P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

She shrugged, piqued by his accurate portrayal. “Once I saw the state of things, I could hardly turn my back, could I? You, on the other hand, seem to have been endowed with little or no social conscience. You stood by all through the night and did nothing to help.”

He threw his head back and laughed out loud. “My sleek little cat has claws.”

She set her teeth. “Where are your bodyguards, Mr. Seavey? Should I ask Sara to take them some tea and cake?”

Her attempt to change the subject only served to amuse him further. “They don’t feel the need to protect me from my women.”

“I’m not one of your women,” she snapped, goaded.

“Not yet, perhaps.”

She slashed a hand through the air. “Why are you here, Mr. Seavey?”

He sighed, returning his cup to its saucer. “Very well, if you insist on directness.”

“I prefer it.”

“Somehow, I’m not surprised, though I thoroughly enjoy sparring with you.” He held up a hand to forestall her next retort. “Eleanor Canby’s editorial this morning, I’m told, was influenced by remarks you made in public the night of the fire.”

Hattie frowned. “I voiced an opinion that the fire might have been started intentionally, if that is what you are referring to. Can you deny it?”

“Why would you think I would have any knowledge of the matter?” he queried, his tone mild.

“You live on the waterfront, do you not?”

“On the top floor of my hotel, yes. I find the energy in that part of town … exhilarating.”

“Then you must be privy to what goes on.”

He studied her for a long moment. “I thought it best to pay you a visit,” he said, his tone gentle, “to encourage you not to voice opinions on issues about which you have little or no direct knowledge. Such opinions, when made known to the wrong people, could put you at risk.”

She arched her brows. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Seavey?”

He sighed. “You have an overly suspicious nature, my dear. I’m merely concerned for your safety. A widow in this town has little enough security as it is.”

She stared at him, trying to discern the truthfulness of his statement. “Tell me, Mr. Seavey, why were you and Charles so well acquainted that you profess to have a fondness for this library? Were your visits for social or business purposes?”

He drank more tea before answering. “A little of both.”

“Given the line of business I’m told you engage in, I can’t imagine what Charles could’ve possibly gained by a liaison with you.”

“No, I don’t suppose you can. Charles kept you well away from both his business and social affairs.”

“Did Charles collude with you to procure crews by any means necessary?” she asked bluntly.

Something shifted in his pale eyes, but he answered calmly enough. “The shipping masters need crews to fulfill sailing contracts, and the sailors need berths. I merely ensure that the two come together, taking a small profit for the effort I expend.”

She shook her head. “Your reasoning is self-serving, is it not? Shanghaiing is a reprehensible practice, though few in this town seem to be concerned with that fact. But I intend to put a stop to it, at least with regard to Longren Shipping. As you can see,” she said, gesturing at the stacks of papers before her, “my level of involvement in the business is now changing.”

He didn’t seem alarmed by her announcement. Indeed, his expression was one of polite boredom. “I doubt you’ll find the work Charles engaged in either interesting or fulfilling. I shouldn’t imagine a woman of your refinement would be pleased to have to deal with such mundane tasks.”

“I have little choice in the matter,” she said briskly, “if Charlotte and I are to survive. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t believe I intended to.” His tone remained diffident as he toyed with one snowy white cuff. “Your man Johnson seems competent enough. Why not leave the business to him?”

“Clive Johnson was well regarded by my husband. However, by becoming more involved in Longren Shipping, I will have a glimpse into my late husband’s life, and therefore perhaps a better understanding of who he was.” She opened the desk drawer and withdrew one of Charles’s dossiers, handing it to him. “Files such as these exemplify how little I knew about Charles, and they throw into question his judgment.”

Seavey opened it and quickly glanced at the contents. His head jerked up, his expression hard, and she wondered how she could’ve been drawn into believing for even a few moments that his veneer of sophistication was anything but that—a thin camouflage of what lay beneath. She wouldn’t, however, allow herself to be afraid.

“I haven’t read the file,” she assured him. “The letterhead was enough to convince me of the nature of its contents. However, I suspect you’d prefer to keep the information contained within private.”

Seavey regarded her for a moment without comment. “It seems I am in your debt,” he said finally.

“Not at all. I ran across the file while looking through Charles’s desk drawers and thought to return it to you.”

“This is the only copy, I presume?”

“Yes.”

He abruptly stood, tucking the file inside his coat, then drawing on his gloves. His expression was pensive. “I don’t recommend living in the past, Mrs. Longren,” he said at length. “It will prove a lonely place.”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t married to Charles long. I’d like to know more about him before I put his memory to rest.”

“A laudable sentiment, perhaps, though I’ve never been one to appreciate sentimentality.”

He walked to the library door, then turned back. “I can sympathize with your need to find answers, Hattie,” he said quietly. “However, I shouldn’t think you’ll be pleased with what you discover.”

Chapter 7

“WAIT a minute,” Jordan said, now surrounded by piles of newspapers and Hattie’s diaries. “I think Charlotte was right in a way—Seavey seemed fond of you.”

Hattie, who hovered in the stacks, shook her head. “He wanted to control me, to ensure that I didn’t harm his business. He was the kind of man who thrived on acquiring power and holding it over people.”

“Maybe, but history is littered with powerful, ruthless men who also loved obsessively. He might have been capable of employing one set of ethics in business, yet another with a woman he cared about. So he may have been a shanghaier and white slave trader, and he may also have had a hidden agenda during that visit. But the way I see it, he definitely was interested in you.”

“Hidden agenda?” Hattie looked confused.

“An unspoken reason for his visit,” Jordan rephrased.

“Oh, well, yes—he did seem to cut his visit short on that occasion. Then again, I never completely understood what motivated Seavey.” Hattie frowned, her expression turned inward. “I’m hoping his personal papers will reveal more than I wrote in my diary.”

Jordan perked up and began thumbing through the stacks of documents. Seavey’s papers would make fascinating reading. “You put them here?”

Hattie shook her head. “I don’t know where they are—you’ll have to locate them. He must have relatives in town; surely they’ll know what became of them.”

She floated over to the next aisle and a book landed in front of Jordan. “That’s his memoir, but of course you can’t believe a word he wrote in it. It’s merely a justification for his business dealings. He wanted to believe he provided a much-needed service.”

“The author of the history book I have back at the house did claim that many sailors actively participated in the practice of shanghaiing,” Jordan pointed out as she flipped through the pages of the thin memoir.