Haunting Jordan (15 page)

Her hands itched to take them down and stack them in an out-of-the-way corner until Sara had time to put them in the attic. To strip the tablecloths off, revealing the golden oak beneath, and to yank the heavy velvet curtains away from the windows, replacing the dark fabric with lace panels that would allow sunlight to pour in.

For the moment, however, that would have to wait—she had more important tasks facing her. But when the time came, she thought on sudden inspiration, she would include Charlotte in the redecorating project. Perhaps it would distract her from thoughts of Greeley.

Returning to the desk, Hattie sat in Charles’s high-backed chair and opened the red and black leather-bound ledger Clive Johnson had given her. Page after page of columns of tidy numbers greeted her, with one-line explanations written in minute, spidery script. She removed her kid gloves and tossed them aside, then rang for Sara.

“I’ll take a tray here in lieu of lunch,” she told the housekeeper. “If Charlotte needs me, let her know where I am.”

However, after only a half hour of reading, Hattie closed the ledger, admitting defeat. She had no idea how to decipher the numbers, no inkling of what they meant. Not, she thought wryly, that her parents had ever considered educating her in the art of bookkeeping. They’d fully intended for her to follow in her mother’s footsteps, working in clinics for the poor. And until Charles had swept into her life that night at the charity ball on the
Boston Commons, she’d never given her preordained future a second thought.

Truth be told, she had only the vaguest notion of how a shipping office actually conducted its business. Charles had once explained to her that he functioned as a shipping master—a procuring agency, if you will, for both his ships and those owned by other ships’ captains. His employees, which included office personnel and the longshoremen who manned the Whitehall boats, acquired crews from ships setting anchor, then provided those crews—for a modest fee—to other ships’ captains who were ready to set sail. But beyond that general explanation, she knew little of the details.

The accounting for such activities, which included finding lodging for the sailors while in port, was probably quite complex. It simply wouldn’t do to remain in the dark—she had to gain a better understanding of Longren Shipping and its finances. And, she realized, she knew just who could help her, no matter how distasteful the thought was.

Frank Lewis.

She shifted uneasily, uncomfortable with the notion of inviting her husband’s nemesis to the house. After all, Lewis’s union operated the shipping office that was Longren Shipping’s largest competitor. Allowing him access to the books could possibly give him substantial insight and leverage over Longren Shipping.

But did she really have a choice? If she approached Eleanor Canby for help, Eleanor would react as others
had, judging her sudden interest in the business as unseemly. And even if Eleanor knew of someone who could help her, she wouldn’t provide any names. No, Hattie thought, she was on her own, and Frank Lewis was the one person she knew with the education and intellect needed to help her understand the truth behind the numbers. She could count on him to be plainspoken in his explanations. He would, in fact, relish educating her regarding her deceased husband’s amoral business practices.

Her decision made, she quickly penned a thank-you note to Mona Starr, asking her for information about how to contact Lewis, then gave it to Sara to have it delivered.

Once the housekeeper left the room, Hattie began pulling open desk drawers, not certain what she sought. Inside the center drawer, she found a check ledger and their household accounts, which she set aside to look at in a day or two, after she had a better handle on the business. Side drawers revealed rows of files, some seemingly personal in nature, others business related.

She flipped through them, stunned to discover that Charles had kept detailed dossiers compiled by a private investigator on a number of prominent businessmen as well as politicians. Her mouth fell open when she found a file on her family containing confidential information regarding their personal finances, as well as character witness statements. Given the dates of the paperwork, Charles had had them investigated
before
he had proposed to her. Pulling the file out, she read the scrawled notes in Charles’s handwriting, her stomach churning.

The family seems honorable enough, though the free clinic connection is of questionable propriety, he’d written. And the dowry is adequate. Once Hattie is removed from her parents’ influence, she will
make
an obedient enough wife
.

Her hands fisted, crumpling the paper. Methodically shredding the documents, she placed them in a cigar ashtray on the desk, striking a match to them.

The rest of the files contained papers relating to various business ventures. The only one that caught her eye was Charles’s substantial investment in the proposed railway from Portland, Oregon, along Hood Canal to Port Chatham—a railway she knew many of the town’s businessmen hoped would provide the basis for an ever-expanding local economy. And many of these businessmen, it turned out, were the very same ones on whom Charles had compiled dossiers.

Her late husband, Hattie concluded, had been either a careful businessman or a paranoid one, depending on one’s point of view. She was uneasy with this revelation into his business practices, and she had no doubt the men whose dossiers she held would be unhappy to know she had access to such information about them.

At the very back of the same desk drawer that contained the dossiers, she found a slim file with only one small slip of paper, upon which Charles had written what appeared to be a safe combination. Standing, she walked to the wall behind her and swung aside the portrait of Charles’s grandfather, revealing a small safe. Using the combination, she opened it.

Her mouth fell open. The small, rectangular space was filled with stacks of cash, along with a nondescript black leather journal. Never before had she seen so much money—it had to be thousands of dollars. Surely Charles didn’t conduct that much shipping business on the basis of cash.

Increasingly uneasy, she retrieved the journal and flipped through it, finding mostly empty pages. However, at the far back, Charles had written a short list of dollar amounts with no notations to explain them. Large dollar amounts, she realized with a chill, totaling well over fifty thousand dollars.

Sara entered, holding a calling card. Hattie quickly snapped the book shut, shoving it back inside the wall safe and returning the picture to its place on the wall.

“A Mr. Michael Seavey, ma’am.” Sara handed her a card made of white vellum, embossed with ornate engraved script.

Placing the card on the desk, Hattie sat, smoothing her skirt. “I’ll receive him in here, Sara.”

The housekeeper frowned. “Won’t you be wanting to freshen up first, ma’am, and greet him properly in the parlor?”

“I’m in the middle of my work—he’ll have to accept me as I am, dust and all. If you would be so kind as to prepare tea for us.”

“Very well, ma’am,” Sara sighed, obviously despairing of Hattie’s negligent attitude toward etiquette.

Moments later, Seavey appeared in the doorway, resplendently attired in a close-fitting gray frock coat with
silk lapels, matching waistcoat, gray-on-gray striped silk tie, and black trousers. His pale gaze settled on her, and he bowed, his manner as subtly mocking as it had been that night on the beach. “Mrs. Longren.”

She inclined her head, indicating he should take the seat across from her and then clasping her trembling hands in her lap. It did not please her to realize that a man rumored to be involved in shanghaiing and the white slave trade had the ability to undermine her composure. He was beneath contempt, yet she would strive to remain polite. “Your visit comes as a surprise, Mr. Seavey.”

He settled into the wingback chair. “Not an unpleasant one, I hope,” he murmured. Tugging off his gloves one finger at a time, he placed them on the desk, a slight smile curving his lips. “I’ve come to inquire after your health.”

She raised both eyebrows. “You are the second person to do so today.”

“Ah.” He feigned chagrin. “I fear I’ve been disingenuous. Dare I ask what man has bettered me at my own game?”

“Chief Greeley paid us a quick visit this morning. I will tell you what I told him, that the girls and I are fine.”

Sara brought in the tea tray, and Hattie busied herself with serving. Though her pulse still beat quickly, she was pleased to see that her hands were steady.

“Greeley was here to see the fair young Charlotte, I presume,” Seavey said.

“Yes.”

“He’d keep her safe. However, he would also crush her spirit.”

Hattie stared at him, teapot in midair. “Yes, that’s it precisely, isn’t it?”

Seavey gave a nod. “Unfortunately, that is all a woman can hope for.”

Hattie held back an automatic retort. This man was dangerous; it would not be wise to openly challenge him.

Seavey sipped his tea in silence, glancing around the room, apparently feeling no need to keep the conversation going. Hattie had to restrain herself from fidgeting.

“This room has always pleased me,” he finally commented, surprising her yet again. “I told Charles on numerous occasions that he couldn’t have created a more comfortable space from which to conduct business.”

“I had no idea you’d been to the house,” Hattie said, unwillingly intrigued. “Was it before Charles and I married?”

Seavey’s expression turned wry. “On the contrary, I visited frequently after your arrival. I even had the pleasure of a glimpse of you in the garden from time to time, though Charles was usually very careful to keep you tucked away from sight.”

She swallowed, feeling unaccountably betrayed. The garden had been her escape, yet now she was discovering she’d never had a moment alone or gone unobserved—even, it appeared, by strangers.

Seavey seemed unaware of her reaction, raising his cup to salute her. “It is easy to see why Charles was so possessive. You are a woman of great beauty as well as strength of character. I confess I find myself equally fascinated by both.”

She frowned. “I’m in mourning, Mr. Seavey. Your remarks are inappropriate.”

He leaned back, lazily propping a low-cut, black leather boot on one knee. “I rarely worry about propriety, Mrs. Longren. And I was led to believe, given your recent adventure, that we were kindred souls of a sort.”

“We are nothing of the kind,” she said, alarmed that he would have drawn such a conclusion. “As owner of Longren Shipping, I simply felt an obligation to ensure that my sailing crews were safe.”

He looked amused. “You did more than that. I seem to remember you standing shoulder to shoulder with Port Chatham’s most famous madam. That takes grit, as well as a certain, shall we
say, flexible
frame of mind.”

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.”