The Last Heiress (21 page)

“See here. I loved my parents and I'm not embarrassed by them. I only wanted you to understand that I have limited prospects—”

“Do you believe my interest lies only in your financial prospects for the future? Really, sir. That makes me sound horribly vain and shallow.”

Nate closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “You're an impossible woman, Amanda.”

“It merely seems that way because we're having a disagreement.” She smiled at him. “
We
decide our future—you and I, not Jackson and not my mother. I was impressed with your self-assurance on Thursday. Few men could stand up to open hostility without losing their temper or storming off in a fit of wounded pride.”

“Punching my host in the nose did cross my mind once or twice.”

“As it did mine, but you didn't act on your impulse and that goes a long way with me.”

He blushed to the roots of his hair. “Who's lacking in subtlety now?”

Amanda stood and circled around the counter. “The proper way to eat unfamiliar foods, or knowing which fork is correct, can easily be mastered if a person sets their mind to it. Formal attire with the right accessories can be purchased if those garments become useful. Social etiquette can be learned like baking
a pie or sailing a boat. But what you have inside here, Mr. Cooper,” she placed a hand on his chest, “is far more important. It's everything, in fact, when a woman is seeking friends…or perhaps someone to assume a more permanent role.” Without considering the boldness of her action, Amanda leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth.

His eyes registered utter shock as his lips responded. “Goodness, Miss Dunn! I thought you were peeved with me.”

She moved back a step. “I still am. So you had better provide a bag of sweets for my walk home and no more pushiness or thinking for me.” She slapped his arm with her fan. “If you ply me with peppermints, I'll find a way to forgive you.”

Nate headed toward the rows of brass-lidded canisters along the far counter. “You are a hard woman to anticipate, let alone boss around.”

“Finally we've arrived at something we can agree on.”

Abigail soaked in her tub until her skin started to wrinkle like a prune. This was the best she'd felt in a week. For the first few days Amanda had doted on her. Now she disappeared most afternoons with ambiguous comments about helping make bandages with the sewing guild or volunteering at the church kitchen. Refugees displaced by the fighting continued to pour into Wilmington. Why they expected every Christian denomination to feed them day after day was a mystery to her, if charity work was indeed what occupied her sister lately. All Abigail knew was that Amanda wasn't spending her time with her. Even Jackson stayed out later more nights than not. Abigail had never been one to wallow in self-pity, but it seemed that everyone was avoiding her.

“Estelle,” she called. “I'm finished with my bath.” When an
interval passed without the sound of approaching footsteps in the hall, she called again, this time just short of a scream. “Estelle! Where are you?”

Another minute elapsed before her maid sauntered into the room. “Here I am, Miz Henthorne.”

“Why must I shout? You knew I was bathing and should have been ready with a towel.” Standing, Abigail allowed Estelle to enfold her in a thick wrap.

“I checked on you three times, mistress. Then I went to the kitchen for a bit of lunch.” Her maid wrapped a second towel around her damp hair.

“So I warrant a certain amount of your attention but am then abandoned to my own devices?”

Estelle's brow furrowed with bewilderment. “Beg your pardon, Miz Henthorne?” She continued to ruffle her hair none too gently.

Abigail pushed her away. “Stop that. I'd rather comb the tangles myself if you're going to be so rough. Go back down to your lunch.”

She expected the girl to apologize profusely and pledge to do better, but instead she just shrugged her shoulders. “All right, Miz Henthorne.” She strode out the door with far more energy than had carried her in.

Abigail dressed in a loose summer frock, sans corset, hoop, or silk stockings. It was too sultry an afternoon and her stomach churned with just the thought of tight restriction. Why fuss if it would only be her and Amanda at dinner? With her neck already damp with perspiration, she headed downstairs. Estelle could fix her hair out on the terrace, where it should be twenty degrees cooler. Carrying her brush, a pack of pins, and several ribbons, Abigail entered the kitchen, an unusual destination for the lady of the house.

The fact that the mistress seldom entered that room was
reflected on Estelle and Josie's faces. They had been pulling off heads and tails from large shrimp and shoving them into their mouth as though participating in an eating competition. “What is going on in here?” Abigail asked, aghast.

Mutely the two maids stared, their mouths agape.

“Answer me!” she demanded.

Estelle swallowed her mouthful. “We…we was eating some shrimp, Miz Henthorne.”

“I can see that. Is a plate of boiled shrimp what the other slaves are having for their noon meal?”

“No'm. They having chitlins and cornbread,” Josie said, licking her fingertips.

“This is like pulling a rotten tooth,” Abigail snapped. “Then why are you two
here
eating shrimp instead of in the courtyard with the others?” She was about to shake the answer out of Estelle when the girl finally spoke.

“Salome boiled shrimp to make croquettes for supper. Because no guests are comin' tonight, Josie and I thought we'd sample a few.”

“
Sample a few?
” Abigail pointed at the heap of heads, tails, and shells atop the refuse bucket. “You were gorging yourselves without a thought to anyone else. If Salome steamed extra, she probably planned to make a nice gumbo for the slaves. It appears that the others will get plain beans.” She marched over to the bin of rice. She took a large scoopful and spread it on the stone floor near the wall. “I'll show you what happens to selfish women. Kneel on that while you ponder what happens to greedy people when they die. And don't you dare tuck your skirts beneath your knees.” She waited until both women knelt down, their faces wincing in pain. Then she stomped off to her chaise in the shade.

Several hours later Abigail woke. The heat had turned reading into a long nap. Shaking off her drowsiness, she stretched and walked the length of the gallery. Below in the courtyard a
curious sight captured her attention. Estelle and Josie sat on the low stone wall with Amanda bent over in front of them. Her sister was applying wet cloths to their knees as though she'd become a nurse to the slaves.

Abigail felt a frisson of shame as she walked down the stairs, her dress clinging uncomfortably to her back. “What is going on?”

Amanda peered up from her ministrations on Josie's leg. “I was just about to ask you the same question. Why were these maids kneeling on rice?”

“I was punishing them for thievery.” She pushed back a damp lock of hair from her forehead.

“Thievery?” Amanda's eyes rounded as she looked from one slave to the other for confirmation. “They told me they had been caught eating shrimp for lunch.”

Josie and Estelle stared at the ground, not lifting their gazes to either woman.

“The boiled shrimp was for our dinner, not theirs. Salome had food for them outside. They know where to find the noon meal.” Abigail crossed her arms.

“Filching a few shrimp is grounds for torture?”

“I didn't intend for my punishment to be torture. Unfortunately, I fell asleep. I didn't plan to cause injury to their knees.”

Amanda hesitated long enough to rinse her hands in the bucket of water and dry them on a towel. “I thought Josie was
my
maid—a gift from you and Jackson while I'm a guest in your home. Wouldn't any reprimands for her be left up to me to administer?”

“How would it look to the other slaves if Estelle was punished for stealing food and Josie wasn't? We both know any reprimands left up to you would be worthless in nature.” Abigail matched her sister's tone in vehemence. She'd grown weary of Amanda taking the upper hand.

As Amanda shook her head like a stubborn mule, Jackson emerged from the side garden. Judging by his expression, he had heard plenty of their tête-à-tête.

“I'm curious, Miss Dunn,” he said. “Do the servants eat whatever is being served to family and guests at Dunncliff Manor?”

“
What?
” Amanda tossed the rag into the water bucket.

“Your kitchen maids and footmen—do they dine on the pâtés, stuffed pheasant, and ribs of beef like the Dunns?”

“No, but Mrs. Andrews fixes hearty and sustaining meals for the staff.”

Jackson approached, loosening his cravat with each step. “As we do here, I assure you. A master would be foolish to starve his slaves and yet still expect a decent day's work from them.”

“Therein resides the essential difference. We have employees in Manchester—men and women who aren't owned by us or anyone else.” Amanda arched her back with indignation.

“And if those employees were caught stealing or indulging in some other distasteful behavior, most likely they would be dismissed on the spot. They would be given whatever wages they had coming at that point, told to pack their meager belongings, and turned out regardless of the season or whether or not they had a place to go. The Dunn housekeeper or butler would have no trouble replacing the staff member from England's teeming underclass. The discharged maid would join the masses begging for food or selling themselves on the streets for tuppence.”

Amanda flushed a deep scarlet as her hands bunched into fists. “How dare you imply that slavery is somehow a noble institution that takes better care of the underprivileged!”

“There is nothing noble about slavery, but at least we don't turn people out to fend for themselves. Slaves have a home with us until they die.”

“And you keep working them until their death.”

“Everyone is expected to work in this life, Miss Dunn. I see nothing wrong with people earning their keep.”

“Some planters abuse slaves in unspeakable ways—tearing apart families, assaulting women, giving cruel beatings. And if slaves aren't permitted to learn to read or write, they have no way to improve their lives.”

Abigail could keep silent no longer. “I don't abuse my slaves. Your maid was being punished for stealing shrimp. I'm sorry I fell asleep, but—”

“My dear, forgive me for interrupting you, but I believe I will leave you sisters alone to continue your philosophical discussions.” Jackson bowed to both of them and then strode away.

In the heat of the moment, both women ignored him.

“They took
food
, Abigail, not silverware or gold coins.”

“Shortages abound in the city, but your head is stuck in the sand. Estelle and Josie ate what could have been shared with others.”

“Look at their knees! Perhaps it wasn't your intention to be cruel, but that swelling won't go down for days.” Amanda's tone turned brittle.

“If you are able, I would like you two to go back to work.” Abigail spoke calmly to Estelle and Josie. Looking around her, she said, “And the rest of you as well.” The argument had attracted quite a few onlookers.

Once the courtyard had cleared, she turned to Amanda. “You have lived a charmed, insulated life in Wycleft, but I have visited Father's textile mills. I have seen the slums of his workers. They live in grim hovels on streets without proper sanitation. Their children begin work at an early age without much opportunity to attend school. I've been inside homes where people grow sick and die without calling doctors they cannot afford. When was the last time you visited those places?”

Amanda's eyes filled with tears. “I agree that much poverty exists in Manchester, but those workers are free to immigrate to another town or a new country if they choose.”

Abigail was bored with a philosophical debate going nowhere. “When you return to England, sister, you may take up a crusade of social reform. In the meantime I expect you to respect the rules of this household. I love you and you are welcome here, but this is
my
home.”