Echoes of Mercy: A Novel Read Free Page B

scattered rocks and candy at her feet. He waved his hands around. “Mrs. Brewer, what were you doing? Clumsy, clumsy! A toter must first and foremost exercise care. You didn’t manage to go thirty paces without spilling.”
    Oliver frowned. Hightower didn’t need to berate the woman so. Mother managed a dozen servants in their home and never once raised her voice or resorted to ridicule. And their home ran with precision. Hightower tended to abuse his position of power—something Oliver intended to rectify when he controlled the factory reins.
    Tears streamed down the woman’s round, red cheeks, and her body quivered. If someone didn’t help her, the entire load would hit the floor. He darted out and took the trays. The unexpected weight stole his breath as well as the defensive comment poised on his tongue.
    “Yelling at her isn’t going to help.” The younger woman spoke up. Indignation colored her tone and expression. “I’m sure she’s just nervous. Why not let her have another go?”
    Oliver shook his head, uncertain he’d heard correctly. Was she championing her competition? Surely she understood only one would be chosen.
    Hightower snorted. “Another go might result in even more lost chocolates.”
    “And it might prove her capable of handling the task,” the bold woman countered.
    Oliver hid a smile. She had a full, dimpled face wreathed by springy reddish-brown curls, which had escaped her lopsided mobcap. Her blue flowered dress was so rumpled it appeared she’d slept in it the night before. The messy hair and disheveled clothing gave her an almost childish appearance. But how bravely she faced Hightower. Amusement as well as admiration swelled within his chest. She was a corker! And since she’d spoken up, he could stay silent, which was probably wise, considering he’d “hired on” less than two months ago and couldn’t risk being given the ax. Not just yet.
    Shifting her trays a bit higher, she fixed Hightower with a steady look. “But you won’t know unless you offer her the chance.”
    Hightower rolled his gaze to the ceiling and huffed out a mighty breath. “Miss Lang, you—”
    “Thank you, miss, for speakin’ up for me, but there’s no need for another chance.” Mrs. Brewer hung her head. Her shoulders drooped, and one strand of gray-threaded hair flopped across her tear-stained cheek. “I … I got a bad back. That’s why I left the laundry. Couldn’t plunge them sheets up and down anymore. Since toting didn’t necessarily mean bending, I was hoping I could do it. My arms, they’re plenty strong. But my back …”
    Oliver knew he should pay attention to Mrs. Brewer, who had sadly bared her soul to Hightower, but he couldn’t stop staring at Miss Lang. She’d come in looking for a job. Now that Mrs. Brewer had confessed she couldn’t handle it, the job was hers by simple elimination. She should be smiling, celebrating, or at the very least looking relieved. Instead, she appeared regretful. But why? She’d done nothing wrong except possess a back strong enough to support a stack of trays.
    Still balancing her load, Miss Lang approached Mrs. Brewer. “I’m sorry about your back, ma’am. But as willing as you are to work, you ought to be able to find employment somewhere. I will pray for you.”
    Oliver shook his head in wonder. A corker. Miss Lang was indeed a corker.
    Mrs. Brewer sniffled. “Thank you, miss. I’ll take them prayers. Still got three youngsters at home and no man to earn for us.”
    Regret deepened to sorrow in Miss Lang’s gold-flecked brown eyes. “How old are your children, Mrs. Brewer?”
    “The boys are fourteen and eleven, and my littlest one—my only girl—is ten.”
    Hightower plunged his hands into his pockets and gave the woman a speculative look. “Your boys are plenty old enough to work. Maybe we could use one of them on the floor.”
    Miss Lang released an indignant gasp. “Oh, but—”
    “No, sir, not my boys.” Mrs. Brewer