June 1917
Abraham Lincoln Noble peered at his face in the looking glass and scowled. As had become his habit throughout his fifty-two years, he cursed his name. Cursed his life. Cursed the attachments that held him in bondage to this land, this house, these people. And cursed his dead father for chaining him to an icon, a cherished martyr cut down by an assassin’s bullet.
No matter what he did, he would never fulfill other people’s expectations of him. All his life, his name had caused him to be compared to Lincoln, who had, in his father’s glowing terms, “selflessly laid down his life in the battle for freedom.” An accident of birth and geography had sentenced him to be compared to Enoch Warren, the man who walked with God—and who, for all practical purposes, was a god. An agricultural genius, a divinity who had stretched out his hand over the land and made it fertile and prosperous.
Every time Abe saw the muscular black man striding across the fields or riding his horse into town, his gut twisted with jealousy and rage. Clearly, Abe had turned out to be a bitter disappointment to his father. Why else would Silas Noble have willed most of the farmland to the son of a slave, leaving his own son with only Noble House and a small percentage of the yearly proceeds from the crop?
The injustice stabbed at his heart like a blade. He should have been the landholder, the prominent citizen of Cambridge County. He should have been given the chance to make a name for himself, a future for his family. But all he had to show for his heritage was this house, this prison without bars that kept him incarcerated with a simpering, mindless wife and a headstrong seventeen-year-old daughter.
Enoch had sons. Tall, strong sons who worked with him and made him proud. And one daughter as well—the beautiful Silvie, just turned twenty-one, whose very presence aroused in Abe a lust that would not leave him in peace. Pansy had seen the look in his eye, he was certain, but had never confronted him about it. She never would. She was too weak to take the risk. But someday—someday soon, if her multitude of medical complaints had any basis in reality—she would be gone, and he would have the opportunity to act on his fantasies.
His time would come. And when it did, he wouldn’t give a second thought to the consequences. He deserved some pleasure in life, didn’t he?
The problem was, he couldn’t wait. The walls were closing in, suffocating him. He had to get out. And finally, after all these years, he had stumbled upon a way to do it without seeming like a cad.
Abe didn’t keep up much with current affairs, but he did know enough to realize that three years ago, somebody had assassinated some archduke over in Europe, and the result had been a conflict of monumental proportions—a war bigger and more complex than the world had ever seen. And now, finally, the United States had gotten into the fray. In April, President Wilson had declared war on Germany and last month had instituted something called “Selective Service.”
Most of the men being conscripted were much younger than himself—in their twenties and thirties. But word was that the army would take volunteers up to the age of forty-eight. Abe was beyond that, of course, but his wife and daughter wouldn’t know the regulations, wouldn’t know that he was too old to enlist.
This war, whatever it was about, would give him the perfect excuse he needed. He wouldn’t be viewed as a despicable husband abandoning his family; he would be a hero, marching off to battle to save the world for democracy. A protector of home and hearth.
Never mind that he had no intention of joining the army. He made it a practice never to put himself in danger without a very good reason—a nice bottle of bourbon, for example; or a rich faro game with a tableful of patsies; or that shapely new barmaid at Colby’s Tavern. Now, that was a risk worth taking.
Abe left the bedroom, went into the kitchen, and sat down at the table to glance through the newspaper. A Selective Service office had been set up in Memphis. The train schedule for new inductees was printed in the paper.
But where would he get the money he needed? Vanishing into thin air and creating a new life for himself wouldn’t be cheap. Enoch had already advanced him most of the profits due him from the summer’s harvest, but he’d had a run of bad luck lately, and it was already gone. Still, a good gambler could feel it when his luck was about to change. This was his chance, and he had to do whatever was necessary to take it.
Then he remembered—the brooch! Before she died, his mother had made it clear that the heart-shaped amethyst was to be given to his daughter on her wedding day. Except for this prison of a house, it was all she had as an inheritance from her grandparents. One of the pearls was missing, he remembered vaguely, but if Mother had treasured it that much, the stone itself had to be valuable.
Abe went back into the bedroom and rummaged in his wife’s drawers until he came up with a small, worn velvet box. He opened it, placed the brooch on his open palm, and watched as the sunlight from the window glittered on the table of the gemstone.
For a moment he gazed, mesmerized, as the amethyst glowed in the ray of light. It seemed almost alive, like a tiny heart beating in the palm of his hand. Then he shook off sentimentality and shoved the brooch into his vest pocket. This was his transfer out of hell. No one would miss it, at least not until he was long gone.
He would leave on the first train out in the morning. That was time enough to tell Pansy, pack his gear, and prepare for his departure.
Abe heaved a deep sigh of relief. This time tomorrow, he would be on his way.
With a ticket to freedom in his pocket.
Amethyst stared at her father. Her dinner had grown cold, and the juice from the turnip greens had seeped into the mashed potatoes and congealed into an unappetizing mess. But it didn’t matter. She couldn’t eat anyway, not after the bombshell he had just dropped.
“Abraham, no!” her mother wailed, reaching into her bag for smelling salts. “You can’t just leave us here alone!”
Amethyst wanted to tell Mama to shut her mouth, but as a dutiful daughter she could only think the words, not say them. Still, her eardrums vibrated painfully with the shrieking, and her stomach twisted into a knot.
“Pansy, sweetheart,” her father was cooing with uncharacteristic tenderness, “don’t you understand? I have to go.” He paused and puffed his chest out. “It’s my—” He groped for words. “My patriotic duty.”
Amethyst tasted bile rising in her throat, and she choked it back. She loved her father, but she didn’t like him very much. She could see through him as her mother never could, and up until this moment she had never detected so much as a grain of patriotic loyalty in the man. He was trying to paint himself as a hero, but Amethyst knew better. He was doing this for himself, not for the two of them or for the sake of his country.
“You’ll be fine,” Father was saying. “Amethyst is nearly grown, and she can take care of things. Besides, Enoch and his family will be close by. I’m sure Silvie can help out, too. Isn’t that right, Ammie?”
Amethyst looked at him and took a deep breath to get control of her emotions. The truth was, he wouldn’t be missed much at all, considering the way he spent most of his time. Abe Noble considered himself a “gentleman farmer,” a country squire. Apparently that meant that his primary responsibility was to swagger around town with a brass-headed walking stick and wager every dime of his earnings on the card games in the back room of Colby’s Tavern. The growing acceptance of prohibition laws supposedly made liquor more difficult to come by, but that didn’t seem to have much effect upon Father or the rest of his cronies down at Colby’s. Amethyst often heard him come in late at night drunk and angry, and several times recently her mother had come to the breakfast table with bruises on her face and arms. Mama made excuses for him, of course, but Amethyst knew the truth.
Yes. Despite her mother’s tearful protests, it would be better for all of them if he were gone for a while. Maybe the army would instill some adult responsibility in him. She had heard that men often returned from war radically changed. Perhaps such a miracle would happen to her father, as well—even at his age.
They could only hope and pray.
Silvie sat in the rocking chair with her embroidery while Amethyst lay on the bed reading Carl Sandburg’s “Chicago Poems” aloud. Silvie liked to hear Amethyst read; her voice was so animated, so passionate—especially when she was reading poetry. Sandburg was a rough kind of poet, and as a country girl, Silvie didn’t identify with a lot of what he wrote about the city. Still, his words were powerful and stirring and, like all good poetry, left her with the feeling that anything was possible.
Out of the corner of her eye she watched the expressions on Amethyst’s face as she read. The girl seemed so much more at peace, now that her father was gone. Yesterday he had boarded the train, bound for Memphis to sign up for the war. He had been out of the house barely one day, and yet the change in Amethyst was remarkable, as if a storm cloud had lifted from her soul.
Silvie, too, was glad he was gone. She had felt uncomfortable around Mister Abe for nearly as long as she could remember—the way his eyes followed her, the way he smiled at her and stroked his mustache with a kind of leer tugging at his mouth. She had told no one about her feelings, and she wasn’t entirely certain that anything bad would have happened if he ever did manage to get her alone, but she kept her guard up nevertheless. Now she, like Amethyst, relaxed in the assurance of his departure.
How sad it was, that her friend was more comfortable in her father’s absence than in his presence! Silvie couldn’t imagine such a situation for herself—she adored her daddy. He was a wonderful provider, a doting father, and, when her mother was alive, a devoted husband. In Silvie’s mind, Enoch Warren had to be the most wonderful man on the face of the earth. Her only question was whether any man she married would ever measure up to him.
Amethyst had stopped reading and was staring curiously at her. “Silvie, are you listening?”
“Yes. At least I was. I guess I got to woolgathering for a minute or two.”
“I want to ask a favor of you.”
Silvie smiled. “Go on.”
“Mama’s going to be out of her mind with grief, now that Father’s gone.”
“Don’t I know it.” Silvie gave a shrug. She and Amethyst had been best friends for years. Neither their racial difference nor their age difference mattered—in fact, the four-year span between them had seemed to shrink as they grew up. They were more like sisters than friends, and were completely candid with one another. “I have to admit I don’t understand it. I’d think your mother would be relieved not to have to deal with his drinking and gambling and . . . well, everything else.”
Amethyst nodded. “Yes, but you know how Mama is. She’s always turned a blind eye to his faults, as if a bad marriage to a foolhardy man is better than no marriage at all. I’d rather be an old maid all my days than put up with what she’s endured.” She let out a deep sigh.
“The favor?” Silvie prompted.
“I’d like you to stay here with us while Father’s gone. Mama’s going to be a handful to deal with, and I’m going to need all the support I can get.”
“I’ll ask Daddy, but I reckon it won’t be a problem.” Silvie raised one eyebrow. “What you really want is a live-in cook.”
“Silvie! You know I don’t think of you that way!”
“I’m just kidding.”
“You’d better be. What I want is the company and assistance of my best friend.” Amethyst grinned. “Of course, if you’d like to make your fabulous custard pie now and then, I wouldn’t object.”
Amethyst and Silvie were in the kitchen fixing dinner when they heard the knock on the front door. Mama had taken to her bed with a fit of vapors, so the meal was going to be a simple one—fried pork chops with sliced tomatoes and butterbeans.
“I’ll get it.” Amethyst laid down the knife, wiped her hands on a dishtowel, and went to the front door. On the porch, hat in hand, stood a tall, thin stranger in an army uniform, a grave expression on his face.
“I’m looking for Mrs. Abraham Noble,” he said. “I’m Captain Wolfe.”
“I’m sorry,” Amethyst responded. “She’s—ah, incapacitated right now. I’m her daughter. May I help you?”
The officer averted his eyes. “No ma’am. I mean, I must speak to Mrs. Noble on a private matter. It’s essential that I see her.”
“Come in.” Amethyst opened the door and ushered the man into the parlor. “I’ll just be a moment.”
She went upstairs and roused her mother, and in a few minutes the two of them, along with Silvie, sat opposite the stranger, staring at him.
Amethyst watched as Mama ran a hand through her scraggly hair and forced herself to focus. “You must understand,” she murmured, “I’m not well. My husband has just left to enlist in the army, and—” Tears overcame her, and she put her face in her hands and sobbed.
“It’s all right, Mama,” Amethyst said. “Try to pull yourself together.”
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.” Captain Wolfe shifted in his seat. “About your husband.”
A fist closed around Amethyst’s heart, and she reached a hand toward Silvie. “What is it? Has something happened?”
The man nodded. “He took the train to Memphis yesterday morning?”
“Yes.”
“There was an accident, a derailment. I’m sorry to tell you this, ma’am, but I’m afraid your husband is dead.”
Mama let out a wail, and Silvie gripped Amethyst’s hand so tightly that her knuckles cracked.
Amethyst gaped at him. “Dead?”
“Yes, miss,” the officer affirmed, finally giving up on Mama and addressing Amethyst directly for the first time. “A loose rail on a trestle. It gave way as the train passed over the Tallahatchie River. We have his name on the manifest, but—” He looked up with a sorrowful gaze and shrugged. “His body must have washed downriver. They’re still searching, but so far it—ah, he—hasn’t been recovered.”
The officer paused for a minute and shifted uncomfortably while Mama wept at the top of her lungs. At last he asked, “How old was your father, miss?”
Amethyst thought for a minute. “Fifty-two.”
The officer shook his head. “It’s a terrible tragedy. I’m afraid the army wouldn’t have accepted him anyway. He should have known that.”
Amethyst tried to take in the devastating nature of the news, but all she could feel was relief. The same relief, multiplied tenfold, that she had felt the morning before as she had watched the train pull out of the station. He was gone. Not just for a few months or a year, but forever. Her father was dead.
The relief vanished, however, when she looked at Mama. A temporary separation had been hard enough on her. What would this do to her? In that instant, Amethyst felt the weight of the world settle on her shoulders, and any remnant of peace dissipated.
While Mama keened on, Silvie gripped Amethyst’s fingers and gave her a knowing look.
“We’ll make it,” she whispered. “We’ll get through this. I promise.”