“Please inform Charlotte that she is not to leave the house until I return,” Hattie said as she walked out.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Stepping off the front porch, Hattie paused to breathe deeply, drawing the crisp, clean air into her lungs. The midmorning sun shone brightly, and the sky was a clear blue. With the warming of spring, bulbs had burst into bloom in her neighbors’ gardens in the last few days. In the distance, the waters of Admiralty Inlet sparkled. The walk through her neighborhood promised to be pleasant. Her spirits lifting, she set out, her pace brisk, and in no time at all, she had covered the six blocks, traversing the zigzagging footbridge down to the waterfront without mishap.
The offices of Longren Shipping stood next to the Customs House, only a half block up from the huge wooden wharf where ships unloaded their goods and sailors disembarked. Though Charles had proudly explained that few shipping companies had been able to lay claim to such sought-after waterfront real estate, Hattie had always thought this part of town held little aesthetic appeal. Dirt streets separated rows of haphazardly constructed, whitewashed buildings, and the only visual relief to the relentless white and brown mosaic came from the blue waters of the bay beyond. No one had made an effort to plant even the smallest whiskey barrel of flowers.
Yesterday’s storm had moved through quickly, tossing the ships about in the harbor but doing no permanent damage. In this morning’s bright light, the extensive destruction from the fire was apparent. Only two blocks from Longren Shipping, burned-out, blackened shells and piles of lumber still smoldered. The block to the east of the wharf lay in ashes save a Chinese laundry on the corner, and on the next block, nothing had escaped the fire’s wrath.
As Hattie walked along the waterfront, she was careful to stay next to the buildings. Despite the early hour, the boardwalks were crowded, and saloons and brothels had reopened for business. The temperance society was out in full force, its ladies picketing the entrances to the saloons.
The streets, though sloppy from yesterday’s rain and the water poured on the fire, teemed with a mix of horse-drawn carriages and flat wagons. Buckboards drawn by draft horses stood ready to be loaded with the cargo crates stacked along the wharf.
Sailors stood at the wharf’s edge, holding hand-lettered signs and using megaphones to loudly protest the conditions under which they were forced to toil. Hattie spied Frank Lewis standing to one side, arms folded across his broad chest, observing. He turned his head and their gazes locked, causing Hattie’s stride to falter, but he merely raised a sardonic brow.
She turned away, only to find herself looking straight into the disapproving gaze of Chief Greeley. He stood opposite Frank Lewis, feet planted wide and hands fisted on his hips, flanked by several police officers who were keeping an eye on the sailors’ demonstration. Hattie stared back at Greeley, her back ramrod straight. No doubt he would choose to believe she had openly defied his edict not to return to the waterfront. So be it. She had no control over the man’s silly opinions.
Ignoring the curious glances of passersby, Hattie continued down the boardwalk until she stood in front of the entry to Longren Shipping. Dread over the coming confrontation settled deep in her stomach, but the consequences of failure were even more frightening. Drawing a deep breath, she opened the door.
The room she stepped into was long and narrow, each wall lined with wooden file cabinets and glass-fronted bookcases crammed with books and ledgers. Framed pictures of current and past presidents of the United States hung on one wall, along with a calendar. The only windows were those fronting the street, leaving the hallway at the back, which led to storerooms and a rear entrance, shrouded in shadows.
Clive Johnson wielded his authority from behind a massive oak desk placed in the center of the room, halfway back. Only two months ago, that desk had belonged to Charles. A young clerk Hattie had never seen before toiled away, his back to her as he sat on a stool in front of a high, sloping desk situated against the back wall, a thick ledger of accounts at his elbow. A black and gold enamel typewriter rested on a smaller, shorter table to his left.
At the sound of the door closing, her business manager glanced up from the pile of papers he’d been reading. He leapt to his feet.
“Mrs. Longren! If you’d sent word, I would’ve come up to the house.”
“That’s not necessary, Mr. Johnson. And the walk was good for me.” Determined to appear calm and in control, Hattie took her time unbuttoning her cape, then perched on the edge of the green leather chair he rushed to clear for her. He shouted at the clerk to prepare tea.
As she observed Johnson from under her lashes, she was struck once again by how truly off-putting the man was. His black bow tie, striped black and white silk shirt held in place over his protruding belly with red suspenders, and black wool frock coat reflected his belief that he was now a powerful waterfront shipping master. But the broken, dirty fingernails and Vandyke beard that hadn’t seen a trim in days told the story of a man who had failed to leave the rougher side of his life behind.
“I trust your wife and children are well?” she asked politely.
“The missus is fine—”
“And the business?” she interrupted. “It can’t be easy, absorbing the loss of the barque Charles commanded.”
“We’re makin’ a profit,” Johnson replied, returning to his chair, his expression cautious. “I can write a check for your household expenses—”
“I don’t need one at the moment, thank you.” The tea the clerk set before her looked as if it had been brewed to within an inch of its life. Prudence dictated she add a small amount of sugar. “I’ve decided to educate myself about the business Charles left me,” she explained as she stirred. “Surely the loss based on the South Seas mutiny, in terms of both the ship and its cargo, was a severe blow.”
“We’re handlin’ it.” Johnson’s tone had turned abrupt; he didn’t appreciate her questions. “We’re takin’ on extra contracts, pushin’ wage cuts on the crews.”
She took a cautious sip of tea, then hastily set down the cup. “Won’t lowering the wages cause the crews to move to our competitors, leaving us shorthanded?”
He smiled. “You could say I’ve … encouraged them not to leave.”
“You mean you’ve threatened them.” She nodded. “Or have you actually taken to flogging them?”
He steepled his hands, regarding her in silence. “You’ve got no reason to worry about whether I use cowhides on the crews. You’ve got no business experience—”
“I think I know what constitutes inhumane treatment, Mr. Johnson. That knowledge doesn’t rely on business expertise.”
“It’s standard punishment.” A carnal light gleamed in his eyes, causing Hattie’s stomach to clench. “I wouldn’t want to offend a woman of your delicate sensibilities by explainin’ the details.”
My God, the man actually enjoyed the floggings. She shuddered. Quickly changing the subject, she came to the point of her visit. “If you’d be kind enough to fetch the accounting ledgers for me, I’ll take them home for review.”
Surprise flitted across his face, followed by a scowl. “That’s not possible—we make entries in those ledgers every day.”
“I’m sure your clerk can simply make notes of the day’s business while I conduct my review.”
He shook his head. “You don’t need to see them. I can provide you with a summary of each week’s business in our Friday meetings at the house.”
“I’m no longer interested in merely receiving a summary,” she argued calmly, holding on to her temper. “I’d like to better understand how we plan to assimilate our recent losses and present some suggestions that don’t involve strong-arming the crews into taking starvation-level wages.”