Amanda didn’t slow her pace until she came to the two-block hike up the hill to her sister’s house. After the long period of inactivity on the ship during her crossing, she was breathless by the time she climbed the steps to the lower verandah, where her sister was waiting for her.
“There you are, naughty girl. I was about to send the carriage in search of you.” Abigail shook her finger in a brilliant imitation of their mother.
“Forgive me for worrying you, Abby. I was so fascinated with your city that I lost track of the hour. I browsed shop after shop, admiring everything I saw.”
“In that case you are forgiven. We hope you’ll enjoy Wilmington enough to remain. Shall we have tea?” Abigail settled on a chaise in the cool shadows and rang a small silver bell. A tea service materialized almost immediately.
“But Papa is depending on me to return to England with signed contracts—”
“Pooh. That’s what the postal service is for, or you could hire a ship’s courier to transport papers home.” Abigail poured a cup of black tea and then handed it to her sister.
Amanda decided not to send Josie for a pitcher of cream, although her maid hovered behind her chair. “I may be here longer than I originally supposed. Mr. Henthorne said he must seek permission from Mr. Davis to conduct business with Dunn Mills.”
Abby sipped her tea. “He is President Davis, not mister, and these things take time. Jackson said that you comported yourself admirably during the meeting. He expected you to stammer and stutter, if not faint dead away, but you acted like a true woman of industry.” She giggled as though the idea amused her.
“That was my intention.” Amanda peered through the filmy curtains into the house. “Did you say that Jackson was home?”
“Yes, but then he left for his men’s club. He often takes business appointments there, but I believe imbibing alcohol and smoking cigars goes on more than anything else. I heard they also play cards for money late at night. What would our Episcopal priest say about that?” Abby dropped her voice in case the preacher lurked in the shrubbery. “At least Jackson doesn’t go out often at night.”
“Do you suppose he would venture to Richmond to call on President Davis?” Amanda asked between sips of surprisingly delicious tea.
“Goodness, no. Richmond isn’t around the corner, dear sister. It’s in another state, Virginia, and an arduous train ride away. Considering the fighting between here and there, that is out of the question. Could you imagine landing within range of Yankee artillery? No, no. A courier will take Papa Henthorne’s request to the capital. In the meantime, you can catch me up with news from home. And when we’re done with that, we can start calling on my friends during the afternoon. Everyone is eager to meet you.” When Abby shook the bell a second time, a three-tiered tray of sweets and savories appeared. “Look! A proper English tea to celebrate your arrival.”
Amanda leaned forward to admire crustless sandwiches, orange scones, and tiny iced cakes decorated with pink rosettes. “How lovely. Thank you.”
For the next two hours she filled her sister in on changes in the village of Wycleft on the outskirts of Manchester: marriages of childhood friends, the death of their former nanny, scandals among the servants, old beaus who still asked after her. Abigail laughed much, cried a little, and in general appeared homesick, especially when the conversation turned to their mother.
“Grandmama sent a gift to you,” said Amanda. “But she insisted that I wait until our birthday.”
“Oh, please, may I have it now?” Abby dropped her scone onto the plate, her interest in food gone.
Amanda hurried to her room and a few minutes later presented Abigail with a small box covered in pink silk and tied with a black ribbon. Her sister pulled off the wrapping and extracted a hand-carved cameo bracelet—their grandmother’s favorite piece of jewelry. “Are you certain she wanted me to have this?” Her words cracked with emotion.
“Yes. She was quite emphatic it was for you.”
Abby clenched her eyes shut but couldn’t stem the tears. They trickled down her face like a leaky faucet. After a while, she cleared her throat. “Let’s talk about your afternoon before my face turns red and puffy. Jackson doesn’t like to see me upset.”
Amanda described the dressmaker and milliner she found, along with a resident artist who painted portraits in the front window of his cluttered studio. But before long, the conversation landed on Cooper’s Greengrocery, and there it remained until Jackson’s carriage pulled up to the mounting block.
“This shopkeeper has accomplished what no Englishman has been able to do—impress my extremely particular sister,” Abby teased, finishing her discarded scone.
“I couldn’t believe how forthright the man was, quite unafraid to say what he thought.”
“Dear me, I hope he wasn’t rude to you. Some of those stores on Water Street—”
“Not at all. Mr. Cooper behaved like a perfect gentleman. He just didn’t waste time talking in circles like the men of Papa’s acquaintance.”
“I thought the same about Jackson when we met. He spoke his mind and went after what he wanted in life. Looks as if you’ve made your first friend in Wilmington. Well done.” Abby rose to greet her husband, who had paused on the walkway to give instructions to the gardener.
“May I take a lunch hamper to Mr. Cooper tomorrow? After all, I caused him to go without today.”
Abby smiled indulgently. “I don’t see the harm, but let’s not mention this at the dinner table. Jackson can be overprotective at times, which I’m afraid will include you while you’re here.”
That night when Amanda blew out her bedside candle, she was filled with anticipation. She had made the right decision in coming to America. Seeing her sister confirmed that five years meant nothing to twins. Her reception at the Henthorne and Sons office portended a successful resolution to the woes at Dunn Mills. And the prospect of seeing Nathaniel Cooper tomorrow? A gently raised young woman never should entertain such thoughts about a complete stranger. Yet when she closed her eyes, visions of his sinewy muscles, silky brown hair, and sky-blue eyes danced across her eyelids. Developing crushes wasn’t a common habit for Amanda, but if Helene weren’t already snoring on her side of the Chinese screen, she may have waltzed around the room with a pillow for a partner.
The following morning, after her solitary breakfast of grits and ham, she sought out the cook in the kitchen. “Good morning, Salome. May I trouble you to pack a luncheon hamper around eleven o’clock?”
The woman barely glanced up from rolling out pie dough. “Yes’m. Miz Henthorne already told me.”
“Could I possibly have hearty selections suitable for a man’s appetite instead of a woman’s?”
That question triggered a furrowed forehead. “How ’bout fried chicken with corn relish and buttermilk biscuits?”
“Perfect!” Amanda clapped her hands, which drew a second raised eyebrow. But three hours later she and the driver were clattering down Orange Street in the Henthorne coach.
“Miz Henthorne told me to park in the shade and wait for you, no matter how long you take,” Thomas said as he helped her down to the street.
Amanda had no desire to argue. She was too busy mentally listing suitable topics for discussion. However, when she reached the front door of Cooper’s, all her well-laid plans drifted away on the salty sea breeze. Nathaniel, in a fresh white apron, shot her a smile when she entered. He was behind the counter explaining various types of muscle liniment to a white-haired woman.
Amanda busied herself memorizing labels of canned goods on the middle shelf. After what seemed like an eternity, the matron limped out with her purchase. “Will she improve with your miracle potion?” Amanda asked after the door clicked shut behind her.
Nathaniel stepped around the counter. “I recommended a cabbage poultice—one of my granny’s home remedies. She’ll be right as rain once she wraps the knee and sets it up on a hassock tonight. What use are grandchildren if not to fetch and carry for their elders?”
Amanda tried not to laugh too loudly. “I ask myself that question almost every day.”
“Indeed, Miss Dunn? And how are you on this lovely morning?” He leaned so close she caught the scent of his soap, which was fresh and not the harsh lye some men favored.
“I am well and prepared to fulfill my promise.” She lifted the hamper onto the counter.
“Rufus, my good man,” he called. “Please come out and say hello to Miss Dunn.” Turning back to her, he said, “I rent a room from his parents. They are free people of color who live on Castle Street. When Rufus occasionally fills in for me, I pay him a dime.”
A small boy stepped from between the draperies. “How do, miss?”
“I’m well, Rufus. It’s nice to meet you,” Amanda said, smiling at the child.
“Rufus has agreed to watch the store, allowing us to dine under yonder magnolia.” Nathaniel pointed across the street at a band of trees along the river. “Shall we be off?” He picked up the hamper and offered his elbow.
For some reason Amanda was too shy to take his arm. She pretended to dig for a handkerchief in her bag instead as they walked out of the store.
Nathaniel didn’t seem to notice her hesitation. “We can’t go far. If a customer ventures in without correct change, Rufus will whistle. He’s an amazing whistler. Then I will run to his rescue.” During his explanation he spread a tattered patchwork blanket on a thick patch of grass.
Amanda attempted to lower herself without revealing her ankles. “I hope the meal meets with your approval.” She un-wrapped crispy chicken and opened a tin of biscuits. “I’m eager to hear about your home four hundred miles to the west. Is it similar to the landscape here?” She flourished her hand toward the downtown waterfront.
“It’s absolutely nothing like Wilmington. I lived outside a small town in a valley between two mountains. A beautiful place three seasons of the year but brutal during winter. Sometimes my parents were snowed in for weeks, unable to reach the nearest road.”
“During those weeks what did you eat?” she asked as she took a dainty bite of chicken.
“Rabbit, squirrel, possum—venison if a deer wandered close to the house—and root vegetables from the cellar. If the well froze up, we melted snow for drinking water.”
“Did your parents farm the land?”
“If you could call it that. We raised mostly corn, squash, and potatoes for us, sometimes tobacco to sell when Pa could buy seed. We only owned twenty-five acres, and most of that was timber for the woodstove. At least we didn’t freeze during cold months.” Nathaniel stared at a ship approaching the harbor. “We had some fine apple trees, plum and pear too, and plenty of pecans and hickory nuts to roast and crack.”
“That sounds like a lovely place in fair weather. Is the farm still in your family?” Amanda filled two cups with Salome’s sweet tea.
Nathaniel finished his chicken leg before answering. “No. After my ma died, my pa took up the bottle until…until he died too. I tried my best for a while, but I left shortly after we lost the farm.” He shook his head as though dispelling a nightmare.
“Were you unable to pay the mortgage?”
“There was no mortgage. We were living on land my grandfather had claimed fifty years earlier as a homesteader.” He reached for another piece of chicken.
“Then how could someone just take your land?” Amanda didn’t wish to be intrusive, but the lack of justice had raised her hackles.
“Maybe it’s different where you come from, but here folks leave you alone only if no one desires what you have. If a rich man decides he wants to put a railroad through your land, he’ll find a legal way to run you off. But I didn’t accept your kind invitation to tell my hard-luck story. It’s a beautiful day. Why don’t we enjoy this fine repast and each other’s company?” He lifted his tea in a toast and brought the cup to his lips, but he never took his gaze off her. And those blue eyes seemed older than those faraway mountains…and infinitely as remote.
Over the next two weeks, Nate lived in a state of constant agitation. He jumped each time the bell jingled over the door. He would cock his head to catch a hint of a British accent among female customers. Even the sound of a passing carriage on the street took his mind away from whatever task occupied his hands. Miss Amanda Dunn had invaded his nights as well. He lay in bed for hours trying to remember every word she said, and he saw her face whenever he closed his eyes.
He was smitten, plain and simple. He had arrived at that conclusion after their lunch under the magnolia. Each time she came in his store to purchase a sweet or pound of rice reinforced his conclusion and gave him hope that the affection might be mutual. Yet what did he have to offer a fine lady? Now his store made a fine profit, sufficient to pay his landlady for a room and nightly supper with money left over to save. The shop’s attic could be converted into living quarters, but such an addition wasn’t part of his dreams for the future. How could he expect Amanda to live like a church mouse after walking past the Henthorne house on Third Street? It was hopeless. Yet the idea of one day making her his bride made him work harder than ever.
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.
“Perhaps he never had. He’s from the mountains of your new state, not the coastline. He has only mentioned trout in terms of seafood.” Amanda felt a pressing need to defend her friend.
“It wasn’t just the fish that stymied the poor grocer. Mr. Cooper seemed uncomfortable no matter which subject Jackson brought up in conversation.”
Amanda cut a piece of her omelet and chewed carefully before responding. She was no longer a teenager at home but her sister’s guest. “I cannot disagree with your assessment, but Jackson didn’t choose topics of common ground. The latest vote on the town council about raising taxes on foreign spirits?”
“Discussing imported wines is the closest my husband comes to the mercantile business. Jackson can’t very well talk about muskmelons and cantaloupes. He’s probably never entered a store like that in his life.”
Amanda set her fork on the side of her plate. “Your point is well taken, Abby, but I don’t regret extending the invitation.”
Her sister dropped her voice. “Jackson is concerned about you, Amanda. He doesn’t understand your…interest…in this shopkeeper from the hills. Truly, it’s laudable that Mr. Cooper owns a business, but what could you possibly have in common with him? Considering your education and background, you’re from two different worlds. Jackson fears you feel something stronger than friendship for the man.” She paused to nibble her piece of toast. “Of course, I told him not to be silly. You always loved taking in strays and championing the cause of the downtrodden.”
“Mr. Cooper is not a stray dog! He’s a man, and a fine one at that. He’s generous and kindhearted to everyone who comes into his shop. He’s well read, familiar with the American poets, and keeps abreast of legislation at the state level. Maybe local taxes on French wine don’t concern him, but he follows what the North Carolinian delegates are doing in Richmond. Too often new laws benefit only rich planters and ignore the poor and working classes.”
“And which side of this debate are you on?” Abby’s clear brown eyes darkened.
“I’m not on either. I’m English, the same as you.”
“Not quite. As Jackson’s wife, I now consider myself an American.”
Amanda shouldn’t have been surprised by the revelation, but she was nevertheless.
“Do you find this grocer handsome in a rugged, unpolished sort of way?” Abby’s stare didn’t falter.
“I suppose so, but you may rest easy. I didn’t come to Wilmington to court and marry—not Mr. Cooper or any friend of Jackson’s. I intend to enjoy my visit with you, fulfill Papa’s wishes, and then return home as unencumbered as when I left.”
Abby clapped her hands. “Splendid. Jackson will be relieved. I told him last night as we prepared for bed that he was worried for nothing. I’m so glad we had this little chat.” She patted Amanda’s arm affectionately.
Amanda found little pleasure in placating her sister. Even though she and Nathaniel were merely friends, putting her intentions as to her future into words felt oddly disloyal to him.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Henthorne. I have a telegram for Miss Dunn.”
“What?” Both sisters spoke simultaneously.
“The boy from the telegraph office said it’s for Miss Dunn, in care of you, Mrs. Henthorne, at this address.” Amos waited with the sealed envelope on a silver tray.
“Very well. Give it to her.” Abby sounded harsh.
Amanda felt uneasy as she read the envelope. “This came from an office in Baltimore.”
“Baltimore? Do you know someone living there?”
“No.” Amanda extracted the short message and read it twice, her breath coming in gasps, her throat constricting painfully. “It’s Papa.” She lifted her gaze. “He died soon after I left Manchester. Mama and Mr. Pelton sent word on the next clipper leaving port, headed to Baltimore. A contact of Mr. Pelton’s telegraphed as soon as he received word.” The sheet of paper slipped from her fingers.
“Papa—he’s dead?” Abby sounded weak and childlike.
“I’m afraid so, dear heart.”
“But you told Jackson his illness wasn’t serious and that he would soon recover.”
“That was the impression I had when I left home.”
“But I haven’t seen Papa in five years. I had no chance to say goodbye…or to make amends. What if I’m carrying a child?” Her hands settled on her flat belly. “He will never see his first grandchild.” Tears ran down her pale cheeks.
“Send word to Mr. Henthorne’s office.” Amanda said to Amos, who stood silently beside his mistress. “Ask him to come home.” Then she rose from her chair and enveloped Abigail in her arms. “I suspect Papa knew you loved him, but the love of a good man took you across the sea.”
Helpless to hold back her own tears, Amanda began to sob too. She cried for Abby, estranged forever from her father, and she cried for herself. Now he would never be proud of whatever she accomplished in America. For several minutes, the sisters sat immobile, lost in their grief.
Then another troubling thought came to mind, far more weighty than a woman not pleasing her father. What about Mama and her father’s employees? Those families depended on their pay envelopes for their very existence. Her mother had never written a cheque or taken care of even a modicum of responsibility. What would happen to her mother and Dunn Mills now?
After her sister’s sobs diminished to soft mewing sounds, Amanda helped her to the master suite of rooms. Once Abigail was reclining on the daybed with a cool cloth on her forehead and Estella fanning her with ostrich feathers, Amanda walked down the gallery steps to the garden. Hidden by saw palmetto blades, she allowed her grief to wash over her anew. When she had no more tears to cry, Amanda dried her face, blew her nose, and lifted her face toward heaven. I’ll make you proud of me, Papa. No matter what I need to do.