The Last Heiress

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Cover by Garborg Design Works, Savage, Minnesota

  Cover photos © Chris Garborg, Bigstock / Voy

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE LAST HEIRESS

  Copyright © 2015 by Mary Ellis

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Ellis, Mary,

  The last heiress / Mary Ellis.

  pages; cm

  ISBN 978-0-7369-5052-7 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-5053-4 (eBook)

  1. Heiresses—Fiction. 2. Abolitionists—Fiction. 3. Man-woman relationships—Fiction.

  4. United States—History—Civil War, 1861-1865—Fiction. I Title.

  PS3626.E36L37 2015

  813'.6—dc23

  2014027020

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my friends Carolyne and Alan Way of Gosport, England, who provided background information on the garment industry of western England during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

  Carolyne’s grandfather owned a coal mine in the Lancashire area that supplied the mills. Thanks also for helping with British slang and customs.

  How lucky I am to have British friends willing to open their home and hearts to me.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Discussion Questions

  Books by Mary Ellis

  About the Author

  Note from the Author

  About the Publisher

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to the countless authors of history I have pored over for years, including Shelby Foote, Bruce Catton, Ed Bearss, James M. McPherson, and Brian Pohanka. My favorite sources for this book were Walking to Cold Mountain: A Journey Through Civil War America by Carl Zebrowski, and Fort Fisher 1865 by Chris E. Fonvielle Jr. This book contains a collection of photographs taken by T.H. O’Sullivan, apprentice to Mathew Brady, who worked in the Washington studio managed by Alexander Gardner, both famous Civil War photographers.

  Thanks to Noah Janis and Caitlyn Rifenburg at the Fort Fisher State Historic Site for patiently explaining the minutiae of the fort and historic battle.

  Thanks to the wonderful guides at the Bellamy House, the Lattimer House, and the First Presbyterian Church of Wilmington. Special thanks to Janet Davidson, historian at the Cape Fear Museum in Wilmington, for answering an inordinate number of questions and providing archival photos of the area during the Civil War.

  Thanks to the Western Reserve Historical Society, Cuyahoga Valley Civil War Roundtable, the Peninsula Valley Foundation of Ohio, and GAR Hall, whose appreciation for Civil War history has kept my passion alive locally.

  Thanks to the Wayne County Writer’s Guild Novelists, especially Ruth, Bobbie, Christina, Darrell, Cyndi, and Kira, for your great brainstorming help.

  Thanks to my agent, Mary Sue Seymour; my lovely proofreader, Joycelyn Sullivan; my editor, Kim Moore; and the wonderful staff at Harvest House Publishers. Where would I be without your hard work?

  One

  Manchester, England

  February 1864

  Amanda slumped in the dressing table chair, thwarting her maid’s efforts for the third time.

  “Please stop fidgeting, Miss Amanda, or I’ll never finish your hair. At this rate you may miss breakfast altogether.” As she spoke she swiftly fastened the coiled braid to the back of Amanda’s head with a half dozen long hairpins.

  “I’m sorry, Helene. I don’t know why I can’t cut it off since it’s such a bother, or at least wear it down until noon. After all, it’s only my family at table.” Amanda stared at her wavy reflection in the mirror. The dreary winter had robbed her cheeks of all color. She was as pale as the ghost the staff insisted roamed the attic of Dunncliff Manor.

  “You can’t wear it down because you’re not a child anymore. Young ladies must have fashionable coiffures unless they are abed with the fever and their continued earthly existence appears in doubt.” Helene winked at Amanda’s reflection in the mirror. “And cutting it off is advisable only if you plan to book passage to India disguised as a man.”

  Amanda chuckled at the mental picture of herself dressed in flannel and tweed. “I’ve seen you in the garden of the carriage house with your hair plaited down your back. And you’re older than I.”

  “True enough, but I’m the widowed daughter of your papa’s coachman. My appearance ceased to be of much interest the day I married. But you, Miss Amanda, should make a good impression wherever you are, no matter what time day or night.” Helene bent to whisper close to her ear. “How else will you catch a fine husband like a viscount or an earl?”

  Amanda emitted a rude noise that would have appalled her mother. “Your suggestion sounds dreadfully dull. Instead, maybe I’ll become an actress and travel the world, or perhaps a famous opera singer and appear on the finest stages of Rome, Vienna, and Paris.” She closed her eyes, imagining the sound of thunderous applause.

  Helene freed two tendrils to soften the severe look of Amanda’s upswept hair. “To be a famous opera singer, one must first be able to sing.” She tugged on a lock playfully. “Go to breakfast before your mama sends her maid after you.”

  Without an alternative, Amanda dutifully obeyed. On her way downstairs, she heard rain pelting the window with chilling relentlessness. This time of year any career someplace warm sounded preferable to winter in Manchester.

  “There you are, my dear. I feared you’d taken ill to be this tardy.” Agnes Dunn maintained a hawkish perusal of her daughter while sipping her tea.

  “Forgive me, Mama. My hair refused to cooperate with Helene.” Taking her usual seat at the table, she asked the footman for coffee instead of tea. “Where is Papa?” she asked, noticing that her mother sat alone at the ornate table for twelve.

  “His cough is no better. He’s not coming downstairs this morning.” Agnes signaled for the footman to serve.

  Amanda’s unease increased threefold. “Papa is still in bed? He doesn’t plan to go to the mill? I can’t remember that ever happening—”

  Her mother narrowed her eyes. “Please don’t overdramatize, Amanda. Everyone gets sick, even your hale and hearty father. You’re too young to remember a bout of gout that laid him
low for days.” She nibbled her toast. The barest coating of lemon cheese provided a sunny glow.

  Amanda refused to be put off easily. “But he never misses breakfast. It’s his favorite meal of the day. I’ll take him a bowl of poached eggs and some kippers. And I know he won’t refuse porridge with fresh cream.”

  “If your father is hungry, ring for the maid and she will carry up a tray. I won’t have you doing servant work. Everyone needs to earn their wages.” Agnes glanced at the footman, who pretended not to be listening. “But you should visit your father when you finish eating. He asked to see you this morning.”

  Amanda set down her fork, her taste for food gone. “He wishes me to come to his bedroom?” Her father never spoke to his children except at the dinner table, at tea, or occasionally by the parlor fire if they weren’t entertaining that evening. And he certainly never requested an audience while wearing his dressing gown. “Do you know what this is about, Mama?”

  “I have my suspicions but prefer not to speculate. When did you become so apprehensive?” Agnes’s expression softened. “I would have expected as much from your sister, but not from my fearless girl.”

  A second oddity within ten minutes was almost too much to bear. Her mother never mentioned Abigail, as though her twin sister hadn’t been born. Since Alfred’s death several years ago, it felt as though she’d been born an only child. “Will you come upstairs with me?” Amanda asked.

  “No, my dear. I’m merely relaying the message. Your father requested only you, not the two of us. He will impart any decisions he’s made to me when the time is right.” Mama smiled, but the gesture fooled no one.

  Amanda knew her parents hadn’t taken rooms at opposite ends of the hall because of his snoring or Agnes’s restless tossing and turning. She’d hoped they would become friends, if no longer passionate about each other. But her brother’s untimely death put an end to that possibility. Amanda finished her toast and coffee, and then she refilled her cup at the sideboard. “I shall go now.”

  “Allow me to carry that for you, Miss Dunn.” Joseph, the head footman reached her side with a saucer.

  Reluctant to argue in front of her mother, Amanda allowed him to precede her up the stairs to her father’s suite.

  “Miss Amanda to see you, sir,” announced Joseph, stopping in the doorway.

  “Come in, daughter,” said George Dunn, his voice hoarse and scratchy. “Why are you standing there like a statue? Come talk to your old papa.”

  She hurried then to his bedside, the sight of her robust father under heavy quilts giving her a chill. “Mama said you’re not feeling well, sir. I hope that’s not true.” Amanda smiled as she said this, yet she needed little confirmation from him as to how he was with his face drawn and haggard.

  “I’m a touch under the weather, but it’s nothing for you to be concerned about. The way Ochs fusses over me, I’ll either be right as rain or ready for a nanny and perambulator before long.”

  As though on cue, her father’s trusted valet since before Amanda was born entered the room. “I intercepted your breakfast on the stairs, sir. Everything looks quite in order. I’ll have more coal sent up for the fire.”

  “Getting my room to tropical temperatures will not cure a bit of the flu. Leave the tray on the table and my hearth alone for now. I want to speak privately to my daughter.”

  The valet turned as though just noticing her. “Good morning, Miss Dunn. Shall I have a tray sent up for you too?” He looked down his thin hooked nose at her.

  “No, thank you, Ochs. I breakfasted with Mama.”

  “Very good. Ring if I can be of service, sir.” He bowed and departed with great dignity.

  “My, my. The man absolutely never smiles.” Amanda perched on the edge of her father’s massive bed.

  “It’s in the valet’s rulebook not to.” Papa’s dimples deepened as he said that, and for a moment he resembled his normal self until a hacking cough convulsed his large frame.

  “Oh, Papa, that sounds dreadful. Did anyone send for the doctor?” Amanda patted his arm once the coughing subsided.

  George reached for the glass of water on his nightstand and took a tentative sip. “What would that old blighter do? Bleed me again? I feel worse after his therapies, not better. Stop fussing. The cough will be gone once this damp weather breaks. Anyway, that’s not why I summoned you. I have a favor to ask of you, one that will be no spring stroll in the garden.”

  Amanda’s spirits lifted. Seldom did her father ask anything of his family other than impeccable manners at social events. “Of course, Papa. What can I do?”

  “Only the young and foolish say yes without hearing the question.” He covered her hand with his larger one. “Pelton visited yesterday afternoon.”

  Papa received a mill employee at home in his bedchamber? Amanda’s stomach tightened.

  “The situation at Dunn Mills is growing critical. None of my overpaid managers have been able to line up sufficient cotton from Latin or South America, and certainly nothing that compares to the quality of the cotton we had access to before this nuisance of a war in the States. I can’t run textile mills and continue to pay men’s wages without raw materials.” His vehemence triggered another round of coughing.

  Amanda blinked, unsure of a suitable response. Her father seldom discussed important matters and never his business concerns. “What about wool from the northern counties and silk from the Orient?”

  “All well and good, but cotton is more than half the industry of the mill. I need to restore reliable sources.”

  “How can I help? Shall I write to…Jackson?” She murmured the name of their primary American factor—and brother-in-law—reluctantly. He had fallen from favor with her father, to put it mildly.

  He sighed heavily. “I’ve already written to the elder Henthorne several times. Every reply has been the same: His hands are tied. Their new president, Jefferson Davis, has decreed that no cotton is to be exported to the United Kingdom until Queen Victoria takes a stand for the Confederacy. Why would our Queen choose sides in a dispute affecting former colonies? And I can’t fathom why southern states would break away and form a new nation.”

  Amanda waited to see if he expected her opinion on a political topic—one she would be hard pressed to give—but then he waved off the question like a bee from the honey pot.

  “None of that concerns you, daughter. I shouldn’t sidetrack myself from our dire circumstances.”

  “How can I help?”

  “Hear me out before making up your mind.” He coughed again with alarming intensity. When he caught his breath again, he said, “I need you to travel to North Carolina to do whatever is necessary to restore shipping lines to Manchester through Liverpool. Speak with Randolph Henthorne first, but if you must, call on every cotton factor in Wilmington. There has to be someone willing to ignore Davis’s edict and transact business with us. I’m willing to pay a thirty percent increase over previous contracts, although you certainly shouldn’t open negotiations with our most generous offer.” He hesitated and dabbed his mouth with his linen handkerchief. Her flummoxed expression had finally given him pause.

  “You wish me to board a ship and sail to America? The farthest I’ve traveled is across the channel to the continent.”

  “I realize I’m asking a lot, Amanda. Such a voyage may be dangerous. Had your brother lived, he would be the one making the journey.” Papa’s complexion faded to an unhealthy pallor. “I need someone to represent the interests of Dunn Mills on my behalf. I would go myself, but the doctor insists the damp sea air would hasten my demise.”

  “Of course I’ll go,” she said without another thought. The possibility of losing her father negated her personal misgivings. As soon as she agreed, a small seed took root and began to grow—a seed that might break the ennui that had consumed her all winter.

  “You won’t be traveling alone. I will send Pelton with you.”

  Amanda’s spine arched at the mention of the pompous man’s nam
e. Their few instances of acquaintance had left her with a sour taste in her mouth. Charles Pelton believed a woman’s place was in the home, and that they shouldn’t speak on subjects other than drapery fabrics or scone choices for tea. “Why him, Papa? You have several capable managers in your mills. Surely you could select one more amenable for a travel companion.”

  Papa’s brow furrowed. “I understand your reservations, but no one knows the textile trade better. He could answer any question you or the Carolina factors may present.”

  Amanda lifted her chin. “If you hold Mr. Pelton in such high esteem, why do you wish me to go at all? Perhaps he should represent Dunn Mills while I embroider samplers in the parlor with Mama.”

  Her father’s weary face brightened. “That’s what I’ve always admired—your spirit. Those American aristocrats will expect me to negotiate contracts. They might take offense if I send an employee in my stead.”

  She squeezed the bridge of her nose. “They would prefer someone who knows little about running a mill and even less about grades and qualities of cotton?”

  “You’re a Dunn, daughter, besides my heir. You will attend the meetings primarily as my emissary—a figurehead, if you will. Pelton will discuss specifics and negotiate the final terms of contract.” Papa reached out to pinch her cheek as though she were still nine years old.

  “I wish to visit Abigail if I’m traveling to Wilmington. I won’t cross the sea without laying eyes on my sister.”

  His ebullience faded but he nodded agreement. “Your sister’s move to the States is one reason I broached the subject. Because she married a wealthy man, your mother and I won’t have to worry you’ll land among a rough sort. But that’s the only positive thing I can say about Jackson Henthorne.” He turned his face into the pillow as another convulsive cough robbed him of breath.

  Amanda left his bedside and walked to the window. The rain continued to fall, turning the cobblestones below slick underfoot for both man and beast. She stared blindly into the mist while her mind whirred with ideas. After five long years, she would be able to see Abigail? She could visit America—a brand-new land teeming with opportunity—if that’s what North Carolina still considered itself part of. But that arrogant Charles Pelton would doubtlessly prevent her from experiencing any adventure.