The Last Heiress (9 page)

“Perhaps he never had. He's from the mountains of your new state, not the coastline. He has only mentioned trout in terms of seafood.” Amanda felt a pressing need to defend her friend.

“It wasn't just the fish that stymied the poor grocer. Mr. Cooper seemed uncomfortable no matter which subject Jackson brought up in conversation.”

Amanda cut a piece of her omelet and chewed carefully before responding. She was no longer a teenager at home but her sister's guest. “I cannot disagree with your assessment, but Jackson didn't choose topics of common ground. The latest vote on the town council about raising taxes on foreign spirits?”

“Discussing imported wines is the closest my husband comes to the mercantile business. Jackson can't very well talk about muskmelons and cantaloupes. He's probably never entered a store like that in his life.”

Amanda set her fork on the side of her plate. “Your point is well taken, Abby, but I don't regret extending the invitation.”

Her sister dropped her voice. “Jackson is concerned about you, Amanda. He doesn't understand your…interest…in this shopkeeper from the hills. Truly, it's laudable that Mr. Cooper owns a business, but what could you possibly have in common with him? Considering your education and background, you're from two different worlds. Jackson fears you feel something stronger than friendship for the man.” She paused to nibble her piece of toast. “Of course, I told him not to be silly. You always loved taking in strays and championing the cause of the downtrodden.”

“Mr. Cooper is not a stray dog! He's a man, and a fine one at that. He's generous and kindhearted to everyone who comes into his shop. He's well read, familiar with the American poets, and keeps abreast of legislation at the state level. Maybe local taxes on French wine don't concern him, but he follows what the North Carolinian delegates are doing in Richmond. Too often
new laws benefit only rich planters and ignore the poor and working classes.”

“And which side of this debate are you on?” Abby's clear brown eyes darkened.

“I'm not on either. I'm
English
, the same as you.”

“Not quite. As Jackson's wife, I now consider myself an American.”

Amanda shouldn't have been surprised by the revelation, but she was nevertheless.

“Do you find this grocer handsome in a rugged, unpolished sort of way?” Abby's stare didn't falter.

“I suppose so, but you may rest easy. I didn't come to Wilmington to court and marry—not Mr. Cooper or any friend of Jackson's. I intend to enjoy my visit with you, fulfill Papa's wishes, and then return home as unencumbered as when I left.”

Abby clapped her hands. “Splendid. Jackson will be relieved. I told him last night as we prepared for bed that he was worried for nothing. I'm so glad we had this little chat.” She patted Amanda's arm affectionately.

Amanda found little pleasure in placating her sister. Even though she and Nathaniel were merely friends, putting her intentions as to her future into words felt oddly disloyal to him.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Henthorne. I have a telegram for Miss Dunn.”

“What?” Both sisters spoke simultaneously.

“The boy from the telegraph office said it's for Miss Dunn, in care of you, Mrs. Henthorne, at this address.” Amos waited with the sealed envelope on a silver tray.

“Very well. Give it to her.” Abby sounded harsh.

Amanda felt uneasy as she read the envelope. “This came from an office in Baltimore.”

“Baltimore? Do you know someone living there?”

“No.” Amanda extracted the short message and read it twice, her breath coming in gasps, her throat constricting painfully. “It's Papa.” She lifted her gaze. “He died soon after I left Manchester. Mama and Mr. Pelton sent word on the next clipper leaving port, headed to Baltimore. A contact of Mr. Pelton's telegraphed as soon as he received word.” The sheet of paper slipped from her fingers.

“Papa—he's dead?” Abby sounded weak and childlike.

“I'm afraid so, dear heart.”

“But you told Jackson his illness wasn't serious and that he would soon recover.”

“That was the impression I had when I left home.”

“But I haven't seen Papa in five years. I had no chance to say goodbye…or to make amends. What if I'm carrying a child?” Her hands settled on her flat belly. “He will never see his first grandchild.” Tears ran down her pale cheeks.

“Send word to Mr. Henthorne's office.” Amanda said to Amos, who stood silently beside his mistress. “Ask him to come home.” Then she rose from her chair and enveloped Abigail in her arms. “I suspect Papa knew you loved him, but the love of a good man took you across the sea.”

Helpless to hold back her own tears, Amanda began to sob too. She cried for Abby, estranged forever from her father, and she cried for herself. Now he would never be proud of whatever she accomplished in America. For several minutes, the sisters sat immobile, lost in their grief.

Then another troubling thought came to mind, far more weighty than a woman not pleasing her father. What about Mama and her father's employees? Those families depended on their pay envelopes for their very existence. Her mother had never written a cheque or taken care of even a modicum of responsibility. What would happen to her mother and Dunn Mills now?

After her sister's sobs diminished to soft mewing sounds, Amanda helped her to the master suite of rooms. Once Abigail was reclining on the daybed with a cool cloth on her forehead and Estella fanning her with ostrich feathers, Amanda walked down the gallery steps to the garden. Hidden by saw palmetto blades, she allowed her grief to wash over her anew. When she had no more tears to cry, Amanda dried her face, blew her nose, and lifted her face toward heaven.
I'll make you proud of me, Papa. No matter what I need to do.

Four

May

M
ay I ride with you downtown, Jackson?”

His sister-in-law's voice cut through his thoughts of cards and cigars at the club that night. Jackson looked up to see Amanda, fully dressed and leaning over the gallery balustrade.

“It's not even nine o'clock, Miss Dunn, and you're already eager to go shopping?” He tugged on his gloves as Thomas led the horse from the stable to the carriage.

“Not shopping. I thought I would call on your father to see if he's heard from Richmond yet.”

“If there was word from Jefferson Davis, don't you think I'm capable of conveying the message during tea or at dinner?”

Amanda winced with a blush. “Goodness, I implied that, didn't I? Forgive me.” She came down the gallery steps to the flagstone courtyard. “Certainly you would tell me, but I've grown impatient since the passing of my father.”

Her forlorn tone changed his irritation to pity. “It's been only
a month since we sent a letter to the president of the Confederacy. I fear he has more urgent matters than the business concerns of Dunn Mills or Henthorne and Sons.”

“I understand that, but I received a letter from Mr. Pelton, the mill's chief supervisor. He is anxious for an update on raw materials. He said his workers will be idle by midsummer if the mill doesn't receive a substantial supply of cotton. I feel responsible for the families working for us.”

“I will speak to my father today. Rest assured, we wish to resume trade as much as you do.” Jackson climbed into the open carriage. “In the meantime, please try to get my wife out of the house. Why not call on one of her friends this afternoon? Pining away in our bedroom for weeks isn't healthy and won't bring your father back.”

“You insist we make social calls while in mourning?”

“I'm only suggesting close friends in the neighborhood, not that she don a ball gown for a cotillion. She can wear her unrelenting black if she chooses, even though mourning attire only worsens her melancholia. Abigail is a lighthearted, carefree woman. At least she used to be. She's barely left our bedchamber since we heard the news.” The horse pranced and pulled against his harness. “What say you? Do we have a bargain?”

She nodded. “I will get her out of the house today.”

Jackson thumped his walking stick and the carriage began to roll. Talking to his father had been on his mind anyway. Their company thrived and grew with the movement of goods. With less cotton and tobacco flowing out of port, their balance sheet must be suffering. He aimed to find out how bad things were before the situation became irreparable.

He found his father at his desk enjoying his favorite morning breakfast—sweet dough rolled in chopped pecans, coiled into a circle, and then baked. Whenever Randolph left the plantation
before dawn, he carried several with him to eat at his Wilmington office.

“Good morning, Father. Will we have the pleasure of your company at dinner this evening?” Jackson asked as he slouched into one of the soft upholstered chairs.

“You shall because I'm staying in town.” Randolph set down the icing-topped pastry and looked at his son, his bloodshot eyes ringed with dark circles.

“You look terrible, sir. What's wrong?”

“I went over the books last night. Today I plan to meet with our clerks and bookkeeper. There must be some mistake. Perhaps receivables haven't been properly tallied on the ledgers.”

Jackson recognized his perfect opportunity. “If you don't mind, I would also like to meet with the bookkeeper and assess the company's financial condition.”

“Very well. I would appreciate your input, but I don't think either of us will like what we see. President Davis's edict of no trade with England has hurt us badly. Britain is the chief market for cotton and a substantial amount of tobacco. Your houseguest isn't the only one needing restored trade routes.” He rang the bell for more coffee. “I've spoken to your mother about curtailing orders from her favorite
couturiers
and also to the overseer about not purchasing more people. Tomorrow I have an appointment with the banker about an extension of credit. Our family is trying to maintain standards until this conflict is resolved.”

“The situation has become that dire?” Jackson jumped to his feet and began to pace. “Why haven't we spoken about this before?”

“I didn't wish to worry you, son. I felt certain President Davis would realize how vital cotton is to the economy of Southern states and rescind his decision. This war has lasted three years with no end in sight.”

Jackson took in a calming breath. “I'm not a wet-behind-the-ears youth, Father. When William ran off and enlisted in the cavalry, I told you I would help run the company in his place.”

The mention of his brother's name only deepened the creases around Randolph's mouth. “It's been weeks since we've heard a word from William or seen a newspaper report as to the whereabouts of his division.”

Jackson shook his head. “Yankee spies read Southern papers, sir. The less Sherman's troops know about William's regiment, the better.”

Randolph stood and brushed sugar from his cravat. “You have helped me, Jackson. You've demonstrated shrewdness at the auction by buying quality materials at the best prices, yet whatever cotton arrives in Wilmington sits moldering in our warehouses. There's little you can do about that.”

All at once Jackson's vision cleared. While he'd been blustering with his friends over whiskeys in the afternoon, or losing at cards until the wee hours of morning, his father had allowed Henthorne and Sons to falter. Why hadn't he noticed how aged the man had grown? And with age came cautiousness and hesitancy. Restraint was no way to run one of the foremost brokerage houses on the Carolina coastline. “Allow me to review the books this afternoon. Then I'll visit every warehouse in town and assess the inventory of cotton available to be shipped.”

“Shipped to where? If word of sales to England gets back to Richmond, I may be ostracized. The president insists Britain's influence is crucial if the Confederacy is to prevail.” Randolph reached for a glass of water with a shaky hand.

“I read the papers too, Father. Munitions and supplies for our army are far more crucial than the Queen's approval. Soldiers need guns, powder, cannon shot, food, shoes—the list is as long as my arm. There may be a way to help the Cause and help
ourselves at the same time. We can ship cotton, tobacco, and tea to Bermuda. Fleet ships on a straight course to the island can return with munitions from the continent much faster than from South Hampton or Liverpool.”