Ambrosia

by Rosanne Kohake

  Ambrosia had already acquainted herself with the rooms of the house, including a ballroom of extravagant dimensions that obviously saw little use these days. When she returned to the house from the stable, she headed instinctively for the library. The room had intrigued her at first glance, probably because it was so very much like her father’s study at Heritage. It was empty now, so she was free to explore the fine leather­ bound volumes of every sort that filled floor-to-ceiling shelves on three of four walls. The fourth wall was paneled with a fireplace and carved mahogany mantel, and above that hung a portrait of Lily’s late husband, a heavy-set man with a ridiculously small, almost feminine mouth that did nothing to compliment his broad features. There was something appealing in the man’s expression, however, a gentle, jovial look to his dark, round eyes that belied an otherwise serious expression. Ambrosia studied that face for a moment, thinking how unlike her father the man must have been. She turned away to choose a book from the nearest shelf, removing a thick, slightly worn copy of Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe. She idly flipped through the pages, pausing at one beautifully drawn illustration of knights and fair ladies in their finest attire. Her eyes lingered on the young nobleman and the shy, lovely woman at his side, and she found herself thinking of Ledger, of the few, precious moments he had shared with her so long ago in Columbia. Every step she had ever walked with him, every word he had ever spoken to her, was etched forever on her heart. She remembered one party she had attended at age fourteen, wearing a flowing green gown that made her feel so grown up and pretty. She had danced with him that night-

  A sudden sound from behind her made her memories­ scatter. She spun about and saw Lily, who smiled at her even as she turned away. “I’m happy to see you have an interest in books,’’ Lily said as she made her way toward the younger woman. “I’m afraid I’ve never been one to sit still long enough to read much, though my husband tried many times to convert me.’’ She glanced at the book which lay open on the desk. ‘’Henry bought that book for me years ago, just after my illness. He even read the first chapter to me aloud, to arouse my interest in the story. A part of his plan worked too-I just had to know what was going to happen to those people!” She paused and met Ambrosia’s eyes with a mischievous grin. “So I forced him to read me the rest of it!” She chuckled softly.

  Ambrosia’s gaze remained cold. After a moment, she returned her eyes to the picture, silently dismissing the older woman. In the face of such indifference, Lily’s good humor faded quickly. Her blue eyes dropped to the brightly colored picture that Ambrosia was studying so closely. “Such lovely gowns they wore in those days!” she remarked with a wistful sigh. Her eyes flickered over Ambrosia’s plain black gown. “Drayton told me,” she began hesitantly, ‘’that it is your choice to wear black. It seems a great sacrifice for one so young and lovely.”

  Ambrosia lifted her chin. “There are many things far more important to me than fashionable clothing, Mrs. Collinsworth.’’

  “Obviously,” Lily returned with a lift of her brow. Her tart response surprised Ambrosia a little. She closed the book and avoided Lily’s eyes.

  The older woman said nothing for a moment, then decided to speak her mind. “An injured heart seeks to grieve, Ambrosia, just as an injured body seeks to rest. Mourning is a part of the healing we must experience if we are to accept hurt and loss and get on with the business of living.” Her words became more forceful. “But dwelling on our sorrows, or constantly reminding ourselves of the pain is very wrong and very destructive. Eventually we must learn to let go of what is past and focus our hearts and minds on what is here and now.’’ She placed a hand on Ambrosia’s arm. “Do you understand what I am trying to say, Ambrosia?’’

  The green eyes which met hers were bright with indig­ nation. “You think I am wrong to wear black.”

  “That’s part of it, yes. But there is more to it than that.”

  “You are telling me to forget the past,” Ambrosia continued in a brittle tone. “To forget my father and my home and the war.”

  Lily’s brow knitted as she let out a sigh of frustration. “You will never forget entirely, Ambrosia. That would be impossible for you, for anyone. But you must learn to forget some things-like the bitterness and hatred you hold against all Northerners. Feelings like that serve no useful purpose.” She paused. “And I wonder if your widow’s weeds aren’t a part of those destructive feelings.”

  Ambrosia’s mouth tightened into a thin, white line. She stepped haughtily around Lily and strode toward the mantel portrait of Henry Collinsworth. “Do you know how fortunate you are to have this painting of your husband, Mrs. Collinsworth?” she inquired with sarcastic politeness. “To be able to come here, to this room filled with his things, and gaze upon his likeness, remembering the wonderful moments you shared with him? Do you know how envious I am, Mrs. Collinsworth?”

  Ambrosia’s eyes narrowed, her tone became accusing. ‘’The Yankee soldiers who came to my home destroyed a library much like this one. They carted away some of my father’s things, but most of them they simply left to bum. I was not permitted to take anything of value from the house... not a single book or picture’’-she gave a short laugh-”not even a proper change of clothing.”

  Her eyes lowered suddenly, and she stared down at her fingers as her voice became soft. “It-it was raining that morning...I watched as they ran about the house, screaming and laughing as they set it aflame. I thought perhaps the rain would keep the fire from spreading. I prayed to God that somehow, somehow-’’ Her voice broke painfully and her fingers laced tightly together.

  She shook her head and lifted her chin. “The Yankees left me nothing, Mrs. Collinsworth. Nothing but my life and my hatred. And now you are telling me that I must forget that too.”

  Lily swallowed hard. “I-I did not know about your home,’’ she said quietly.

  “No?” Ambrosia feigned surprise. “Well, I suppose Drayton forgot to mention it to you. Or perhaps he thought it an unimportant detail... He must have watched his men burn so many.’’

  The shock that registered on Lily’s face gave Ambrosia a small measure of satisfaction. “I believe I will retire to my room now,” she informed the older woman. “I find I have completely lost my appetite for luncheon.’’ With a lift of her chin, Ambrosia strode arrogantly from the library.

  Warren Pierce looked perfectly at home in his spacious William Street office, behind his massive oaken desk. He rose from his worn leather chair to stretch a thick, welcoming hand across the desk’s surface toward Drayton, all the while measuring James Rambert’s son. He’d been only a boy the last time Warren had seen him, and there were definite changes in his face, his manner. Drayton was a man now, but Warren saw far more than just maturity in his eyes. There was a hardness that could not have come with time alone, something only war or tragedy could do to a man. Drayton had seen both.

  Drayton settled himself comfortably into a chair oppo­ site Warren and eyed the older man with admiration. Though he was all of seventy years of age, the clever, sharp intelligence that had made Warren’s fifty-odd years of practicing law so successful was still apparent in his glittering dark brown eyes.

  “You certainly took your time about getting home,” Warren began with a wry smile. He closed the flap of an envelope which lay on the polished oak surface of his desk and placed folded hands atop it. ‘’I was beginning to think your inheritance would be gone by the time you returned.”

  “You wrote me that the paint business wasn’t doing well,’’ Drayton returned nonchalantly, removing a cigar from his coat pocket and offering it to the older man. When Warren declined with a shake of his head, Drayton lit it for himself.

  “That’s not what I wrote you at all,” Warren denied impatiently. “I said that the business was in real trouble and would be as long as your stepbrother had charge of things. I advised you to come home immediately. That was well over a year ago.” When Dra
yton said nothing, Warren’s eyes narrowed. “I was named executor of your father’s will, but there was very little I could do to protect your interests since you ignored my advice, and since your stepbrother was already managing the business when your father died. Oh, I could have dragged him into court, but I wasn’t about to do that without you here to back me up. Aaron is your stepbrother, after all. I wasn’t absolutely sure how far you’d want me to go.”

  Warren lifted the top file from a stack of similar folders at the edge of his desk. “The paint business is in serious trouble. I haven’t had access to the books, but it’s no secret that there’ve been layoffs at the factories, or that very important clients have been lost in the past year. Your father had planned to expand production, had even invested in new machinery just before he died. From what I’ve heard, that new machinery has never even been used.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Management!” Warren growled irritably. “Or rather the lack of it. The business has been hurt by poor management for nearly two years. And it’s nearly gone bankrupt because of it. You’re home now, so there’s no reason why you can’t sell what’s left of it and use the money from the sale to invest in stocks. That kind of investment will give you a comfortable income for life. But I wouldn’t wait, Drayton. Every day that passes, the business is worth that much less.”

  Drayton sat quietly for a few moments, puffing indifferently on his cigar. “I’m not sure I want to sell the business, Warren.”

  Warren could hardly have been more astonished at the announcement. He forced a tight smile. “Would you care to tell me what you do intend to do with it?”

  “I was thinking of taking it over myself.”

  Warren held his temper, assuming an indulgent smile. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me, Drayton. The business is on the verge of bankruptcy-”

  “And all because of the way it’s been managed,” Drayton finished for him. “You see, I was listening, Warren. And what I heard you say is that the problem isn’t with the carriage paint business at all. It’s with my stepbrother. ‘’

  “I’ll concede that point. But even if you remove Aaron from the picture now, you’ll still have a failing business on your hands. “

  “A business that could be turned around.”

  “Not without a miracle,” Warren shot back at him, ‘’and one hell of a lot of work.’’ He shook his balding head, the flush in his cheeks making the patches of hair above his ears appear silver-white. “You don’t have any idea what it cost your father to build that business, do you? You don’t realize how much of his sweat and blood went into making it thrive.”

  An oddly distant look touched Drayton’s eyes. He knew all too well. The only thing James Rambert had ever cared about was his business. His only pride had been in selling the “purest and finest carriage paints in America.’’ After all these years it was strange to feel a twinge of pain at the memory. Henry Collinsworth had more than filled the void in Drayton’s life, had made him forget his real father’s neglect. But suddenly he was remembering, and he felt a burning desire to prove to Pierce, and perhaps to himself, that he could do what his father had done, that he could make this business succeed.

  ‘’You could never hire anyone to manage the business the way he did,” Warren went on. “And that’s what it will take.”

  Drayton said nothing for a moment, drawing one final puff on his cigar before he leaned forward to smash it out in a small onyx tray. “How do I go about getting rid of Aaron?”

  Warren eyed him narrowly for a long space of time before responding. “You could simply tell him to get out. He has no legal hold on the company that I’m aware of. But I’d be careful about how you go about it. Aaron’s a strange one; you never know how a man like that is going to react.”

  Drayton lifted an inquiring brow. “What do you mean, ‘a man like that’?” The Aaron he remembered had been a spoiled, demanding child. Drayton had seen him steal and lie and even feign illness to get his way, but that had been a long time ago. Aaron was no longer a boy.

  Warren frowned uneasily. “When the will was read and he found that James had written both him and his mother off in favor of you, he went into a rage. He screamed that James Rambert owed everything to his mother.” Warren shook his head. “Threw things around this office just like a child having a tantrum, even threatened to burn it down. I honestly think he might have done it if his mother hadn’t been there to stop him.” He paused. “I wrote you about her death a few months back, Drayton, since the will allowed her to live out her days in your father’s house before you were given full possession. Aaron’s living in that house now, so you might want to discuss some sort of arrangement with him as to paying rent or purchasing it from you.”

  A slight smile played about Drayton’s lips at the irony of the situation. Years before, Aaron had cleverly seen to it that Drayton was forced out of his father’s house, out of his father’s life. But now everything had been turned around. The house was his now, and Aaron could be forced to leave. He let out a sigh and said nothing, considering. Perhaps Warren was right about making some kind of arrangement with Aaron. He had lived there since his childhood, after all, and surely felt some attachment for the place.

  “You’re within your rights to force Aaron to vacate the premises, of course,” Warren said, not understanding Drayton’s silence or the smile. “But I would be careful, Drayton. A desperate man makes for a dangerous enemy. Aaron’s recently lost his mother, and if he loses his home and income so suddenly, it-”

  “I’m not afraid of him,” Drayton said quietly.

  “I never imagined that you were.” The lines in Warren’s brow deepened. “But I do hope you will reconsider selling the business, at least. You’re going to need quite a bit of money to get it back on its feet. And I think it’s a mistake to gamble like that when you could sell and have your future security handed to you on a silver platter.”

  Drayton rose and stretched his hand across the desk for a farewell handshake. “Thank you for your advice, Warren. I’ll be sure to keep it in mind. ‘’

  Ambrosia remained in her room until dinner time, pacing the floor and staring out the window for the long hours in between. When Drayton returned from the city just an hour before dinner, she sat in the sitting room in silence, all but daring him to order her to change for the evening meal. But he said nothing to her, did not even acknowledge her beyond a brief, impersonal glance when he entered the room. The wall between them was growing thicker and more impenetrable.

  At the table, Ambrosia carefully avoided Lily’s eyes as well as her husband’s as she placed her napkin on her lap and sipped at her wine in an attempt to ease the tension. Lily watched her for a time, searching about for some remark to break the uneasy silence. But the confrontation in the library had left her at a loss. The meal progressed without conversation, each soft clank of silver on china plates echoing unpleasantly throughout the room.

  “I saw Matt Desmond today,” Drayton said finally as they were being served coffee at meal’s end.

  “Matt Desmond!” Lily repeated in some surprise. “Why, I haven’t seen him in years. How is he? How is Leanne?”

  ‘’Doing very well.’’ He took a sip of coffee and Jet the steamy warmth flow down his throat. “I spoke with him about the possibility of taking out a loan, since that’s what it will take to put Rambert Paints back on its feet.’’

  Lily’s eyes widened. “Is that what Warren advised you to do?”

  “No,” Drayton admitted, running his finger pensively about the smooth edge of the china cup. “As a matter of fact, he advised me to sell.”

  “And you’re going to do the exact opposite? You’re going to take out a loan and try to salvage it?” He said nothing, but evenly met her eyes. “You know nothing about making paint, Drayton!”

  “I can learn.” She gave a snort.

  “Do you doubt my abil
ity?” he challenged, suddenly feeling the need for a drink.

  “Certainly not,” she returned brusquely. “But I doubt your sanity if you’re serious about this.”

  “I’m quite serious.” He sipped at his coffee again, but his eyes never left hers. He let out a sigh. “I intend to study the books before I make a firm decision either way. But my instincts tell me it would be foolish to sell now. And I’ve grown rather accustomed to trusting my instincts.”

  “I see.” Lily’s voice was soft, her eyes greatly troubled. He was like a stranger to her, with that cold, steely quality in his voice and his expression so closed, so challenging. “You could borrow the money from me,” she offered slowly.

  “I wouldn’t even consider it.”

  Ambrosia, who had sat silently fingering her half filled cup of coffee, suddenly rose. “Since I have nothing to add to this conversation, I’m sure you won’t mind if I excuse myself. I’ve had a long and tiring day.’’

  Lily’s gaze followed Ambrosia as she left the room, then turned back to her nephew and saw that he was doing the same. For an instant she caught the look in his blue eyes, a look she had seen before. A long time ago, when the father he worshiped first brought him here to live, the small boy had watched James Rambert ride away, his lips pressed tightly together, his eyes blinking in a valiant attempt to hold back the tears. And again, years later, the gifted young doctor had looked much the same way as he stood beside the grave that held his wife and unborn child. He was a different man now, older, harder. But as he watched Ambrosia turn her back on him and coldly walk away, the look in his eyes was that of a child, silently hurting, anguishing within.