The Last Heiress (16 page)

“Sane and sober as a judge. But I wish you would call me Nate, at least when we're alone.”

“Fine, as long as you call me Amanda.”

Nate smiled but kept his eyes on the road.

“What has amused you?” she demanded.

“I have practiced saying ‘Amanda' every night before bed, and all the way to our meeting today. Your name rolls off my tongue like butter. You had better hang on tight because I want this gelding to pick up his hooves. I'm eager to get where we're going.”

Amanda gripped the edge of her seat, concentrating her energy on remaining inside the surrey. For a man who turned words into a hobby, he certainly could use them to disarm a woman.

Jackson settled back in his upholstered chair and released a satisfied sigh. His dinner of rare ribs of beef with a horseradish glaze,
along with mushrooms and wild rice, had been superb. He sipped a glass of aged cabernet from the Bordeaux region in France, a gift from Elias Hornsby, and had a Cuban cigar to enjoy later. Captain Hornsby had been pleasantly surprised by his overflowing warehouses. What man wouldn't have been? His father had been languishing under misconceptions for so long, he should dress in breeches and powdered wigs. Running his country estate would be a better fit for him, especially because his wife appreciated having him home. Since Lincoln's outrageous emancipation edict the year before, slaves were running off from every plantation. Most that remained either expected pay or were too old to work a full day anyway. Their once prosperous peanut estate had shrunk to half its former productivity.

But Jackson didn't need to worry about his parents. From Hornsby's projections, his anticipated profits should be enough to remove a significant amount of debt from the company's books. And Hornsby had only emptied one of his warehouses. Upon the return of the
Countess Marie
, Hornsby promised to deliver the next load to Bermuda and be back within a fortnight. It wouldn't take long for him to wipe the slate clean of creditors. Then who knew what he could do next?

Jackson peered out the window of his club on the bustling street scene. Soon his friends would sit down at the gaming tables to try their luck or test their skills at cards, but he had no taste for gambling tonight. He preferred to savor his wine while mulling over yesterday's exceptionally satisfying conversation with this sister-in-law.

Amanda strutted around his house putting on airs as though superior to Abigail—and him—by sheer virtue of being English. She thumbed her nose at the Southern way of life and reliance on slavery. Yet if she had to eat food grown, harvested, and prepared by her own hands, she would have starved to death long
ago. Perhaps slavery was an antiquated institution that needed to be replaced, but what planter could afford to pay wages that workers could live on? Amanda's performance at the town meeting proved she was just as ineffectual and out-of-touch with reality as Jackson's father. At least he knew when it was time to tuck his tail between his legs and go home. Yet Abigail remained devoted to her twin and loved having her with them. Otherwise Jackson would have booked passage for Amanda on the next ship and sent her back home long ago.

“Mr. Henthorne, sir?”

Jackson looked up from his contemplation to see the white-haired butler of the club. “What is it, James? Can't a man enjoy a cigar in some peace and quiet?”

The butler blanched, his silver tray tipping precariously to one side. “I'm sorry, sir. Should I tell the gentleman you're occupied? He asked for you by name.”

Jackson picked up the engraved card on the salver. It was of a quality not seen in his circles in some time. His curiosity piqued, he read the name aloud. “Mr. Robert Peterson, cotton factor, Savannah, Georgia.” The inscribed address was in the best section of the city. “Show him in, James, and be quick about it.” While waiting, Jackson drained the contents of his glass.

James wasted no time delivering Mr. Peterson to the library. “Mr. Henthorne? This is Mr. Peterson.” The butler bowed and backed away.

Jackson quickly assessed the man's expensive clothes, diamond cravat stud, and silver-topped walking stick. Either he was a fop or far more successful than most men dining at the club that night. He rose to his feet and extended a hand. “Jackson Henthorne. How do you do, sir?”

Peterson's smile filled his entire face. “Thank you for allowing me to interrupt your evening, Mr. Henthorne. I visited your
father several days ago—a gracious and distinguished gentlemen to be sure—but he insisted I speak to you. He told me I could find you here, so I haunted your club, losing money at cards while waiting to meet you.”

“Have a seat and tell me what I can do for you.”

“Was that a cabernet you were drinking?” Peterson waved to James, who lurked near the doorway. “Bring the best bottle of wine in the house.” He sat in the adjacent chair. “It's I who can help you, sir. You will note from my card that my office is in Savannah, although I'm more of a nomad since that infernal blockade hobbled the cotton exchange at home and in Charleston.”

“I am aware of current events.” The man's patronizing tone caused Jackson's back to stiffen.

“Of course you are. I have a proposition that could make us very wealthy men.” He lowered his voice.

“You have my attention.”

“Barns in Georgia and South Carolina are bulging. Maybe not as much as before the slaves began hightailing it north, but enough to fill every ship we can contract for the next year. Markets in Europe and Britain clamor for American cotton.”

“I have a load that just left port—one thousand bales headed for the mills of England.”

With a sly grin Peterson waved over the butler bearing a tray and two glasses. “That's why I'm here. I heard that the
Countess Marie
was loaded from bow to stern. You obviously possess qualities I do not, Mr. Henthorne. Elias Hornsby refused to do business with me. His armed guards prevented every one of my attempts to negotiate. Yet you marched into his favorite watering hole and arranged delivery. I'm surprised you weren't shot or bludgeoned on your way out.”

His revelation didn't help with the digestion of Jackson's heavy meal. “We were able to come to terms the next day.” He watched
James pour the wine, sure that if he were doing it his hands would be visibly shaking.

“I have contracts with two ships that regularly leave the harbor bound for Nassau or Bermuda. My brother is in Bermuda now. He sells cotton and tobacco to the highest bidder and sends it on its way. We also have a trusted associate in Liverpool who fills ships with canned meat, clothing, shoes, and wool uniforms for the return voyage.” Peterson lifted the two wine glasses, handed Jackson one, and then took a deep swallow from his. “Ah, it's been too long since I've tasted wine this fine.”

Jackson sipped without taking his eyes off Peterson. “It sounds as though you have the situation well in hand. Why do you need me?”

“This war and the naval threat have made life difficult for everyone. I don't have to tell you that, but the situation has also eliminated much of our competition. There's no exchange here, unlike in Savannah or Charleston. I need to remain in the interior of Georgia and South Carolina to buy up the cotton. I can send it by rail, by teamster wagons, or float it up the Sound on flatboats inside the ring of Yankee gunboats if necessary. This is where you come in, Mr. Henthorne. With a partner in Wilmington, I can get product onto ships faster. And I want a man with your savvy.” He paused to take another drink. “I'm prepared to write you a cheque tonight—consider it an advance against your share of future profits. And there will be substantial profits.”

Forcing himself to breathe, Jackson picked up the bottle and refilled both glasses, his hands now perfectly steady. “You continue to hold my attention, sir. Because Wilmington is the last port open on the eastern coast, we need to divert whatever flowed through Charleston and Savannah here to augment my tobacco trade in resin and spirits of turpentine.” He sipped the dry cabernet.

“I've spoken to several club members. Everyone says you're a man of integrity—a man I can trust. But you don't know me, Henthorne. So I hope this will convince you that I'm a man of my word as well.” Peterson extracted a cheque from an inside pocket and laid it on the table. It had been inscribed with Jackson's name and an amount so large his breath caught in his throat.

“You possess great confidence in your ability to recruit, Mr. Peterson.”

“Indeed, but that cheque could easily be thrown into the fire if you decline my proposition. Why don't you take it to your banker? A telegram to my Savannah bank will confirm my honest intentions. Should you need time to consider my offer, I'm staying at the Kendall House.” He placed both hands on the carved wolf's head of his walking stick.

Jackson stared at the amount, blinked, and gazed again. “Mr. Peterson, I don't need the evening to decide. I'm a good judge of people and can usually recognize an excellent opportunity when I see one.” Tucking the cheque inside his frock coat, he pulled out his card case. “Come by my office at nine tomorrow morning. We'll discuss expectations and obligations on both our parts. Your advance money implies profits not seen in many years, but I like to enter partnerships with my eyes wide open.”

Peterson smiled as he accepted Jackson's card. “I wouldn't have it any other way. The real profits are to be made in the goods our ships bring back. General Lee is desperate for food, clothing, guns, munitions—all we can import. And the Confederate Treasury still has gold to spend to supply the army with what they need. It's our duty as Southern gentlemen to ensure our fighting men prevail over the Yankees. Why can't shrewd businessmen also get rich at the same time?” He pushed up from his chair and offered his hand. “I'm weary from traveling and anxious to return to my hotel. Enjoy the remainder of the cabernet. I'll be at your office
tomorrow to answer to any questions you have. Answers you'll like, I assure you.”

The two men shook and Peterson left, but Jackson stayed in the comfortable library for another hour. He'd lost interest in the wine and had forgotten the cigar. Instead, his mind whirred with visions of wealth to fatten the lean Henthorne coffers. He would be able to restore Oakdale to its former glory and lavish gifts on Abigail that she'd long done without. The longer he remained in the rarefied air of his club the happier Jackson became—an emotion he'd long done without.

Seven

T
he sun was just dipping below the buildings to the west when Nate's rented carriage rolled away on Third Street. Amanda didn't want the afternoon to end. She couldn't remember ever enjoying herself so much. Perhaps she couldn't remember because she never had. The spot along the river he'd selected for their picnic had been perfect. They had shucked off their shoes and splashed in the shallows, dined on Ruth's delicious pork and wilted greens, and laughed and talked and laughed some more.

Nate had entertained her with tender vignettes of his mountain childhood, interesting observations about the society women of Wilmington, and amusing tales of his less than successful attempts at cooking in his landlady's kitchen. He'd put her at ease and then charmed her. Amanda had never once worried about being miles from town and alone with a man she barely knew on a remote riverbank—in a foreign land, no less. But she did know Nate. He was as transparent as crystal clear water, unassuming
and pragmatic. If she wasn't careful she could easily fall in love with him. And that would be a foolish thing to do. Whether it was a few more weeks or a few months, one day she would return to England and maybe never come back. Yet after each time they were together, she couldn't wait to see him again.