Echoes of Mercy: A Novel (16 page)

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 purpose, 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. His 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.”

Grateful to set aside the subject of matrimony, Oliver lifted his head and met his father’s gaze.

“Remember, our first priority is to turn a profit. Hightower does that well. Try to learn from him.” Father gave Oliver’s knee a quick pat and then stood up. “You should know that Hightower has some real concerns about one of his newest hires—the woman you asked to have placed on third shift.” Oliver’s heart fired into his throat. “Carrie? Why?”

His lips twitching, Father linked his hands together. “It seems she has been pestering coworkers for information concerning the accident that claimed Harmon Bratcher’s life. Since he was specifically inspecting the factory’s third rotation, Hightower’s concerned her real reason for wanting to join that shift is to stir up trouble.”

Oliver could refute Hightower’s claim. But if he told Father she needed that shift so she’d be available to Lank and Lesley, he’d have to explain why he knew so much about Carrie Lang. So he phrased a question instead. “Why would she stir up trouble?”

“Hightower believes she knew Bratcher—that she’s his relative. If she finds a reason to hold us accountable for his death, she can sue us. Going to court is costly, and it could turn the public against us. Bratcher was well known across the state for his campaigning. If Hightower’s suppositions are correct, this woman could create a financial hardship for the factory. Perhaps even force us to close down.”

“Carrie wouldn’t do that.” Oliver spoke firmly, but the moment the words left his mouth, uncertainty fell over him. She’d specifically asked if he was looking into Bratcher’s death—had even seemed elated at the idea. Did she have motives of which he was unaware?