Silvie looked around and found a corroded hammer in an old toolbox near the chimney. “Here, try this.”
Amethyst gave a few halfhearted taps on the lock, but it didn’t budge.
“Hit it hard.”
“How hard?”
“Pretend it’s your father.”
Amethyst rared back and swung the hammer with all her might. “We got it!” she shouted as the lock sprang open. “Let’s see what’s in here.”
“That looks like a medical bag.”
Amethyst opened it and peered inside. “It is—all kinds of tools, and little vials of drugs, I’d guess.” She lifted a brittle stethoscope from the bag and held it carefully in her hands. “Imagine—my grandfather might have used this to listen to my heartbeat the night I was born.”
“What else?”
“A picture. And here’s a whole set of leather-bound books.” She pulled out a volume from the set, opened it, and positioned the lamp so she could see. In a fine, angular hand, the name Pearl Avery was inscribed inside the front cover. The first page was dated May 1, 1854.
“Oh, Silvie, I can’t believe it!”
Silvie reached around her and retrieved a second volume from the trunk. “It looks like a diary of some sort—a journal.”
“My grandmother’s journals,” Amethyst breathed. “Apparently she started this one shortly after she and Grandpa Silas met.”
“And what’s this?” Silvie’s hand closed around a framed photograph. She held it close to the lamp so that both she and Amethyst could see it. “Am I seeing right? Abraham Lincoln?”
Amethyst peered at the picture. “It is. And it’s autographed!”
Silvie sat back on her heels and stared at Amethyst. “This is worth a bucket of money.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A personally autographed picture of President Lincoln? Do you have any idea how much this would bring?”
“No, I don’t,” Amethyst answered. “But it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t sell it—not in a thousand years.” She stared at Silvie, flabbergasted that her friend would even consider the monetary worth of the photo.
“And I don’t suppose you could use something like this to get a loan, either?”
“Forget it, Silvie. I’m not selling it. This is my heritage, my link to the past, to people whose blood runs in my veins. I can’t explain why, but I feel a sense of attachment to Grandpa Silas and Grandma Pearl, a connection I never felt with my own parents.”
An odd look crossed Silvie’s face, as if she knew why Amethyst felt that connection, but she said only, “My daddy would really love to see this.”
“We’ll show him tomorrow. For now, I want to get these journals downstairs and clean them up a little bit.”
“Wouldn’t hurt to do a bit of cleaning on yourself as well,” Silvie quipped.
“I guess I can manage that, too. Are you staying the night?”
“I thought I would, if that’s all right.”
Amethyst reached out and gave Silvie a hug, smearing her with cobwebs and dirt. “It’s always all right. Are you hungry?”
“I could eat.”
“Then let’s get downstairs, get washed up, and heat some of that turkey and dressing. We’ve got a lot of reading to catch up on.”
Enoch Warren turned the Lincoln photograph over and over in his big hands. “Amethyst, this is a real find. A treasure.”
“I know. I can’t believe it was stuck away in the attic like castoff junk.”
A shadow flitted across Enoch’s face. “Your father never got on well with Silas, I’m afraid. Or with me.”
Amethyst nodded. “I know. It was because Grandpa Silas gave you most of the land, wasn’t it?”
“Partly. But it started a long time before that. Abraham was always—well, not like Silas.”
“You mean he was a drunkard and a gambler who never took any responsibility and never thought about anyone but himself.”
Enoch chuckled. “Amethyst, sometimes you can be just like your grandmother.”
“Should I consider that a compliment, Uncle Enoch?”
“In my mind, most certainly. She was a gentle, loving woman, but she was known to speak her mind, and she could be stubborn as a mule sometimes.”
Silvie elbowed Amethyst in the ribs. “. . . we know you came by it honestly.”
Enoch’s handsome face took on a faraway expression. “My daddy idolized Abraham Lincoln,” he murmured. “I remember the Emancipation, you know. I recall the night we escaped, out through the root cellar into the woods. It was the night your father was born. We got to freedom, all right, but Daddy never could adjust to living up north. Once the war was over, he determined to come back. Silas and Pearl were still here, still helping folks. Silas and Daddy formed a partnership of sorts, with Daddy taking charge of the land and crops.” He ran his fingers over the picture frame. “I remember seeing this picture hanging on the wall in the log cabin room. But I was too young to think much about it. Now I guess I’m old enough to appreciate it—and its connection to my people.”
“I understand. I feel the same way about the things I found in the attic, especially Grandma Pearl’s journals.”
Amethyst watched Enoch’s face and saw the longing in his eyes. She understood the expression all too well—it was the same emotion she had felt when she discovered Grandpa Silas’s trunk and the treasures inside. All her life she had fought against shame—humiliation over her father’s dissolute ways, embarrassment at her mother’s simpering weakness. Isolated and at odds with her own family, Amethyst Noble had never belonged anywhere. But now, she had evidence of her roots, a heritage, a birthright—one that made her proud rather than ashamed.
She had told Silvie that she would never sell the photograph, but in that moment Amethyst knew that she could give it away—as a gift to Uncle Enoch. She loved him, and had always felt his love and understanding in return. He had been so good to her, and to her parents—looking after them, never asking for anything in return. It was the least she could do. And surprisingly, she felt no sense of loss at the idea of giving up the Lincoln photo. After all, it would still be in the family.
“You keep the photograph, Uncle Enoch. As a gift. A Christmas present.”
He shook his head vehemently. “I can’t accept this. It’s much too valuable.” He paused, and a light came into his eyes. “But I would like to buy it.”
“Buy it?” Amethyst stammered. “I couldn’t take your money, Uncle Enoch.”
“Of course you could. You have something of value, and I have the money to pay.”
“It would be charity, and you know it.”
“I know nothing of the sort,” he snorted. “I’ll tell you what, Amethyst. I’ll pay you for it now, and when you get on your feet, I’ll let you buy it back.”
Amethyst considered this for a moment. She did need the money—however much he offered. Taxes were due on the house next month, and at some point she would need to devise a plan to repay her father’s creditors. It wouldn’t exactly be a handout—more like a loan, with the Lincoln picture as collateral.
“All right,” she sighed at last. “But only if we agree that it’s temporary.”
“Agreed.” Enoch went to his desk and made out a bank draft. “Thank you,” he said as he handed her the check. “I’ll treasure it, you can be sure. Now, let Silvie pack up some more of that ham and turkey for you. We’ve got far too much.”
Dodging the worst of the mud puddles, Amethyst dashed back to the house with Silvie’s basket over one arm. She was soaked to the skin, but she didn’t care. Just yesterday she had felt detached and orphaned, cut off from life. This morning she was surrounded by love, by the warm acceptance of family, and by the awareness of a proud and illustrious past.
Shaking the rain off, she went to the kitchen, set the basket down, and pulled Uncle Enoch’s bank draft out of her coat pocket. When she unfolded it, her knees buckled and her breath caught in her throat.
; “No!” she whispered to herself. “I can’t believe it.”
But it was true. Enough not only for the taxes, but to pay off every single bill Abraham Noble had left behind, with money to spare.
Laughing and crying at the same time, Amethyst moved with shaking hands to unpack the food and put it away. She felt as if she were flying apart, and yet had the sensation of being more whole than she had ever been in her life.
It was nothing short of a miracle.
She stopped suddenly, arrested by the thought. Maybe God did answer prayers—even prayers that had not yet been prayed. Perhaps the Almighty was looking out for Amethyst Noble, as Silvie insisted. If this was a gift from heaven, the Lord had certainly cut the timing pretty close. But she guessed you had to take the miracle as it came, without complaining about how or when it arrived.
Then she looked down into the bottom of the food basket.
Surrounded by carefully wrapped slices of cornbread, the photograph of Lincoln gazed back at her. A ray of light illuminated the face and made the warm dark eyes seem to come alive.
Amethyst turned her head toward the window. The rain had stopped. The sun had come out. She felt as if she were waking from a long, long sleep.
She lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “I don’t know if you did this,” she whispered, “but thank you.”
There was no answer. Nothing but the sunshine warming her back.
Still, it felt like the hand of someone who loved her, and she smiled.
24
The Gambler
May 1918
Smoke filled the back room of the Beale Street Tavern and cast a thick blue haze over the six men seated around a table covered with green felt. It was barely one o’clock, and already the army suckers were lined up to hand over their mustering-out pay. These fellows were barely old enough to shave; it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. Avery Benedict smiled to himself and shuffled the cards one more time. The stuffed shirts at the bank were right: war was good for the economy—especially his.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said in a voice as smooth as oil. “I’m Avery Benedict. Welcome to the Beale Street Tavern. You’ve all got your drinks, I see, and we’ve got Violet here”—he pointed toward the well-endowed barmaid in the corner—“to keep us supplied. The game is five-card draw. Who’s in?”
“We’re all in, Benedict,” one burly sergeant growled. “Just deal the cards, will you?”
Avery knew the fellow—a no-neck, no-brain gorilla who went by the name of Sligo. He had been at this table yesterday, a loser every hand. Today, however, he was not alone. At his side sat a younger man, badly scarred, and evidently uncomfortable with being in an establishment such as this.
“Sligo, let’s get out of here,” he urged, even before the first hand was dealt. “You can’t win; you know that. And you’re nearly broke as it is.”
“Shut up, kid,” the sergeant growled. “I feel lucky today. Lend me a few bucks, and I’ll pay you back. Half of whatever I win.”
“I don’t think so,” the young man hedged. “I’ve got to pay for my train fare, and—”
Sligo turned to him, and his tone softened. “I know, kid. Just twenty bucks. You’ll get it back, with interest.”
Reluctantly the young man handed over the money and shook his head.
“Now, just go sit over there, out of the way. Amuse yourself with the barmaid. In a coupla hours we’ll both be rich.”
Avery looked at the clock. It was nearly four, and things weren’t going well. Sligo’s luck had changed, as he had predicted, and Avery was nearly tapped out. The gorilla had turned out to be a shill.
Avery could have kicked himself. Grandy, the owner of the Beale Street Tavern, was always warning him to watch out for guys like Sligo. Grandy didn’t gamble himself, but he had agreed to a tenuous partnership with Benedict. Avery got the room and conducted the game with his own money, and Grandy got 10 percent of the winnings.
Avery should have seen it coming—Sligo had lost too much too easily the day before. He had been far too certain of sending this ape home with empty pockets. Letting his vanity get the best of him, Avery had let down his guard. Now his money was almost gone, Sligo was staring him down over the last hand, and everybody else around the table sat in silence, watching to see what he would do.
Sligo’s massive thumb rippled over the stack of bills that lay in front of him. “It’s my draw,” he muttered, laying two cards facedown. “Two.”
With a rush of relief, Avery dealt out two cards and looked at his own hand. He held two pair, jacks and eights. If Sligo was drawing two, he couldn’t have much of a hand. Besides, Avery had a jack and an ace stashed behind his french cuffs—insurance for just such an occasion. He had Sligo where he wanted him now. Avery couldn’t lose. “One for me.”
“Where’d you get a name like Avery, anyway?” Sligo drawled, giving him a leering grin.
“It was my mother’s maiden name,” Benedict answered as he made his draw. He toyed with the card, leaving it facedown, while his mind spun. The idea had come to him in a moment of panic, when he was asked for his name and couldn’t use his real one. Avery, from his mother’s family, and Benedict, from that stallion he had purchased and then lost in a faro game before he ever had a chance to get it home.
“Sissy name,” Sligo was saying, trying to rattle him. “Pansy name.”
At the word Pansy, the bottom dropped out of Avery’s stomach. Just the mention of the name sent a chill through him. “Let’s just play the game, shall we?” he suggested, forcing a smile.
“I ain’t the one who’s taking all day.”
Avery peered at his draw card. Another jack. He suppressed a chuckle. It was much more satisfying winning in an honest game, especially against a guy like Sligo. “Your bet.”
Sligo eyed him. “How much you got left, prissy-boy?”
Avery looked down at his full house. “Don’t worry about my pot, Sligo. Just place your bet.”
The sergeant pushed his stack of bills to the center of the table. “Three hundred.”
A gasp went up around the table.
“You know I don’t have that much,” Avery protested.
“Call or fold.”
Avery looked into Sligo’s eyes and held his gaze for a full minute. At last he put a hand into his pocket, and Sligo braced as if he expected a gun. “Easy, man,” he chuckled. “I’m just getting this.” He displayed a heart-shaped amethyst surrounded by pearls, then tossed it on top of the stack of bills. “That should cover the bet.”
“What’d you do, Benedict? Knock off your old lady?” Sligo laughed, and everyone else joined him. Then Sligo said, “No deal. I ain’t got no use for that. Besides, one of them pearls is missing.”
“Sell it, then,” Avery answered. He knew, of course, that Sligo would never have a chance to sell it; the brooch had been his good-luck charm for ages. He had lost it and won it back a dozen times, but always it ended up where it belonged, in his pocket, his little piece of security when the money ran low.
Sligo narrowed his eyes. “You calling me, then?”
Avery straightened his vest. “I am. Show your cards.”
Sligo put down three tens and held the other two cards in his hand.
“Sorry, pal. The luck of the draw.” Avery spread out his full house and began to rake in his winnings.
But Sligo stopped him with a meaty paw. “Not so fast.” He twisted his face in a one-sided grin and laid the fourth ten faceup on the table. “Guess it ain’t your day, A-very,” he laughed, emphasizing the name with a mocking drawl.
He lifted his glass in salute, downed his drink, and tossed the amethyst brooch to his buddy. The young man got to his feet and came over to the table.
“Let’s go, Sarge.”
“I told you, didn’t I?” he gloated. “Stick with old Sligo, and you’ll end up a rich man!” He clapped his friend on the back and stuffed wads of bills into his pockets.
Avery winced as the fourth
jack, still stuck up his sleeve, cut into the flesh of his left wrist. If only he hadn’t been so quick to put down his cards, so eager to scoop up the pot. If only he had been a little more patient, a little less arrogant. . . .
But all the what ifs in the world couldn’t help him now. He could only watch in silence as both his money and his good-luck charm disappeared through the back door of the Beale Street Tavern.
25
Pearls of Wisdom
June 1918
Through the open windows Amethyst could hear birds singing and squirrels chattering in the big magnolia tree beside the driveway. Spring always brought her hope—a new year, fresh with fragrant blossoms and unimagined possibilities.
On the wall between the roll-top desk and the doorway to the dining room, the photograph of Abraham Lincoln gazed placidly at her. She would probably never be able to repay Uncle Enoch, but she wouldn’t insult him by attempting to return the picture to him. Besides, she liked to see it hanging there. It gave her a sense of completeness, as if it belonged here, as she did. As if the Noble legacy had finally come full circle.
Being alone in the house wasn’t so bad, really. Aloneness wasn’t the same as loneliness, and once Amethyst got used to being the sole inhabitant of Noble House, she discovered she actually enjoyed the solitude. It was much more peaceful now, without the constant arguing and bickering she had endured as a child. The sharp memory of those agonizing years had faded in the past six months, and now the house held echoes of the loving relationship between Grandpa Silas and Grandma Pearl, rather than the embittered battles between her own parents.
A good portion of the change, she thought, had to do with Pearl’s journals. When she had first discovered them, Amethyst had intended to go through them from start to finish without stopping—a project that would have taken several weeks, even if she had done nothing else. But as she began to read, she realized that she would benefit much more by taking her time, absorbing the beauty of the words and trying to put into practice the wisdom that was her grandmother’s bequest to a granddaughter she never knew.
The Amethyst Heart Page 20