What she had learned had changed her life. In the past six months, Amethyst Noble had set out on a different path, and deep in her heart lay the desire to emulate the woman whose soul was poured out upon those pages.
For one thing, the woman’s faith in God was like nothing Amethyst had ever experienced. Grandma Pearl believed in God, that much was evident. But her faith had little to do with church or rules or maintaining an image of what religious people thought a Christian should be. Pearl Noble had a mind of her own, and used it. And to her way of thinking, a Christian’s responsibility was to follow, on a daily basis, the kind of life Jesus exemplified. It didn’t matter that others thought her strange or unfeminine or even rebellious. What mattered was that she responded to God’s calling upon her life.
Amethyst pulled the first volume from the bookshelf next to the desk and opened it to a passage that had become a favorite. Her eyes scanned the page, and once more she found herself inspired and encouraged by the words of her strong and opinionated grandmother:
Many of the townspeople, especially the plantation owners and their wives, turn their heads when I walk down the street. Yesterday Mrs. Baldwin from Magnolia Acres actually crossed the street to avoid me. I could tell by the pinched look on her face and the way her nose elevated when she caught a glimpse of me that she did not care for my attire. A lady, I’ve been told, does not go about town in dungarees and boots. But the clothing suits me and is appropriate for the work I do. In those preposterous crinolines, I couldn’t even enter the narrow door of a slave cabin, for heaven’s sake!
The new doctor at Rivermont, Mr. Silas Noble, doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about the way I dress. He is the first man I’ve ever met who truly looks on the inside, not at the outward appearance. It’s a godly trait, and one I honor and respect in him. We worked together last week when one of the Rivermont slaves was ill, and although he says little, I can tell that he appreciates my commitment to the health and well-being of the Negroes. Once he even complimented me, saying that he had never met such a selfless and sacrificial person.
I wonder if he has any idea that what he interprets as selflessness is actually simple obedience? I am only doing what the Lord has given me to do, and I find no real sacrifice in it. Is the loss of social acceptability a sacrifice? I hardly think so, not when I have received back a hundredfold in personal fulfillment and satisfaction. When will people who call themselves Christians—especially the slaveholders who justify their abomination with selected scriptures—realize that true faith in God doesn’t mean accepting certain tenets, but living in a manner which glorifies Christ and reflects the love of Jesus in the world?
Jesus, after all, didn’t give so much as a thought to how the social and political leaders of his time perceived him. He simply went about doing good, gathering the outcasts of society, and loving them into a place of healing and wholeness. To believe is to care. To care is to do. . . .
Amethyst ran her finger over the faded ink and repeated her grandmother’s words: “To believe is to care. To care is to do.” Every time she read those words, or even thought about them, she felt a surge of pride and inspiration rise up in her heart. That was the way she wanted to live. That was the way she wanted to be remembered—as a woman of conviction and passion, a woman who gave herself to something bigger, something finer. A woman who heard the whispered call of the Almighty and responded with determination and joy.
Amethyst chuckled to herself. Six months ago, when she had protested to Silvie that God had abandoned her, she couldn’t have imagined herself even thinking like this. But something had happened deep in her soul. What she once would have called accident, she now called miracle—finding her grandparents’ treasures in the attic, receiving the money from Uncle Enoch to get her out of debt, reading Grandma Pearl’s journals.
Faith had sneaked up on her when she wasn’t looking. Her eyes had been opened to see that sometimes the “accidents” of life—what people called luck or good fortune or even destiny—might just have their source in a Divine hand.
Perhaps it was simply a matter of perception. You could look at your circumstances and think yourself lucky, or you could see beyond the event and acknowledge a deeper purpose, a hand of guidance, a gift from the Creator of the universe.
This she had learned from Pearl’s journals. But she had found something else there as well. Something she hadn’t expected.
Reality.
Grandma Pearl was not the kind of believer who had her head in the clouds. She was a realist who knew—and freely admitted—that life could be bittersweet, that pain accompanied joy, that prayers often went unanswered, that sometimes God seemed very far away.
The journals reflected it all—times of vacillation and confusion, anger with God, deep disappointment, heartache, agonizing loss and fierce longing. With a radical vulnerability, Pearl Noble had poured out her soul on these pages, holding nothing back. Woven into the fabric of her faith were many diverse strands—love and rage, devotion and doubt, skepticism and praise. Grandma Pearl related to God with complete candor, evidently believing that the Lord was strong enough and wise enough to take anything she could dish out.
It was this reality that had compelled Amethyst to reconsider what faith was all about. And she had decided, at long last, to put her trust in the God who looked back at her from the pages of her grandmother’s journals.
Still, this left her with a dilemma. No matter how inspired she had been by her grandmother’s authentic faith and the stories of her life with Silas, Amethyst couldn’t simply embrace truth and stop there. To believe is to care, Grandma Pearl had written. To care is to do.
Amethyst believed. She cared. But what on earth was she supposed to do?
She had prayed, timidly at first, and then with more conviction, that the Lord would show her how her life could have meaning and significance. That God would give her some indication of what her own calling was and how she should live it out on a daily basis.
So far, no answer had come. The bills had been paid, the taxes taken care of, and Amethyst felt settled in Noble House, which she now claimed as a haven of spiritual refuge and security. Still, there had to be something more. Some purpose beyond her own comfort and freedom from anxiety.
With a sigh Amethyst put the first journal back in its place and drew out another. She had just finished reading about Silas and Pearl treating the war wounds of Robert Warren, the plantation owner, and about how the slave Cato earned his freedom by burning Rivermont to the ground. The image seared her mind; she had been to the ruins of Rivermont, stood between the charred columns, and imagined the grandeur and glory of the place. Now all that was left was ancient rubble flanked by blackened chimneys—a grim reminder of the high cost of prejudice.
Amethyst picked up where she had left off the day before:
Dear Silas’s honor got the best of him in the end. Despite his misgivings, he treated Colonel Warren with all the skill and passion he had to offer, and kept the poor man alive until he could say his good-byes. I never liked Warren much, and his wife Olivia seemed to me the worst kind of mindless Southern belle, but still my heart broke to watch their final farewell. How would I feel if it were my beloved husband on his deathbed? Devastated, I’m sure, and woefully abandoned.
Warren’s death, however, is undoubtedly not the last we will see. Because of this terrible war, there will be much more heartache to come, I am certain, and even as I dread it, my soul is at peace. For I feel deep in my spirit that this is only the beginning, that perhaps God put us here, like Esther, for just such a time. Perhaps we will be given the strength and wisdom to bring healing to some, and to those who cannot be healed, to bring serenity in dying. There is a time to be born and a time to die, a time to laugh and a time to mourn, and the best we can do is trust that God will give us the grace for each separate time.
Whether black or white, whole or maimed, healing or dying, every man or woman deserves a chance at dignity. Perhaps that is the greates
t gift we can offer to those who come to us—to treat them as the magnificent creations of God that they are.
Amethyst held her place with her finger and leaned back in the tall oak chair. Dignity. The very word resounded in her soul. She had seen, up close, what it meant—the self-respect and presence of Enoch Warren, the way he had instilled that confidence in his family. And she had seen its opposite, too, in her own father. People might be stamped with the likeness of the Creator, but they had a choice whether or not they would live up to that image. No matter what society did to them, no matter how others might perceive them, those who knew their own worth had the inner strength and conviction to live in bold obedience.
Just as her grandparents had done.
As Amethyst prayed she herself might do.
“Do you want another piece of chicken?”
Amethyst pointed toward the platter, and Silvie grimaced. “Not me.”
“That bad, is it?” Amethyst grinned. “Well, maybe you should stay here permanently. Then you could do the cooking.”
“I’ve already had two. How much approval do you need?”
“As much as I can get. Especially until I figure out what I’m supposed to do with my life.”
“Been reading your grandmother’s journals again?” Silvie raised an eyebrow.
“A little every day.”
“And you still got no answer.”
Amethyst shook her head. “I’m trying not to be impatient, but God seems to be taking his own sweet time answering this prayer. I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”
“Well,” Silvie said with a shrug, “I suppose you’ll know it when you find it. Just remember that God’s will ain’t necessarily one thing you’re intended to do. It’s more of an attitude, being open to see the possibilities.”
“That’s just the problem. I don’t have any possibilities.”
“You could go to college, like you always dreamed.”
Amethyst laughed. “Not without money, I can’t. Besides, I’m not sure that college is the place for me—at least not at the moment.”
“Well, when you find out what your place is, let me know, will you? And while you’re at it, send up a prayer for me, too.”
“I take it things are not going well at the hotel restaurant.”
Silvie rolled her eyes. “I been cooking there for over a year. Everybody loves the food, and it’s a good job—for a colored woman.” She gave a self-deprecating shrug. “But Mr. Mansfield, he’s getting worse by the day. Follows me into the supply room, and once he tried to lock the door.”
“Silvie, this sounds dangerous.”
“It is. But what can I do? You know what’s gonna happen if a Negro woman publicly accuses a white man of inappropriate behavior. I’ll get fired—or worse.”
“Have you thought about quitting?”
“And do what? Live off Daddy for the rest of my life?”
“He wouldn’t mind. You’d be a big help to him.”
“Yes, he would mind. When Mama died four years ago, he made it real clear that he didn’t need a caretaker. He raised me to be independent, he says. And even though I’m still living under his roof, I have my own life, and he has his.”
“What about living under my roof? I’d love the company.”
“And I’d love being here. You know that. But I gotta earn a living, and that still leaves me with a predicament about the job.” She paused. “Let’s not talk about it right now. I promise I’ll be careful, and I’ll start looking for another position. Fair enough?”
“I suppose so,” Amethyst conceded. “Do you want to hear what I read in Grandma Pearl’s journal today?”
Silvie nodded and gave a little chuckle. “I can’t believe how much you’ve changed since you got your hands on those books.”
“They’re quite inspirational, I have to admit. Today I read about dignity. It reminded me of you.”
Amethyst went on to summarize her response to Pearl’s journal, reading a few passages aloud. When she finished, she looked up at her friend. “So, what do you think?”
Silvie didn’t answer for a moment. “Dignity,” she said at last. “I suppose it is a matter of the heart, of the soul—what’s inside a person. But I wish we lived in a world where people didn’t have to fight for the kind of respect your grandparents believed in.”
“So do I,” Amethyst agreed. “And I wish I knew what to do about it.”
Silvie frowned. “Do you really think one person can change the world?”
“I hope so. Grandma Pearl certainly believed it, and Grandpa Silas—”
Amethyst stopped and held up a hand. “Did I hear a knock?” A faint rapping sounded again. “Somebody’s at the door.”
“I wonder who? It’s nearly dark.”
Amethyst slanted an amused glance at her. “Well, we won’t find out just sitting here, will we?” She went to the front door, with Silvie on her heels, and opened it to find a man standing on the porch with a bulging canvas bag at his feet. Dressed in an army uniform and holding a cane, he had his face turned to the right, as if something in the yard had caught his attention.
In the dim light, Amethyst could barely make out his profile. She turned the switch for the porch light. He had sandy hair, a wide brow, and a square chin that jutted out just a little. Not handsome, but nice-looking.
“Miss Noble?”
“Yes. May I help you?”
He kept his face averted. “My name is Harper Wainwright. As you can see from the uniform, I’ve just been discharged from the army, and I’m in need of a place to stay.”
Amethyst frowned over her shoulder at Silvie, who shrugged. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wainwright, I believe you may have been misinformed. Noble House is not a boarding establishment. But there are several places I could recommend—”
He turned toward her, and Amethyst felt Silvie’s fingernails dig into her arm. She stifled a gasp.
The entire right side of the man’s face was a mass of puckered scars. His right arm was twisted, and his right leg bent at an odd angle. “I’ve tried other places,” he said quietly. “No one will take me.” He shuffled his feet around and leaned on the cane. “Forgive me if I’ve disturbed you. A gentleman in town suggested I come here. ‘Try Noble House,’ he said. ’It’s just the kind of place you might find a welcome.’ Although, now that I think about it, the man was laughing oddly, as if it were some kind of private joke.” His blue eyes flashed. “I suspect the man was no gentleman after all.”
“Are you from Cambridge, Mr. Wainwright?” Amethyst asked, trying with all her might not to stare at his disfigured face.
“My family homestead was way out in the country,” he answered, “but they’re all gone now. Besides, if I’m to find a job, I need to be in town.”
Amethyst chuckled. “When my grandfather built this place, it was out in the country, too. Seems the town has grown up around us.” She hesitated. “Still, I’m not sure—”
He smiled—a crooked, distorted half-grin. “Don’t worry, Miss Noble. I have money to pay room and board. My mustering-out wages, you know. And unlike our friend who recommended you, I assure you I am a gentleman.”
Amethyst looked at him, and for a brief moment her heart took her beyond the scars to the face of a sensitive man whose soul as well as his body had been wounded in battle.
“Could you give us just a moment, Mr. Wainwright? Please, have a seat in the swing. We won’t be long.”
She shut the door behind her and turned to Silvie. “Dignity,” she whispered.
Silvie nodded. “Looks like God has spoken.”
“Finally. But I can’t do this alone. Are you with me?”
Silvie thought for a minute. “I didn’t like working for Mansfield anyway. Count me in.”
“A boardinghouse—for people who can’t find a place of peace anywhere else. Sounds like something my grandparents would approve of. We could divide up the back parlor and make two rooms, and—”
Silvie clapped a ha
nd over Amethyst’s mouth. “We can plan later. Right now there’s a man sitting on the porch swing waiting to find out if he has a bed for the night.”
Amethyst opened the door. “Mr. Wainwright?”
“I’m still here.” He struggled to his feet and came to the door.
“Come in, and bring your things. I’m Amethyst Noble, and this is my friend—and business partner—Silvie Warren.”
Wainwright shook hands with them and gave a little bow. “Miss Noble, Miss Warren. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“We were just about to have dessert and coffee,” Silvie said smoothly. “But perhaps you haven’t eaten yet. Do you like fried chicken?”
He smiled again, showing that crooked grin. “My favorite.”
“Then follow us to the kitchen. We’ll warm up some dinner for you.” Amethyst started to lead the way, but a light touch on her arm stopped her.
“Thank you,” he responded in a choked voice. “You’re an answer to prayer. I never thought I’d find a place like this, a place where I could be afforded a little dignity.”
She turned and looked directly into his face, studying the scars and the gentle countenance behind them. “Someday, Mr. Wainwright, when we know each other better, I’ll tell you whose prayers have been answered tonight.”
26
The Freak
Are you deaf as well as stupid?” Tarbush yelled, moving so close that Harper could smell his fetid breath and see decay festering on the far right molar in the man’s mouth.
Harper took a step back, more for relief from the stench than for protection. “No, Mr. Tarbush. I am neither deaf nor stupid. I am simply looking for a job, and I have the skills you need to—”
The Amethyst Heart Page 21