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 livestock. 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.”
Despite the early hour, Jackson longed for a beverage stronger than tea. Peterson was taking a circuitous route in reaching his point. “Go on,” he prodded.
“I’ve had to pay planters for their cotton. My finances are temporarily stretched paper-thin. I’m hoping Henthorne and Sons can produce the necessary capital for the Lady Adelaine and the Roanoke.”
Jackson sniffed. “How much money are we talking about?”
Peterson murmured a figure so exorbitant Jackson’s sole response was laughter. “Who has that kind of money sitting in their bank account?”
“Keep in mind that the price is for both ships. I’m certain we could acquire one if that sort of outlay is beyond your means.” Peterson’s expression turned patronizing.
“Beyond my means?” Jackson recoiled at the veiled insult. “Mr. Peterson, Union warships lurk in the Atlantic itching to aim their guns on any vessel flying Confederate colors.”
“Fort Fisher keeps those Yankee gunboats far enough out that new ships can easily outrun them. It’s worked that way for more than two years, and we have no reason to believe the situation will change.” Peterson wiped his upper lip before stuffing his damp handkerchief into his pocket. “I intend to send the Lady Adelaine to Bermuda for a load of guns and munitions. President Davis will empty the treasury to supply sufficient weapons for our brave soldiers to win. As I began our conversation, this is the time to reap enormous profits, but a venture this bold isn’t for the faint of heart.” Peterson stood clumsily. “Would you like the day to consider this opportunity, sir? My stamina still isn’t what it should be, so I must return to my hotel. May I call on you tomorrow for your answer?”
Jackson rose to his feet and stretched out his hand. “Because time is of the essence, I won’t need a day to consider. Send word to whoever is brokering the sale that Henthorne and Peterson will purchase the Lady Adelaine and the Roanoke.”
“Bravo, sir. And I’m sure that if we wish to sell when the war ends, we will find a ready market for those steamers. The eventual lifting of the blockade from Richmond and Charleston will only improve commerce along the seacoast.”
“I’ll consult my banker today and should have a cheque within a day or two.”
Peterson nodded energetically. “By the time the ships arrive from Nassau your warehouses should be overflowing. Thanks to this war, we should be able to retire rich men by the time it’s over. Shall I join you at your club tonight to celebrate?”
Jackson considered inviting his partner to dinner at the house, but Peterson’s tremors and pallor put him off. Better not to expose Abigail should the man still be ill. “Yes, my club tonight. Shall we meet at nine?”
After Peterson bowed and took his leave, Jackson’s puffed-up confidence waned. The combined sale price constricted his chest like a lady’s corset. He had recently cleared the company’s debts but had barely had a chance to save a tenth of the amount. To obtain so large a sum on short notice, he would have to leverage the business assets and perhaps mortgage his home. He needed to talk to Abigail and then visit his father in the country. After all, despite his current leadership role, Randolph still owned Henthorne and Sons. Packing his papers into his leather case, Jackson rehearsed how to approach them in his mind. But it took little time to conclude neither conversation would take place—not today and not in the foreseeable future. Abigail and his father would fail to recognize a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He felt a twinge of apprehension. If he felt this uneasy, he certainly couldn’t convince anyone else. He must work harder than ever and keep his head down.
With a little luck this would be the last gamble he would ever have to take.
Nate heard the bell over the door as he hooked the last side of deer meat overhead in the back room. Washing his hands in a bucket of water, he strode to the front to convince a local matron that his produce had no peer in all of Wilmington. But the friendly face was decidedly male. “Well, look who the wind blew in on this lovely September day.”
Mason Hooks marched up the aisle with more swagger than usual for someone from a tiny place like Balsam. “A man can grow old and die waiting for you to mosey into Flannigan’s for a beer.”
“No smoky saloons for me. I’m still waiting for a teahouse to open in town.” Nate grinned, not the least bit put off by his friend’s challenge.
Mason’s guffaws carried through the open window to the street. “I’ll keep tryin’ till I wear you out, but that’s not why I’m making an afternoon social call.”
“Work slowing down on the docks?” Nate asked as he perched on a tall stool.
“Not hardly. Ships are tied up two deep waiting their turn to unload and secure new cargo. I’m here because you might be interested in tonight’s meeting.” Mason whispered as though eavesdroppers lurked between the bins of apples.
“What kind of meeting?”
“Just a few men hopin’ to see this bloody war come to an end.” Mason’s words were barely audible. “With victory for the Union army, that is.”
Nate pulled his stool closer. “I trust this gathering won’t be on the Square or in the mayor’s front yard.”
“We’re meeting out near Greenfield Lake ’round nine o’clock. There’s an old peanut barn there.”
“Greenfield Lake? That’s three or four miles from town. How did you hear about this?”
“Word travels fast on the docks. Most of them boys ain’t too fond of Jeff Davis. All his fancy ideas are for the rich planters. They’re not willing to fight a war they can’t win. The South is done for.”
“Who will be at this gathering? Immigrants just off the boat not eager to die for their new country?”
“Sure, but also plenty of farm boys run off their spreads by one army or the other. Others will be farmers tired of scratching a livin’ from worn-out dirt.”
Nate slicked a hand through his hair. “Is that why you’re going, because you think the Confederacy is licked?”
Mason’s expression turned malevolent as though remembering something he would rather forget. “I’m going ’cause of how those brass-buttoned majors treated us privates, just like we were their slaves back home. They didn’t care how much of our blood got spilt long as it wasn’t theirs. If you know anybody that would rather not have Joe Johnson victorious, bring them along.”
“What about free blacks? Would they be welcome?”
“ ’Course they are. I would say Negroes have the best reasons to see Billy Sherman march his troops into North Carolina too.”
Nate pulled down the shade and turned his window sign to “Closed.” “I’d better lock up and head home. Greenfield Lake is a long ride.”
Mason’s eyes rounded. “So you’ll come? I took you for a lover of flowery words, not a man of action. I won’t lie to you. This could get bloody if those Reb provost marshals get wind of it.”
“I’m showing up to listen. Any flowery words that come to mind I plan to keep to myself.”
Mason pulled a crude map from his breast pocket and set it on the counter. “Take the beach road south. Watch for the big marsh on your right. Then count the farm lanes on your left. Turn down the fifth one.” He tapped the map with his finger. “ ’Bout another mile, watch for a clearing with one lone oak sittin’ by its lonesome. Cut a beeline across the field. Once you find that tree you’ll see the barn roof.” Mason allowed him to study the sketch for another minute. “Wear dark clothes and carry no lantern. They don’t want no uninvited visitors, but you and your friend will be welcome.”
“Providing I don’t fall into the bog, I’ll be there.”
Nate had heard about these meetings in the hills—Carolinians supportive of the Union who didn’t want their state to secede. He never imagined the hotheads would eventually migrate through the vast plantation land to the coast. The local militia, those not already reassigned to Fort Fisher, wouldn’t like a pack of traitors in their midst.
That evening he arrived home so early he was able to eat supper with the Simses. Throughout the meal of rabbit stew and biscuits, he half listened to Rufus’s adventures in the woods outside of town even as his mind churned with ideas. Once Ruth took the boy to the porch to practice arithmetic, Nate told his landlord about his afternoon visitor.
Odom stared into his tea leaves as though their arrangement offered insight into the future. “Are you certain Negroes would be allowed in?”
“According to my friend, several free men from the docks plan to attend.”
“This ain’t no group of rabble fixing to do their own mischief, is it? I want no part of thievery or mayhem.”
“Nor do I. If you would rather not go, I take no exception. I cannot vouch that everything Mason said is the truth.”
“I understand, but this is one meeting I want to see for myself.”
Without further discussion, they scrambled to their feet, provided an ambiguous explanation to Ruth, and saddled their horses. To reach the obscure barn by the appointed hour they would have to ride hard. They would also have to keep their heads down and concentrate on staying astride. But the less time they spent pondering what awaited them at Greenfield Lake the better.
The former peanut barn sat in a moonlit clearing surrounded by swamp willows and sycamores. Despite Mason’s request for no lanterns, two burly men held blazing torches near the barn’s entrance. Several more brandished weapons, everything from squirrel muskets to old muzzleloaders to the new repeating Spencer rifles. More torches burned inside the barn, the yellow light spilling through cracks and missing slats. Nate and Odom tied their reins to a low branch and approached the entrance warily.
“Stop! Who goes there?” A bearded giant of a man stepped from the shadows, his pistol trained on the center of Nate’s chest.
“Nathaniel Cooper and Odom Sims, friends of Mason Hooks.” Nate offered this bit of information uncertain if it bettered his prospects or sealed his fate.
“Hooks is mighty quick to make friends,” said the giant. “Where you from, Cooper?”
“Balsam, in the Blue Ridge Mountains.”
Tilting his torch briefly at Sims, the guard nodded toward the doorway. “Go on in. They’re just about to start.” He didn’t, however, lower his sidearm.
Within the cavernous barn, Nate’s eyes smarted from tar smoke. On the far side of the room, Mason waved his arm at them, but he and Odom found seats in the back row. Nate scanned the assemblage curiously. A strange assortment of humankind filled the rows of crude benches. Young and old, black and white—all talked with great animation. Judging by their attire, the men represented every variety of vocation and financial circumstance except for the rich planter. They were united by a common desire to see the war end and the Union restored without slavery, as mandated by Lincoln’s edict. But as Nate scrutinized more closely, he saw that most wore rough, cast-off clothing. They appeared to live a hand-to-mouth existence on the docks, or perhaps survived by pilferage, robbery, or worse. These weren’t seasoned debaters eager to sway public opinion with logic and reason.
Someone fired a musket into the rafters, curtailing the din of chatter. “Silence!” a voice demanded. “We haven’t come here to socialize like women at a county fair.” A tall, wild-haired man climbed onto a wooden dais. His suit, though not in the current style, was clean and pressed. “We’ve come tonight to take action!” He paused for a thunder of applause.
“As we struggle to earn a living in Wilmington, endless bales of cotton and hogsheads of tobacco flow from the interior counties to the coast. The same goods we load onto steamers bound for Europe. Then we unload food and guns for Bobby Lee’s army in Virginia or Joe Johnson’s out west. We cannot end this war until we cut off the flow of supplies.”
A second roar of approval bolstered the white-haired leader’s bravado. Nate felt a dull ache in the pit of his stomach as he glanced around the room.
“Who’s with me?” shouted the leader. “It’s the tracks of the Wilmington and Weldon railroad that need to be dealt with swiftly and decisively. I say we ride out the next full moon.” Men began shouting and talking all at once. Several began thumping their chests and stomping on the plank floor. Nate saw more than one whiskey bottle passed around to fuel their courage. One glance at Odom, and Nate knew his landlord shared his apprehension. “Real slow-like move toward the door as though you’re looking for somebody.” Nate uttered the words through gritted teeth.
Nodding almost imperceptivity, Odom meandered through the crowd as though in no particular hurry. Outside, the guards paid them no mind, having caught the fever of rebellion. Silently, Nate and Odom mounted their horses and picked their way through the woods to open pasture. Once they spotted the lone oak, bathed in moonlight and standing sentinel, both men released a sigh of relief.
“Don’t think I’ll be attendin’ anymore meetings with you, Nate,” Odom said, reining his horse to an easy gait. “Those boys will likely end up dead soon enough.”
“I’m sorry, Odem. I didn’t know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t a mob bent on destruction.”
The men kept their own council as they rode home. What had Nate expected? He should have known it wouldn’t be gentlemen seeking a peaceful solution. Despite the fact he wouldn’t fight to preserve slavery, he couldn’t wage war against North Carolina either.
So where did that leave him? Alone in a country gone mad.
Late September
“Please, Helene, just fix a simple chignon for the day.” Amanda smiled into the mirror at her maid. “It’s too warm for curls against my neck and shoulders.”
“Do you realize, Miss Amanda, if we were home the days—and especially the nights—would be getting cooler by now?”
“You’re right. Lately I’ve been longing for one of those misty, damp days I used to complain about.”
Helene secured the bun with a few well-placed hairpins. “How goes your late papa’s business affairs? I noticed several recent letters from Mr. Pelton.”
“Our chief foreman is rather shocked by my success as a negotiator. Large amounts of cotton arrive at Dunn Mills from the port on a regular basis. Garment production has not only resumed but surpassed prior quotas for the month. Now Mama won’t have to sell family heirlooms to pay tax obligations to the Queen.”
Helene blanched slightly, distressed by the American penchant to make light of important matters—a habit Amanda had acquired since her arrival in North Carolina.
“You are to be commended then, Miss Amanda, for proving the naysayers wrong.”
“Thank you, but my brother-in-law expedited the shipments on my behalf. I’m not sure why they had lapsed in the first place.” Amanda touched a bit of powder to her shiny nose.
“Will we leave for England soon? I hope we can make the voyage before the seas turn rough.”
Helene couldn’t possibly sound more eager, but Amanda wasn’t ready to leave Wilmington, or Nathaniel, yet. Turning on her dressing table stool, she met Helene’s eye. “Not quite. I haven’t secured long-term contracts with Henthorne and Sons. Jackson doesn’t like discussing business at the dinner table, but he makes excuses when I request an appointment. He is always too busy at the docks and warehouses. If I must, I will show up unannounced at his office and stay until he admits me. Eventually, Miss Todd will tire of my face and show me in.” She smiled, but Helene didn’t appreciate her humor.
“Aren’t you anxious to see your mother and pay your respects at your father’s grave?”
Amanda frowned at her maid, but Josie’s interruption precluded a response.
“Should I put this tray on your gallery, Miz Dunn? Or you gonna eat downstairs? I brung nuff for her too.” Josie angled her head in Helene’s direction.
“On the balcony, Josie. Thank you.”
“Forgive me, Miss Amanda,” said Helene softly. “I spoke out of turn.”
“I understand why you’re not comfortable here, but I must remain until my duties are complete. Who knows when I will come back to America?” She strode through the French doors and plopped into a chair. Just the thought of never again seeing Nate had turned her knees to mush. “Sit and have some toast and jam.”
Helene glanced around to make sure the other maid had left. “Are you certain Mrs. Henthorne won’t be angry?”
Amanda snorted. “I’m not allowed to eat in the kitchen and you’re not permitted in the dining room. No one said anything about my balcony.” She sipped the strong, hot coffee.
“The slaves don’t like me. They might tell Mrs. Henthorne if they spot me.”
“You have nothing to fear because you work for me,” she said emphatically as she spread peach preserves across her toast.
Helene didn’t seem convinced, but the appearance of a small boy on the steps distracted their attention.
“Rufus, how are you, child? Would you like a pear?” Amanda held the fruit in the palm of her hand.
The child nodded. “Thank you, Miz Dunn.” Slipping it into his pocket, he stepped closer. “I have a message from Mr. Cooper. My ma said to give it to you straightaway.” Rufus peered at Helene dubiously before pulling out a note. It had been folded many times.
Amanda opened the small square and read while her heart thrummed against her ribs.
My dear Miss Dunn,
I have been arrested by local militia and accused of being a Northern sympathizer and draft dodger. I’m being held in the jail, probably awaiting Confederate provost marshals. If you can exert any influence, perhaps with the town council, I implore you to do so. I dare not involve the Simses for fear of repercussions for them. Forgive me, but I have nowhere else to turn.
Your devoted servant,
Nathaniel
She clutched the sheet to her chest, unable to draw breath for several moments.
“Any answer to take back, Miz Dunn?” Rufus produced a stub of a charcoal pencil. “I ’spose you could write on the back side.”
“No, Rufus. This is something I must take care of in person. You run home and tell your parents not to worry.”
“I’ll tell them, Miz Dunn.” He extracted the pear and took a large bite before vanishing down the steps into the garden.
“Is something wrong, Miss Amanda?”
“Yes, but every problem contains a solution. You eat while I think.” By the time she finished another cup of coffee Amanda had eliminated three possibilities. The town council wouldn’t meet for another two weeks. Nate could be taken to Fort Fisher by then and hanged. The state representative she had met at dinner, the Honorable Thaddeus Wilkes, would be in Richmond for the current assemblage, according to Jackson’s dinner chatter. As for the Henthornes’ attorney, Mr. Alcott, he would undoubtedly consult Jackson before taking action. Her only hope lay with Judge Stewart or his charming wife, Rosalyn.
Throughout the morning, Amanda prayed her sister would decide to stay home that day. During luncheon Amanda had never seen anyone dawdle so long over a chilled chicken breast and cup of consommé. Finally, Abigail stood and signaled for the table to be cleared.
“I believe I’ll pay a call on Mrs. Wilkes this afternoon and then perhaps Mrs. Stewart.” Amanda sounded as cheery as possible.
“What on earth for?” Abby wrinkled her nose. “Sarah is dreadfully dull. She talks about nothing but the privations in Richmond.”
Amanda opened her fan as they stepped into the center hall. “Both ladies insisted that we call on them and we haven’t done so.”
“You go on then. I haven’t seen my friend Carolyn Lowell in ages. If I go out later it will be solely to her house, but I must lie down for a while.” Abby clung to the banister as she ascended the stairs.
“I’ll send the carriage back for you,” Amanda said, following her up. The moment her sister closed her door, she collected her parasol and hurried down to the courtyard. She found the coachman grooming the horses.
“Thomas, do you know where Judge Stewart lives?”
“Yes, ma’am. Over on Ann Street.”
“Could you take me there, please?”
“Isn’t it too early to pay visits, Miz Duncan?”
“Not if the horse takes his time. I’m eager to start my calls.” She tapped her toe on the flagstones.
“I’ll bring the carriage ’round front, miss,” he said, tipping his hat.
For some reason it took him twenty minutes to harness a horse and wipe down the leather upholstery. Abigail’s slaves wanted to maintain proper decorum even if the foreign guest remained oblivious of social etiquette. At last the carriage rolled to a stop in front of an Italianate with a fourth-story cupola even grander than the Henthorne mansion.
“Thank you, Thomas. Please return home with the carriage.”
He placed a stepping block over the gutter. “Shouldn’t I stay to take you on to Miz Wilkes?”
Amanda chose not to admonish his obvious eavesdropping. “No, I want Mrs. Henthorne to have her carriage. I’ll ask the Stewarts’ driver to take me.” She hurried up the walkway to circumvent more questions.
Fortuitously, Rosalyn Stewart was reading in the parlor when the butler announced her.
“Miss Amanda Dunn, madam.”
“Miss Dunn, what a pleasure to see you.” Rosalyn rose to her feet and met her in the center of the thick Persian rug. “Isn’t Mrs. Henthorne with you?” She slipped an arm around Amanda’s waist as though they were old friends instead of new acquaintances.
“Not today, I’m afraid, but she sends her fondest regards. The heat plays havoc with her stamina.”
“My, yes. I’ve grown frightfully sluggish myself.” Rosalyn guided her guest back to the divan before launching into a detailed account of her work with the ladies’ auxiliary, in addition to hours spent with the Confederate Sanitary Commission. For a quarter hour she explained her endeavors, which sounded anything but slothful. If the maid hadn’t interrupted with a tray of sandwiches, iced cakes, and pot of tea, Amanda may have fallen asleep from sympathetic fatigue if not outright boredom.
“Ah, here’s our tea. Shall I pour, Miss Dunn?”
“Yes, cream and sugar, please.” Amanda took a watercress sandwich from the maid’s tray and nibbled politely.
“Forgive me for rattling on endlessly. What news do you hear from home? I trust your mother is well?”
If permitted, Rosalyn would orchestrate a lively comparison between American and British fashion and customs. “Mama is well, but I actually have a rather urgent matter to discuss with you,” she said, setting her cup carefully in its saucer.
“What is it, my dear? How can I be of service?” Rosalyn’s forehead furrowed with concern.
“I have a serious situation to discuss with the judge. May I call on him at his chambers?” Amanda couldn’t stop her hands from trembling.
Rosalyn dropped her half-eaten pastry on a china plate. “I can do better than that. Court isn’t in session today. Miles is reading arguments and depositions in his home office. I’m sure he would welcome a break from the tedium.” Patting her perfect coiffure of curls, she stood with the bearing of a queen.
“He won’t be angry with my unannounced disruption?”
“Of course not. He loves to assist damsels in distress, especially one who’s young, pretty, and English.” Rosalyn laughed and reached for Amanda’s hand as though she were a child. She led her down a portrait-lined hallway to a set of double doors. After the briefest of knocks, Rosalyn entered the paneled library. “Miles?” she said sweetly. “Look who has joined us. Amanda Dunn, Mrs. Henthorne’s sister. She has a matter of upmost urgency to discuss with you.”
Judge Stewart peered up from his stack of books and papers. His glasses sat askew on his nose, his silvery hair was ruffled and mussed, and his collar was undone. “Miss Dunn, do come in. Please forgive my appearance,” he said genially as he reached for his discarded cravat.
“Please don’t trouble yourself on my account, sir.” With Rosalyn’s prodding, Amanda approached his cluttered desk. “I’m so sorry to impose on you, but I knew of no one else who could assist with this conundrum. You’re my only hope.”
“Goodness, this sounds dire. Speak frankly, Miss Dunn. Allow me to rectify the matter if I can.”
Amanda launched into a disjointed plea for Nate’s release from jail, augmenting the little she knew from his note with pure fiction to sway the man to her side. “I assure you, sir, Nathaniel Cooper is not a Union sympathizer. He’s loyal to North Carolina and has never lived anywhere else. His reluctance to enlist stems from his pacifist convictions passed down from his parents.”
How easily the fabrications rolled off her tongue. She knew almost nothing about his parents, least of all whether or not they would take up arms. Is this what love did to a person—allowed them to lie effortlessly? Because at that moment, she knew she loved him and would say or do anything to keep him safe. “Please believe me, Judge Stewart. Nathaniel is no traitor to the Confederacy.”
He removed his quill pen from the inkwell. “Our militia has gone too far. They would demand that all men fight for the Cause, yet if so who would be left to keep our society from crumbling into chaos? I remember talking to Mr. Cooper at length about the great philosophers Immanuel Kant and Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Adam Smith and their theories as to how men might be governed in the future. He struck me as a man of learning and conviction, not cowardice.” He pulled a sheet of foolscap from his drawer. “I shall personally vouch for his integrity and usefulness in Wilmington and issue a directive that Mr. Cooper be released at once.”
While he scribbled and scrawled, Amanda felt her stiff back begin to relax. She unwittingly had tensed every muscle in her body. “I don’t know how to thank you, sir. I will be forever in your debt.”
“Didn’t I tell you the judge would be happy to help?” Rosalyn hugged her around the shoulders. The woman demonstrated more affection than Amanda’s own mother.
“Mr. Cooper has become dear to me,” she said, as though obligated to offer explanation for her behavior.
Rosalyn chuckled. “That fact was apparent to everyone at the dinner party.”
Judge Stewart blotted his signature and sealed the wax with his family crest. “I had better accompany you downtown, Miss Dunn. The local militia is filled more with rabble than gentlemen these days. Send for the carriage, my dear, and I will join you ladies in the porte cochere in a few moments,” he said, smiling at his wife as he rolled down his shirtsleeves.
Amanda’s eyes filled with tears as Rosalyn led her from the library. “Splendid! I shall ride along too. I don’t mean to make light of this, but I welcome any diversion to my frightfully dull afternoons.”