The Last Heiress (17 page)

Amanda skipped down the street, feeling lighter than air until she ducked under the wisteria-covered arbor into the garden. Only then did the late hour and the likelihood that her ruse had been discovered sour her mood. Creeping silently along the hedgerow, she spied on the slaves eating, chatting, and finishing evening chores in the back courtyard. Her sole chance for an unseen entry was through the front foyer, unless her sister happened to be sewing in the parlor. The weaknesses in her plan loomed large as Amanda opened the door and stepped inside. Finding no one afoot in the front public rooms, she tiptoed upstairs and down the hall to her suite. Once inside the overly warm room, she let out her pent-up breath with a rush.

“Ah, there you are, at last.” Abigail's musical voice drifted from the open gallery doorway. “I practically dozed off waiting for you to return. Shakespeare's sonnets may be more enjoyable in the winter. This heat makes me drowsy.” She smiled and stretched like a cat.

“Good evening, Abby. I hope you weren't concerned unnecessarily.” Amanda crossed the floor toward the open French doors, tugging off her gloves along the way. She tossed her broad-brimmed hat on the bed.

“
Unnecessarily
? Certainly not. It's perfectly normal to worry when a loved one takes ill and is neither seen nor heard from for hours.” Abigail's features were perfectly composed.

Amanda spotted Helene sewing in the corner. The young woman looked anxious. Her other maid fidgeted on a stool by Abigail. “Helene, please go down to supper. I'm sure a few turns around the garden will do you good too.”

Abigail tapped the slave's arm with her fan. “Josie, bring a tray of tea and sandwiches here to the gallery, and then you are dismissed for the evening as well.”

Amanda pulled a chair close to her sister as soon as the women departed. “I'm sorry I deceived you today. Truly, I am.”

Abby waited for additional explanation. When it didn't come, she said, “I can only surmise you had an errand I might disapprove of or were meeting someone in that same category.”

Amanda focused briefly on the embellished plaster ceiling above their heads. “The latter is the case. I met Mr. Cooper for lunch. He packed a hamper for a picnic.”

Abby's mouth formed the letter
O
. “The shopkeeper? I assumed after that disastrous dinner party, you would have realized his unsuitability.”

“I realized that Mr. Cooper wasn't comfortable at formal gatherings, but he's another man altogether in less formal settings.”

“How so?” Abby arched an eyebrow.

“He's charming and witty and a good storyteller. It's been a long time since I've laughed so hard or enjoyed myself more.” Amanda shifted uneasily.

“That doesn't reflect well on my company.”

“I beg your pardon, sister. I meant in a man's company.” Blood rushed to her face.

“And where was this congenial atmosphere conducive to Mr. Cooper putting his best foot forward?”

“Nate hired a carriage. We took the beach road south and then turned onto the river road. It was quite beautiful along the Cape Fear once we left the city. We found a nice spot to picnic and wade into the water up to our—”

Abby curtailed the narrative with a wave of her hand. “You left the city, with a shopkeeper, without telling anyone where you were going?”

The question hung in the humid air as Josie bustled in with the tea tray. The girl set it on the low table, bobbed a curtsey, and hurried to the gallery stairs.

“Which of those three facts upsets you more?” Amanda tried to tamp down her rising irritation.

Abby filled both cups with tea. “The last one, I suppose. If you hadn't turned up, Jackson and I wouldn't have known where to start looking for you. Even if Mr. Cooper is a trustworthy man, the two of you could have been robbed by army deserters.” She nibbled on a sandwich from the tray.

“I had less than a dollar in coins in my purse. And Mr. Cooper doesn't strike me as the sort who would carry a fat billfold full of currency.” Amanda sipped her tea.

“Vagabond soldiers would take your horse and carriage, you goose. Deserters from Fort Fisher would cut any throat to get away from the seacoast. You keep forgetting there is a war on.”

“You're right. Because I'm not American, I do have a tendency to forget that.” Amanda reached for a soft cheese sandwich. Lunch seemed like ages ago. “I won't venture beyond the city limits again, at least not without telling you.”

Abby peered at her as though attempting to decipher a difficult secret code. “You plan to see this storekeeper again?”

Amanda's nerves began to fray. “Yes, I do. As I explained, I enjoy his company. I've never had a male friend and we get along famously. But why do you insist on referring to him by his vocation? You don't identify Jackson as a tobacco and cotton broker or Papa as a mill owner. You refer to them by name. So kindly call him Mr. Cooper while I refer to him as Nate.”

Abby sniffed with indignation. “What would Papa and Mama say about your cavorting with Mr. Cooper?” Suddenly, she covered her mouth with her hand. “Goodness, I forgot that Papa is gone. It's hard to remember when so many miles separate us from home.”

Amanda reached over to squeeze her arm. “I know. I often think about what I'll say to him when I return, but he won't be there. Maybe that's why I'm eager to get to know Nate. Papa ruled with a firm hand. He tried to marry me off to the village vicar or one of his widowed friends several times—someone staid and respectable.”

“You no longer wrapped Papa around your little finger?” Abby twirled a lock of hair between her fingers.

“That's what you recall? Dear sister, no one manipulated our father, certainly not Mama or me.”

“Don't rewrite history. I was there growing up. You were Papa's favorite. Alfred might have been heir because he was male, but
sweet
Amanda was the apple of his eye.” Her sister's chin jutted out and her eyes squinted. For a moment Abby resembled the snappish teenager from one of their sisterly arguments. “You could do no wrong, while I seldom escaped his wrath. I was such a disappointment to him.”

With the scab torn from an old wound, Amanda's heart swelled with pity. “You're right. I learned to say what he wanted to hear and act in a ladylike fashion. Papa didn't like women or young girls with spirit. But after you left with Jackson, I also fell from favor.” Amanda paused to collect her thoughts and tamp down sorrow inching up her throat. “He realized he couldn't control his daughters, not as long as we had the ability to fall in love. He knew I too would eventually marry and escape his domain, leaving only Mama under his thumb.”

For several minutes they sat quietly in the growing darkness. On the street the clatter of horse hooves and steel wheels on cobblestones provided the only sound. “That's why you came—not to see me but to escape from his authority?”

“I came to win his favor, to prove I could be as viable an heir as Alfred would have been. It wasn't until I slipped the yoke did
I realize how strangled I'd been. But I truly did yearn to see how my sister fared in the new world.” Amanda squeezed her hand.

Abigail reared back as though bit by a snake. “But I wasn't your priority.”

“I didn't know how much I'd missed having a sister until I got here, Abby. Mama still hopes I can convince you to come home—with Jackson, of course—so our family can be together again.”

Abby drained her teacup. “Don't be ridiculous. My husband will never leave Wilmington. His family, his work, his life are here. And thus my life is here. Jackson loves me exactly how I am. I'm not second-best to anyone. He doesn't make impossible demands on me like Papa. And because I love him, I have no desire to keep secrets.” She set down her cup and stood. “I intend to tell him about your escapade today—not to punish you, but because Jackson has a right to know what goes on in his house.”

Amanda chose her words carefully. “I respect your decision, but you should understand that now that I'm out from Papa's control I plan to enjoy my freedom. Maybe that's why I'm intrigued by the
shopkeeper.
I wasn't allowed to make friends among those socially beneath us. I don't care about those standings now.”

“You'll care about your reputation and those standings once you are back in England.”

“Maybe so, but in the meantime I want to go where my heart leads me.”

“Very well, but let's have no more deception while you're my guest. Josie came to me rather upset. You placed her in a difficult position by expecting her to keep silent. She knows that one day you'll board a ship and sail away with Helene. She will be left behind working for Jackson and me. Please don't make life harder for her.”

Nate hooked his long apron on its peg and blew out the lamp that hung over his worktable. It had been a long day. A steady stream of customers promised decent profits for the week, but it also meant less time replaying in his mind the delightful hours spent with Amanda. Staying busy may be good for a man's hands and mental state, but when the bell jangled to signal more customers, Nate sent them away.

“Sorry, I'm closed for the day,” he called. “I'll be open tomorrow by eight.” He pulled on his coat with a frown. No second bell chime indicated that his tardy customer had left. Stepping from the back room, Nate saw a man leaning against a stack of grain sacks. “May I help you, sir? Do you need directions or assistance of some sort?”

The man turned, his face partially obscured by a hat brim. “As I live and breathe, it really is you!” he exclaimed.

His voice sounded vaguely familiar, yet Nate couldn't place him. His rough-spun clothes and long duster coat provided little identification. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I apologize if we were previously introduced.”

“Mason. Mason Hooks from Balsam. Don't ya 'member me, Nate?” He yanked off his dirty felt hat.

Despite the fact he was thirty pounds thinner, bearded, and sallow-faced, Nate indeed recognized his old childhood friend from the mountains. A man he thought most likely would be dead by now. “Mason, of course. How are you?” Nate asked, slapping him on the back.

“I had a rough patch, but things are lookin' up these days.” Mason's smile revealed several missing teeth. “Got me a job offloading ships that come in. Make a good daily wage, more money than I seen in a week back home.”

“That's not hard to imagine. Back in the hills we had plenty of whitetails, squirrels, and pretty sunsets, but not much that would
put a pair of new leather boots on a man's feet.” Nate extracted his hand before Mason pumped his arm from the socket.

“Heard there was a mercantile owner named Cooper on this block. And I also heard tell you came to Wilmington dead set on opening a store. I put two and two together and thought I'd have a look-see.”

“I'm glad you did. Do you like coffee? I could reheat some on the woodstove.” Nate opened the door on the stove to stir the coals.

“They pour a fine pint down at Flannigan's at a fair price. What say we git something stronger if 'n you're done for the day here.”

“Does that establishment sell anything besides spirits—coffee or tea maybe?” Nate felt himself flush. “I don't imbibe, not since it killed my father.”

“I just see men drink whiskey or beer. It ain't no teahouse.” He laughed good-naturedly. “But your coffee sounds fine by me. Why don't we pull up a chair?”

“There's a good spot out back where we could catch a breeze. Take those stools out and I'll be right with you.” Nate pointed toward the door. A few minutes later he carried the pot of coffee and some of Ruth's homemade molasses cookies outdoors.

Mason sat by the low stone wall behind the row of shops. He'd already removed his coat and hat. In the harbor, tall masts bobbed with the current as ships moved in and out. “Good location to set up shop. You doin' all right?”

“Can't complain. I'm not getting rich, but I pay my bills on time.”

Mason scratched at a crusty scab. “Story I heard was your pap hanged himself in the barn not two years after your ma died. That musta been a sorry site to behold.” He shook his head.