The Last Heiress (2 page)

“Forgive me, Mama. My hair refused to cooperate with Helene.” Taking her usual seat at the table, she asked the footman
for coffee instead of tea. “Where is Papa?” she asked, noticing that her mother sat alone at the ornate table for twelve.

“His cough is no better. He's not coming downstairs this morning.” Agnes signaled for the footman to serve.

Amanda's unease increased threefold. “Papa is still in bed? He doesn't plan to go to the mill? I can't remember that ever happening—”

Her mother narrowed her eyes. “Please don't overdramatize, Amanda. Everyone gets sick, even your hale and hearty father. You're too young to remember a bout of gout that laid him low for days.” She nibbled her toast. The barest coating of lemon cheese provided a sunny glow.

Amanda refused to be put off easily. “But he never misses breakfast. It's his favorite meal of the day. I'll take him a bowl of poached eggs and some kippers. And I know he won't refuse porridge with fresh cream.”

“If your father is hungry, ring for the maid and she will carry up a tray. I won't have you doing servant work. Everyone needs to earn their wages.” Agnes glanced at the footman, who pretended not to be listening. “But you should visit your father when you finish eating. He asked to see you this morning.”

Amanda set down her fork, her taste for food gone. “He wishes me to come to his bedroom?” Her father never spoke to his children except at the dinner table, at tea, or occasionally by the parlor fire if they weren't entertaining that evening. And he certainly never requested an audience while wearing his dressing gown. “Do you know what this is about, Mama?”

“I have my suspicions but prefer not to speculate. When did you become so apprehensive?” Agnes's expression softened. “I would have expected as much from your sister, but not from my fearless girl.”

A second oddity within ten minutes was almost too much to
bear. Her mother never mentioned Abigail, as though her twin sister hadn't been born. Since Alfred's death several years ago, it felt as though she'd been born an only child. “Will you come upstairs with me?” Amanda asked.

“No, my dear. I'm merely relaying the message. Your father requested only you, not the two of us. He will impart any decisions he's made to me when the time is right.” Mama smiled, but the gesture fooled no one.

Amanda knew her parents hadn't taken rooms at opposite ends of the hall because of his snoring or Agnes's restless tossing and turning. She'd hoped they would become friends, if no longer passionate about each other. But her brother's untimely death put an end to that possibility. Amanda finished her toast and coffee, and then she refilled her cup at the sideboard. “I shall go now.”

“Allow me to carry that for you, Miss Dunn.” Joseph, the head footman reached her side with a saucer.

Reluctant to argue in front of her mother, Amanda allowed him to precede her up the stairs to her father's suite.

“Miss Amanda to see you, sir,” announced Joseph, stopping in the doorway.

“Come in, daughter,” said George Dunn, his voice hoarse and scratchy. “Why are you standing there like a statue? Come talk to your old papa.”

She hurried then to his bedside, the sight of her robust father under heavy quilts giving her a chill. “Mama said you're not feeling well, sir. I hope that's not true.” Amanda smiled as she said this, yet she needed little confirmation from him as to how he was with his face drawn and haggard.

“I'm a touch under the weather, but it's nothing for you to be concerned about. The way Ochs fusses over me, I'll either be right as rain or ready for a nanny and perambulator before long.”

As though on cue, her father's trusted valet since before Amanda was born entered the room. “I intercepted your breakfast on the stairs, sir. Everything looks quite in order. I'll have more coal sent up for the fire.”

“Getting my room to tropical temperatures will not cure a bit of the flu. Leave the tray on the table and my hearth alone for now. I want to speak privately to my daughter.”

The valet turned as though just noticing her. “Good morning, Miss Dunn. Shall I have a tray sent up for you too?” He looked down his thin hooked nose at her.

“No, thank you, Ochs. I breakfasted with Mama.”

“Very good. Ring if I can be of service, sir.” He bowed and departed with great dignity.

“My, my. The man absolutely never smiles.” Amanda perched on the edge of her father's massive bed.

“It's in the valet's rulebook not to.” Papa's dimples deepened as he said that, and for a moment he resembled his normal self until a hacking cough convulsed his large frame.

“Oh, Papa, that sounds dreadful. Did anyone send for the doctor?” Amanda patted his arm once the coughing subsided.

George reached for the glass of water on his nightstand and took a tentative sip. “What would that old blighter do? Bleed me again? I feel worse after his therapies, not better. Stop fussing. The cough will be gone once this damp weather breaks. Anyway, that's not why I summoned you. I have a favor to ask of you, one that will be no spring stroll in the garden.”

Amanda's spirits lifted. Seldom did her father ask anything of his family other than impeccable manners at social events. “Of course, Papa. What can I do?”

“Only the young and foolish say yes without hearing the question.” He covered her hand with his larger one. “Pelton visited yesterday afternoon.”

Papa received a mill employee at home in his bedchamber?
Amanda's stomach tightened.

“The situation at Dunn Mills is growing critical. None of my overpaid managers have been able to line up sufficient cotton from Latin or South America, and certainly nothing that compares to the quality of the cotton we had access to before this nuisance of a war in the States. I can't run textile mills and continue to pay men's wages without raw materials.” His vehemence triggered another round of coughing.

Amanda blinked, unsure of a suitable response. Her father seldom discussed important matters and never his business concerns. “What about wool from the northern counties and silk from the Orient?”

“All well and good, but cotton is more than half the industry of the mill. I need to restore reliable sources.”

“How can I help? Shall I write to…Jackson?” She murmured the name of their primary American factor—and brother-in-law—reluctantly. He had fallen from favor with her father, to put it mildly.

He sighed heavily. “I've already written to the elder Henthorne several times. Every reply has been the same: His hands are tied. Their new president, Jefferson Davis, has decreed that no cotton is to be exported to the United Kingdom until Queen Victoria takes a stand for the Confederacy. Why would our Queen choose sides in a dispute affecting former colonies? And I can't fathom why southern states would break away and form a new nation.”

Amanda waited to see if he expected her opinion on a political topic—one she would be hard pressed to give—but then he waved off the question like a bee from the honey pot.

“None of that concerns you, daughter. I shouldn't sidetrack myself from our dire circumstances.”

“How can I help?”

“Hear me out before making up your mind.” He coughed again with alarming intensity. When he caught his breath again, he said, “I need you to travel to North Carolina to do whatever is necessary to restore shipping lines to Manchester through Liverpool. Speak with Randolph Henthorne first, but if you must, call on every cotton factor in Wilmington. There has to be
someone
willing to ignore Davis's edict and transact business with us. I'm willing to pay a thirty percent increase over previous contracts, although you certainly shouldn't open negotiations with our most generous offer.” He hesitated and dabbed his mouth with his linen handkerchief. Her flummoxed expression had finally given him pause.

“You wish
me
to board a ship and sail to America? The farthest I've traveled is across the channel to the continent.”

“I realize I'm asking a lot, Amanda. Such a voyage may be dangerous. Had your brother lived, he would be the one making the journey.” Papa's complexion faded to an unhealthy pallor. “I need someone to represent the interests of Dunn Mills on my behalf. I would go myself, but the doctor insists the damp sea air would hasten my demise.”

“Of course I'll go,” she said without another thought. The possibility of losing her father negated her personal misgivings. As soon as she agreed, a small seed took root and began to grow—a seed that might break the
ennui
that had consumed her all winter.

“You won't be traveling alone. I will send Pelton with you.”

Amanda's spine arched at the mention of the pompous man's name. Their few instances of acquaintance had left her with a sour taste in her mouth. Charles Pelton believed a woman's place was in the home, and that they shouldn't speak on subjects other than drapery fabrics or scone choices for tea. “Why him, Papa? You have several capable managers in your mills. Surely you could select one more amenable for a travel companion.”

Papa's brow furrowed. “I understand your reservations, but no
one knows the textile trade better. He could answer any question you or the Carolina factors may present.”

Amanda lifted her chin. “If you hold Mr. Pelton in such high esteem, why do you wish me to go at all? Perhaps he should represent Dunn Mills while I embroider samplers in the parlor with Mama.”

Her father's weary face brightened. “That's what I've always admired—your spirit. Those American aristocrats will expect me to negotiate contracts. They might take offense if I send an employee in my stead.”

She squeezed the bridge of her nose. “They would prefer someone who knows little about running a mill and even less about grades and qualities of cotton?”

“You're a Dunn, daughter, besides my heir. You will attend the meetings primarily as my emissary—a figurehead, if you will. Pelton will discuss specifics and negotiate the final terms of contract.” Papa reached out to pinch her cheek as though she were still nine years old.

“I wish to visit Abigail if I'm traveling to Wilmington. I won't cross the sea without laying eyes on my sister.”

His ebullience faded but he nodded agreement. “Your sister's move to the States is one reason I broached the subject. Because she married a wealthy man, your mother and I won't have to worry you'll land among a rough sort. But that's the only positive thing I can say about Jackson Henthorne.” He turned his face into the pillow as another convulsive cough robbed him of breath.

Amanda left his bedside and walked to the window. The rain continued to fall, turning the cobblestones below slick underfoot for both man and beast. She stared blindly into the mist while her mind whirred with ideas. After five long years, she would be able to see Abigail? She could visit America—a brand-new land teeming with opportunity—if that's what North Carolina still
considered itself part of. But that arrogant Charles Pelton would doubtlessly prevent her from experiencing any adventure.

By the time her father's coughing spell passed, Amanda had made up her mind. “I would be happy to represent Dunn Mills with one condition, Papa. Mr. Pelton remains here in Manchester while I sail solely with my maid.”

For a moment her father's lips opened and closed like a trout floundering on the riverbank. “A young woman traveling alone? That is unheard of. Your mother would never permit such recklessness.”

“How could it possibly be reckless? I assume you would book first-class passage. If necessary I could remain in my cabin until we reach the Carolina coast. At that point, I would be the guest of Mrs. Jackson Henthorne and under her husband's protection.” Amanda offered a wry smile.

“Nevertheless.” He dragged out the word for emphasis. “By your own admission, you know nothing about textiles. How can you be useful in convincing the brokers to restore the cotton trade?”

“The fact I've been little help to you since Alfred's death troubles me. I'm of little use…period.”

He shifted against the pillows and waved his hand in dismissal. “That doesn't alter the fact—”

“Please, Papa, I've listened patiently to you. I would appreciate it if you would afford me the same courtesy.”

His eyes grew round. “Go on.”

“Because we wouldn't set sail before March, I plan to study the textile business until then, night and day if need be. I have a month to learn all about cotton so I can represent Dunn Mills adequately.”

He laughed, pressing his fingertips to his eyelids. “I've spent thirty years learning the business. You think you can fill my shoes within thirty days? And a woman, no less.”

“Certainly not. I'm not interested in producing garments or managing employees. I merely intend to determine what constitutes quality material and what does not. You and Mr. Pelton can run things here while I deal with those American factors.”

“Amanda, my darling girl—”

“May I suggest you book my passage along with Helene's for four weeks from now? If you're not satisfied by then that I can represent you, I will accompany Mr. Pelton merely as a figurehead. After all, I am a
woman
as you pointed out. Would that be agreeable to you, Papa?” Stretching out her hand, Amanda held it steady while he laughed again at her.