The Last Heiress

by Mary Ellis

  Amanda inhaled a deep breath when the door opened and Nathaniel stepped onto the porch. He wore a white shirt, black weskit and trousers, a dark cravat…and a red calico apron. She giggled like a schoolgirl at the sight.

  Pulling off the apron, he donned a dazzling smile. “You’re right on time, Miss Dunn. If you were late I would have to start the biscuits over from scratch. They cannot remain warming in the oven another minute.” As he reached her, he extended his elbow. “When should the carriage return for you?”

  Temporarily befuddled by the questions—and how utterly handsome he looked—Amanda finally stammered out a meek, “Half past nine should be fine.”

  “Splendid. That gives me nearly two hours to convince you.” Nate nodded to the coachman and the conveyance rolled away, the iron wheels clattering in a cloud of dust.

  “Convince me of what, sir?”

  “That my culinary expertise in the kitchen, rare among male members of the species, makes me the perfect husband for a woman like you.”

  Amanda stumbled on the uneven flagstones. “I see your bold self-assurance hasn’t abandoned you over the last few days. You have high hopes from one home-cooked dinner.” She drew up short. “And what do you mean by a ‘woman like you’?”

  “If a man has a low opinion of himself, so will others. And I refer to your personal lack of cooking skills.”

  “Why would you assume that—”

  Nate abruptly jumped in front of the door, barring entry, thus she ran headlong into his chest. “I must warn you, Miss Dunn, that the Simses aren’t here. If you enter a man’s abode alone, your reputation may be compromised. Are you prepared to take marriage vows before a preacher and an armed brother-in-law?”

  Amanda ducked around him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Jackson would simply shoot you and send me back home, besmirched reputation and all.”

  Amanda followed the delicious mingled scents of rosemary, basil, cinnamon, and honey to the kitchen. “Goodness, I hope you prepared enough. Everything smells wonderful.” She sniffed the air like a hound dog on a trail while pivoting to take in every detail. A kettle of corn bubbled on the stove, fried chicken sat cooling on a platter, and a crusty casserole of something orange was in the center of the pine table. The table had been set with pretty but mismatched china. Tall glasses of milk would quench thirsts instead of bubbly champagne or vintage wine. The jelly jar of wildflowers on the windowsill added the feel of a meadow. All in all, the visual effect took her breath away, making her homesick for a home that was nothing like this.

  Nate extracted a tray of golden biscuits from the oven and placed them in a basket. “What do you think, Amanda?” He sounded less confident than he had five minutes ago.

  “I think it all looks delightful. Did Mrs. Sims prepare this before she left except for the biscuits?”

  Nate arched his spine with indignation. “I beg your pardon, miss. Ruth left yesterday. Everything you see is my doing. I practically broke my neck on the steep slope behind the house picking those flowers.”

  “Very impressive, sir, but I’ll reserve judgment until I taste the food. Appearances can be deceptive.” She waited until he pulled out a chair for her before taking a place at the table.

  “I stand by my endeavors.” Nate carried over platters and bowls and then sat down opposite her. “Will you say grace, Miss Dunn? Odom mandates it in this house.”

  She bowed her head. “Dear Lord, please let this food taste as good as it looks. Thank You and amen.”

  “Odom wouldn’t be happy with your lack of faith.” Clucking his tongue, he handed her the basket of biscuits.

  Amanda took one, broke off a piece, and ate. Crusty on the outside, soft within—it needed no butter or honey. “This is delicious! Quick, pass me that chicken.” She bit into a plump tender breast, the breading crisp and peppery. “Who taught you to cook like this?” she asked, not hiding her surprise.

  Nate took two chicken legs and a scoop of yams. “My mother taught the three of us to cook. She said you never know what life will hand you along the way.”

  “Are those yams? I would love to try some. We never had them at home.” Amanda held up her plate. “Your father was willing to learn to cook?”

  “Of course. My pa helped my mother with her chores when his were done. After supper they would sit on the porch shucking peas or coring apples before Ma’s canning day. And she would help him plant and harvest corn.”

  “Your mother worked in the fields?”

  “She did. Farming is hard work. During certain times of the year, Pa needed everyone from dawn to dark.”

  “Just the same, I imagine you had a good life.”

  Nate issued a dismissive snort. “We survived, some years better than others. But then my mother got sick and lingered before she died. Good thing my father knew how to cook, because he took care of her and us for a long time.”

  “He must have loved her very much.”

  Nate reached for another biscuit, avoiding eye contact. “Yes, he did. When she died, he lost interest in living and took up the bottle. The fact that my brother and I still needed him didn’t seem to matter. Eventually, he followed her into the grave and left us to fend for ourselves.”

  Amanda set down her fork. “He couldn’t help it if he became sick, dear one.”

  Nate focused on the whitewashed wall. “My father tried hard to drink himself to death, but it wasn’t fast enough. So one cold January after we had been trapped in the cabin for days, he cut a length of rope. After we went to bed, he fed the horses and then hanged himself in the barn.”

  An icy chill ran through her veins. “Oh, Nate, I’m so sorry to hear this.”

  He patted her hand. “Water long over the dam. My brother and I survived the best we could. Eventually I sent Joshua to live with an aunt and uncle so he could go to school. Apparently, he didn’t stay long before running off to join the army.”

  “The Confederate army?”

  “Yes. He was living in Fayetteville at the time, but I don’t know where he is now.”

  “I hope that when the war is over you will find each other,” she said, but every word from her mouth sounded wholly inadequate.

  “That’s enough about me. Tell me what it was like growing up a Dunn. Tails and ball gowns for dinner? Three forks, three spoons, two knives, and every size glass known to man at each place setting?” His blue eyes twinkled.

  Amanda remembered meals in their dining room after Abby had left and frowned. Mama and Papa sat at opposite ends of the table, both sullen and aloof, while she picked at her food, hoping they wouldn’t snipe at each other until she went to bed. Of course, there never had been shouting or vases hurtling through the air like a West End stage comedy. Instead, her mother would whine and cajole:

  Why don’t we go to London this weekend, George?

  Let’s take Amanda to the continent for the summer.

  Why don’t we spend a fortnight in the Lake District with our friends?

  And Papa’s answers were always the same.

  I have no time for your nonsense, Agnes.

  Mills do not run themselves.

  I don’t want to hear another word on the subject.

  So her mother would brood and pout in her room, leaving Amanda alone to dream about life anywhere other than Dunncliff Manor.

  “For dinner, yes,” she replied, shaking off her memories. “But for breakfast and luncheon we were far less civilized.”

  When Nate smiled, Amanda felt a surge of warmth in her gut—unfamiliar yet not unpleasant. “My father never lifted a finger to help his wife. Of course, she did very little either. She wouldn’t pull the stopper from the washbasin for herself or turn down the covers of her bed. Mama would stand waiting and shivering until her maid returned with a warming pan.”

  “Your parents were raised with servants, creating a form of helplessness. But your father probably showed his love in other ways.”

  Amanda shook her head, eating her last bite of yams. “Papa did
not love her or she him. It was a union arranged by their parents for practical reasons—her family owned coal mines, his owned textile mills. My mother produced three children because it was expected of her. Duty allows little room for love.”

  Nate reached out and took hold of her chin. “Then you and I will have few expectations and no obligations to each other. We’ll just see where our hearts take us.” Leaning across the table, he kissed her lips tenderly.

  She lifted an eyebrow when she opened her eyes. “Two kisses is my limit for the evening, Mr. Cooper. Why don’t we clear the table before you start thinking about your second kiss?”

  “I haven’t served the pie for dessert yet. Ruth helped with the crust, but I did the rest by myself.”

  “What kind of pie?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

  “Apple, with fruit picked fresh in Pender County.”

  “You’re in luck, Mr. Cooper. Apple is my new favorite since coming to America. I might have to raise my limit to three kisses.”

  “You’re the one in luck, Miss Dunn. Wait until you taste my pie.”

  Twelve

  Two weeks later

  When Nate walked the five blocks to his shop, he quickly became soaked to the skin despite an overcoat and hat. The October skies had opened with a deluge of rain that refused to stop. By three that afternoon he had yet to wait on his first customer. Perhaps the matrons of Wilmington were overseeing the construction of arks in their backyards. The rain fell so hard that water began to seep under his front door, along with an oily scum of filth. Nate relentlessly swept the sludge back to the street where it could drain into the harbor. His mind, however, stayed focused on his dinner with Amanda.

  The evening had turned out better than his fondest dreams. Amanda had reached for his hand three times and kissed him twice. It would be impossible to count how often she smiled or laughed. Yes, his first culinary adventure had been an unqualified triumph. But if he didn’t keep the flood out of his shop, his merchandise would be jeopardized. It seemed the faster he swept, the faster it poured in under the door.

  “Looks like you’re fighting a losing battle, my friend.”

  Startled, Nate turned to see Mason entering the store from his stockroom. With an uncomfortable twinge he realized he had neglected to lock the back door. And Mason, thinner, bearded, and more wild-eyed than their last meeting, wasn’t alone. Another equally unkempt and dissipated ruffian swaggered down the aisle behind him.

  “Mason, why didn’t you come in the front door like other folks?” Nate tried to keep his voice level.

  “Because I ain’t your run-of-the-mill customer.” Mason stopped in the middle of the store. “I know old friends from home don’t have to stand on ceremony with a man like you.” His lips formed a smile, but his eyes remained cool and unreadable.

  “You took me by surprise.” Nate returned to the futile task of sweeping foul-smelling water out to the street.

  “You ain’t gonna win that battle, Nate. We’d better move the grain sacks up high. The river has risen over the docks. The flood’s coming from the wharf, not from uptown.” As he spoke, Mason lifted a sack of rice sitting in the aisle directly in the tide’s path.

  Nate stared for a moment, embarrassed he hadn’t grasped the situation. “Good idea. Thank you.” Dropping the broom, he began moving boxes of canned goods to higher shelves. Mason and the unnamed man carried sacks of wheat, barley, and rice into the stockroom, stacking them to the ceiling on the worktable. The stranger moved with far less urgency than Mason but pitched in nonetheless.

  Thirty minutes later the three men had done all they could.

  “Time to head for higher ground and wait out the storm.” Mason touched Nate lightly on the shoulder. “It sounds like the wind is starting to die down. If the building doesn’t float away, you can come back tomorrow and see what’s left.”

  Nate glanced around and nodded. “Let’s brace the door shut with this.” The three men shifted a heavy crate of ruined dry goods against the door frame, the wood already warping from the water. Then they picked their way through floating debris and locked the back door behind them.

  Mindlessly numb, Nate followed Mason through streets and alleys away from the Cape Fear River. While he was busily planning a bright future with Amanda, a flash flood had turned his store into a floating stew. When they reached an uptown area of warehouses and mills, Mason headed into a tavern only a bit less seedy than those on the wharf.

  Considering the circumstances, Nate didn’t object to his choice of dry refuges. Inside, men seeking shelter were huddled elbow to elbow. After they found a rough-hewn bench by the window, Nate offered his hand to the stranger. “Nathaniel Cooper. I’m much obliged for your help today, sir.”

  The man shook with little enthusiasm. “I ain’t ‘sir’ to nobody. Name’s Billy Conroy. I’m expectin’ you to show gratitude with a few cold stouts to wet the whistle.” Billy revealed the yellowest teeth with his smile Nate had ever seen.

  “Of course. It would be my pleasure.” Nate dug out a pile of coins from his pocket. “Don’t know what beer costs—take what you need.” He held out his open palm to Mason.

  Mason grabbed the entire pile, plucked two, and slapped them on the bar. “Three stouts,” he called to a one-eyed barkeep. “This should keep us dry for a while.” Mason slipped the rest of the money into his pocket.

  While they waited for their drinks, they wrung as much water from their garments as possible in a public place. Once the dark, foamy draughts arrived, Mason and Billy endeavored to empty their steins as quickly as possible. Issuing a rude burp, Mason motioned for refills before settling back on the bench. Nate had taken only one sip of the bitter drink.

  “Haven’t seen you at any more meetings, not since that first one in the summer.” Mason wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Maybe you didn’t get my messages?”

  Taking a second sip, Nate tried not to reveal his revulsion. “I heard about one or two, but I’ve been too busy to ride into the backwoods. It’s only me working in the store.” He kept his back very straight against the wall.

  Mason picked up his stein the moment it was refilled. “There’s a war going on everywhere but here in Wilmington. You folks tend to business just like normal. Mind if I ask what’s so all-fired important that you can’t spend a few nights helping out like-minded friends?” He kept his voice low, considering the politics of their fellow imbibers.

  Nate looked from one of his companions to the other, gauging how much to reveal. “It seems I’ve gone and fallen in love. Who would guess it could happen to me?” He lifted his glass in camaraderie to clink theirs. “So if I plan to take a wife, I can’t be running off and leaving my store untended.” He forced himself to swallow another mouthful.

  “I’ve been curious about you. That little gal in the hat shop next door keeps her eye on you.” Mason grinned with maniacal zeal. “She said this real fancy English lady comes by your store often. And she ain’t carrying sacks of food when she leaves.”

  “Miss Amanda Dunn,” muttered Billy Conroy. “I knows all about that one.”

  Nate recoiled as though struck before grabbing hold of the man’s coat lapels. “You are mistaken. You couldn’t possibly know Miss Dunn. She’s only been in Wilmington since April.”

  Conroy shrugged off his hand. “I know her from back in Wycleft. Her family lives up on the hill like they was kings and queens. Coming and going in their fancy brougham, pulled by horses wearing feathered hats and silver harness.” Conroy spat on the sawdust-strewn floor. “My dah worked in Dunn Mills all his life, right up till he fell fifty feet down a black hole.” Conroy clutched his stein tight enough to crack the glass. “What did old man Dunn do? He took his sweet time bringin’ them up. Then he sez he’s sorry and will pay for the funeral—one funeral for twenty-two men. He buried them side-by-side in a field outside town, not in proper plots inside Saint Luke’s churchyard.”

  As Conroy paused to gulp more beer, Mason’s expression turned gle
eful. The tale appeared to amuse him.

  “Then this foreman paid a visit to each family who lost their dah. He said Master Dunn will forget about this month’s rent. But next month the rent better be paid on time or the family will be out on the street.”

  Nate felt heat rise up his neck to his hairline even as his mind struggled to remember everything Amanda told him about home. “Surely you can’t hold Miss Dunn—”

  “I ain’t finished yet, Cooper. I helped save your store from the muck, so you better hear me out.” Beer sloshed over the stein’s rim onto Conroy’s tattered shirt.

  “Go on. I’m listening.” Nate checked his peripheral vision for possible weapons other than the mug of swill.

  “The foreman said Mum could send two sons to take Dah’s place at the mill. Two for one, since they weren’t trained. But she wouldn’t let her boys set foot in that God-forsaken place. Mum went to live with her sister in Bath and sent her older boys to America with the rent money.”

  As details clicked into place, Nate forced his fingers to uncurl. “I’m sorry your father was killed, but Miss Dunn lost her only brother in that horrible accident. The floor over the coal shaft supplying the mill collapsed. No one was to blame. It was an accident.”

  Mason blinked several times in the smoky room. “Is that true, Billy?”

  “Aye, a Dunn fell through the floor along with the workers, but they got him out right quick. And that don’t change the sorry way they run the mill towns. Folks living in shacks with one bathtub for four families, not enough coal to heat the houses, never raising wages no matter how hard a man worked.” Conroy’s forehead beaded with sweat despite the cool temperatures.

  “I imagine Miss Dunn must feel right at home waited on by all those slaves,” Mason said, shaking his head in disdain.

  Nate said, “Miss Dunn cannot control the lives of the Henthornes anymore than she could control her father. She brought an English maid with her and pays the woman wages. Amanda abhors slavery the same as me.”