The Last Heiress (28 page)

“Absolutely not. You should walk up to the front door and knock, proper-like. When the butler answers, tell him you have a special delivery for Miss Amanda Dunn.”

Shaking her head, Ruth placed her hands on Rufus's shoulders. “Here in North Carolina, deliveries go to the back door, including couriers.”

Nate frowned. “Always so many rules to learn. Very well, knock on the back door, but stand up straight and don't mumble. Tell whoever answers that you've been instructed to wait for Miss Dunn's response.” He handed Rufus the invitation. “And don't drop it in a puddle.”

“I won't, Mr. Nate. Can I go now, Ma?” Rufus hopped from foot to foot.

“Since this dinner is in three days, let's not tarry another moment.” Ruth pointed her son toward the door, and he took off like a startled rabbit.

With Rufus gone, Nate and his landlady discussed how to make piecrust, the easiest method of coring and peeling apples, and what spices to add to the cornmeal breading for the chicken. She had just ladled up three bowls of thick fish chowder when Rufus bounded into the kitchen, letting the door slam behind him.

“I seen her, Mr. Nate! I seen Miss Amanda.” His words came at a breathless staccato.

“
Saw,
Rufus. You saw Miss Dunn.” He smiled while Ruth rolled her eyes.

“That's what I said. I knocked on the door, said I had an important letter, and that I would sit on that stoop till Miz Dunn makes up her mind.” Rufus pointed at nothing in particular, as though reliving the event. “Then the lady said, ‘Who are you, boy?'”

“I said, ‘I'm Rufus Sims.'”

Nate bit the inside of his cheek. “What happened next?”

“The lady just shook her head, made a funny sound, and shut the door. I sat on that stoop for the longest time. Then a different gal gave me a cup of water and a molasses cookie.”

Nate made an appropriate murmur of appreciation.

Rufus's eyes turned very bright. “Then, before I had a chance to finish my water, Miss Dunn herself comes out the back door!”

Nate and Ruth produced identical expressions of surprise.

“That's right, with the lady in the apron right on her heels. Miss Dunn said it would be a pleasure to accept and that I should wait one more minute. Then that second gal threw my water into the bushes, filled my cup with cider, and handed me another cookie.” Rufus's joy was surpassed only by Nate's. “And then Miss Dunn brung your letter outside with her message at the bottom.” With great dramatic flair, Rufus extracted the sheet from inside his shirt.

“You had better read it aloud,” said Odom, appearing in the doorway. “We're all in suspense.”

Nate took the paper with a trembling hand. “Miss Amanda Dunn accepts your dinner invitation with fond anticipation.”

Rufus held up a coin. “Then
she
gave me a nickel too—ten cents, two cookies, and a cup of cider—just for running up the hill and back.”

Ruth guided the boy to the tub to wash. “All right, son, let's settle down. Your father is ready to say grace.”

Nate reread the ten words twice more and then took his seat. When he bowed his head during Odem's prayer, he added his own silent words of thanks. He finally had more to be grateful about than just food.

Amanda had never so
fondly anticipated
an event in her life. But it didn't take Abigail long to learn she'd received a formal invitation and from whom.

“Regarding this dinner you have been invited to,” Abigail asked later that day, “where does Mr. Cooper hope to serve? In the storeroom of his market?”

When Amanda explained that they would be dining in the
Simses' kitchen, without the family present, she thought her sister might faint from shock.

“
Unchaperoned,
just you and Mr. Cooper, in the home of Negroes, no less?” Abigail's face scrunched into a scowl.

“As you noted previously, few members of Wilmington society will witness this breach of decorum, so my reputation—or rather yours—is safe for now.”

Abby's nostrils flared in an unbecoming fashion. “A letter to Mama detailing your atrocious behavior will be on Jackson's next ship to Liverpool.”

“What can she do? Place me in an ice-cold tub of water the way she did when we were children?”

Abby pressed her hand to her mouth as color drained from her cheeks. “I had almost forgotten her favorite method of punishment. To this day I only take hot baths no matter what the weather.” She locked gazes with Amanda. “When did Mama finally stop that cruel tactic of persuasion?”

Amanda softened her stance. “She tried it once after you eloped. I refused to climb into the tub and threatened to run away if she forced me.”

Abby's pique over Nate's invitation seemed to fade. “Well, see that you're home by a decent hour. I don't want to explain your whereabouts to Jackson. And if you end up with indigestion, don't come crying to me.” She glided away with her chin held high.

During the next three days, Amanda selected her outfit not less than a half dozen times. On the momentous afternoon, she soaked in a tub of rosewater, buffed her fingernails until they shone, and had Helene create a cascade of curls trailing down her back. After applying a touch of henna to her lips and gargling with vinegar, she took a final appraisal in the mirror. Suddenly the sound of Jackson barking orders to the slaves broke her pleasant bubble of anticipation. Hurrying downstairs, Amanda
intercepted her sister in the parlor doorway. “Jackson is home early. He'll soon be inside the house.”

“Yes, I heard his carriage. We're dining at his attorney's home tonight. He probably wishes to leave with enough time to ride across town.”

Amanda blocked her path. “Nate's hired carriage will be here any minute. Where should I say I'm going if Jackson asks me?”

“Of course he will ask,” Abby said with a sigh. “I'll try to detain him in the garden. Fetch your shawl and wait beyond the privet hedge. As unseemly as standing on a corner may be, I don't wish to upset my husband. I'll say you have already left for the Kendall House.” She strode down the center hall with more than her usual amount of energy.

At first Amanda couldn't fathom Abby's change of heart in regard to deceiving Jackson, but then she remembered that Abby had run away from home to be him. Perhaps she could no longer deny her twin the same right to pursue love. Regardless of the reason, Amanda was grateful. When the carriage turned the corner onto Third Street, she was ready to climb aboard before the coachman slowed to a complete stop.

“Good evening, Miss Dunn.” He tipped his top hat. “Let me get that door for you.”

“No need. I'm in a bit of a hurry.” She hiked up her skirt, jumped inside, and pulled the door shut behind her. Amanda held her breath until the mansion faded from view. But as they neared Castle Street, the butterflies in her stomach took flight. At her destination, she waited patiently until the driver opened the door.

“We're here, miss.” He positioned a wooden step and helped her down to the sidewalk.

Amanda inhaled a deep breath when the door opened and Nathaniel stepped onto the porch. He wore a white shirt, black
weskit and trousers, a dark cravat…and a red calico apron. She giggled like a schoolgirl at the sight.

Pulling off the apron, he donned a dazzling smile. “You're right on time, Miss Dunn. If you were late I would have to start the biscuits over from scratch. They cannot remain warming in the oven another minute.” As he reached her, he extended his elbow. “When should the carriage return for you?”

Temporarily befuddled by the questions—and how utterly handsome he looked—Amanda finally stammered out a meek, “Half past nine should be fine.”

“Splendid. That gives me nearly two hours to convince you.” Nate nodded to the coachman and the conveyance rolled away, the iron wheels clattering in a cloud of dust.

“Convince me of what, sir?”

“That my culinary expertise in the kitchen, rare among male members of the species, makes me the perfect husband for a woman like you.”

Amanda stumbled on the uneven flagstones. “I see your bold self-assurance hasn't abandoned you over the last few days. You have high hopes from one home-cooked dinner.” She drew up short. “And what do you mean by a ‘woman like you'?”

“If a man has a low opinion of himself, so will others. And I refer to your personal lack of cooking skills.”

“Why would you assume that—”

Nate abruptly jumped in front of the door, barring entry, thus she ran headlong into his chest. “I must warn you, Miss Dunn, that the Simses aren't here. If you enter a man's abode alone, your reputation may be compromised. Are you prepared to take marriage vows before a preacher and an armed brother-in-law?”

Amanda ducked around him. “Don't be ridiculous. Jackson would simply shoot you and send me back home, besmirched reputation and all.”

Amanda followed the delicious mingled scents of rosemary, basil, cinnamon, and honey to the kitchen. “Goodness, I hope you prepared enough. Everything smells wonderful.” She sniffed the air like a hound dog on a trail while pivoting to take in every detail. A kettle of corn bubbled on the stove, fried chicken sat cooling on a platter, and a crusty casserole of something orange was in the center of the pine table. The table had been set with pretty but mismatched china. Tall glasses of milk would quench thirsts instead of bubbly champagne or vintage wine. The jelly jar of wildflowers on the windowsill added the feel of a meadow. All in all, the visual effect took her breath away, making her homesick for a home that was nothing like this.

Nate extracted a tray of golden biscuits from the oven and placed them in a basket. “What do you think, Amanda?” He sounded less confident than he had five minutes ago.

“I think it all looks delightful. Did Mrs. Sims prepare this before she left except for the biscuits?”

Nate arched his spine with indignation. “I beg your pardon, miss. Ruth left yesterday. Everything you see is
my
doing. I practically broke my neck on the steep slope behind the house picking those flowers.”

“Very impressive, sir, but I'll reserve judgment until I taste the food. Appearances can be deceptive.” She waited until he pulled out a chair for her before taking a place at the table.

“I stand by my endeavors.” Nate carried over platters and bowls and then sat down opposite her. “Will you say grace, Miss Dunn? Odom mandates it in this house.”

She bowed her head. “Dear Lord, please let this food taste as good as it looks. Thank You and amen.”

“Odom wouldn't be happy with your lack of faith.” Clucking his tongue, he handed her the basket of biscuits.

Amanda took one, broke off a piece, and ate. Crusty on the
outside, soft within—it needed no butter or honey. “This is delicious! Quick, pass me that chicken.” She bit into a plump tender breast, the breading crisp and peppery. “Who taught you to cook like this?” she asked, not hiding her surprise.

Nate took two chicken legs and a scoop of yams. “My mother taught the three of us to cook. She said you never know what life will hand you along the way.”

“Are those yams? I would love to try some. We never had them at home.” Amanda held up her plate. “Your father was willing to learn to cook?”

“Of course. My pa helped my mother with her chores when his were done. After supper they would sit on the porch shucking peas or coring apples before Ma's canning day. And she would help him plant and harvest corn.”

“Your mother worked in the fields?”

“She did. Farming is hard work. During certain times of the year, Pa needed everyone from dawn to dark.”

“Just the same, I imagine you had a good life.”

Nate issued a dismissive snort. “We survived, some years better than others. But then my mother got sick and lingered before she died. Good thing my father knew how to cook, because he took care of her and us for a long time.”

“He must have loved her very much.”

Nate reached for another biscuit, avoiding eye contact. “Yes, he did. When she died, he lost interest in living and took up the bottle. The fact that my brother and I still needed him didn't seem to matter. Eventually, he followed her into the grave and left us to fend for ourselves.”