Ambrosia

by Rosanne Kohake

  Ambrosia’s green eyes were cool and distant. “My leaving here had nothing to do with you personally, Mrs. Collinsworth.”

  “I never imagined it did,” Lily returned sharply. “Indeed, how could it? When you have never bothered yourself to deal with me or anyone in this household personally...even politely.” Her face was indignant for a moment and she quickly looked away, struggling with her emotions. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I ought not to have spoken in anger. I know that the war cost you dearly, and I understand what you must have felt, coming here.” Her eyes met Ambrosia’s again, this time with a direct, uncompromising look. “I understand, Ambrosia. But I cannot condone your behavior.”

  Ambrosia’s chin lifted and she rose from the bed, re­ turning to the window where she had stood a few moments before. Lily closed her eyes and sighed, then struggled to her feet and hobbled after her. She stood staring at Ambrosia’s back for a long time before the words would come. ‘’Whatever happened to you in the past is over now. It cannot be undone. And though it is quite obvious that you are unhappy here, the fact remains that you are Drayton’s wife, that you are carrying his child. This is his home. And it will be yours and your child’s as well.”

  Ambrosia turned, her eyes hard, a defiant spark of color at her cheeks. ‘’This will never be my home.’’

  “It won’t unless you put an end to your childish tantrums and face the truth! ‘’

  Ambrosia stiffened and faced away. She was not a child!

  Lily let out a difficult breath and touched her arm. “I do not pretend to know how you came to marry my nephew,” she said softly. “Or why you choose to despise him, to blame him for what the war cost you. But the war is over, Ambrosia. And destroying him will never, never atone for the past. If only you could see that, if you could understand how deeply he cares for you-’’ With a sigh, Lily reluctantly withdrew her hand from Ambrosia’s rigid arm. She wondered if the girl had even heard a word she’d said.

  “It was not my intention to lecture you this way,” she said softly, after taking a moment to compose herself. “But I want so much for you to see that what you are doing is wrong, to understand that all your hatred and bitterness will never bring back what the war has taken away from you.” Lily stared at her back, trying to see anything that might indicate she was listening. But Ambrosia did not move, did not even turn to face her. Again Lily sighed, stretching a shaking hand to touch the coal­black hair that hung down the young girl’s back. “The past is dead and gone, Ambrosia. You can never bring it back. We have only today, and we must be strong enough to face that.”

  Lily waited, but again there was no response. The hopeful gleam in her blue eyes slowly faded away. ‘’I shall come again to visit you,” Lily said as much to herself as to Ambrosia, not wanting to admit that she had failed to reach the girl. She sighed, and her shoulders were slumped in defeat as she left the room...your hatred will never bring back what the war has taken from you...the past is dead and gone...Again and again the words echoed in Ambrosia’s head. She forced them aside as she took a deep breath of summer-scented air and closed her eyes. The past was not gone! Her memories kept that world alive and real and beautiful. Home-the lush summer-green plants against the dark brown soil; the endless fields, neatly plowed and planted; the house so imposing and elegant in the shadows of the huge oaks. She was a small child again, watching her father gallop down the long, shady drive, waiting for him, silently adoring him. She was a girl at Barhamville Academy, watching Ledger, young and dashing, as his shiny bay vaulted fearlessly over the stone wall. The ghosts of the past were all very real to her. And rooted in them was a vital part of who and what she was.

  But then the war had come...and the Yankees...Her eyes flew open, but the terrible pictures in her mind refused to disappear. Heritage was in flames, hissing and crackling as tongues of fire devoured it to the very last timber. She covered her ears in panic as she heard the sounds of gunfire and saw her father being tom apart by a thousand enemy bullets. She saw Ledger running, running to help him, running madly amid the deafening explosions of mortar shells, running until...

  “No-o-o!” She let out a terrified scream as she crumpled slowly to the floor, sobbing hysterically with the realization of what it all meant. Everything, everyone she had ever cared about was past. And she was no longer strong enough to push the reality from her mind as she had always done before. The magnitude of it all struck her too suddenly, too sharply, like a rock hurled at her from behind. Her entire being shook with the impact and a pathetic sob of agony tore from her breast. A sob that held a lifetime of hurt, a sob that revealed all the secret pain she had never admitted was there, in her heart. There had been no time for grieving amid the past years’ struggle for survival. Whenever her emotions had threatened to take hold, Ambrosia had worked herself into numbing exhaustion, or lashed out at her enemies, keeping the truth at arm’s length. But the buffers were gone now. There was nothing left to fight against. In the quiet solitude of a sun-filled attic room, Ambrosia was finally confronting the truth of defeat, the truth she had never admitted, even to herself.

  The tears came in a silent, burning flow as they had not come since her early childhood. So many hidden hurts locked so deeply within her soul, left to fester for so long. She curled up in a small heap and fought with all her strength against the sobs that wracked her body. But it was like trying to call back the waters of a flood. A part of her was dying, the part that had stood so strong, so brave, so unyielding in the face of defeat. For the first time in her life, there was nothing left of courage inside her. She was suddenly so cold, so aching with emptiness, so terribly weakened, and so terribly alone.

  Miss Wilcox appeared as usual just after noon with a generous tray of food. She lifted her brow a bit higher as she set the tray on the table and routinely began to tidy the room: A few moments later, she paused in her labors. Her eyes fixed on Ambrosia, who sat unmoving on the edge of her bed, her eyes lowered, staring at the floor. Miss Wilcox’s left brow lifted again in curiosity. The girl was normally so eager to partake of her meals. ‘’What’s wrong?” she inquired tersely. No response.

  She laid a bony hand on Ambrosia’s shoulder and shook her brusquely. “I brought your dinner,” she announced in a clipped tone. “It won’t stay hot forever.” Ambrosia lifted oddly distant gray eyes and glanced briefly at Miss Wilcox, then at the tray. She looked away.

  The Englishwoman cocked her head in mild surprise, which swiftly became annoyance. She was being paid very well to tend to this young woman, and her employer would not be pleased if she were to stop eating. She went to get the tray and placed it on Ambrosia’s lap. She lifted the cover from a bowl of vegetable soup and a savory aroma touched her thin, pinched nostrils. “It’s time for your dinner,” she told Ambrosia firmly.

  Ambrosia glanced down at the tray, then quickly turned her face away, her cheeks paling at the sight of food. Miss Wilcox’s eyes widened and she swiftly removed the tray from Ambrosia’s lap. The nurse knew enough not to make extra work for herself. If the girl didn’t feel like eating this meal, then what was the harm? There was no sense in forcing her and having it come right back up again. With a shrug she left the room with the tray, her left brow lowered in irritation as she locked the door and descended the stairs.

  Two days later, Miss Wilcox felt the first stirrings of panic about Ambrosia’s refusal to eat. The girl’s skin was pale now, her eyes heavily shadowed, her cheekbones predominant in her face. On the third morning, she left the breakfast tray on the table in the attic room and went to get her employer. She returned with him a few moments later, her left brow lifted haughtily as she gestured toward the breakfast tray. “I’ve done my best, sir. But she won’t listen to anything I say. Just sits there and stares like an idiot. I haven’t a notion what’s wrong, but you can see for yourself she’s not quite right.”

  Ambrosia sat near the window in a plain cotton nightdress, ha
ving stubbornly refused to dress, just as she had refused her meals for the past days. Her gray eyes flickered indifferently over Drayton and the Englishwoman before staring out the window again. She had no awareness of her surroundings now. She was only aware of the emptiness inside her.

  “Thank you, Miss Wilcox. I’ll speak with my wife alone, if you don’t mind.’’ With a firm grip on her bony arm, Drayton led her to the door and closed it firmly behind her.

  If Ambrosia had noticed Miss Wilcox’s departure or Drayton’s presence, she gave no sign. Her eyes were glazed, unblinking as they stared at the summer sky. Drayton studied her for a long moment, seeing sadness in those eyes, and a vulnerability that went deep. He had only seen it once before and it frightened him a little. The anger he had felt at being summoned here was suddenly gone. Something was very wrong.

  “Miss Wilcox tells me you haven’t been eating.”

  She started, then looked at him, the rich timbre of his voice somehow piercing the numbness that had imprisoned her for three days. She had forgotten how blue his eyes were, how perfect his mouth...

  “Ambrosia?” His tone demanded a response.

  She stared at his face dumbly for a moment longer before her eyes drifted aimlessly away. She wished he would not speak with her like that. She remembered once when his voice had sounded so different, so soft and comforting, when his arms had gone around her.

  “Ambrosia, are you feeling well?”

  She glanced up at him again, then stared down at her hands, her fingers twisting nervously.

  “You must eat,” he told her firmly. “For the baby’s sake, if not for your own.”

  She frowned, her eyes unmoving, and her hands instinctively sought the life inside her. An awareness suddenly clutched at her. The baby. Yes. She must think of the child. This baby was her future, the one part of her that still offered a reason to go on. How could she possibly have forgotten that?

  “Ambrosia, are you certain that nothing is wrong?”

  She met his eyes, so blue, so hard. What had happened to the spark of warmth she had seen there so often? There was no trace of it now.

  He glanced toward the table. “I expect you to eat your breakfast.”

  She frowned again, feeling terribly disoriented as she stared at him. He had given her an order. In the past she had always fought against doing what he wanted. But there was no fight left inside her now, nothing but pain...and loneliness.

  She stood and stepped woodenly toward the chair he held for her. He lifted the cover from a platter of eggs and smoked meats. She swallowed hard and lifted her fork. She had no desire to eat. But Drayton was right. She must do it for the sake of the child.

  He watched her take a few small mouthfuls of the fare, somewhat surprised at what little resistance she had offered. He had assumed that her refusal to eat was a tactic employed to gain a concession of some sort from him. He had come here braced for an ugly scene. But instead he found her totally docile, detached from everything. The flashing defiance that had always taunted him was gone from her eyes. Instead there was the sad, totally vulnerable look of a lost child. He studied her as she finished a portion of the meal with mechanical precision, and his stomach knotted with some emotion he had sworn he would never feel again. He clenched his fists tightly and turned away.

  “I expect you to eat your meals, Ambrosia,” he said with forced sternness. “It is very important for the baby ‘s health. “

  “Yes,” she said in a half-whisper. She pushed away the partially emptied tray and let her hands rest on her swollen stomach.

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously. He did not want to trust her. But there was no trace of willful defiance in the small, downcast woman before him. He let out a sigh of uncertainty. If he allowed her even the slightest bit of freedom, he might be playing into her hands. But her eyes were so dark and gray, so full of sadness...’’A bit of fresh air and sunshine might do you good. I shall speak with Miss Wilcox about taking you out in the garden for a short time in the afternoons.’’ He watched for any sign that she had expected the offer or was even pleased with it. But her eyes remained dark and empty. Just as they had been that rainy night in Charleston, so long ago...

  Without another word, Drayton spun about and left the room. The Brooklyn factories would be opening again in another week, and he could not afford to contend with such memories now.

  Chapter 34

  The visits to the garden became a daily ritual for Ambrosia. While Miss Wilcox deposited her posterior primly on a stone bench near the house and worked on her knitting, Ambrosia slowly traced the flagstone walks, pausing now and again to touch the flowers. It gave her comfort to be with living things. It made her feel less isolated, less sad, to be reminded of beauty, of earth’s endless renewal. Afterward, in the stuffy confines of her attic room, she would feel the pain all the more sharply. For the first time in her life, she wanted very much to be with someone who would understand, though she wasn’t at all sure anyone could understand what she was feeling, since she did not fully understand it herself. The confinement drained her. She felt so alone, so desolate. Several times she tried to pray, but she wasn’t really sure there was a God at all, much less one who would listen to her, or care. As the days passed her depression only intensified, until she had to force herself to eat and she found it difficult to sleep. She barely had enough energy to make the stairs for her day’s single outing.

  One day Lily rose early from her customary afternoon nap and chanced to see Ambrosia in the garden. Drayton had informed her of his decision to allow his wife this small privilege, just as he had informed the servants that she was still quite ill, that they were to avoid her. Lily watched from her window as Ambrosia fingered a flower near the walk. The gesture was gentle and childlike, but all the same it made Lily angry. This woman had caused her nephew so much pain. Drayton had been particularly troubled these past weeks, working until all hours, sometimes staying overnight in town. When he did come home, exhaustion showed clearly in his features, and his light talk and forced smile could not disguise the fact that he was hurting. It had all begun that night when Ambrosia tried to run away. Such a foolish, irrational thing to do, and such a blow to Drayton’s pride.

  As she watched Ambrosia trace a path through the garden, Lily wondered indignantly what the girl had said or done to win this small concession from her husband, this bit of freedom. Then she bit her lip and shook her head. She did not want to be angry; it went against her grain. And hadn’t she seen how destructive an emotion anger could be in the past weeks? She sighed, recalling reluctantly that she had promised to visit Ambrosia in her attic room again, in spite of her first visit’s miserable failure. She wondered if she were really up to trying, since she was almost certain the girl would ignore her again. But then she remembered something she hadn’t thought of for some time. She remembered how like Drayton this young woman was, with her fierce independence and pride, and her cool indifference to everything...She leaned heavily on her cane and struggled toward the garden.

  “The roses are the loveliest of all, aren’t they?”

  Ambrosia started and whirled at the sound of Lily’s voice, though the sound of her cane and halting steps on the flagstone walk ought to have given her ample warning of the woman’s approach.

  ‘’I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Ambrosia looked away. “No...I-I was...I didn’t hear you.”

  Lily balanced her weight on her cane as she bent to pluck a lovely pale pink rosebud. “Did your mother keep a rose garden?” she asked as she removed the thorns.

  “My mother?” Ambrosia repeated blankly, staring at Lily’s face. She was smiling, and there was warmth in her dark blue eyes that Ambrosia had never allowed herself to recognize before. Lily continued to smile, but her brow lifted, reminding Ambrosia that she was waiting for an answer. “No,” she said belatedly, “my mother wasn’t interested in gard
ens much.” Her voice trailed off, but suddenly her eyes brightened. “But there was a wonderful garden at Heritage. I remember that the smell of roses used to reach my bedroom window when I was a child. And I remember-” She stopped, her face clearly reflecting the pain of remembering. A part of her wanted to go on, to tell Lily everything. But something inside her could not let go.

  “Heritage,” Lily repeated softly. She ran the velvet petals of the rose thoughtfully over her cheek. “Was that your home?”

  Ambrosia forced a nod. There was a long silence. ‘’Isn’t it odd how the scent of flowers can bring memories to life?” Lily smiled. “Roses will always remind me of my mother. She was a poor woman, so she never had a rose garden of her very own. But she always spoke of having one.” Lily sighed. “I think of her every time I walk by these roses.”

  “How sad,” Ambrosia said softly, wondering at the regret in Lily’s voice even as she struggled to contain her own tears over her own memories of childhood. She bit her lip then and slowly turned away, starting along the path, just barely restraining her emotions.

  Lily walked beside her, as amazed at Ambrosia’s soft replies as she was by the sorrow that ran so deep in her green-gray eyes. There was nothing of the flippancy or rudeness Lily had come to expect. And she could not help but wonder why.

  Ambrosia paused at a patch of fragrant white lilies, breathing deeply of the heavy, sweet perfume that filled the summer air. But her throat remained tight, her chest aching with the effort it took not to break down. She still couldn’t allow herself to do that in the presence of a stranger. Not after so many years of being strong.

  “Lilies remind me of Henry, my husband,” Lily said with an affectionate smile. She plucked one of the silken trumpets and studied it wistfully as she placed it against the rosebud. ‘’Henry used to bring me lilies and say that they’d been named for me because I was so lovely, rather than the other way around.” She chuckled softly and shook her head. “How silly of me to remember such things!” she scolded herself lightly. “But then, women usually treasure the trivial moments, don’t we? To us, those moments when a loved one gives us flowers are every bit as precious as the moments of earthshaking decision, aren’t they?”