P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

Greeley frowned down at her. “I thought you understood it is best to leave these matters to the discretion of your business manager.”

“I can’t ignore the fact that a business I now own might be condoning the brutal treatment of sailors. Surely you are as concerned as I am.”

She’d neatly turned the tables on him, and his expression spoke volumes. “If you feel it absolutely necessary to interfere, I strongly advise you to take up this matter with Clive Johnson.”

Hattie shook her head. “I have reason to doubt he’d be candid with his answers.”

“That’s absurd. Johnson is a man of stellar reputation. If he has dealt with the crimps on occasion, then he has done so with good reason.”

She smiled politely, her headache having returned full force.

He opened the door and then turned back. “I will give you one last word of advice, Mrs. Longren. You will be better served in this community if you adopt a more pleasing attitude toward those who have your best interests at heart.” He placed his hat on his head and, bowing, bid her good day.

“Pompous ass,” she muttered when the door had closed.

She heard a snicker, and turned to find Sara behind her, a hand clapped over her mouth, her eyes bright with mirth. “Land sakes, Mrs. Longren. I never enjoyed myself so much as in these last few moments. That man needed to be brought down a peg or two.”

“Yes, well, I doubt I succeeded,” Hattie muttered. “Nothing could penetrate that thick skull of his.”

Charlotte rushed down the hallway from the kitchen. “Oh, Hattie, how could you! You practically ran him off, and you were unforgivably rude to him! He’ll never come back to see me,” she ended on a wail.

Hattie stared at her in surprise. “Would that be such a terrible thing?”

“Yes! He’s handsome and kind and—”

“He’s much too old for you.”

“You’re just jealous!” Charlotte accused. “You don’t have anyone calling on you, and you can’t stand that he wants me.”

“I’m in mourning for Charles,” Hattie corrected, exasperated. “No respectable man would call on me so soon after his death.” She spread her hands. “Charlotte, Greeley’s not the right man for you. You should have someone lighter in spirit, who won’t be so stern, whom you can fall in love with—”

“I am in love!” Charlotte cried, then let loose a sob. “You’ll just ruin everything! I hate you!” She ran up the stairs.

Her bedroom door slammed, and Hattie could hear muffled, heartrending sobs. She sighed, rubbing her temples. She’d taken her irritation with Greeley out on Charlotte, which was inexcusable. Charlotte needed her understanding right now, not her disapproval.

“Let her go, ma’am,” Sara said. “She’s just overwrought.”

“It’s just that he’s—”

“A lot like Mr. Longren,” Sara observed shrewdly.

Hattie realized Sara was right. Oh, God . She didn’t want Charlotte to suffer as she had, to feel guilty because the man she loved couldn’t bring himself to return the sentiment.

“I’ll have Tabitha take Charlotte some chamomile tea in a bit, along with the latest dress patterns from Butterick’s ,” Sara was saying. “After she settles down, you can try to reason with her.”

Hattie smiled gratefully, but her thoughts remained troubled. Was she being fair? Or was she allowing her personal dislike of Greeley to cloud her judgment? She couldn’t expect Charlotte to want or need the same things from a relationship that she had wanted.

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.