The Last Heiress (13 page)

It took Jackson several moments to deduce the implication before he flipped the man a gold coin.

Catching the money in midair, the cretin slipped it into a pocket within the blink of an eye. “Captain Elias Hornsby. You'll find him at Flannigan's. He ain't no Irishman, but he does like a good stout.” He pointed toward a row of buildings that never would have garnered much attention.

Jackson turned on his heel and marched down the gangway, the coin being his only expression of gratitude. When he located the pub called Flannigan's by way of a badly lettered sign, his hand caressed the pistol with a wave of relief. Dimly lit and hazy from whale oil lamps, the establishment reeked of unwashed bodies, cigar smoke, and fish entrails. Entering the tavern, he strode purposely toward the bar lest he appear as out of place as he felt.

The barkeep approached with a dirty apron and a dirtier rag over his shoulder. “What'll it be?” His heavy brogue indicated he most likely was Mr. Flannigan.

“Whiskey—the best you've got—for you, me, and my friends.” Jackson nodded to the men on his left and right.

Once drinks were poured, toasts made, and the fiery spirits downed, Jackson queried in a soft voice. “Could either of you gentlemen point out Captain Elias Hornsby of the
Countess Marie
?”

The sailor on his right squinted at him with watery eyes. “Maybe we can, maybe we can't. What's your business? You ain't here for the boiled beef and cabbage.”

The barkeep and nearby patrons broke into raucous laughter.

“I'm the most successful factor in these parts, representing resin producers from all over North Carolina. Cotton and tobacco fills my warehouses as well, since the blockade closed the Savanah cotton exchange for all practical purposes. My name is Jackson Henthorne.” He offered his hand.

His soliloquy met with a second, more subdued round of guffaws.

The man stared at his hand and then shrugged his shoulders. “Where you been, Mr. Henthorne? Away at college studying up on history or philosophy? If you was the largest factor in these parts, I would've met ya by now.”

Jackson felt a flush climb his neck into his face, but considering the smoke and poor light, his embarrassment probably went
unnoticed. “I did go away to college for a year but didn't care for it—too much memorizing worthless information.” With a gesture, he indicated a refill of everyone's glasses. “I recently took over management of my father's company. Since he's…trapped in the old ways…he hasn't kept abreast of changes in the economic climate of the South. I intend to rectify that.” Jackson lifting his chin imperiously, downed the whiskey in one swallow, and fought the impulse to gag. “I want to speak to the captain of that steamer in port. He and I may be able to do business.” He glanced around the room in an attempt to narrow his choices among the patrons.

After a moment the sailor on his right flicked his finger, and the nearby loiterers wandered away, including the drunk on Jackson's left. Even the esteemed Mr. Flannigan sauntered down to the other end of the bar. “I'm Elias Hornsby. Charmed to make yer 'quaintance.” He offered his none-too-clean hand.

Jackson shook it, hiding his shock that this gap-toothed ruffian would be at the helm of an expensive ship. “The pleasure is mine, sir. May I ask what kind of goods you recently brought into port?” He judiciously lowered his voice to a whisper.

Hornsby eyed him slyly. “Whatever folks want and are willing to pay for. Wine and champagne from France; fancy cheeses and smoked meats; wool uniforms for those Reb boys of your'n, sewed by the hardworking folks of Yorkshire; muskets, cannon shot, and gunpowder from Germany. Don't make no difference to me.” He picked up his mug of stout, took a drink, and grimaced. “This haul was mostly sides of salted beef, smoked pork, and coffee. Bobby Lee's troops can't seem to get enough meat and coffee. Don't know if those boys ever get a spud or chunk of bread.”

Jackson seethed from Hornsby's cavalier reference to the leader of the Confederate army. “Soldiers need to eat, and farmers can't supply the demand with the Yankees tearing up their fields.”

“You not catch the bug to sign up and fight, Henthorne?”

Jackson's spine arched like a startled cat at both the informal address and the inference he may be a coward. But calling out Captain Hornsby wouldn't advance his purposes. “When my brother enlisted, I was needed at home to oversee family interests.”

Hornsby nodded and swept his cap from his head. His hair looked surprisingly clean for a man in deplorable clothes. “I never could understand fightin' for noble causes myself, not when makin' money is much more satisfyin'.” His grin revealed a gold tooth, giving him a roguish mien.

“I discern from your dialect that you are British, sir. Yet I noticed the Confederate Stars and Bars flying from your halyard.”

“That President Lincoln in Washington said British smugglers would be hung if caught by his gunboats. He called us a pack of pirates. That's why we fly the Rebel flag. That way he gotta take us as prisoners of war instead.” Hornsby ran his fingers through his grizzled beard. “Not that I would relish that idea none.”

“So you are English.” Jackson needed confirmation of the obvious.

“I am, from Liverpool.”

“I have a warehouse of cotton that needs to go to Manchester. Dunn Mills will accept the entire load, along with as much as I can arrange in the future. Would you be interested in such a consignment? And would you be able to slip through the Yankee blockade?”

Hornsby looked over at the barkeep. “Flannigan, more whiskey, and add it to Henthorne's bill.” His gold tooth flashed again in the lamplight. “I'm still here listening to ya, ain't I? This might be your first visit to the docks, but it sure ain't mine. I've run 'tween Bermuda, Nassau, and Liverpool plenty in the last two years. And Admiral Porter's slow boats ain't caught me yet.” He lifted his refilled glass in toast. “But whether or not I'll risk my
neck for your cotton depends on the price—and what you want me to haul back here. I sure ain't running the Atlantic without cargo for the return trip.”

Jackson's mind whirred with possibilities, besides the dull ache from decidedly not-the-best whiskey in the house. “Worry not, Mr. Hornsby. Your holds will be full. You have my word. Allow me a night to speak with my associates. Meet me at this warehouse tomorrow. You can see for yourself the quantity I need to ship. We can negotiate the price and terms then.” Jackson jotted the address on the back of his card.

The captain stared for a long moment. “I don't know you, Henthorne, but I suppose it'd be worth my while to have a look-see. But I ain't comin' alone and I intend to be armed.”

“I would expect nothing less. I too will be accompanied by trusted employees, but have no fear. Considering your success in reaching Bermuda, I predict a long and lucrative association for both of us.” Jackson tipped his hat, left a twenty-dollar gold piece on the bar top, and walked away from the loathsome place. He felt he'd handled himself well. At least he didn't break into a cold sweat until inside his carriage. Considering the sour stench to his own perspiration, the reason Flannigan's pub smelled so foul became clear.

Amanda knew that opportunities like this didn't come knocking every day. When Jackson announced that afternoon he wouldn't be home for dinner, she seized her chance. With teapot in hand she approached the settee where her sister sat reading. “Did I hear Jackson mention he would be dining in town?” she asked, refilling both their porcelain cups.

Abigail wrinkled her nose in a pout. “You heard correctly. Goodness, ever since he took over for Papa Henthorne, he's gone
more nights than he's home. Always meeting with this factor or that planter. And he insists on calling on ship captains down by the docks. They can't be a quality sort if they spend most of their lives at sea.”

“The captain who brought me to Wilmington was a true gentleman,” Amanda said consolingly, taking a small sandwich from the tiered tray.

“An exception to the rule. I'll be relieved when life returns to normal. I miss having Jackson home in the evening.” Abby's face screwed into a scowl. “This tea is tepid. Helene, bring us a fresh pot and see that it's steaming.”

The maid set aside her sewing and rose to her feet, frowning as she left the room. “Of course, madam.”

Amanda bit back her original comment. “Why don't you and I do something exciting? Let's have dinner in town. Perhaps at the Kendall House?”

Abby gaped at her. “Dine at a hotel four blocks away when we're local residents? Salome probably has dinner preparations already underway.”

“Whatever she's cooking will keep until tomorrow. With Jackson out tonight, let's not rattle around the huge dining room alone. Don't you remember Mama going to the Ritz with her friends every now and then? They would have a grand old time.” Amanda allowed her eagerness to practically bubble from her ears.

Abigail took little time to decide. “I do remember that. Sometimes they would drink champagne in the afternoon, unbeknownst to their husbands.” She lifted her fan to hide her face.

“I don't recommend that for us, but dinner would be a lark.”

“I agree.” Abby rose elegantly to her feet. “I'll send Thomas to make reservations for eight with the concierge.”

Amanda jumped up. “Please reserve the table for six o'clock instead.”

“Goodness, no. Only the uncultured
bourgeois
dine that early.”

“Just this once, sister dear, because I have a surprise for us afterward.”

Abby laughed. “Are you finally breaking from your shell? Very well. Six it will be, but I insist we remain in mourning attire.” She strolled from the room, her request for fresh tea forgotten.

Two hours later, they walked through the elegant lobby of the Kendall House, resplendent with crystal chandeliers, dark cherry wood paneling, and Persian carpets. The concierge greeted them immediately and showed them to the best table in the restaurant. The other diners paid little attention to young women in black. Almost every day Wilmington gained another widow due to the war. Their meal of sea bass with potatoes au gratin and roasted asparagus was delicious. Amanda noticed that her sister ate more than a few tastes of everything for a change.

“You have kept me in suspense long enough.” Abigail ate a bite of cherry pie and set down her fork. “Did you ask a
couturier
to keep her showroom open late tonight? I'm afraid the selection may disappoint you. Little from Paris gets past the Union navy. Northern wives and sweethearts will be well dressed from everything the Yankees confiscate.”

Amanda pushed away her dessert. “No, I would like you to accompany me to the town council meeting that starts in thirty minutes.”

Abby choked on her mouthful of tea. “A town council meeting—what on earth for? That sounds stultifying and dull.”

“I intend to address the council. Because none of them know me, I would like you to provide the introduction.”

“You wish me to stand up at a meeting with landlords airing grievances about slovenly tenants or housewives who don't like the neighbor's cat digging up their gardens?”

Amanda smiled. “Sounds as if you've attended one before.”

“I have, hence the description of stultifying.” Abby dropped her napkin next to her plate. “I tagged along with Jackson once. He required some sort of variance for Henthorne and Sons. He insisted we stay for the entire meeting to not appear rude, but I honestly couldn't keep my eyes open. I dozed off against his shoulder.”

“Once you provide the introduction, I'll explain you are required at home and must take your leave.”

Abby narrowed her gaze. “Why do you wish to address the council, Amanda? You're not a landlord and our neighbors own no cats.”

“I want their support in restoring trade. All the mills need cotton, not just Papa's. And certainly increased business would benefit Wilmington as well. I've heard tales of shortages throughout the area. Something needs to be done.”

Abigail settled her shawl across her shoulders and started toward the door. “You've invited the wrong Henthorne. Jackson would be happy to attend with you next month.”