The Last Heiress (24 page)

Amanda opened the small square and read while her heart thrummed against her ribs.

My dear Miss Dunn,

I have been arrested by local militia and accused of being a Northern sympathizer and draft dodger. I'm being held in the jail, probably awaiting Confederate provost marshals. If you can exert any influence, perhaps with the town council, I implore
you to do so. I dare not involve the Simses for fear of repercussions for them. Forgive me, but I have nowhere else to turn.

Your devoted servant,

Nathaniel

She clutched the sheet to her chest, unable to draw breath for several moments.

“Any answer to take back, Miz Dunn?” Rufus produced a stub of a charcoal pencil. “I 'spose you could write on the back side.”

“No, Rufus. This is something I must take care of in person. You run home and tell your parents not to worry.”

“I'll tell them, Miz Dunn.” He extracted the pear and took a large bite before vanishing down the steps into the garden.

“Is something wrong, Miss Amanda?”

“Yes, but every problem contains a solution. You eat while I think.” By the time she finished another cup of coffee Amanda had eliminated three possibilities. The town council wouldn't meet for another two weeks. Nate could be taken to Fort Fisher by then and hanged. The state representative she had met at dinner, the Honorable Thaddeus Wilkes, would be in Richmond for the current assemblage, according to Jackson's dinner chatter. As for the Henthornes' attorney, Mr. Alcott, he would undoubtedly consult Jackson before taking action. Her only hope lay with Judge Stewart or his charming wife, Rosalyn.

Throughout the morning, Amanda prayed her sister would decide to stay home that day. During luncheon Amanda had never seen anyone dawdle so long over a chilled chicken breast and cup of consommé. Finally, Abigail stood and signaled for the table to be cleared.

“I believe I'll pay a call on Mrs. Wilkes this afternoon and then perhaps Mrs. Stewart.” Amanda sounded as cheery as possible.

“What on earth for?” Abby wrinkled her nose. “Sarah is dreadfully dull. She talks about nothing but the privations in Richmond.”

Amanda opened her fan as they stepped into the center hall. “Both ladies insisted that we call on them and we haven't done so.”

“You go on then. I haven't seen my friend Carolyn Lowell in ages. If I go out later it will be solely to her house, but I must lie down for a while.” Abby clung to the banister as she ascended the stairs.

“I'll send the carriage back for you,” Amanda said, following her up. The moment her sister closed her door, she collected her parasol and hurried down to the courtyard. She found the coachman grooming the horses.

“Thomas, do you know where Judge Stewart lives?”

“Yes, ma'am. Over on Ann Street.”

“Could you take me there, please?”

“Isn't it too early to pay visits, Miz Duncan?”

“Not if the horse takes his time. I'm eager to start my calls.” She tapped her toe on the flagstones.

“I'll bring the carriage 'round front, miss,” he said, tipping his hat.

For some reason it took him twenty minutes to harness a horse and wipe down the leather upholstery. Abigail's slaves wanted to maintain proper decorum even if the foreign guest remained oblivious of social etiquette. At last the carriage rolled to a stop in front of an Italianate with a fourth-story cupola even grander than the Henthorne mansion.

“Thank you, Thomas. Please return home with the carriage.”

He placed a stepping block over the gutter. “Shouldn't I stay to take you on to Miz Wilkes?”

Amanda chose not to admonish his obvious eavesdropping. “No, I want Mrs. Henthorne to have her carriage. I'll ask the Stewarts' driver to take me.” She hurried up the walkway to circumvent more questions.

Fortuitously, Rosalyn Stewart was reading in the parlor when the butler announced her.

“Miss Amanda Dunn, madam.”

“Miss Dunn, what a pleasure to see you.” Rosalyn rose to her feet and met her in the center of the thick Persian rug. “Isn't Mrs. Henthorne with you?” She slipped an arm around Amanda's waist as though they were old friends instead of new acquaintances.

“Not today, I'm afraid, but she sends her fondest regards. The heat plays havoc with her stamina.”

“My, yes. I've grown frightfully sluggish myself.” Rosalyn guided her guest back to the divan before launching into a detailed account of her work with the ladies' auxiliary, in addition to hours spent with the Confederate Sanitary Commission. For a quarter hour she explained her endeavors, which sounded anything but slothful. If the maid hadn't interrupted with a tray of sandwiches, iced cakes, and pot of tea, Amanda may have fallen asleep from sympathetic fatigue if not outright boredom.

“Ah, here's our tea. Shall I pour, Miss Dunn?”

“Yes, cream and sugar, please.” Amanda took a watercress sandwich from the maid's tray and nibbled politely.

“Forgive me for rattling on endlessly. What news do you hear from home? I trust your mother is well?”

If permitted, Rosalyn would orchestrate a lively comparison between American and British fashion and customs. “Mama is well, but I actually have a rather urgent matter to discuss with you,” she said, setting her cup carefully in its saucer.

“What is it, my dear? How can I be of service?” Rosalyn's forehead furrowed with concern.

“I have a serious situation to discuss with the judge. May I call on him at his chambers?” Amanda couldn't stop her hands from trembling.

Rosalyn dropped her half-eaten pastry on a china plate. “I can do better than that. Court isn't in session today. Miles is reading arguments and depositions in his home office. I'm sure he would welcome a break from the tedium.” Patting her perfect coiffure of curls, she stood with the bearing of a queen.

“He won't be angry with my unannounced disruption?”

“Of course not. He loves to assist damsels in distress, especially one who's young, pretty, and English.” Rosalyn laughed and reached for Amanda's hand as though she were a child. She led her down a portrait-lined hallway to a set of double doors. After the briefest of knocks, Rosalyn entered the paneled library. “Miles?” she said sweetly. “Look who has joined us. Amanda Dunn, Mrs. Henthorne's sister. She has a matter of upmost urgency to discuss with you.”

Judge Stewart peered up from his stack of books and papers. His glasses sat askew on his nose, his silvery hair was ruffled and mussed, and his collar was undone. “Miss Dunn, do come in. Please forgive my appearance,” he said genially as he reached for his discarded cravat.

“Please don't trouble yourself on my account, sir.” With Rosalyn's prodding, Amanda approached his cluttered desk. “I'm so sorry to impose on you, but I knew of no one else who could assist with this conundrum. You're my only hope.”

“Goodness, this sounds dire. Speak frankly, Miss Dunn. Allow me to rectify the matter if I can.”

Amanda launched into a disjointed plea for Nate's release from jail, augmenting the little she knew from his note with pure fiction to sway the man to her side. “I assure you, sir, Nathaniel Cooper is not a Union sympathizer. He's loyal to North Carolina and
has never lived anywhere else. His reluctance to enlist stems from his pacifist convictions passed down from his parents.”

How easily the fabrications rolled off her tongue. She knew almost nothing about his parents, least of all whether or not they would take up arms. Is this what love did to a person—allowed them to lie effortlessly? Because at that moment, she knew she loved him and would say or do anything to keep him safe. “Please believe me, Judge Stewart. Nathaniel is no traitor to the Confederacy.”

He removed his quill pen from the inkwell. “Our militia has gone too far. They would demand that all men fight for the Cause, yet if so who would be left to keep our society from crumbling into chaos? I remember talking to Mr. Cooper at length about the great philosophers Immanuel Kant and Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Adam Smith and their theories as to how men might be governed in the future. He struck me as a man of learning and conviction, not cowardice.” He pulled a sheet of foolscap from his drawer. “I shall personally vouch for his integrity and usefulness in Wilmington and issue a directive that Mr. Cooper be released at once.”

While he scribbled and scrawled, Amanda felt her stiff back begin to relax. She unwittingly had tensed every muscle in her body. “I don't know how to thank you, sir. I will be forever in your debt.”

“Didn't I tell you the judge would be happy to help?” Rosalyn hugged her around the shoulders. The woman demonstrated more affection than Amanda's own mother.

“Mr. Cooper has become dear to me,” she said, as though obligated to offer explanation for her behavior.

Rosalyn chuckled. “That fact was apparent to everyone at the dinner party.”

Judge Stewart blotted his signature and sealed the wax with
his family crest. “I had better accompany you downtown, Miss Dunn. The local militia is filled more with rabble than gentlemen these days. Send for the carriage, my dear, and I will join you ladies in the
porte cochere
in a few moments,” he said, smiling at his wife as he rolled down his shirtsleeves.

Amanda's eyes filled with tears as Rosalyn led her from the library. “Splendid! I shall ride along too. I don't mean to make light of this, but I welcome any diversion to my frightfully dull afternoons.”

Ten

I
t was all Amanda could do to sit still in the Stewarts' stuffy, enclosed brougham. Once they arrived at their destination, the judge insisted she remain in the carriage because “jails were no place for ladies of a delicate nature.” She didn't feel as though her nature was very delicate. If Rosalyn hadn't ridden along too, Amanda may have followed Judge Stewart into the forbidding brick building. What if the local militia refused to recognize civil authority? What if Nate had already been transferred to the brig at the Confederate fort? One troubling possibility after another came to mind while the judge was inside.

Just as the last of her patience ran out, Judge Stewart and a haggard Nate Cooper appeared in the doorway. He wore no hat or frock coat, his shirt was badly wrinkled, and his vest flapped open. Upon closer inspection, Amanda spotted the reason why. “All his buttons are gone,” she murmured.

Rosalyn leaned toward the window. “Be thankful he still has
his boots. I've heard the jailers are less reputable than their prisoners—no offense intended to Mr. Cooper.” She smiled comfortingly at Amanda before settling back as her husband and Nate entered the carriage.

“You sit there, Mr. Cooper, next to Miss Dunn,” said the judge. “She was very brave to speak to me on your behalf.”

“I am grateful for your intervention, sir, and to you, Miss Dunn,” Nate murmured, locking gazes with her.

“I see they stole your buttons. Did they treat you miserably? Did they refuse to provide food? You look thinner than I recall.” Amanda prattled on as though
she
had just been released from confinement.

His pale face brightened measurably with a smile. “Worry not. I spent only two days incarcerated thanks to your swift action and the judge's mercy. No one can lose much weight in so short a time.”

“Was it loathsome, Mr. Cooper? Did the air smell foul and were the walls crawling with vermin?” Rosalyn pressed a hand to her throat.

“Where do you hear such things?” asked the judge, aghast.

“At sewing guild, my dear.” His wife's focus remained on Nathaniel.

“No, Mrs. Stewart. My window caught the night breeze and my treatment was relatively humane. When I refused moldy bread and rice, the guard said the meal was the equal to those served at the fort.”

Judge Stewart cleared his throat. “Enough talk about bad food. Why don't you and Miss Dunn join us for dinner tonight? Our cook works magic with she-crab soup.”

Amanda tried to look encouraging, but Nate shook his head. “Thank you, sir, but I'm eager to check on my store. Besides, I have inconvenienced you enough for one day. Perhaps Miss Dunn can be persuaded.”