Ambrosia

by Rosanne Kohake

  It was just after eight o’clock in the morning, but the streets were already crowded with people as the three prim and proper ladies, all struggling with their baggage, paused for the third time to check the address scrawled on a small piece of paper.

  ‘’The captain said to go three blocks before we turn to the right,” the shortest, plumpest of the group insisted with a decisive nod of her head.

  “We have gone three blocks,” retorted the tallest, a pale, homely brunette who seemed at least ten years younger than the other two.

  ‘’Mary. Rebecca. Please.’’ The soft reminder from the third woman brought immediate silence from the other two. “We have indeed gone three blocks,” she confirmed patiently. “This is where we are to turn.”

  Pretending not to notice the scowl on Mary’s face or the smug grin on Rebecca’s, the woman stepped into the busy street, leaving the others to follow her lead.

  “Told you so,” Rebecca tossed over her shoulder as she sidestepped a puddle and followed in Susannah’s footsteps.

  Mary’s little round face reddened with indignation as she gave a derisive snort. She was a good Christian woman, but Rebecca Gaines had a way of driving her to a righteous anger at least a dozen times a day. Mary’s bright blue eyes shot daggers at Rebecca’s tall, shapeless back for a moment, then lowered in heartfelt contrition. She scrambled to catch up with the two women, stepping directly into a large puddle as she did so. Each and every morning, Mary prayed for the strength to control her quick temper, particularly with regard to handling Rebecca. Rebecca was young, after all, she would remind herself, and no stranger to grief. She had lost her only child to cholera, and been widowed by the war after only three years of marriage. Her sorrow was still fresh and her bitterness too. Yet she had volunteered to come here, to Charleston, to teach the poor Negroes to read and write, and to save their immortal souls. Mary tried to keep that in mind whenever she found herself thinking uncharitable thoughts about Rebecca. She raised her eyes curiously to stare at a gaudy, wrought-iron gate, and the tall, brick wall which surrounded a lovely house. Many of the houses here were sideways, set at right angles to the street, rather than facing it. How very odd! Mary was thinking. And the colors-

  “0-0-0-F!” Mary ‘s breath was knocked abruptly from her lungs when she ran headlong into Rebecca’s back.

  “Why don’t you watch where you’re walking? Can’t you see Susannah’s stopped?”

  Mary doubled over in surprise and pain at the impact. “I-I’m sorry. Wh-What’s happened?’’

  ‘’Someone appears to be ill,’’ Rebecca told her matter-of-factly. “Apparently whoever it is, is lying in the street.”

  Mary gasped and began elbowing her way through the circle of curious people who had crowded around the collapsed woman. Susannah was already kneeling beside her, slapping her wrists and trying to rouse her. Mary began to order the people to back off, to give the poor woman some much-needed air. Susannah glanced up at her in concern. “She’s burning up with fever.”

  The announcement quickly filtered through the crowd and caused it to thin almost immediately. Susannah and Mary seemed not to notice. “Does anyone know this woman?”

  There was no response, save a few shrugs and the shakes of several heads. “We’ll need help getting her to the house,” Susannah said thoughtfully as she brushed a strand of wet hair from the woman’s brow. She raised her eyes to the crowd and considered several faces which still hovered close about, seeking a man who might be willing to help. She addressed a kindly, older gentleman in a threadbare black suit whose arms looked able to bear a heavy load.

  “Sir, this woman is in need of immediate care. Our destination is but a few blocks away. Could you possibly help us?”

  Before she could finish, the gentleman was nodding and reading the address from the paper Mary handed to him.

  “I know the place,” he said. Without another word, he lifted the unconscious woman into his arms and proceeded toward the house with Susannah, Mary, and Rebecca close behind.

  Chapter 18

  The room was freshly whitewashed and the air smelled of strong lye soap, though the tang of recently burned hickory wood in the fireplace masked the odor somewhat. Ambrosia’s eyelids fluttered heavily, once, twice, a third time as she struggled from a deep, cloying darkness toward the light. Finally, after a valiant effort, the light triumphed. Ambrosia squinted against the brightness as her eyes drifted about the room, lingering on a winter blue sky that sparkled cloudless through the polished glass windowpanes.

  “Good morning.”

  Ambrosia started and turned her head to stare at a slender, attractive woman who sat in a nearby chair, her long, nimble fingers swiftly working a small crochet hook and thin gray yam. “You’re looking much better this morning. Are you hungry?” she asked pleasantly.

  Ambrosia studied the woman’s face for a long time, trying hard to remember who she was and how she had gotten here. But there was nothing at all familiar in the woman’s face or her voice, or in this room. Nothing at all. “Where am I?” The words were low and scarcely audible as Ambrosia forced them through a sore, parched throat.

  “You are with friends.” The woman smiled. “You are quite safe here.” She put her needlework aside and rose. “You ought to eat something as soon as you feel up to it. It’s been over a week since you’ve had anything but broth and-”

  “A week?” Her eyes were dazed and disbelieving.

  Susannah nodded. “Nine days to be exact. You have been very ill. But your fever is broken now. I’m sure you will recover.”

  Ambrosia’s eyes slid to the window. Nine days. And she remembered nothing. Nothing after feeling that terrible pain in her head and falling in the street. She had been running, hurrying away from something...She lifted her head to knead her brow, which throbbed mercilessly as the memories came flooding back. Ledger...Melissa... Drayton...Her cheeks paled and Susannah frowned with obvious concern. “Do you feel up to eating?”

  Ambrosia’s eyes flew to her face in near-panic as the question interrupted her thoughts. She was breathing hard, her blood pounding in her head. “What?”

  “I asked if you’d like something to eat.”

  Ambrosia swallowed hard in an attempt to hide her confusion. She gave a small nod as her eyes grew distant and glazed as before.

  “Good. I’ll be right back.”

  Only a few moments later Susannah returned, bearing a tray. She was followed by an odd pair of women-one young, slender, and homely with a bitter, snippy kind of look to her; and the other short and plump, with shining cheeks and a jovial smile. Both stared at her with some amazement as she struggled to raise herself to a sitting position. Before she could do so, Susannah had deposited the tray in the older of the two women’s arms and bent to arrange the pillows to support Ambrosia’s back.

  “Here we are,” Susannah said as she placed the tray gingerly on Ambrosia’s lap and took a seat on the bed be­ side her. Ambrosia stared down at the thick broth and generous slice of dark bread, feeling absolutely no appetite.

  “I know you are probably not hungry,” the woman told her. “But if you don’t eat, you’ll never get out of that bed. I can help if...’’ Susannah reached for the spoon, but Ambrosia brushed her hand away and took hold of it.

  “Thank you,” she managed, though she was repelled by the very thought of being cared for by anyone, especially a Yankee woman. Nine days! she thought again as she slowly, carefully raised a small bit of the broth to her lips. Her hand shook noticeably as she fed herself, but she gripped the spoon all the more tightly, until her fingers were white and cramped, and somehow managed to empty the bowl. Susannah moved from the bed to a nearby chair, sending the other women scurrying from the room with a single glance before she opened her prayer book and settled comfortably against the chair’s back. A slight smile of satisfaction played about her mouth as she silently observe
d Ambrosia’s brave efforts to finish her meal. Mary was right about this one. She would recover quickly.

  Ambrosia let out an audible sigh of relief and let her head fall wearily back on the pillow. She had done it, finished the entire bowl. And she was utterly exhausted from the effort.

  Susannah removed the tray immediately and rear­ ranged the pillows so that Ambrosia could rest more easily. “You-You’re from the North?” Her eyes were wary, with only a hint of begrudging gratitude.

  Susannah nodded. “From Vermont. We-Mrs. Gaines and Mrs. Caldwell and myself, I’m Susannah Burton-we were sent here by the First Christian Church of Vermont to open a school for colored children.”

  It was all Ambrosia could do to restrain a scowl of disapproval. Charleston was full of Yankee do-gooders these days, anxious to save the souls of the newly freed slaves and make good little Yankees out of all of them.

  They had destroyed everything else, Ambrosia thought bitterly, and now they wanted to redeem themselves by preaching the gospel.

  “And what is your name?” came the clear, serene voice.

  Ambrosia was tom between embarrassment at not having offered the information and reluctance to give it even now. ‘’Ambrosia Lanford,’’ she mumbled finally.

  “Ambrosia. What a lovely name!” Susannah smiled warmly, even as Ambrosia looked away. “Your family is undoubtedly worried to death about you, Ambrosia. We would have contacted them, of course, but we had no way of-”

  “I have no family.” She looked very much like a child now, staring down at her fingers.

  Susannah hesitated for a long moment, watching Ambrosia clasp and unclasp her hands. “Friends, then?”

  She shook her head without looking up.

  “There must be someone,” Susannah insisted, remembering the names Ambrosia had called out in her feverish delirium. “You weren’t here in Charleston all alone, were you?”

  Ambrosia swallowed hard and felt the color rushing to her cheeks. She was not up to lying, to formulating a feasible story for this woman. Neither was she so ill and befuddled that she would divulge any part of her personal life to a total stranger. A Yankee stranger at that.

  “I-I was leaving Charleston,” she admitted slowly. “I was going to book passage on a ship-” She looked up anxiously. “Did you find my things?”

  Susannah’s brow creased in bewilderment. “Your things?”

  “Yes. Some clothing and-and-They were tied together in a bundle. I was carrying it when I-”

  Susannah slowly shook her head. “I’m sorry, but we found nothing. You must have dropped the rest of your things somewhere. I’m so sorry, Ambrosia. I wish I had known.”

  Ambrosia closed her eyes against tears of frustration and total despair. Now she hadn’t a cent to her name, and after nine days, certainly no job to return to, no way to leave Charleston.

  Susannah’s hand lightly touched her arm. “Don’t worry about the future just yet,” she comforted. “Sometimes, the good Lord sees to it that we lose everything, just so we’ re forced to start fresh on the path He’s chosen for us.”

  Ambrosia could not meet her kindly gaze. The good Lord had certainly seen to it she lost everything, she thought ruefully. But she doubted very seriously if He had made special plans for her life. She was a soiled woman now and hardly worth the Lord’s special attention. She wondered briefly if the righteous Mrs. Susannah Burton would have bothered to nurse her back to health had she known the truth. And she wondered too what difference it would have made to anyone if she had been left to die.

  “Ambrosia...?”

  With effort she lifted her eyes, eyes dark and gray and deeply troubled.

  “Never mind,” Susannah said, patting her hand. “We can talk later. You rest now. “

  Chapter19

  The day was warm and clear, and the gentle breezes hinted at spring, though it was yet mid-January. Drayton hesitated as he reached the wrought-iron gate, asking himself for the hundredth time why he was here, asking himself exactly what he planned to do if he found her, what he planned to say. He had no answers. It had been over a month now since she’d left, forty days of hoping and wondering and knowing that she would not be coming back.

  At first he had been violently angry, more so because she had taken no money, had not even eaten a decent meal before she left. He understood well enough the message in her refusal to accept anything from him.

  He had gone after her in a fury, checking every possible vessel she might have boarded, questioning everyone within a four-block radius of the river. His efforts had yielded him nothing. He returned to his room late that night and promptly drank himself senseless. He had done the same too many nights since. He was ready now to leave her memory behind him, to try to forget. But he could not do that without being absolutely certain she was completely out of his reach. He had to know for sure that she was gone forever.

  Drayton lifted the brass latch on the gate, and it swung open with a reluctant creak. He cocked his head and stepped inside the garden, following a short path toward three steps and a shaded piazza, where the sun’s brightest rays were filtered through trees and vines even in the midst of a mild winter. Drayton stopped short just before he reached the steps. His eyes paused on the figure of a man who sat in a chair near the door of the house, on a pair of crutches propped in the comer near the chair. The man had been positioned to catch the sun’s warmth, his back toward Drayton, his face toward the shaft of light that penetrated the piazza where a giant magnolia tree had been splintered by a stray shell. He sat quietly, unmoving, a worn leather-bound volume open in his lap, his finger tracing idly over a single folded piece of paper which might have marked the page. His head rested full against the high back of the chair. After a short silence, he lifted his head and turned to face Drayton. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought it was Sheba.”

  Drayton struggled against a gasp of revulsion as Ledger turned to face him, as the sun fell fully on the horrible, twisted mass of scars that was his face. He was a much younger man than Drayton had expected, but the hardened pink and reddish skin that pulled and contorted his eyes and nose and mouth spoke of war, and a lifetime of hell. “I hope you’ll pardon my intrusion, sir,” he said quickly, doffing his hat and stepping closer. “My name is Major Rambert, and I am trying to determine the whereabouts of Miss Lanford-Ambrosia Lanford. I was told she resides here.”

  Ledger’s hands stopped their aimless movement and his face lost all trace of healthy color. Major Rambert­ Ambrosia had spoken that name the night she left. You know there was nothing between Major Rambert and me.... The words played over and over in his head. Ambrosia. He glanced down at the folded paper in his lap, a letter which had arrived just a few days before. He did not need to open it; he knew it by heart. “Dear Mr. Bowman,” it began. “We are very much impressed with the beautiful verse you sent to us and are most interested in negotiating a purchase of this and future work....” The letter marked a new beginning, a chance at a new life. Ambrosia’s leaving had marked an ending. She had given him everything, and he had given her only hurt in return. He closed the book slowly on the letter, his voice low. “She did live here...but she left. Over a month ago.” A moment later he frowned and looked up at the major, so tall and handsome and whole. He almost wished that she had gone to him. He looked so able to protect her. Ledger didn’t like to think of her being alone and unprotected. “Why did you want to see her, Major? She’s not in any kind of trouble, is she?”

  “No, no.” Drayton’s eyes fixed on the flagstone path that wound its way through the garden as he mouthed his prepared excuse. “Her employer, Mrs. O’Neal, expressed her concern to the authorities about Miss Lanford. Apparently she left her work without giving any kind of notice.’’ He hesitated, shooting a sidelong glance at Ledger’s face. “Would you happen to know where she might have gone?”

  Ledger’s hands began to caress the volume he held, run
ning over the tattered binding. His eyes stared straight ahead and his voice came hollow and empty. “No.”

  “Perhaps her sister has had some contact with her in the past weeks,” Drayton pressed.

  ‘’Melissa left Charleston shortly after Ambrosia did,’’ Ledger told him quietly.

  “Do you think they might have gone somewhere together?”

  Ledger gave a small, unhappy smile. “No. I’m sure they didn’t.”

  Drayton forced the disappointment from his voice and turned his hat in his hands. “I see. Well, then. I won’t be troubling you any further, sir. I thank you for your time.” He turned to leave.

  “Major?”

  He turned back, inquiringly. “Yes?”

  “If-if you happen to find Ambrosia,” he said haltingly, ‘’that is, if you find out what happened to her...where she’s gone, or...” Ledger swallowed hard and blinked against the sting of tears. “I-I would very much appreciate knowing she’s all right.”

  Drayton gave a brief nod, taken by surprise by the man’s obvious concern. “Of course.”

  “You won’t forget?”

  “No. I won’t forget.”

  “Much obliged, Major Rambert,” he said quietly, shifting the book to one leg and extending his right hand. “Sorry I can’t get up without those damned crutches.”

  “No apologies necessary, sir,” Drayton returned, grasping the hand firmly.

  Ledger’s eyes smiled then, a smile that almost made him seem a boy. “The name’s Bowman. Ledger Bowman.” Just as quickly the brightness vanished from his expression and the light in his eyes died. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you, Major.”

  Chapter 20