The Last Heiress Page 3

  “Because that’s where the ballroom is located. Besides, as living quarters it would be suffocating during the summer months even with cross ventilation. This is the South, dear sister.” She fluttered her fan beneath her chin.

  “Yes, of course. I didn’t consider that, but their quarters seem rather cramped—”

  “They have this entire courtyard for socializing.” Abigail spread her arms wide. “Our climate is milder than back home. We stay indoors far less often.”

  At that moment one of the cook’s helpers exited the cabin. Wearing a homespun shift in need of replacing, the young woman plopped down on the stoop with a bowl of peas to shell.

  Amanda’s eyes nearly bugged from her face. “Do you have only slaves here?”

  “Well…yes. They came with the house. They belonged to Jackson’s grandparents.” Abigail felt her forehead bead with perspiration.

  Amanda stammered as though confused. “I knew you lived in the South, yet for some reason I never considered the possibility Jackson’s family would embrace the loathsome practice.”

  “Loathsome? Mama has a fleet of servants paid little beyond room and board. And you travel with your personal maid.” She pointed at the small woman cowering behind a trellis.

  “True enough, but our parents don’t own human beings. Their domestics are free to quit their jobs and seek employment elsewhere.”

  “Abigail?” A voice sounded from behind them. “Why are you and our guest standing in a dusty stable yard while refreshments are waiting on the verandah?” Jackson’s arrival had gone unnoticed during the twins’ tête-à-tête. “And the rest of the staff is eager to make your sister’s acquaintance…as I am.” He bowed gallantly to Amanda. “Miss Dunn, it’s been too long a time.”

  “Mr. Henthorne, I’m pleased to see you again and grateful for your kind hospitality.” Amanda extended her hand.

  While Jackson kissed her hand with great flourish, two slaves stepped forward. “How do, ma’am? Name’s Estelle. I’m maid to Miz Abigail. This here’s Josie. She’s a fast learner and will catch on before you know it.” Both women dropped into the curtsies Abigail had painstakingly taught them.

  “How do you do, Estelle, Josie,” Amanda murmured.

  “Estelle is my maid and Josie shall be yours. She’s a gift to you from Jackson.” Abigail smiled fondly at her husband.

  “Thank you, sir, but that won’t be necessary. My maid, Helene, traveled with me from home.”

  “Then you’ll have two attendants, Miss Dunn. Buying a slave is much like ordering a couture gown—you can’t very well send it back.” Jackson peered down his nose at his guest, his lip curling. “You ladies can work out the details in a more comfortable spot than this. Shall we?” He pointed at the stone path leading around the house.

  “A wonderful idea, I’m dying for something cool to drink.” Hooking her arm through her sister’s, Abigail led the way. “Will you join us, Jackson?”

  “I’m afraid I must return to the office. I’ll see you both at dinner. The dockmaster sent word that the Queen Antoinette had arrived. I wanted to make sure Miss Dunn had a smooth transition into our household.”

  “Thank you for your attention to detail.” Amanda bobbed her head politely, yet she maintained an expression of seasickness that should have abated the moment her feet touched solid ground.

  Two

  Amanda couldn’t nap that afternoon despite being weary to the bone. How could she rest when so many problems demanded her attention? And how could she fall asleep when not one, but two maids watched her every move? There was no place for Helene in the house, and staying in the slave quarters was out of the question. Abigail was correct about the third floor not being an option. One quick jaunt up the back stairs quashed the idea of partitioning off an area in the big entertainment room. The top floor of the mansion was stiflingly hot and airless, even in April. She would have to screen off her sitting room and have a cot brought in.

  The question of Josie presented its own conundrum, but after some thought it was decided that the girl would take care of the washing and ironing, along with cleaning the suite. Helene would feel those tasks beneath her station anyway. America had a different social structure for domestics, not the least of which was purchasing servants.

  Amanda hurried downstairs the moment she heard the bell to signal dinner. After instructing Helene to eat in the kitchen, she entered the dining room and found Jackson and Abigail at the bank of windows.

  “There you are, sister. We thought we would enjoy an aperitif while we waited. Shall we be seated?” Abigail was dressed in yet another elegant gown. “It’ll just be the three of us on your first night, although I must say my friends and Jackson’s family are eager to meet you. We’ve had few visitors from Britain since the war began.”

  Amanda took the chair on Abigail’s right. “I appreciate a quiet evening tonight, but I am eager to meet the elder Mr. Henthorne,” she said, waving off the butler’s offer of champagne.

  “My parents will come to town and dine with us later in the week, but I’m curious as to why you’re anxious to meet my father,” Jackson said as he opened his linen napkin with a sharp snap.

  “I was sent by our father to speak with Mr. Henthorne. Papa appointed me his emissary of sorts—a distinction I hope he won’t live to regret.” Amanda directed her explanation to her sister.

  “But I thought you came to visit me, to see how I’m faring in the new world.” Abigail’s lip protruded in a childlike pout.

  “I did come to see you, Abby, but Papa never would have permitted the journey if he didn’t have an ulterior motive.” Judging by their expressions, the explanation provided little mollification.

  “What ulterior motive did he have in sending you?” Jackson downed his glass of bubbly wine and motioned for a refill.

  Amanda prayed she would find the correct words. She didn’t want to start off her relationship with her brother-in-law on the wrong foot. There had already been a misunderstanding with the maid. “He wishes for me to restore shipping between Wilmington and Manchester. Dunn Mills is desperate for American cotton. There is none better in the world, and Papa’s mills cannot make garments solely out of wool, linen, or silk.” She gratefully sipped the cup of tea a footman provided.

  She had not anticipated Jackson’s reaction. He burst into loud guffaws. “Papa Dunn sent you to transact business on his behalf? Preposterous. Just because you wear cotton garments doesn’t mean you know anything about the material.”

  Abigail leaned forward in her chair. “I know what you’re up to, you sly imp. This was a ruse to get Papa to agree to the trip. What a clever fox you are.”

  Amanda couldn’t help but laugh. “Papa declared I had spunk, and now you deem me a sly fox. I hope I can live up to both appraisals.”

  “Whatever device you used to garner permission is fine by me. I’m overjoyed to see you.” Abigail smiled warmly at her sister as she motioned for dinner to be served.

  Amanda turned to face Jackson. “Please understand that I’ve done more than wear the fabric for the last two months. I trained ten hours a day with the mill’s chief supervisor. Mr. Pelton tutored me on everything having to do with the acquisition of raw materials. He supplied charts on correct pricing in regards to quality and several books on the diseases that affect cotton plants.”

  Jackson’s skepticism didn’t wane. “Perhaps you can speak to my father at some point while you’re here.”

  “With your permission, Jackson, I would like to call at the offices of Henthorne and Sons tomorrow. I wouldn’t want to muddle the weekend dinner with your parents by discussing business.” Amanda fixed a glorious smile on her face in hopes of persuading him.

  He mulled this over for a few moments and then said, “Fine, Miss Dunn. I don’t see what it would hurt. I have appointments in the morning, but you may have Thomas bring you around at eleven. That should work out well. My father and I will expect you then.”

  “Thank you. I’m in you
r debt. Now, if you would be so kind, please call me Amanda. Since we’re related by marriage, I feel it’s proper.”

  Jackson studied her for a moment and then laid his hand atop Abigail’s. “I wish to grant my wife’s sister every courtesy while she’s in Wilmington.”

  “Splendid,” said Abigail. “With that settled, let’s concentrate on this fine meal. I do believe Salome outdid herself.”

  Amanda slept so soundly that night that not even a Chinese gong could have wakened her. Josie wanted to remain on a mat in the alcove, but Amanda insisted she sleep in the woman’s quarters and report after breakfast. One maid, in this case the bewildered Helene, would be sufficient for her evening needs. At breakfast Amanda dined alone in the grand salon. Jackson had already left the house, and Abigail usually took a tray in her room. Josie explained that Miz Henthorne seldom appeared downstairs before noon.

  Amanda wished to discover her new residence for the next couple months and preferred exploring on her own. Her sister lived in a magnificent three-story mansion set on a corner lot, three blocks from the waterfront of the Cape Fear River. Built of some masonry material Amanda had never seen before, the house had tall white columns, second- and third-floor galleries, and a porte cochere. Tall privet hedges surrounded the gardens, providing an oasis within the bustling city. Although her parents’ home was the largest in their area, only the nobility owned anything this opulent in Manchester. Judging by the number of nearby mansions, she felt America must truly be the land of opportunity for enterprising souls.

  The Henthorne servants kept an eye on her as she wandered through the rooms and gardens. She wasn’t sure if they wanted to be helpful or to make sure she didn’t fill her pockets with the silver.

  All things considered, Abigail had married well if the house, number of servants, and quality of meals were any indication. The fact that those servants were slaves irked Amanda no small measure.

  “We best be going, Miz Dunn.” The coachman materialized behind her on the garden path. “Master said your appointment was at eleven.”

  Amanda tried not to cringe at his reference to Jackson as “master.”

  “Thank you, Thomas. I’ll get my shawl and bag.”

  Her bag was a valise filled with records of transactions between Dunn Mills and area cotton factors for the last several years, including recent contracts. She planned to be prepared for her first business meeting, especially as she had reviewed Papa’s list of instructions into the early morning hours. In her austere crepe dress and short jacket, Amanda was as ready as she ever would be.

  Randolph Henthorne rose to his feet when the clerk showed her into his office. “Ah, you must be Miss Dunn. Come in and have a seat. Jackson mentioned you would be honoring me with a call today.” He flourished his hand at his son lounging on the window ledge and then the upholstered chair in front of his desk.

  “Goodness, Amanda. You’re dressed like the head mistress of my old boarding school—the one who used to rap my knuckles with her ruler.” Jackson’s quip met with laughter from the elder Henthorne.

  “Thank you for making time for me during your busy morning, sir.” Then to Jackson she said, “If I’m to be taken seriously as my father’s emissary, I decided to save my frilly gowns for garden parties.” Amanda lowered herself onto the edge of the chair.

  “And indeed you shall be,” said Randolph. “Would you care for coffee or tea?”

  “No, thank you, sir.” She clutched her valise in front of her as though it were a protective shield.

  “Then let me begin by saying I remember your father well. A fine gentleman, George Dunn. He drove a hard bargain, but he was always honest and a man of his word.”

  “Thank you, sir. That’s kind of you to say.” Amanda began to relax slightly in the beautifully appointed office.

  “But why on earth didn’t he come himself instead of sending his daughter? I’m aware of your brother’s death and you have my sympathies, but this is a man’s domain. I don’t care how much studying you’ve done or that you’re dressed like a stern schoolmarm.” Leaning back in his chair, Randolph Henthorne chuckled merrily. “But as you’ve made the trip, I hope you enjoy your visit with my daughter-in-law. And whenever you’re ready for the peace and quiet of the countryside, my wife and I wish to invite you to our plantation, Oakdale, for a few weeks.”

  Amanda’s moment of relaxation vanished. “My father isn’t well, sir, or he would have traveled himself. He thought it crucial for me to represent Dunn Mills on his behalf.”

  Jackson pushed away from the windowsill and approached with a scowl. “You said nothing last night about Abigail’s father being ill.”

  “Papa insists it’s only a cold he cannot shake. He’s probably better by now, but Dunn Mills cannot wait any longer.”

  Jackson crossed his arms. “Then he should have—”

  The elder Henthorne raised his hand, silencing his son. “It’s immaterial what Mr. Dunn should or shouldn’t have done. Abigail’s sister is here now, and we shall make sure her visit is memorable. But regarding the supply of cotton to Manchester?” Randolph’s light blue gaze pinned her much like a butterfly to a display board. “Our hands are tied. The president of the Confederacy has ordered that no shipments shall go to Great Britain, and you’ll not find a factor in Wilmington who will go against his decree. Not one who plans to show his face at any social event this season.” Then he smiled patiently, like a grandfather forced to dispense disappointing news. “There’s a war on in your former colonies, Miss Dunn. Life is nothing like it used to be.” With that, Randolph stood, summarily dismissing her. “But I will inquire with my contacts in Richmond. Maybe progress has been made between our emissaries and Queen Victoria.”

  “Allow me to see you out, Miss Dunn.” Jackson bowed and offered his elbow.

  Amanda took his arm because her knees had gone weak. What had she been thinking? That she would be able to produce her charts and price lists and come to terms before lunch? The elder Henthorne had treated her like a child.

  Jackson walked her to the carriage, bid her a good afternoon, and turned on his heel. For a long minute she stood on the street while the coachman waited, perplexed. “You ’bout ready to go home, Miz Dunn?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve decided to walk back to Third Street.”

  “But why, miss? I got the carriage right here.”

  “Because I wish to tour your lovely city, and what better way than on foot? I remember the route from yesterday.”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. Miz Henthorne might not like you walking alone.”

  “Why not? I’m a grown woman. Please tell my sister I will be home shortly.” To curtail further discussion, Amanda set off at a brisk pace down the street. Once she turned the corner, away from the office of Henthorne and Sons and her sister’s slave coachman, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  Rome wasn’t built in a day. I’m not going back to England until I do my job. With her silent promise made, Amanda’s spirits lifted. She scoured the area, studying the different kinds of merchandise in shop after shop until hunger pangs demanded her attention. However, she had no desire to return to the mansion. In the coming days she would share plenty of luncheons with her sister.

  Spying a sign for Cooper’s Greengrocery, Amanda marched down Water Street and entered the store with a spring in her step.

  “Hullo, Mr. Cooper?” She sang out a greeting when she found the shop empty.

  “Hold your horses. There’s only one of me.” A deep voice echoed from the back room. When the man appeared, he remained hidden behind the stack of crates he was carrying.

  “Excuse me for shouting. I didn’t know if someone was here or not.”

  The shopkeeper placed his crates near the door and turned, his jaw dropping open. “Excuse me, madam. I thought you were one of my regular customers playing sport with me with a phony accent.” Mr. Cooper mimicked a British inflection on his last six words. He pulled off his cap, revealing a head of thick, sandy-brown h
air.

  Amanda took no offence at his pluck, perhaps because the man was rather handsome in a rugged sort of way. “I’m not a regular customer—at least not yet—but I assure you my accent is quite real. Amanda Dunn, sir, new to your fair city from Manchester, England.”

  “I humbly beg your pardon, Mrs. Dunn. Now you’ll believe the rumors true that all Americans are hopeless boors.” He bowed, with less polish than Jackson but with more sincerity.

  “I shall reserve my opinion in that regard, and it’s Miss Dunn. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” With the spunk her father insisted she possessed, Amanda extended her hand.

  Mr. Cooper shook hands as though her fingers might crumble into dozens of pieces. “Nathaniel Cooper, but my friends call me Nate.” He immediately flushed to a bright shade of scarlet.

  Amanda smiled. “I will remember that in case we become friends someday.”

  Nate couldn’t control the dull words issuing from his mouth or his schoolboy blush. “Of course, Miss Dunn. How can I be of service today?” He wiped suddenly damp palms down his apron.

  “I’m visiting America for the first time. Today I’m finding my way around town.” She tugged on the hem of her odd jacket, the likes of which he’d never seen before. Yet despite the fact she was attired in somber gray from neck to ankle, the woman was breathtakingly, heartbreakingly beautiful.

  The longer Nate stared, the larger the boulder in his throat grew. “Do you find our country alien to your tastes?” he asked.

  “As I only arrived yesterday, it’s too soon to tell. I wouldn’t use the term ‘alien’ but instead merely ‘different.’” She smiled as she withdrew a small purse from inside her valise.

  “How so?” Nate asked, wiping down his spotlessly clean counter with a rag.

  “Everything is newer and grander, at least in my sister’s neighborhood. You serve a delicious cup of tea here, but most take it without cream. And your names for things—one would think we spoke two different languages: taxes instead of duties, pickles instead of gherkins, cookies instead of biscuits, privy or water closet instead of loo.” Miss Dunn’s gloved hand flew to her mouth. “Forgive me. That was indiscreet. I don’t know why I’m babbling so much.”