of her husband’s death to herself—and he would have no choice but to respect a year of mourning. By then she would be twenty-one and independent of him.
But suppose he wouldn’t marry her? Suppose, despite all her promises of enough food and comforts to make his last days bearable, he still refused to marry her? Then what would she do?
Amanda clenched her hands, her eyes taking on a determined gleam. I’ll make him marry me. I’ll make him want to marry me, she vowed, with the goad of desperation. Headstrong and tempestuous, she was so accustomed to having her own way that she did not pause to consider that any other way might exist.
She wasn’t fool enough to think it would be easy. She would have to evaluate various approaches. Somehow she would have to prevent Mr Quinn from finding out what she was about to do until it was too late for him to do anything about it. He had been in her father’s employ for many years, and when she had come to America her father had insisted that Mr Quinn act as her guardian, giving him the authorisation to vet the suitability of the man she might want to marry—her father being of the opinion that, as a mere girl, how could she possibly tell a true gentleman from a rogue? Her only hope was Amos. Amos was an important man at Magnolia Grove; he knew everything there was to know about Charleston, and he could be relied on for his discretion.
Sheltered by massive oaks, palmetto and shimmering beech trees, Magnolia Grove stood on the outskirts of Charleston, basking in the sun like a jewel. It was a house of considerable proportions. Shaded arches, brightened by cascades of blood-purple bougainvillea, yellow cassia and the scarlet cry of frangipani, supported a first-floor gallery that stretched the full length of the house. It was surrounded by an array of formal gardens meticulously sculpted, with statues that stood in their own beds of flowers. The house was spacious and light inside, the furnishings simple yet tasteful.
Aunt Lucy’s husband, Edward Cummings, who had died shortly after the Civil War, had been a brilliant businessman. He had made his fortune trading rum, sugar, rice and cotton. A financier of blockade runners during the Civil War, he was one of the few people in Charleston who had not gone under and had kept his grand town house, although following the devastation of the war and with the emancipation of the slaves, he had been forced to sell his cotton plantation on the Cooper River.
Amanda had soon become accustomed to the rhythm of life at Magnolia Grove and the bustle of servants. Having grown extremely fond of Aunt Lucy in the twelve months she had been in Charleston, her sudden death had affected Amanda profoundly and she missed her terribly. Charlotte, Aunt Lucy’s only child, and her husband, Mark, had taken care of all the formalities. Unable to bear the thought of selling the old family home, Charlotte and her husband had decided to leave Atlanta in Georgia and make Magnolia Grove their own.
On entering the house, Amanda found Charlotte arranging fragrant white roses in a glass vase on a circular rosewood table in the centre of the hall. She turned to look at Amanda and smiled.
‘Ah, you’re back! How was your visit to the shops?’
‘Fruitful,’ Amanda replied, indicating the packages Nan was carrying, ‘though terribly hot. Can I help?’ she asked, removing her bonnet and leaving Nan to take her burden up to her room.
‘Thank you, but I’m almost done.’ Adding the final rose into her arrangement, Charlotte stood back to survey her handiwork, a wistful expression on her face. ‘These roses were Mother’s favourites. She grew them herself—had them sent out from England.’
‘I know,’ Amanda said quietly, remembering how Aunt Lucy had patiently shown her how to prune them. ‘I’m sorry she’s no longer with us. The house isn’t the same without her.’
‘I take comfort knowing she’s with Father now, that she will be content. She always believed in heaven and an eternal life, so I have no doubt that that is where she will be.’ Charlotte put out a hand and touched Amanda’s arm affectionately. ‘Mother grew very fond of you, Amanda. She was so happy when you came to stay with her.’
Charlotte, a quiet, tolerant being, was a petite, rosy-cheeked brunette and eight years older than Amanda. Her grief, Amanda thought, made her look pretty. She had the sort of kind, caring face that didn’t need smiles to enhance it.
‘I wish you didn’t have to go back to England,’ Charlotte said, ‘but I know you must. Still, you can always come again. I do hope so.’
‘If it was anyone else other than Father telling me I must go home, I wouldn’t leave—and I’m so glad you’ve decided to live here. It wouldn’t seem right to part with this lovely old house, for strangers to move in. What about Mark? Will he miss Atlanta?’
‘He’s looking forward to it, and already seeking premises to set up his law practice. He was born in Charleston. He’s always wanted to come back.’
‘I can understand why. I’ve grown terribly fond of Charleston myself.’
‘But you miss your father.’
‘Of course I do. I love him dearly and I’m so proud of what he’s accomplished throughout his life—not many men could have achieved what he has unaided—but how I wish he wouldn’t press me so hard to wed. Why is it that men should think that marriage should be every woman’s goal in life?’
‘When you return to England, perhaps he’ll be so happy to have you back in the fold and realise just how much he’s missed you that it will no longer seem important to him.’
‘Oh, no, Charlotte. In this his mind is made up. In the matter of my marrying he will have his way. He grows impatient. By the time I get home he will have endeavoured to find a husband for me. In fact, I think it’s safe to say he will have gone to extraordinary lengths to accomplish that.’
‘It could have been different, you know,’ Charlotte said gently and without reproach. ‘As soon as Mama launched you on to South Carolina’s social scene you became an instant success, with offers for your hand made in record numbers.’
This was true; no matter what event Amanda attended, she was always the belle of the ball. Immediately she was surrounded by a crowd of besotted swains and in no time at all had them eating out of her hand. Impulsive, witty and intelligent—and with a zest for life that left Charlotte breathless—Amanda was desired by all and, with her pink cheeks and lush deep-red hair, she glowed like a jewel against white silk. But her popularity wasn’t due primarily to her loveliness and wit, or to the fact that she was heiress to a huge fortune; it was because she kept so much of herself hidden that no one really knew the true Amanda. She possessed an aura of pride that warned a man not to come too close. She had become an exciting enigma that intrigued everyone who met her.
‘If you had chosen one of them, and the formidable Mr Quinn approved, then he would have been returning to England alone.’
Amanda sighed, bending over the table to smell the roses. ‘It’s my own fault, I know. Most of the men of marriageable age I found amusing and charming enough, but there hasn’t been one that inspired anything stronger than that—and certainly not one I would choose to spend the rest of my life with. Besides, I know the true reason why they seek my company. The contact isn’t friendship, so it has to be that they are drawn by the smell of power and money.’
She became despondent. ‘I suppose, if I’m honest, I don’t want to get married to anyone, because all the pleasures I enjoy so much will be denied me with a husband in tow. Since coming to Charleston I’ve had a wonderful time. Everyone has been so friendly, hospitable and courteous. I’ve been invited everywhere—to parties and picnics. I don’t want it to end, Charlotte.
