The Last Heiress

by Mary Ellis

  “I have a load that just left port—one thousand bales headed for the mills of England.”

  With a sly grin Peterson waved over the butler bearing a tray and two glasses. “That’s why I’m here. I heard that the Countess Marie was loaded from bow to stern. You obviously possess qualities I do not, Mr. Henthorne. Elias Hornsby refused to do business with me. His armed guards prevented every one of my attempts to negotiate. Yet you marched into his favorite watering hole and arranged delivery. I’m surprised you weren’t shot or bludgeoned on your way out.”

  His revelation didn’t help with the digestion of Jackson’s heavy meal. “We were able to come to terms the next day.” He watched James pour the wine, sure that if he were doing it his hands would be visibly shaking.

  “I have contracts with two ships that regularly leave the harbor bound for Nassau or Bermuda. My brother is in Bermuda now. He sells cotton and tobacco to the highest bidder and sends it on its way. We also have a trusted associate in Liverpool who fills ships with canned meat, clothing, shoes, and wool uniforms for the return voyage.” Peterson lifted the two wine glasses, handed Jackson one, and then took a deep swallow from his. “Ah, it’s been too long since I’ve tasted wine this fine.”

  Jackson sipped without taking his eyes off Peterson. “It sounds as though you have the situation well in hand. Why do you need me?”

  “This war and the naval threat have made life difficult for everyone. I don’t have to tell you that, but the situation has also eliminated much of our competition. There’s no exchange here, unlike in Savannah or Charleston. I need to remain in the interior of Georgia and South Carolina to buy up the cotton. I can send it by rail, by teamster wagons, or float it up the Sound on flatboats inside the ring of Yankee gunboats if necessary. This is where you come in, Mr. Henthorne. With a partner in Wilmington, I can get product onto ships faster. And I want a man with your savvy.” He paused to take another drink. “I’m prepared to write you a cheque tonight—consider it an advance against your share of future profits. And there will be substantial profits.”

  Forcing himself to breathe, Jackson picked up the bottle and refilled both glasses, his hands now perfectly steady. “You continue to hold my attention, sir. Because Wilmington is the last port open on the eastern coast, we need to divert whatever flowed through Charleston and Savannah here to augment my tobacco trade in resin and spirits of turpentine.” He sipped the dry cabernet.

  “I’ve spoken to several club members. Everyone says you’re a man of integrity—a man I can trust. But you don’t know me, Henthorne. So I hope this will convince you that I’m a man of my word as well.” Peterson extracted a cheque from an inside pocket and laid it on the table. It had been inscribed with Jackson’s name and an amount so large his breath caught in his throat.

  “You possess great confidence in your ability to recruit, Mr. Peterson.”

  “Indeed, but that cheque could easily be thrown into the fire if you decline my proposition. Why don’t you take it to your banker? A telegram to my Savannah bank will confirm my honest intentions. Should you need time to consider my offer, I’m staying at the Kendall House.” He placed both hands on the carved wolf’s head of his walking stick.

  Jackson stared at the amount, blinked, and gazed again. “Mr. Peterson, I don’t need the evening to decide. I’m a good judge of people and can usually recognize an excellent opportunity when I see one.” Tucking the cheque inside his frock coat, he pulled out his card case. “Come by my office at nine tomorrow morning. We’ll discuss expectations and obligations on both our parts. Your advance money implies profits not seen in many years, but I like to enter partnerships with my eyes wide open.”

  Peterson smiled as he accepted Jackson’s card. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. The real profits are to be made in the goods our ships bring back. General Lee is desperate for food, clothing, guns, munitions—all we can import. And the Confederate Treasury still has gold to spend to supply the army with what they need. It’s our duty as Southern gentlemen to ensure our fighting men prevail over the Yankees. Why can’t shrewd businessmen also get rich at the same time?” He pushed up from his chair and offered his hand. “I’m weary from traveling and anxious to return to my hotel. Enjoy the remainder of the cabernet. I’ll be at your office tomorrow to answer to any questions you have. Answers you’ll like, I assure you.”

  The two men shook and Peterson left, but Jackson stayed in the comfortable library for another hour. He’d lost interest in the wine and had forgotten the cigar. Instead, his mind whirred with visions of wealth to fatten the lean Henthorne coffers. He would be able to restore Oakdale to its former glory and lavish gifts on Abigail that she’d long done without. The longer he remained in the rarefied air of his club the happier Jackson became—an emotion he’d long done without.

  Seven

  The sun was just dipping below the buildings to the west when Nate’s rented carriage rolled away on Third Street. Amanda didn’t want the afternoon to end. She couldn’t remember ever enjoying herself so much. Perhaps she couldn’t remember because she never had. The spot along the river he’d selected for their picnic had been perfect. They had shucked off their shoes and splashed in the shallows, dined on Ruth’s delicious pork and wilted greens, and laughed and talked and laughed some more.

  Nate had entertained her with tender vignettes of his mountain childhood, interesting observations about the society women of Wilmington, and amusing tales of his less than successful attempts at cooking in his landlady’s kitchen. He’d put her at ease and then charmed her. Amanda had never once worried about being miles from town and alone with a man she barely knew on a remote riverbank—in a foreign land, no less. But she did know Nate. He was as transparent as crystal clear water, unassuming and pragmatic. If she wasn’t careful she could easily fall in love with him. And that would be a foolish thing to do. Whether it was a few more weeks or a few months, one day she would return to England and maybe never come back. Yet after each time they were together, she couldn’t wait to see him again.

  Amanda skipped down the street, feeling lighter than air until she ducked under the wisteria-covered arbor into the garden. Only then did the late hour and the likelihood that her ruse had been discovered sour her mood. Creeping silently along the hedgerow, she spied on the slaves eating, chatting, and finishing evening chores in the back courtyard. Her sole chance for an unseen entry was through the front foyer, unless her sister happened to be sewing in the parlor. The weaknesses in her plan loomed large as Amanda opened the door and stepped inside. Finding no one afoot in the front public rooms, she tiptoed upstairs and down the hall to her suite. Once inside the overly warm room, she let out her pent-up breath with a rush.

  “Ah, there you are, at last.” Abigail’s musical voice drifted from the open gallery doorway. “I practically dozed off waiting for you to return. Shakespeare’s sonnets may be more enjoyable in the winter. This heat makes me drowsy.” She smiled and stretched like a cat.

  “Good evening, Abby. I hope you weren’t concerned unnecessarily.” Amanda crossed the floor toward the open French doors, tugging off her gloves along the way. She tossed her broad-brimmed hat on the bed.

  “Unnecessarily? Certainly not. It’s perfectly normal to worry when a loved one takes ill and is neither seen nor heard from for hours.” Abigail’s features were perfectly composed.

  Amanda spotted Helene sewing in the corner. The young woman looked anxious. Her other maid fidgeted on a stool by Abigail. “Helene, please go down to supper. I’m sure a few turns around the garden will do you good too.”

  Abigail tapped the slave’s arm with her fan. “Josie, bring a tray of tea and sandwiches here to the gallery, and then you are dismissed for the evening as well.”

  Amanda pulled a chair close to her sister as soon as the women departed. “I’m sorry I deceived you today. Truly, I am.”

  Abby waited for additional explanation. When it didn’t come, she said, “I can only surmise you had an err
and I might disapprove of or were meeting someone in that same category.”

  Amanda focused briefly on the embellished plaster ceiling above their heads. “The latter is the case. I met Mr. Cooper for lunch. He packed a hamper for a picnic.”

  Abby’s mouth formed the letter O. “The shopkeeper? I assumed after that disastrous dinner party, you would have realized his unsuitability.”

  “I realized that Mr. Cooper wasn’t comfortable at formal gatherings, but he’s another man altogether in less formal settings.”

  “How so?” Abby arched an eyebrow.

  “He’s charming and witty and a good storyteller. It’s been a long time since I’ve laughed so hard or enjoyed myself more.” Amanda shifted uneasily.

  “That doesn’t reflect well on my company.”

  “I beg your pardon, sister. I meant in a man’s company.” Blood rushed to her face.

  “And where was this congenial atmosphere conducive to Mr. Cooper putting his best foot forward?”

  “Nate hired a carriage. We took the beach road south and then turned onto the river road. It was quite beautiful along the Cape Fear once we left the city. We found a nice spot to picnic and wade into the water up to our—”

  Abby curtailed the narrative with a wave of her hand. “You left the city, with a shopkeeper, without telling anyone where you were going?”

  The question hung in the humid air as Josie bustled in with the tea tray. The girl set it on the low table, bobbed a curtsey, and hurried to the gallery stairs.

  “Which of those three facts upsets you more?” Amanda tried to tamp down her rising irritation.

  Abby filled both cups with tea. “The last one, I suppose. If you hadn’t turned up, Jackson and I wouldn’t have known where to start looking for you. Even if Mr. Cooper is a trustworthy man, the two of you could have been robbed by army deserters.” She nibbled on a sandwich from the tray.

  “I had less than a dollar in coins in my purse. And Mr. Cooper doesn’t strike me as the sort who would carry a fat billfold full of currency.” Amanda sipped her tea.

  “Vagabond soldiers would take your horse and carriage, you goose. Deserters from Fort Fisher would cut any throat to get away from the seacoast. You keep forgetting there is a war on.”

  “You’re right. Because I’m not American, I do have a tendency to forget that.” Amanda reached for a soft cheese sandwich. Lunch seemed like ages ago. “I won’t venture beyond the city limits again, at least not without telling you.”

  Abby peered at her as though attempting to decipher a difficult secret code. “You plan to see this storekeeper again?”

  Amanda’s nerves began to fray. “Yes, I do. As I explained, I enjoy his company. I’ve never had a male friend and we get along famously. But why do you insist on referring to him by his vocation? You don’t identify Jackson as a tobacco and cotton broker or Papa as a mill owner. You refer to them by name. So kindly call him Mr. Cooper while I refer to him as Nate.”

  Abby sniffed with indignation. “What would Papa and Mama say about your cavorting with Mr. Cooper?” Suddenly, she covered her mouth with her hand. “Goodness, I forgot that Papa is gone. It’s hard to remember when so many miles separate us from home.”

  Amanda reached over to squeeze her arm. “I know. I often think about what I’ll say to him when I return, but he won’t be there. Maybe that’s why I’m eager to get to know Nate. Papa ruled with a firm hand. He tried to marry me off to the village vicar or one of his widowed friends several times—someone staid and respectable.”

  “You no longer wrapped Papa around your little finger?” Abby twirled a lock of hair between her fingers.

  “That’s what you recall? Dear sister, no one manipulated our father, certainly not Mama or me.”

  “Don’t rewrite history. I was there growing up. You were Papa’s favorite. Alfred might have been heir because he was male, but sweet Amanda was the apple of his eye.” Her sister’s chin jutted out and her eyes squinted. For a moment Abby resembled the snappish teenager from one of their sisterly arguments. “You could do no wrong, while I seldom escaped his wrath. I was such a disappointment to him.”

  With the scab torn from an old wound, Amanda’s heart swelled with pity. “You’re right. I learned to say what he wanted to hear and act in a ladylike fashion. Papa didn’t like women or young girls with spirit. But after you left with Jackson, I also fell from favor.” Amanda paused to collect her thoughts and tamp down sorrow inching up her throat. “He realized he couldn’t control his daughters, not as long as we had the ability to fall in love. He knew I too would eventually marry and escape his domain, leaving only Mama under his thumb.”

  For several minutes they sat quietly in the growing darkness. On the street the clatter of horse hooves and steel wheels on cobblestones provided the only sound. “That’s why you came—not to see me but to escape from his authority?”

  “I came to win his favor, to prove I could be as viable an heir as Alfred would have been. It wasn’t until I slipped the yoke did I realize how strangled I’d been. But I truly did yearn to see how my sister fared in the new world.” Amanda squeezed her hand.

  Abigail reared back as though bit by a snake. “But I wasn’t your priority.”

  “I didn’t know how much I’d missed having a sister until I got here, Abby. Mama still hopes I can convince you to come home—with Jackson, of course—so our family can be together again.”

  Abby drained her teacup. “Don’t be ridiculous. My husband will never leave Wilmington. His family, his work, his life are here. And thus my life is here. Jackson loves me exactly how I am. I’m not second-best to anyone. He doesn’t make impossible demands on me like Papa. And because I love him, I have no desire to keep secrets.” She set down her cup and stood. “I intend to tell him about your escapade today—not to punish you, but because Jackson has a right to know what goes on in his house.”

  Amanda chose her words carefully. “I respect your decision, but you should understand that now that I’m out from Papa’s control I plan to enjoy my freedom. Maybe that’s why I’m intrigued by the shopkeeper. I wasn’t allowed to make friends among those socially beneath us. I don’t care about those standings now.”

  “You’ll care about your reputation and those standings once you are back in England.”

  “Maybe so, but in the meantime I want to go where my heart leads me.”

  “Very well, but let’s have no more deception while you’re my guest. Josie came to me rather upset. You placed her in a difficult position by expecting her to keep silent. She knows that one day you’ll board a ship and sail away with Helene. She will be left behind working for Jackson and me. Please don’t make life harder for her.”

  Nate hooked his long apron on its peg and blew out the lamp that hung over his worktable. It had been a long day. A steady stream of customers promised decent profits for the week, but it also meant less time replaying in his mind the delightful hours spent with Amanda. Staying busy may be good for a man’s hands and mental state, but when the bell jangled to signal more customers, Nate sent them away.

  “Sorry, I’m closed for the day,” he called. “I’ll be open tomorrow by eight.” He pulled on his coat with a frown. No second bell chime indicated that his tardy customer had left. Stepping from the back room, Nate saw a man leaning against a stack of grain sacks. “May I help you, sir? Do you need directions or assistance of some sort?”

  The man turned, his face partially obscured by a hat brim. “As I live and breathe, it really is you!” he exclaimed.

  His voice sounded vaguely familiar, yet Nate couldn’t place him. His rough-spun clothes and long duster coat provided little identification. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I apologize if we were previously introduced.”

  “Mason. Mason Hooks from Balsam. Don’t ya ’member me, Nate?” He yanked off his dirty felt hat.

  Despite the fact he was thirty pounds thinner, bearded, and sallow-faced, Nate indeed recognized his old childhood frien
d from the mountains. A man he thought most likely would be dead by now. “Mason, of course. How are you?” Nate asked, slapping him on the back.

  “I had a rough patch, but things are lookin’ up these days.” Mason’s smile revealed several missing teeth. “Got me a job offloading ships that come in. Make a good daily wage, more money than I seen in a week back home.”

  “That’s not hard to imagine. Back in the hills we had plenty of whitetails, squirrels, and pretty sunsets, but not much that would put a pair of new leather boots on a man’s feet.” Nate extracted his hand before Mason pumped his arm from the socket.

  “Heard there was a mercantile owner named Cooper on this block. And I also heard tell you came to Wilmington dead set on opening a store. I put two and two together and thought I’d have a look-see.”

  “I’m glad you did. Do you like coffee? I could reheat some on the woodstove.” Nate opened the door on the stove to stir the coals.

  “They pour a fine pint down at Flannigan’s at a fair price. What say we git something stronger if ’n you’re done for the day here.”

  “Does that establishment sell anything besides spirits—coffee or tea maybe?” Nate felt himself flush. “I don’t imbibe, not since it killed my father.”

  “I just see men drink whiskey or beer. It ain’t no teahouse.” He laughed good-naturedly. “But your coffee sounds fine by me. Why don’t we pull up a chair?”

  “There’s a good spot out back where we could catch a breeze. Take those stools out and I’ll be right with you.” Nate pointed toward the door. A few minutes later he carried the pot of coffee and some of Ruth’s homemade molasses cookies outdoors.

  Mason sat by the low stone wall behind the row of shops. He’d already removed his coat and hat. In the harbor, tall masts bobbed with the current as ships moved in and out. “Good location to set up shop. You doin’ all right?”