The Last Heiress (40 page)

“Won't it be too cold to use the open carriage?” Abigail glanced from one to the other.

Amos, who had been quiet thus far, shook his head. “Don't worry about us, ma'am. We'll wear everything we own. That way we can stay warm and have more room in the coach.”

“Very ingenious.” Abigail smiled at the old man, thinking:
I will have trouble fitting my clothes into two trunks, let alone wearing all of them.
“If there are no questions, let's get started.”

Once she was upstairs, she bundled herself into a warm robe and then began to pack as methodically as she could, but hours passed before her trunks were finally filled. Afterward, the mistress and three slaves ate a supper of chicken stew in the kitchen. This time not one of them commented on the impropriety of her actions. There was little talk at all, which suited her fine. She was too weary to think, let alone make polite conversation.

“Are you 'bout ready to go, Miz Henthorne?” asked Thomas. “We done everything you asked down here. Soon as I hitch the horses we could leave. I don't mind driving to Oakdale at night. I'm getting pretty used to the dark.”

“We'll leave at first light after we get a good night's sleep.”

“But Master Henthorne said—”

Slapping her hand on the tabletop, she looked at each one in succession. “Since my husband isn't here, I'm in charge. Do you understand?”

All nodded their heads in agreement. “Thank you. From this day forward you will refer to him as
Mr.
Henthorne, not master,
because you are now paid workers, not slaves. We'll discuss wages once we're settled at Oakdale.”

Three pairs of eyes rounded like saucers, but only Amos replied. “Thank you, Mrs. Henthorne.”

“And because I intend to pay you, there is no need to run off in the middle of the n-night.” Abigail's voice cracked, betraying her emotions.

Salome's expression turned sympathetic. “If we were gonna leave, ma'am, we would have done so by now. Don't you worry 'bout us abandoning you.” She patted the sleeve of her dress. “We ain't going nowhere.”

Abigail clasped her hand tightly. “Thank you, Salome. Now I must retire. You need to sleep as well. Tomorrow we have a long trip ahead of us.”

For the next three hours she lay awake on her bed, staring at the ceiling and worrying. What would happen when Amanda came home and found them gone? Was she wandering through Yankee territory with only a maid? She could be arrested as a spy and thrown into federal prison. And Jackson—was he a sitting duck with dozens of Yankee cannons aimed at the fort? How could he survive a battle when, by his own admission, he never even shot a rabbit as a boy? Despite kind assurances from the three domestics, Abigail felt adrift without her twin and her husband.

“Please keep them safe, God,” she prayed softly. “And grant us an uneventful journey to Randolph's plantation.”

But Abigail wasn't going anywhere the next day or the one thereafter. Not long before dawn, around the same time Thomas was feeding the horses and attaching their harnesses, she experienced a searing pain in her abdomen. Without a shadow of a doubt she knew it wasn't indigestion or a case of spoiled food. Her baby was on the way sooner than anyone imagined. And she was alone in a cold mansion with a handful of former slaves, not
one of which was a midwife. Her optimism for the future plummeted another notch. Right about now, she would be willing to tolerate the disagreeable personality of her mother-in-law to be in more capable hands.

Evening of January 6 

“This is the end of the line, folks.” The conductor's ominous announcement roused Amanda from a nightmare. In the dream she had been jostled and pushed by indignant travelers, questioned by surly Union officers, poked in the ribs to make certain she concealed no weapons, and then prodded onto a ship's narrow wooden beam that extended over a raging sea. Except for walking the plank, her dream hadn't been too different from reality, considering the last few days. Even with British documents, crossing into the city of Washington from Alexandria hadn't been easy.

Finding Helene suitable accommodations within walking distance of the harbor had been nearly impossible. Amanda parted with a substantial amount of gold for Helene's room, along with a ticket on the next ship to Liverpool. Her offer of a cheque drawn on an English bank had been met with either laughter or a sniff of indignation. At least Helene only had another five days in the chaotic American capital. The hotel had an adequate dining room that served a decent shepherd's pie and a delicious cup of tea. Amanda knew Helene wouldn't set foot on the crowded city streets until it was time to board, even if she ate shepherd's pie for every one of her meals.

Then Amanda had as much trouble reentering Virginia as she had exiting, perhaps more. Her short stay labeled her a suspected spy in the eyes of military authorities. Battle lines had recently changed, so that what had been Confederate territory no longer
was. Her explanation of seeing her maid off to their homeland begged the obvious question:
Why didn't you get on the boat with her?
Why, indeed? Doubtlessly, that's what a wise woman would have done. But not a woman in love.

After changing trains no less than seven times, they approached Rocky Point, the last town of any size before reaching the coast.
End of the line?
The conductor's announcement sent a frisson of dread through her veins. A quick glance out the window revealed they had not arrived in the city of Wilmington.

“Please, sir, why have we stopped?” Amanda adopted the American penchant for shouting in public instead of waiting for a more decorous moment to make an inquiry.

The conductor ambled back to where she sat. “Tracks torn up, missy. No telling who did the mischief this time. But don't you worry. The local boarding house has plenty of rooms for gentlefolk with money to pay. Everyone else can sleep in the stable's hayloft. Not many horses are left in town anyway.” He produced an indulgent smile. “Tomorrow I'll call for you at the inn. Then we'll walk to where the tracks start again. Be ready by noon, let's say.” He tucked his watch back into his pocket.

“I must reach Wilmington as soon as possible, sir. My sister will be frightfully worried. I've been gone far longer than intended and—”

“Now, now. You'll be home by nightfall tomorrow, midnight at the latest.” With that he tipped his hat to her and took his leave.

“Excuse me, sir. Where is that stable you mentioned?”

He glanced back with a frown. “You can't sleep there, miss. It wouldn't be safe. Speak to Mrs. Hawkins at the inn if you're short—”

“I wish to inquire about another matter. Please, sir.”

With a sigh the conductor pointed in the general direction of town. “Follow the tracks to the square. Turn right on Greene
Street and walk three blocks till you come to the end. You can't miss Waite's Livery.” He came back to pull down her bag from the overhead rack.

“Thank you kindly.” Amanda grabbed the handle of her valise and moved toward the door.

“Don't forget to meet me on the inn's porch at noon.”

But she had other things on her mind than a night at the local boarding house, no matter how comfortable the furnishings. She walked to Waite's Livery as fast as possible without running. Amanda had never run in her life, not even as a child.
I'm developing new abilities in America
, she mused, giddy from fatigue.

When she reached the stable, she was too breathless to speak. “Do you have a carriage for hire?” she croaked between gasps for air.

“Nope. It was stolen by some Yankee major.” A teenager in enormous overalls replied while chewing on a long tasseled weed.

“Then I would like to hire two horses. Surely you have some. I see one right there.” Amanda pointed at a brown rump and swishing black tail.

The lad pondered for a few moments. “What you be wantin' them for?” He eyed her traveling suit, broad-brimmed hat, and high-topped shoes suspiciously. Thankfully, she'd left her hoop at her sister's.

Once her heart stopped pounding, she recovered a bit of dignity. “I need two horses—one for me and one for you. I want to hire you as my guide. It's a matter of the upmost urgency that I reach Wilmington as quickly as possible.”

“You know how to ride a horse? Ha! That's a good one, missy.”

“Young man, you apparently have no idea what an Englishwoman's childhood education consists of. I've had years of riding lessons and happen to ride quite well. I will pay you two twenty-dollar gold pieces if you accompany me to Wilmington.” She hoped she wouldn't have to beg.

The young man scratched the sparse stubble on his chin. “Trouble is, I only got the one horse—Bluebells. I hid him in the woods when Yankees rode into town. That's his name 'cause he likes to eat them flowers, not because he's a sissy.”

“Fine. I'll rent Mr. Bluebells and see that he's returned safe and sound. I am a woman of my word.” Amanda lifted her chin and crossed her arms.

The boy mimicked her posture. “Bluebells is
my
horse, miss. I wouldn't loan him out to Jeff Davis himself. I don't want to lose him to thieves or stragglers looking for a way home.”

Weary beyond forbearance, she broke into tears. “Forty dollars is all I have, but I'll pay you whatever you demand once I reach home.”

“Ain't no call for cryin'. Let me think on this a minute.” The young Mr. Waite snaked a hand through his thick hair and lifted one boot heel to a bale of hay to assist the process.

Amanda swabbed her face with a handkerchief much in need of laundering.

“Wilmington ain't exactly 'round the next corner. You would get lost for sure if you took Bluebells alone. More likely he would throw you off, and then Yankee cavalry would find him wandering around. They're always crisscrossing these parts.”

“What do you suggest?” Amanda asked, trying to stifle her sniffles.

“The name is Bobby Waite. This was my pa's place.” He indicated the surroundings with a wave. “'Spose we could both ride Bluebells, seeing as neither of us weighs much. I can take you where you need to be, collect forty dollars atop the forty you pay me now, and then hightail it back home. That second forty includes the price of shipping.”

“Shipping?” she asked, straightening her hat.

“For your satchel.” He pointed at her valise. “I'm only taking
you and the little purse on your wrist. Bluebells ain't no pack mule.” Bobby narrowed his eyes, the point obviously nonnegotiable.

“You have a deal, Mr. Waite.” Amanda offered her ungloved hand. She was becoming an American by leaps and bounds.

“Bobby. Mr. Waite was my pa.” He shook her hand as though pumping a handle.

While Bobby hung a “Closed” sign on the door, Amanda prepared herself for an unladylike ride minus a sidesaddle. Soon Bluebells was tossing his mane down the road, seemingly pleased to be leaving Rocky Point.

Regardless of whether Amanda was a new American or still an Englishwoman on holiday, it was dawn before the flower-eating beast, the stable heir, and textile mill heiress arrived at the Henthorne residence. She paused at the back door to address her companion of the last several hours. “You'll find plenty of hay and oats in the barn for Bluebells. Once he is situated, join me in the kitchen for breakfast.” She pointed at the entrance. “I'll pay you what I owe and show you to a guest room. You can rest before starting your journey home.”