The Last Heiress (32 page)

Nate sniffed the air. “My nose has grown accustomed to it. You're smelling fermented river muck on my pine floorboards. I've scrubbed the walls, shelves, and windows, but I'm afraid the floor will require extra attention. Many boards are warped and will need to be replaced.”

Amanda tried to breathe through her scented linen. “What about your merchandise?”

“Much of it was ruined, I'm afraid. Some of the backroom stock is salvageable, along with my canned goods, but I had to have the rest hauled away. The Simses' home was also damaged, so I helped them first before trying to reopen the store.” Nate peered around the room, shaking his head. “This isn't a fit place for you. Let me wash up and meet you up the block. Shall we say under the elm tree?” He turned on his heel before she could utter a yea or nay.

Amanda felt oddly offended being sent away instead of invited to pitch in. She cared for Nate and thus what happened inside his market. She waited for him on the iron filigree bench, a spot she recalled from their first acquaintance. “At least we have a fine day for November,” she said cheerily when he arrived.

“Indeed, was it the weather which brought you to town? I hope Salome doesn't require a pound of sugar or flour. I would be forced to send you to one of my competitors.”

“I came to see you, Nate. Gossip is being spread and I fear reprisals for you. Jackson awoke me in the middle of the night, furious after a conversation with Judge Stewart.”

Stretching out his long legs, he tilted his face toward the late autumn sunshine. “I thought the judge would regret his assertion I worked for Henthorne. I hate falsehoods perpetuated on my behalf, no matter how well-intended the motivation.”

“No, that's not what I mean.” She wrung her hands in her lap. “The judge approached Jackson with details about a story in the newspaper. A group of hooligans—he called them anarchists—wreaked havoc on rail lines outside of town. Rebel cavalry patrolling in the area caught them red-handed and a gunfight ensued. Some of the anarchists escaped but a few were killed.”

Nate's relaxed position on the bench stiffened. “Why would Judge Stewart connect those men to me?”

“A false connection to be sure,” she said soothingly. “The cavalry brought the bodies back to the garrison. One of the dead men had papers identifying him as Mason Hooks. Then a member of the militia said he saw you drinking with Mr. Hooks in a disreputable place uptown, along with his dead companion. I told Jackson that the man was mistaken because you never imbibe—”

“Mason Hooks is dead?”

Nate's plaintive query chilled her to the bone. “Yes, shot by Confederate cavalry. Do you mean to say you did know the man?”

He scrubbed his face with his hands. “I do—did—and the militiaman was correct. It was me with Mason and his friend in a tavern on Campbell Street.”

“I don't understand.” Amanda felt queasy, similar to Abigail on more mornings than not.

“I knew Mason from Balsam. We were friends a long time ago. He joined the Reb army but deserted after two years. He brought me news of my brother when he came to Wilmington. Joshua enlisted not long after the war began. The last time Mason saw Joshua, he was alive and well, serving under General Hoke. Mason and his friend, Billy Conroy, showed up the day of the
waterfront flood. They helped me move some of the merchandise. I'm indebted to Mason, both for news of my brother and saving my store from even worse damage.” Nate dropped his chin to his chest, his face devoid of expression. “We waited in that uptown pub until the storm passed.”

“This deserter…Mr. Hooks…do you think he was an anarchist? Someone bent on destroying the fabric of society?”

Nate locked gazes with her. “What meaning does that term have during wartime, Amanda? Mason opposed fighting to preserve slavery, an institution which benefits only the rich planter and denies people of color their inalienable privileges promised in the Bill of Rights and then demanded by Lincoln's emancipation edict.”

“Were
you
involved with tearing up tracks and burning depots, Nate? According to Jackson, Confederate guards were ambushed and killed.”

“I was not, but you should know the whole truth. I attended one of their rallies and listened to their speeches. If men don't take action against oppression, rich men like George Dunn and Randolph Henthorne will always have the upper hand.” His lips thinned to a harsh line. “But my pacifist nature prevailed over my desire for social reform in the South.”

Amanda blinked like an owl on midnight watch. “What on earth does my father have to do with American political differences? Slavery was outlawed in my country during the last century.”

“Isn't it the same? Rich men like your father essentially enslave those working in the mills, mines, and foundries. Their families live in crude hovels without proper heat, light, or water. Their illiterate children are put to work at an early age and old people die before their time because they can't afford doctors.”

Amanda rose to her feet. “We have no laws against educating children, nor do we sell human beings! Men can quit their jobs
and move their families elsewhere. How dare you speak critically of a country you have never been to.”

“Have
you
walked the alleys of a mill town? Have you stepped inside those houses and seen for yourself how your father's employees live when not toiling fourteen hours a day?”

She gripped the back of the bench. “How do you know this?”

“The man Mason Hooks brought to Wilmington was born in Wycleft. His father died in the same accident that claimed your brother. A month later the family was out on the street. His name was Billy Conroy, although I'm sure your paths never crossed back in England.”

“Was he the other dead man?”

“Yes, Amanda. His was a senseless death after a pitiful life.” Nate looked away a moment before returning his gaze to her. “I am no traitor to North Carolina and certainly not an anarchist. Nevertheless, the news of Mason and Conroy's deaths brings me little joy.”

“You blame
me
for men like them?”

“Of course not. They died by the sword they chose to brandish. But the rich must realize that everything comes with a price. Whether here in America or back in Manchester, great wealth often leaves behind a trail of broken lives.”

For a man who fancies himself in love, I have an odd way of showing it.
This and other recriminations ran through Nate's head during the next two weeks. Arduous days of restoring his store were followed by interminable nights of tossing and turning in his room. Why had he taken Mason's side in an argument with the woman he cared for? How could he blame Amanda for society's ills, both here and across the Atlantic? She was no more responsible for the mill towns of Manchester than he was culpable for slavery two years after the Emancipation Proclamation.

A man without an effective course of action lashed out at those in close proximity. Was he surprised she hadn't returned? Rufus posted handbills announcing the reopening of his market everywhere. The boy personally delivered one to each cook on Third Street to no avail. So when Nate closed up that afternoon, he had only one destination in mind. He changed shirts, wrapped his finest smoked ham in bright paper, and hiked up the hill to beg forgiveness from the kindest person he knew.

Running a hand through his hair, he knocked boldly on the kitchen door, the most likely place to find servants at this hour. With growing unease, he noticed an absence of people in the courtyard and in the row of slave cabins. Nate pounded again on the carved oak panel with little regard for those who might be napping after a full meal.

“Who's there?” A voice demanded from within.

“It's Nathaniel Cooper.”

When the door swung wide, Salome stood in the opening, her girth effectively filling the space. Her husband, Thomas, glowered over her shoulder. The man was only half as wide but towered a foot taller. “Whatcha doin' here, Master Cooper?”

“Forgive my intrusion at a late hour, but I must speak to Miss Dunn. I promise to be brief.” Nate mustered a smile for the pair.

“Sorry, sir, that not possible.” The cook began to close the door.

“Please, Salome, if you would deliver a message to her, I would be ever grateful.” He wedged his boot against the wooden frame.

“You can't see her 'cause she ain't here, Master Cooper.” At last Thomas offered a reasonable explanation. “Master and Mistress Henthorne are spending December at his papa's plantation. Not enough parties in town this season, so Master celebratin' Christmas in the country with his folks. Miz Henthorne insisted Miz Dunn come too and wouldn't take nay for an answer.”

“She will be gone the entire month?” Having rallied enough courage to visit, Nate couldn't fathom Amanda not being there.

“That right, sir,” said Thomas. “They be back after Christmas because Judge Stewart is throwin' a New Year party.”

Salome issued a final harrumph on the subject.

“Thank you for telling me. I wish you both a joyous holiday.” Nate dipped his chin, took a step back, and then remembered the gift. “This is for you.” He extended the wrapped package.

“What that?” Salome appeared suspicious.

“A ham I brought for Miss Dunn and the Henthornes, but I want you to have it instead.”

Thomas was hesitant. “Don't know, sir, if we should—”

“Thank you and merry Christmas.” Salome tucked the package under her arm and closed the door.

Nate walked back to his quarters on Castle Street more depressed than the night of the flood. It would be two weeks before Amanda returned to Wilmington at the earliest. No way could he pay a social call at the Henthorne plantation even if he knew the location. His sole option for Christmas was to help make the holiday special for Rufus…and pray that God would keep Amanda safe and sound.

On Christmas Eve Nate decided to close the store early. Customers had been few and far between all week. Either Mr. Baxter had dropped his prices or the Henthornes weren't the only residents to abandon the city. After he swept his floors and latched the shutters, Nate heard the bell over the door jangle. “Sorry, ma'am, but we're closed,” he called, blowing out the lamp.

“It has been a long time, but surely you can tell the difference between a gal and your brother.”

The voice, as familiar as the back of his hand, sounded oddly incongruous in the dark. “
Joshua?
” The name issued forth more like a croak than a question. Nate turned to see the hauntingly thin face of his only sibling…younger in years, but looking much older than his own reflection in the mirror.

“Ah, so you do still remember me.”

When Joshua opened his arms, Nate stepped clumsily into his embrace. “I'm
mighty
glad to see you.” With a tight throat, his declaration took nearly a minute to deliver. “Have you left the army?” He studied his brother at arm's length. Joshua's uniform, tattered and stained, was the usual Confederate shade of butternut.

“General Bragg sent our regiments to reinforce Fort Fisher. I'm in General Hoke's division. We've been at the garrison for two weeks. Because Admiral Porter keeps sending gunboats up the Cape Fear, Colonel Lamb needed a hand to convince those Yankees it was time to go home.”

“How on earth did you find me?” Nate released his tight grip before he bruised his brother's arms.

“One of the quartermasters procuring supplies for the fort asked me if I had kinfolk in town. He said there was a shopkeeper named Cooper who talked just like me.”

“We don't sound much alike anymore, but I'm glad he made the connection. Apparently, my attempt to lose the mountain twang is an abysmal failure.” Nate laughed. “You're a lieutenant now. Pa would be right proud.”

Joshua swept off his hat to finger the braiding. “If enough men in the regiment die, the commanders will make anyone still breathing an officer.”

“I'm sure you distinguished yourself on the battlefield.” Inexplicably, Nate felt a wave of shame or perhaps regret. He felt confused by his reaction.

“I can shoot straight and try to keep my head down. That's about all we can do at this point. The Yanks got us outnumbered and outgunned at every battle. But we're well entrenched now. If the admiral tries to land troops again, we'll be ready. We built a new breastwork and planted torpedoes in the river.” His young
face glowed with a soldier's pride of accomplishment—rare for a member of the Confederate army lately.