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!”
OLIVER
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.
He pressed himself to the wall as the women passed him, giving them as much room as possible. At the end of the landing, as if choreographed, they made the turn in unison. But then the older one jolted as if stung on the rump by a hornet, and she stumbled. One chocolate rolled to the edge of the top tray. The woman gasped and tipped the trays the opposite direction. Oliver started to call out a warning, but before the words could escape, a good half-dozen candies and twice as many rocks—apparently the source of the rattle he’d heard—spilled over the edge and clattered noisily against the wide-planked floor.
The second woman had managed the corner without mishap and continued on, but at the racket she stopped and looked back. Sympathetic dismay replaced the determination he’d seen earlier on her face. Oliver found it a strange reaction. Shouldn’t she gloat? She’d just won what was obviously some sort of ridiculous competition.
Gordon Hightower, the factory’s manager and self-assigned hiring agent, stormed past the younger woman to the older one, who stared at the scattered rocks and candy at her feet in utter despair. He waved his hands around. “Mrs. Brewer, what were you doing? Clumsy, clumsy! A toter must first and foremost exercise care. You didn’t manage to go thirty paces without spilling.”
Oliver frowned. Hightower didn’t need to berate the woman so. He enjoyed his position of power too much—something Oliver intended to rectify when he controlled the factory reins.
Tears streamed down the woman’s round, red cheeks, and her entire body quivered. If someone didn’t help her, the entire load would hit the floor. He darted out and took the trays. The unexpected weight of the burden stole his breath as well as the defensive comment poised on the tip of his tongue.
“Yel
ling at her isn’t going to help.” The younger woman spoke up. Indignation colored her tone and expression. “I’m sure she’s just nervous. Why not let her give it another go?”
Oliver shook his head, uncertain he’d heard correctly. Was she championing her competition? Surely she understood only one would be chosen.
Hightower snorted. “Another go might result in even more lost chocolates.”
“And it might prove her capable of handling the task,” the bold woman countered.
Oliver hid a smile. She had a full, dimpled face wreathed by springy brown curls, which had escaped her lopsided mobcap. Her blue-flowered dress was so rumpled it appeared she’d slept in it the night before. The messy hair and disheveled clothing gave her an almost childish appearance. But how bravely she faced Hightower. Amusement as well as admiration swelled within his chest. She was a corker! And since she’d spoken up, he could stay silent, which was probably wise, considering he’d “hired on” less than two months ago and couldn’t risk being given the ax. Not just yet.
Shifting her trays a bit higher, she fixed Hightower with a steady look. “But you won’t know unless you offer her the chance.”
Hightower rolled his gaze to the ceiling and huffed out a mighty breath. “Miss Lang, you—”
“Thank you, miss, for speakin’ up for me, but there’s no need for another chance.” Mrs. Brewer hung her head. Her shoulders drooped, and one strand of gray-threaded hair flopped across her tear-stained cheek. “I … I got a bad back. That’s why I left the laundry. Couldn’t plunge them sheets up and down anymore. Since toting didn’t necessarily mean bending, I was hoping I could do it. My arms, they’re plenty strong. But my back …”
Oliver knew he should pay attention to Mrs. Brewer, who had sadly bared her soul to Hightower, but he couldn’t stop staring at Miss Lang. She’d come in looking for a job. Now that Mrs. Brewer had confessed she couldn’t handle it, the job was hers by simple elimination. She should be smiling, celebrating, or at the very least looking relieved. Instead, she appeared regretful. But why? She’d done nothing wrong except possess a back strong enough to support a stack of trays.
Still balancing her load, Miss Lang approached Mrs. Brewer. “I’m sorry about your back, ma’am. But as willing as you are to work, you ought to be able to find employment somewhere. I will pray for you.”
Oliver shook his head in wonder. A corker … Miss Lang was indeed a corker.
Mrs. Brewer sniffled. “Thank you, miss. I’ll take them prayers. Still got three youngsters at home and no man to earn for us.”
Regret deepened to sorrow in Miss Lang’s gold-flecked brown eyes. “How old are your children, Mrs. Brewer?”
“The boys are fourteen and eleven, and my littlest one—my only girl—is ten.”
Hightower plunged his hands into his pockets and gave the woman a speculative look. “Your boys are plenty old enough to work. Maybe we could use one of them on the floor.”
Miss Lang released an indignant gasp. “Oh, but—”
“Huh-uh, not my boys.” Mrs. Brewer straightened, swiping the moisture from her full cheeks with chapped palms. She glowered at Hightower, her expression matching the look of disgust on Miss Lang’s face. “I’ve made it clear to every one of my youngsters, from Tad down to Bessie, they’re to take all the schooling they got coming to ’em. They won’t be working no full-time jobs until they got a twelfth grade letter in hand. And that’s that!”
Miss Lang beamed. “Good for you, Mrs. Brewer!” If her hands weren’t occupied with the trays, Oliver wagered she’d embrace the other woman. Tears winked in her eyes—tears of happiness. She intrigued him.
Hightower harrumphed. “If you change your mind, the floor spots open regularly. Feel free to send your boys over. I’ll remember the name Brewer and give them first dibs.”
Mrs. Brewer flicked her hands across the front of her skirt as if removing any vestige of the factory from her well-worn frock. “Your memory’ll need to hold that name for a good long while, sir. Four years at the least.” Shifting to face Miss Lang, she touched the younger woman’s hand. “Thank you for your kindness. I wish you well in this job.” She headed for the stairs without so much as another glance at Hightower.
He let out a soft snort and turned to Miss Lang. “You’ve proved you can handle the weight of the trays. Now walk them to the table and set them down. If you can do it without dumping anything, the job is yours.”
Her head held high, Miss Lang moved with grace to the table under the window at the far end of the landing. A few rocks jiggled, causing a gentle rattle, but none rolled free when she lowered the trays to the table. Oliver marveled at how easy she made it appear. His arms ached with the weight of the trays he held. She clasped her hands behind her back and sent Hightower a saucy grin. “So, am I hired?”
The man drew back with a start, and Oliver nearly bit his tongue in half, stifling a chortle. Her sass might not go over well with Hightower, but Oliver liked it. He liked it a lot. So refreshing compared to the staid, prissy women Father and Mother had pushed at him over the past few years. He could get attached to this one. With a niggle of remorse, he reined in the thought. His parents expected him to marry within his station. He might be seen as a mere worker by the other employees at the factory, but he knew better. When he’d completed his purpose here, he’d return to his home. To rule, as his father put it, the Dinsmore dynasty. Becoming attracted to a toter, no matter how appealing he found her, had to be avoided.
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at www.WaterBrookMultnomah.com!
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What Once Was Lost Page 36