December 25, 1917
Rain had been falling steadily for five straight days. The clock ticked loudly, echoing through the empty house. Four-thirty.
Amethyst walked to the window and watched as the drops slid down the wavering glass panes. Her stomach rumbled, and she thought briefly that she should go to the kitchen and heat up some of the leftovers Silvie had sent home with her from the family dinner at noon.
Christmas had been a somber celebration this year—the gathering of the Warrens in the big house Silvie’s grandpa Booker had built during the Reconstruction. The only white face among them was Amethyst’s, and although the wild turkey Silvie’s brother had shot was delicious, nobody had felt much like eating. Conversation was stilted and formal; no one dared broach the subject they were all thinking about.
One week ago today, they had stood in a semicircle in the white cemetery adjacent to the old Rivermont Plantation and buried Amethyst’s mother. Even though her father’s body had never been recovered, a joint headstone served for Abraham Noble and his wife, bearing the ironic inscription, United for Eternity. Next to the mound of mud that covered her mother’s coffin lay a third plot, unused. Waiting for Amethyst. Calling to her, beckoning from beyond.
It would be a welcome relief to answer the summons. Just to lie down and go to sleep and let peaceful death free her from the burden of going on with life.
But Amethyst knew, deep in her soul, that she couldn’t—wouldn’t—give in so readily. The path that lay before her was a difficult, lonely one, but something inside urged her on, promised her that she would be all right, that she had the inner fortitude and courage to face whatever lay ahead. She had no idea where this assurance came from, but she believed it. It was a truth that tolled in her spirit like a bell, its low, solid note vibrating through the very core of her being.
Amethyst watched as a single droplet of water, separate from the others, made its languid track down the far corner of the glass. She saw herself in that raindrop, alone on a journey that no one else could share, and a knot of apprehension twisted inside her. Where would she find the money to pay the taxes on the house, and the bills her father had left behind? How would she manage? The future stretched out before her, bleak and empty as the winter sky, and a thrill of fear ran through her.
I have to quit thinking like this, she reprimanded herself. She had to have faith, had to trust that inner voice. She had to believe—if not in God, then in her own strength and resourcefulness. She was determined not to be like her mother. She would not simply lie down and give up. She would fight—whatever fighting meant—for a life of her own, a life of meaning and significance and fulfillment.
The solitary raindrop paused in its downward slide, then began to move again. But before it hit the windowsill, a second raindrop appeared, then a third, then a fourth. They merged into one, shot down the windowpane, and landed with a resounding splat on the sill.
Amethyst gazed at the pattern created by the splash of water against glass. It looked like a star—like the cut-glass star that hung over the créche on the mantel.
The star that had led others before her to their destiny.
The attic was dim and musty. When Noble House had been electrified, no one had thought to put a light up here. At dusk, with the rain pouring down, Amethyst could barely see the stacks of trunks and boxes and old furniture that had accumulated over the years.
She lit a kerosene lamp and placed it on a rickety table just beyond the stairs. Yes. That was better. At least she wouldn’t trip and break a leg.
She wasn’t really certain what she was looking for. She had no conviction that she would find anything of value, anything that would help her out of the financial mess Father had willed to her as his legacy. But it was Christmas Day, and she was alone. What better time to seek some kind of connection with her ancestors?
Amethyst didn’t know nearly enough about her grandparents, Silas and Pearl Noble. She knew the common history shared between the Nobles and Warrens, of course, but she needed more. Something deeper. Something more . . . personal. Her father had always been reluctant to talk about the past, as if he had something to hide. He had told her only that her grandpa Silas had been a doctor during the Civil War, and had been assisted in his practice by her grandma Pearl. Amethyst didn’t ask many questions; it was abundantly clear that there had been some kind of falling-out between Father and Grandpa Silas. And if she had learned anything as a child, it was to tiptoe around Father’s anger as if avoiding a bed of fire ants.
She took the lamp in one hand and began making a circuit of the attic. For an hour she sorted through boxes of old books and moth-eaten clothing, finding only a few ratty medical texts that no doubt had belonged to Grandpa Silas. The dust and mold filled her nostrils and made her sneeze.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, coughing and gasping for air. “Somebody should have burned this stuff ages ago.”
She set the lamp on the floor, struggled to her feet, and attempted to brush the grime of decades off her dress. But just as she leaned down to retrieve the lamp, her heel caught in the hem of her gown and set her off-balance. She put a hand out to steady herself, and a tower of boxes went down in a clattering crash.
“Amethyst? Are you all right? Where are you?”
Silvie’s voice drifted up from downstairs, and Amethyst felt a warm rush of relief wash over her. “I’m in the attic,” she called. “Can you give me a hand?”
After a minute or two Silvie’s brown face appeared in the small doorway. “What in the name of Saint Peter are you doing?”
“I have no idea,” Amethyst responded with a grin. “Just poking around, I guess.”
“Law, you look like a chimney sweep.” Silvie doubled over with laughter. “Or like you’re all made up to do a blackface vaudeville act.” She held out her arms and rolled her eyes. “Mammy!”
“Would you stop, please?” Amethyst motioned to the overturned boxes. “I need help here, not humor.”
Silvie climbed into the attic chamber and stood up. “It’s a mess, that’s for sure.”
“An understatement if I’ve ever heard one. Could you help me pick up these boxes and stack them—” Amethyst looked around. “Over there.”
“All right.” Silvie raised one eyebrow and pointed at Amethyst’s filthy dress. “But don’t ’spect this chile to be doin’ none of your laundry, missus.” She chuckled and began moving boxes to the corner.
“Silvie, look!” Amethyst took the lamp and sat down on the floor behind the fallen boxes.
“What is it?”
“It’s a trunk—a very old one, if the rust and dirt are any indication.” She wiped a hand across the front, revealing faded white letters. “S. Noble. Silvie, this must have belonged to my grandfather!” She struggled to open it. “The lock is rusted shut.”
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.