Jackson paced from one end of the parlor to the other, consulted his pocket watch, and then strode to the doors leading to the garden. He spotted his wife close to the property line, instructing a slave on which flowers to cut for a bouquet. “Amos,” he called.
A few moments later the grizzled butler appeared. “Yes, Master Henthorne?”
“Where is Estelle? If she’s not handy, send a kitchen slave into the garden to fetch Mrs. Henthorne.” He let the drapery fall back into place. “I would like her to join me in the parlor.”
“Yes, sir.” He shuffled off toward the back of the house.
Jackson poured a short drink, intending to keep a quick wit for tonight’s festivities. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass until his wife arrived and then took a small sip.
“What is it, Jackson? Have you taken ill?” Abigail’s pale face was flushed as though she’d been hurrying. “Estelle said I was needed on the double.”
“That will be all. See to your other duties.” He waved off both Amos and Estelle, who stood at attention in the doorway. Then he wrapped an arm around Abigail’s slender waist. “I left my office early today to make sure preparations were well in hand for tonight’s dinner party. And I find you dawdling in the garden, not even beginning to get ready.”
Offering an amused giggle, she patted his arm. “Goodness, Jackson. It’s only supper with our friends, my sister, and her friend, Mr. Cooper. I usually dress for dinner at half past five. All will be well, my dear.”
“I sent word to our guests that the occasion warranted tailcoats and white tie, so I’d like you to wear your favorite gown and jewels.” Jackson grinned at the cleverness of his plan.
“A formal dinner when Amanda invited the local shopkeeper?” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I doubt Mr. Cooper even owns a dinner jacket or cummerbund, let alone a tailcoat. A Sunday meeting suit is the best we can hope for considering his…financial circumstances.”
“Precisely, my dear.” He enfolded both her hands in his. “Miss Dunn feels that a rapier wit and passing knowledge of literature are sufficient to rub shoulders in polite society. Perhaps your sister believes standards and rules have been thrown out because she’s far from home. I wish for her to see how inappropriate her relationship with Nathaniel Cooper truly is.”
“Won’t it embarrass Mr. Cooper to be so underdressed?” Her luminous eyes widened.
“I doubt the man is capable of such shame. Besides, why should we lower our standards to accommodate a guest who has no business here in the first place?”
Abigail leaned forward conspiratorially. “But weren’t you the one who invited him?”
Jackson waved off her question. “Please instruct Salome to add oysters to our menu of escargot and soft-shelled crabs. There will be no down-home cuisine for our little country boy.” He finished his drink in a single gulp.
“Very well. I’ll tell her and begin my toilette.” Abigail didn’t sound very enthusiastic. “May I inform Amanda of the change in plans?”
“Of course. I have no desire to embarrass your sister.” Jackson’s smile remained only until Abigail swept from the room. But it is high time she realizes what a fool she’s making of herself.
At a little before eight, Jackson joined his wife in the parlor to await their guests. Abigail looked splendid in a dark green gown, the diamond-and-emerald jewelry he purchased with Mr. Peterson’s generous advance sparkling at her throat and earlobes. “You look beautiful, my dear.” He whispered the words next to her ear.
“Thank you. I’ve never owned anything quite so exquisite.” She fingered her necklace appreciatively.
Footsteps behind them curtailed any subsequent comment. Amanda walked into the room in a cheery pink dress with a small hoop and very modest accessories. Her ensemble was better suited for a garden party than a formal dinner. Instead of an elaborate coiffure of curls like Abigail’s, Amanda’s hair had been plaited and then simply coiled atop her head.
“Good evening, Jackson, Abby. I checked with Salome, and everything is ready for this evening.”
“Of course, why wouldn’t it be?” he asked irritably. He was about to send his sister-in-law upstairs to change clothes, but they heard the sound of carriages on the oyster shell turnaround. “Why don’t we meet our guests on the verandah,” he said instead.
The women followed him outside, and in short order he introduced Amanda to the Honorable and Mrs. Thaddeus Wilkes, the Wilmington representative to the Confederate congress; Judge Miles Stewart and his charming wife; and Mr. and Mrs. Preston Alcott, Esquire, the attorney who had represented Henthorne and Sons for years. Although Mrs. Alcott had met Amanda previously, all three ladies fixated on the identicalness of the twins rather than on Amanda’s informal attire.
Conversation remained lively on the terrace as Amos circulated with glasses of French champagne. The judge and attorney launched into a spirited discussion about eminent domain in regards to tidal flats and the coastline, while Representative Wilkes tried to interest them in pending legislation involving the barrier islands. Nathaniel nearly slipped into the group unnoticed. Almost, but not quite. Jackson spotted the tall young man at Amanda’s side, whispering something into her ear. Her cheeks turned rosy with a blush as she opened her fan to cool her face.
“Mr. Cooper, I’m glad you were able to join us.”
“Thank you, Mr. Henthorne, for extending the invitation.” Cooper bowed low and then straightened to perfect posture. He was scrubbed and clean shaven; his shirt was pressed and his shoes were polished. But his dark wool suit looked threadbare, and although still passable for church, it was ridiculously unsuitable for the occasion.
“Mr. Cooper is our Amanda’s favorite greengrocer. He owns a small shop on Water Street.” Jackson rocked back on his heels, waiting for the gasps or mute stares to commence. But instead the other guests appeared taken by the novelty.
“Ah, an enterprising young man. That’s what the new South needs more of!” Representative Wilkes slapped Nathaniel on the back. “Too many people sit around waiting for life to return to how it was. Even after we lick those Yankees, that’s not going to happen.”
The judge stepped to his side. “You’re in a good location to gauge the influx of new immigrants, Mr. Cooper. I’m worried many foreigners arrive on steamers and aren’t departing when the ships leave port. We need to keep track of those emigrating and demand they seek citizenship.”
Even Jackson’s lawyer was eager to chat with the shopkeeper, but the ladies circumvented his attempt. “My cook insists your store has the freshest vegetables and weevil-free rice,” said Sarah Wilkes. “It’s not easy to find quality food these days with the rail lines torn up so often.” She shook her blond curls with dismay, although Jackson would bet his eyeteeth she had never peeled a potato or boiled a pot of rice in her life.
“My Gertrude insists your prices are fairer than Baxter’s, and everyone needs to mind their budget these days.” Rosalyn Stewart nudged in between Amanda and Nathaniel in the familiar manner of older ladies. “I want to hear how our food differs from what you’re used to, Miss Dunn. It’s been years since we sailed to London, and I don’t remember the cuisine very well.”
“Speaking of which,” Abigail said, drawing her guests’ attention, “shall we move to the dining room? Dinner is ready to be served.”
Everyone trailed the butler into the elegantly appointed room with a beautifully set table. Jackson waited at the rear, grinding down on his molars. This wasn’t progressing as he’d intended. His friends were treating Nathaniel like a favored lap dog instead of the interloper that he was. He needed to take matters into his own hands. His pliable wife would be of no use. “Would you care for more champagne, Mr. Cooper?”
“No, sir. This is lemonade in my flute. Amos kindly provided my favorite beverage. Thank you.”
“May I have more lemonade, Amos?” Amanda lifted her glass.
“Of course, Miss Dunn.” The butler lingered in case others wished to change their drinks.
Jackson waited to pose his next question until the arrival of the first course. “I hope the vichyssoise is to your liking, Mr. Cooper.”
Nathaniel peered into his bowl with a smile. “I never cared much for potato soup until I learned it could be made with leeks, celery, and garlic and served cold. I’m sure Salome’s recipe will meet with my approval.” He nodded in Jackson’s direction.
Throughout the meal, Jackson kept watch on the shopkeeper from the corner of his eye. Nathaniel waited until others began eating the oysters and followed their lead. He made polite conversation with his nearby companions, while Amanda practically hung on his every word. That woman’s appetite improved significantly from her normal pickiness. Abigail chatted away with Judge Stewart about nonsense, while he remained enchanted with Abigail as usual.
Jackson almost abandoned hope of relegating Nathaniel to his rightful place when Mrs. Wilkes brought up an interesting topic.
“Has anyone read any of the ramblings from those transcendentalists from Concord?” she asked. “I dismissed them out of hand at first because they were abolitionists, but some of their thinking is rather interesting.” With encouragement from around the table, she continued. “They believe in the inherent goodness of both people and nature, and that society and its institutions—particularly organized religion and political parties—ultimately corrupt the purity of the individual. They have faith that people are at their best when truly self-reliant and independent.”
Jackson seized his opportunity. “What is your opinion of these northern rabble-rousers, Mr. Cooper?”
Nathaniel cleared his throat. “I possess far less faith in the inherent goodness of mankind without a strong Christian background, but I have read several essays by Ralph Waldo Emerson and Walt Whitman. They are educated and erudite men, to be sure. History will determine the final viability of their positions.”
Jackson gripped the edge of the table. He would have to bide his time. Thwarting the efforts of the shopkeeper would be harder than he anticipated. Yet he definitely needed to bring that upstart down a peg or two, at least in the eyes of his sister-in-law.
Amanda spent the next several days at her sister’s side. Abby seemed to have either caught a case of flu or one of the rich dishes served at the formal dinner hadn’t agreed with her. For two days in a row, Abby spent her mornings bent over a washbasin in her room horribly nauseated. Then she spent afternoons weak from dehydration. When Amanda wasn’t swabbing her forehead with a cool cloth, she was assigning tasks to the slaves to keep the house running smoothly. In England servants knew what their employers expected of them and went about their daily routines without someone constantly commanding: “Do this or now do that.” Slaves in America took little initiative. Their owners didn’t encourage independent thinking or taking responsibility. No wonder slaves often floundered for a period of time when suddenly set free.
After a final check that her sister had drifted off to sleep on her balcony chaise, Amanda wandered down to the garden. Thus far she’d confined her musings about the party to the ostentation of white tie on an ordinary Thursday, or the bizarre selection of dishes served. It seemed as though Abby had purposely chosen foods that would be difficult to eat. Yet the more Amanda pondered the dinner, the more she suspected Jackson had been at the helm.
The man had done everything possible to embarrass Nathaniel. Yet despite his Herculean efforts, Jackson had failed. Nate asked polite questions about unfamiliar dishes as anyone would without displaying the slightest amount of discomfort. He mimicked her use of the claw-cracker and correct oyster etiquette without mishap. And the fact that he wasn’t formally attired didn’t seem to be an issue with anyone but Jackson. His comments about “needing to find you a reputable haberdasher should your friendship with Miss Dunn continue” had made her blood boil. But the more Jackson tried to drive a wedge between them, the more she yearned to pack Nate Cooper into her steamer trunk and book the next passage home—not that Mama would find him any more acceptable than her brother-in-law did.
Nothing tastes sweeter than the fruit just beyond reach. And if she needed a second adage to embroider on a sampler, she would choose: Absence makes the heart grow fonder. By the third day, she was ready to invent any excuse to escape the house and walk to the shops along Water Street.
The next day, after assuring herself that Abigail was resting comfortably in her darkened bedroom, Amanda skipped down to the river oblivious of the fact it was ninety degrees in the sunshine.
Nate glanced up from his ledger when she entered his store. “Good day, Mr. Cooper. I trust you recovered from the hemlock tea and belladonna sweet cakes served at the Henthornes’.”
Her jest took him a moment to comprehend; then a slow smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Fortunately, I slipped an antidote for poison into my coat pocket that I concocted from herbal remedies. One never knows when you’ll encounter a sworn enemy at a formal dinner.” He slapped his ledger closed. “I’m surprised to see you here, Miss Dunn. Pleasantly, but surprised nonetheless.”
Amanda tugged off her sunbonnet as she advanced up the narrow aisle toward the back. “Why is that? You know I prefer you infinitely more than that sour old Mr. Baxter.”
Nate took his time to sweep pencils and notepads off the counter, put the teakettle on the stove, and pull off his apron. “Because it’s fatiguing to constantly battle on someone’s behalf—fatiguing and disheartening. Eventually all champions of the downtrodden grow weary and must pass the torch to another advocate.”
Climbing onto a stool, she smoothed her skirt with a gloved hand. “I’m not your champion; I’m your friend. And you’re certainly not downtrodden. I thought you handled yourself splendidly despite Jackson’s every attempt to see you fail.”
Astonishment registered in his blue eyes. “I didn’t think you would so readily admit to Henthorne’s objective.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked, shrugging. “His rudeness was apparent to everyone, I daresay. But his guests didn’t appear to share his low opinion of you.”
Nate set out two cups, a tin of milk, and the sugar bowl. “I found the Wilkeses and Stewarts to be delightful people. Even Preston Alcott struck me as a fair-minded man.”
“What of Mrs. Sarah Wilkes’s fondness for the writings of Henry David Thoreau? Did that not run counter to everything you believed about wealthy coastal aristocrats?”
“Tell me honestly, Amanda. Did you send your personal copy of Walden to Mrs. Wilkes with some tantalizing bribe if she read the volume?”
“I own few books by American writers. I prefer the work of Lord Byron, Jane Austen, or Charles Dickens. So no, I did not bribe Mrs. Wilkes for my own purposes. Not everyone is as narrow minded and snobbish as Jackson.”
Nate smiled, yet his face contained little warmth. “His guests were kinder and more gracious than I gave them credit for. Thus my snap conclusion had been unwarranted. Yet Jackson did convince the principal target of his message.”
Amanda pursed her lips, confused. “Who would that be?”
“Me. He aimed to illustrate my unsuitability as a candidate to court you. And in that he succeeded.”
She gasped, shocked by his straightforwardness. “Goodness, I doubt no one ever accused you of being overly subtle.”
His eyes softened. “No, they have not. I’m twenty-five years old and didn’t achieve my success—however limited that might be—without taking chances and, in many cases, risking everything. I must take one of those chances now.” He sucked in a halting breath. “I like you, Miss Dunn, more than I’ve ever liked a woman before. But Thursday’s dinner brought me face-to-face with an undeniable truth: I will never achieve the success of Jackson Henthorne—or your parents, for that matter. Not with the economic reality in North Carolina these days and my questionable background from the mountains. Family ties and ancestral blood still matter to these old families just as much as it does where you live. My grandparents were illiterate and squatted on ground that no one wanted until investors decided to put a railroad through. No land grant from King Charles with fancy seals guaranteed their claim to the homestead. My birthright will never allow me to be good enough for you.” His words floated on the warm air wafting in through the open window and echoed in her ears for several seconds.
“You seem to have given the matter serious thought while I’ve been nursing my sister. And you have arrived at conclusions which involve two people all by yourself.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand. “I listened patiently while you elucidated your deficiencies. Now I insist on the same privilege.”
Nate crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. “Fair enough.”
“I thought the dinner went well despite Jackson’s boorish behavior. I saw admirable traits in your personality that had nothing to do with your upbringing or heritage. But now you’re acting like my brother-in-law, telling me what I should or shouldn’t do, what’s best for me, and how I should think. Are you just another male eager to boss me around, perhaps because you feel women are incapable of making rational decisions in life?”
“Absolutely not. My mother spoke her mind and stood up to my father when she disagreed with him. I always respected her for that.”
“At least your parents passed on a useful ability to you and no doubt, to many others. You’re choosing to dismiss them because they were uncultured.”
“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.” Abigail 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.”