P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

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 furnishings. 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.

The accounting for such activities, which included finding lodging for the sailors while in port, was probably quite complex. It simply wouldn’t do to remain in the dark—she had to gain a better understanding of Longren Shipping and its finances. And, she realized, she knew just who could help her, no matter how distasteful the thought was.

Frank Lewis.

She shifted uneasily, uncomfortable with the notion of inviting her husband’s nemesis to the house. After all, Lewis’s union operated the shipping office that was Longren Shipping’s largest competitor. Allowing him access to the books could possibly give him substantial insight and leverage over Longren Shipping.

But did she really have a choice? If she approached Eleanor Canby for help, Eleanor would react as others had, judging her sudden interest in the business as unseemly. And even if Eleanor knew of someone who could help her, she wouldn’t provide any names. No, Hattie thought, she was on her own, and Frank Lewis was the one person she knew with the education and intellect needed to help her understand the truth behind the numbers. She could count on him to be plainspoken in his explanations. He would, in fact, relish educating her regarding her deceased husband’s amoral business practices.