What Once Was Lost (48 page)

The man came to a halt before the timid-looking girl on Caroline’s right. The poor thing squirmed, pressing her chin to one hunched shoulder and grinding the toe of a worn brown shoe against the floor. Sympathy for the younger woman, who was surely no more than fourteen years of age, twined through Caroline’s heart. The man’s charcoal pinstriped suit and crimson silk ascot beneath his goatee gave him a dapper appearance, but his furrowed brow and piercing eyes ruined the effect. He’d introduced himself
as Gordon Hightower, and he seemed to emulate his name by peering down his nose at all of them. The man was as intimidating as an army sergeant making an inspection. For one brief moment Caroline found herself hoping the young girl would be the one chosen—judging by her tattered frock, scuffed shoes, and filthy knuckles, she needed the job—but Caroline pushed aside the fleeting thought with steely determination. She must be the single new hire invited inside that factory. How else would she uncover the details of Harmon Bratcher’s death?

Quick as a lightning strike, Hightower thrust his hand forward and grabbed the girl’s upper arm. A startled yelp emerged from her mouth, and her eyes flew wide open. Caroline nearly intervened because he had no right to terrorize the poor child so. But fear of being sent out the door held her silent.

Hightower gave the girl’s arm several quick squeezes, and then he released her, his lips pursed in disgust. “You haven’t got enough meat on your bones to tote a broom, let alone carry filled trays of confections.” His derisive tone snapped like a lash, and the girl cringed beneath the words. “We asked for a toter. Qualifications are strong arms and able legs. Didn’t you read the notice?”

Up and down the line, the women flicked glances at the others’ forearms. The one on the far end clenched her fists. Caroline stared at the firm muscles displayed beneath the taut fabric of the woman’s worn blue sleeves. If strong arms were a qualifier, the hiring agent would certainly choose that woman over all the others. Caroline’s determination to be ushered into the Dinsmore’s Factory wavered.

The girl released a helpless whimper. “I … I don’t know how to read, sir.”

Caroline closed her eyes, a familiar frustration filling her breast. What had kept this child from attending school? Other jobs? A mother who needed extra hands at home to help with younger siblings? No matter the reason, the girl’s inability to read destined her to a life of poverty. Caroline gritted her teeth, holding back a growl of indignation.

“I can’t use you.” The man flipped his wrist, the dismissive gesture showing his total lack of empathy.

Tears welled in the child’s wide blue eyes. “But I gotta get hired on, sir. Already been turned away at three other places. My pa he said he’d beat me senseless if I didn’t get this job.”

Hightower folded his arms over his chest and glowered at the girl. “You can’t be a toter. Toting takes strength. You haven’t got strength.”

“But I do!” The girl clasped her hands beneath her chin, her expression pleading. “I’m stronger’n I look. Honest, I am. Can’tcha just gimme a chance?”

The agent leaned in, his nose mere inches from the cowering child’s. “Those trays hold up to fifteen pounds each. Toters haul three trays at a time. You drop one load, and a good five dollars’ worth of candy is wasted. That’s too much to risk.” He caught her arm again and gave her a little push toward the door. “Now get. Tell your pa to pay better attention to the qualifications next time he sends you out.”

With sobs heaving her skinny shoulders, the girl skittered out the door, but the sound of her distress drifted from the hallway and flayed Caroline’s soul. She gazed at the open doorway where the girl had slipped away, sending up a silent prayer. A tiny seed of hope wiggled its way into the center of her heart. If the girl couldn’t secure a job, maybe her parents would send her to school instead. She’d learn to read, to write, and to figure sums. Then in another few years when she was full-grown, she could find a decent job. Not all parents were as heartless as her own. This girl might have a chance to—

“You!”

The barked command ended Caroline’s musings. She jerked upright, blinking several times. Hightower stood before her, his frown fierce. She licked her dry lips. “Yes, sir?”

“How old are you?”

Caroline hesitated. She knew what she was supposed to say, and she knew the man would accept it. Her round face and smooth skin gave the appearance of someone much younger than her true age of twenty-seven. The Labor Commission had given her stern instructions to carve five or six years from her age when asked. The fabrication helped hide her real identity. Even so, lies didn’t
slip easily from her tongue. She lifted her chin in a flirtatious manner and tiptoed around the question. “Does it matter?”

“It might.”

She offered a coy shrug. “The qualifications didn’t include a specific age.”

He grunted—a very ungentlemanly sound that contrasted with his refined attire. He cleared his throat and moved down the line, snapping out questions and summarily sending the next three hopefuls out the door by turn.

With the final slam of the door, Caroline and the thick-armed woman remained as the only contenders for the single position as toter. Caroline quickly examined her competition, noting the woman eyed her with equal interest. Dislike gleamed in the woman’s beady gaze, sending prickles of unease up Caroline’s spine. This woman intended to secure the position no matter the cost. But Caroline’s need was too great for her to concede defeat. She might be tired, rumpled, and less muscular than the other woman, but she would win. With God’s help, she amended, she would win. Noble expected it. And the future of Kansas children depended on it.

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

In unison Caroline and her adversary moved to the opposite side of the desk and stood side by side. Caroline’s muscles twitched, and her 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. A 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 the Labor Commission. And good for the current generation of Kansas youngsters and the generations to come. She would focus on those people rather than the single, 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 the second half of your test. 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 a half-dozen times before 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 sent a conniving look in Caroline’s direction. “You need me to …”

Pride swelled. She’d never set foot in a schoolhouse, but thanks to Noble, she could read and write as well as anyone who’d attended several years of school. “No, thank you. 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 this wasn’t the time to amuse herself. 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. Just as she finished, the door opened, and Hightower breezed in. A sugary scent accompanied him, almost heady in its sweetness. Saliva pooled beneath Caroline’s tongue, and her belly twisted in desire to partake of the treats being manufactured on the lower levels.

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

Caroline nodded, and Mrs. Brewer blared, “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.”

Mrs. Brewer’s 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-waged 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 gawked at the woman. With twenty years of work experience, why wouldn’t she demand a better wage?

He 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 stuck out her chin 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 whooshed 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 rounded shoulder. Obviously Mrs. Brewer needed a job badly enough to grasp whatever crumbs were offered. Fighting for the position became more difficult by the minute.

Smacking the pages onto the desk, Hightower pointed his chin toward the door. “Go out 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 he 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 they 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 high. “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. Each of you take 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 tone held little confidence.

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

The man stepped aside. “Lift.”

Caroline curled her fingers around the lip of the bottom tray and picked it up. A tiny, involuntary grunt left her lips, but she managed to balance the trays against her rib cage. She watched as Mrs. Brewer hefted her trays. 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!”

O
LIVER

What was that infernal rattling sound? Oliver Dinsmore topped the stairs and 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 three trays bearing candies—Dinsmore’s World-Famous chocolate-coated vanilla creams from the look of them. He nearly snorted in self-derision. Had he really recalled the entire title of the confection? Father would be so pleased.