P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

“If I’d let him get away with it, others woulda done the same,” Johnson snapped. “I set an example.”

“Others would have followed only if you continued to squeeze them. It does no good to extort to a level where people can no longer survive.” Michael took another puff on his cigar. “Greed will be your downfall, Johnson, if you don’t get your … appetites under control.”

“I don’t see where that’s none of your business, now, is it?”

“It is if you keep taking the kind of risks you did the other night. I covered for you this time, but don’t expect the same courtesy in the future.”

Johnson shrugged, too clueless to heed Michael’s warning. “Word on the docks is that Frank Lewis is ask-in’ about Longren Shipping. He visited Longren House Friday afternoon.”

Michael’s gaze sharpened through the haze of fragrant smoke. “An unwelcome development,” he observed.

“I’m dealin’ with the problem.”

Michael hesitated, then decided to leave the matter to Johnson. “See that your men aren’t overly zealous in their task. Hattie is intelligent and headstrong—you could cause the opposite reaction of what you intend.” He smiled slightly. “I find it ironic that a woman may be the downfall of you, given your, shall we say, indulgences.”

Johnson’s shoulders jerked. “I’m surprised Longren didn’t recognize the problem he had with his wife and deal with it—he never hesitated in the past.” Johnson bared his teeth in a cocky grin. “She should be taught a lesson. I’d enjoy bein’ the one to do it, and I wouldn’t bother with none o’ your damn finesse.”

The thought of Johnson putting his filthy hands on Hattie had bile rising to the back of Michael’s throat. It took all of his control not to react.

He settled for grinding out his cigar in the remains of Johnson’s lunch. “That wouldn’t be advisable,” he said softly. “You’ll leave Mrs. Longren to me.”

* * *

AFTER spending hours in the garden, Hattie and the girls came inside, pleasantly tired, their frocks covered with dirt and bits of plant debris. Sara clucked when she saw their disheveled state, but Hattie merely smiled. There was something about getting down on one’s hands and knees and working among the earthworms that made one feel as if all in the world was right. At least, for a few hours.

“I still don’t see why you disapprove of the dress design I’ve chosen,” Charlotte pouted as she allowed Tabitha to help her remove her muddy walking boots. “It’s very becoming, and sure to catch Chief Greeley’s eye.”

“Bustles and all those petticoats have been proven to damage a woman’s internal organs,” Hattie explained patiently for the fifth time that day. “I won’t have you physically harming yourself for the sake of fashion.”

“Oh, pooh.” Charlotte tossed her head, sending the bits of leaves clinging to her golden curls to the floor and drawing an exasperated sigh from Sara. “You’ve been listening to Aunt Kate far too much.” She referred to their maiden aunt who traveled the country lecturing on the dangers of women’s fashions and advocating a more sensible approach. “She’s a spinster—what could she possibly know about catching and holding a man’s interest?”

Hattie raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying you think it’s more important to have a man appreciate you for how you look, rather than for your intelligence, your good humor, or your talent.”

“Well, of course not! But if you don’t catch his eye to begin with, you won’t ever have a chance to impress him with the rest. Men are frivolous creatures, are they not?”

“For heaven’s sake, child,” Sara admonished as she handed Hattie the day’s post. “I don’t know where you get these crazy notions.”

“They’re not crazy,” Charlotte protested. “I’ve read magazine articles about how to catch a man, which is more than either of you can say.”

“Well, notwithstanding the advice of those experts,” Hattie said, her tone wry as she shuffled through the pile of newly delivered notes and cards on the hall table, “Chief Greeley made his preferences regarding your dress perfectly clear—he expects you to be conservatively attired. So if you’re hoping to catch his eye, and not have him strongly disapprove, you’ll take my advice and choose a pattern that shows off your figure in a more demure and understated manner.”

She held up an envelope from Eleanor Canby, frowning. Given their recent argument, she would’ve thought Eleanor would avoid contact with her. With some trepidation, she tore open the envelope, then allowed herself a small sigh of relief. It was an invitation—a very fancy, engraved summons to a dinner party being held by Eleanor that weekend:

MR. AND MRS. ALEXANDER CANBY

WILL BE PLEASED TO SEE YOU AND CHARLOTTE

AT CANBY MANSION THE EVENING OF

SATURDAY, JUNE 6TH, AT EIGHT O’CLOCK, FOR

A DINNER HONORING THE FAMOUS COMPOSER

AND MUSICIAN,

SCOTT JOPLIN.

JUNE 1, 1890

Eleanor had scrawled a handwritten missive across the bottom:

Hattie, I hope you will take this invitation as an opportunity to redeem yourself in the eyes of the Port Chatham business community .

Charlotte peered over Hattie’s shoulder to read the invitation and clapped her hands. “Scott Joplin! I simply adore his ragtime! And absolutely everyone will be there! You must send a reply at once!”

Hattie frowned. “I’m not at all certain we have the appropriate clothes. Eleanor’s party will be quite elaborate, and she will expect us to dress accordingly.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sara agreed. “The clothes you wear should reflect an appropriate degree of display, as well as indicate that you appreciate the time and expense Mrs. Canby has gone to for the party.”

“All the more reason to pen a quick refusal,” Hattie replied. Not to mention, she thought, that they would be under scrutiny the entire evening. Eleanor was throwing down the gauntlet—one misstep and they would be cut from all future social events. She expected Hattie to let it be known to all the guests that she had learned her lesson and would henceforth act according to the dictates of proper etiquette.

How utterly galling.

“You can’t be thinking of not attending!” Charlotte wailed.

“An occasion such as this requires gowns of the finest quality,” Hattie explained. “Satins, lace collars and cuffs, expensive evening slippers—we don’t have either the time or the money to upgrade our wardrobes.” She refused to think of the cash in the safe; she wouldn’t use potentially ill-gotten gains for their benefit.

“But Mona gave us material that is well suited,” Charlotte protested. “All we need to do is remove and reuse some of the lace from gowns Charles had made for you that you can’t wear because of your mourning period. And regardless, Eleanor will expect you to be dressed in a more subdued fashion.” Her expression turned pleading. “Please.”

“And what of your restrictions? You’re still very much on probation because of that stunt you pulled at Fuller’s Ice Cream Parlor.”

“Oh, Hattie! You can’t make me stay home from the most important social event of the season!”

“Charlotte’s right, ma’am,” Tabitha said. “We can take apart some of your other gowns and use the lace from them for Charlotte’s gowns, and use the mousseline de soie that Mona sent to create a gown for yourself.”

“To not attend would be an insult to Mrs. Canby you can ill afford,” Sara warned.

Hattie sighed. “Very well—” She was drowned out by Charlotte’s shriek, then staggered under the force of her hug.