Ambrosia

by Rosanne Kohake

  Ambrosia’s head twisted about to meet the wide, rounded eyes of her employer, who stared aghast at the scene before him.

  Drayton was actually smiling when he picked up the scrubbing brush and pail and deposited them into Skinner’s pudgy hands. Without a word, he then scooped up a somewhat startled Ambrosia and carried her down the stairs. His grin widened when her arms flew instinctively about his neck.

  Ambrosia began to laugh when Mr. Skinner finally found his tongue and ran after them, waving the scrubbing brush threateningly and shouting that she was fired. Drayton had never heard her laugh before, and he resolved this would not be the last time.

  When they reached the street, he set her on her feet, clucking his tongue and shaking his head. “Your shameless behavior will probably send that old man to an early grave.”

  “The world should only be so fortunate!”

  “You mean you didn’t like him much?” he teased.

  ‘’Like him! That filthy, disgusting, conniving-’’ Her voice cut off abruptly. The words were very similar to the ones she’d used to describe Drayton not so very long ago. “I hope he gets what’s coming to him,” she mumbled.

  Drayton’s grin faded at the sudden hardness in her eyes. It was going to be difficult for a while. It would take time for the bitterness to heal and an even longer time for her to learn trust. But there was a bond between them now, perhaps the strongest bond of all. A child. A new life fashioned of a man’s love and a woman’s desperation. It was a beginning. For now, it was enough.

  Chapter 23

  They were wed in a brief, private ceremony three days later, with only the ladies from the Vermont Christian School and colonel Beam, one of Drayton’s closest friends, in attendance. During those three days, Drayton managed to rent a house and see to its cleaning and arranged for a short leave from his duties. Ambrosia proceeded somewhat numbly through the vows, accepting the good wishes afterward with an acute awareness that she was the lone Confederate among Yankees. Susannah, Mary, and Colonel Beam, who had witnessed the ceremony for Drayton, seemed in joyous spirits as they toasted the happy union, while Rebecca stood by with a brittle smile and enviously eyed the small group of Drayton’s friends who came by, uninvited, after the ceremony to meet his bride. Ambrosia stared at them blankly as they smiled at her and made lighthearted remarks to Drayton. There was no one here from her past life, no one here who even recognized the name Lanford or knew what it stood for. To them she was the woman who had worked for Maggie, the woman Drayton had taken as a wife, and nothing more. She felt empty and humiliated, as if yet another part of her pride had been destroyed when she relinquished her name.

  Ambrosia was uneasy about the possessive arm Drayton always seemed to have about her, and uncomfortable whenever she met his eyes. There could be no question about the warmth in those eyes or the promise in his handsome smile. Surely the others must have seen it too. She felt the color flooding her cheeks at the thought.

  Sometime after the ceremony and numerous bottles of champagne, Drayton finally managed to whisk Ambrosia outside into a waiting buggy. She settled into the seat and did her best to relax, but the truth of what she had just done refused to allow her peace. Married. To a Yankee. The thought of being owned, of belonging to him for the remainder of her life, made her feel ill. She tried to conjure up all the bitterness and hatred that was in her to combat the panic that was taking hold, but her face was white, her eyes bright with fear and dread as the buggy stopped and Drayton alighted. Drawing heavily on her reserve of courage, she braced herself against the feel of his hands, the closeness of him as she slid into his arms. He frowned down at her in concern. “Are you feeling well?”

  She nodded mutely and turned away from his questioning gaze, only then noticing that they had stopped before a row of shops, not houses. She lifted her eyes in confusion and he immediately propelled her toward one of the shops. There was no large painted sign on the small building, only a few discreet lines of lettering on the door: “Madame Loreau’s Fashion Apparel.” Ambroia’s eyes widened when she read the name, which she readily recognized from the women customers’ idle talk at Maggie’s. According to what she’d heard, Madame Loreau, who had arrived only a few months before, was the only woman of “true fashion” in the South, except perhaps in New Orleans. Any Yankee woman who could afford to frequent her shop did so, but no self-respecting Southern woman would dream of stepping inside such a place. Ambrosia drew back as Drayton opened the door, but his firm grip on her arm prevented her from scrambling back into the buggy. A moment later she stumbled reluctantly in the direction of the arm Drayton had already pulled inside.

  A small bell tinkled pleasantly as he shut the door, and a graceful, middle-aged woman immediately responded to the summons. The comers of her mouth lifted upward as she offered Drayton her hand, which he touched gallantly to his lips. He did not protest when she rose on tiptoe to briefly press a second kiss to his cheek. “It is always a pleasure, Drayton.” She spoke English with a dramatic intonation and a distinct accent, softening and smoothing each consonant that was foreign to her native French. She smiled at him a moment longer than what Ambrosia considered proper, then perked up her brows in curiosity as she stared over his broad shoulder at the woman he had brought with him. She wore a perfectly awful dress that had obviously had the sleeves turned and seams mended repeatedly. There was even a patch on the skirt near the hem! She wore not a single ornament or decoration, not even a brooch, nothing but a small gold band on the third finger of her left hand. Moreover, she had not come forward, demanding an introduction, but stood rather stiffly just inside the door, as if she did not want to be here at all.

  “Ah!” Madame purred as she hurried toward the strange girl, anxious to put her at ease. “What have we here?”

  “Madame Loreau, may I present my wife, Ambrosia.

  Ambrosia, Madame Janette Loreau. ‘’

  Ambrosia nodded with cold politeness while Madame Loreau tried to hide her astonishment. His wife! And he had accompanied Carolyn Craig here just last week to give his opinion on a gown she had ordered especially to please him. Of course, that visit would have been entirely Carolyn’s idea, a sort of statement to everyone who found out about it that Drayton Rambert was “taken.” Madame wondered for an instant if Carolyn knew. She certainly hadn’t said anything yesterday when she’d come in for a final fitting. Heaven help this tiny slip of a girl Drayton had married when she did find out! Mon dieu!

  “Ah, Drayton! You are so clever! Such a lovely lady! Small, petit, like ze papillon, non?” And younger than Carolyn by a good five years, Madame determined quickly, though she could not bear the sight of the girl’s calloused, reddened hands. She smiled at Ambrosia and turned quickly to Drayton again. “And you wish for me to dress zis papillon, n ‘est-ce pas? To make her ze loveliest”-she frowned as she struggled to remember the English word- “er...butterfly in all of Sharleston!”

  Ambrosia shook her head at the same time Drayton was nodding with hearty approval.

  “Oui! It shall be done. It will take time, naturellement, but we will begin tout de suite.” She began chattering in rapid French as she whirled and scurried off into the back room, returning a moment later and beckoning Ambrosia to join her.

  Ambrosia turned a reluctant pair of green eyes on her husband. He meant to dress her like one of those Yankee women who frequented Maggie’s. He knew perfectly well that Southern women wore their tattered gowns of homespun and black proudly, a banner to all that the Confederacy had not been forgotten, would never be forgotten. The rags Ambrosia wore now were almost sacred to her. They represented the only part of her that was still tied to the past, and she could not give up that part of herself without a fight. “Drayton, please. I don’t-”

  To her humiliation, he cut off her protests with a brief kiss. “Did you imagine that I would allow my wife to dress like a beggar?” he said with a smile. He kissed her again, expec
ting a smile in return. He did not receive one. He lifted her chin and searched her face. “Are you certain you feel well, Ambrosia?”

  Her eyes were cold and indifferent. “Yes.”

  He sighed and pressed a kiss to her hand. “I shall be back for you in an hour or so. Take good care of her, Janette,” he called cheerily as he made to leave the shop. There was the light tinkling of the bell on the door again, and then the two women were alone.

  Madame’s sharp eyes flashed over Ambrosia a bit more appraisingly once he had left, assessing every aspect of her coloring, every curve of her figure. She grimaced at the gown the woman wore, which did much to disguise what might just be a lovely body. Still Madame knew immediately that Ambrosia would prove an interesting subject. There was something about her, a latent fire in the smoky green eyes, a grace, a pride to her movements, that the proper gown and hairstyle would bring to the fore. And as Madame studied her face, she became intrigued with what she saw there, and intent on enhancing the enigmatic beauty of the woman Drayton had married. The potential was certainly here...the strength in the lines of nose and chin, the sensuous fullness of the mouth, the long, slender column of the throat...Madame smiled at the challenge before her and at the thought of the very generous fee she would collect for her work.

  Madame continued her intent study as Ambrosia stood in a much-repaired, worn cotton chemise, enduring the endless measurements that were being taken by a young black girl and recorded by Madame. The dressmaker brought out a large pile of fabric swatches, pointing out several fabrics she considered appropriate for day dresses, evening dresses, traveling attire, and of course, lingerie. She gave adamant advice about choosing colors to flatter her skin and eyes. Only bright, dramatic colors would do, greens and reds and sapphires, and certainly no pastels.

  Ambrosia looked without interest at the swatches and politely waited for Madame to finish, though she already despised the dressmaker’s false smile and felt very much like one of the strumpets that had so often visited the emporium.

  ‘’And now, Madame Rambert, we shall begin ze list of ze gowns you will need.”

  “I will require four gowns, Madame Loreau,” she said with quiet authority, as if she were accustomed to giving such orders. “Three of this fabric”-she indicated a swatch of plain black muslin-”and one of this.” She touched her finger to another swatch of black silk. “Each must be simple, and easily altered to allow for-to allow for a child.” She met the Frenchwoman’s incredulous dark eyes and added pointedly, “I will need nothing more.”

  “But-but-your husband! He would insist zat you have ze best!’’ she protested vehemently. ‘’And you cannot wear black, Mademoiselle! It is all wrong for you!”

  “It’s Madame,” Ambrosia corrected frigidly. “And I will wear black. I am in mourning.”

  “But-but you will not be in mourning forever!”

  “I just might,” she muttered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. I will need the four gowns, Madame, and nothing more,” she repeated.

  Madame bowed her head and swallowed an angry retort. “Oui, Madame Rambert. Four gowns. All simple, all in black.” The smile had finally gone. “But-but surely you will also need ze cotillon, and ozer...personal items? To allow for ze child to grow?”

  Ambrosia’s eyes regarded her sorry chemise and pantalets and became uneasy. It was true. She hadn’t a single decent petticoat anymore and only one shimmy that had been mended in too many places to fit properly. Her cheeks colored and she bit her lip. Madame must have noticed that as well. As to a proper nightgown, she had “borrowed” one from Susannah these past few months, the hem of which dragged on the floor a good four inches, the sleeves of which fell below her fingertips. She let out a reluctant sigh, realizing that she had little choice. “A few things,” she relented finally.

  Drayton was surprised to find Ambrosia at the door of the shop awaiting him when he returned. He had never known a woman to be prompt before, particularly when shopping for clothing. Once inside the buggy, he took a seat beside her and took up the reins, tossing her a speculative glance. He had hoped that the visit to Madame’s would cheer her, and he had to hide his disappointment at her continued somber mood. “How did it go?” he asked lightly as he slapped the reins on the mare’s dappled back and the buggy lurched forward.

  She fixed her eyes on the passing buildings, feeling tired and drained at the thought of what lay ahead. “Well enough, I suppose,’’ she said sullenly.

  He forced a smile as he took the reins in a single hand and reached for her hand with the other. “I have a surprise for you.”

  She glanced up, her eyes mildly inquiring.

  “I think you might like this one,” he said slowly.

  “What is it?”

  His blue eyes lit with amusement and he pursed his lips like a small boy with a big secret. Ambrosia scowled and returned her gaze to the passing buildings. She did not really care what surprise he had in mind. If it were anything like the visit to the dress shop, she would just as soon he never revealed it. She tried to tug away her hand, but he held it fast, and drew it to his thigh. Ambrosia bit her lip and found herself wondering how long it would be before he tired of her, before he left her in peace, as Jackson Lanford had left Lucille in peace, as Ledger had left Melissa. She wondered briefly if she would even retain her sanity until then.

  He stopped the buggy before a house she had never seen before. She allowed him to assist her in alighting, though she felt as if she were walking to her death. She stoically preceded him through a large iron gate and lovely little garden toward the house. He stopped her at the door and lifted her into his arms to cross the threshold. Once inside, he watched her face intently as she glanced about the foyer. “There’s not much in the way of furniture,” he apologized, “but I thought you might want to choose some things yourself, so-”

  “Everything is lovely. Please put me down.”

  He regarded her for a long moment, then slowly allowed her feet to touch the floor. His arms remained about her. She attempted to break free of the embrace, but he held her fast. “You might at least smile, Ambrosia. I could not possibly have made you so miserable in so short a time.”

  Her expression did not soften and she did not answer him. Reluctantly he released her and went into the parlor to fix himself a drink. She followed. “I’d like one of those, please.”

  “This is straight whiskey, Ambrosia,” he began. “I know.”

  He scowled at her, but filled the bottom of a small glass with Kentucky bourbon. She took a defiant gulp of it and he watched her struggle to keep from choking as it burned a path down her throat. The fire subsided after a time and she quickly drained the glass.

  “Are you hungry?”

  She placed the glass on the table. “No.”

  “That’s too bad. The cook will be disappointed, after she went to so much trouble.”

  “What cook?”

  “Didn’t I mention that I’d hired a cook?” he returned innocently. “Oh...Well, I was extremely fortunate to find her, a woman so experienced and totally trustworthy. I know she’ll take good care of you.”

  She eyed him warily. ‘’I’ll have another drink.’’

  He handed her a second glass with hardly a single swallow of bourbon in the bottom. She downed it quickly, hoping that it would affect her soon. The thought of being coddled by a strange servant who answered to her husband was not a very pleasant one. She needed no one to take good care of her; she was perfectly able to take care of herself. She wished that Drayton’s mood were less pleasant, that he would lose his temper so that she could release the tension that was coiling ever more tightly inside her. But there was no anger in his eyes, only a warm expectancy that was swiftly wearing her nerves to a frazzle.

  He pulled a bell cord in the comer of the room, then leisurely unbuttoned his tunic and removed it, withdrawing
a thin cigar from the pocket before he laid the coat over the back of the chair. He ran the cigar under his nose. “Do you object to my smoking?”

  When she shook her head, he struck a match to the heel of his boot and lit his cigar, turning away to draw on it long and pensively. Ambrosia watched him while his eyes were averted, until she saw his gaze slide toward the parlor door. Following his stare, her eyes widened in disbelief. The empty glass fell from her hand.

  “Dinnah’s ready.” The large, wrinkled black woman smiled broadly at Ambrosia, who rose slowly from her chair, her mouth struggling to form the name.

  “Sheba!” In the next moment Ambrosia was running to greet her, her fingers clasping about Sheba’s wide, dark-skinned hand and pressing it fondly to her cheek. “It really is you!”

  The black woman blinked back a tear as she gave a short nod. “Yes’m, Miz Ambrosia. It sho’ is. An’ ah’m in charge o’ de kitchen, jus’ like de ol’ days. Yes’m. Jus’ like de ol’ days.”

  “But-” Ambrosia slowly released Sheba’s hand and turned toward Drayton. Her eyes were confused, bewildered as she met his gaze. She could not bring herself to ask how this had all come about, to ask him why he had gone to so much trouble. The warm light in his eyes, the hint of a smile, fully answered those questions.

  Grinning knowingly at the look on Ambrosia’s face, Sheba left the room and discreetly closed the door behind herself. Ambrosia stepped slowly, hesitantly toward Drayton, her wide, troubled eyes never leaving his. “I-I am deeply grateful,” she managed to whisper.

  He tossed the cigar into the empty fireplace grate and took her gently by the shoulders. “I’ve told you before, I don’t want your gratitude.”