The Last Heiress (7 page)

Abby sipped her tea. “He is
President
Davis, not mister, and these things take time. Jackson said that you comported yourself admirably during the meeting. He expected you to stammer and stutter, if not faint dead away, but you acted like a true woman of industry.” She giggled as though the idea amused her.

“That was my intention.” Amanda peered through the filmy curtains into the house. “Did you say that Jackson was home?”

“Yes, but then he left for his men's club. He often takes business appointments there, but I believe imbibing alcohol and smoking cigars goes on more than anything else. I heard they also play cards for money late at night. What would our Episcopal priest say about that?” Abby dropped her voice in case the preacher lurked in the shrubbery. “At least Jackson doesn't go out often at night.”

“Do you suppose he would venture to Richmond to call on President Davis?” Amanda asked between sips of surprisingly delicious tea.

“Goodness, no. Richmond isn't around the corner, dear sister. It's in another state, Virginia, and an arduous train ride away. Considering the fighting between here and there, that is out of the question. Could you imagine landing within range of Yankee artillery? No, no. A courier will take Papa Henthorne's request to the capital. In the meantime, you can catch me up with news
from home. And when we're done with that, we can start calling on my friends during the afternoon. Everyone is eager to meet you.” When Abby shook the bell a second time, a three-tiered tray of sweets and savories appeared. “Look! A proper English tea to celebrate your arrival.”

Amanda leaned forward to admire crustless sandwiches, orange scones, and tiny iced cakes decorated with pink rosettes. “How lovely. Thank you.”

For the next two hours she filled her sister in on changes in the village of Wycleft on the outskirts of Manchester: marriages of childhood friends, the death of their former nanny, scandals among the servants, old beaus who still asked after her. Abigail laughed much, cried a little, and in general appeared homesick, especially when the conversation turned to their mother.

“Grandmama sent a gift to you,” said Amanda. “But she insisted that I wait until our birthday.”

“Oh, please, may I have it now?” Abby dropped her scone onto the plate, her interest in food gone.

Amanda hurried to her room and a few minutes later presented Abigail with a small box covered in pink silk and tied with a black ribbon. Her sister pulled off the wrapping and extracted a hand-carved cameo bracelet—their grandmother's favorite piece of jewelry. “Are you certain she wanted me to have this?” Her words cracked with emotion.

“Yes. She was quite emphatic it was for you.”

Abby clenched her eyes shut but couldn't stem the tears. They trickled down her face like a leaky faucet. After a while, she cleared her throat. “Let's talk about your afternoon before my face turns red and puffy. Jackson doesn't like to see me upset.”

Amanda described the dressmaker and milliner she found, along with a resident artist who painted portraits in the front window of his cluttered studio. But before long, the conversation
landed on Cooper's Greengrocery, and there it remained until Jackson's carriage pulled up to the mounting block.

“This shopkeeper has accomplished what no Englishman has been able to do—impress my extremely particular sister,” Abby teased, finishing her discarded scone.

“I couldn't believe how forthright the man was, quite unafraid to say what he thought.”

“Dear me, I hope he wasn't rude to you. Some of those stores on Water Street—”

“Not at all. Mr. Cooper behaved like a perfect gentleman. He just didn't waste time talking in circles like the men of Papa's acquaintance.”

“I thought the same about Jackson when we met. He spoke his mind and went after what he wanted in life. Looks as if you've made your first friend in Wilmington. Well done.” Abby rose to greet her husband, who had paused on the walkway to give instructions to the gardener.

“May I take a lunch hamper to Mr. Cooper tomorrow? After all, I caused him to go without today.”

Abby smiled indulgently. “I don't see the harm, but let's not mention this at the dinner table. Jackson can be overprotective at times, which I'm afraid will include you while you're here.”

That night when Amanda blew out her bedside candle, she was filled with anticipation. She had made the right decision in coming to America. Seeing her sister confirmed that five years meant nothing to twins. Her reception at the Henthorne and Sons office portended a successful resolution to the woes at Dunn Mills. And the prospect of seeing Nathaniel Cooper tomorrow? A gently raised young woman never should entertain such thoughts about a complete stranger. Yet when she closed her eyes, visions of his sinewy muscles, silky brown hair, and sky-blue eyes danced across her eyelids. Developing crushes wasn't a common habit
for Amanda, but if Helene weren't already snoring on her side of the Chinese screen, she may have waltzed around the room with a pillow for a partner.

The following morning, after her solitary breakfast of grits and ham, she sought out the cook in the kitchen. “Good morning, Salome. May I trouble you to pack a luncheon hamper around eleven o'clock?”

The woman barely glanced up from rolling out pie dough. “Yes'm. Miz Henthorne already told me.”

“Could I possibly have hearty selections suitable for a man's appetite instead of a woman's?”

That question triggered a furrowed forehead. “How 'bout fried chicken with corn relish and buttermilk biscuits?”

“Perfect!” Amanda clapped her hands, which drew a second raised eyebrow. But three hours later she and the driver were clattering down Orange Street in the Henthorne coach.

“Miz Henthorne told me to park in the shade and wait for you, no matter how long you take,” Thomas said as he helped her down to the street.

Amanda had no desire to argue. She was too busy mentally listing suitable topics for discussion. However, when she reached the front door of Cooper's, all her well-laid plans drifted away on the salty sea breeze. Nathaniel, in a fresh white apron, shot her a smile when she entered. He was behind the counter explaining various types of muscle liniment to a white-haired woman.

Amanda busied herself memorizing labels of canned goods on the middle shelf. After what seemed like an eternity, the matron limped out with her purchase. “Will she improve with your miracle potion?” Amanda asked after the door clicked shut behind her.

Nathaniel stepped around the counter. “I recommended a cabbage poultice—one of my granny's home remedies. She'll be right as rain once she wraps the knee and sets it up on a hassock tonight. What use are grandchildren if not to fetch and carry for their elders?”

Amanda tried not to laugh too loudly. “I ask myself that question almost every day.”

“Indeed, Miss Dunn? And how are you on this lovely morning?” He leaned so close she caught the scent of his soap, which was fresh and not the harsh lye some men favored.

“I am well and prepared to fulfill my promise.” She lifted the hamper onto the counter.

“Rufus, my good man,” he called. “Please come out and say hello to Miss Dunn.” Turning back to her, he said, “I rent a room from his parents. They are free people of color who live on Castle Street. When Rufus occasionally fills in for me, I pay him a dime.”

A small boy stepped from between the draperies. “How do, miss?”

“I'm well, Rufus. It's nice to meet you,” Amanda said, smiling at the child.

“Rufus has agreed to watch the store, allowing us to dine under yonder magnolia.” Nathaniel pointed across the street at a band of trees along the river. “Shall we be off?” He picked up the hamper and offered his elbow.

For some reason Amanda was too shy to take his arm. She pretended to dig for a handkerchief in her bag instead as they walked out of the store.

Nathaniel didn't seem to notice her hesitation. “We can't go far. If a customer ventures in without correct change, Rufus will whistle. He's an amazing whistler. Then I will run to his rescue.” During his explanation he spread a tattered patchwork blanket on a thick patch of grass.

Amanda attempted to lower herself without revealing her
ankles. “I hope the meal meets with your approval.” She un-wrapped crispy chicken and opened a tin of biscuits. “I'm eager to hear about your home four hundred miles to the west. Is it similar to the landscape here?” She flourished her hand toward the downtown waterfront.

“It's absolutely nothing like Wilmington. I lived outside a small town in a valley between two mountains. A beautiful place three seasons of the year but brutal during winter. Sometimes my parents were snowed in for weeks, unable to reach the nearest road.”

“During those weeks what did you eat?” she asked as she took a dainty bite of chicken.

“Rabbit, squirrel, possum—venison if a deer wandered close to the house—and root vegetables from the cellar. If the well froze up, we melted snow for drinking water.”

“Did your parents farm the land?”

“If you could call it that. We raised mostly corn, squash, and potatoes for us, sometimes tobacco to sell when Pa could buy seed. We only owned twenty-five acres, and most of that was timber for the woodstove. At least we didn't freeze during cold months.” Nathaniel stared at a ship approaching the harbor. “We had some fine apple trees, plum and pear too, and plenty of pecans and hickory nuts to roast and crack.”

“That sounds like a lovely place in fair weather. Is the farm still in your family?” Amanda filled two cups with Salome's sweet tea.

Nathaniel finished his chicken leg before answering. “No. After my ma died, my pa took up the bottle until…until he died too. I tried my best for a while, but I left shortly after we lost the farm.” He shook his head as though dispelling a nightmare.

“Were you unable to pay the mortgage?”

“There was no mortgage. We were living on land my grandfather had claimed fifty years earlier as a homesteader.” He reached for another piece of chicken.

“Then how could someone just
take
your land?” Amanda didn't wish to be intrusive, but the lack of justice had raised her hackles.

“Maybe it's different where you come from, but here folks leave you alone only if no one desires what you have. If a rich man decides he wants to put a railroad through your land, he'll find a legal way to run you off. But I didn't accept your kind invitation to tell my hard-luck story. It's a beautiful day. Why don't we enjoy this fine repast and each other's company?” He lifted his tea in a toast and brought the cup to his lips, but he never took his gaze off her. And those blue eyes seemed older than those faraway mountains…and infinitely as remote.

Over the next two weeks, Nate lived in a state of constant agitation. He jumped each time the bell jingled over the door. He would cock his head to catch a hint of a British accent among female customers. Even the sound of a passing carriage on the street took his mind away from whatever task occupied his hands. Miss Amanda Dunn had invaded his nights as well. He lay in bed for hours trying to remember every word she said, and he saw her face whenever he closed his eyes.

He was smitten, plain and simple. He had arrived at that conclusion after their lunch under the magnolia. Each time she came in his store to purchase a sweet or pound of rice reinforced his conclusion and gave him hope that the affection might be mutual. Yet what did he have to offer a fine lady? Now his store made a fine profit, sufficient to pay his landlady for a room and nightly supper with money left over to save. The shop's attic could be converted into living quarters, but such an addition wasn't part of his dreams for the future. How could he expect Amanda to live like a church mouse after walking past the Henthorne house on Third Street? It
was hopeless. Yet the idea of one day making her his bride made him work harder than ever.