And yet, Greeley’s views regarding marriage and women’s position in society were decidedly old-fashioned. It had been on the tip of her tongue to inform him that she had no intention of giving Clive Johnson free rein in the business any longer, that she had decided to take a much more active role in its day-to-day affairs. Greeley might well have become apoplectic at that news—something she would’ve secretly loved to witness.
Even more troubling, though, was the fact that Greeley had failed to answer her questions regarding Longren Shipping, choosing to criticize her instead. Surely a kinder man would’ve been more straightforward, or at least more diplomatic in his criticism. By turning her questions around on her, Greeley had left her no more knowledgeable than before, yet wondering what he knew but refused to reveal.
Perhaps Mona had been correct in her assertion that the police knew what went on under their noses but chose to ignore it. Or even worse, were paid handsomely to look the other way. If Hattie found that to be true, she would forbid Charlotte to have anything to do with Greeley, no matter how crushed Charlotte was by her decision.
She sighed. Realistically, she could ill afford to turn down suitors for Charlotte, but she simply didn’t like or trust the police chief. And it was clear she’d have to look elsewhere for the answers she sought.
She could summon Clive Johnson to the house to question him, but she had a different strategy in mind—surprising him with a personal visit to the offices of Longren Shipping. The less prepared he was, the more likely he’d answer candidly—or at least reveal information without thinking.
Tugging on the silver chain of the pocket watch Charles had given her for their six-month anniversary, she checked the time. If she made haste, she could catch Johnson before he left for the afternoon to board their schooners currently anchored in port. And a brisk walk to the office would clear her head and help her throw off, for a few moments, her unrelenting restlessness.
However, a return to the waterfront would do little to mend the tatters of her shredded reputation.
The Mantle of Ill Intent
AFTER changing into her walking skirt and ankle boots, Hattie descended the stairs to the front entry. “Sara, you’ll have to postpone your daily outing to the mercantile to remain here and act as chaperone. I will be making a quick trip down to the office.”
Sara frowned. “Are you certain that’s wise, ma’am? You’re still in mourning, and Mr. Longren always said—”
“Sara,” Hattie repeated firmly. “I don’t very much care, at this moment, what Mr. Longren said.”
The housekeeper huffed and retrieved Hattie’s cape, her expression disapproving. She helped Hattie put it on, then opened the door.
“Please inform Charlotte that she is not to leave the house until I return,” Hattie said as she walked out.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Stepping off the front porch, Hattie paused to breathe deeply, drawing the crisp, clean air into her lungs. The midmorning sun shone brightly, and the sky was a clear blue. With the warming of spring, bulbs had burst into bloom in her neighbors’ gardens in the last few days. In the distance, the waters of Admiralty Inlet sparkled. The walk through her neighborhood promised to be pleasant. Her spirits lifting, she set out, her pace brisk, and in no time at all, she had covered the six blocks, traversing the zigzagging footbridge down to the waterfront without mishap.
The offices of Longren Shipping stood next to the Customs House, only a half block up from the huge wooden wharf where ships unloaded their goods and sailors disembarked. Though Charles had proudly explained that few shipping companies had been able to lay claim to such sought-after waterfront real estate, Hattie had always thought this part of town held little aesthetic appeal. Dirt streets separated rows of haphazardly constructed, whitewashed buildings, and the only visual relief to the relentless white and brown mosaic came from the blue waters of the bay beyond. No one had made an effort to plant even the smallest whiskey barrel of flowers.
Yesterday’s storm had moved through quickly, tossing the ships about in the harbor but doing no permanent damage. In this morning’s bright light, the extensive destruction from the fire was apparent. Only two blocks from Longren Shipping, burned-out, blackened shells and piles of lumber still smoldered. The block to the east of the wharf lay in ashes save a Chinese laundry on the corner, and on the next block, nothing had escaped the fire’s wrath.
As Hattie walked along the waterfront, she was careful to stay next to the buildings. Despite the early hour, the boardwalks were crowded, and saloons and brothels had reopened for business. The temperance society was out in full force, its ladies picketing the entrances to the saloons.
The streets, though sloppy from yesterday’s rain and the water poured on the fire, teemed with a mix of horse-drawn carriages and flat wagons. Buckboards drawn by draft horses stood ready to be loaded with the cargo crates stacked along the wharf.
Sailors stood at the wharf’s edge, holding hand-lettered signs and using megaphones to loudly protest the conditions under which they were forced to toil. Hattie spied Frank Lewis standing to one side, arms folded across his broad chest, observing. He turned his head and their gazes locked, causing Hattie’s stride to falter, but he merely raised a sardonic brow.
She turned away, only to find herself looking straight into the disapproving gaze of Chief Greeley. He stood opposite Frank Lewis, feet planted wide and hands fisted on his hips, flanked by several police officers who were keeping an eye on the sailors’ demonstration. Hattie stared back at Greeley, her back ramrod straight. No doubt he would choose to believe she had openly defied his edict not to return to the waterfront. So be it. She had no control over the man’s silly opinions.
Ignoring the curious glances of passersby, Hattie continued down the boardwalk until she stood in front of the entry to Longren Shipping. Dread over the coming confrontation settled deep in her stomach, but the consequences of failure were even more frightening. Drawing a deep breath, she opened the door.
The room she stepped into was long and narrow, each wall lined with wooden file cabinets and glass-fronted bookcases crammed with books and ledgers. Framed pictures of current and past presidents of the United States hung on one wall, along with a calendar. The only windows were those fronting the street, leaving the hallway at the back, which led to storerooms and a rear entrance, shrouded in shadows.
Clive Johnson wielded his authority from behind a massive oak desk placed in the center of the room, halfway back. Only two months ago, that desk had belonged to Charles. A young clerk Hattie had never seen before toiled away, his back to her as he sat on a stool in front of a high, sloping desk situated against the back wall, a thick ledger of accounts at his elbow. A black and gold enamel typewriter rested on a smaller, shorter table to his left.
At the sound of the door closing, her business manager glanced up from the pile of papers he’d been reading. He leapt to his feet.
“Mrs. Longren! If you’d sent word, I would’ve come up to the house.”
“That’s not necessary, Mr. Johnson. And the walk was good for me.” Determined to appear calm and in control, Hattie took her time unbuttoning her cape, then perched on the edge of the green leather chair he rushed to clear for her. He shouted at the clerk to prepare tea.
As she observed Johnson from under her lashes, she was struck once again by how truly off-putting the man was. His black bow tie, striped black and white silk shirt held in place over his protruding belly with red suspenders, and black wool frock coat reflected his belief that he was now a powerful waterfront shipping master. But the broken, dirty fingernails and Vandyke beard that hadn’t seen a trim in days told the story of a man who had failed to leave the rougher side of his life behind.
“I trust your wife and children are well?” she asked politely.
“The missus is fine—”
“And the business?” she interrupted. “It can’t be easy, absorbing the loss of the barque Charles commanded.”
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p; “We’re makin’ a profit,” Johnson replied, returning to his chair, his expression cautious. “I can write a check for your household expenses—”
“I don’t need one at the moment, thank you.” The tea the clerk set before her looked as if it had been brewed to within an inch of its life. Prudence dictated she add a small amount of sugar. “I’ve decided to educate myself about the business Charles left me,” she explained as she stirred. “Surely the loss based on the South Seas mutiny, in terms of both the ship and its cargo, was a severe blow.”
“We’re handlin’ it.” Johnson’s tone had turned abrupt; he didn’t appreciate her questions. “We’re takin’ on extra contracts, pushin’ wage cuts on the crews.”
She took a cautious sip of tea, then hastily set down the cup. “Won’t lowering the wages cause the crews to move to our competitors, leaving us shorthanded?”
He smiled. “You could say I’ve … encouraged them not to leave.”
“You mean you’ve threatened them.” She nodded. “Or have you actually taken to flogging them?”
He steepled his hands, regarding her in silence. “You’ve got no reason to worry about whether I use cowhides on the crews. You’ve got no business experience—”
“I think I know what constitutes inhumane treatment, Mr. Johnson. That knowledge doesn’t rely on business expertise.”
“It’s standard punishment.” A carnal light gleamed in his eyes, causing Hattie’s stomach to clench. “I wouldn’t want to offend a woman of your delicate sensibilities by explainin’ the details.”
My God, the man actually enjoyed the floggings. She shuddered. Quickly changing the subject, she came to the point of her visit. “If you’d be kind enough to fetch the accounting ledgers for me, I’ll take them home for review.”
Surprise flitted across his face, followed by a scowl. “That’s not possible—we make entries in those ledgers every day.”
“I’m sure your clerk can simply make notes of the day’s business while I conduct my review.”
He shook his head. “You don’t need to see them. I can provide you with a summary of each week’s business in our Friday meetings at the house.”
“I’m no longer interested in merely receiving a summary,” she argued calmly, holding on to her temper. “I’d like to better understand how we plan to assimilate our recent losses and present some suggestions that don’t involve strong-arming the crews into taking starvation-level wages.”
“No one is starvin’,” Johnson retorted.
“I can’t imagine—given that sailors are already poorly paid and endure many hardships—that reducing their pay has improved their lives.” She put up a hand, cutting short any further argument. “Regardless, I intend to acquaint myself with the company finances. And I would also like to review the company’s policy of procuring crews from shanghaiers.”
He seemed to relax a bit, his posture becoming less defensive. “I only use crimps when needs arise. I would’ve thought Charles told you.”
“Yes, he did,” Hattie admitted. “However, rumors beg otherwise. And whether or not shanghaiers are openly condoned, their practices are brutal. Therefore, I insist on reviewing your personnel files.”
He flushed, small red veins becoming more prominent on his ruddy skin. “If you’re suggestin’ I would mislead you—”
“Perhaps not mislead as much as feel you don’t need to bore me with the details.” When he opened his mouth to protest, she held up her hand a second time. “I’m sure you know I highly value your services. However, Charles left me in charge of this company—”
“Only by default,” Johnson snapped. “He didn’t expect to die, leavin’ you to deal with the business. He never would’ve approved of any woman’s involvement, much less his wife’s. I’m only doin’ what he would’ve wanted.”
“Nevertheless, it is my right and my decision to take a more active role.”
His knuckles turned white where they gripped the arm of his chair, then his expression turned sly. “Exactly who’ve you been talkin’ to, Mrs. Longren? What’re these so-called rumors you made mention of?”
“You needn’t be concerned with them.”
“If your information came from a union representative,” he warned, “then you can’t trust ’em. They’ll say whatever they need to discredit the shippin’ companies. They think we should pay ridiculous wages for no work.”
Hattie remained silent. Given that Mona had been the one to first raise questions about Longren Shipping’s policies, Hattie didn’t have any intention of repeating what Frank Lewis had told her. She didn’t want to provide either side with reason for retaliation.
“Please gather the ledgers and any files dealing with the procurement of sailing crews.” She made a show of opening her watch. “I have lingered longer than I intended—I must leave immediately.”
“But—”
“Mr. Johnson.” She stood and leaned over the desk, placing her gloved hands on its dusty surface, though she knew Sara would squawk when she saw the smudges. “The ledgers, now. Or I shall be forced to find someone to replace you who is more willing to accept my authority.”
He remained in his chair for a long moment. Then he rose slowly, his dark eyes filled with an emotion akin to hatred. “It seems I don’t got a choice.”
“No, you don’t.”
He stalked over to the clerk’s desk, picking up the large leather-bound book she’d noticed earlier, plus a stack of files, then returned to dump them into her arms. “You have these back by tomorrow mornin’.”
She shifted the pile for better balance and met his gaze head-on. “I’ll return them when I’m through with them, at which time I will expect a meeting to discuss any policy changes I would like to make.”
His face mottled with fury, but he said nothing. She walked to the door and waited, but he made no move to open it for her. It was the clerk who rushed forward to help her.
Outside, she paused for a moment to breathe in fresh air unsullied by the oppressive atmosphere inside the office. Her shoulders sagged as a growing sense of defeat threatened to overwhelm her. She’d gotten what she’d come for, but not without repercussions.
Clive Johnson wouldn’t be in a forgiving mood anytime soon.
* * *
ONCE home, Hattie stood in the front hallway, staring at the closed doors to the library. The room had always been Charles’s domain. On countless evenings, he’d closeted himself there after dinner on the excuse he had business to conduct. At the time, she’d suspected it was a way to remove himself from the tension that had sprung up between them. But given Clive Johnson’s attempts to thwart her, she was now certain Charles had also kept secrets from her. And though she was loath to invade his privacy, his desk might contain answers. Squaring her shoulders, she shifted her burden of ledgers and files to the crook of one arm and slid the doors open.
The stale air coming from the dim room contained a lingering hint of Charles’s cologne, and a flood of memories rushed over her. She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself, then walked to the huge oak desk in the center of the room. Setting down the files, she circled the room, turning on the lamps that sat on small end tables or stood next to formal groupings of leather wingback chairs. As if compelled, she adjusted a piece of furniture here and there, changing hard right angles to oblique, more pleasing ones.
A small conservatory filled with plants drew her through an arched doorway on the far wall. Double French doors, which looked onto the patio and garden, opened to a fresh, cool breeze. A riot of flowers surrounded the patio, and beyond, she could see her neatly tended beds of vegetables and herbs.
During her short marriage, she had spent most of her time in the garden, because it had been the one place where she’d felt at peace. She now realized that Charles must have frequently watched her from where he sat at his desk. Ignoring the oddly disturbing thought, she walked back into the room.
The corners of her mouth turned down as she studied the furn
ishings. If she intended to make this room a part of her and Charlotte’s lives, the cream-colored Aubusson rug could stay, but the green-and-gold patterned wallpaper would have to go. It made the room far too dark and dismal, as did the deep red brocade cloths, fringed with gold, that draped over the tables. And the portraits of Charles’s dour ancestors, which hung in heavy, gilt-edged frames high on the walls, added to the overall gloomy feeling.
Her hands itched to take them down and stack them in an out-of-the-way corner until Sara had time to put them in the attic. To strip the tablecloths off, revealing the golden oak beneath, and to yank the heavy velvet curtains away from the windows, replacing the dark fabric with lace panels that would allow sunlight to pour in.
For the moment, however, that would have to wait—she had more important tasks facing her. But when the time came, she thought on sudden inspiration, she would include Charlotte in the redecorating project. Perhaps it would distract her from thoughts of Greeley.
Returning to the desk, Hattie sat in Charles’s high-backed chair and opened the red and black leather-bound ledger Clive Johnson had given her. Page after page of columns of tidy numbers greeted her, with one-line explanations written in minute, spidery script. She removed her kid gloves and tossed them aside, then rang for Sara.
“I’ll take a tray here in lieu of lunch,” she told the housekeeper. “If Charlotte needs me, let her know where I am.”
However, after only a half hour of reading, Hattie closed the ledger, admitting defeat. She had no idea how to decipher the numbers, no inkling of what they meant. Not, she thought wryly, that her parents had ever considered educating her in the art of bookkeeping. They’d fully intended for her to follow in her mother’s footsteps, working in clinics for the poor. And until Charles had swept into her life that night at the charity ball on the Boston Commons, she’d never given her preordained future a second thought.
Truth be told, she had only the vaguest notion of how a shipping office actually conducted its business. Charles had once explained to her that he functioned as a shipping master—a procuring agency, if you will, for both his ships and those owned by other ships’ captains. His employees, which included office personnel and the longshoremen who manned the Whitehall boats, acquired crews from ships setting anchor, then provided those crews—for a modest fee—to other ships’ captains who were ready to set sail. But beyond that general explanation, she knew little of the details.
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