Free Echoes of Mercy: A Novel by Kim Vogel Sawyer

slightly, lowering his voice to keep their conversation private from the others still enjoying one of Miss Kesia’s homemade dinners. “Where did you study?” His heart beat with hope. “Abroad?”
    Her face paled. “You’re mistaken. I’m not educated.”
    He frowned. “You must be. The way you speak, the words you choose.”
    She shook her head with great emphasis. The coiling strands of hair trailing down her neck slapped against her shoulders, and one delightful corkscrew curl slipped loose from its moorings to frame her cheek. “I read a lot, that’s all. I’m particularly fond of English literature. Have you ever read Bunyan’s
Pilgrim’s Progress
? It’s one of my favorites.” Her hand trembling slightly, she lifted her fork and pressed the tines through the pie’s flaky crust. She took a bite, swallowed, then sent a quavery grin at him. “You were right—this is scrumptious.”
    Oliver watched, puzzled, as she shifted her focus to the pastry. She meant to turn the conversational tide. But why? Did she fear he’d tell Hightower she possessed education that qualified her beyond the position of a mere toter? A hopeful thought entered his mind. If he divulged his background of affluence, might she repay him in kind with an honest answer?
    He opened his mouth, prepared to spill his secret, but he caught himselfand clamped his jaws shut. He couldn’t tell her. Not yet. Not until he’d examined every aspect of factory work. When he became its manager, he wanted a plan in place to ascertain his workers were content on the job. Happy employees were hardworking employees—that was Father’s motto. And what better way to learn what was needed than to move among the workers, becoming one of them? But if he told even one person the entire truth, word might spread through the factory, and then the workers would keep their distance from him the way they did with Hightower. They’d never trust him with their concerns.
    “Here you go, Ollie.” Kesia slid a plate of biscuits and a large bowl of stew in front of him. Steam rose from the bowl, creating little beads of condensation on the peach fuzz above her upper lip. “Sorry it took me so long. That scroungy cat showed up at my back door again, yowling loud enough to scare the moon out of the sky. So I tossed it some scraps to shut it up.”
    Oliver hid a smile. Kesia’s disgruntled tone didn’t fool him. She liked that old yellow-and-white-striped tabby. And Carrie’s actions—pretending to bury herself in a piece of pie—didn’t fool him, either. Anyone could see she was only chopping it into pieces rather than eating it.
    Kesia must have noticed Carrie’s destruction, too, because she frowned at the bowl. “Here now, you’re makin’ a mess of that pie. If you ain’t hungry, just leave it.”
    Carrie’s cheeks glowed pink. She put down her fork. “I’m sorry, Miss Kesia. I hate to waste it, but your good pot roast dinner filled me quite adequately.”
    Kesia’s smile returned. “No worries. It won’t go to waste. I’ll feed it to the cat.”
    A bemused grin twitched at the corners of Carrie’s mouth. “The cat eats peach pie?”
    “The cat eats anything I throw at it.” She rolled her eyes, feigning great disgust. “I’m just sure as sure it’s expectin’. Won’t be long, an’ I’ll be runnin’ over with kittens. An’ then what’ll I do?”
    Oliver, his gaze on the turn of Carrie’s delicate jaw, said, “You’ll give them peach pie, too, because you can’t resist feeding any hungry creature that comesalong.” He nudged Carrie lightly with his elbow. “You’re new here, so you probably don’t realize Kesia doesn’t ask for money in exchange for the food she serves.”
    Carrie turned a startled look at Kesia. “You don’t? But then how—”
    “Now that ain’t quite all the way true, Ollie. Don’t be makin’ me out to be some saint.” Kesia, her lips set in a scowl, snatched a rag from her apron pocket and set to