The Last Heiress (27 page)

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.

Pivoting on his heel, Jackson headed toward Market Street at a brisk pace. However, he didn't get far before four bushy derelicts stepped into his path from the alley between warehouses.

“What's the big hurry, guv'na?” One gap-toothed giant spoke with a strong Irish brogue.

Jackson bristled at the audacious lack of respect. “I hurry because there is some place I wish to be,” he said with feigned sincerity.

“I'm thinkin' you're gonna be a tad late.” This observation came from a scrawny wastrel who accompanied his comment with a sharp jab to Jackson's shoulder.

“See here, you drunkard. If you don't crawl back to the gutter, I'll have you clamped into chains and leg irons. This town doesn't tolerate—”

Whatever had been his conjecture regarding Wilmington's tolerance for rowdy behavior died on his lips. The giant of a man delivered a punch to Jackson's midsection, robbing him of air and the ability to speak for several moments. While he gasped for breath, a familiar face stepped from the shadows. “Do ya remember me, Mr. Henthorne?” asked Elias Hornsby, grinning like a madman.

Jackson stared into the watery eyes of the sea captain, struggling to enunciate a single word. Hornsby's thugs jostled him rudely from both sides. Finally he managed a simple sentence. “Of course I remember you.”

“That rather surprises me, considering your loads of cotton and tobacco left on the
Lady Adelaine
earlier and now on the
Roanoke
.” Hornsby spat on the plank sidewalk, just missing Jackson's boot.

He attempted to move away from the pack, but the giant clamped a viselike grip on his upper arm.
How does a man find enough to eat to maintain three hundred pounds during wartime? “
The sole reason I utilized those particular vessels is because I own them.” Lifting his chin, Jackson tried to resurrect his dignity.

Hornsby's fingers clenched into fists. “You think I don't know that? I spend my life on the docks—right here.” He stomped his foot. “Not up the hill on Third Street, sipping tea from porcelain cups with fancy ladies in big hoop dresses.” Waving his little finger in the air, Hornsby used a foppish voice to describe their afternoon custom.

The blood drained from Jackson's face. “You've been watching my family?”

“Not me personally. I'm a busy man. But I do make a habit of keeping tabs on business associates.” Hornsby inched closer, the odor of cheap whiskey emanating from his stained frock coat.

“I take offense to your boorish tactics, sir.” Jackson squirmed to rid himself of the meaty hand on his arm to no avail. “I signed no contract of exclusivity with you. I purchased two steamers, and why wouldn't I make use of my investment?”

“Who's captaining them boats?”

“Captain Russell mans the wheel of the
Lady Adelaine
, while Captain Philips commands the crew on the
Roanoke
.”

Hornsby spat a second time into the gutter. “Fancy-coats, that's all they are. One good blow comes up at sea and those lily-livers will sink your ships.”

An ominous frisson ran up Jackson's spine. “Russell and Philips came highly recommended.”

“By who?” demanded Hornsby. “The blokes who sold you those steamers? I didn't take you for a fool, Henthorne.”

Jackson considered a right jab to the captain's beer-bloated gut, but his four companions provided a convincing deterrent. “I
appreciate your insight, Captain, and I will pray my boats prove stalwart in a hurricane.”

Hornsby snorted with contempt. “I don't give a fig whether your ships sink or not, but I need to rectify a lit'l misconception of yours. When the
Countess Marie
arrives in port, you'll load the next consignment onto her at our previous contract price. If you get more goods to export, then you can fill the holds of the
Adelaine
and
Roanoke
. But I got a crew to pay and nobody seems to have cotton to ship but you. Take a look around. Do these boys look like they plan to stand idle while you grow richer than Midas?” The captain thumped on Jackson's chest with a stubby index finger.

“That shouldn't be a problem. With the cotton I have coming from South Carolina, I'll have enough to keep your ship and mine busy.”

“You've got plenty to lose, Henthorne, if you don't. And I ain't talkin' about your fancy new side-wheelers.”

After a few more hard jabs to his ribs, Hornsby and his band of miscreants left him and disappeared into the dark alley. Jackson stood for a long while until his heart rate slowed and a wave of nausea passed. How could he feel sick without a morsel of food in his belly? On rubbery legs he ambled toward his club, but thoughts of a delicious supper were long gone. He needed either bourbon or maybe his preacher, because he might need a miracle after all.

Jackson entered his club and headed straight for the quiet reading room. He was in no mood for the convivially of the main hall. Instead, he slumped into a wing chair and buried his head in his hands. Hornsby's bullying tactics had left him uneasy. Not due to the fact he hadn't stood up to the assault. Only an insane man would take on five men, all of whom were well experienced with barroom brawling. No, his anxiety stemmed from his own
bold assertions. He had no idea how much cotton and tobacco would find its way to Wilmington with the current condition of roads and rail lines. Peterson could have fallen prey to a Union sharpshooter for all he knew.

“May I bring you something to drink, Mr. Henthorne? And have you dined yet this evening, sir?”

He peered up at one of the club's distinguished butlers. “No, I haven't eaten, but I'm not in the mood for company tonight. Could you please bring me some coffee?”

“Of course, sir. May I also bring you a sandwich? It would be breaking club policy, but I believe an exception could be made. They served a fine roast beef this evening in the dining room.”

“Thank you, Marcus. That is very kind of you.” Jackson discretely passed the freeman a gold coin.

Sliding it into his pocket, Marcus bowed and backed away. But Jackson's solitude proved short lived.

“I wondered if you would have the guts to show your face, Henthorne.”

Jackson spotted Michael Frazier, a tobacco factor of dubious repute, in the doorway. His notoriety at the gaming tables far surpassed his reputation for brokering agricultural goods. “Why would I need guts to visit a club I belong to?”

Frazier bumped into several tables as he tried to cross the room. “Because you're nothing but a thief and a coward.” The slur accompanying his words confirmed his inebriated state.

Jackson jumped to his feet. “Lower your voice, sir, or I'll have you thrown into the street. Now tell me what this is about.”

Frazier braced a fleshy hand on the back of a chair. “You stole my ships out from under me. I commissioned the
Lady Adelaine
and the
Roanoke
. I staked everything I had on those steamers.”

It took only moments for the pieces of a puzzle to fit together in his mind, including Peterson's reluctance to name the original buyer for fear of social embarrassment.

“It seems that everything you had wasn't adequate, sir. Your deal had already fallen through when I was approached about the ships' availability.”

“That broker may have continued negotiating with me if you and that Charleston swindler hadn't jumped in. Your father never would have stooped so low.” Frazier swayed on his feet.

Jackson glanced uneasily around the room. Although no other member sat within earshot, their conversation was attracting attention. “I will ask you again to lower your voice. Sit down, Frazier, and we'll discuss this like gentlemen.”

“What is there to talk about? You stole my ships out from under me and now I'm ruined. That broker won't even return my deposit. You should be ashamed if you have no more honor than this.” The tobacco factor staggered from the room, leaving chairs askew and one overturned table in his wake.

Jackson was left with a churning gut and accusatory glares from his peers. He slumped into a chair facing the window. When the butler appeared at this side, he barely acknowledged the man.

“Here is your sandwich and coffee, sir.”

“Just leave it, Marcus.”

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

Jackson gripped the chair's arms as though clinging for his life. “Yes. See that I'm not interrupted for the rest of the night. Can't a man get some peace and quiet even at his club?” A hitch in his voice betrayed the fragile state of his emotions. He needed to gather his wits before returning home or his astute wife would demand an explanation before he took off his hat.

Eleven

T
he next morning he hummed a lively tune while completing his chores. Then he penned a formal invitation to Miss Amanda Dunn in his best script on a sheet of parchment from the millinery store next door.

Dear Miss Dunn,

Would you honor me with your presence at dinner at the home of Odom Sims on Saturday? Festivities will commence at eight o'clock sharp. For your convenience, a carriage will arrive at the Henthornes' at half past seven. If no previous commitment demands your attention, kindly give verbal acknowledgment to my emissary, Rufus Sims.

Your devoted servant,

Nathaniel Cooper

When the ink had dried, he added a gob of sealing wax and used an odd-shaped bean for an imprint. Next he sent word to the livery stable that he needed to hire a carriage on Saturday night, along with a note to his poultry purveyor for two fresh hens, plucked, disjointed, and ready to fry. For the rest of the day, he could barely keep his mind on his work. When one young matron requested three pounds of flour, he filled her sack with ground cornmeal, much to her dismay.

That afternoon he closed up shop early and walked home. The person he needed was sitting at the kitchen table practicing arithmetic sums. “What'cha doin' here already, Mr. Nate?” asked Rufus. “I was hopin' to help clean the store after I finished this homework.” The boy thrummed his fingers on the last row of problems.

“I have too much on my mind to worry about dusting cans of peas,” Nate said as he hung his hat on a peg. “If it's all right with your mother, would you deliver a letter for me to Miss Dunn? I'll pay you five cents.”

Closing his book, Rufus swiveled in his chair, his last five problems forgotten. “Can I, Ma?”

Ruth nodded. “As long as you don't dillydally. Supper's almost ready.”

Grinning, Rufus said, “You don't have to pay me, Mr. Nate. I like running errands for you. And that house is real fine.”

“This is an important job, young man, so don't forgo appropriate compensation,” Nate said, chuckling at the boy's perplexed expression.

“Okay, I'll take the nickel. Do you want me to hide in the bushes until I can speak to Miss Dunn alone?” He tugged on his cloth cap.