Chapter 28
“QUEEN VICTORIA?” Fountain pen in hand, Josephine peered up from her seat behind Mr. Daniel’s desk, a years-old invoice in hand. She’d been waiting for this moment since she’d discovered the document two days earlier. “You sent a barrel of whiskey to the queen of England?”
With a Cheshire cat grin, Jack Daniel, immaculately dressed in his customary vested suit with tails, closed the office door behind him and hung his hat on the coat tree. “Your eyes do not deceive you, Mrs. Dunham. Note the address . . . Windsor Castle.”
It was Wednesday morning, and though she wasn’t about to admit it, she secretly welcomed his return. Even if she was still a little tired from her impromptu reading of animal husbandry the night before.
“It was one summer evening several years back,” he continued, “when I found myself in a state of repose on my veranda and thought, Why shouldn’t the most important woman in England—perhaps the world—slow sip the world’s best whiskey?”
Josephine gave him a look. “Possibly, sir, because Queen Victoria, God rest her, didn’t drink whiskey. Or perhaps because she didn’t drink at all.”
“Oh, my dear Mrs. Dunham, allow this humble student of life to correct you.” He moved toward the desk. “This revelation may cause a suffragist such as yourself no small emotional upheaval, which will, of course, bring me enormous personal delight.”
Josephine managed to keep a straight face. Barely. She had missed their sparring.
“I was reading a newspaper at the time,” he went on, seating himself opposite her at the exact moment she rose to relinquish the office chair—he waved her back down.
“I learned the queen often enjoyed a glass of wine with her meals. German wines, mostly, thanks to her beloved Prince Albert. But the truly intriguing detail was this . . . whenever she traveled to Balmoral Castle in Scotland, she partook of Scotch whiskey.” He waggled his brow.
“And while I respect my own Scots-Irish heritage and the whiskey-making traditions coursing through my veins, I knew Old No. 7 would beat that stuff hands down! So I shipped a barrel to the ol’ gal! ”
Josephine shook her head. “You are quite the entrepreneur, Mr. Daniel.”
“I will take that as a compliment, though your tone lacks the admiration I typically receive from the more delicate gender.”
“Which I imagine surprises you not at all.”
“Goodness, no. That’s partly why I hired you.” He leaned back, boots finding the corner of his desk. “I knew you’d be a challenge! But mark my words, madam. Little by little, I will win you over.”
Josephine gave him a droll look, but the mischievous sparkle in his eyes said he wasn’t fooled.
“Did you know,” he continued, “that Queen Victoria lived another forty years after her beloved Prince Albert died? She wore black for the rest of her life. What a great love they must have shared.”
“Don’t tell me you’re a romantic, Mr. Daniel.”
“Could there be any doubt, Mrs. Dunham? After all, I do adore women. The pursuit, the wooing . . .”
She turned to file the receipt in a folder. “Being a romantic and adoring women in general are not the same thing. How can a man and woman share a great love when one of them is continually infatuated with the pursuing and wooing, as you put it?”
Silence followed.
She looked up. The sparkle in his eyes had dimmed.
“Mr. Daniel, I didn’t mean to—”
“No, no, Mrs. Dunham, you spoke truth,” he said quietly.
“And truth, as I’ve learned in my fifty-five years, is often barbed.
Even when unintended.” Memory swept his features.
“There was a woman once. Frances Elizabeth Blythe. Fannie, everyone called her.” He paused.
“I asked her father for her hand but . . . He told me I was a little too old for such a young woman. I’ve long wondered whether my occupation factored into his refusal.
After all, distillers are not always held in the highest regard.
” His focus shifted back, his smile wry. “Difficult as that may be to believe.”
Not even tempted to smile, Josephine realized genuine regret when she saw it, and she struggled with what to say next. “I don’t know why her father refused you, sir. But I am sorry it turned out that way. It seems you cared for her deeply.”
He shrugged. “I haven’t spoken of her in years.
And don’t know why I did now. She played the piano at gatherings I hosted in my home.
I’d send my carriage to collect her and her mother.
She could play anything—classical pieces, popular ditties.
She was a gifted musician. And a genuine soul.
” He hesitated. “It seems neither of us have found our great love story yet . . . have we?”
When Josephine didn’t answer, he abruptly straightened.
“Please forgive me, ma’am. I spoke out of turn. I did not aim to imply that your marriage, despite its apparent difficulties, is not—”
“Please.” She met his gaze. “Any man capable of doing this to a woman is not capable of a great love story. So no, I haven’t found one yet either. Nor is it likely that I will,” she added softly.
The last comment outmaneuvered her better judgment, but was true nonetheless.
He leaned forward. “My dear woman, you are young yet. You have time. Assuming you can find a man equal to your ideals. Which, indeed, may prove challenging.”
“I am not looking for a man, Mr. Daniel. Or another man,” she added quickly, knowing he must be aware of the rumors about her.
She rose, eager to change the subject. “Several invoices arrived in your absence. They’ll require your approval before payment.”
He joined her at the desk.
“Also, sir . . .” She kept her tone even, her conscience stirring even before she got the words out. “Mr. Prince with the Department of the Treasury was waiting on the porch this morning. I tried to help him, but he said he prefers to meet with you personally. He’ll be back later.”
“Ah. Mr. Prince.” He nodded. “Our favorite revenuer. And a stickler for details. I’m assuming you’ve met him? He always stays with Miss Mary. They all do.”
“Yes, sir, I’ve met him.” She stared unseeing at the invoices in her hand. “If I can help you get ready for your meeting with him, I’m happy to.”
“He’ll want to start with the gauger’s book in the safe.”
“The gauger’s book?”
He looked at her. “You’re working for one of the fastest-growing distilleries in the world and don’t know what a gauger’s book is?”
“I do not. And I’m rather proud of it.”
He chuckled. “Gauger’s books record daily production—how much whiskey is made, stored, and barreled. Every barrel is measured, sealed, then stamped with a tax strip.”
“I do know tax strips. My father always enjoyed a cigar in the evenings, and those boxes came sealed with tax strips.”
“Enjoyed?” he asked, his voice softening.
Only then did she realize what she’d said. A bit more of her personal life revealed. She had to keep up her guard. “Yes . . . My father passed away almost two years ago.”
Compassion lined his features. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Dunham.”
His sincerity landed a solid blow to her conscience. “Thank you, Mr. Daniel. Now . . . where were we?”
“I believe we were discussing how revenuers stamp anything a man might start enjoying too much.”
She smiled. “Let’s just hope that doesn’t include Calla’s fudge pie.”
He winced. “Did she make it while I was gone?”
She nodded. “And you weren’t there, so I ate your piece.”
“You are a cruel woman, Mrs. Josephine Dunham.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“No, but I’m betting I’d like to. If you were my type,” he quickly added. “Which, of course, we’ve already established you’re not.”
She glanced over, half expecting a flirtatious look. But he wasn’t looking at her at all. Then again, why would he? What man would be attracted to this?
“You know, it just occurred to me,” he continued, “you haven’t had your tour yet. The warehouses, the distillery, the charcoal works. We’ll remedy that immediately and—”
“No, thank you, sir. I don’t require a tour. If you’ll just confirm these invoices, I’ll get them paid then you can go on about your day.”
“Mrs. Dunham, everyone who works here gets the tour. And the story.”
She paused. “The story?”
“It’s something I started after returning from the St. Louis World’s Fair with the—”
“Gold Medal for World’s Best Whiskey,” she finished for him. “Yes. I’m well aware.”
He gave her a slow grin and glanced at the framed award. “It’s growing on you, isn’t it? Sitting there, beholding it day after day? I daresay it’s nearly speaking to you!”
“My world would no longer be complete without it, sir.”
He laughed. “Mark my words . . . little by little, ma’am. And you should start calling me Uncle Jack. Everyone else does.”
“I’ll take that under advisement . . . Mr. Daniel.”
A minute passed then she remembered. “The sheriff stopped by while you were gone.”
He looked over. “What did he want?”
“He claimed he was jesting, but said he was checking to make sure you were still abiding by the law. But I believe he mainly wanted me to know that he knows I’m here.”
He shook his head. “That’s Sheriff Rigby. He makes it his business to know everybody coming and going, whether it’s his business or not.”
That comment eased her concern more than she cared to admit.
“You know he arrested me back in ’81 for carrying a pistol in town.”
She laughed. “He did not.”
“He most certainly did. I was acquitted, of course. But Rigby takes his job seriously. A mite too seriously, if you ask me.”
Boot steps sounded on the front porch, and they both looked up.
A heartbeat before the door opened, Josephine wondered if it would be Dodge Coburn.
She hadn’t seen him since their spirited exchange on Sunday evening in the library, though another encounter felt inevitable.
If he’d been avoiding her, he should know that wasn’t necessary.
She could handle another round with him.
Any chance to chip away at stilted patriarchy and blind tradition, as Miss Anthony liked to say. He was a worthy debating partner.
Squaring her shoulders, she prepared herself.