The Last Heiress (11 page)

He stared in confusion. “I saw the dark clothing but didn't put two and two together. I thought your dress was English conservativeness.” He dipped his head respectfully. “My sympathies for
your loss, Miss Dunn, and for Mrs. Henthorne's as well. Did his death come as a shock?”

“To me and Abigail, yes, but probably not to Mama. I didn't recognize my parents' motivation for the trip's urgency.”

“They were protecting you.”

“While robbing me of a…of a chance to say goodbye.” Amanda shook away the moisture stinging her eyes and drew in a deep, sustaining breath. “Let's not dwell on my loss, please. Life is full of events beyond our control, but your discomfort in my sister's home should not be one of them.” She reached for his hand. “I apologize and promise it never will be repeated if you will accept my friendship once more.”

Nathaniel's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “There is nothing to forgive. If you want a friend who's never heard of escargot, I offer my services with pleasure.”

They shook hands a bit longer than necessary. “I'm glad that's settled—a weight has been lifted. Could we share lunch soon, perhaps next week? I promise not to pack snails.”

“I would be honored, Miss Dunn.”

She reached for a cluster of parsnips as Helene entered the store. “I must hear why one uncomfortable dinner became ‘the worst night of your life.'”

“No need to wait until next week. I had wanted you to like me more than anything. And I reckoned I had a better chance of swimming to France to see that new tower everyone is talking about.”

“On one of those prospects you have succeeded.” Amanda placed coins on the counter and pivoted on her heel. She grabbed Helene by the arm and hurried from the shop. Her confidence had waned, yet she felt confident that in the verbal battle of wills, she had prevailed.

Abigail stretched languidly like a cat and rose to her elbows. The nap had done her good. Her headache was gone, along with the strange queasiness she'd experienced during breakfast. Lately she hadn't been able to stand the sight of poached eggs. When she could tolerate eggs at all, they needed to be cooked to death the way most Americans preferred. Perhaps by the time she reached old age, she would have developed a slow drawl and a preference for grits over porridge. She picked up her book and went in search of a cool spot to read with Estelle trailing at her heels. Yet under the shade of an ancient live oak, Abigail hadn't read a chapter when Jackson broke her concentration.

“Amos said I would find you here.” He brushed a kiss across her forehead. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes. Splendid, in fact. Better than I have felt in weeks.” Lifting her legs to the ottoman, she fluffed her voluminous skirt around her ankles. “What brings you home at midday?”

“I'm on my way to the docks, but I was worried about you. Salome said you haven't been eating much at breakfast or lunch. At dinner you barely touched the fine ham my father sent from the country.”

“Salome is a tattletale. There's nothing to be concerned about.”

Jackson peered into the shadows of the garden. “Where is your sister? Has she gone to pay afternoon calls without you?”

“No. According to Salome, she went shopping with Helene.” Estelle appeared with a tray of lemonade and handed her a glass.

Jackson waved off the lemonade. “What kind of shopping? I thought you instructed Salome to return to Baxter's.” He wrinkled his nose as if smelling something foul.

“I believe new gloves were the object of my sister's desire.” Abigail took a sip of her cold drink.

“Why on earth would she take Helene as though they were school chums off on holiday? She could have sent her maid on
the errand, or if something required her presence, then Helene should have assisted with chores around here.” He paced back and forth on the flagstone path.

“Goodness, Jackson. Are you piqued that Amanda took Helene to town? Perhaps she enjoys the woman's company or didn't wish to carry the
heavy
parcel herself.” She chuckled despite her husband's agitation.

He came to perch on the edge of her chaise. “It's not solely about today's excursion. Amanda treats Helene far too grandly for a maid. Did you know that when you take breakfast on a tray in your room, she invites Helene to dine with her as though they are equals? Don't tell me that would have gone on back home at Dunncliff Manor.”

“No, certainly not. Helene would eat in the servants' hall with the other maids and footmen.”

“Yet Amanda comes into my house and upsets the established order.”

Abigail sobered instantly, realizing the extent of her husband's displeasure. “Forgive me, Jackson. Have I been lax or neglectful in other ways too?”

“Not in the least.” He took both her hands in his. “But how does it look to the slaves when this maid sleeps in a private alcove, comes and goes as she pleases, and doesn't do a lick of work not directly related to your sister? Which, I might add, cannot be very taxing because I purchased Josie for her.”

Abigail swung her legs off the chair. “I will speak to Amanda about Helene's preferential treatment. But you know her opinion of slavery. I've given her a wide breadth until now to not ruffle her feathers.”

Jackson reflected for a moment. “You forget, wife, that I have been to Dunncliff Manor. Amanda judges us harshly, yet her parents have a dozen on staff who are paid a mere pittance beyond
room and board. Their cold rooms contain stark furnishings, with two or three occupants per room. And the meals? Hodgepodge stews and soups from uneaten leftovers from upstairs. Those workers barely own one set of clothes for Sundays in addition to their uniforms. All of that sounds little different than life here in Wilmington, wouldn't you agree?”

“Goodness, Jackson. How long has this been simmering inside you?” She patted his hand affectionately.

“Apparently for longer than I realized. Forgive me for speaking plainly, but I've heard your sister making comments to Salome, Amos, and Josie—things she has no business saying. I don't want her stirring up trouble where none exists.”

“I doubt that is what she's trying to do. Amanda has always been opinionated and headstrong. But I will speak to her about Helene and reach some sort of compromise. We can't make her maid sleep with strangers in the slave quarters, but she will eat in the kitchen and at least help with the laundry and ironing.”

Jackson scrubbed his face with his hands. “I shouldn't involve myself with what is your domain, but I have held my tongue around your sister too many times to count. Amanda is so…unlike you.”

“That is such a paradox. To look at us, one would think we're mirror images, yet the longer people know us, presumed similarities disappear. We've always been different as night from day. You have every right to express your displeasure with the household, Jackson, but please attempt to like my sister. She won't be here forever, and I so enjoy her company.”

“I will try. I would do that and more for you—anything in fact.” He stood and straightened his coat. “I'm dining in town tonight. I called a meeting of the cotton factors. Ships are leaving port on a regular basis now on a course for Bermuda.”

“I'm pleased for you.”

Jackson kissed her lips tenderly and took the walkway to the street at a brisk pace. Abigail settled back to wait for Amanda and Helene's return. She had lost her place in the book she'd been reading because her thoughts kept drifting to one perfect possibility: Her monthly was again two weeks late. Considering her nausea during the early morning hours, hope flamed anew for what had eluded them thus far—a baby. But she would say nothing, not to Estelle or Amanda, and certainly not to Jackson. Her patient husband had been disappointed too many times. She would wait until his son or daughter was ready to make a noisy entrance before she admitted the truth. In the meantime she would hope and pray and let nothing vex her.

Rousing from another nap an hour later, Abigail overheard female voices on the porch and hurried to intercept them. “Amanda, may I have a word with you before you go upstairs?”

Her sister was pink cheeked from her jaunt up the hill in the bright sunshine. “Of course, Abby. Are you feeling better?”

“I am, thank you. Let's talk for a moment.” She pointed to chairs in the shade.

“I'll see you upstairs, Miss Amanda.” After a cursory nod in Abigail's direction, Helene turned to leave.

“Just a moment, Helene. Where are you going?”

“She usually naps in the late afternoon when I do,” said Amanda. “I'm afraid your Carolina heat and humidity have wreaked havoc on our stamina.”

“But your maid is needed this afternoon in the laundry. I'm afraid there's a frightful amount of bed linens to be pressed.”

“Of course, Mrs. Henthorne. I'll see to it at once.” Helene curtsied and vanished down the steps into the garden.

Amanda lifted her chin but remained silent. It was a pose Abigail was familiar with.

“I must insist that your maid tend to housework when you
don't need her, and that she dines in the kitchen or courtyard with the other servants. It's unseemly that she takes her meals in the morning room. It doesn't set a good example for the rest of the staff.”

Amanda pursed her lips. “Do you mean the slaves? I doubt they see much connection between Helene and themselves.”

Abigail plucked a spent bloom from a potted plant. “But that's just it. They
should
see a connection and so should she. Please maintain my household's equilibrium.”

Amanda turned pale as watered milk. “This doesn't sound like you, Abby. Helene's activities haven't concerned you a bit since we arrived. Are these your husband's requests, but he sent you to soften the impact of their delivery?”

She pulled a sour face. “Whether they originated with me or not is immaterial. Jackson is my husband and this is his home. All that you see is his, handed down from several generations of Henthornes. Please, dear sister, show him the respect he deserves.”

Amanda staggered back a step. “Of course. It was thoughtless of me not to recognize and implement these changes on my own. I beg your pardon.” She gazed down at the porch floor.

“I knew you would understand.” Abigail brushed Amanda's cheek with a kiss. “Let's not speak another word about it. I'll see you at dinner. We're having a leg of lamb. Isn't that one of your favorites?” She turned and entered the house with a lighter heart.
So good to have that unpleasant business over with.

Five

N
ate swept the floor, dusted the shelves, and wiped down the countertop for the third time. He'd sold the last of his rice, millet, and barley to nuns from the nearby convent. Then he divided the last of his smoky venison between two matrons who had eyed the same slab of meat. Yet it wasn't his dwindling inventory of goods that made him unable to stand still.

Today Amanda would bring a reconciliatory hamper to share for lunch, and he felt like a man awaiting his fate at the gallows. Part of him yearned to fasten the shutters and hang a sign that said “Closed Until Further Notice,” but the brave half of his personality urged him on, spurred by one undeniable fact: Miss Dunn knew he wasn't a man of means, yet she still wished to restore their friendship. Surely that gave him reason to hope that something permanent might develop.