Ambrosia Read online

  Prologue

  Manhattan

  Autumn 1859

  Aaron Rambert stared at the house, at the single, dim light that glowed from within on the moonless night. The wind howled through the barren trees, whisking leaves about in eerie circles in the darkness. The house seemed out of place in the darkness, its light warm and beckoning, a reminder to any who passed by that the man who lived here was a doctor, accustomed to visitors late at night, accustomed to being roused from sleep to tend to another’s needs. Aaron had watched that house for over an hour now, had waited until all but that single light was extinguished.

  His lip curled in disdain. Hatred had brought him here, the hatred and jealousy of a lifetime. He took a flask from his shirt pocket and drew a long swallow. Now the solution seemed so simple, so easy. And so perfect a revenge. A fire, a terrible fire would sweep through Drayton’s house. No one would get out alive.

  Aaron took one last swig of whiskey and tethered his horse to a tree a few hundred yards from the house. He made his way stealthily toward it, remembering the fires he had set as a child. He had been very good at setting them. They had burned strong and bright, and no one ever suspected that anyone had set them at all. A lamp fallen from a table, they said, when he set a fire in his stepfather’s study. A cigar tossed thoughtlessly into a stack of hay, they said, when he’d set fire to the stable to kill his stepfather’s favorite stallion. It had all been so very simple. And this could be simple too. No one would ever suspect anything, if he was very careful.

  He circled the house slowly, checking the doors, then each window, finally locating an unlocked one and quickly slipping inside. The room he entered was small, with shelved walls holding dozens of books and a huge desk stacked high with papers. He paused, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room, staring at the shadows until the various shapes became familiar to him. He recognized a desk lamp and moved to lift it, thought­ fully gauging the amount of kerosene in its globe. It would be enough. But this room would be the last. He replaced the lamp on the desk and felt his way to the door. He opened it slowly, his eyes darting about the hall, catching sight of the lamp that burned low near the front door. He made his way slowly to the opposite side of the house, avoiding the light, entering the parlor. There he lifted a table lamp and found it nearly full.

  He smiled as he spilled the lamp’s contents about the floor with a swift, sweeping motion, saturating the carpet, the upholstered furniture, dripping a trail to the yellow draperies which skimmed the floor. He set the lamp aside and drew a match from his pocket, his eyes gleaming with anticipation as he struck the match to his heel and touched it to the kerosene-drenched fabric. A fascination flared in his eyes as the small, flickering flame grew brighter, hotter, leaping upward with a sudden whooshing sound. A childish smile of wonder curved his mouth. Slowly he backed away the light glowing warm and orange on his face. He watched from the threshold of the parlor, entranced. But then he remembered where he was, what he was doing. He spun about on a heel and made to hurry down the hall.

  “Drayton?”

  The voice, soft and feminine, stopped him short. His feet were riveted to the floor as his eyes fixed on the woman who blocked his exit. In her hands she held the small lamp that had been left to bum near the door. She gasped in fear and shock, her hand flying to her breast. Aaron stared at her face, at the green eyes that seemed huge in the lamplight, at the long, dark hair that fell below her waist, at her white, flowing gown. His panic at being discovered and the strong whiskey he’d drunk all night kept him from thinking clearly. It never even occurred to him that Drayton would not be here, that Drayton’s wife might be in the house alone. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  Aaron could hardly even breathe for fear that she might scream and awaken Drayton. The thought ran again and again through his mind. She’d seen him! He was caught! His entire body began to shake with the terrible anticipation of facing his stepbrother. Drayton would kill him.

  The woman took a step toward him, confused as well as frightened now by his silence. “I asked who you are,” she repeated.

  She had scarcely uttered the words when a noise from the parlor made her gasp. Her eyes darted to the eerie orange light that flickered on the wall opposite the parlor. Aaron saw his only chance for escape and quickly slammed his fist into the woman’s face. She flew backward, her head striking the floor at the same moment the lamp did. Glass seemed to shatter everywhere and a hungry tongue of red leapt about her. It was only then, when Aaron saw her lying sprawled on the floor, that he realized she was far along with child. An icy sweat broke over his brow and ran down his neck as he stared in horror at her motionless form. The flames were licking at her long, dark hair, at the flowing white gown... She moaned softly and stirred, but Aaron turned away from the sight of her and ran for the door. He could not save her; to do so would be to hang himself. And Drayton – he could never face Drayton.

  Aaron’s heart was pounding furiously in his ears, his lungs aching as he ran, never once looking back. In the moonless night he mounted his horse and galloped swiftly away.

  Part One

  Bamberg County, South Carolina

  February 1865

  Chapter 1

  Dusky shadows lifted quickly from the winter­brown hills of South Carolina as the brightness of the eastern sky triumphed over night. Squirrels and rabbits and deer lifted drowsy eyes to meet the sun’s light, and the noisy chatter of newly wakened birds broke the solemn quiet. Ambrosia Lanford drew a deep breath of sweet morning air and smiled. Spring would arrive early at Heritage this year, she thought. On the first morning of February, the sky was bright and cloudless; the air moist and heavy with dew; the ground, a fertile brown-black, awaiting the turn of the plow.

  How she loved the land that lay before her! Land that was her birthright; land that she’d held on to with her own sweat and labor. Ambrosia knew the hills of this land as well as she knew her name. She knew the tallest tree, the deepest pond, the most treacherous patches of marshland, the lushest thickets of wild blackberries. Each of the fields that stretched long and flat beneath the sun was as much a part of her as her green-gray eyes or coal-black hair. Her own hands, once soft and tender, had broken ground for spring planting for the past two years. She had seen to the tending, the watering, the harvesting, the preserving of the simple food crops which were now Heritage’s lifeblood.

  It had not always been so. If Ambrosia closed her eyes for a moment, she could easily imagine that she was a child again, that this morning which hinted at spring was a morning of long ago. She could picture Mr. Partkin, the overseer, in a crumpled white shirt and mud-stained breeches, could hear his gruff voice barking orders to the field slaves as they shuffled in a haphazard procession toward their day’s toil. From a distance would drift the comforting drone of their deep, resonant voices singing the rhythmic, mournful melodies Mammy called work songs; from the veranda would come the murmur of unimportant conversation and the pleasant tinkling of iced glasses on a heavy silver tray...

  Ambrosia forced open her eyes and scanned the world that lay before her this morning, so quiet, so peaceful, so very changed from the world she had once known. These days Ambrosia did not allow herself much time for remembering, for there was far too much work to be done. It had been over a year since she’d been able to buy a pair of shoes, and the slaves had gone barefoot even longer than that, except in the coldest winter months. A great deal of ingenuity had gone into finding a workable substitute for shoe leather, which was simply not to be had. She tossed a rueful glance at the odd-looking, coarse-fabric shoes she had made with her own hands, recalling the countless pairs of satin slippers she had once taken for granted. Still, prunella shoes served their
purpose, while there were some things for which there were no substitutes. Salt, an absolute necessity for preserving foods, particularly ham and bacon, had become a precious commodity everywhere in the South. Just a few weeks before Ambrosia had heard of a family so desperate they tore up the floorboards of their smokehouse and boiled them just to retrieve the salt. She stared for a moment at the nearby smokehouse, knowing it was nearly empty now, wondering how long it would be before she would be doing the same.

  She would do anything to hold on to this place, her home. Heritage was everything to her now, her past, her present, her future, her life. The only dream to which she still held fast.

  Heritage was a young plantation by Charleston standards, though the land, which lay northeast of the Bamberg County seat, had been in the Lanford family for generations. Charles Henry Lanford had set foot on Carolina soil in the late 1600s, and his two sons, William and John, had served admirably under General Sumter in the Revolutionary War. Both were members of the Jacksonboro Assembly, which drew up the state constitution.

  Jackson Lanford, Ambrosia’s father, had built Heritage with an eye toward future generations, certain that he would raise many sons to .carry on the proud Lanford name. Rising loftily from the crest of a gently sloping hill, the sprawling, two-story structure of light-colored brick crowned with a windowed dome cast an imposing shadow on the rich, fertile land. Broad piazzas, reminiscent of Charleston, stretched across the front of the house, offering a view of the long avenue that wound past an impressive row of huge, shady oaks. Though less than a quarter of a century old, Heritage was considered one of Carolina’s great plantations.

  Just a score of years before, tall, handsome Jackson Lanford had been the most sought-after bachelor in Bamberg County. But Jackson was a man’s man who took no interest in simpering belles and, in fact, did not enjoy the company of females at all. When he finally did wed Lucille Grayson, a delicate, blond beauty, no one, least of all his bride, ever guessed that Jackson had married strictly to beget a suitable heir.

  During the first years of their marriage, he labored with such love and enthusiasm at Heritage, overseeing every detail of the running of their home, that Lucille was totally convinced of his devotion. She became pregnant almost too quickly to be proper, and nine months to the day after the grandest wedding in the history of South Carolina, Melissa Anne Lanford was born.

  Jackson hid his disappointment well. He had a daughter who was the picture of her lovely mother and he was certain there would be many more babies and many sons. But during the next two years, Lucille suffered four miscarriages, each of which Jackson accepted with less patience. Finally, after a long, difficult pregnancy, Lucille gave birth to a second daughter, Ambrosia, and gratefully accepted the news that there would be no more children.

  For Lucille, it seemed the reprieve came too late. She was thin and pale, robbed of her health and radiant youth by this sharp-featured, dark-haired baby, so unlike her first lovely daughter. And after years of being the center of attention, Lucille suddenly was confronted with a disinterested husband who took no interest in the child she had given him, who never once even asked to hold her. Worst of all, he announced that he had hired an overseer for the plantation and that he was leaving for Charleston the very day of Ambrosia’s christening.

  Jackson plunged himself into other matters, embarked on several business ventures, and cultivated influential friendships throughout the state. For a man who had always achieved his purpose in any endeavor he pursued, the plantation was but an unpleasant reminder of his one failure.

  Ambrosia was only four years old when her father announced his plans to represent his district in the South Carolina legislature, but she never forgot the uproar when her father came home to campaign for the election. The whole house was scrubbed and polished; every corner was inspected.

  There was nothing more exciting in Ambrosia’s life than her father’s visits to Heritage. During those wonderful, short days, she would be on her best behavior as she followed him about. She would listen with rapt attention when his valet, Josiah, told tales about places her father had been and the wonderful, important things he had done. His dark eyes glowing, his broad chest swelling with pride, Josiah would call Jackson Lanford a great man, a man of history. Greatness, Ambrosia learned, had little to do with being tall or lean or handsome, or with wearing fine clothing. It had more to do with what was inside, with honesty and courage and conviction. Father was not fawned upon for his beauty and tolerated for his behavior like Mother, or Melissa. And because beauty was something that seemed to have passed Ambrosia by, she instinctively aspired to be more like him. She could not change her angular face and prominent cheekbones into Melissa’s perfectly rounded, rosy cheeks; she could not exchange her large, almond-shaped eyes which fluctuated between a deep green and a dark, somber gray, for Melissa’s wide blue ones; she could not change the sorry fact that she was shorter than every other child her age, and would probably never be willowy and graceful like her mother. But she could be courageous and strong if she tried hard enough. And so she began to try very, very hard.

  While her sister was becoming the belle of the county, Ambrosia was becoming the terror of the plantation, performing acts of bravery as were never before witnessed in Heritage’s history. On a dare she rode her father’s temperamental stallion without a saddle and even managed to keep her seat when the horse decided to jump the stone wall by the south pasture. She climbed to the top of every tree within a mile of the house. Twice she left the manor house at midnight when there was a full moon and spent the night in the burying ground, just to prove she wasn’t afraid of anything. She even learned to play a mean game of cutthroat poker. Not the harshest punishments, nor the sternest threats, nor the soundest reasoning ever managed to subdue her. She bore all discipline without a single word, maintaining a stiff, haughty posture and a cold look of total conviction in her green-gray eyes.

  The turning point of Ambrosia’s life came when her father paid an unannounced visit to Heritage and arrived just in time to see his daughter plunge from the top of a dangerously high pile of cotton bales to the ground below. Jackson galloped at full speed to her side, swinging down from his horse before it had even come to a full stop. To his absolute astonishment, Ambrosia respectfully declined his assistance and struggled shakily, but unaided, to her feet. He stared at her face for what seemed like a long time, noting the determined gleam in her eyes and the defiant lift of her chin. For a moment he thought she had miraculously escaped without any injury at all. But then he noticed the strange, unnatural bend in the arm she held so protectively against her body, and he knew at once that it was broken. Yet she stood there in silence, not uttering a single word, not shedding a single tear. A deep sense of pride welled up inside him as he continued to meet her gaze. Her eyes showed no trace of the excruciating pain she must be feeling, only a fiery kind of courage he’d seen in few men and had never thought to see in an eleven-year-old child. Then a thought struck him like a bolt of lightning-Ambrosia was his daughter, his own flesh and blood. She was not like other little girls, diligently learning to pour tea and sew samplers, swooning and giggling uncontrollably, or doing any other of a hundred things he could not tolerate. Ambrosia was his daughter. His, not Lucille’s. And he decided then and there that he would see to the remainder of her upbringing.

  The break was a clean one, but it still took weeks to mend. Ambrosia would have willingly broken every bone in her body, however, for the attention her father suddenly heaped upon her. She could not begin to understand why it had happened, and she was as surprised as anyone else when he announced that she would be accompanying him to Columbia when he returned for a legislative session the third of October. She watched as Melissa played every kind of petty trick i n the hopes of coming along. But Melissa, who always got her way, didn’t get what she wanted this time. Jackson refused to take her, even when Lucille pleaded and begged in her behalf. And Ambrosia could n
ot have been happier.

  Though Charlestonians liked to call it “a town aspiring to be a city,” Ambrosia’s first glimpse of Columbia in October of 1858 was of imposing state buildings; a main street of closely packed, wooden and brick stores and businesses, with planked sidewalks; hundreds of frame houses with high, cool basements; and several beautiful mansions on wide, shady, gaslit streets.

  Ambrosia took up residence in her father’s house, a modest structure within walking distance of the state­ house, and was introduced to scores of Jackson’s friends. One woman in particular, whose husband was one of Jackson Lanford’s closest political allies, took an immediate liking to his daughter.

  Elisabeth Woodard was a pleasant, intelligent woman nearing forty. She was childless but not really regretful of the fact, and she possessed a clever, calculating mind to which her husband Daniel owed a great deal of his success. Ambrosia offered Elisabeth both a challenge and an excuse to associate more closely with Jackson Lanford, whom she found most attractive. Elisabeth took Ambrosia under her wing and set about teaching the child everything she’d refused to learn from Lucille. Ambrosia became a diligent reader and learned to mimic the polished prose of a lady whenever she was forced into conversation.

  But her happiest moments were those spent in the comfortable parlor in her father’s small house near the capital, listening to him rehash the most significant issues of the day with his closest friends. For hours she would sit quietly in a comer chair, pretending to be deeply engrossed in sketching a picture or diligently at work on a piece of needlework, when she was actually devouring every word of overheard conversation and relishing the marvelous authority and strength she heard in her father’s voice. She was enthralled, caught up in the contagious fever of politics, feeling the same self-righteous indignation as her father over the “Beecher’s Bibles,” rifles sent by New England abolitionists to antislavery settlers in Missouri. She learned to hate the words Yankee and Republican, and to despise those political extremists who would destroy the South by abolishing slavery. She treasured every moment she spent with her father, though there was nothing of real intimacy in their relationship, and she remained little more than an admiring observer. Still, for the child who had always been ignored whenever she was not being chastised, a few words, a nod of recognition, a smile of approval were quite enough. Her father had taken her from a world where she had never fit in and allowed her to feel that somehow, someday, she would finally find a place in life just as she was.