The Last Heiress Read online

  Nate laughed and brought her hand up to his lips. “I would hope so, dear heart. No well-born lady should be expected to save the day more than once or twice during a lifetime.” He kissed the back of her fingers.

  Amanda withdrew her hand. “If I did save the day, I feel my reward should be greater than that kind of kiss.”

  Glancing in both directions on the shadowy sidewalk, Nate leaned down and kissed her with all the passion he could muster. “An insufficient token of my gratitude and esteem to be sure, but it’s a start.”

  Grinning, Amanda opened her eyes. “Ah, much better. Good night, Mr. Cooper, until the next time our paths cross.”

  “Good night, Miss Dunn. Sleep well with pleasant dreams.” He bowed as he’d seen Jackson do on several occasions.

  Amanda hurried up the steps and slipped into the house without waiting for the butler to open the door. Nate remained under the canopy of a crepe myrtle tree, hoping to catch one last glimpse of her in the parlor window. But the visage peering into the night behind leaded glass belonged to haughty, aristocratic Jackson Henthorne. If contempt had a scent, Nate would have caught a whiff wafting on the night breeze. This was a man who placed strict boundaries around himself and those he cared about. How far would he go to keep a man like Nate from marrying into his family? Would he speak to Judge Stewart about rescinding the affidavit? Or perhaps truss up Amanda, stuff her in a gunny sack, and lock her in a cabin until the ship was away from the American coast? After a final look at the residence of his beloved, Nate walked back home with a heart already aching without her.

  Nate found his landlord at the table when he entered the Simses’ kitchen. Despite his overwhelming fatigue, the sight lifted Nate’s spirits. “Odom, why are you still up? Did bad dreams get the better of you tonight?”

  “Nate.” Speaking in an exaggerated whisper, Odom jumped to his feet. “What a relief to see you.” He wrapped his arms around his friend and thumped his back as though he were choking on a fish bone. “I couldn’t sleep until I heard the news, but I didn’t want to keep my missus awake. This is better than any message, even from a nice lady like Miss Dunn.”

  Nate tried to wriggle away as Odom fired off a rapid succession of questions. “Did Miss Dunn come to the jail? How did she get you released? Will your arrest cause trouble for her with her family?”

  Nate slumped into a chair. “I can explain if you let me sit down.”

  “Yes, sit, sit. I’ll pour you a glass of milk.”

  Nate let the cool liquid run down his parched throat. Then he filled in the details of his saga, beginning at this store and ending with a memorable kiss at the Henthorne hitching post.

  “I’m glad Rufus was there during your arrest or we might not have known what happened,” Odom said, lowering the guttering lamp wick.

  “A fortuitous turn of events.” Nate finished the glass of milk, which Odom promptly refilled.

  “My son has a knack for locating Miss Dunn when she’s not in the company of her sister.”

  “I’m grateful to Rufus and to you.”

  “Glad to help, especially since this turned out so well.” Odom gave his suspenders a satisfied snap.

  Nate stared at him in confusion. “I don’t follow you. Are you certain you heard me right? I was arrested by the Rebel militia, accused of treason, thrown into jail, and fed moldy food. I endangered your son and Miss Dunn just to gain freedom that could be brief in duration. Who knows what Judge Stewart will do if he finds out the charges were true? Besides, I don’t work for Henthorne and Sons in a crucial capacity as the judge’s affidavit states.”

  Odom leaned back in his chair. “I listened to you just fine, but I heard plenty more than that.” Holding up a hand, he extended his index finger. “One, I know that Miss Dunn practically levitated from her chair to help you.” He extended a second finger. “She wasted no time in getting you released and then insisted on going with you to check your store.” Another finger joined the other two. “And three, she demanded a proper kiss for her payment. That means one thing to me—the gal is in love with you. I would say you should be the happiest man on earth, Nate Cooper.” Odom folded his hands like an attorney resting his court case.

  “That was my conclusion too, for what it’s worth. But what future does such an ill-matched couple have? If rumors of my pro-Union sentiments get around, customers will abandon me for Baxter’s Market. And a man without a livelihood has poor prospects for marriage.” Nate studied his reflection in the windowpane. “Miss Dunn was raised in a big house with a staff of servants. Now I have less to offer her than before.”

  “I had worse prospects than you, but Ruth still agreed to marry me, making me the happiest man on earth.”

  Nate smiled at his friend. “I’m open to suggestions if any come to mind. Seeing your and Ruth’s contentment is proof enough for me.”

  Odom refilled his own mug. “You fixate on Miss Dunn’s wealth, assuming her life was rosy at home because of it. Maybe it was, true enough, but rich folks can be unhappy, hard as that is for us to believe. Yet she sees something in you she likes, so stop trying to fit into the Henthornes’ world. Ask her to spend more time in yours.”

  “Do you mean invite her to dinner again? I know she enjoyed the evening with your family.” Nate felt a surge of hope.

  Odom leaned back to study the plaster ceiling. “This weekend Ruth wants to visit her aunt in Wrightsville. Why not invite Miss Dunn for supper? The two of you won’t have a fancy cook if you get hitched, so why not show her you know how to put supper on the table?”

  Nate burst out laughing. “What on earth could I cook for her? All I know are simple recipes from home.”

  “Ruth and I sampled some of those when you weren’t looking. They weren’t half bad. Decide on your favorites and put your best foot forward. Owning a store certainly comes in handy, and if you need it, Ruth can give you cooking advice.”

  Nate’s mind whirled with ideas as Odom pushed up from the table. “Now that our favorite draft dodger is home safe, I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too late. You have a store to open in the morning and only a couple of days to plan this supper.” Shuffling from the room, he paused in the doorway, the hard day of labor evident in his stride. “But if you permit me one final piece of advice, don’t question life so much. Sometimes God offers gifts we don’t deserve, and in the case of His Son, we never will. The best thing to do is say thank you and try to be as worthy as you can. Miss Dunn may be one of those gifts.”

  “I guess I haven’t spent enough time thinking about God since my ma died,” Nate said softly, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “I know, but He thinks about you all the time.” Odom looked over his shoulder. “And God can be very patient.”

  After his landlord went to bed, Nate closed his eyes and tried to picture his mother. Faye Cooper had worn her dark hair in a single plait down her back. Her roughened, chore-rough hands had felt soft against his face. The woman could holler across the valley, yet she still whispered prayers each night next to his bed. How he had missed her when she died after months of sickness. Nate rubbed his eyes with his fists but couldn’t dislodge the memory of his twelfth birthday dinner: Fried chicken, honeyed sweet potatoes, fresh corn on the cob dripping with butter, and apple pie for dessert. He and Joshua had eaten until their stomachs hurt.

  Suddenly ravenous, he scrambled to his feet. He devoured three dry biscuits from breakfast and a wedge of cheese before realizing he had the perfect menu for Saturday. He’d never eaten a more enjoyable meal. Finding a scrap of paper, he scribbled a brief note to Ruth, went to bed, and slept better than he had in weeks.

  Abigail tiptoed into the bathing chamber for the second time that morning. Crouching over a basin, she voided her stomach of the toast and boiled eggs she had just consumed. She tried to be as quiet as possible so not to disturb Jackson outside on their private gallery, yet her best efforts were for naught.

  “Great Scott, Abigail! Are you ill again?” her husband
asked anxiously as he hovered behind her.

  She shook her head, unable to speak for a moment. “It’s nothing to worry yourself about. Go enjoy your breakfast.” She rose clumsily to her feet and filled a clean basin from the pitcher.

  He pulled out his pocket watch to consult. “Then you should get dressed. If we don’t hurry we’ll miss church. The service starts in forty minutes.”

  Abigail rinsed out her mouth, washed her face, and tried to step past him, but he was too quick. He grabbed hold of her wrist. “You’re pale as a ghost and look ready to faint. How long have you been ill? If that Robert Peterson carried swamp fever into the city, I’ll summon his second.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort, my dear. I’m fit as a fiddle.” Sidling past him into their bedchamber, she rummaged through her armoire for a fresh dressing gown.

  “You’ve been sick several mornings this week and haven’t eaten more than half a meal in days. I insist that you see Dr. Barnes tomorrow. Perhaps he can supply an herb or tonic to quell your discomfort.”

  “Absolutely not. I’ll not quaff any herbal potion without knowing how it might affect the baby.”

  Jackson had been tying his cravat in the mirror when his fingers froze on the silk fabric. “Baby? What baby?” He spun on one heel, his jaw dropping open. “What are you saying, Abigail?”

  She closed the armoire with a thud. “I’m saying that to the best of my knowledge I’m with child. We should have a new Henthorne by spring if not sooner. All the signs are evident.”

  “Have you spoken to anyone yet?”

  “Only Salome.” She tied back her thick hair with a ribbon.

  “You may be with child, yet you’ve consulted only our cook?” Jackson gently gripped her forearms.

  “Amanda, Estelle, Josie, Helene—none of them have given birth. Salome has. I trust her expertise to answer practical, simple questions.”

  “I insist that you see Dr. Barnes—for verification, if nothing else. How can we trust an uneducated slave?”

  “Because she has borne four healthy children.” Abigail patted his chest with both hands. “Allow me another month or two and then I shall. I want to be further along before I visit that gossipmonger. Every woman at First Presbyterian will know our news before my carriage returns home. I want no sorrowful faces and no words of consolation if events don’t proceed as planned.”

  Jackson shrugged his shoulders. “Fine, if you insist, but I could accompany you and threaten him with my horsewhip.”

  “Such an idea on the Sabbath!” Abigail sighed with disapproval. “Go to church, husband. Pray to be saved from your violent urges and for a full-term pregnancy. I don’t believe I’ve seen the last of my basin yet.” Abigail strolled toward the French doors for cooler air.

  But he remained at her heels. “I am thunderstruck with joy, my love. I intended to give you this at dinner, but I can’t wait another minute.” He drew a small box from his weskit pocket, fumbling as though his fingers had stiffened without warning.

  Abigail expected a cameo or perhaps a silk scarf from a Parisian artist. What she found instead took her breath away. She lifted a gold-and-diamond sunburst broach from its nest of cotton. At least twenty smaller diamonds orbited a center stone the size of a robin’s egg. “Is that a diamond?” she gasped.

  “Yes. I hope you like it.” Jackson’s smile stretched across his face. “A factor from Charleston was selling this creation on behalf of his client. Many fine families are losing everything in other parts of the South.”

  “I hope this didn’t belong to a lady I know.” She held the broach in a beam of sunlight, the refraction of colors dazzling with brilliance.

  “Rest assured that you’ll never cross paths with the bauble’s former owner. She’s an elderly South Carolinian who never travels.”

  “Thank you, Jackson. I’ve never seen a lovelier piece of jewelry. But will such extravagance one day cause us hardship like that Charleston matriarch?”

  “That woman’s husband failed to adjust to current circumstances, a man without vision for opportunities during wartime. I don’t sit on my haunches sipping bourbon and lamenting the past each night. My partners and I are poised to reap great profits during the Yankee blockade. By the end of the war, the Henthornes will be richer than any of our friends, perhaps wealthier than anyone in Wilmington.”

  “But what if the Yankees prevail? I’ve heard General Sherman is unstoppable. Despite our noble intentions, the Union army never seems to run out of soldiers.”

  “Win, lose—the final outcome is immaterial. Profits are to be made now.” He pulled on his frock coat and shot his cuffs. “Our wildest dreams are about to come true for you, me, and our new son or daughter. While the South rebuilds, we will travel to Europe and live like kings. My father can run the business here if I leave a reliable foreman in charge. You shall be my queen.”

  Abigail threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, Jackson, you’re so good to me. What have I done to deserve a husband like you?”

  He kissed her forehead tenderly. “You loved and trusted me when I was young and wet behind the ears. You left your home, your parents, and your twin sister and took a chance in a new world. And now my fondest wish is about to come true.” His fingers skimmed her belly.

  “I never regretted my decision.” She stretched up on tiptoes to kiss him. “Please go to church so that the dowagers don’t gossip about the Henthornes.”

  Jackson bowed and went downstairs to the front hall. He would have to sprint to services if Thomas didn’t have the carriage already hitched. But a tardy arrival was of no concern.

  For the first time in months, Abigail felt blissfully content.

  That evening, while Jackson entertained Papa Henthorne in the library and her mother-in-law napped in the best guest suite, Abigail wandered to the front verandah. True to Josie’s information, her sister sat reading a thick, leather-bound volume. “Did you find something interesting in the library?”

  Amanda glanced up. “An interesting tale about the French and Indian War, but James Fenimore Cooper’s style can be tedious. How are you feeling?”

  “Perfectly fine, which you probably deduced at dinner as you and Jackson constantly monitor my food consumption.”

  “Those ribs of beef were delicious. Give my compliments to Salome.”

  Abigail ignored the culinary praise, choosing instead to broach another thorn in her foot. “Jackson ran into Representative Wilkes at church this morning with his lovely wife. Sarah asked him to convey a rather peculiar message to both of us.”

  Amanda’s grip tightened on the binding. “What message could she have for me?”

  Abigail plucked the book from her fingers. “That she’s holding us to our promise of an afternoon call. I found that peculiar because I thought you had fulfilled that obligation.”

  Amanda appeared stricken. “I ended up spending the entire afternoon with Rosalyn Stewart…and her husband.”

  “What would you have to talk about with Judge Stewart?” Assessing her sister’s expression, Abigail added, “And I demand the truth.”

  “I needed his help, and he graciously obliged.”

  “What on earth could he do for you that Jackson couldn’t? Stop evading the question.”

  “Judge Stewart had Nathaniel released from jail by attesting to his loyalty to the Confederacy. He’d been arrested as a draft dodger. Had the judge not intervened, Nate would be in the stockade at Fort Fisher.”

  “Maybe that’s where he belongs,” Abigail hissed between her teeth, hoping no one could hear their conversation.

  “Must I remind you that Jackson never saw the need to enlist?”

  “Everyone knows his work is crucial to the Confederate Cause. The beef and pork he imports feeds thousands of soldiers in General Lee’s army. Nathaniel’s endeavors feed a few dozen ruffians on the docks.”

  “Those ruffians load and unload the blockade runners, or did you think your husband handled that single-handedly too?”
r />   “A point well taken, I suppose.” Abigail shifted uncomfortably, needing to loosen her corset. “Frankly I don’t care whether your beau joins the army or not, but I hope Jackson doesn’t find out you enlisted his friends to bail out Mr. Cooper. You know that Jackson doesn’t like him and would prefer your attentions were directed elsewhere.”

  Amanda tucked an errant curl into her schoolmarm bun. “Do you intend to tell him?”

  “I don’t, because I remember what it was like when others tried to mandate who we loved. Besides, Jackson has more important matters on his mind. However, considering men gossip worse than women, I wouldn’t count on him not finding out.”

  Jackson stood on the wharf for a long while after the Roanoke left the dock, bound for the Atlantic. His ship—his and the Peterson brothers’. What an extraordinary feeling it was to own not one but two fleet steamships capable of outrunning any of the lumbering Yankee gunboats. True to Robert Peterson’s promise, the side-wheelers arrived in port within fourteen days of their momentous meeting at his office.

  The Lady Adelaine had already departed Wilmington loaded with tobacco bound for Bermuda. European markets clamored for American tobacco and would pay dearly. His shortsighted banker had originally balked about the amount of the loan. He felt Henthorne and Sons assets to be worthy of only half the amount. But the mere mention of the banker’s gambling debts garnered the man’s cooperation. And Jackson hadn’t been forced to produce title to the Third Street mansion as collateral. All the better, because risking the roof over his family’s head didn’t sit well with him, especially considering Abigail’s delicate condition. How he longed for a son or daughter, far more than he revealed. Part of their loving union would carry on long after their bleached bones crumbled to dust in the cemetery at Oakdale.

  Consulting his watch in the fading light, Jackson realized he must head to the club if he still wished to be served a meal. New seating for dinner stopped at nine. Abigail and Amanda were dining at the Kendall House with Mrs. Stewart while the judge traveled out of town. What an odd friendship to bloom. The Dunn sisters were young and spirited, whereas Mrs. Stewart was dignified, distinguished, and sixty-five at the very minimum. Perhaps Abigail was preparing to assume her rightful place in Wilmington society.