by Mary Ellis
“See here. I loved my parents and I’m not embarrassed by them. I only wanted you to understand that I have limited prospects—”
“Do you believe my interest lies only in your financial prospects for the future? Really, sir. That makes me sound horribly vain and shallow.”
Nate closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “You’re an impossible woman, Amanda.”
“It merely seems that way because we’re having a disagreement.” She smiled at him. “We decide our future—you and I, not Jackson and not my mother. I was impressed with your self-assurance on Thursday. Few men could stand up to open hostility without losing their temper or storming off in a fit of wounded pride.”
“Punching my host in the nose did cross my mind once or twice.”
“As it did mine, but you didn’t act on your impulse and that goes a long way with me.”
He blushed to the roots of his hair. “Who’s lacking in subtlety now?”
Amanda stood and circled around the counter. “The proper way to eat unfamiliar foods, or knowing which fork is correct, can easily be mastered if a person sets their mind to it. Formal attire with the right accessories can be purchased if those garments become useful. Social etiquette can be learned like baking a pie or sailing a boat. But what you have inside here, Mr. Cooper,” she placed a hand on his chest, “is far more important. It’s everything, in fact, when a woman is seeking friends…or perhaps someone to assume a more permanent role.” Without considering the boldness of her action, Amanda leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth.
His eyes registered utter shock as his lips responded. “Goodness, Miss Dunn! I thought you were peeved with me.”
She moved back a step. “I still am. So you had better provide a bag of sweets for my walk home and no more pushiness or thinking for me.” She slapped his arm with her fan. “If you ply me with peppermints, I’ll find a way to forgive you.”
Nate headed toward the rows of brass-lidded canisters along the far counter. “You are a hard woman to anticipate, let alone boss around.”
“Finally we’ve arrived at something we can agree on.”
Abigail soaked in her tub until her skin started to wrinkle like a prune. This was the best she’d felt in a week. For the first few days Amanda had doted on her. Now she disappeared most afternoons with ambiguous comments about helping make bandages with the sewing guild or volunteering at the church kitchen. Refugees displaced by the fighting continued to pour into Wilmington. Why they expected every Christian denomination to feed them day after day was a mystery to her, if charity work was indeed what occupied her sister lately. All Abigail knew was that Amanda wasn’t spending her time with her. Even Jackson stayed out later more nights than not. Abigail had never been one to wallow in self-pity, but it seemed that everyone was avoiding her.
“Estelle,” she called. “I’m finished with my bath.” When an interval passed without the sound of approaching footsteps in the hall, she called again, this time just short of a scream. “Estelle! Where are you?”
Another minute elapsed before her maid sauntered into the room. “Here I am, Miz Henthorne.”
“Why must I shout? You knew I was bathing and should have been ready with a towel.” Standing, Abigail allowed Estelle to enfold her in a thick wrap.
“I checked on you three times, mistress. Then I went to the kitchen for a bit of lunch.” Her maid wrapped a second towel around her damp hair.
“So I warrant a certain amount of your attention but am then abandoned to my own devices?”
Estelle’s brow furrowed with bewilderment. “Beg your pardon, Miz Henthorne?” She continued to ruffle her hair none too gently.
Abigail pushed her away. “Stop that. I’d rather comb the tangles myself if you’re going to be so rough. Go back down to your lunch.”
She expected the girl to apologize profusely and pledge to do better, but instead she just shrugged her shoulders. “All right, Miz Henthorne.” She strode out the door with far more energy than had carried her in.
Abigail dressed in a loose summer frock, sans corset, hoop, or silk stockings. It was too sultry an afternoon and her stomach churned with just the thought of tight restriction. Why fuss if it would only be her and Amanda at dinner? With her neck already damp with perspiration, she headed downstairs. Estelle could fix her hair out on the terrace, where it should be twenty degrees cooler. Carrying her brush, a pack of pins, and several ribbons, Abigail entered the kitchen, an unusual destination for the lady of the house.
The fact that the mistress seldom entered that room was reflected on Estelle and Josie’s faces. They had been pulling off heads and tails from large shrimp and shoving them into their mouth as though participating in an eating competition. “What is going on in here?” Abigail asked, aghast.
Mutely the two maids stared, their mouths agape.
“Answer me!” she demanded.
Estelle swallowed her mouthful. “We…we was eating some shrimp, Miz Henthorne.”
“I can see that. Is a plate of boiled shrimp what the other slaves are having for their noon meal?”
“No’m. They having chitlins and cornbread,” Josie said, licking her fingertips.
“This is like pulling a rotten tooth,” Abigail snapped. “Then why are you two here eating shrimp instead of in the courtyard with the others?” She was about to shake the answer out of Estelle when the girl finally spoke.
“Salome boiled shrimp to make croquettes for supper. Because no guests are comin’ tonight, Josie and I thought we’d sample a few.”
“Sample a few?” Abigail pointed at the heap of heads, tails, and shells atop the refuse bucket. “You were gorging yourselves without a thought to anyone else. If Salome steamed extra, she probably planned to make a nice gumbo for the slaves. It appears that the others will get plain beans.” She marched over to the bin of rice. She took a large scoopful and spread it on the stone floor near the wall. “I’ll show you what happens to selfish women. Kneel on that while you ponder what happens to greedy people when they die. And don’t you dare tuck your skirts beneath your knees.” She waited until both women knelt down, their faces wincing in pain. Then she stomped off to her chaise in the shade.
Several hours later Abigail woke. The heat had turned reading into a long nap. Shaking off her drowsiness, she stretched and walked the length of the gallery. Below in the courtyard a curious sight captured her attention. Estelle and Josie sat on the low stone wall with Amanda bent over in front of them. Her sister was applying wet cloths to their knees as though she’d become a nurse to the slaves.
Abigail felt a frisson of shame as she walked down the stairs, her dress clinging uncomfortably to her back. “What is going on?”
Amanda peered up from her ministrations on Josie’s leg. “I was just about to ask you the same question. Why were these maids kneeling on rice?”
“I was punishing them for thievery.” She pushed back a damp lock of hair from her forehead.
“Thievery?” Amanda’s eyes rounded as she looked from one slave to the other for confirmation. “They told me they had been caught eating shrimp for lunch.”
Josie and Estelle stared at the ground, not lifting their gazes to either woman.
“The boiled shrimp was for our dinner, not theirs. Salome had food for them outside. They know where to find the noon meal.” Abigail crossed her arms.
“Filching a few shrimp is grounds for torture?”
“I didn’t intend for my punishment to be torture. Unfortunately, I fell asleep. I didn’t plan to cause injury to their knees.”
Amanda hesitated long enough to rinse her hands in the bucket of water and dry them on a towel. “I thought Josie was my maid—a gift from you and Jackson while I’m a guest in your home. Wouldn’t any reprimands for her be left up to me to administer?”
“How would it look to the other slaves if Estelle was punished for stealing food and Josie wasn’t? We both know any reprimands left up to you would be worthless in nature.” Ab
igail matched her sister’s tone in vehemence. She’d grown weary of Amanda taking the upper hand.
As Amanda shook her head like a stubborn mule, Jackson emerged from the side garden. Judging by his expression, he had heard plenty of their tête-à-tête.
“I’m curious, Miss Dunn,” he said. “Do the servants eat whatever is being served to family and guests at Dunncliff Manor?”
“What?” Amanda tossed the rag into the water bucket.
“Your kitchen maids and footmen—do they dine on the pâtés, stuffed pheasant, and ribs of beef like the Dunns?”
“No, but Mrs. Andrews fixes hearty and sustaining meals for the staff.”
Jackson approached, loosening his cravat with each step. “As we do here, I assure you. A master would be foolish to starve his slaves and yet still expect a decent day’s work from them.”
“Therein resides the essential difference. We have employees in Manchester—men and women who aren’t owned by us or anyone else.” Amanda arched her back with indignation.
“And if those employees were caught stealing or indulging in some other distasteful behavior, most likely they would be dismissed on the spot. They would be given whatever wages they had coming at that point, told to pack their meager belongings, and turned out regardless of the season or whether or not they had a place to go. The Dunn housekeeper or butler would have no trouble replacing the staff member from England’s teeming underclass. The discharged maid would join the masses begging for food or selling themselves on the streets for tuppence.”
Amanda flushed a deep scarlet as her hands bunched into fists. “How dare you imply that slavery is somehow a noble institution that takes better care of the underprivileged!”
“There is nothing noble about slavery, but at least we don’t turn people out to fend for themselves. Slaves have a home with us until they die.”
“And you keep working them until their death.”
“Everyone is expected to work in this life, Miss Dunn. I see nothing wrong with people earning their keep.”
“Some planters abuse slaves in unspeakable ways—tearing apart families, assaulting women, giving cruel beatings. And if slaves aren’t permitted to learn to read or write, they have no way to improve their lives.”
Abigail could keep silent no longer. “I don’t abuse my slaves. Your maid was being punished for stealing shrimp. I’m sorry I fell asleep, but—”
“My dear, forgive me for interrupting you, but I believe I will leave you sisters alone to continue your philosophical discussions.” Jackson bowed to both of them and then strode away.
In the heat of the moment, both women ignored him.
“They took food, Abigail, not silverware or gold coins.”
“Shortages abound in the city, but your head is stuck in the sand. Estelle and Josie ate what could have been shared with others.”
“Look at their knees! Perhaps it wasn’t your intention to be cruel, but that swelling won’t go down for days.” Amanda’s tone turned brittle.
“If you are able, I would like you two to go back to work.” Abigail spoke calmly to Estelle and Josie. Looking around her, she said, “And the rest of you as well.” The argument had attracted quite a few onlookers.
Once the courtyard had cleared, she turned to Amanda. “You have lived a charmed, insulated life in Wycleft, but I have visited Father’s textile mills. I have seen the slums of his workers. They live in grim hovels on streets without proper sanitation. Their children begin work at an early age without much opportunity to attend school. I’ve been inside homes where people grow sick and die without calling doctors they cannot afford. When was the last time you visited those places?”
Amanda’s eyes filled with tears. “I agree that much poverty exists in Manchester, but those workers are free to immigrate to another town or a new country if they choose.”
Abigail was bored with a philosophical debate going nowhere. “When you return to England, sister, you may take up a crusade of social reform. In the meantime I expect you to respect the rules of this household. I love you and you are welcome here, but this is my home.”
Nine
August
Leaning back in his chair, Jackson sipped a heady cup of West Indian tea. The view from his office window revealed exactly what he loved to see: ships entering and exiting the Wilmington harbor with astounding frequency. As soon as dockworkers loaded a steamer with cotton or tobacco, the captain navigated into the current of the Cape Fear River toward the sound and the ocean beyond. The Union navy had done little to stem commerce thanks to the brave men manning the guns at Fort Fisher.
His relationship with the dubious Elias Hornsby had become amiable camaraderie. After all, who could remain aloof when both men were growing rich from the enormous profits to be made? And forming a partnership with Robert Peterson and his brother had been his best decision yet after taking control away from his father. Jackson’s social contacts and resources guaranteed that the majority of the goods left port on ships he contracted, while Peterson maintained a steady flow of cotton and tobacco to refill warehouses. Jackson hired managers, dock supervisors, bookkeepers to maintain ledgers, and clerks to handle the daily minutiae. He had cleared the debts of Henthorne and Sons and was amassing money to help his parents. He gave little thought to the future of the Confederacy, and even less to what his sister-in-law was doing with the local grocer. It was simply more entertaining to watch the hubbub along the waterfront while his account books improved day after day.
“Mr. Henthorne, sir?”
Jackson peered up at his new, sour-faced secretary. Miss Todd wasn’t much to look at, but she possessed an uncanny ability to weed requests for an audience with him. Some wished to renegotiate existing contracts, others were old friends trying to borrow money, and a few sought employment or political influence. She had a gift for redirecting visitors to the correct underling, assuring that the only appointments Jackson took were ones that fattened his coffers.
“What is it, Miss Todd?”
“Mr. Peterson is here, sir. He begs your indulgence in not announcing his visit before now, but he insists he has a matter of upmost urgency.” Her bland face offered the tiniest of smiles.
“Then let’s not keep him waiting. Show him in and bring us a fresh pot of tea.”
Jackson stood, straightened his cravat, and strode toward the fireplace. He wished to appear exactly what he was—the savviest and most successful factor in town. He greeted his business partner with one elbow resting on the marble mantel.
“Mr. Henthorne, good of you to see me this morning, sir.” Peterson spoke from the doorway.
“You and I stand on no ceremony, sir. I always have time for you. Please have a seat.” Pointing to the most comfortable upholstered chair, Jackson noticed Peterson’s complexion had taken on an unhealthy pallor. The man appeared thinner, almost dissipated since his last visit.
“Thank you. I rode in from Whiteville last night and barely slept. I couldn’t wait to discuss a unique opportunity with you.”
“Are you feeling well, sir?” Jackson asked. Indeed, the short walk across the room brought a flush and beads of sweat to Peterson’s face.
“Fair-to-middlin’, but nothing to concern yourself with. There’s plenty of fever in the interior this time of year. Most of the slaves that hadn’t run off are sick with the chills. I had a bout of ague myself, but I’m on the mend now.” He dabbed his brow with his handkerchief.
“Ah, here’s Miss Todd with tea. That should go down easily.”
Peterson accepted a cup from the secretary with a shaky hand. “Has much news reached the coast? General Sherman wreaks havoc in Georgia. Atlanta is besieged. The Yankees are leaving a path of destruction wherever they go.”
“Is Sherman fighting Joe Johnson’s army? He’s the best general we got other than Marse Robert.”
“Yes, sir, but Sherman is waging war on farmers and townsfolk—men, women, and children—burning houses and barns and slaughtering li
vestock. Whatever he doesn’t need to feed his soldiers, he leaves to rot under the summer sun. His soldiers are nothing but a pack of thieves—filling their knapsacks with silver, porcelain, and anything they can resell up north.”
Jackson made the appropriate murmurs of disgust, but he failed to deduce how reports about a Yankee tyrant could be described as urgent. “I’ve been rather busy to keep abreast of news of the war. Besides, not everything that gets printed in newspapers can be trusted.”
Peterson downed his tea and refilled the cup. “You have done an exemplary job of moving cotton and tobacco out of Wilmington. Truly commendable. But the time has come to strike while the iron is hot. I’ve recently heard of two side-wheelers available for sale. They left Nassau harbor and are headed here as we speak. The ships could be ours for the right price.”
Jackson shifted in his chair. “Someone actually built two ships without a commissioned buyer? By all means I wish to hear more.”
“Another factor in town ordered the steamers. I prefer not to mention his name so that social obligations won’t prevent us from making the purchase.” Peterson inched forward to the edge of his chair. “If we buy these ships, and I assure you they’re magnificent side-wheelers—the Lady Adelaine and the Roanoke—we can double our profits. We can hire our own captains and not have to contract passage.”
Jackson rubbed his jawline. Double their profits? He could turn the Henthorne plantation around with paid workers and set money aside for the future. “I gather this unnamed factor cannot make good on his monetary pledge?”
“That is correct, sir. He has leveraged everything but the braces holding up his trousers.” Peterson released a raspy laugh.
Jackson failed to find humor in another man’s misfortune. “Do you and your brother have sufficient capital to purchase two brand-new vessels?”
Peterson’s lips thinned. “That’s why I’m here, Mr. Henthorne. I have spent the last month securing all the cotton I can in South Carolina and Georgia before those Yankees turn it into smoke and ash. I have teamsters hauling it to railroad depots as quickly as possible, but many roads are torn up. It will take time to get it to port, but a vast quantity of cotton is coming and we must be ready. That’s why we desperately need more ships.”