Ambrosia

by Rosanne Kohake

  Melissa was frightened that Ledger might never come home, that she would be left widowed like hundreds of other young women with little hope of finding a husband among the few respectable whole men who had returned. But she was even more frightened that he would return old and defeated like the rest of them. She couldn’t bear to think of living the rest of her life with a defeated man, a man who could never again give her the life she de­ served. How she envied Ambrosia her youth and her freedom. She had no one to answer to, nothing to lose by associating with the Yankees.

  ‘’Papa would have disowned you in a minute if he had known!” she cried bitterly one morning as Ambrosia tied her worn bonnet under her chin and prepared to leave for work. “And when Ledger comes home, he’ll throw you out on the streets without a second thought!’’

  Ambrosia paused for a moment, meeting Melissa’s eyes with a stony, unaffected silence that disguised the anxiety she felt at the threat.

  As always, her cool manner placed Melissa at a disadvantage. Melissa could not begin to understand what went on behind those catlike green-gray eyes. But she knew that Ambrosia was clever as a fox, that no matter what happened she could work things to her own advantage. The Confederacy had hardly conceded defeat before Ambrosia allied herself with the victors. How easy it would be for her to find a husband from among the hundreds of young Yankee soldiers here in Charleston! Men with money and hope for the future...

  The bitterness burned inside her as she watched Ambrosia leave the house. Melissa was hopelessly trapped here, a married woman waiting for her husband to return, with little hope that anything would change when he finally did. She never realized that Ambrosia was caught in a similar trap, hoping and praying for the same man’s return with no hope that anything would change when he came home.

  The month of May passed quickly for Ambrosia, her newfound work keeping her well occupied from early morning till sundown she grew accustomed to the demands of her position, though there were certain aspects of the work she despised, like catering to the more difficult officers’ wives, or forcing a polite nod to women who wore face paint and heavy perfume. What she hated more than anything else, however, was listening to the gossipy comments Maggie made about everyone who happened to cross the threshold of the emporium. It shocked Ambrosia the way Maggie could bustle about sweet-talking and cajoling a female customer as if she were a dear friend, then proceed to rake her across the coals the minute she was out of earshot. And the way she flirted with the men was utterly appalling. No matter whether he was a blushing lad or an old codger, Maggie’s hand would rest coyly on his arm, her lashes would flutter, her breasts would brush accidentally against his sleeve, and her high-pitched giggle would carry throughout the store.

  Ambrosia despised Maggie’s natural duplicity and remained aloof and even cold when her employer made overtures of friendship. Her behavior, in turn, made Maggie feel uneasy and inferior, and oftentimes caused her to be short-tempered or bossy to prove that she was neither. She seemed to enjoy ordering Ambrosia about in front of customers, calling her by her first name like a common servant, sending her to fetch this or that or demanding to know why certain things hadn’t been unpacked or properly displayed. But somehow Ambrosia usually managed to do more and say less than Maggie expected, which confounded the older woman as much as anything else. She watched over Ambrosia with a mixture of relief and reluctance, allowing the girl to take over most of the bookwork and trusting her to handle sales when she was out or when the store was extraordinarily busy. But she let Ambrosia know at regular intervals that she had no talent for selling and berated her for her lack of rapport with the customers. So it was that the emporium became the scene of an unspoken and oftentimes hostile truce that it behooved both women to keep.

  May drew swiftly to a close and business at O’Neal’s Emporium was stronger than ever. Newly arrived officials of the Freedman’s Bureau and their wives, along with the wives of men in the occupational troops, made up the majority of Maggie’s regular clientele, since they were the only people in Charleston with money to spend these days. It bothered Ambrosia to see the victors prospering so on the spoils of war while families like the Bowmans and the Lanfords remained closed up in their scarred homes, relying on their servants’ rations from the Freedman’s Bureau for their next meal. It seemed cruel and unfair, just like all the destruction of the war. And the injustice made it harder for her to mask the bitterness she felt whenever a Yankee came into the shop with a fat purse. But there was nothing she could do to change what was, and she was learning to survive on what was left behind. It was a more difficult kind of survival than before, because a part of her had died with her father, another part had perished in the flames at Heritage. But there was still tomorrow and a hope of rebuilding Heritage, of returning to the land she loved and working it, once she saved enough for tools and seed. And there was still hope that Ledger would come home.

  Ambrosia found herself living through one day at a time, anxiously awaiting his return. She was certain that his arrival would change everything, that his smile and his constant joking would make everything seem brighter, less somber, and that his presence would make her strong enough to go on. She only hoped that he would not lecture or threaten her or shake his head in shame the way Melissa did, that he would not demand that she quit her job or leave the Bowman house for the sake of propriety. She liked to imagine that he would admire her ambition and tenacity and share her stubborn will to survive and rebuild in this new South run by Yankees; that he would notice just how much she had grown up.

  It was late one afternoon during the last week of May. Ambrosia was unpacking and taking account of newly arrived inventory in the back room when Maggie’s high-pitched screech interrupted her concentration. “Ambrosia! Ambrosia! “

  With a sigh she promptly left her work to answer the summons. The day had been busier than most, and she assumed that Maggie wanted her to help with an impatient customer or keep an eye on a suspicious-looking browser. But as she glanced about, making her way to the front of the store, she was surprised to see it empty. There was only Maggie and a single Union soldier. Her eyes flicked over the soldier when he half turned toward her. She froze and fought back a gasp of shock.

  For an instant Drayton’s cool blue eyes widened in similar surprise, then warmed as he gave her a brief but thorough perusal and a slight nod of approval. Ambrosia’s eyes narrowed in contempt.

  ‘’Ambrosia!’’

  She hastily directed her attention to Maggie.

  “Have you unpacked the fresh tobacco yet?” Maggie demanded impatiently. “The major here is very particular about his cigars.” Maggie’s voice softened and her hand rested familiarly on his arm. She smiled sweetly up at him, but her smile was less warm when she realized that Ambrosia was staring. “Well? Is it unpacked or isn’t it?” she demanded irritably.

  “Yes. I’ll get it right away.”

  Ambrosia hurried to the back room and emerged a few moments later with a large humidor. She purposely avoided Drayton’s eyes yet was unable to will away the knot in her stomach or the hot blush that crept into her cheeks. She gave Maggie the humidor, flashing him a glare that reflected her resentment before she hurried back to her work, away from the prying eyes that made her feel so uncomfortable. But even when she was alone in the back room she was unable to concentrate on anything she tried to do. She was suddenly full of emotions that defied control, of hatred and anger and frustration. She never wanted to see him again, not after what he had done. And her pride didn’t want him to know that the proud Miss Lanford had finally been humbled to working like a servant for a common Yankee woman.

  She tossed her pen aside and glared at the tall stacks of crates and boxes she had planned to unpack in the next hour, before Maggie could scold her for not doing her job. Damn them all! she thought as she kicked at the tallest stack. She sucked in her breath and leapt forward to steady the column when the boxes teetered
precariously overhead. For several moments, she swayed this way and that with the unsteady movement of the boxes. When they finally settled themselves, she let out a long breath of relief and closed her eyes. She was tired. It had already been far too long a day. And the tension inside her was making her close to losing her temper, something she had never done in front of Maggie and never intended to do. She had to get away before these Yankees drove her mad, she thought indignantly. She needed to be alone, to get a good night’s rest before she faced all of this again. She glanced about the room, wondering if Maggie would even consider allowing her to leave early. Perhaps, if she promised to come in very early the following morning, if she promised to finish unpacking everything before the store opened...

  Ambrosia found Maggie at the front counter staring wistfully into space. When she asked permission to leave, Maggie merely gave a vague nod, never bothering to question her as to her reasons. She seemed far away, distant and dreamy, and Ambrosia knew enough to take advantage of her preoccupation. She gathered up her things and tied her worn black bonnet under her chin, anxious to go before Maggie came to her senses or had a chance to change her mind. Ambrosia was so intent on making a quick exit that she gave no thought to going home unescorted. Sheba would not arrive at the shop to accompany her home for at least another hour, and she wasn’t about to wait, no matter what propriety dictated. It was still very light out and the streets were still very busy, besides the fact that the Bowmans’ house was not very far from the shop. But she had barely stepped out of the emporium when she realized her mistake.

  She saw Major Rambert at once, leaning against the very next storefront, leisurely puffing at one of his expensive cigars which he tossed aside immediately as he moved to block her path. His dark blue uniform was crisp and new-looking, and his trousers no longer carried the yellow stripe of a cavalry officer, so he was obviously with the occupational troops. Her eyes traveled upward slowly, from his polished black boots to the row of shiny brass buttons at his broad chest to his handsome, sun­ darkened face. He touched his hat in an abbreviated salute. “Miss Lanford.”

  She eyed him as coldly as she could for a long moment, heedless of the people who pushed by her. She despised him and all that he stood for. And more than anything else she wanted him to know that she would never forget what he’d done.

  “I intend to pay you back, Major,” she said curtly. He raised a puzzled brow. “Beg your pardon?” “The money you gave Josiah,” she snapped. “I intend to pay it back. Every cent of it.”

  Drayton vented a sigh as he drew a hand thoughtfully over his chin. She wore a black dress that was threadbare and mended in a dozen places, and a pair of shoes which, while a definite improvement over her last pair, must have been purchased secondhand. Yet her message was clear. She wanted no part of his charity. And he knew enough to honor her pride. “If you insist, Miss Lanford...

  She let out her breath and relaxed somewhat. She had expected an argument and he had not given it to her. She looked at him a moment longer, then stepped around him and made for home. But instead of allowing her to pass, his hand touched lightly to her arm and he took up walking beside her with the obvious intention of seeing her home. Ambrosia tensed at his touch but decided to ignore him. Her feet carried her quickly toward her destination. But suddenly she was aware of a gasp of outrage, and she lifted her eyes to meet the haughty looks of condemnation from a pair of Madeline Bowman’s closest friends. The women drew themselves up arrogantly as they stepped aside and allowed Ambrosia and her Yankee soldier to pass. Ambrosia tossed a glance over her shoulder to be certain the two ladies had continued on their way, then stopped abruptly and turned to Drayton, her feet braced apart, her hands on her hips. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

  He gave an innocent shrug. ‘Tm waiting for you to explain how you’re going to pay me back.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I still have most of the money left, Major. I’ll give it to you today, if you insist....’’

  “I don’t.” Drayton placed a hand to her elbow and urged her to begin walking again.

  “...and as for the rest of it, I am employed at the emporium. I’ll pay you what I can over the next few weeks.”

  “I’ll trust you for it.”

  She flashed him an accusing glare. “I suppose you’ve stolen enough in the last four years to be quite comfortable without it.”

  This time it was Drayton who stopped short, his grip on her arm tightening ominously. Ambrosia felt herself tensing as she faced the anger in his eyes, but she was every bit as angry as he. And he held no trump card here, in broad daylight on a Charleston street.

  “I am not proud of what happened,” he said at length, the words coming with difficulty.

  “Is that an apology, Major?” she inquired with a cold smile, her indignation overriding her better judgment.

  His blue eyes burned wildly for an instant. Her barb had met its mark quite accurately. Then, to Ambrosia’s surprise, he let out his breath and began walking again in silence, his hand at her elbow. For some reason she didn’t really understand, she gave him no further argument.

  “What brought you to Charleston?” he asked after several moments.

  “That’s none of your business,” she retorted. There was a space of silence. “My sister lives here,” she relented. “She married a Bowman, just before the war.” He gave a nod. He’d been with the occupational forces long enough to recognize the name of one of Charleston’s prominent families. Again there was silence. “Corporal Laird ... is he-did he recover?”

  Drayton gave her a smile. “He was barely even limping the last time I saw him. He’s home by this time, I suspect.”

  Ambrosia said nothing, but she was clearly pleased with the news. She stopped, indicating a tall, wrought­ iron gate. “Here.”

  His eyes flashed over the long, narrow building, and Ambrosia was acutely aware of the peeling paint; the once neat, squared shutters that had been damaged in the shelling; the boards that temporarily covered several broken windows until new glass could be paid for.

  ‘’Wait here. I’ll get your money.’’ She turned quickly and entered the garden, giving him no chance to protest. Drayton paced uncomfortably before the gate, catching glimpses through the wrought iron of the garden, the shady piazza, the house. It was obvious that the Bowmans were in dire financial straits, as were most of Charleston’s finest families. But like the others, they would die before accepting charity from a Yankee.

  Several moments passed before Ambrosia reappeared, hurrying, breathlessly clutching the same soft leather pouch he had given to Josiah over two months before. “It’s all there, except for thirty-three dollars,” she said as she tossed it at his chest. He caught it easily, without thinking, his eyes never leaving hers. “I’ll pay you back the rest as soon as I can. I’m paid every other Friday.” Her tone was curt, businesslike.

  He held her eyes for a moment longer before she turned away, closing the gate securely behind her without another word. Drayton started to say something, then bit back the words as his long, tanned fingers kneaded pensively at the leather pouch. The look in her eyes made any words an effort in futility. She hated him, blamed him for what had happened to her home. And though he had not been directly responsible, he also blamed himself. He let out a short, frustrated sigh and tossed the pouch in the air, catching it thoughtfully as he walked away. He did not see the cautious glance Ambrosia threw over her shoulder, or know that she paused at the door to stare after him.

  “Who was that?”

  Ambrosia whirled about as Melissa’s voice startled her. “No one you know.”

  Melissa looked hard at Ambrosia’s face, then at the gate, then at Ambrosia again. “I saw him, Ambrosia. Now tell me who he was.”

  Ambrosia sighed and tucked a strand of hair wearily behind one ear. “His name is Major Rambert, Drayton Rambert.’’ She reached for the door
latch, but Melissa caught hold of her arm and prevented her from going in. “Drayton Rambert?” she repeated excitedly. “Is he any relation to the Draytons on the Ashley?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. As far as I’m concerned, he’s just another dirty Yankee.”

  Melissa’s pretty features hardened with suspicion. ‘’Then what are you doing with him, little sister? And how did you come to owe him money?’’

  Her green eyes bore not a trace of emotion. “That’s none of your business.’’

  Melissa’s blue eyes narrowed as her hand cracked hard across Ambrosia’s cheek. Ambrosia deserved that and more for selling her reputation, for taking work in that Yankee store. Everyone talked about her and shook their heads after her every day when she walked up Meeting Street. It was humiliating to have a sister who was no longer received, who had given up respectability for a few Yankee dollars. But it was so much more painful to watch her getting everything Melissa wanted by doing so. Ambrosia had grown up. She was no longer the homely, skinny girl who couldn’t catch a single beau.

  That Yankee major who had just left here was incredibly handsome, and he had looked at Ambrosia in a way Melissa knew all too well. It had been a long time since a man had looked at Melissa that way...much too long. Ambrosia lifted her fingers to her hot cheek, and her eyes were wide with shock and disbelief. Without a single word she reached again for the door latch.