Echoes of Mercy: A Novel (11 page)

And look how she repaid them—doing a slipshod investigation and spending her hours mooning over a factory worker instead of focusing on her job. She gripped the receiver with both hands and spoke firmly into the mouthpiece. “I’ll finish Harmon’s report. I’ll learn as much as I can about the elevator and how it works, and I’ll talk to people who worked with him. If something is awry at the Dinsmore factory, I’ll find it.”

Gordon rested his palms on the ledge of his private observation window and peered down at the work floor. A satisfied sigh heaved from his lungs. Yesterday afternoon’s lecture about dawdling seemed to have had its desired effect. The workers resembled ants scurrying over a mound of sugar cubes this morning—busy, busy, busy. When Mr. Fulton Dinsmore made his monthly appearance at the end of the week, he’d find nothing amiss. Not while Gordon was in charge.

He returned to his desk and slid into the tall, polished chair. Rocking gently, he glanced at the assignment roster laid out on the center of the desk. Every position filled. He hoped Dinsmore wouldn’t toss the name of another potential worker in Gordon’s direction. He still wasn’t sure why Dinsmore had been so set on instilling that arrogant Ollie Moore at the factory. His pulse skittered at an uncomfortable thought. Might Dinsmore have placed Moore as an informant, to observe and report on Gordon’s leadership skills?

Gordon got up and stalked the length of the office and back again, chewing on the inside of his cheek. It was common in some of the larger factories, but Gordon had never suspected Dinsmore of the tactic. Mainly because, with the exception of Moore, he’d left the hiring to Gordon.

Of course, Gordon bribed a handful of workers to share any possible breaches of conduct. And why not? He couldn’t be everywhere, so those additional eyes ensured he could give comprehensive reports to Dinsmore when asked. The information he’d received from Stella, one of his favorite tattlers, rolled in the back of his mind. His pacing came to a halt. Apparently his newest toter, Carrie Lang, had begun receiving packets from Ollie Moore on the morning of her second day of employment. Additionally, she’d spent much of
her lunch break asking questions—general questions about the factory’s operation and more specific questions about jobs assigned to the youngest workers. Gordon scowled. Did he have yet another crusader like Bratcher in his ranks?

Dinsmore always praised Gordon for his ability to turn a tidy profit in the factory. He rewarded Gordon well for his efforts, too, with a year-end bonus equal to one percent of all monies earned above expenses. Bratcher’s insistence on hiring able men to fill the positions currently filled by children meant shelling out higher wages. No man would be satisfied with a mere two dollars a week, but children snatched those coins from his hand along with a bag of imperfect chocolates every Saturday and dashed off content. The more children he employed, the more profit he’d show. Any fool could see the wisdom in hiring youngsters.

That pesky investigator’s plunge down the elevator shaft had ended his crusade, and although Gordon wouldn’t celebrate the man’s death—the entire situation had been ghastly—neither would he mourn it. When Bratcher died, his crusading fire had died with him. Peace had settled once more on Hightower’s world. And he didn’t want someone else—not even the attractive young woman Carrie Lang—stirring those embers to life again.

Perhaps a private conference with Miss Lang was in order. A smile twitched his lips. Yes. He’d enjoy a few moments alone with the newest hire. Perhaps her questions were mere curiosity, although her connection to Moore increased Gordon’s suspicions. Whether her queries were innocent or intentional, some carefully worded warnings should be enough to silence them. And if she chose to ignore his warnings, he’d just let her go. Problem solved.

“Hey! Carrie!”

At the shrill call Caroline balanced the trays bearing Chocolate-Covered Caramel-Nut Squares against her hips and paused in her trek toward the loading carts. One of the factory’s message bearers, a freckle-faced ten-year-old named Otis, bounded to her side. Caroline, although weary, offered a smile in
an attempt to erase the furrows marching across the boy’s forehead. No child should look so serious. “What is it, Otis?”

The boy wrung his hands, his gaze flicking toward the observation window high above them. “S’posed to tell you Mr. Hightower wants to see you.”

“All right. Let me deposit these trays, and I’ll—”

“No, miss. He says
now
.” Otis shuffled back and forth on dirty bare feet. “An’ he says to consider your meetin’ with him as your lunch break.”

Despite her desire to put Otis at ease, she couldn’t stop her own frown from forming. All morning she’d anticipated the plum pudding and rich sausage bread she’d purchased from Kesia. Of all the lunches she’d enjoyed from Kesia’s kitchen during her time in Sinclair, the sausage bread was her favorite. If Mr. Hightower robbed her of her entire lunch break, she’d be none too happy. But she wouldn’t launch her frustration on the little messenger.

Forcing a smile, she gave a nod. “Very well, Otis. Tell him I’m coming.”

The other two toters sent Caroline scathing looks and muttered to each other when she lowered her trays to the loading table and moved away. She hoped Otis would tell them she had no choice but to abandon her post. She caught her skirt between her fingers and mounted the stairs, her thoughts rushing ahead to the meeting. What could Mr. Hightower want with her? Might he be advancing her to the position of packager?

According to the other workers, Hightower rarely advanced people until they’d been employed for three months. She’d only been at Dinsmore’s a little more than two weeks, but she’d worked hard to gain Hightower’s approval, just as Noble had instructed. Perhaps her efforts would soon be rewarded. Oh, how she hoped so. She’d already assured Noble the factory had some of the safest work practices she’d seen, although she did feel a few jobs given to women and children should be performed by men. Even so, considering other factories she’d investigated, she had few complaints about Dinsmore’s operation. Now if she could fully investigate the elevator, either uncovering a malfunction or finding proof that Bratcher’s plunge could not have been accidental, then she could complete her private report and move on.

She paused on the top step, contemplating all that leaving Sinclair would entail. Abandoning Letta, who daily blossomed as the world of learning opened
before her; leaving Kesia, who in a very short time had become a dear friend; and losing contact with Ollie, whose pale-green eyes and endearing grin haunted her dreams even as she strove to keep her distance from him. Closing this assignment would cause her much loss, yet it would please Noble. And pleasing Noble should take priority over everything else. It
should
—but did it? She refused to contemplate the answer.

Setting her feet in motion, she scurried across the landing to the doorway leading to Mr. Hightower’s office. The door stood open, presumably in readiness for her entrance, but she paused and tapped on the doorframe.

The man sat at his desk, leaning back in his massive wooden chair and cupping his chin with one hand. He didn’t even glance in her direction, but at her knock he said, “Come in, Miss Lang, and close the door behind you.”

Apprehension caused Caroline’s scalp to prickle. Being in the factory manager’s office with the door closed held no appeal, yet she shouldn’t disregard his instruction. Not if she was to be trusted with a more responsible position. She clicked the latch into place and then crossed to his desk.

“You wanted to speak with me?”

“Yes.” Very slowly he turned, the chair springs releasing a low
ting
with the movement. His gaze seemed fixed on the door behind her rather than on her face. “Apparently there is some confusion concerning your duties here at Dinsmore’s.”

Caroline crinkled her brow. “Sir?”

With a jerk of his head, he pinned her with a fierce glare. “Confusion, Miss Lang. You are apparently confused.”

A cheeky retort formed on the tip of her tongue, but she sent up a quick prayer for control and managed to swallow the comment. “I’m sorry, sir. About what am I confused?”

He eased to his feet, his palms on the desk top as if poised to leap over it. “You are here to
work
. To carry filled trays from one area of the factory to another. You are not here to interrogate other employees or to make sheep’s eyes at certain employees of the opposite gender or even to make suggestions for improving this factory’s operation.”

Caroline’s thoughts raced. She’d been careless. Noble had instructed her
about proceeding with caution, never arousing suspicion, but somehow she’d failed. Apparently her infatuation with Ollie Moore, despite her best efforts to curb it, had affected her performance as an investigator. Humiliation brought a rush of heat to her cheeks. She cared not a whit about being berated by Hightower, but realization that she’d failed Noble pierced her deeply. She lowered her head.

“The questions will stop, Miss Lang.” Mr. Hightower rounded the desk, barking out one word with every step. “The flirtation will stop, Miss Lang. The suggestion that children should not be allowed on the factory floor will stop, Miss Lang.”

He stood directly before her, his presence commanding her to meet his gaze. Slowly she raised her face and looked into his angry, glittering eyes. And as he attempted to skewer her with his fury, she found herself racing backward through time to another angry boss, another set of unyielding commands. The remembered fear and helplessness of those moments washed over her, causing her knees to tremble. She’d only been a child. She’d had no defense against the one who owned her every waking minute. But she wasn’t a child any longer, and whether he realized it or not, Mr. Gordon Hightower was not her real supervisor.

Indignation filled her, followed by a rush of strength only her years of serving with Noble could have developed. Setting her shoulders square, she drew in a breath of fortification. “Mr. Hightower, I assure you I have never indulged in unnecessary conversation while on duty.” She deliberately used a firm yet reasonable tone lest she be accused of disrespect. “Any questions I’ve asked other employees have been during our lunch break—the normal give-and-take between coworkers. As for flirtation, you are mistaken. I am here to work”—he needn’t be apprised of the true nature of her work—“and nothing more. So it seems, sir, the confusion lies somewhere other than with me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have trays awaiting transport.” She turned to leave.

“I’m not finished with you yet!”

The roar, coming from directly behind her left ear, made her jump. She froze in place. He stomped around her, stopping between her and the door. “There is still the issue of your suggestions for improvement.”

Caroline set her lips in a tight line. She couldn’t deny his third accusation.
She had mentioned her concerns about youngsters being given responsibilities beyond their years and the possible ramifications should they fail in their tasks. There were many truths she was forced to withhold, given her purpose for entering the factory, but she wouldn’t deny her feelings about children working long hours rather than attending school.

“It was never my intent to insult you or Mr. Dinsmore.” Caroline’s mouth felt dry in the face of Mr. Hightower’s intimidation. She swallowed and continued, drawing on the bravado that had carried her through many difficult assignments. “But surely you can see—”

“What I see, Miss Lang, is an employee who lacks the proper recognition of her place.” Mr. Hightower leaned close, his hot breath smacking her in the face. “If your suggestions are wanted or needed, they will be requested. Until then, you will remember your only purpose here is to carry trays of chocolate.”

“But—”

His eyes narrowed, becoming slits of malevolence. “Miss Lang, on the day you were assigned the position as toter, did you take from this factory a goodly portion of Vanilla Creams?”

Instantly an image of Ollie gallantly offering the handkerchief bundle on his open palms filled her memory. A smile threatened, and she ducked her head before Mr. Hightower witnessed it. “Yes, sir. I confess I did carry away several of the candies from the trays used to prove my ability as a toter.”