The Last Heiress (8 page)

A man had to have dreams, even if they never came true.

On Wednesday he was elbow-deep sifting weevils from the rice when the bell above the door rang. “Be right there,” he called, cinching the bag of rice shut.

“Take your time, Mr. Cooper. We'd like to browse your merchandise for a while.” The sweet, feminine voice was more than recognizable. It jolted his heart into double-time.

Nate ran a comb through his tangled hair, washed his hands, and donned a fresh apron. “Ah, Miss Dunn, what a pleasure to see you today,” he said as he strode from the back room into the shop. Focused on her, he almost knocked over a small black woman.

“You Mr. Cooper?” The woman wore a turban head covering, common among slaves.

“I am. How do you do?” he said, nodding respectfully.

“This is Salome, the cook for the Henthornes. She's agreed to compare your prices and quality to Baxter's on Market Street.” Miss Dunn rocked on her heels while delivering the clarification.

“Harrumph!” Salome added punctuation to the statement.

“Mr. Baxter is a man of impeccable reputation and runs a fine establishment. I am honored to be considered for your potential patronage.” Nate bowed to both ladies.

“Don't hurt none to look, I 'spose,” she said tersely, hooking her market basket in the crook of her arm and marching off toward the fresh vegetables.

Amanda lingered at the counter. “Salome is a bit stuck in her ways, but I have every confidence she'll be impressed.” She withdrew a folded sheet from her reticule. “This is a letter of credit from the Henthornes' banker. My sister doesn't allow her servants to carry much money.”

Nate rubbed a hand along his jaw. “Because she's afraid they'll stow away on the next northbound train or ship?”

Amanda shook her head. “I don't think so. Salome and her husband appear content working for them, but neither can read nor write. My sister fears they would be taken advantage of with substantial cash.”

“Illiteracy is common with plenty of folks where I come from, black and white. Many don't recognize the value of book learning.”

“Yet I can tell by the way you speak that you were well schooled.”

“I went through the eighth grade in the mountains, but the gentleman who owned this shop before me left three shelves of books in the back room—manuals, novels, poetry, Shakespeare. I have been reading each night before bed and intend to finish every one of them. I ask someone about words I don't know. There's no shame in not knowing. It's only shameful to remain ignorant.”

“Well said, and I couldn't agree more.” Amanda produced her glorious smile. When their mutual admiration finally grew uncomfortable, she turned to check the cook's progress. Salome was busy filling her basket with all kinds of merchandise. “It appears your quality has met her expectations, and your prices must be fair,” she whispered.

“I aim to please.” Nate tucked the letter from the bank next to the cash box. Credit wasn't something he usually extended—a man could go broke if he made bad choices—but Miss Dunn could have the shoes off his feet if she so wished.

“So do I, which brings me to my second order of business.” Amanda smoothed down the skirt of her pale blue dress. Her somber gray tweed from their first encounter was nowhere in sight, but her hoop was substantially smaller than average. “Would you care to dine tonight with the Henthornes and me?”

“Tonight?” His voice faltered and a squeak ensued.

“Yes, unless you have other plans.”

“You wish me to come to the Third Street house for dinner?” He was flummoxed for something intelligent to say.

“Dinner is usually at eight, and I believe you're familiar with the location.” Her face couldn't appear more earnest.

“I know where your sister lives, but are you certain she wants me at her table?” Nate's collar tightened around his neck, making it difficult to breathe.

“I asked her this morning. Plus, it was her suggestion that Salome do the shopping here. Have no fear, Mr. Cooper. You'll find us a nonthreatening group.” Amanda's laughter sounded like the tinkle of wind chimes.

“But I own no formal dinner attire like society people wear. All I have are the clothes of a working man.” Unfortunately, the mountain accent he'd struggled to minimize intensified as he became flustered.

“Then I suggest you wear what you have. I'll tell Abigail to reserve her formal attire for when the Queen comes to call.”

“
Queen Victoria?
” He spoke so loudly the cook stopped sorting melons and stared at him.

“I'm joking, Mr. Cooper. You usually possess a quick wit. But if you don't wish to be my guest for dinner, just say so.” Amanda rested a hand on her hip.

This will be the only chance I get
, he thought. He ran a finger under his collar. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than dining with your family, Miss Dunn.” He sounded far more confident than he felt.

Salome issued another
harrumph
and ambled to where they stood. “If that's all settled, young man, you can tally up my order. I best get home and start cooking since this supper's gonna be mighty special.”

Somehow Nate managed to add up the purchases and bid
the two ladies a good afternoon without tripping over his feet. Once they climbed into the carriage and drove away, he released a whoosh of breath.

Dinner at the home of Jackson Henthorne? Why on earth had he said yes? He'd made inquiries among his friends, and every one reported the same assessment: Henthorne was rich, powerful, and arrogant. His father's company controlled most of the cotton and tobacco leaving the port, along with much of the goods entering Wilmington. What topics of interest did a shopkeeper have to talk about with such a man? But the invitation had come from Amanda—a woman he couldn't possibly refuse.

Nate wrote the amount of the credit in his ledger, restocked the shelves, swept the floor, and hung the “Closed” sign in the window. He couldn't worry about loss of business by leaving early, not when he had a presentable appearance to create. For a modest sum, he bought a proper bath, shave, and haircut from the barber. Then he paid Ruth Sims, his landlady, to press his Sunday suit of clothes. Her husband, Odem, gave him a new pair of socks that were too big for him, and Rufus picked a magnificent bouquet of irises from their garden. He left his rented room on Castle Street in plenty of time to walk to the Henthornes' at a leisurely pace. Yet his shirt was sticking to his back by the time he applied the brass knocker at half past seven. Within moments, a tall black man in full livery opened the door.

“Mr. Henthorne?” The ridiculous question was out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

“No, sir. I am Amos. Mr. and Mrs. Henthorne and Miss Dunn are in the parlor. I'll show you the way.” Amos pivoted without the slightest acknowledgment of Nate's faux pas.

When the butler paused in the doorway, Nate skirted around him without waiting to be announced.

“Mr. Cooper, so nice to see you.” Amanda came toward him
on dainty slippers, wearing a gown only slightly fancier than her afternoon ensemble. “May I present my sister and brother-in-law? Mr. and Mrs. Jackson Henthorne.”

Nate couldn't help gaping at the uncanny resemblance between women despite prior knowledge that Amanda had an identical twin.

Mrs. Henthorne graciously extended her hand. “We're pleased you were able to join us this evening, Mr. Cooper. Our Salome sings the praises of your fruits and vegetables. I believe you have gained a devoted customer.”

Nate shook the gloved fingers before realizing she'd expected her hand to be kissed. “A pleasure, madam. These are for you.” He handed her the massive bouquet before facing his host. “Thank you for your hospitality, sir.”

“Not at all. Abigail and I have been eager to meet you. Despite my wife introducing Miss Dunn to her entire circle of friends, only the owner of the local mercantile has captured her attention.” Henthorne grinned, revealing perfectly straight teeth and a deep cleft in his chin.

“Oh, Jackson,” said Mrs. Henthorne. “Don't embarrass the man. Amanda simply loves American mercantiles. They contain such a vastly superior selection of goods than in Manchester. Would you care for an aperitif, Mr. Cooper?”

“No, thank you, ma'am.” Nate didn't know much about spirits. His father drank only moonshine whiskey made by a neighbor during his declining years. Viewing firsthand the whiskey's effect ensured a lifetime of sobriety.

“Would you join me in a glass of lemonade?” asked Amanda. “I believe it will complement the cuisine.” Taking his arm, she steered him away from the Henthornes into the hall. “Pay them no mind,” she murmured. “Remember, you're my guest, not theirs.”

Nate winked to acknowledge he'd heard. But once seated in the dining room, any confidence he had abandoned him. Never had he seen a table so grand—faceted crystal glasses, gold-banded plates, gleaming silver candelabras with dozens of tapers. He counted four forks and an equal number of spoons at each place setting. And the assortments of dishes served had no rhyme or reason: oysters, pâtés, an odd-tasting fish, veal in a sauce that left the meat unrecognizable, and a cold plate of cheeses and smoked meats. Nate had no choice but to watch Amanda select a utensil and then mimic her. If she declined a particular dish, so did he.

Throughout the meal, Jackson's thinly veiled attempts to discern his background left his head pounding to match his churning gut. He would have cut the man short and escaped the ostentatious room if not for Amanda. Throughout the meal she deflected Henthorne's more obvious inquires while smiling pleasantly. Nate would do nothing to cause her shame or regret over the invitation.

Miss Dunn may be an angel sent from the gates of heaven, but the interminable dinner made one fact crystal clear: They could have no future together. It would be like a box turtle attempting to run with a spotted fawn. And that realization saddened him more than the slippery poached pear that fell into his lap, or the cadre of slaves standing against the wall, or the fact Henthorne dismissed him after dessert as though a poorly behaved child. Nate thanked his two hostesses and fled from the house, confident nothing in life would ever equal his mortification.

The next morning Amanda went down to breakfast eager to leave her airless suite of rooms. Josie offered to fan her half the night, but Amanda had declined. Helene filled the tub with cool water, but the bath's effects didn't last very long. Perhaps
part of her restlessness stemmed from the disastrous dinner party. Why had she thought Jackson would welcome Nathaniel? Her brother-in-law was a man who judged people by the cut of their clothes, their deportment and manners, and ultimately their bank accounts. He cared naught for social issues unless they directly affected Henthorne and Sons' interests. And literature or poetry? He'd actually bragged that he hadn't opened a book since leaving the boys' academy.

But Jackson couldn't be blamed solely for the meal's failure. She'd sat there like a toadstool, utterly helpless to alleviate Nathaniel's discomfort, as though she'd succumbed to the same lethargy infecting her sister. So she had no one to blame but herself.

“I thought I would find you here. You always were an early bird, even when we were children.” Abigail walked into the breakfast room in a scented cloud of rosewater perfume.

“Good morning, sister. I hope you slept well.” Amanda automatically straightened her slouched posture.

“Like a baby.” Abby filled a cup of coffee at the sideboard before taking an adjacent chair. “Only fruit and toast for me, Amos. Thank you.” Once the butler had left, her sister reached out to pat her hand. “I hope that experience wasn't too disheartening for you last night.”

“What do you mean?” Amanda asked unnecessarily.

“Poor Mr. Cooper was frightfully out of his element. Don't you agree? He looked so befuddled when that pear slid down the front of his shirt.” Abby clucked her tongue in pity.

“Accidents can happen to anyone. I recall you spilling punch down your gown at a cotillion.”

“Of course accidents happen, but poor Mr. Cooper acted as though he'd never eaten oysters on the half shell or escargot before,” Abby said as she added a teaspoon of sugar to her black coffee.