Bradley didn’t reply. Instead, he watched Nathan and Matthew as they continued their private conversation. Perhaps they were discussing him. He had yet to achieve the level of acceptance into the Associates that he so desperately desired. There was no doubt it was his substantial investment in the mills that had swayed the Associates to permit him entrance into their ranks. Selling his father’s shipping business had been risky, yet Bradley yearned for the esteem his alignment with these powerful men would surely produce.
‘‘Prepared for your presentation?’’ James Morgan asked jovially.
The man’s bulbous nose was the color of a cardinal. Bradley hoped James hadn’t imbibed too much—he needed all the support he could garner, and none of the Associates would pay heed to a man who was in his cups. Perhaps it was merely the heat.
‘‘I’m anxious to begin,’’ Bradley told him, ‘‘and it appears that will soon occur.’’ He nodded toward Nathan and Matthew, who were moving to the front of the room.
Nathan seated himself nearby, but it was Matthew Cheever who took immediate control of the meeting. Bradley maneuvered through the crowd, angling for a better view of the proceedings.
Upon Kirk Boott’s death nine years ago, Matthew had easily transitioned into the older man’s powerful position, and that conversion had been a matter of intense interest to Bradley. The entire process reinforced his own desire to eventually be elevated into a position of leadership among the Associates. He hoped he would make that first step tonight.
‘‘Now, I know you’re all aware that as our textile industry has grown, so has the need for cotton. We have discussed the possibility of appointing a liaison to expand our acquisition of cotton from the Southern plantations. Demand is high for all of the textile products we can produce. However, I think you would all agree that unless we can purchase sufficient raw cotton, there is no need for further expansion or development.’’
Matthew waited until the murmuring ceased and then motioned to Bradley. ‘‘Move on over here, Bradley. All of you know our good friend and loyal investor, Bradley Houston.’’
‘‘Indeed, and we’re pleased to have his allegiance,’’ Leonard Montrose called out.
‘‘And his money,’’ some unseen member added from the back of the room.
A smattering of laughter followed the latter remark. Matthew smiled and waited patiently until the noise diminished. ‘‘Bradley has indicated a strong desire to help the Corporation convince our Southern cotton growers to refrain from exporting their products to England and begin looking to the North as their primary buyer.
This won’t be an easy task. As we all know, most of the Southern plantation owners are comfortable with the English markets they’ve developed and see no reason to change their habits. We’ve convinced a few of the growers, but not nearly enough.’’
‘‘We’ll have to give them reason to make those changes,’’ Bradley said.
‘‘They should be loyal to their own country, if nothing else,’’ James put in, ‘‘but I imagine additional money is what they’ll ultimately insist upon. However, if anyone can convince them they owe allegiance to this country, it’s Bradley Houston.’’
Bradley gave him a grateful nod and then looked at the remainder of the gathered men. ‘‘I hope the rest of you will agree.’’
Wilson Harper, one of the more recent members to join the Associates, stepped forward. ‘‘Is this a paid position? Seems to me there might be others who need a job more than you, Bradley.’’
‘‘I’ve told Nathan and Matthew I’d be willing to accept the position on a commission basis. You’ll pay for nothing unless I’m successful—which will equate to your success also. Now, I know there will be stumbling blocks. I’ve heard reports some Southerners resent the growth and industrialization taking place in the North while the South is relegated to raising the cotton.’’
Robert Woolsey, another new member of the group, leaned forward and set his eyes on Bradley. ‘‘Those plantation owners don’t realize how easy they’ve got it. Their slaves do the work while they live a life of leisure.’’
‘‘I don’t think we can approach negotiations with that kind of attitude, Robert.’’ Bradley continued, ‘‘Our Southern brothers have a significant investment, in both their land and slaves. I’ve recently traveled south to learn more about cotton production, and while we face difficulties and expenses with our mills, they, too, face adversity. They’re dependent upon the elements, whereas we have few concerns in that regard, and I believe we’ll need to be sympathetic to their situation if we’re to develop good relations.
The Southerners resent their reliance upon Northern factories for the majority of their purchases while they are forced to depend upon agriculture for their economic well-being. I believe that’s why many of them continue to ship their cotton to overseas markets. They’d much prefer to develop their own textile mills and avoid the tariffs placed on our products. And while you decry the fact that they have slaves performing their labor, the Southerners would likely argue that the mill girls and Irish work for us while we lead lives of leisure.’’
Robert’s face knit into a tight frown. ‘‘The difference is, we pay wages.’’
Bradley shifted in his chair. He didn’t want to beleaguer the point, but Robert’s condescending attitude annoyed him. ‘‘And the Southerners have constant costs associated with their slaves, including food, housing, clothing, and medical needs, all of which I believe the mill girls are charged for. Slaves do not pay for these amenities; they are provided for by the plantation owner. In order to attract additional Southern suppliers, we need to refrain from imposing our values and harsh judgments upon them. After all, they might just as easily judge you.’’
Matthew cleared his throat. ‘‘I’m sure we all agree that we need each other if the country is going to prosper. Right now we need to embrace, rather than alienate, the Southern growers. Far too many of them still prefer to sell their cotton to England for the very reasons Bradley has so eloquently stated. They see no reason to practice any extended allegiance to the North because as far as they’re concerned, they are a country unto themselves. Consider the current state of affairs. We have complications with Mexico and the southern territories they claim. We have individual states that prefer being left to decide for themselves how their particular regions will be operated—and no taste for Northern interference.’’
‘‘I don’t understand their separatist mindset,’’ Wilson Harper threw in.
‘‘Exactly,’’ Matthew said, looking around the room. ‘‘Who here understands that fierce drive to isolate and serve the desires and means of the state, rather than the country as a whole?’’
Mutters filled the air, but no one offered a concise thought.
Bradley smiled. ‘‘I understand it—probably better than most Americans. My years in the shipping industry, traveling with my father to various southern ports, learning to deal with the businessmen and their aspirations—all that has afforded me a better understanding of the Southern mind.’’
‘‘Pray include us in this understanding,’’ Woolsey requested in a sarcastic manner that suggested he disbelieved Bradley’s ability.
Bradley toyed with his watch fob. ‘‘I am a businessman and I offer you a business proposition. The risk to yourselves and this Association is very limited.’’ He very nearly suggested that if the Associates weren’t interested in his abilities, there would no doubt be others who would, but he held his tongue.
Leonard Montrose lifted his cigar in the air, with the ash glowing orange as a breeze wafted through the open window. ‘‘Since Bradley has agreed to take this position on a commission basis, I see no reason not to move forward with his election tonight.’’
With only minor exception, the men exhibited their faith in Bradley. At the same time, they had been quick to express the necessity for results. If expansion were to continue at the rate the Associates desired, the growth of their cotton markets must keep pace. They we
re placing their confidence in him to find a supplier.
And he would prove their confidence was well placed. No matter the cost, no matter the effort—he would exceed their wildest expectations.
CHAPTER • 5
Lowell, Massachusetts
ALICE WAINWRIGHT quickly thumbed through the mail that had been delivered by her servant on the hand-painted breakfast tray only moments earlier. Breakfast in the private sitting room adjoining her bedroom was one luxury Alice afforded herself each morning. Not that she was a spoiled or pampered woman. On the contrary, she considered herself rather self-sufficient. However, she coveted this quiet time when she could gaze out her bedroom window and reflect upon God’s creation while planning her day, for she knew that once she descended the staircase, interruptions would greet her at every turn.
As was her custom, she seated herself in the small alcove overlooking the tidy flower garden below her bedroom window and picked up Jasmine’s letter. She couldn’t deny the surge of anticipation and delight she felt each time one of her granddaughter’s frequent letters arrived. She momentarily held the envelope in her hands while contemplating what tidbits of information the contents might divulge. Jasmine’s letters were always filled with the daily happenings at The Willows. Somehow the child could make the most mundane occurrences seem exciting. Her imagination seemed endless, and Alice had encouraged Jasmine’s interest in writing. In fact, she’d given her granddaughter a thick leather-covered diary before moving to Lowell, suggesting Jasmine try her hand at journaling or poetry.
As she edged the blade of her silver letter opener under the envelope’s seal, Alice wondered if Jasmine had been writing any poetry. She’d be certain to ask when next she wrote. Removing the pages from their snug paper cocoon, Alice lovingly pressed out the deep creases with her hand.
Page by page, she read the letter before leaning back in her steam-bent, cushioned chair and staring out at the flowering trees.
She remained motionless for several minutes, enjoying the shades of pink and ivory that peeked through the green foliage. Then, with a quiet determination, she picked up the small gold bell beside her chair and gave one sharp ring.
Moments later, Martha hurried in as though she expected to see the room engulfed in flames. ‘‘Yes, ma’am? Is something wrong with your breakfast?’’
Alice waved the letter back and forth like a flag at half-mast.
‘‘No, my breakfast is fine, thank you. It’s this letter from my granddaughter. She says she and my son Malcolm will be arriving— possibly within the next few days. There’s much to do, Martha.
The guest rooms will need airing and we’ll need fresh linens for the beds—and food, we’ll need to discuss menus. Let me see— perhaps I should begin a list.’’
‘‘A list is a fine idea, Miss Alice, but at the moment you need to prepare for your visit to the Cheever home.’’
Alice glanced at the mantel clock. ‘‘You’re absolutely correct.
We’ll begin preparations as soon as I return home. For now, you can take my breakfast tray, and if you would ask Martin to bring the carriage around, I’d be most appreciative.’’
Alice was hard-pressed to believe her good fortune. If she’d known Malcolm could be so easily convinced to come visiting, she would have hinted she was ailing long ago. She smiled into the mirror while adjusting the lavender feathers that were quivering above the wide brim of her champagne-colored bonnet.
She then descended the stairs, barely able to contain her delight. By this time next week Jasmine no doubt would be here.
They would have such fun exploring Lowell, and perhaps Malcolm would escort them to Boston. She hoped Jasmine would find the house to her liking. It was, after all, very different from The Willows. Instead of a sprawling, pillared mansion, Alice had purchased a house much like herself: sturdy and dependable. She enjoyed its every nuance, and the fact that the home was situated on a small plot of land within the town of Lowell had been an added bonus.
Tall and rigid, Martha stood at the front door, resembling a soldier guarding the castle gate as Alice approached. ‘‘We’ll begin our list when I return, Martha,’’ she instructed before leaving the house.
Outside, Martin offered his hand and assisted Alice into the leather-clad interior of her small carriage. Alice was sprightly for her seventy years, and they both realized she was capable of lifting herself into the cab without help. But, of course, civility required a woman of her social standing to exercise decorum in such matters. Once she was ensconced in the carriage, Alice’s thoughts immediately returned to Jasmine’s letter. What perfect timing! If there were no problems on their voyage, Malcolm and Jasmine should arrive in time for the Cheevers’ summer social. Once Malcolm visited Lowell and accepted the fact that refined people did reside in Massachusetts, she hoped to convince him that Jasmine should remain with her there—at least for the remainder of the summer and early fall. The matriarch of the Wainwright family crossed her arms and leaned back in the carriage. At this moment, Alice Wainwright was the personification of smug satisfaction. She had a plan!
Lilly Cheever stood at her front door in a daffodil-yellow morning dress embroidered with tiny white flowers bordering the scalloped flounces.
‘‘Yellow becomes you, my dear. You should wear it more often. I adore yellow but, alas, it causes me to appear sallow,’’ Alice said. She followed Lilly into the parlor, admiring the younger woman’s graceful carriage.
‘‘It is always a pleasure to have you visit, Mrs. Wainwright. I was delighted when you agreed to help with the charity ball.
There’s never a shortage of requests for the funds we amass but always a shortage of workers for the actual event. Do sit down.’’
Alice chose one of the overstuffed blue-and-gold brocade chairs where she had an unobstructed view of the rose garden.
‘‘Personally, I enjoy keeping busy, preferably with those of you who are youthful—it keeps me young at heart.’’
Lilly laughed and settled into a matching chair opposite Alice and began pouring tea. ‘‘I wouldn’t call myself youthful. My two children think of me as old and decrepit.’’
‘‘Tut, tut. What do children know of old age? They think anyone a few years their senior is ancient. Why, I remember a time when I thought twenty and five to be positively doddering. Time has a way of altering your perspective.’’
Lilly’s lips curved into a winsome smile as she nodded in agreement. ‘‘You’re certainly correct on that account.’’ She handed a cup of tea on a saucer to Alice.
‘‘And speaking of young people, I received word earlier today that my son and granddaughter will be arriving in Lowell for a visit.’’
‘‘That’s wonderful news. Will they arrive in time for my summer social?’’
Alice smiled. ‘‘Indeed, they will. In fact, when I opened Jasmine’s letter and discovered she was coming to visit, your social was one of the first items that crossed my mind. It will be a perfect opportunity for her to meet a few people her own age. And I’m certain she’ll enjoy Violet, even if she is a few years younger.’’
‘‘Where does Jasmine attend finishing school?’’
‘‘Jasmine has received her entire education at home. Made-laine, that’s my daughter-in-law, insisted on having a tutor rather than sending Jasmine to a finishing school. In my opinion, the isolation has stilted Jasmine’s level of maturity. She’s a dear girl, very sweet, but I fear she’s rather naïve for a young lady of eighteen years. However, having her at home all those years permitted me the opportunity to develop a closer relationship with her while I was living at the plantation. I must admit I’ve missed her terribly.
In fact, I’m hoping to convince my son to allow her to remain with me until the Christmas holidays, or at least until fall. I’d like Jasmine to experience life away from her mother and the confines of The Willows.’’
‘‘The Willows?’’
Alice nodded and took a sip of tea. ‘‘Yes, The Willows is a
cotton plantation that has been in the Wainwright family for generations. But certainly not an enterprise that was ever near or dear to my heart. However, from all appearances, my sons and grandsons will follow in their ancestral footsteps. Having been reared in Massachusetts and not having lived in the South until after my marriage, I never really embraced plantation life. Of course, my sons thought me daft. When I decided to move back North after my beloved husband’s death, my entire family opposed my decision. They thought me completely foolish.’’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘‘I’m certain my sons don’t believe it, but I’ve been more content since my return to Massachusetts than any time since my husband’s death.’’
Lilly patted Alice’s hand. ‘‘I’m pleased to hear you’re satisfied, and I’m looking forward to meeting Jasmine. Perhaps we can journey to Boston for a day of shopping while she’s here. I’m certain Violet would enjoy the diversion. And Matthew has mentioned the possibility of spending some time near the ocean in August— perhaps Rhode Island. You might want to give that idea consideration.’’
‘‘I have to admit I had similar ideas in mind. At least with thoughts of Boston and shopping,’’ Alice said, smiling.
‘‘I only wish Elinor were here,’’ Lilly said absentmindedly.
‘‘Elinor who? Have I met her?’’
‘‘She’s Taylor Manning’s younger sister. She’s . . . well . . . I believe she’s twenty-two. A smart woman, with a head for book-work, believe it or not.’’ Lilly smiled. ‘‘She’s been married twice and unfortunately widowed twice. Poor girl. Taylor’s wife, Bella, tells me she believes herself cursed with misfortune.’’
‘‘She does seem quite young to have endured so much sorrow.
Where is she now?’’
‘‘Philadelphia. Taylor and Bella have gone to fetch her home.
Her husband died from a bout of yellow fever.’’
Alice nodded knowingly. ‘‘I had heard that many areas suffered horribly with the fever this year. Did Elinor take the sickness?’’
Tracie Peterson & Judith Miller - [Lights of Lowell 01] Page 5
