Echoes of Mercy: A Novel (15 page)

A brisk tap at the door interrupted his focus. Now what? He barked, “Come in.” His irritation melted, however, when Miss Carrie Lang stepped into his office. A welcome diversion. He rose, setting his checklist aside. “Ah, Miss Lang.” He allowed his gaze to sweep from the top of her white mobcap to the toes of her brown boots peeping from the hem of her full dark-blue skirt. Such a fetching figure she presented. It took all the strength he possessed to stay on his side of the desk. “What brings you to my office on your lunch break?”

A second person stepped through the doorway, sweeping his hat from his head as he entered. Gordon’s smile of welcome turned into a frown of displeasure. What was Moore doing here?

Miss Lang gestured toward Moore. “We needed to speak with you about the third-shift crating position, as well as ask an important favor.”

Gordon flicked a glance across both faces. Serious. Determined. Not a hint of hesitation to be found. Their apparent ease in his presence—no humble bowing of heads, no nervous wringing of hands—rankled. He started to order them out of his office. He had his own work to do. But letting them state their purpose and then denying their request would put them in their rightful place.

He banged one fist on his desk top. “Well, get on with it, then. I don’t have all day.”

Moore nodded to Miss Lang as if giving her permission to speak first. She clasped her hands primly behind her back and lifted her chin, facing Gordon with a confidence he found both admirable and irritating. “I’d like to apply for one of the crating positions. If possible, I would like to start tonight.”

Gordon gawked at her. “Tonight?” He rounded the desk and leaned on its corner, folding his arms over his brocade vest. “Even if I gave you the position, you wouldn’t be able to start tonight. You’d need some sleep.”

“I would leave now, sleep this afternoon, and come back at ten this evening.”

My, but she had nerve! Gordon snorted. “So you’d be irresponsible enough to leave your post midshift for the sole purpose of taking a nap?” He injected as much sarcasm as possible into his voice, but the woman didn’t cringe.

She sent a brief look in Moore’s direction, the corners of her mouth twitching into a secretive smile. “Actually, Mr. Moore is willing to take over the task of toting trays until you’re able to hire another toter.”

Gordon’s chest went hot, disbelief mingling with disgust. How dare the two of them realign his roster without consulting him? “Mr. Moore has his own duties. Duties, I might add, he frequently bumbles. Considering his lack of skills, he’s lucky I let him keep his position as janitor. Given his ineptitude with a mop and scrub brush, why should I trust him to carry trays of confections?” He wanted to peek at that insufferable Moore and witness how his arrows of insult had pierced the man, but he determinedly kept his focus on the woman.

Miss Lang said, “Mr. Moore is stronger than the women, so he could tote
four or five trays at a time, as opposed to our three. Therefore he would accomplish the same amount of work in less time. Then he’d still have hours available to see to his other duties.”

Gordon raised one brow. “You seem to have it all worked out to your satisfaction.” He shifted his gaze to Moore. “I suppose you’re in full agreement with this arrangement, Moore?”

The man shoved his cap into the pocket of his britches and ran his hand through his hair. If Gordon’s gibes had bothered him, he gave no evidence of it. “I told Carr—Miss Lang—I was willing to step in and help. Getting the third-shift position is important to her.”

Gordon glared at Miss Lang, who responded with a calm he couldn’t comprehend. “Why?”

Standing tall and confidently before him, she spoke evenly. “I’ve recently taken on the responsibility of caring for three children whose father is very ill and is in the hospital. Working nights would allow me to see them off to school, sleep while they’re away, then feed them supper before coming to work.”

Moore moved a little closer to Miss Lang as if forming a united front. “Miss Lang’s new responsibility leads us to the favor we want to ask.”

The use of the word
we
rang like an alarm in Gordon’s mind. Apprehensive yet curious, he stiffly waved a hand in invitation.

“The children are young—too young to be left alone in an apartment all night. There are several cots in the lower level room set aside for a sick bay. But as you know, it’s hardly ever used for that purpose. Miss Lang and I hoped you might—”

Gordon leaped up. “No, no, no.”

For the first time Miss Lang’s shoulders wilted. She held out her hands in entreaty. “But—”

“No.” He leaned toward her, nearly touching his nose to hers, and spoke through clenched teeth. “I will not have some ragtag street urchins taking up residence in my—” He caught himself and quickly amended, “in this factory.”

Defensiveness flashed in the woman’s eyes. “They are not ragtag street urchins. They are well-behaved children facing a difficult situation with their
only parent unable to provide them care. Where is your Christian compassion, Mr. Hightower?”

He settled back on his desk, continuing to fix Miss Lang with his fierce glare. “I’m a businessman, Miss Lang, not a preacher or even a social do-gooder. I needn’t concern myself about extending compassion to the downtrodden.” Who’d ever extended compassion to him? Even Fulton Dinsmore, his supposed benefactor, hadn’t pulled him from that orphanage to make him a son but to put him to work in his factory. He’d vowed way back then to be the one in charge someday, and he hadn’t won his position of leadership by being compassionate. “My only job is to make sure this factory runs smoothly, which it cannot do if there are unsupervised children spending hours beneath its roof.”

“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 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 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?