“Why should a no drive us away?”
Oliver blinked twice, confused by the man’s seeming ignorance. He gave a brief laugh. “Who wants to share their deepest wants and then hear no from someone who supposedly cares for them?”
Kesia plunked a plate of eggs, grits, and bacon in front of the lone remaining breakfast eater at the other end of the counter, then bustled over and gave the back of Oliver’s hand a sharp smack. “Stop an’ think about what you’re askin’. Ain’t been so long ago you were a youngster livin’ under your pa’s roof.”
Oliver still resided under his father’s roof. He frowned. “What does—”
She pointed at him, silencing him. “Did your pa love you?”
“Sure he did. He still does. My father and I have always had a close relationship.”
“Didn’t he ever tell you no when you was growin’ up?”
Oliver’s lips twitched, seeing where she was going. “Certainly he told me no when he deemed my request frivolous or unwise.” He fixed Kesia with a smile. “But my father isn’t God. You can’t compare the two.”
Kesia nodded so hard her double chin tripled. “Oh yes I can, ’cause God is your Father. Only thing is, He loves you even more’n your earthly father could. An’ He knows all about your life, even how the decisions you make today’ll affect your tomorrow. That’s why He has to say no sometimes. He knows that some o’ the things we want just ain’t gonna be good for us further down the road.”
“You see, Ollie,” Noble added, drawing Oliver’s attention, “as humans we’re very shortsighted. We can only see what’s happening now. But God, with His omniscience, views our lives from beginning to end. He always wants the very best for His children, so when He denies one of our prayers, it isn’t out of a sense of power or judgment or indifference. He knows tomorrow, and His answers—whether yes or no or wait until later—are in keeping with what is best for us.”
Oliver still didn’t understand. “Was it better for Mr. Holcomb and his children for him to die?”
Beside him, Carrie let out a long sigh. She’d been largely quiet during their discussion about prayer, allowing Noble and Kesia to do most of the talking. But now she drew in a breath and placed her hand over his wrist. Her gentle touch, combined with the fervent look in her eyes, held him captive.
“Ollie, I don’t think any of us here can answer that question. If Mr. Holcomb had gone to a doctor when he began suffering the pain in his stomach, he might be alive today. But he ignored the pain, allowing it to progress to a place where doctors couldn’t cure it. Even then, God could have answered our prayers to heal Mr. Holcomb despite the doctors’ inabilities. Why He didn’t is beyond my understanding. Letta, Lank, and Lesley have now lost their father in addition to their mother. Such a hard, painful, senseless loss for them to suffer. I can’t know how this will create anything good for them, although I do trust that in time God will reveal the answer to our questions. But I can tell you this …”
Tears glistened in her eyes. Oliver held his breath, eager to hear whatever she had to say, eager to find some element of truth to which he could cling. He wanted to believe so badly a sweet flavor of longing flooded his mouth.
“The worst thing to befall me as a child became my deliverance. My parents handed me over to a wealthy family when I was eight years old so I could be trained as a house servant. The Remingtons paid handsomely for me, and I was told I had to remain with them until my eighteenth year to earn back what they’d given my parents.”
Oliver’s mouth fell open. In this enlightened time she’d been given out as a bond servant? “You worked for them for ten years?”
A sad smile toyed on the corners of her lips. “No. My sentence was shortened significantly on a winter day when Noble visited their home as part of an investigation into ongoing abuse, reported by former servants in their household. He demanded to inspect the entire home, and although he met with resistance, they eventually allowed him to enter. He found me in my little room beneath the kitchen, burning with fever and nearly dead. He carried me out, took me to his home, and, along with Annamarie, nursed me back to health. I suffered a lengthy illness, but they didn’t give up.”
Her eyes slipped closed. “I was unconscious much of that time, but I remember hearing their voices lifted in prayer to God, begging Him to spare my life.” She opened her eyes. One tear slipped over her thick lashes and rolled down her cheek. “And He answered. Their prayers, Ollie, brought me back from the brink of death.”
Oliver zipped his attention to Noble and Annamarie, who held hands and gazed at Carrie through tear-filled eyes. He turned back to her, eager to hear the rest of her story. “Why didn’t you return to your parents when you were well again?”
She grimaced. “I did. Oh, I begged Noble and Annamarie not to take me, but they said they had to. The law wouldn’t allow them to keep me. So they took me home, and my parents were furious that I wasn’t with the Remingtons any longer. When Noble told them I couldn’t go back to the Remingtons, my father claimed they’d just find someone else willing to pay for my services. I was eleven by then. He knew I could fetch a good price.” She looked past Oliver to the Dempseys, and her face took on a glow of admiration. “So Noble offered to purchase me. My father accepted without a moment’s thought.” She looked at Oliver again. “But Noble and Annamarie didn’t treat me as a servant. I was their daughter—loved, educated, disciplined.”
Her face pinched, as if she was recalling something unpleasant. “During my years with the Remingtons, I begged God to let me go home. And God left me in that awful house with people who didn’t care at all about me.” Her lower lip trembled, and Oliver turned his hand upside down, linking fingers with her. She gazed at their joined hands for a moment, and when she raised her face again, she’d gained control of her emotions.
“I understand why now. Had I not been in their house at that time, Noble wouldn’t have found me. And I wouldn’t have found my true home.” She drew a deep breath as if sharing her story had exhausted her. She finished in such a quiet voice Oliver had to tip toward her to catch the words. “If I’d not spent those first years laboring for the Remingtons, I wouldn’t understand the pain and hardship of spending one’s childhood years working. I wouldn’t care about making things better for today’s children. So, Ollie, when God said no to my pleas to go home, He had a reason.”
Oliver’s heart twisted within his chest. Such an amazing woman. She’d suffered greatly, yet instead of carrying bitterness, she’d chosen to use her experiences to better the lives of others. He wanted to tell her how much he admired her, but she went on in a stronger voice.
“Knowing He had a reason for the no answers in my past allows me to trust Him for the no answers today.” She squeezed his hand. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Oliver quietly absorbed all he’d heard. He couldn’t deny Carrie’s story had touched him deeply. To find the good in the midst of such heartache took courage, fortitude … and a touch from Someone much bigger and stronger than any human could be. He offered a slow nod. “I understand, Carrie. Thank you for telling me about your childhood.” He turned to include the others. “All of you, thank you for taking the time to explain why you pray. You’ve given me much to consider.”
Carrie’s fingers tightened on his, drawing his attention again. Her face, lifted to him, held an expression of hopeful expectation. “And you … believe?” She appeared to hold her breath, her shining eyes fixed on his.
Oliver sought his own heart. The Dempseys, Kesia, and Carrie were all sincere and had given valid reasons for their belief in prayer’s purpose. Something deep inside of him yearned to possess what they had. His life was full of the extras most people lacked, yet their peacefulness and inner joy in spite of sorrow made him feel as though he was the one left lacking. He wanted to grab hold with both hands and simply believe, but a niggle of doubt held him back.
He’d prayed. He’d prayed with his full heart, but he’d waited too late.
He was already twenty-nine years old. Had he waited too long to seek a relationship with God? Kesia had called God his Father and him God’s child, but he wasn’t a child any longer. Could a man who’d gone his entire life unmindful of God’s presence suddenly become a child again?
A lump of sorrow filled his throat, and he swallowed. “I … I’m not sure.”
His regret multiplied when Carrie lowered her head, her shoulders slumping in defeat. But even to put a smile on her face, he couldn’t confess to believing. Not yet. To hear how God worked through someone else’s prayers wasn’t enough. He needed to experience it for himself.
Carrie released his fingers, clasped her hands together, and held them beneath her quivering chin. Her gaze boring into his, she whispered, “I’ll be praying, Ollie, for God to make Himself known to you. I won’t stop until you’ve accepted Him for yourself.”
“I’ll be prayin’ the same thing,” Kesia stated.
Noble and Annamarie added their intentions to lift Ollie to their Father.
Hope ignited in Ollie’s chest. God had answered their prayers in the past. Which meant He could very well answer their prayers concerning him. But. A chill sent a tremor from his head to his toes. They’d said God had replied no when He knew a refusal would prove more beneficial for the asker later. What if God decided it wouldn’t be beneficial to know Oliver Dinsmore on a more intimate level?
Gordon
Gordon scanned the faces of travelers disembarking from the passenger car. Dinsmore would have purchased a ticket in one of the finer cars, where they sat upon tufted velvet cushions, sipped brandy, and watched the passing landscape through windows draped with tasseled curtains. Gordon had never traveled in one of those cars, but he would. Someday.
He adjusted the knot of his tie so it rested directly below his Adam’s apple. Fulton Dinsmore always dressed impeccably. Gordon chose to do no less. For this meeting he’d donned his newest suit, pinstriped white on darkest charcoal gray, tailored to fit his frame. The suit’s dignified color and style provided a perfect background for his crisp white shirt and bold scarlet tie.
Although the other men milling on the boardwalk sported hats—mostly homburgs, given the time of day—he preferred a bare head. No hat could compete with the splendor of his thick black waves. Even the matron at the orphanage—a dour, rigid woman who would have done well as an army general had she been born a man—had allowed him to avoid the biweekly shearing because she deemed his hair far too fine to crop into quarter-inch tufts.
He spotted Mr. Dinsmore’s stately black top hat, and he stepped forward, waving his hand to capture the man’s attention. Dinsmore wove between the other travelers and approached Gordon, one gloved hand holding the carved ivory head of an ebony cane, the other extended in greeting. His gray coat was unbuttoned, revealing a pinstriped charcoal suit and ivory waistcoat. A gloating smile formed on Gordon’s face when he realized he’d dressed comparably to his soon-to-be-former boss. The attire seemed further confirmation he was destined to take control of the factory.
“Thank you for responding so promptly to my letter.” Gordon employed his most respectful tone. “If the situation wasn’t of the utmost importance, I wouldn’t have troubled you.”
Dinsmore clapped Gordon’s shoulder—a solid whack that jerked his neck. “If it concerns you, Gordon, it will concern me as well. I was happy to oblige.”
“Do you have luggage?”
“No. I intend to return home on the nine o’clock. I assumed we would be able to complete our business in one day.”
Gordon nearly preened. Obviously Dinsmore had faith in Gordon’s ability to handle the situation without the boss’s assistance, or he would have come prepared for a lengthy stay. Smiling broadly, he gestured to the decade-old barouche carriage he’d rented from the local wainwright early that morning. Although its brass trim had tarnished a bit over the years and the canopy’s fringed trim appeared frayed in some places, the conveyance was the finest available and allowed him to hire a driver to transport Dinsmore and him to the factory. Sitting on the leather seat, protected by a canopy, with a liveried driver on the high front seat, he always experienced a rush of importance. A heady feeling.
The men settled onto the squeaky, cushioned bench. Gordon had already directed the driver to travel the main streets rather than following the shorter, more direct route to the factory. Busy streets were noisy streets, making it difficult to engage in conversation. Gordon wanted to be in his own chair, looking across his desk at Fulton Dinsmore, when they had their talk. His chair was his throne, and in his office Dinsmore was the lackey.
Besides, he liked the way people turned to watch the barouche, pulled by the pair of steel-gray horses with bouncing black manes. When Gordon made the chocolate factory his own, he’d purchase a carriage and matching steeds. Or perhaps he’d choose one of the newfangled horseless carriages appearing on the streets in the most prestigious cities. Such a vehicle would certainly garner attention. He almost laughed, imagining it.
“Here we are, sir.”
The driver’s droll voice pulled Gordon from his daydreams. He clambered out of the carriage, placed a fifty-cent piece in the driver’s hand with a grand flourish, and then turned to Dinsmore. “Shall we go in?” Dinsmore trailed Gordon, one step behind, his hat held in the crook of his arm and the tip of his cane tapping the floor as he went. Gordon enjoyed his lead position. He allowed his gaze to rove across the various workers, inwardly beaming at their industriousness while maintaining a stern facade. He led Dinsmore to the stairs and, when they reached the landing, gestured for him to precede him up the hallway.
Dinsmore strode through the open doorway of Gordon’s office and seated himself, resting his cane against the edge of his chair. He laid his hat, brim up, on the corner of Gordon’s desk, then removed his kidskin gloves and slipped them into his pocket. Crossing his legs, he sent Gordon an attentive look. “Now, what seems to be the trouble?”
Gordon frowned at the man’s take-charge attitude. To gain control again, he took his time closing the door, crossing to his observation window to latch the sound-muffling solid shutters, and then settling himself in his desk chair. Finally he angled his head and aimed what he hoped would be interpreted as a deeply concerned look at his boss.
“As you know, I’ve insisted on no fraternization between male and female workers.” Gordon linked his hands and rested them on the edge of the desk. “Trifling behavior leads to a lack of concentration on one’s task, which is detrimental to the overall operation of the factory. I have always presumed you agreed with my opinion concerning male-female associations. Was I incorrect?”
Dinsmore frowned. “No. I’ve supported your reasoning.”
“I apologize for questioning you, but I needed confirmation of your agreement before I addressed the deeply troubling issue brewing within the factory walls.” Gordon injected as much gloom as possible without sounding histrionic.
“What is this ‘deeply troubling issue’?”
Gordon paused to pull in a long, slow breath, as if gathering his thoughts. “I’ve received word from the night foreman that Carrie Lang, the young woman you commended on your previous visit, and Ollie Moore, the man you recommended for employ, have begun meeting clandestinely on a regular basis.”
Dinsmore’s brows descended.
Gordon waited for the man to say something—to ask for clarification or details—but he merely sat in silence with a stern frown on his face. Satisfied he’d captured Dinsmore’s full attention, Gordon cleared his throat and continued. “They’ve been seen entering the infirmary together, talking privately during breaks, and having a rather heated discussion in the middle of the crating station—a veritable series of tête-à-têtes. All during working hours.”
“Was Bratcher the topic of these exchanges?”
A delighted cackle built in Gordon’s chest. So Dinsmore recalled their previous conversation about Carrie Lang’s apparent interest in Bratcher’s demise. He sat forwa
rd a bit, eager to share all he knew.
“Yes. The two are in league, it appears, and I’m fearful they’ll stir up other workers, given time. At the very least they’re wasting work hours on topics unrelated to their assigned tasks.” Gordon straightened his shoulders and looked imperiously down his nose at Dinsmore. “I believe it is in the factory’s best interest to remove these two workers from the employ list immediately.”
Dinsmore held one palm upward. “Slow down now, Gordon. I agree, from what you’ve said, one could surmise Lang and Moore are combining efforts to create some sort of skirmish. But we could also surmise they’re simply discussing work and disagree about how certain things should be accomplished.”
He’d hoped for instant approval. Dinsmore’s failure to offer it left Gordon wordless.
Dinsmore went on. “After all, a man died. Isn’t it realistic to presume workers will hold some concern? Perhaps Lang and Moore, being diligent workers, are merely discussing ways to prevent another casualty. These tête-à-têtes, as you called them, could be completely harmless.”
Gordon snapped out, “If these discussions are so harmless, would they need to take place behind closed doors? They’ve been seen leaving the janitor closet after having sealed themselves inside for indeterminate lengths of time.” He curled his lip in a sneer. “Call me suspicious, Mr. Dinsmore, but when a man and a woman shut themselves in an enclosed space, they’re rarely engaging in something innocent.”
Echoes of Mercy: A Novel Page 26
