Scarlett Meadows, January 1899
'Mr Jameson, what was the last count of our lumber production?' Amelia inquired, with a pen in her hand. She was sitting at the drawing desk with pricing documents littered across it. Reading the numbers repeatedly, she felt a slight shiver from the winter air tickle at her spine.
'Six hundred thousand.' The man commented.
For someone from the area, he was very well spoken. He was a tall man and Mr Jameson had an imposing build who still sported what Amelia could only describe as the distinctive look of the Old South. A thick moustache and a handsome set of mutton chops of dark silver. He was, as usual, wearing his navy suit. She always imagined him to be on some poster advertising the Confederacy, but thankfully, his mind far exceeded his exterior.
'Of board feet?' She said, almost to herself, analysing all the costing and units before her.
'The resources of the south were never great, and well, quite frankly, it's drying up.' He remained composed, with only the slightest twitch of his thick moustache.
'This is all we have for the year? Even with the northern production?' She didn't mean to sound so cross with Mr Jameson, but she found the numbers - to say the very least - alarming.
'It's more than enough to cover costs of labour and production and to still render you in the profit. The trees aren't what they used to be. Especially with all that business of the northwest cropping up and down the coast.'
She knew he was right, but she couldn't help but feel glum about the prospect.
In the past ten years, Amelia had devoted her entire life to building her empire in lumber and, more recently, wool. Much to the dismay of her American counterparts, she secured cheap but fair labour from outlaws, the coloureds and the natives.
With a soft sigh, she swigged at her bourbon. God, she hated the liquor this far south. The burning heat hit the back of her eyes, leaving an acidic trail down to her gut, but at least it comforted her from the icy air that crept without mercy into the office room.
'If this carries on, we'll only be making two thousand dollars by the end of the year. Which by next year won't even be enough to cover production, let alone worker dividends.'
Amelia could feel her advisor's eyes fix on her. Matching his gaze, she chewed at her lip, throwing the pen down and leaning back into her chair as she shook her head.
'You have options, ma'am if you don't mind me to say so. I don't think it would be over prudent to sell your southern assets and focus on the northern industry.' With his hand clasped behind his back, Mr Jameson prostrated himself. In the cold winter afternoon, one could do little to hold off the shiver regardless of the fires they lit around the property.
She peered into the furthest corner of the room. After everything she had accomplished - after years of establishing herself as a woman of business - her pride would not allow her to sell any of her assets. Especially in the knowledge that the pig of a man, Leviticus Cornwall, was desperate to strengthen his capital in the southeast in both timber and tobacco. Unfortunately, he seemed to be the only likely candidate that could afford to purchase the assets for a fair price.
'I will think about it and confer with Uncle whenever he chooses to make an appearance.' Her voice was tiring and she could feel it. Not just in her face or her words, but deep in her joints. It was not uncommon for Amelia to overwork herself, but the toll of a failing business ravaged her mind.
It felt as though she was trying to catch running water with a handkerchief. However, as her advisor dipped his head towards her - she knew the surrounding people would be there to support her, no matter the choice or cost.
'How is your wife, Mr Jameson? It must be some time since you have seen her?' Amelia commented, attempting a lighter note of the conversation, more for her own sake than anyone else's. She rose from the desk and headed towards the decanter on the shelving beside her.
The room itself was orchestrated in a very particular manner. The teak desk lay in the very heart of the room, with a large colonial-style window behind her. It attempted to allow as much muggy air that was possible which after the current snow blizzard seemed like a distant memory.
On the walls to the side, they had the façade of opulent black walnut shelving with books, both leather-bound and fabric, shoved into every space possible. It was an imposing room that - although Amelia found nothing but comforting - could create an appropriate amount of intimidation to those that gave an audience to her.
'Yes ma'am,' Mr Jameson began, relaxing his posture somewhat, 'she is doing fine, well, so she says in the letters. Our youngest is set to go to Boston, to that new university for women. Simmons, they call it.'
Amelia poured two fresh glasses, sensing the smile and pride of her advisor talking about his daughter.
'I'm sure it's a fine establishment,' Amelia said with a matching smile as she handed the glass out.
'Well, she has taken a great influence from you, ma'am,' Mr Jameson nodded as he took the glass filled with the honey colour liquor.
'Please ensure you let me know when she is to enrol. I'll arrange for you to have some leave and spend some time with your family. You've served me very well these past few months. It's the least I can do.' Amelia smiled with ease, not hesitate to take another large gulp of the brandy. It was her preferable choice over the bourbon.
'That's...' Mr Jameson stuttered, 'that's very kind of you ma'am and much appreciated.' His eyes dropped, seeking refuge in the glass. It was not often he was discomposed, but Amelia was well aware of the deep care and love he bore for his family, especially his daughters - all five of them.
Mr Jameson had begun his employment with Amelia not three years ago. As recommended by her uncle, he was everything she could hope for in a Steward. A kind man, he was also well astute with numbers and people. Over the years he helped her navigate the politics of the south, which was exceptionally important for a foreigner such as herself.
Although the business had taken a swift and profitable beginning, it came rather quickly at a price. Yet with the help of Mr Jameson, Amelia had stayed well away from local feuds and gained the trust of the public in her goods and wears. When it became apparent that she was an Englishwoman who was running the business, it did not take long for the word to spread through the Conservative backwaters.
It reserved women in power for a family setting only in parts like these, and although some - such as the ghastly Mrs Braithwaite continued her husband's legacy - it was only through her sheer intimidation and nastiness. Something Amelia had no natural inclination for.
So there she was, an unmarried, foreign woman - now a spinster by most standards - attempting to play the games of men. But this was no game for her.
'What if...' Amelia began, pointing a finger as she held the crystal tumbler, 'it's rather radical, but I very well may have an idea...' she trailed off, her eyes leaning off deep in thought. The numbers weren't there yet, but it would beyond doubt evoke divided opinions. She thought about the idea that had just come to her.
The silence grew longer, and it was almost as though she was static. Stuck in time and the thought grew larger and larger as though she was watching a child grow from babe to adult in a matter of seconds.
'You say that northwest is where the lumber is, Mr Jameson?' She eyed him, feeling her determination grow, weighing out all the problems that lay in the near future for her business.
'Yes, ma'am,' he said, his eyes passive.
As though caught in her thought, he shuffled where he stood, waiting for whatever she was about to say next.
'Then in that case I think it would be wise to stay out of that area…' Flashing him and knowing smirk, she continued, 'what if we speak to the Wapiti? I know they have no fondness for the federal government but what if we can almost...' Scrunching her mouth, Amelia tried to match the numbers.
She retreated to her desk and pulled the papers from one another.
'We've lost nearly four hundred thousand board feet of lumber since last year alone. The industry is moving north, but the reservations and the Midwest are stagnant.' Amelia pulled out the top drawer, she reached for a rolled-up map.
She unravelled the paper and gesturing to Mr Jameson to join her, she pointed at the forests outlying the tribal lands, tapping her finger on North Dakota, a state a little further east of the ongoing industry.
'It's protected land, and for good reason,' she trailed off, her eyes darting across the map. 'I could divide our assets and sell them off to smaller, less monopolised buyers. Then we can compensate the tribe for the loss of resources, in payments, food, medicine, whatever it is that they need.'
The smile was already on her face, turning that imaginary handkerchief into something more tangible.
'Ma'am, the Wapiti are a nefarious folk. They will push and push against us. There ain't no way you could possibly convince them to let you cut down trees. Money or not. They're proud people.'
She knew he was right. One of the last true reservations that protected a dying culture. The sun had set on them many years ago. For all they still had, Amelia knew they would not hand it over willingly.
'They protect their land,' her fingers traced across the sketches of trees and mountain contours on the map, 'but it's about protecting the land. That's what they believe, isn't it?'
Mr Jameson looked confused, furrowing his thick eyebrows.
'Send for Talako. He should be near the stables. I would like to speak with him.'
The idea was already firm in her mind. Amelia had a plan to save her business whilst bridging a divide that no one in America had done so far.
When Talako and Mr Jameson returned to the drawing-room, Amelia had fallen deep into the numbers before her. If she could just make a return in the north- even with the subsidies she had planned - she felt certain it was possible by the end of the year to solidify her foothold.
As the two men approached her desk, Amelia could feel the tiredness creeping further into her. It was nothing new but the sheer prospect of hope that kept her elevated.
'You... wanted to see me, ma'am?' Talako spoke with his usual deep and hoarse voice.
She glanced up at him with narrow eyes and a soft playfulness on her lips.
As Talako was in charge of the stables, he often looked unkempt, but this afternoon he was utterly dishevelled. Not that this was completely unbecoming of him, either.
'Rough night?' Amelia questioned, with a mischievous smirk at the edge of her lips.
She knew good and well what the workers got up to once the nights drew in; drinking, gambling, some even going off the estate into the saloons for one reason or another. Talako was perhaps the worst for it.
As bedraggled as he was - nursing no doubt another sore head - he was still a very handsome man, with broad features and muscular hands.
'Yes, ma'am,' he cleared his throat, not looking the least bit ashamed, 'you know how the boys get,' he gestured, scratching his clean shaven jaw as Mr Jameson - a traditional man - glared at him in dissatisfaction.
'Well, you know the rules, as long as you do not bring harlots onto the property,' attempting to sound stern, Amelia couldn't keep the amusement out of her voice, knowing that the slight reprimand made both gentlemen feel uncomfortable.
Amelia poured three drinks. She passed two over, filling her own more generously than the others.
'I wouldn't want to get robbed again,' she quipped into the glass, leaning against the desk.
Talako looked to the floor. With a mutter of a 'no, ma'am,' but she could see the smile he tried to keep back. Mr Jameson, meanwhile, shifted with an air of impatience.
'Talako, what do you know of the Wapiti tribe?' She returned to business, clasping the glass with both of her hands.
'Not much. The same as the other tribes, locked up on reservations and struggling to change with the times. Heard the federal killed most of them off with starving them and all.'
It was easy to detect the bitterness in his voice when he spoke of the American government and it was an opinion she too shared. After all, children were stolen from their families to be 'reformed' to the American way. The government's soldiers raped and beat women whilst the tribesmen were left to starve after all their natural resources were destroyed mercilessly. Those who made it further than that usually ended up with the 'white man's disease' with no way to cure or prevent the epidemics.
'Why do you ask, ma'am?' Talako questioned.
Mr Jameson opened his mouth at the younger man and started to stutter, no doubt some sort of rebuke towards the Native. Amelia held her hand up to stop him.
'I'm looking to expand our northern business, but it requires their co-operation.' She refrained from going into too much detail as mainly, she was yet to figure those out. Amelia needed Talako's advice on the Natives, not the business.
'They ain't gonna like that, I tell you. Knowing the government anyway, they'll just give you the land if you pay them enough.'
He had a point; the federal government held the reservations, but she also knew that under the Dawes Act, this meant that - if willing - the Natives could sell a piecemeal of their land to her privately. The potential of gaining resources from the reservations would be invaluable, both commercially and politically.
'I have a plan on appeasing the tribe,' she commented with a small nod of assurance. 'For every tree that we use for lumbar, I will accommodate the tribe, financially.'
Talako took a large swig of his drink, almost finishing the contents in one. He chuckled, cocking his eyebrow towards her.
'All due respect, ma'am, they don't want your money.'
'They may not want it,' she retorted, 'but they certainly need it. They need both food and medicine. Besides -'
'It ain't gonna work,' he cut her off, all amusement gone from his voice.
'Mr Jameson, could you kindly excuse us?' Smiling, she was firm on the matter.
It was visible to see that Mr Jameson was not fond of the situation but he left the room, closing the door with a soft click behind him.
'If I do not get the tribe to co-operate, we will lose the business.' Amelia sighed, taking more of the brandy.
Talako, who had since finished his, helped himself to another while Amelia slumped into her chair, exacerbated. He passed the decanter to her as he sat on the corner of her desk.
He had always been familiar with her - which, for the most part, was kept in private. Although they had not had relations for a few years now, he still never quite treated Amelia as his employer.
'You're not stupid,' she sighed, eyeing him from underneath her eyelashes as - without warning - the brandy and stress seemed to pounce on her without a moment's notice.
Talako scoffed, raising his glass mockingly to hers as he knocked the whole serving back down his throat, only to refill his glass again.
'If I lose this business,' Amelia began, hearing her voice with a slight slur in her ears, 'those who will buy my assets, my land... It's people that won't be so kind to those in need.'
She was honest in her sentiment but so weary from chasing away endless propositions from the likes of Cornwall to guarantee her financial freedom. Her business was not just about making financial gain but giving people what America had given her, regardless of their skin, language, or beliefs.
'The world ain't built for people like you, Amelia.' Talako began, more to what seemed to be the bookcase before him than to her.
She almost huffed to herself, pulling out a drawer with a pack of premium cigarettes. Offering Talako one, she lit it off of her gas compressed pocket light and passed it to him as well.
'I cannot afford for the likes of Cornwall to fuck everything up. Not for me. Not for any of you.' Amelia shook her head as her lips formed into a thin line at the thought of how that man treated the world around him. No matter her privilege, Amelia had sought to right the wrongs that had been bequeathed to her. Not just for herself, but for anyone who had been dealt the unfortunate hand of misery.
'Tsk,' Talako hissed into the air, 'I say, I have never met a finer lady to swear and drink as much as you.'
To that, she could not help but smile.
'Look,' he began with a much more serious note in his voice, 'money can not buy the tribes. They're defiant. I don't know much about them Wapitis but I know Natives. Whatever they believe, well... let me just say it matters on whose skin is holding it. Money from you. They might as well throw themselves off some cliff.'
His dark eyes narrowed at her, a look she was not unfamiliar with. The alcohol, the sadness, the desperation had all taken hold. She wanted to feel something, anything other than this goddamn business her uncle had put her in charge of.
In the past, it had always been Talako for the most part to give her that comfort. Stolen kisses in the early hours whilst the rest of the staff slept, drunken adventures off in the grounds or some other debauchery that never filled her with as much shame as it should have done.
She was always very fond of him, from how the smell of hay would linger on his collar to the way he would wink at her when no one was looking. He was not a shy man by any means and, Native or not, had an abundance of women willing to court him. Yet Amelia always sensed that his affection for her far outweighed her feelings towards him.
She rose back from her chair, attempting to avoid the illustrious stare of her Stable Master, shaking the temptation and thoughts from her head. She had ended that side of their relationship for a reason and was not prepared to open old wounds.
The business - now more than ever - had to come first. She would not allow her emotions to cloud her judgment when hard decisions would need to be made.
An awkwardness passed between them as they both avoided each other's gaze and sipped at their drinks.
'Do the land or trees matter more?' She spoke, turning around to face Talako as he swirled his drink in the glass.
'What do you mean, ma'am?' He responded, perplexed by the question.
'Will the tribe give up their land for the trees? If we replace the trees.' She tried to make sense and to Amelia, it did in her head. The words, however, seemed to not make a great deal of sense.
'I...' Talako stuttered, 'I don't quite rightly know what you mean.'
He seemed confused and Amelia parroted his face, for she too could not convey exactly what she meant.
'If we... If I arrange with the tribe that we could not only give them a dividend for what we take from the land... What if we give back the trees as well!' She almost jumped, a rare joyful and almost childlike excitement crept beneath her.
Talako rose from the corner of the desk, approaching her with his cropped black hair and clay coloured skin. Amelia met his eyes sheepishly. He took her glass from her, his fingers brushing against hers as he placed the crystal back on the silver drinks tray.
She chided herself for how appealing the situation was to her. The weight of everything almost collapsed above and beneath her as she tried to ignore the ever growing desire. She would not give in just yet.
'What I mean, is that...' She could almost feel the judgment and the caution in his stare, but she had something – an actual plan. 'I will cut down one tree, let's say. Just one tree.'
Amelia paced around the room. She almost forgot her audience as the silver hues of the falling snow twinkled across the parquet floor.
'One tree, I will pay the tribe not only for losing the tree, but to replant another ten.'
Gazing out of the window and staring into the white tundra that had enveloped itself over the estate, all the warmth had dissipated into the late afternoon lulls as Amelia tugged her shawl over her.
'I supply them with resources, they supply me with sustainable labour and in return, the land is preserved.'
It seemed so reasonable. It wouldn't even cost two cents to plant a tree at the most. Talako nodded his head slowly. Nothing that she felt was entirely convincing, however.
'I don't know.' He said, scratching again at his jaw as though in thought, 'I don't know much about my own tribe, hell, let alone them Wapiti's, but maybe. Makes sense.'
That was more than what she needed, a confirmation that she wasn't insane or foolhardy and to come from a Native, it seemed to be enough for her to push forward as radical and extreme as her thoughts may be.
'Talako, speak with Mr Jameson. I need passage to Boston.