Ambrosia

by Rosanne Kohake

  “Damn you and your stubborn pride!” she heard him mutter suddenly. He followed it with a curse she was glad she didn’t quite hear. She whirled to face him and watched in horror as he placed the ring emphatically on the counter with the other jewelry. Now he was riled, and she had ruined her only chance to help a friend who desperately needed her help. Her troubled eyes reluctantly met his then, and she saw his anger slowly die. “I am grateful for your offer of assistance,’’ she managed, almost choking on the words.

  “No, you aren’t. You despise me for it.” She lowered her eyes uneasily at the truth and he added, “But then, I don’t really want your gratitude anyway.”

  She didn’t know exactly what he meant by that, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She bit her lip and watched in silence as Drayton slipped the jewelry into his pocket.

  Without a word he turned to leave and nearly collided with a flushed, breathless Maggie, who rushed to accompany him on his way out of the store. She fluttered her eyelashes furiously and twittered about her business at the bank. ‘’And to think I almost missed you altogether!’’ Ambrosia heard her say as the two reached the door.

  “Imagine that,” the major returned dryly.

  Maggie’s flirtatious smile faded swiftly when he left, and she sighed wistfully as she began a slow return to the counter. It was only then that she set suspicious eyes on Ambrosia, who was quietly arranging perfume bottles on the counter, just as she had been when Maggie left her. Maggie frowned and studied her for a long moment, until Ambrosia felt the eyes upon her and looked up inquiringly. With a quick change of expression, Maggie dismissed the thought, turning her back on an uncomfortable Ambrosia to stare dreamily in the direction Major Rambert had gone.

  Chapter 14

  It had been six years since Matt Desmond had seen Drayton Rambert, but he was still able to pick him out in the lobby of the Charleston Hotel, a lobby crowded with Union soldiers and brashly talkative carpetbaggers. It took Drayton a moment longer to recognize Matt. A man of average height and build and a banker by profession, Matt Desmond had a quiet, congenial air about him that mingled well in spite of his conservative suit and somewhat sophisticated manners. Matt’s brown eyes lit with recognition and his mouth broke into a smile as Drayton approached him and extended a hand. They appraised one another momentarily, then made their way through the various clusters of men in the lobby toward the comparative quiet of the dining room.

  “How long are you going to be in Charleston?” Dray­ ton inquired conversationally just after they had ordered dinner.

  “Only a day or two more. To tell the truth, the place depresses me. It’s nothing like it was before the war. But then,’’ he went on thoughtfully as he poured a glass of wine from the bottle that had just been placed on the table, “there weren’t nearly as many interesting investments here before the war. Now...’’ Matt took a sip of wine and gave a shrug. “Well, it’s no secret that most loyal Confederates are desperate for money to pay delinquent taxes.” He grimaced slightly as his eyes drifted pointedly toward the crowded lobby. ‘’I’m here to collect a share of the spoils for my bank, just like the rest of them,” he admitted candidly. “I suppose that’s why I find the place so depressing. I’ve never before thought of myself as a vulture.”

  Matt took another sip of wine and fixed a pleasant expression to his face. “And you, my friend? What attraction does this fallen city of rebellion hold for you?”

  “I have my position with the army,” Drayton answered. “I’ve been stationed here indefinitely.”

  “And you’ve no thoughts of coming home?’’ Matt countered in some surprise.

  Drayton studied his glass for a moment, his eyes distant. “I haven’t really thought much about the future.”

  Matt frowned, almost not believing what Drayton said. There had always been a drive, a purpose to everything he did. But that was missing now. So much was missing, now that Kathryn was gone. ‘’Rumor has it that your father left you quite an inheritance, Drayton,” Matt said after a moment. “A thriving carriage paint business, a lovely house in Gramercy Park...’’ He watched Drayton’s face carefully, expecting some flicker of interest. There was none. “I heard you inherited everything Aaron expected to get, and that your stepbrother was fit to be tied when the will was read.’’

  Drayton’s eyes hardened a bit. “You’re certainly well informed.”

  “I speak with Warren Pierce every now and again. The last time we spoke, he seemed concerned about your stepbrother’s having control over the business you’ve inherited.”

  “He wrote me something to that effect.”

  “And you aren’t troubled by the thought of what might happen?” Matt pressed.

  Drayton gave a shrug. “Warren’s a competent lawyer.

  I’m sure he’ll handle any problems that arise.”

  Matt eyed him narrowly again, not quite knowing what to say. “If it were my inheritance-” he began.

  “But it’s not,” Drayton broke in firmly. “And it’s also none of your business.’’

  For a long moment Matt considered saying what was on his mind. But something in Drayton’s voice and manner made him think again. The waiter began serving them dinner, and Matt politely steered conversation to more general topics of politics and finance, purposely avoiding anything that might lessen his enjoyment of the meal. After all, Drayton was an old friend, not a client. Years ago they’d shared everything with one another, made secret pacts and even searched for buried treasure. The past was a bond between them even now, when they had chosen to lead such different lives.

  “I need your help with something, Matt,” Drayton admitted as they waited for brandy at the end of the meal. Matt lifted an inquiring brow and Drayton removed a small package from his tunic pocket and placed it on the table. “I have a friend who wants to sell these quickly, and at a fair price. But as you know, it’s difficult to sell anything in Charleston for a fair price these days.’’

  Matt glanced curiously at the small bundle that Dray­ ton handed him, then unwrapped it and closely examined the collection of jewelry that spilled onto the table. He gave a slight nod of admiration. Whoever had owned the pieces had been quite wealthy once, and had exquisite taste. “This ‘friend’ of yours,’” Matt said slowly, “how much is she asking for the jewelry?”

  ‘’A thousand dollars, and she needs it within the next week. They’re worth that much, you have my word on that. I’d buy the lot myself if there were more time. But my savings have all been invested in stocks, and it would take me longer than that to come up with the cash. ‘’

  “And taxes are due the first of December,” Matt inserted, fully aware that he held the upper hand.

  “Yes.”

  “This ‘friend’ of yours.” Matt began again with a sly smile, “she wouldn’t happen to be young and pretty, would she? And perhaps the reason for your staying on with the army here in Charleston?”

  For a moment Drayton was silent. The question had caught him off guard, though perhaps he ought to have expected it from Matt. Always digging into everyone else’s business and making it his own. Still, Matt’s penchant for nosiness had little to do with the anger Drayton felt at the suggestion. For the first time, he wondered if it were true. ‘’The owner of the jewelry is a sixty-year-old widow woman,” Drayton told him succinctly, not liking the way he had so easily seen what Drayton didn’t want to admit was there at all. “And the reason I’m staying here in Charleston is because I have orders to stay here, and a soldier follows orders.”

  The mischievous grin faded from Matt’s face, though his eyes remained intently on Drayton. “I beg your pardon,” he said unconvincingly. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “If you aren’t interested in buying these-”

  “But I am,” Matt broke in, certain that he could sell the lot for a great deal more than a thousand dollars once he got bac
k to New York. “I’ll give you eight hundred dollars, cash. A fair price, considering the circumstances.’’

  “Nine hundred, not a penny less.”

  With a half-smile of concession, Matt lifted his brandy in a toast. “To the poor old widow woman,” he intoned. “May she spend her money wisely.’’ As he sipped at his brandy, he wondered if the widow had a young, pretty daughter.

  Less than one week later, Ambrosia returned to the house on Meeting Street one evening to find Major Rambert waiting for her, just outside the wrought-iron gate. He touched his hat in a polite gesture to Ambrosia, then Sheba, but his manner was one of business rather than congeniality. “I sold the jewelry,” he told her simply, handing her a sealed envelope. And then he promptly bid her a good day. Ambrosia mumbled a half-hearted thank you, which she was not certain whether or not he heard, then sent Sheba inside to fetch Josiah before she examined the envelope’s contents.

  Twice, three times she counted it, hardly believing her own eyes. The envelope was fat with Yankee greenbacks, nine hundred dollars’ worth. Nine hundred dollars-so much more than Elisabeth had ever dreamed of getting! For an instant, a temptation to take four hundred dollars, the amount she needed to pay the taxes on Heritage, gripped her hard. Elisabeth would never know and, in a way, she owed it to Ambrosia in return for the favor of selling the ring. Ambrosia would pay it all back someday. But for now, she could save the land! She could rebuild!

  The long-dormant dreams tripped over one another as they rushed to quiet her conscience. But the reality of the situation could not be silenced by dreams that were so bruised and worn. Once it had been so easy to believe in a bright tomorrow; now she could not. She would never have the money to repay Elisabeth. Taxes were only a small part, anyway. There was no house, no crops, no slaves, no tools. Ambrosia sighed wearily as she closed the envelope. There was so little left of her that could afford to dream anymore.

  “Sheba said you wanted to see me, Miz Ambrosia.” “Yes, Josiah. I need you to take something to Elisabeth Woodard’s house on Charlotte Street right away.”

  She thrust the envelope in his hand. “Don’t dally. It’s very important.”

  He fingered the envelope nervously and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I-I’ll be needin’ t’ speak with you about somethin’ else first, Miz Ambrosia. Somethin’ really important.”

  Ambrosia’s brow knitted with concern. “What is it, Josiah?”

  “I-that is, Sally and me and Andrew, we’ve found work.’’ He gave an uneasy shrug and looked at the ground. “I-I’m sorry t’ be leavin’, Miz Ambrosia. But there’s no work for us here. And pretty soon, they’ll stop givin’ out the food at the bureau, and the Bowmans’ won’t want us emptyin’ their cupboards...’’ His voice softened as he met her eyes. ‘’Besides, I’m a freed man now. I’ve got two strong arms and two strong legs, and I can work hard as any man. So I signed a contract that gives work for the next year.”

  ‘’You signed a labor contract?’’ she repeated numbly.

  He gave a nod. “Yes’m. And the contract’s been okayed by the bureau man, too.’’

  “For doing what? What kind of work?”

  “Fieldwork, Miz Ambrosia. Ain’t no other kind of work t’ be had these days.”

  “But you aren’t a field-slave, Josiah! You’re a gentleman’s valet-”

  “And you ain’t a common workwoman, Miz Ambrosia. But you’re workin’, all the same.”

  Ambrosia tried to hide her hurt at his remark. ‘’What about Sheba?”

  Josiah lowered his eyes and kicked at a pebble with his tattered leather shoe. ‘’Sheba says she’ll stay here as long as you do.”

  Ambrosia watched his normally noble posture sag in remorse. He felt he’d been disloyal to her, though in fact he had little choice. The Bowmans’ house was crowded, and their few remaining slaves had made it clear they did not enjoy sharing quarters, or even duties, with ‘’inland’’ people. She let out a sigh and touched her hand to Josiah’s long, muscular arm. “You deserve so much better, Josiah. If only Father: hadn’t died! If only I could have-”

  “No, Miz Ambrosia.” He shook his head. “You did the best you could. We all did the best we could. It’s just time for us to start all over again, I guess.’’ He fingered the envelope again and gave a short nod. “Guess I’ll be gettin’ this over to Miz Woodard now.’’

  Ambrosia watched him set off, plodding steadily up Meeting Street into the crowds of people, wondering bitterly if there was anything left in her life for the Yankees to take away. She had already lost so much. She bit her lip hard, forcing away her depression, fixing a pleasant expression to her face for Ledger as she entered the house. A warm feeling flowed within her as she did so. For him she could always find the strength to be brave. For him she could face a million tomorrows with her chin held high.

  Major Drayton Rambert walked briskly away from the Bowman house on Meeting Street, his stride suggesting an important destination; though in truth he had none. He kept his eyes downcast, avoiding the constant reminders of war, of ruin, of destruction. The city of Charleston seemed to him a mortally wounded animal, struggling mightily against a cruel trap that had snared its throat, writhing, agonizing, waiting for death as the blue uniformed buzzards circled eagerly about its head. For this city, these people, the war was raging as strong and bitter as it had for the past five years. Only now there was no hope behind their struggle. They were fighting now to hold on to what was left because it was a matter of dignity. They did not know how to surrender their pride.

  And to what would the Southern aristocracy surrender? he asked himself as he strode along. To a confusing, self­serving tangle of bureaucracy? To the army, with its cocky soldiers and greedy officers? To the Freedman’s Bureau, which, for all its good intentions, was constantly at odds with the army? To the corrupt Treasury agents who swarmed like hungry locusts on a prostrate state? To the Republicans and carpetbaggers, who were anxious to see the South punished for past wrongs as they helped themselves to a share of the spoils? It was no wonder that the hatred lingered in their hearts.

  He drew a deep breath as he reached East Battery and slowed his pace, pausing to lean forward on the wooden rails. He stared at the water as it lapped gently against the rocks below. It was a soothing sound. He sighed heavily. For him, the war was over. The perverse comfort he had found these past years in living on the edge, in walking the dangerous line between life and death, had been lost. He was trapped now by his work, having been deemed far too “useful” to the occupational forces to be given the assignment he’d requested, in the West. He could read and write and count, a fact which had earned him an office here in Charleston he didn’t want, and an endless stream of paperwork he abhorred. Work details, requisition forms, official reports, the list was endless. And all of it chained him to a desk and made him want to climb the walls.

  Drayton closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. There was more to it than his job with the army. Matt had forced him to admit that much. And having admitted it, he realized just how much he loved her, and how deeply she despised him in return. For the thousandth time that hour he berated himself for being the worst kind of fool. How had he let it happen-loving a woman who could not begin to love him? Ambrosia was nothing like the first woman he’d loved, nothing at all like Kathryn. She had been warm and bright and smiling and young...He wondered if Ambrosia had ever really been a carefree, smiling young girl. He opened his eyes and stared at the swift current of the Cooper River, flowing relentlessly, sweeping leaves and branches and debris along with it. And Kathryn’s image was swept aside as he recalled a stormy night when another woman, a small slip of a woman, had stood silently, courageously beside him in an attempt to save the lives of three men. Perhaps it had happened at that very moment, when she’d looked at him in defiance and stood her ground. He had known then that she was different, different in a thousand ways
. He could picture her diminutive form struggling behind a plow, or pulling with all her might against the stubbornness of an old mule. And he could see her thin, delicate fingers, freshly bruised and cut, pressing gently to Jamie Clark’s brow, could see the care in her green-gray eyes as she bathed his hot skin with cool water, knowing that it would do no good, knowing that he would die. There was a rare kind of gentleness to her; and though she hid it carefully beneath pride and defiant anger, he had seen it then, seen it clearly. He knew little of the wounds her heart must have suffered, but he knew that some of them were deep, and he knew that she was afraid of being hurt again. Perhaps even as frightened as he.

  But for him it was already too late. How many nights had he lain awake, remembering the way she had clung to him in the stable at Heritage? Or the small, precious moment when she had surrendered to his kiss, before she gathered her defenses to fight him as an enemy? Remembering that moment gave him a tiny shred of hope that she might, in time, come to care for him too. But he knew all too well that her hatred ran deep, to her very core. And he knew that nothing he could ever do would change the way she felt. With a sigh of resignation, Drayton watched the movement of a large branch as it floated smoothly atop the water and on into the bay. It was time to go home. It was time to stop running from the memories that haunted him, time to build a new life, a stable life. Letters arrived regularly from the lawyer handling his father’s estate, advising him to return to New York immediately. But he still couldn’t face the thought of returning to the life that had been, of confronting any part of a past he’d tried so desperately to forget. He turned abruptly away from the water, not wanting to think of the past, not wanting to consider a future without Ambrosia. He could not give up hoping, as long as she remained so close by, working at the store, living in the house on Meeting Street. Though it made him a fool, he could not give up hoping.