The Last Heiress Read online

  But with the war only a day’s ride away, now wasn’t the time to plan a future. And with the blockade curtailing his supply of merchandise and inflation eroding whatever money he set aside, he was in no position to take a wife.

  What should a man do when the woman of his dreams walked into his life? Tell her to come back later when the timing was better? So Nate polished his stools with lemon oil and spread a lace cloth across the counter. After all, God wouldn’t bring his perfect mate along unless He had a few miracles in mind.

  At half past one, Amanda strolled through the door wearing a straw hat with a big green bow and an even bigger smile. “Am I too late? Have you already eaten?” She walked up the aisle carrying a huge basket covered with a checkered cloth. “I couldn’t get away until Jackson left for his office and my sister lay down for a nap. Jackson was cloistered all morning with his father in the library discussing business.” She set the basket on the counter.

  Nate felt a pin burst the bubble of his grandiose plans. “No, I haven’t had lunch yet, but I don’t like the idea of you sneaking out to meet me, Miss Dunn. I don’t wish to cause friction between you and your family.”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about. I am a twenty-two-year-old woman, practically a spinster by American standards. I evaded them because I didn’t want to offer an explanation about my activities, not because I was ashamed of them. Part of my reason for coming to America was to enjoy a bit of adventure. And I daresay discussing remedies for colicky babies or sewing projects for the church guild doesn’t qualify.” Amanda winked one sparkling brown eye.

  “Does visiting my store quality?” He pulled out her chair.

  “Yes, it does. Perhaps I’ll become even more reckless the longer I’m here, but for now you will have to do.” She unloaded slices of ham and bread, sliced tomatoes, pickled eggs, and a jar of cider from the hamper, along with plates and forks.

  He chose not to ask how she managed to remove such a bounty from the house unnoticed. Perhaps the food shortage in North Carolina had little effect on the Henthornes. “Why don’t you tell me the reason for the voyage, other than to satisfy your quest for adventure? You’ve relayed only dribs and drabs thus far.”

  Amanda folded a piece of bread to make a half-sized sandwich while Nate made a much bigger one. “My father owns several textile mills outside Manchester on the western coast. We’ve enjoyed a brisk business with the Wilmington factors until a year ago. Then the supply of cotton began to dwindle, along with the ability for Dunn Mills to turn a profit. We have hundreds of employees dependent on the resumption of regular trade. If I’m not able to restore that, I’ll be the last heiress in my family.”

  The notion that Jackson had run off with the village seamstress, rather than with a rich man’s daughter, had fit better into his fantasy, as unlikely as that was. “Because your father was ill, he sent you to restore the flow of cotton. Have you no brother? Is Mrs. Henthorne your sole sibling?”

  “We had a brother, but he was killed in a horrible accident. Coal was being extracted everywhere in the area. One of our mills had been built atop a mine; its shaft deep into the earth became a handy convenience.” She swallowed hard. “Unfortunately the supports could no longer withstand the weight. Without warning the floor caved in, killing dozens of workers including my brother. According to survivors, Alfred could have freed himself, but he was trying to dig out others when a second collapse claimed his life.”

  “Do you think the owner’s son shouldn’t have intervened to save lowly workers?”

  She blanched. “Not at all, but the constable felt the others had died instantly, making my brother’s death senseless.”

  “Forgive me, Miss Dunn. That was a cruel thing for me to say in light of your loss.”

  “No, I often question my motives in wishing Alfred hadn’t stayed behind. But in the end everyone must behave in keeping with their personal moral code.”

  “Do you believe in predestination—that at the moment we are born our destiny is determined, including the circumstances of our birth, who we marry, what tribulations we suffer, and ultimately how and when we die?”

  Amanda didn’t answer immediately. She chewed a bit of her sandwich as though chewing the idea in her mind and then set the food down. “I suppose so, but I also believe God gives us free will. Then we’re eventually judged on what we did with the choices given us.”

  “God gives us enough rope to hang ourselves with?”

  “If that’s what it takes to learn our lessons, then yes. The more a person examines the circumstances of their life, the more they realize someone other than them is in control. There’s too much serendipity, too many coincidences.”

  Nate yearned to ask about the serendipity of their meeting but didn’t dare. “At least your trip to Wilmington allowed for a visit with your sister. She hasn’t been home since her marriage?”

  Amanda shook her head. “I suspect Jackson wouldn’t permit it for fear Abigail wouldn’t come back. And knowing that my father despised him for sneaking around behind his back, he refused to accompany her to England.”

  “‘Despise’ is a strong word. I’m sure Mr. Dunn regretted any words uttered in haste.”

  “Perhaps. I hope Papa came to terms with Abigail’s newfound happiness in America. But Jackson married her without letting us participate in her wedding. Abby packed a bag of traveling clothes, left a letter for Mama, and boarded the next clipper. It was as though Jackson stole something valuable from my father.” Her smile was brief and unconvincing.

  “A woman isn’t a personal possession.”

  “True, but Abby was just a girl of seventeen, not a woman. Jackson was far more worldly and sophisticated at twenty-three. Abigail and I had been sheltered and protected, and we were ignorant of willful men. After she left, I continued to remain sheltered, probably more so.” Amanda picked up her sandwich with both hands. “Listen to me ramble on. Life has turned out well for my sister. Judging by what I’ve seen, Jackson is a devoted husband. I’m sure Abby hasn’t a single regret other than not saying goodbye to Papa.”

  “Mrs. Henthorne isn’t alone with that particular cross to bear.” Nate regretted his admission as soon as the words left his mouth.

  “Do you share that particular burden, Mr. Cooper? Did your father pass after you’d left to make your fortune on the seacoast?”

  “No, his death was the reason I came. Nothing remained for me in those lonely hills. But I won’t let you change the subject to my uneventful life. Continue the saga of your grand adventure. After you booked passage on a ship, were you forced to keep seafarers at bay with a broadsword and hidden pistol?” Nate finished his sandwich in another three bites.

  “I didn’t travel alone. My maid accompanied me. And the distinguished captain made sure none of his crew came within ten paces of us. We dined at his table along with the first mate. The captain roped off a section of deck for our private use during fair weather, but we remained in our cabin most of the time. It was oppressively dull but truly nonthreatening.”

  “You have a maid who serves only you?”

  “Well, yes. Helene is a widow. She agreed to travel because she yearned to see America.”

  He brushed crumbs from the counter onto his freshly swept floor. “What exactly does someone like that do? I trust it’s not cooking or scrubbing pots.”

  “Helene helps me dress for the day or evening, fixes my hair, and tends to my wardrobe. She’s also a skilled seamstress and sews any clothes not ordered from abroad.”

  “Randolph Henthorne is the most prestigious factor in North Carolina. So your job is little more than mending family fences with your brother-in-law. To be restored to the family’s good graces, Jackson merely has to make sure cotton finds its way to England. You can sip tea on your sister’s verandah while Jackson and his father take care of the details.”

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  Nate wished the pine floor would open and swallow him whole. “Forgive me,
Miss Dunn. That’s the problem when two classes of people attempt to find common ground. Covetous envy rears its head, exposing me for the shallow, jealous man I am.”

  “You’re not shallow, Mr. Cooper. And unfortunately envy is a natural human emotion whether one is rich or poor. But that’s not why I took exception to your conclusion. I intend to stand on my own two feet as my father’s emissary. True, my brother-in-law would prefer to take control and do all of the work, but I won’t allow it. My father had faith in me or he wouldn’t have sent me. I hope to repay his confidence by restoring Dunn Mills to its former productivity, and that entails conducting business with other factors besides Henthorne and Sons. I yearn for a challenging career, as unlikely as that sounds. My mother has spent her entire life a pampered woman. She controls nothing in her future. That responsibility has been left in my hands.”

  He refilled their glasses from the jar of cider. “Let’s drink to good fortune in your endeavors, but I’m curious about something else you said.”

  Amanda clicked his glass and drank deeply. “What else intrigued you about my life story?”

  “You said that everyone falls prey to jealousy and envy. In your case I find that hard to believe. And I say that with full respect and admiration.”

  Her sunny expression vanished. “You would be surprised what things a rich little girl falls asleep praying for.”

  “Where to, Master Henthorne? Your office or the club?”

  “Neither, Thomas. Take me to the docks. It’s high time I learned the state of affairs in Wilmington.”

  During the short ride downtown, Jackson mulled over how much his father’s languor had cost the company. If their financial future was to be salvaged, swift and decisive measures must be taken.

  “Anywhere in particular along the waterfront, sir?” Thomas braked hard on the steep decline to river level.

  “I’m not sure. Park the rig anywhere on Water Street and I’ll walk.”

  Once Thomas tied up the horse in the shade, he handed Jackson his walking stick. “I’d better come with you, Master Henthorne. A rough sort hangs by the docks, not quality folk like you’re used to.”

  “No, stay with the horse and carriage. I’ve lived in this town my whole life. I won’t hide behind my slave from a pack of hooligans.” Nevertheless, Jackson tucked a silver pistol into his belt under his frock coat.

  He had heard about the influx of foreigners since the start of the war. Sailors on the blockade runner Kate had carried in yellow fever two summers ago with their coffee and spices, and three hundred souls went to an early grave before the disease had run its course. But seeing the strange assortment of people huddled in alleys, loitering in the doorways of seedy taverns, or accompanied by painted women gave Jackson an entirely different perspective. He had lived as sheltered a life as Abigail, who read sonnets and sipped tea behind garden walls.

  But the site catching and holding his attention wasn’t the dock dwellers. Several large steam vessels were tied up alongside the regular bevy of clipper ships and fishing boats. Obviously, ships were getting through the Union naval blockade despite his father’s erroneous assumptions. Jackson wasted no time making his way up the gangway of a large side-wheeler.

  “Say there, my good man, may I have a word with you?” Jackson addressed a motley-looking crewman in the filthiest clothes he had ever seen.

  “What can I do fer ya, guv’na?” The sailor spoke with an almost incomprehensible Cockney accent—one so divergent from his wife’s or Miss Dunn’s that he felt they couldn’t possibly share a country of origin.

  “May I board and speak with your captain?” Jackson extracted his business card from a silver case. “If you would be so kind to say Jackson Henthorne of Henthorne and Sons—”

  “Save your breath, guv’na.” The sailor spat over the railing into the Cape Fear River. “You can come aboard all you like, but the captain ain’t here.” He wiped his nose with his sleeve.

  Jackson struggled not to betray his revulsion. “May I know his name and his whereabouts?”

  “I could be persuaded to tell ya that.” The sailor mimicked his accent with derision.

  It took Jackson several moments to deduce the implication before he flipped the man a gold coin.

  Catching the money in midair, the cretin slipped it into a pocket within the blink of an eye. “Captain Elias Hornsby. You’ll find him at Flannigan’s. He ain’t no Irishman, but he does like a good stout.” He pointed toward a row of buildings that never would have garnered much attention.

  Jackson turned on his heel and marched down the gangway, the coin being his only expression of gratitude. When he located the pub called Flannigan’s by way of a badly lettered sign, his hand caressed the pistol with a wave of relief. Dimly lit and hazy from whale oil lamps, the establishment reeked of unwashed bodies, cigar smoke, and fish entrails. Entering the tavern, he strode purposely toward the bar lest he appear as out of place as he felt.

  The barkeep approached with a dirty apron and a dirtier rag over his shoulder. “What’ll it be?” His heavy brogue indicated he most likely was Mr. Flannigan.

  “Whiskey—the best you’ve got—for you, me, and my friends.” Jackson nodded to the men on his left and right.

  Once drinks were poured, toasts made, and the fiery spirits downed, Jackson queried in a soft voice. “Could either of you gentlemen point out Captain Elias Hornsby of the Countess Marie?”

  The sailor on his right squinted at him with watery eyes. “Maybe we can, maybe we can’t. What’s your business? You ain’t here for the boiled beef and cabbage.”

  The barkeep and nearby patrons broke into raucous laughter.

  “I’m the most successful factor in these parts, representing resin producers from all over North Carolina. Cotton and tobacco fills my warehouses as well, since the blockade closed the Savanah cotton exchange for all practical purposes. My name is Jackson Henthorne.” He offered his hand.

  His soliloquy met with a second, more subdued round of guffaws.

  The man stared at his hand and then shrugged his shoulders. “Where you been, Mr. Henthorne? Away at college studying up on history or philosophy? If you was the largest factor in these parts, I would’ve met ya by now.”

  Jackson felt a flush climb his neck into his face, but considering the smoke and poor light, his embarrassment probably went unnoticed. “I did go away to college for a year but didn’t care for it—too much memorizing worthless information.” With a gesture, he indicated a refill of everyone’s glasses. “I recently took over management of my father’s company. Since he’s…trapped in the old ways…he hasn’t kept abreast of changes in the economic climate of the South. I intend to rectify that.” Jackson lifting his chin imperiously, downed the whiskey in one swallow, and fought the impulse to gag. “I want to speak to the captain of that steamer in port. He and I may be able to do business.” He glanced around the room in an attempt to narrow his choices among the patrons.

  After a moment the sailor on his right flicked his finger, and the nearby loiterers wandered away, including the drunk on Jackson’s left. Even the esteemed Mr. Flannigan sauntered down to the other end of the bar. “I’m Elias Hornsby. Charmed to make yer ’quaintance.” He offered his none-too-clean hand.

  Jackson shook it, hiding his shock that this gap-toothed ruffian would be at the helm of an expensive ship. “The pleasure is mine, sir. May I ask what kind of goods you recently brought into port?” He judiciously lowered his voice to a whisper.

  Hornsby eyed him slyly. “Whatever folks want and are willing to pay for. Wine and champagne from France; fancy cheeses and smoked meats; wool uniforms for those Reb boys of your’n, sewed by the hardworking folks of Yorkshire; muskets, cannon shot, and gunpowder from Germany. Don’t make no difference to me.” He picked up his mug of stout, took a drink, and grimaced. “This haul was mostly sides of salted beef, smoked pork, and coffee. Bobby Lee’s troops can’t seem to get enough meat and coffee. Don’t know if those boys ever get a spu
d or chunk of bread.”

  Jackson seethed from Hornsby’s cavalier reference to the leader of the Confederate army. “Soldiers need to eat, and farmers can’t supply the demand with the Yankees tearing up their fields.”

  “You not catch the bug to sign up and fight, Henthorne?”

  Jackson’s spine arched like a startled cat at both the informal address and the inference he may be a coward. But calling out Captain Hornsby wouldn’t advance his purposes. “When my brother enlisted, I was needed at home to oversee family interests.”

  Hornsby nodded and swept his cap from his head. His hair looked surprisingly clean for a man in deplorable clothes. “I never could understand fightin’ for noble causes myself, not when makin’ money is much more satisfyin’.” His grin revealed a gold tooth, giving him a roguish mien.

  “I discern from your dialect that you are British, sir. Yet I noticed the Confederate Stars and Bars flying from your halyard.”

  “That President Lincoln in Washington said British smugglers would be hung if caught by his gunboats. He called us a pack of pirates. That’s why we fly the Rebel flag. That way he gotta take us as prisoners of war instead.” Hornsby ran his fingers through his grizzled beard. “Not that I would relish that idea none.”

  “So you are English.” Jackson needed confirmation of the obvious.

  “I am, from Liverpool.”

  “I have a warehouse of cotton that needs to go to Manchester. Dunn Mills will accept the entire load, along with as much as I can arrange in the future. Would you be interested in such a consignment? And would you be able to slip through the Yankee blockade?”

  Hornsby looked over at the barkeep. “Flannigan, more whiskey, and add it to Henthorne’s bill.” His gold tooth flashed again in the lamplight. “I’m still here listening to ya, ain’t I? This might be your first visit to the docks, but it sure ain’t mine. I’ve run ’tween Bermuda, Nassau, and Liverpool plenty in the last two years. And Admiral Porter’s slow boats ain’t caught me yet.” He lifted his refilled glass in toast. “But whether or not I’ll risk my neck for your cotton depends on the price—and what you want me to haul back here. I sure ain’t running the Atlantic without cargo for the return trip.”