Abigail stretched in the late afternoon heat. Even in the shade the air was oppressively warm. It was barely June, yet the refreshing breeze from the east had disappeared unless a storm was blowing in off the sea. Straightening in her chaise, she peered down into the courtyard below at her slaves hard at work. Salome’s helpers sat shucking corn and snapping beans at the worktable. Miriam took down a set of sheets from the clothesline to be ironed, while Josie washed Amanda’s dainties in a tub of sudsy water. She would hang them discreetly inside the washhouse on ropes stretched end to end so as not to cause embarrassment.
Only the sight of Helene sewing in the shade marred the otherwise idyllic courtyard tableau. Amanda’s English maid refused to associate with the Henthorne slaves. Though that irritated her, Abigail understood it stemmed not from bigotry but rather from the peculiar and distinctive British caste system among servants. As a lady’s maid, Helene considered herself superior to a woman who cooked meals or laundered clothes. Unless expressly ordered to do so, she refused to pitch in around the kitchen. Instead, the young woman stretched out any chore given to fill her day. And Amanda permitted such blatant lack of ambition.
“Tell me, Helene,” Abigail called over the railing. “Where is your mistress on such a lovely afternoon?”
The maid startled as though the question roused her from a stupor. “Miss Amanda was reading in her room the last time I checked, ma’am.”
“In her room, when the gallery is so much cooler?” She frowned. Just as when they were children, her sister’s aloofness irritated her. Amanda always became standoffish when put in her place.
“Yes, ma’am. Perhaps she fell asleep.” Helene’s interest in the conversation apparently waning, she refocused on her sewing.
“If she’s not sound asleep, Helene, ask Miss Amanda to join me. I desire company.” Abigail stood stiffly. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought she saw anger flash in the maid’s eyes.
“Yes, Mrs. Henthorne. I’ll check.” Helene dropped the garment on the chair and strode inside the house. She could have easily taken the gallery steps but chose not to.
It was only fitting that her temperamental sister would have a maid who shared the same quality. Why Amanda hadn’t spoken during the ride home from the council meeting was a mystery. Hadn’t Abigail gone to the restaurant and dined at a ridiculously early hour just to please her? Hadn’t she provided the necessary introduction to Mr. Rose and the other councilmen? Amanda would have sat in that airless chamber all night if not for her. Whose fault was it that she didn’t have her facts straight?
Abigail rang the bell for tea and waited, but her sister arrived before Amos and the afternoon refreshments.
“Helene said you wished to speak with me?” She looked flushed and damp from hiding in the heat of her room.
“I was worried about you. Why do you nap indoors when I have another perfectly fine chaise here on the gallery?” She pointed so there would be no confusion. “This is America. Servants are allowed to see us sleep without thinking us hopelessly indolent and sluggish. And if they ever do think unkind thoughts, they have the sense not to speak them.” Abigail chuckled.
Amanda sat but didn’t recline on the chaise. “Thank you, but I wasn’t napping. I was reading over the contracts and other documents I brought from Dunn Mills. Mr. Pelton furnished me with several books about cotton I need to review. I prefer to study in my room where it’s quiet.”
Amos arrived with the tea. Abigail waited until he poured and served before speaking. “I can’t imagine why you bother with this. If no one is taking issue with trade with England, then Jackson can make the necessary arrangements.”
“He could have done so already. I called at his father’s office the day after I arrived. I don’t understand why he chose not to keep me informed.” From her tone of voice, her foul mood hadn’t abated.
Abigail felt her own temper flare. “I hear his carriage in the lane. Perhaps you could ask him yourself.”
“I believe I shall.” Staring with a face devoid of emotion, Amanda lifted her cup and sipped her tea.
“Jackson, I’m up here.” Abigail called as he crossed the courtyard. “Would you be kind enough to join me on the gallery?”
Jackson took the steps two at a time, took his wife in his arms, and began kissing her passionately until he spotted Amanda in the shade. “I beg your pardon. I thought Abigail was alone.” Few would describe his expression as contrite.
“My sister has some questions for you, darling. Amos, instead of eavesdropping in the doorway, please bring Mr. Henthorne his bourbon.” The butler vanished without a word.
Amanda set her teacup on the table. “Hello, Jackson.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Dunn. I have some questions for you as well.” He leaned against the balustrade and crossed his legs at the ankles. “Where did you two go yesterday evening?”
Apprehension ran up Abigail’s spine like a spider. “We enjoyed a delicious dinner at the Kendall House. We both had sea bass. It was too hot for Salome to fuss with dinner just for us. And Amanda reminded me of the larks Mama took with her friends in London.” Aware she was rambling, Abigail clamped her mouth shut.
“I’ve had their sea bass—quite delicious to be sure. But I’m more interested on your exploits upon leaving the Kendall House.” Jackson turned to face Amanda squarely.
Her inscrutable shell began to crack. “We attended a town council meeting. I had heard nothing from either you or your father, so I thought it was time to take matters into my own hands.”
Amos delivered a more ample than usual drink, interrupting the staring contest between the two.
“So I heard from several of my business associates.” His contempt was unmistakable.
“What did they say?” Abigail jumped to her feet. “We stayed less than ten minutes and were politely received by Mr. Rose.”
Much to her dismay, Jackson redirected his animosity at her. “Of course they were polite as a courtesy to my father and me, but undoubtedly they laughed all the way to the club. Two women in my household don’t have the common sense to approach me with this matter? And my household includes you, Miss Dunn, while you are our guest.”
Before Abigail could reply, Amanda stepped in front of her. “Please don’t blame your wife. This was entirely my doing. She wasn’t aware of my intentions when she agreed to have dinner downtown.”
Jackson took a deep swallow of his drink and grimaced as the spirits burned his throat. “I don’t blame my wife, Miss Dunn. I know Abigail would never shame me in this fashion.”
“How could my actions possibly cause you embarrassment? I made it quite clear I was my father’s emissary, not yours.”
“Emissary.” He spat the word. “You are no one’s emissary. Your father realized he was dying and sent you to North Carolina to repair the ill will with this other daughter. He gave you an all-important errand to keep you busy and out of mischief during the voyage. George Dunn was no fool. He knew no woman without standing or reputation would be taken seriously by the business community.”
Amanda’s mouth dropped open in a most unbecoming fashion. “I was with Papa at his sickbed, sir, and I beg to differ. Now, would you permit me a question? Why didn’t you tell me cotton was leaving Wilmington? It just wasn’t headed to Dunn Mills. Your father assured me he would keep me abreast of the situation in Richmond.”
“My father sent a letter. If President Davis chose not to respond, that isn’t our fault.” Jackson glared over the rim of his glass before downing the contents. “I don’t owe you any explanation, but out of deference to my wife I will elaborate. My father had been woefully out of touch with current trade conditions during the war. Since he was needed at Oakdale, I have assumed full control of Henthorne and Sons.”
“Oh, Jackson, I’m so proud—”
He curtailed her praise with an upraised palm. “I learned that goods have been circumventing the blockade—just not any I consigned. I have since rectified the situation. Tomorrow a thousand bales of cotton will leave my warehouse on its way to Manchester, more if the ship can accommodate it. I secured a captain unafraid of Union gunboats. If you would have approached me and not the town council, I could have explained these recent developments.”
Typical of her twin sister, Amanda lifted her nose into the air. “I didn’t realize Randolph Henthorne hadn’t kept—”
“How dare you judge my father in matters you don’t understand. He had more important concerns on his mind than cotton.” He infused the word with derision, even though the commodity had been vital to Henthorne’s for years.
“I didn’t mean to criticize your papa.” Amanda held her arms stiffly by her side.
Jackson shook his head like an angry bull. “That isn’t the point, Miss Dunn. You had no reason to address the town council. And I will thank you not to involve my wife in your lies and schemes to do a man’s job. If you choose to make a fool of yourself, you will do so alone.”
It took a moment, but Amanda’s penitent expression faded. “What lies are you referring to?”
“You stated on the ship’s manifest that you were Mrs. Amanda Dunn—a married woman.”
“The captain may have refused passage had he known I was single.” Amanda shifted her weight between her hips.
“That is my point. If you’re willing to bear false witness, who knows what else you’re capable of. I think you’re a willful woman used to getting her own way. Your parents have allowed you too much freedom. But in my house I expect you to behave with some semblance of decorum.”
“I don’t intend to make a habit of lying, if that’s what you’re afraid of. But in this case I felt the end justified the means.” Amanda’s hands balled into fists.
Jackson opened his mouth to retaliate, but Abigail stepped in between them. “Let’s all take a deep breath and collect our thoughts before tempers get the best of us.” She smiled at one and then the other. “I can assure you, Jackson, that Amanda isn’t one to tell tall tales. And I know she’ll approach you with any Dunn Mills matters in the future. Won’t you, sister?” The two women locked eyes.
“Yes. Of course I will.” It took Amanda several moments to reply, and when she did her tone of sincerity fooled no one.
Instead of listening to Jackson at dinner that night, Amanda would have vastly preferred a tray in her room or eating with Helene in the courtyard where the slaves were fed. He blustered endlessly about how well he negotiated terms with a captain by the docks. To hear him relay the story, the seaman was a vicious desperado wielding a cutlass with a dagger clenched between his teeth. Their meeting place was a den of corruption that no God-fearing gentleman of his ilk had ever ventured inside, and their subsequent rendezvous at the warehouse had been fraught with danger. Jackson had taken Amos, Thomas, and a footman, all fully armed. Captain Hornsby arrived equally fortified with henchmen standing guard.
Was this how Americans conducted business?
Amanda had trouble believing the accuracy of his account. It all sounded exaggerated to impress his wife and, to a lesser extent, her. Two things were clear by the time the interminable dinner concluded: First, she needed to give her brother-in-law a wide berth while a guest in his home. And second, if all men were like Jackson—who reminded her of her father with his overbearing style—she would go to her grave an unmarried woman.
When the Henthornes finally retired to their suite of rooms, Amanda retreated to the garden for serenity and cooler air. Slaves weren’t permitted among the formal boxwood and bougainvillea bushes unless weeding or trimming. Fortuitously, Helene was nowhere to be found. Amanda had no patience with her maid’s thinly veiled complaints about life in Wilmington. As fond of her as Amanda was, she was in no mood for more critical verbiage that night.
Settling on a stone bench, she spent a blissful few minutes watching a hummingbird flit from blossom to blossom in the honeysuckle vines. Just as the last of her anxiety ebbed, the sight of a pair of eyes peering from the gloom jarred her to alertness. “Who goes there?” She spoke in a harsh whisper.
“It’s me, ma’am, Rufus Sims.” The small ebony boy took a step closer. “Sometimes I work for Mr. Cooper in his store on Water Street.”
“Yes, I remember you, Rufus. Come sit with me.” Amanda patted the bench beside her.
The child approached but halted two feet away. “I best not tarry, ma’am. My ma said to deliver the message and come straight back. She afraid some slave-catcher gonna grab me after dark and sell me upstate, even tho’ I be free.” Rufus glanced around tentatively and then smiled.
“We won’t worry your mother then. Tell me why Mr. Cooper sent you all the way to Third Street.”
“Mr. Cooper told me I can keep this dime if I say his words ’xactly.” Rufus pulled a coin from his pocket. “He said if you of a mind, he would like to take you for a drive tomorrow. He gonna hire a buggy to go down the beach road. He’s paying my ma to fix the lunch ’cause it’s his turn.” The child rushed through the final sentence before it slipped his memory. “What say you, Miz Dunn?”
Amanda paused for less than a heartbeat. “I will pay you a second dime when I see you if you deliver my message exactly.”
He nodded, wide-eyed and eager.
“Miss Dunn accepts with pleasure and will meet Mr. Cooper at the corner of Third and Dock at ten o’clock. Say that back to me, Rufus.”
The boy tried and with minor adjustments finally mastered her reply. Then he disappeared down the path before she could thank him. Alone once more, Amanda sat in the dark while her heart raced out of control. Jackson and his demands were forgotten. Abigail with her plans for an afternoon of social calls was also soon dismissed. Instead, she was planning how she would leave the house tomorrow morning.
She experienced a wave of shame about her duplicity. Despite Jackson’s accusations, she took the Ninth Commandment seriously and prided herself on honest communication. Yet honesty felt out of the question right now. She yearned to see Nathaniel again. Knowing Jackson, he would probably prefer she approach the town council next month rather than accept a date from a shopkeeper.
The next day she had coffee in her room, declined breakfast, and sent word downstairs with Josie that she was suffering a headache. Because any light, noise, or interruption worsened the pain, she was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. She stationed Helene inside her room to thwart interlopers and made sure Josie would be in the laundry for the day. When Helene confirmed that all slaves were either in the kitchen or the courtyard, Amanda slipped down the front steps and out the door. She took only her shawl, a wide-brimmed hat, and a measure of excitement she hadn’t felt in years. Despite her intention to walk at a dignified pace, Amanda ran to the corner of Dock Street.
Nathaniel sat waiting in an open surrey in a pressed shirt and straw hat. “Why, Miss Dunn, fancy meeting you on such a lovely summer morn.” He spoke with an exaggerated drawl and offered his hand to her.
“By the English calendar the season is still spring for another few days. Perhaps Carolinians have made changes to long-established seasonal standards?” Amanda climbed up and smoothed her skirt to cover her ankles.
Nate shook the reins and the horse took off at a brisk trot. “If the powers that be made changes, no one bothered to tell me. Then again, I’ve had my mind on other matters lately.” He winked.
It was a playful gesture, one that her papa used often. Yet his wink produced a giddy sensation in her gut. “What has you distracted, Mr. Cooper?” Amanda tied her hat ribbons beneath her chin more securely to keep it from blowing away.
“I have been flummoxed whether to replace my order of wheat with cheaper-priced rice, and if the high cost of shellfish will yield greater profits or give me a financial thrashing. What if folks lose their taste for crabmeat and scallops?”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” she said. “I, myself, went into debt ten cents hoping we wouldn’t miscommunicate today.”
He guided the horse around a sharp corner. “So I heard. Young Rufus repeated your message with such exuberance that I feel your money was well spent.” Nate relaxed against the seat. “How long may I enjoy the pleasure of your company, Miss Dunn?”
“Most of the day, I suppose, as long as I return by nightfall. I will need to spell my maid so she can enjoy supper beyond the confines of our suite and perhaps stretch her legs a bit.” Amanda also tried to relax as the city traffic began to thin.
He locked gazes with her. “What did Mr. and Mrs. Henthorne say about your spending an unchaperoned day with me?”
Several plausible replies crossed her mind, but she didn’t like her recent penchant for lying. Instead, she opted for the truth. “Mr. Henthorne is out for the day, and my sister believes I’m cloistered in my room with a headache.”
A muscle in his neck tightened into a ropy cord. “Are you ashamed of me or reluctant to admit you’re seeing me socially? Because that’s what I consider this outing to be.”
She faced him on the seat. “As do I, Mr. Cooper, and if I were ashamed I wouldn’t have come. However, I see no point in upsetting my sister unless I feel this outing may have long-term possibilities.” Amanda blurted out the words before her courage evaporated.
“Fair enough. What man in his right mind could ask for better terms?”
“None, yet neither of us can feel certain about our mental state at present.” She tried not to laugh.
“This is a day we shall both remember.” He slapped the reins against the horse’s back. “What is your opinion of pork pulled from the bone, fried cornbread, and turnip greens?”
“I have none, because I’ve never tasted any of them.”
“Then you’re in for a rare treat. My landlady prepared a delectable feast, and she’s a culinary master of Carolina cuisine.”
Amanda grabbed the side of the buggy as it bumped over ruts in the road. “You certainly don’t talk like most men I’ve heard in Wilmington. Even Jackson doesn’t express himself as well as you.”
“No one talks like me back home, either. When I left the hills I decided to become an educated man, even if I never achieve a fancy degree to hang on my wall. Besides, I like words. I read passages aloud to let the sentences roll off my tongue. A well-turned phrase tastes even better than Mrs. Sims’s barbecue.”
“When do we eat? You’re making me hungry.”
“Not until we reach the water. A young lady must learn patience.”
“Are you taking me to the ocean? I adore the beach.” Amanda clapped her hands.
“I could take you to the Greenville Sound, but we wouldn’t get back until tomorrow. A string of barrier islands separate the sea from the Carolina coastline. So we’ll head south on the beach road to the river road. Not too far out of town the Cape Fear River widens with lovely spots to picnic along the way. That’s where I’m buying a plot of land—rich fertile soil for my wife to plant a garden; shallow water along the bank for children to swim in and yet still deep enough water to dock a fishing boat.”
“Do you intend to hang up your grocer’s apron and become a fisherman?”
“I do, when the time is right.” He flicked flies off the horse with his whip.
“And you intend to take a wife?” After posing the question, Amanda held her breath.
“Yes. All sane men eventually marry, along with most insane ones too.” A dimple appeared in his right cheek.
“Into which category do you place yourself, Mr. Cooper?”
“Sane and sober as a judge. But I wish you would call me Nate, at least when we’re alone.”
“Fine, as long as you call me Amanda.”
Nate smiled but kept his eyes on the road.
“What has amused you?” she demanded.
“I have practiced saying ‘Amanda’ every night before bed, and all the way to our meeting today. Your name rolls off my tongue like butter. You had better hang on tight because I want this gelding to pick up his hooves. I’m eager to get where we’re going.”
Amanda gripped the edge of her seat, concentrating her energy on remaining inside the surrey. For a man who turned words into a hobby, he certainly could use them to disarm a woman.
Jackson settled back in his upholstered chair and released a satisfied sigh. His dinner of rare ribs of beef with a horseradish glaze, along with mushrooms and wild rice, had been superb. He sipped a glass of aged cabernet from the Bordeaux region in France, a gift from Elias Hornsby, and had a Cuban cigar to enjoy later. Captain Hornsby had been pleasantly surprised by his overflowing warehouses. What man wouldn’t have been? His father had been languishing under misconceptions for so long, he should dress in breeches and powdered wigs. Running his country estate would be a better fit for him, especially because his wife appreciated having him home. Since Lincoln’s outrageous emancipation edict the year before, slaves were running off from every plantation. Most that remained either expected pay or were too old to work a full day anyway. Their once prosperous peanut estate had shrunk to half its former productivity.
But Jackson didn’t need to worry about his parents. From Hornsby’s projections, his anticipated profits should be enough to remove a significant amount of debt from the company’s books. And Hornsby had only emptied one of his warehouses. Upon the return of the Countess Marie, Hornsby promised to deliver the next load to Bermuda and be back within a fortnight. It wouldn’t take long for him to wipe the slate clean of creditors. Then who knew what he could do next?
Jackson peered out the window of his club on the bustling street scene. Soon his friends would sit down at the gaming tables to try their luck or test their skills at cards, but he had no taste for gambling tonight. He preferred to savor his wine while mulling over yesterday’s exceptionally satisfying conversation with this sister-in-law.
Amanda strutted around his house putting on airs as though superior to Abigail—and him—by sheer virtue of being English. She thumbed her nose at the Southern way of life and reliance on slavery. Yet if she had to eat food grown, harvested, and prepared by her own hands, she would have starved to death long ago. Perhaps slavery was an antiquated institution that needed to be replaced, but what planter could afford to pay wages that workers could live on? Amanda’s performance at the town meeting proved she was just as ineffectual and out-of-touch with reality as Jackson’s father. At least he knew when it was time to tuck his tail between his legs and go home. Yet Abigail remained devoted to her twin and loved having her with them. Otherwise Jackson would have booked passage for Amanda on the next ship and sent her back home long ago.
“Mr. Henthorne, sir?”
Jackson looked up from his contemplation to see the white-haired butler of the club. “What is it, James? Can’t a man enjoy a cigar in some peace and quiet?”
The butler blanched, his silver tray tipping precariously to one side. “I’m sorry, sir. Should I tell the gentleman you’re occupied? He asked for you by name.”
Jackson picked up the engraved card on the salver. It was of a quality not seen in his circles in some time. His curiosity piqued, he read the name aloud. “Mr. Robert Peterson, cotton factor, Savannah, Georgia.” The inscribed address was in the best section of the city. “Show him in, James, and be quick about it.” While waiting, Jackson drained the contents of his glass.
James wasted no time delivering Mr. Peterson to the library. “Mr. Henthorne? This is Mr. Peterson.” The butler bowed and backed away.
Jackson quickly assessed the man’s expensive clothes, diamond cravat stud, and silver-topped walking stick. Either he was a fop or far more successful than most men dining at the club that night. He rose to his feet and extended a hand. “Jackson Henthorne. How do you do, sir?”
Peterson’s smile filled his entire face. “Thank you for allowing me to interrupt your evening, Mr. Henthorne. I visited your father several days ago—a gracious and distinguished gentlemen to be sure—but he insisted I speak to you. He told me I could find you here, so I haunted your club, losing money at cards while waiting to meet you.”
“Have a seat and tell me what I can do for you.”
“Was that a cabernet you were drinking?” Peterson waved to James, who lurked near the doorway. “Bring the best bottle of wine in the house.” He sat in the adjacent chair. “It’s I who can help you, sir. You will note from my card that my office is in Savannah, although I’m more of a nomad since that infernal blockade hobbled the cotton exchange at home and in Charleston.”
“I am aware of current events.” The man’s patronizing tone caused Jackson’s back to stiffen.
“Of course you are. I have a proposition that could make us very wealthy men.” He lowered his voice.
“You have my attention.”
“Barns in Georgia and South Carolina are bulging. Maybe not as much as before the slaves began hightailing it north, but enough to fill every ship we can contract for the next year. Markets in Europe and Britain clamor for American cotton.”
“I have a load that just left port—one thousand bales headed for the mills of England.”
With a sly grin Peterson waved over the butler bearing a tray and two glasses. “That’s why I’m here. I heard that the Countess Marie was loaded from bow to stern. You obviously possess qualities I do not, Mr. Henthorne. Elias Hornsby refused to do business with me. His armed guards prevented every one of my attempts to negotiate. Yet you marched into his favorite watering hole and arranged delivery. I’m surprised you weren’t shot or bludgeoned on your way out.”
His revelation didn’t help with the digestion of Jackson’s heavy meal. “We were able to come to terms the next day.” He watched James pour the wine, sure that if he were doing it his hands would be visibly shaking.
“I have contracts with two ships that regularly leave the harbor bound for Nassau or Bermuda. My brother is in Bermuda now. He sells cotton and tobacco to the highest bidder and sends it on its way. We also have a trusted associate in Liverpool who fills ships with canned meat, clothing, shoes, and wool uniforms for the return voyage.” Peterson lifted the two wine glasses, handed Jackson one, and then took a deep swallow from his. “Ah, it’s been too long since I’ve tasted wine this fine.”
Jackson sipped without taking his eyes off Peterson. “It sounds as though you have the situation well in hand. Why do you need me?”
“This war and the naval threat have made life difficult for everyone. I don’t have to tell you that, but the situation has also eliminated much of our competition. There’s no exchange here, unlike in Savannah or Charleston. I need to remain in the interior of Georgia and South Carolina to buy up the cotton. I can send it by rail, by teamster wagons, or float it up the Sound on flatboats inside the ring of Yankee gunboats if necessary. This is where you come in, Mr. Henthorne. With a partner in Wilmington, I can get product onto ships faster. And I want a man with your savvy.” He paused to take another drink. “I’m prepared to write you a cheque tonight—consider it an advance against your share of future profits. And there will be substantial profits.”
Forcing himself to breathe, Jackson picked up the bottle and refilled both glasses, his hands now perfectly steady. “You continue to hold my attention, sir. Because Wilmington is the last port open on the eastern coast, we need to divert whatever flowed through Charleston and Savannah here to augment my tobacco trade in resin and spirits of turpentine.” He sipped the dry cabernet.
“I’ve spoken to several club members. Everyone says you’re a man of integrity—a man I can trust. But you don’t know me, Henthorne. So I hope this will convince you that I’m a man of my word as well.” Peterson extracted a cheque from an inside pocket and laid it on the table. It had been inscribed with Jackson’s name and an amount so large his breath caught in his throat.
“You possess great confidence in your ability to recruit, Mr. Peterson.”
“Indeed, but that cheque could easily be thrown into the fire if you decline my proposition. Why don’t you take it to your banker? A telegram to my Savannah bank will confirm my honest intentions. Should you need time to consider my offer, I’m staying at the Kendall House.” He placed both hands on the carved wolf’s head of his walking stick.
Jackson stared at the amount, blinked, and gazed again. “Mr. Peterson, I don’t need the evening to decide. I’m a good judge of people and can usually recognize an excellent opportunity when I see one.” Tucking the cheque inside his frock coat, he pulled out his card case. “Come by my office at nine tomorrow morning. We’ll discuss expectations and obligations on both our parts. Your advance money implies profits not seen in many years, but I like to enter partnerships with my eyes wide open.”
Peterson smiled as he accepted Jackson’s card. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. The real profits are to be made in the goods our ships bring back. General Lee is desperate for food, clothing, guns, munitions—all we can import. And the Confederate Treasury still has gold to spend to supply the army with what they need. It’s our duty as Southern gentlemen to ensure our fighting men prevail over the Yankees. Why can’t shrewd businessmen also get rich at the same time?” He pushed up from his chair and offered his hand. “I’m weary from traveling and anxious to return to my hotel. Enjoy the remainder of the cabernet. I’ll be at your office tomorrow to answer to any questions you have. Answers you’ll like, I assure you.”
The two men shook and Peterson left, but Jackson stayed in the comfortable library for another hour. He’d lost interest in the wine and had forgotten the cigar. Instead, his mind whirred with visions of wealth to fatten the lean Henthorne coffers. He would be able to restore Oakdale to its former glory and lavish gifts on Abigail that she’d long done without. The longer he remained in the rarefied air of his club the happier Jackson became—an emotion he’d long done without.