Tracie Peterson & Judith Miller - [Lights of Lowell 01] Read online

  Malcolm glanced back and forth between his two older sons.

  ‘‘Gentlemen, please forgive the behavior of my children. It appears as if we’re having a jousting match rather than dinner conversation.’’

  ‘‘I believe McKinley should be applauded for his behavior. He hasn’t said a word all evening,’’ Jasmine commented while giving her youngest brother a bright smile.

  Her father shook his head. ‘‘I’m going to hire someone to teach all of you proper etiquette if this sparring doesn’t cease immediately. Ring that bell, Madelaine, and let’s get this meal underway.’’

  The jingling bell signaled two servants into immediate action.

  They entered the room carrying heaping platters of ham, biscuits, and roasted potatoes. Jasmine daintily helped herself to a biscuit before turning her attention to Nolan. ‘‘I’m still anxious to discover where you live in Massachusetts and if you might possibly know my grandmother. She lives in Lowell,’’ Jasmine eagerly explained.

  ‘‘Although I’ve visited Lowell on several occasions, I continue to make my home in Boston. Were I ever to move, I believe it would be to Cambridge rather than Lowell. I have far more friends located in Boston and Cambridge,’’ Nolan replied. ‘‘Bradley, however, has numerous contacts in Lowell. In fact, he recently relocated from Boston to Lowell in order to expand his business ventures.’’

  ‘‘Truly, how interesting. I thought Boston was a much larger city than Lowell. How is it your business will expand by moving to a smaller city, Mr. Houston?’’ Samuel Wainwright inquired.

  Bradley straightened in his chair, obviously pleased by the question. ‘‘I’m a member of a prestigious group of men known as the Boston Associates. Perhaps you’ve heard of them?’’

  Jasmine’s father gave a brief nod. ‘‘I’ve heard some vague references to the group. Seems I’ve been told they’re intent upon monopolizing the entire textile industry in this country.’’

  Bradley shifted in his chair and faced Malcolm. ‘‘Actually, the Boston Associates are the textile industry in this country,’’ Bradley said with authority. ‘‘There are others, of course, but they are inconsequential. However, the Associates are anxious to see this country achieve industrial independence from England rather than attempting to monopolize trade for themselves. By basing our own textile industry in America, we reap the benefit of creating jobs that utilize products raised in this country and are then sold both here and abroad. It also lessens our dependence upon England for manufactured goods. Additionally, it gives cotton producers an excellent market for their crop.’’

  Malcolm finished chewing a piece of ham and then lifted his glass and took a drink of water. ‘‘We already have an excellent market for our cotton. The Wainwrights have exported their cotton to the same English mills for as long as I care to remember.

  Don’t expect we’ll be changing business partners at this juncture.’’

  ‘‘I hope while I’m here you’ll permit me to at least point out the possibilities for business growth and higher income by considering another market. Doubtless you want to receive the best price for your efforts. Am I correct?’’

  ‘‘I want a good return, but profit isn’t my only consideration when forming a business alliance. Trust and reliability are key factors I insist upon from my business partners, and I give them the same in return. I owe loyalty to my English customers. They were understanding during the drought that hit us back in 1834. While many cotton growers determined it was best to leave this area and move west, my family was able to sustain with advances on future crops paid to us by our English buyers.’’

  Samuel nodded his head in agreement. ‘‘There were many cotton growers who posted signs on their property reading ‘GTT’—Gone to Texas.’’

  ‘‘Then you were indeed fortunate to have aligned yourself with such loyal buyers. However, one must constantly be looking toward the future. I believe you will find the Boston Associates can meet your every expectation in areas of trust and loyalty, plus provide a higher profit margin,’’ Bradley said.

  Jasmine listened intently, although she was rather bored by the conversation. Her mother had always taught her that a woman’s place was to be supportive of her menfolk. She should appear interested, but not in a mannish fashion that would lead to asking questions. But her brothers certainly could ask their questions, and they did so with an amazing like-mindedness to her own thoughts.

  As if reading her mind, McKinley turned toward their father as a wry smile curved his lips. ‘‘Perhaps you don’t concern yourself with the profit factor, Father, because you no longer worry over the accounts. I would like to see The Willows receive a higher price for its cotton. Certainly the cost of shipping cotton to Massachusetts would be somewhat less than shipping it to England.

  Isn’t this true, Mr. Houston?’’

  ‘‘What difference? The buyer pays the shipping costs,’’ David retorted.

  McKinley tapped the side of his forehead with his index finger.

  ‘‘Ah, but if the shipping costs are less, we can demand a higher price for the cotton based upon that very issue. Could we not?’’

  ‘‘Exactly!’’ Bradley replied. ‘‘And the higher the volume you can deliver, the higher the price the Associates will offer.’’

  Jasmine couldn’t help but find herself caught up in the moment. Bradley’s enthusiasm was contagious. Samuel leaned forward and gazed down the table toward his father. ‘‘Perhaps we should talk to our uncles about the possibility of a joint venture in which we could all obtain the higher price.’’

  Jasmine’s father waved his hand back and forth as if shooing flies away from his plate. ‘‘Now hold on! You boys are moving much too quickly with this idea. Making business decisions is not something done over the course of only one evening. My brothers are cautious men—steeped in tradition and fiercely loyal, just as I am.’’

  Samuel would not be put off. ‘‘But how many times have you admonished us to be considerate of change and the development of products that will improve our abilities? I’m merely suggesting that this might well be one of those times.’’

  Jasmine could read in her father’s expression that he was more than a little annoyed to find his son brazenly sharing information that had at one time passed for private family business issues. She bit her lip to keep from saying something that might further upset her father. She caught Bradley Houston’s expression even as her father began to counter Samuel.

  ‘‘We in the South have always prided ourselves on moving ahead—not in speed and haste, but rather in determined, well-planned movements. We aren’t talking of popping pieces back and forth atop a checkerboard. Rather, we prefer something more like a game of chess, where each move will have consequence for the moves to come.’’ Their father toyed with his glass before taking a long, steady drink. Jasmine thought it a nice touch, an emphasis of his previous words.

  Putting down the glass, her father continued. ‘‘I could never risk the well-being of my family—my beloved wife and daughter, our home, and all of the people who live here—without a great deal of prayerful consideration.’’

  Bradley nodded in agreement. ‘‘Nor without evaluating additional reports and information upon which to base your decision.

  However, I can assure you that the Associates would be pleased to count you among their suppliers. It would appear to even a casual observer that your home and grounds are evidence of how well you’ve managed your plantation—especially in light of the depression you suffered only twelve years ago.’’

  ‘‘We haven’t always lived so well, but this house was Madelaine’s dream. Wasn’t it, my dear?’’ Malcolm’s gaze settled upon his wife.

  ‘‘I will admit that after visiting several other plantations, I was somewhat obsessed with having a Greek Revival home in which to rear our children,’’ she replied.

  ‘‘And it reflects the charm of the two ladies who grace its interior,’’ Bradley added.

  ‘‘
Why, thank you,’’ Madelaine replied, a tinge of pink coloring her cheeks. ‘‘I was determined to find the exact pieces of rococo furniture to accentuate the beauty of our home. I had given up all hope of finding a reviving-game sofa that met my expectations when I discovered one of our slaves is an extremely talented woodcarver. He carved and fashioned the woodwork and frame, leaving only the upholstering to be completed.’’

  ‘‘I find all of your furnishings exceptional,’’ Bradley said, his gaze scanning the immediate area.

  Madelaine appeared to bask in Bradley’s flattering remarks. ‘‘I don’t think my husband shares your enthusiasm for household furnishings, although he has been very generous in permitting me my fancy,’’ she modestly replied.

  ‘‘Ah, but your husband realizes that a finely furnished home increases his social standing. It’s a visible sign of his wealth and status,’’ Bradley said.

  ‘‘I thought the South’s most desirable social status was that of slaveholder, not of home or property owner,’’ Nolan interjected.

  ‘‘That’s true,’’ Malcolm responded with a modicum of pride.

  ‘‘And here at The Willows, I have nearly a hundred slaves. Why, some of my prime hands are worth fifteen hundred dollars, and I could easily get two thousand for that woodcarver Madelaine mentioned—not that I plan to sell him.’’

  ‘‘Of course not,’’ Nolan replied quietly.

  Jasmine heard the reproach in Mr. Houston’s tone. She eyed him curiously. What was it he meant to interject? She suddenly felt uncomfortable, but she had no idea why. This was her own home, her family table where conversations of productivity and the land often took place, but Mr. Nolan Houston did not seem impressed or approving.

  Bradley cleared his throat and appeared to frown at his brother.

  ‘‘How much land do you own?’’ he inquired, shifting his attention back to Malcolm.

  ‘‘Two thousand acres—some planted with corn, but the vast majority is cotton. It’s as much as we can handle unless I purchase additional slaves, and we’re making a nice profit at this juncture.

  No need to be greedy.’’

  Before Bradley could reply, Jasmine pushed aside her discomfort and flashed a charming smile in his direction. ‘‘I wonder if we might discuss something other than cotton and slaves.’’ She looked to her father as if asking permission for such a transition. She saw her mother nod in agreement.

  ‘‘Our women are of such a delicate nature,’’ Jasmine’s father began. ‘‘They are strong, don’t get me wrong. But such matters are well beyond them, and I have come to realize that it wearies them if we remain upon such topics overlong.’’

  Bradley wiped his mouth with one of the monogrammed linen napkins and gave Jasmine his full attention. ‘‘I’m sorry. I have monopolized the conversation, haven’t I? What topic would be of interest to you?’’

  She straightened in her chair and met his gaze. ‘‘I’d like to return to my original question regarding my grandmother.’’

  ‘‘Ah yes. I never did respond, did I? Well, I’m sorry to say I have not met your grandmother. However, it is because of your grandmother that I’ve come here.’’

  ‘‘How so?’’ Jasmine asked.

  ‘‘I’m told your grandmother visits frequently with the wife of Matthew Cheever. Mr. Cheever holds a position of importance with the mills in Lowell. During their conversations, your grandmother mentioned the fact that her family was involved in raising cotton. Since our mills are always in need of cotton, I decided a visit to The Willows might prove beneficial to all of us.’’

  ‘‘I see.’’ She twisted in her chair to face Nolan. ‘‘And you, Mr.

  Houston? What brings you to The Willows?’’

  ‘‘I’m a poet and writer, Miss Wainwright. I’ve accompanied my brother in the hope of capturing the tangible essence of the South in some of my writings. I find it difficult to adequately describe places or people in my writings without actual observation. Since I want my readers to authentically experience the words I write, I thought this visit would prove fruitful.’’

  Bradley raised one brow and gave a sardonic grin. ‘‘Nolan is quite the romantic, much like all of his writer friends.’’

  Jasmine’s attention remained focused upon Nolan. ‘‘I keep a journal and find writing to be a liberating experience. Of course, my writings are merely musings over my daily routine, whereas your writing influences and impacts upon the lives of others.’’

  ‘‘At least that’s my hope. Of course, one must have a somewhat extensive following in order to effectuate the type of change you speak of,’’ Nolan remarked.

  ‘‘My brother tends to conceal the success he’s accomplished with his writing. Many who attend his readings proclaim his writing excels that of his contemporaries.’’ Bradley took a sip of his coffee before settling back in his chair, meeting Mr. Wainwright’s stern expression. ‘‘Nolan makes an excellent traveling companion.

  Our observations are completely opposite. Obviously our interests differ greatly, but we are both hoping you will favor us with a tour of your plantation.’’

  ‘‘And perhaps your brothers’ and neighbors’ plantations as well,’’ Nolan added, looking overhead. ‘‘A genuine representation of Southern living is what I’m seeking.’’

  Jasmine thought his words sincere enough in his interest, but there was something almost mocking in his tone. She followed his gaze up to the small wiry-haired boy swinging above the table.

  The child had fallen asleep, still clutching the feathered plume in his hand. For a moment, she actually wondered if this tiny event in their evening might well appear on the pages of some Nolan Houston work. She smiled to herself and lowered her gaze, only to realize Nolan was grinning at her.

  CHAPTER • 2

  THE NEXT MORNING Bradley and Nolan walked out the vast front door of the white frame mansion, passing through the Doric colonnade that stood sentry over the upper and lower galleries of the home. Mr. Wainwright and Samuel led the way, with Jasmine close on their heels.

  ‘‘Please say I may go with you,’’ she begged. ‘‘I promise I won’t say a word.’’

  ‘‘Absolutely not,’’ Malcolm Wainwright replied. ‘‘Go back inside. Your mother needs assistance with her household duties.’’

  Bradley watched the young woman’s expression. There was a desire to defy but also a respect that kept her from making too much of a scene. He saw her lower her gaze, as if rethinking her plan, as her father continued to speak.

  ‘‘We’ll be stopping in the fields before we go on to visit your uncle Franklin’s plantation,’’ Wainwright said. ‘‘That’s no place for proper young ladies to be seen.’’

  Jasmine looped arms with her father, lifted her face, and batted her eyelashes. ‘‘Would it be so difficult to go directly to Uncle Franklin’s? I haven’t seen Lydia since the dance two weeks ago.’’

  ‘‘I can make arrangements for you to go visiting next week.

  I’ve already determined our route for today. Besides, we’ll be discussing business. You’ll be bored.’’

  ‘‘I would be pleased to escort you to your uncle’s home tomorrow, if your father agrees,’’ Bradley offered.

  Jasmine brightened at the offer just as he’d hoped she might.

  ‘‘Perhaps all three of us can go. You could recite poetry for us, Mr. Houston,’’ she said, turning her attention to Nolan.

  Nolan exchanged a glance with his brother. ‘‘We’ll see what occurs. I may be so overwhelmed with my memories of today’s observations that I’ll want to spend tomorrow committing my thoughts to paper.’’

  ‘‘It would hardly be proper for you to gallivant across the land unescorted,’’ Jasmine’s father reminded the trio. ‘‘However, perhaps I can spare Samuel to accompany you. If not, then Mammy will surely enjoy the time away.’’

  ‘‘Oh, Father, you are very generous,’’ Jasmine declared, looking quite pleased.

  Bradley’s suggestion app
eared to appease Jasmine more quickly than her father’s vague proposal—a concept which gave him pause for momentary reflection. Apparently Southern women were no more difficult to handle than those he’d encountered in the North.

  Females were females, and controlling them was merely a matter of utilizing proper management skill, he determined. Pleased with his incisive observation, he settled into the carriage opposite Malcolm and Samuel Wainwright. The carriage pulled away from the mansion and down the circular driveway before turning onto the dusty road. They traveled a short distance with Wainwright giving a brief commentary on the flora and fauna along the way.

  He carefully pointed out the Spanish moss that draped itself like a gray veil from the trees that dotted the landscape. ‘‘Northerners are always intrigued by our Spanish moss,’’ he commented.

  ‘‘Jasmine calls it Southern lace, although I don’t think most would share her romantic notion.’’

  The older man became more energized as they neared the first sighting of his planted acreage. ‘‘I thought I’d begin by having you view the fields,’’ Wainwright said, pointing toward the sprouting cotton crop. The fields were lined with slaves who were chopping at the young shoots.

  Bradley leaned forward and peered from the carriage. ‘‘It appears they’re hacking up your new crop.’’

  ‘‘They know better than to ruin my crop,’’ his host said before giving a hearty laugh. ‘‘The crop would be strangled if the sprouts were to remain this thick. The slaves use their hoes to thin out the plants and create a stand.’’

  ‘‘Might we stop so that I may examine the plants more closely?’’ Bradley inquired.

  Wainwright beamed at the request, obviously pleased by Bradley’s interest. ‘‘Pull over,’’ Malcolm ordered the driver, who immediately pulled the horses to a halt alongside the dusty road.

  The foursome exited the carriage, and Wainwright led them out into the fields with a determined step. He stopped and waved his arm in an encompassing gesture. ‘‘All this land you see belongs to my family. We’ve been cultivating cotton on it for many years.