but thanks to Annamarie, she could read and write as well as anyone who’d attended several years of school. “I can do it.”

  The woman heaved a mighty sigh. “Fine.” She bent back over her page.

  Despite the grim situation, a grin twitched at Caroline’s cheek. What might the woman have written for her if given the chance? It would be amusing to see, but she had a job to do. Placing the page on the desk again, by rote she filled in the lines with her carefully invented information, tweaking the facts just enough to mask reality but not so much it would raise suspicion.

  Just as she finished, the door opened, and Hightower breezed back in. A sugary scent accompanied him, almost heady in its sweetness. Saliva pooled beneath Caroline’s tongue, and her belly twisted in desire to taste the treats being manufactured on the lower levels. Chocolate smelled so much better than beets.

  He plucked the sheets of paper from the desk and held them out. “So we have Carrie Lang and Agatha Brewer. Correct?”

  Caroline nodded, and the older woman blared, “Mrs. Agatha Brewer, that’s right.”

  “I see neither of you has factory experience,” he went on, his gaze bouncing from one page to the other, “although Mrs. Brewer has worked in a bakery and a hotel laundry.”

  Her round face flushed pink. “That’s right. Ten years at both places. I ain’t afraid of hard work.”

  Caroline’s hopes lifted. If Mrs. Brewer had more experience, she’d demand a higher wage. Caroline, with her supposed inexperience, would require much less, giving her an advantage. Factory owners always filled the unskilled positions—and toting required no skill whatsoever—with lower-wage employees first. A bitter taste attacked her tongue as she considered how some filled their floors with children, who worked the same hours for less than half the compensation of an adult.

  “I see you’re both available to work ten hours Monday through Saturday.” Since he seemed to be talking to himself, Caroline stayed quiet, but Mrs. Brewer inserted, “Mm-hm. Mm-hm.” He muttered a couple more comments, too low for Caroline to discern, and then he frowned at Mrs. Brewer. “Am I reading this correctly? You’ll accept the starting wage of four dollars a week?”

  “That’s right.”

  Caroline drew back in surprise. With twenty years of work experience, why wouldn’t Mrs. Brewer demand a better wage?

  The hiring agent pinned Mrs. Brewer with a steady glare. “You could make more than that as a hotel laundress. The Claiborne Hotel in Wichita gives its laundresses five dollars and four bits a week.”

  Mrs. Brewer’s pink jowls quivered as she seemed to chew the inside of her cheek. Some of her bravado faded. For a moment Caroline thought she saw tears in the woman’s eyes. But then she straightened her rounded shoulders and peered at the agent through squinted eyes. “Qualifications didn’t say a person had to ask for wages to match her experience.” She sucked in a breath and held it, her pink cheeks reddening as the seconds ticked by.

  The man shook his head and tapped his thigh with Mrs. Brewer’s paper. “All right, then. It’s your choice.”

  The breath wheezed from the woman’s lungs, bending her forward slightly. Her relief was so evident Caroline came close to offering a few comforting pats on her sloping shoulder. Obviously Mrs. Brewer needed a job badly enough to grasp whatever crumbs were offered. Caroline tried to swallow the unpleasant taste filling her mouth. Fighting for the position became more difficult by the minute.

  Smacking the pages onto the desk, Hightower pointed his chin toward the door. “Come with me to the landing now for a … test. When that’s finished, I’ll tell you who’ll be the newest toter at Dinsmore’s World-Famous Chocolates Factory.”

  Caroline followed Mrs. Brewer and the agent to the L-shaped landing for the factory’s loft. A rich, sugary aroma rose from the lower floors, reminding Caroline she hadn’t eaten any breakfast. Her stomach rolled with desire as Hightower led them to a table at the far end of the landing. Early-morning sun slanted through a square window, highlighting the top of two stacks of dented, tarnished trays filled with brown mounds—walnut-sized chocolates, each adorned with a swirl and a dusting of finely chopped nuts. They looked wonderful and smelled even better. Her knees quaked as hunger struck hard.

  “Only the top tray has candy,” the agent explained, gesturing to the stacks. “The bottom two have rocks. This way, if you drop them, there won’t be as much waste, but the weight is comparable to trays filled with chocolates.”

  Mrs. Brewer angled one eyebrow. “How much weight did you say was on there?”

  “Forty to forty-five pounds.”

  The woman grimaced.

  He scowled. “Is that a problem, Mrs. Brewer? Because this is what a toter does. She totes trays from the candy-making center to the packaging center.”

  Mrs. Brewer shook her head.

  “All right, then. I’ll give each of you a stack, and at the count of three, I want you to head to the other end of the landing, turn, come back, and put the trays on the table again. Then pick them up and repeat the process two more times. Do you understand?”

  Mrs. Brewer smoothed her palms down the front of her skirt. “Yep.” Her voice held little confidence.

  The aroma of the chocolate was making her dizzy, but Caroline nodded. “I understand.”

  The man handed Carrie the first stack. She curled her fingers around the lip of the bottom tray and held tight. A tiny, involuntary grunt
left her lips, but she managed to balance the trays against her rib cage. She watched as Mrs. Brewer took her stack of trays from Hightower. Perspiration broke out across the woman’s upper lip, and her face paled. Caroline started to ask if she was all right, but the agent whipped out a timepiece from his pocket, held it aloft, and announced, “Go!”

  Oliver

  Oliver Dinsmore topped the stairs and closed the heavy door behind him, muffling the noise of the machinery below. His ears continued to buzz as he stepped into the center of the long upstairs landing. Two women—one older with rivulets of sweat pouring down her red face, and one with her lips set in a grim, determined line—trudged toward him. He shifted the newsboy-style cap higher on his forehead to get a better look. Each woman carried a stack of three trays bearing chocolates. Dinsmore’s World-Famous Chocolate-Coated Vanilla Creams from the looks of them. He nearly snorted in self-derision. Had he really recalled the entire title of the confection? Father would be so pleased.

  He pressed his back to the wall as the women passed him, giving them as much room as possible. At the end of the landing, as if choreographed, they made the turn in unison. But then the older one jolted as if stung on the rump by a hornet, and she stumbled. One chocolate rolled to the edge of the top tray. The woman gasped and tipped the trays the opposite direction. Oliver started to call out a warning, but before the words could escape, a good half-dozen candies and twice as many rocks—rocks?—spilled over the edge and clattered against the wide-planked floor.

  The second woman had managed the corner without mishap and continued on, but at the racket she stopped and looked back. Sympathetic dismay replaced the determination he’d seen earlier on her face. Oliver found it a strange reaction. Shouldn’t she gloat? She’d just won some sort of ridiculous competition.

  Gordon Hightower, the factory’s manager and self-assigned hiring agent, stormed toward the older woman, who stared in utter despair at the scattered rocks and candy at her feet. He waved his hands around. “Mrs. Brewer, what were you doing? Clumsy, clumsy! A toter must first and foremost exercise care. You didn’t manage to go thirty paces without spilling.”

  Oliver frowned. Hightower didn’t need to berate the woman so. Mother managed a dozen servants in their home and never once raised her voice or resorted to ridicule. And their home ran with precision. Hightower tended to abuse his position of power—something Oliver intended to rectify when he controlled the factory reins.

  Tears streamed down the woman’s round, red cheeks, and her body quivered. If someone didn’t help her, the entire load would hit the floor. He darted out and took the trays. The unexpected weight stole his breath as well as the defensive comment poised on his tongue.

  “Yelling at her isn’t going to help.” The younger woman spoke up. Indignation colored her tone and expression. “I’m sure she’s just nervous. Why not let her have another go?”

  Oliver shook his head, uncertain he’d heard correctly. Was she championing her competition? Surely she understood only one would be chosen.

  Hightower snorted. “Another go might result in even more lost chocolates.”

  “And it might prove her capable of handling the task,” the bold woman countered.

  Oliver hid a smile. She had a full, dimpled face wreathed by springy reddish-brown curls, which had escaped her lopsided mobcap. Her blue flowered dress was so rumpled it appeared she’d slept in it the night before. The messy hair and disheveled clothing gave her an almost childish appearance. But how bravely she faced Hightower. Amusement as well as admiration swelled within his chest. She was a corker! And since she’d spoken up, he could stay silent, which was probably wise, considering he’d “hired on” less than two months ago and couldn’t risk being given the ax. Not just yet.

  Shifting her trays a bit higher, she fixed Hightower with a steady look. “But you won’t know unless you offer her the chance.”

  Hightower rolled his gaze to the ceiling and huffed out a mighty breath. “Miss Lang, you—”

  “Thank you, miss, for speakin’ up for me, but there’s no need for another chance.” Mrs. Brewer hung her head. Her shoulders drooped, and one strand of gray-threaded hair flopped across her tear-stained cheek. “I … I got a bad back. That’s why I left the laundry. Couldn’t plunge them sheets up and down anymore. Since toting didn’t necessarily mean bending, I was hoping I could do it. My arms, they’re plenty strong. But my back …”

  Oliver knew he should pay attention to Mrs. Brewer, who had sadly bared her soul to Hightower, but he couldn’t stop staring at Miss Lang. She’d come in looking for a job. Now that Mrs. Brewer had confessed she couldn’t handle it, the job was hers by simple elimination. She should be smiling, celebrating, or at the very least looking relieved. Instead, she appeared regretful. But why? She’d done nothing wrong except possess a back strong enough to support a stack of trays.

  Still balancing her load, Miss Lang approached Mrs. Brewer. “I’m sorry about your back, ma’am. But as willing as you are to work, you ought to be able to find employment somewhere. I will pray for you.”

  Oliver shook his head in wonder. A corker. Miss Lang was indeed a corker.

  Mrs. Brewer sniffled. “Thank you, miss. I’ll take them prayers. Still got three youngsters at home and no man to earn for us.”

  Regret deepened to sorrow in Miss Lang’s gold-flecked brown eyes. “How old are your children, Mrs. Brewer?”

  “The boys are fourteen and eleven, and my littlest one—my only girl—is ten.”

  Hightower plunged his hands into his pockets and gave the woman a speculative look. “Your boys are plenty old enough to work. Maybe we could use one of them on the floor.”

  Miss Lang released an indignant gasp. “Oh, but—”

  “No, sir, not my boys.” Mrs. Brewer straightened, swiping the moisture from her full cheeks with chapped palms. “I’ve made it clear to every one of my youngsters, from Tad down to Bessie, they’re to take all the schooling they got coming to ’em. None of my youngsters’ll be working a full-time job until they got a twelfth-grade graduation certificate in hand. And that’s that!”

  Miss Lang beamed. “Good for you, Mrs. Brewer!” If her hands weren’t occupied holding the trays, Oliver wagered she’d embrace the other woman. Tears appeared in her eyes—apparently tears of happiness.

  Hightower harrumphed. “If you change your mind, the floor spots open regularly. Feel free to send your boys over. I’ll remember the name Brewer and give them first dibs.”

  Mrs. Brewer flicked her hands across the bodice of her dress as if removing any vestige of the factory from her well-worn frock. “Your memory’ll need to hold that name for a good long while, sir. Four years at the least.” Shifting to face Miss Lang, she touched the younger woman’s hand. “Thank you for your kindness. I wish you well in this job.” She headed for the stairs without so much as a glance at Hightower.

  He let out a soft snort and turned to Miss Lang. “You’ve proved you can handle the weight of the trays. Now walk them to the table and set them down. If you can do it without dumping anything, the job is yours.”

  Her head held high, Miss Lang moved with grace to the table under the window at the far end of the landing. A few rocks jiggled, causing a gentle rattle, but none rolled free when she lowered the trays to the table. Oliver marveled at how easy she made it appear. His arms ached with the weight of the trays he held. She clasped her hands behind her back and sent Hightower a saucy grin. “So? Am I hired?”

  The man drew back with a start, and Oliver nearly bit his tongue in half stifling a chortle. Her sass might not go over well with Hightower, but Oliver liked it. He liked it a lot. So refreshing compared to the staid, prissy women Father and Mother had pushed at him over the past few years. He could get attached to this one. With a niggle of remorse, he reined in the thought. His parents expected him to marry within his station. He might be seen as a mere worker by the other employees at the factory, but he knew better. When he’d completed his purpose here, he
’d return to his home. To rule, as his father put it, the Dinsmore dynasty. Becoming attracted to a toter, no matter how appealing he found her, must be avoided.

  Caroline

  Caroline held her breath. Had she pushed her cheekiness too far? When she was overly tired or overly aggravated—and right now she was both—she tended to cover her true feelings with a display of intrepid spunk. As a child she’d used gumption to defend herself against unfairness and heartache. As an adult she found the habit refused to die even though the Bible she strived to follow advised a humble spirit. Tomorrow, after a night’s sleep and a long prayer for Mrs. Brewer’s family, she’d practice humility. She hoped she’d be back so the hiring agent could witness it.

  “You’re hired,” the man snapped.

  Caroline released her breath, nearly collapsing from relief. No matter how supportive Noble had always been, he wouldn’t be pleased if she failed on this mission. She dipped her head in a gesture of appreciation. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’ll start tomorrow morning at six o’clock sharp.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hightower spun to face the young man who’d saved Mrs. Brewer from dropping her trays. Caroline admired his willingness to offer assistance, and although he hadn’t said a word, she’d been aware of his watchful gaze. While he and the hiring agent engaged in a low-toned exchange, she took the opportunity to give him a covert appraisal.

  Dressed in a pair of dark trousers, gray suspenders, and a rolled-sleeves checked shirt, he appeared to be a factory worker. But his hair looked clean, combed, and recently trimmed around his ears. No whiskers dotted his cheeks or chin. Although he sported a brown tweed newsboy cap—typical factory worker topping—it sat on his thick blond waves at a precise rather than a careless angle, denoting a sense of pride. Despite the weight of the trays in his arms, he held himself erect, his posture that of the gentry.