Echoes of Mercy: A Novel (4 page)

“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.

Puzzling … She tucked his image away in the back of her mind. She’d reflect on it later when she didn’t feel so fuzzy. Suddenly he turned, his gaze meeting hers, and grinned. How disconcerting to be caught staring. She whisked her attention to the trays beside her and, drawing once more on brashness, pinched a chocolate from the top tray and popped it into her mouth.

Creamy chocolate melted on her tongue, releasing the flavor of the rich vanilla center. She pressed her palms to her stomach and closed her eyes, relishing the delectable taste and smooth texture. No doubt part of her pleasure was the lack of food in her belly, but even an incredible hunger couldn’t completely account for her intense reaction to the candy. No wonder these creams were world-famous. A bit of heaven now dissolved in her mouth.

Hightower folded his arms over his chest, his eyebrows rising. “Miss Lang, I assure you, your employment will be short lived if you sample from every tray you’re asked to carry.”

The man standing beside the agent released a brief, low chuckle. Humor glittered in his eyes. The teasing expression softened his appearance, and something within Caroline seemed to melt as readily as the chocolate had on her tongue.

Oh my, she
was
overly tired.

Her cheeks blazing, she stepped away from the table. “I apologize, sir. It won’t become a habit.”

“Good.” The agent turned back to the other man. “Moore, put those trays on the table. Then give Miss Lang a copy of the factory informational pamphlet, help her complete a timecard, and show her where to punch in.” He gave Caroline a halfhearted nod. “Welcome to the Dinsmore family, Miss Lang.” He returned to his office, leaving her and the man named Moore standing at opposite ends of the landing.

Caroline stared at him while he stared at her. She’d never been so thoroughly unsettled by a man, and she had no desire to spend another minute in his presence. Yet she wouldn’t know the clock-in protocol if she didn’t accompany him as Mr. Hightower had instructed. Even so, she remained in place as if rooted, uncertain how to proceed.

In a wide-legged gait, he moved to the table and thumped the trays onto
its scarred surface hard enough to make the rocks bounce. He glanced at the chocolates on the trays and then at the closed door behind which Mr. Hightower had disappeared. With a boyish grin, he tugged a handkerchief from his pocket and unfolded it across his wide, smooth palm. Still silent, he filled the center of the handkerchief with chocolates from the two available trays, seemingly choosing the ones with the most minced nutmeats on top.

Caroline watched the growing mound as a nervous giggle built in the back of her throat. If Mr. Hightower stepped out and caught them pilfering candy, they’d both be let go before her employ even started. Yet she did nothing to stop him.

When the handkerchief held all it could, he deftly tied the corners together, creating a lumpy pouch. Supporting the package with both palms, he held it out to her like an offering.

Caroline took a step back. “I couldn’t.”

His eyes—a pale green heavily flecked with gold—twinkled. “They’ll get tossed. Right good waste, if you ask me. Someone oughta eat ’em.” He used workman’s slang but spoke in a cultured tone that didn’t match the rough phrasing. “Why not be that someone?”

Oh, how she wanted those chocolates. The delightful flavor of the one she’d eaten still lingered in her mouth, enticing her to partake of more. She caught handfuls of her skirt in both fists and spoke decisively, trying to convince herself as much as him of the wrong. “It’s stealing.”

He tipped his head and examined her over the knot of white cotton. “Suppose you’d come across these in the garbage bin an’ you could see they were good chocolates, not mucked up by trash an’ such. Would you eat ’em then?”

Embarrassment heated Caroline’s face. As a child she’d often chosen her supper from slop bins behind hotels and restaurants. Although it pained her pride to respond truthfully, she nodded.

“Well, then, think o’ what I told you. These’ll get dumped. An’ when they do, it’s likely they’ll get ruined by other garbage, an’ then they’ll just be wasted.” He bounced the packet, releasing a sweet scent from the loosely woven cloth. “Why not save ’em from being wasted?”

Caroline’s resolve faltered. “Y-you’re sure? I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

He released a low chuckle. “No worries, miss.”

She sent a long look at the remaining chocolates in the tray. Although he’d filled the handkerchief, he’d barely made a dent in the total supply. All those others would be thrown away, and she could put the ones he’d salvaged to good use. She sighed. “All right.”

A smile broke across his face. He pressed the packet into her hands. “Now, let’s go get you a timecard.”

“First.” She swallowed her remaining pride. “Can I take those that dropped on the floor, too?”

His brow pinched. “Those’ll be dusty, miss.”

Dusty, yes, but not nearly as tainted as some things she’d eaten in the past. And less likely to be missed. “I can brush them off.”

He examined her for a moment through slitted lids. Then he shrugged. “Well, all right, if you want ’em. You got someplace to put ’em?”

She held open the wide pocket sewn into the seam of her skirt.

His grin returned, his teeth a slash of white in his tanned face. “I hafta tell you, miss, you’re a corker. A real corker. C’mon, let’s get your pocket filled, an’ then I gotta get back to work.”

Gordon pressed his ear to the door and listened. Had they gone? He detected no mutter of voices. No scuffing of feet on the floor. He cracked open the door and peeked at the landing. Empty save the table and trays.

A satisfied grin tugged at his cheeks. He darted to the table and removed the top tray from both stacks. Then he quickly redistributed the rocks evenly among the remaining four. Not that he would be questioned. Every worker in this factory knew he held the power to hire and fire. But he still didn’t want whichever underling—in all likelihood the newest janitor, Ollie Moore—who cleaned up his mess to discover the inequity between the stacks.

When he finished, he slid the top trays back in place. He started to turn away, then paused, putting his finger in the spot where Miss Lang had removed a vanilla cream. He closed his eyes, recalling the expression of delight that broke across her face when she ate the candy. She had a few more years on her than he normally preferred, but, oh, she was a comely one—full cheeked, bright eyed, and curvy in all the right places. She also possessed more than a smidgen of sass. He sniggered. She’d be fun to chase around the melting pots.

He’d chosen her the moment he’d spotted her among the line of hopeful hires. But he’d known better than to be too obvious. He’d scared off one or two in the past by being overzealous—some girls were like timid mice. And he had to answer to the bossman concerning his hires. Eventually he’d have to explain why he chose someone with no factory experience over one with a lengthy work record. So he’d hatched a scheme to make sure the old, fat one would fail.

Cold sweat broke out across his back as he recalled Moore taking the stack of trays from Mrs. Brewer. At the time Gordon had nearly crawled out of his skin in alarm, certain he’d be found out. But the fool hadn’t even noticed it was a good ten pounds heavier than the average stack. And when the woman had confessed she wasn’t up to the job, she took all the responsibility on herself. It couldn’t have worked out better.

He helped himself to one of the vanilla creams, congratulating himself for his cleverness. As he tossed it into his mouth, he considered the shame of having to throw away full trays of chocolate. So many candies wasted. But wait … He scowled. He’d snagged those trays right from the sorting table. The candies had been lined up in neat rows and columns, ten by eight. Now even the candies on Miss Lang’s tray had shifted. Could they have moved that much during their journey as they were carried up and down the landing? Curiosity mounting, he did a quick count, then let out a startled huff. Nearly a dozen were missing from her tray!

He turned toward the stairs, and his gaze fell on the spot where Mrs. Brewer had tipped her load. Rocks still lay scattered, but the chocolates were gone. A picture formed in his head. Yes, Miss Lang had certainly enjoyed that candy—so much so she’d helped herself to even more.

Throwing back his head, he let loose a torrent of delighted laughter. He hurried into his office and scrawled a note to himself detailing the missing chocolates and their resale value. He tucked the note into a tiny hidden cubby beneath one of the drawers, and as he slid the drawer closed, a grin grew on his face. He would enjoy extracting payment for those vanilla creams.

Caroline swung the little packet of chocolates as she made her way toward the train station. She’d stashed her bag in a locker since there’d not been time to deposit her few belongings in her new abode before dashing to the factory. She yawned, not even bothering to cover her mouth. Oh, to go directly to her room and sleep the day away. She never slept well on a rocking train. But the
emotional upheaval of the past hour had exhausted her even more than the lack of sleep. Tiredness made her bones ache, but she couldn’t leave her bag past noon without paying an additional nickel. She wouldn’t squander money, no matter how small an amount. Even so, she could hardly wait to get to her room and collapse.

As was his custom, Noble had arranged her lodgings. She’d reside in a small room in a boarding hotel for women near the factory. Perhaps securing the room in advance was foolhardy considering she’d had no assurance she’d be hired, but Noble had insisted. His deep, husky voice rang in her memory.
“It won’t matter if you don’t get hired as a toter. Other spots will open up. You just keep going in until they finally take you. In the meantime you’ll be close enough to nose around, ask questions, gather information. You won’t waste the room.”

She smiled, fondness for the man chasing away a bit of her weariness. He had more confidence in her than she had in herself, but that made her all the more determined not to disappoint him. He’d be pleased she’d been hired.

She retrieved her bag, then plopped it onto a bench and unbuckled it so she could put the chocolates inside. She’d give the handkerchief a good wash in her basin this evening and tomorrow return it to Ollie, as he’d insisted she call him. If all the workers at Dinsmore’s were as friendly as Ollie Moore, she’d have no trouble settling in. She gave a start. Why was she thinking of settling in? Had she forgotten her purpose so quickly?

Noble always lectured her not to get too comfortable. Comfort could lead to carelessness. Carelessness could jeopardize the investigation. This particular mission would take extra focus since it had a twofold purpose—completing Harmon Bratcher’s investigation of the workers’ safety and satisfying Noble’s concerns about the agent’s death. And of course she also wanted to further her personal agenda of convincing the factory managers to hire adults for all positions rather than employing children. She gave the valise’s straps a good yank, reminding herself to be careful.

Bag in hand again, she headed for the boarding hotel. She sucked in a big breath of cool, coal-scented air. How good to have the hiring process finished. She still felt bad, though, for those who were turned away. Was that poor girl Mr. Hightower had sent out the door being beaten right now by her
father for failing to secure the toter’s position? She envisioned the girl—young, thin, shabby braids pinned across her head from one ear to the other. The hairstyle was probably intended to add years to her appearance, but instead she’d seemed bedraggled. Just thinking of her made Caroline’s heart hurt. She wished she knew the girl’s name so she could find her, offer her some assistance.