The Last Heiress (26 page)

“I guess I haven't spent enough time thinking about God since my ma died,” Nate said softly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I know, but He thinks about you all the time.” Odom looked over his shoulder. “And God can be very patient.”

After his landlord went to bed, Nate closed his eyes and tried to picture his mother. Faye Cooper had worn her dark hair in a single plait down her back. Her roughened, chore-rough hands had felt soft against his face. The woman could holler across the valley, yet she still whispered prayers each night next to his bed. How he had missed her when she died after months of sickness. Nate rubbed his eyes with his fists but couldn't dislodge the memory of his twelfth birthday dinner: Fried chicken, honeyed sweet potatoes, fresh corn on the cob dripping with butter, and apple pie for dessert. He and Joshua had eaten until their stomachs hurt.

Suddenly ravenous, he scrambled to his feet. He devoured three dry biscuits from breakfast and a wedge of cheese before realizing he had the perfect menu for Saturday. He'd never eaten a more enjoyable meal. Finding a scrap of paper, he scribbled a brief note to Ruth, went to bed, and slept better than he had in weeks.

Abigail tiptoed into the bathing chamber for the second time that morning. Crouching over a basin, she voided her stomach of the toast and boiled eggs she had just consumed. She tried to be as quiet as possible so not to disturb Jackson outside on their private gallery, yet her best efforts were for naught.

“Great Scott, Abigail! Are you ill again?” her husband asked anxiously as he hovered behind her.

She shook her head, unable to speak for a moment. “It's nothing to worry yourself about. Go enjoy your breakfast.” She rose clumsily to her feet and filled a clean basin from the pitcher.

He pulled out his pocket watch to consult. “Then you should get dressed. If we don't hurry we'll miss church. The service starts in forty minutes.”

Abigail rinsed out her mouth, washed her face, and tried to step past him, but he was too quick. He grabbed hold of her wrist. “You're pale as a ghost and look ready to faint. How long have you been ill? If that Robert Peterson carried swamp fever into the city, I'll summon his second.”

“You'll do nothing of the sort, my dear. I'm fit as a fiddle.” Sidling past him into their bedchamber, she rummaged through her armoire for a fresh dressing gown.

“You've been sick several mornings this week and haven't eaten more than half a meal in days. I insist that you see Dr. Barnes tomorrow. Perhaps he can supply an herb or tonic to quell your discomfort.”

“Absolutely not. I'll not quaff any herbal potion without knowing how it might affect the baby.”

Jackson had been tying his cravat in the mirror when his fingers froze on the silk fabric. “Baby? What baby?” He spun on one heel, his jaw dropping open. “What are you saying, Abigail?”

She closed the armoire with a thud. “I'm saying that to the best of my knowledge I'm with child. We should have a new Henthorne by spring if not sooner. All the signs are evident.”

“Have you spoken to anyone yet?”

“Only Salome.” She tied back her thick hair with a ribbon.

“You may be with child, yet you've consulted only our
cook
?” Jackson gently gripped her forearms.

“Amanda, Estelle, Josie, Helene—none of them have given birth. Salome has. I trust her expertise to answer practical, simple questions.”

“I insist that you see Dr. Barnes—for verification, if nothing else. How can we trust an uneducated slave?”

“Because she has borne four healthy children.” Abigail patted his chest with both hands. “Allow me another month or two and then I shall. I want to be further along before I visit that gossipmonger. Every woman at First Presbyterian will know our news before my carriage returns home. I want no sorrowful faces and no words of consolation if events don't proceed as planned.”

Jackson shrugged his shoulders. “Fine, if you insist, but I could accompany you and threaten him with my horsewhip.”

“Such an idea on the Sabbath!” Abigail sighed with disapproval. “Go to church, husband. Pray to be saved from your violent urges and for a full-term pregnancy. I don't believe I've seen the last of my basin yet.” Abigail strolled toward the French doors for cooler air.

But he remained at her heels. “I am thunderstruck with joy, my love. I intended to give you this at dinner, but I can't wait another minute.” He drew a small box from his weskit pocket, fumbling as though his fingers had stiffened without warning.

Abigail expected a cameo or perhaps a silk scarf from a Parisian artist. What she found instead took her breath away. She lifted a gold-and-diamond sunburst broach from its nest of cotton. At
least twenty smaller diamonds orbited a center stone the size of a robin's egg. “Is that a diamond?” she gasped.

“Yes. I hope you like it.” Jackson's smile stretched across his face. “A factor from Charleston was selling this creation on behalf of his client. Many fine families are losing everything in other parts of the South.”

“I hope this didn't belong to a lady I know.” She held the broach in a beam of sunlight, the refraction of colors dazzling with brilliance.

“Rest assured that you'll never cross paths with the bauble's former owner. She's an elderly South Carolinian who never travels.”

“Thank you, Jackson. I've never seen a lovelier piece of jewelry. But will such extravagance one day cause us hardship like that Charleston matriarch?”

“That woman's husband failed to adjust to current circumstances, a man without vision for opportunities during wartime. I don't sit on my haunches sipping bourbon and lamenting the past each night. My partners and I are poised to reap great profits during the Yankee blockade. By the end of the war, the Henthornes will be richer than any of our friends, perhaps wealthier than anyone in Wilmington.”

“But what if the Yankees prevail? I've heard General Sherman is unstoppable. Despite our noble intentions, the Union army never seems to run out of soldiers.”

“Win, lose—the final outcome is immaterial. Profits are to be made
now
.” He pulled on his frock coat and shot his cuffs. “Our wildest dreams are about to come true for you, me, and our new son or daughter. While the South rebuilds, we will travel to Europe and live like kings. My father can run the business here if I leave a reliable foreman in charge. You shall be my queen.”

Abigail threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, Jackson, you're so good to me. What have I done to deserve a husband like you?”

He kissed her forehead tenderly. “You loved and trusted me when I was young and wet behind the ears. You left your home, your parents, and your twin sister and took a chance in a new world. And now my fondest wish is about to come true.” His fingers skimmed her belly.

“I never regretted my decision.” She stretched up on tiptoes to kiss him. “Please go to church so that the dowagers don't gossip about the Henthornes.”

Jackson bowed and went downstairs to the front hall. He would have to sprint to services if Thomas didn't have the carriage already hitched. But a tardy arrival was of no concern.

For the first time in months, Abigail felt blissfully content.

That evening, while Jackson entertained Papa Henthorne in the library and her mother-in-law napped in the best guest suite, Abigail wandered to the front verandah. True to Josie's information, her sister sat reading a thick, leather-bound volume. “Did you find something interesting in the library?”

Amanda glanced up. “An interesting tale about the French and Indian War, but James Fenimore Cooper's style can be tedious. How are you feeling?”

“Perfectly fine, which you probably deduced at dinner as you and Jackson constantly monitor my food consumption.”

“Those ribs of beef were delicious. Give my compliments to Salome.”

Abigail ignored the culinary praise, choosing instead to broach another thorn in her foot. “Jackson ran into Representative Wilkes at church this morning with his lovely wife. Sarah asked him to convey a rather peculiar message to both of us.”

Amanda's grip tightened on the binding. “What message could she have for me?”

Abigail plucked the book from her fingers. “That she's holding us to our promise of an afternoon call. I found that peculiar because I thought you had fulfilled that obligation.”

Amanda appeared stricken. “I ended up spending the entire afternoon with Rosalyn Stewart…and her husband.”

“What would you have to talk about with Judge Stewart?” Assessing her sister's expression, Abigail added, “And I demand the truth.”

“I needed his help, and he graciously obliged.”

“What on earth could he do for you that Jackson couldn't? Stop evading the question.”

“Judge Stewart had Nathaniel released from jail by attesting to his loyalty to the Confederacy. He'd been arrested as a draft dodger. Had the judge not intervened, Nate would be in the stockade at Fort Fisher.”

“Maybe that's where he belongs,” Abigail hissed between her teeth, hoping no one could hear their conversation.

“Must I remind you that Jackson never saw the need to enlist?”

“Everyone knows his work is crucial to the Confederate Cause. The beef and pork he imports feeds thousands of soldiers in General Lee's army. Nathaniel's endeavors feed a few dozen ruffians on the docks.”

“Those ruffians load and unload the blockade runners, or did you think your husband handled that single-handedly too?”

“A point well taken, I suppose.” Abigail shifted uncomfortably, needing to loosen her corset. “Frankly I don't care whether your beau joins the army or not, but I hope Jackson doesn't find out you enlisted
his
friends to bail out Mr. Cooper. You know that Jackson doesn't like him and would prefer your attentions were directed elsewhere.”

Amanda tucked an errant curl into her schoolmarm bun. “Do you intend to tell him?”

“I don't, because I remember what it was like when others tried to mandate who we loved. Besides, Jackson has more important matters on his mind. However, considering men gossip worse than women, I wouldn't count on him not finding out.”

Jackson stood on the wharf for a long while after the
Roanoke
left the dock, bound for the Atlantic. His ship—his and the Peterson brothers'. What an extraordinary feeling it was to own not one but two fleet steamships capable of outrunning any of the lumbering Yankee gunboats. True to Robert Peterson's promise, the side-wheelers arrived in port within fourteen days of their momentous meeting at his office.