The Last Heiress (39 page)

“Indeed, we do.” Jackson absently plucked at a seam on his coat. “Whose regiment are you in?”

“My brother's, Lt. Joshua Cooper.”

“I've been given the dubious distinction of corporal in Sam Thompson's regiment. Of course, when the shelling begins again, it won't matter which detail we line up in during roll call.”

Nate took a step closer. “Why are you here, Henthorne? Miss Abigail needs you at home. Who's to say the rest of your slaves won't run off? There are no doctors left in Wilmington who haven't been ordered here. By now Miss Dunn and her maid are long gone.”

“Abigail's sister left North Carolina?” His face bleached pale to the color of milk. “I intended for her to remain at my parents' home with my wife, safe from whatever is coming.”

“And I demanded that she catch the next steamer home. I feared that if she stayed she would follow me here dressed as a man and enlist. She can be a very stubborn woman.”

“In that case, I hope her ocean crossing will be uneventful.” Jackson took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “At least Abigail has Estelle and Salome looking after her, along with my mother. One of the slaves at Oakdale is a midwife too.”

“I will pray they don't decide to run off.”

“Estelle and Salome are like family to Abigail. Thomas would
never leave Salome's side, and Amos is too old to leave. We should have given them their freedom long ago instead of holding them captive. Now we're trapped in a war we can't win. I'm here to do my part or I'll never be able to hold up my head again.”

He looked so miserable that Nate regretted telling him about Amanda. “With a merciful God, we'll live long enough to see them again someday.” He offered his hand, which Henthorne promptly clasped.

“That's what I intend to focus on when those Yankees start knocking at the door.”

Sixteen

Henthorne Mansion, Wilmington

January 5, 1865

A
bigail awoke to a cool room in a downright frigid house. The fire had gone out during the night. She peered at the small silver bell on her bedside table. What a useless bauble. Most of their slaves had run off, including Estelle. Initially, Abigail had felt miffed because her maid hadn't left her a note. Estelle had simply told Salome she planned to find her mother in South Carolina. But then Abigail recalled that because of a silly law that required slaves to remain illiterate, Estelle could neither read nor write.

Sighing and feeling abandoned by husband, sister, and maid, Abigail wrapped a quilt around her shoulders and shuffled to the window. In the courtyard below, rain splashed the flagstones and pooled in puddles that would soon turn icy if temperatures fell any lower. It seldom snowed in Wilmington, which was similar to weather conditions at home in England, where warm ocean
currents kept the climate mild.
Home.
How she wished she were there instead of in an empty mansion with only Salome and Amos. With a baby due in a few weeks, Mama would summon the best physician in the shire to be on hand. Despite five years' worth of pent-up hostility, even Agnes Dunn wouldn't deny her daughter proper medical care.

After listlessly stirring the fireplace ashes to no avail, Abigail trudged down two flights of stairs. With her quilt trailing behind like the Queen's coronation train, she padded through empty rooms in search of another human being. Dust motes floated on stale air, but in the kitchen a fire blazed on the hearth. The sweet scent of cinnamon and sugar caused her stomach to rumble.

Salome almost dropped the tray she held when Abigail entered. “What are you doing down here, Miz Henthorne? I'm on my way up with your breakfast—eggs, toast, jam, grits, ham, and fresh cream for your tea, just how you like it.” Dishes rattled precariously from Salome's trembling fingers. “Go on back to bed. I'll be right behind you.”

Abigail slumped onto a bench at the trestle table—a table that could easily seat a dozen servants. “My room is cold.”

“I told Amos to fetch a load of wood, but none's been split. He's trying to chop some now.” Salome huffed. “The worthless boys who tended the garden ran off last night. Chopping wood was the only thing they were good at.”

“I'll eat breakfast right here where it's warm and cozy.” Abigail tucked the quilt beneath her legs and feet.

Setting the tray down with a clatter, Salome perched her hands on her hips. “You can't eat down here, mistress. It's not done. What if somebody sees you?”

“No one is here to witness my departure from social etiquette, so let's not worry ourselves. May I have my tea?” She looked up, feeling like a child currying favor from a nanny. When Salome
filled the cup to the rim, Abigail sliced the air with her hand. “Stop. You left no room for the cream.”

The cook issued an exaggerated sigh. “Sorry, mistress. I'm not used to being a lady's maid.” Her face screwed up with anxiety.

“Let me handle this while you check the stove. I smell something burning.”

“I plumb forgot about the johnnycake!” The cook opened the oven door, wrapped a towel around the handle on the pan, and pulled the skillet from the heat. “You sure you don't want to eat breakfast in the dining room?” she asked over her shoulder.

“I'm sure. I don't like being alone in a room.”

“When is Miz Dunn coming back?”

“I have no idea.” Abigail tried a forkful of grits, unknown in England but served every morning in Wilmington. “The date on her note was January second. That was three days ago. How long does it take to reach Richmond and then return by train?”

Salome shrugged her shoulders, bewildered. “Can't say, ma'am. I've never been there.”

Abigail studied the woman as though for the first time. The cook's face was pinched and drawn as she kneaded her hands like bread dough. “It's no matter, Salome. We shall be patient. Tell Amos to come inside and eat with you. Please sit down and finish the eggs, ham, and grits. Don't bother with that burnt cornbread.”

“What if Miz Dunn gets back?”

“I doubt she will walk in this early.”

“When is Master Henthorne coming home? He'll be mighty hungry after being gone.”

“He sent a note saying he had business with Mr. Peterson that might keep him away for two nights. If he was planning to stay at the Kendall House, he will have eaten in town.” Abigail's composure began to slip as she forced down a bite of eggs. At least they weren't runny the way Jackson preferred.

Salome tried scraping the burned cornbread with a knife. “Master shouldn't stay away so long, Miz Henthorne. Not with the baby coming.”

“The baby isn't due for weeks yet. Stop upsetting me and go fetch Amos. He needs to keep up his strength. You two are all I have left,” she whispered as tears sprang to her eyes.

“I'll be back in a minute.” Salome offered a sympathetic look, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and bustled outdoors.

With only the sound of a guttering oil lamp to break the silence, Abigail reflected on just how true her observation was. The sole servants left in the house were a cook and an aged butler. Amos had to be sixty if he was a day. No one remained to wash or iron her pretty dresses, polish the silver, or deadhead the last of the roses. What would she do if the pair of them decided to pack their bags and head for greener pastures?

These Southerners thought owning slaves would preserve the workforce. As things turned out, nothing could be further from the truth. At least, Salome wouldn't leave without Thomas. Abigail made up her mind to start paying them a small salary, even if she had to do so behind Jackson's back. She could live with dusty chandeliers, but going hungry wasn't an option now that she was eating for two.

Just as she finished her last bite of breakfast, Salome stomped into the kitchen. “Thomas just drove the carriage into the barn.” She sounded as though the rain had changed to lightning bolts.

“Thank goodness Jackson is home! Make sure Thomas eats breakfast and inform Mr. Henthorne I'll await him in the parlor. I'm sure he'll want to bathe and—”

Uncharacteristically, Salome cut her off. “Master Henthorne ain't with him, mistress. Thomas came back alone. You were right. They were at Oakdale…” Salome's eyes darted left and right, everywhere but at Abigail's face.

“What on earth? Why would Jackson stay with his parents,
leaving me here to fend for myself?” She sounded every bit as annoyed as she felt.

“Thomas said you're 'sposed to pack your bags. Take everything you set store by, along with Granddaddy Henthorne's silverware and candlesticks. Pack everything made for the baby too. And be quick about it.” Salome's dark complexion took on a rosy hue. “Those be Master Henthorne's words, not mine, missus.”

Abigail rose from the table with as much dignity as she possessed. “Please tell Thomas he's to come inside once he's seen to the horse. While the three of you eat, he will tell me every single word Master Henthorne said.”

“I don't think—”

“Please don't argue with me, Salome. I need to speak to Thomas myself.”

“Yes, ma'am.” The cook bowed her head and returned to the courtyard.

Over the next twenty minutes, Abigail drank two more cups of tea. She feared she might burst from fluids if Thomas didn't arrive soon. Fortunately, the coachman appeared in the doorway before disaster struck.

“You wanted to see me, mistress?”

“Indeed, Thomas. Tell me everything Mr. Henthorne said and leave nothing out.”

He cocked his head to one side. “He wants you to pack everything important, ma'am. Then I am to take you to Master Randolph's plantation. No telling how long you'll be in the country, so you should take all of the baby's clothes and things too.” Thomas ducked his head with embarrassment.

“Why didn't my husband come home with you?” Abigail threw her hands up in the air. “He could help us pack and offer protection for the ride to Oakdale.” Hysteria was beginning to take hold, turning her voice high and squeaky.

“Please don't fret, Miz Henthorne. Master gave me his derringer in case army deserters bother you 'long the way. He showed me how to reload too if need be.” Thomas grinned, first at her and then at his wife.

“Don't you go shooting yourself in the foot.” Salome cautioned, quite perturbed with this piece of information.

Abigail used the moment to collect her wits. “Thank you, Thomas. I will feel safe under your protection, but there is something you're not telling me.”

The coachman focused on the waxed floor tiles. “Master Henthorne thought we should hurry and leave. You can hear the rest from Mistress Isabelle once we get there.”

The coachman's mention of her mother-in-law's name became the proverbial last straw for Abigail. She slapped her palm down on the table. “No, Thomas!
You
will tell me where Jackson is this minute!”

He looked close to an apoplectic fit. Then he cleared his throat and met her gaze. “Master Henthorne went and joined the army, mistress. He says the South has its back agin' the wall. He won't let Yankees take Wilmington without a fight.”

“Jackson…he's at Fort Fisher?”

“That's where he was headed. Don't know if he got there yet. He wouldn't let me drive him.”

Ten seconds of uncomfortable silence spun out before Abigail could speak. Then she said, “Thank you, Thomas. Be sure to eat heartily, because you'll have another long drive today. You too, Amos.” She'd spotted the butler peeking around the corner. “When you are finished, why don't you two pack the Henthorne silver while I collect my clothes?”

“I can do that, Miz Henthorne. I'll start packing your clothes and the baby's.” Salome shifted her weight from hip to hip. “That worthless Estelle ran off,” she added in Thomas's direction.

“No, I want you to pack the kitchen, pantry, and root cellar, Salome. It sounds as if we'll be gone awhile.”

Thomas tugged on his ear while considering her suggestion. “Amos and Salome can take the open buggy while I drive the brougham. That way we can carry more and get all of the horses to Oakdale too.”