Cristabelle_The Christmas Bride

by Hebby Roman

  Her arms ached, and her back, from leaning over, spasmed. Perspiration, despite the coolness of the early spring morning, rolled down her face and slicked her body. The fire in the hearth kept the laundry room over-heated, and the steam from the outside cauldron rolled in through the spaces between the planks.

  Her mother had applied for a laundress job at the fort, but she’d been turned down because the work was too hard, especially for an older woman. Crissy had met Isabel at church, and they’d struck up an acquaintance. It had been Isabel who’d given her the job. And though it was hard work, she was grateful.

  She lifted her arm and wiped her brow with her sleeve. She hung up the ironed shirt and grabbed another. Glancing at the sun through the slats, she wondered if it was close to their mid-day break.

  Why was woman’s work so hard?

  She longed for the cool quiet of the Ursuline Convent, where she’d spent her early days, learning her letters and praying to her Savior. Those days were long past—now she needed to take care of her mother. Being a laundress was one of the few ways, on the frontier, she could earn a decent living.

  Sighing, she closed her eyes, only to find a mischievous pair of turquoise eyes, set in a too-handsome face, twinkling at her. She’d never thought about men before, but she’d never met a man she liked. Or such a handsome one. Much less been kissed. Dreaming, she touched her lips again.

  The outside door swung open. “God help us, she’s sick again.”

  Her eyes flew open to see Nora Phillips, the nurse who took care of the commander’s wife, coming into the laundry room with a pile of towels and sheets. The linens reeked of blood and vomit.

  Crissy set her iron down and went to take the soiled linens from Nurse Phillips.

  Everyone knew the commander’s wife was dying. She’d been in the hospital at Fort Sam Houston for several months. There had been nothing the doctors could do, and Martha Gregor had wanted to spend her remaining days with her husband and daughter.

  When her husband had been transferred from Fort Concho to Fort Clark, the commander had honored his wife’s wishes and brought her to Fort Clark, along with a nurse to care for her.

  Crissy felt sorry for Mrs. Gregor. It was difficult being ill. She’d learned how hard it could be, taking care of her mother.

  Nurse Phillips handed her the sheets and towels. “That’s a good girl, thank you.”

  She squinted her eyes at Crissy and took out her spectacles, holding them up to her eyes and pointing. “You girl, I want you to come and help me with the Missus.”

  Crissy didn’t know what to think about the abrupt command. She dumped the befouled linens in the dirty pile and turned to Isabel. “What do you want me to do?”

  “If Miss Phillips has need of you, Crissy, you should go.” Isabel gazed at the other laundresses and nodded at Betsy. “We’ll find someone else to iron shirts.”

  “All right. I’ll go.” Crissy turned to Nurse Phillips.

  The nurse opened the laundry door. “Get on with you, then.”

  * * *

  First Sergeant David Donovan threw his shoulders back and held himself at attention for the trumpeter’s call to the colors.

  Corporal Livingstone hoisted the colors on the tall flagpole, and the stars and stripes waved in the breeze. Captain MacTavish shouted, “Attention!”

  Davie and his fellow troops clicked their heels together, lifted their arms, and saluted the flag.

  The trumpeter raised his horn again and tooted out the distinctive notes for their mess call. Captain MacTavish dismissed them, and the soldiers scurried toward the communal kitchen, eager to get their breakfast.

  Davie held back, kicking a stone across the parade yard and gazing at the laundry. He felt as if he’d been struck by lightning, remembering the touch of the girl’s lips on his.

  He’d never met such a lass. She was bright as a new penny, her brown hair a glory, her tawny eyes sparkling, and her skin the color of an almond.

  He touched his lips with his fingertips, tracing the lingering sensation. He’d kissed many a girl before, but none had knocked him off kilter, making his world spin and change course.

  He was a bounder and for sure, he’d kissed girls and done more with some who’d been willing. But none of them had affected him as Miss Smith had. He snorted. If that was her name. She hadn’t been too sure of it.

  On the frontier, it was common enough to change your identity. Something about the wide expanse of land drew people who needed a second chance, who wanted to start over, despite the hardships and danger.

  For Davie, the frontier gave him a sense of freedom—it was the reason he’d joined the Army. At the same time, being a soldier provided him with a purpose. He liked to think he was protecting his fellow citizens from the dangers of border raids and marauding hostiles.

  He stood, staring at the laundry shack, wondering at the strange effect Cristabelle Smith had over him. He hoped to see her at mid-day when the laundresses left their steamy environs and went their separate ways home. He stroked his cheek where she’d slapped him. She was a feisty girl, that one. He liked women with spirit.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder and someone hollered in his ear, “Atten, hup!”

  Turning, he found Captain MacTavish beside him. The good captain nudged him with the butt of his carbine. “You’ve been commanded to spend the day in the brig, Sergeant Donovan, for gambling.” The captain ripped a stripe from his shoulder. “And demoted.”

  Davie rolled his eyes and looked down at his torn sleeve. Another job for Miss Crissy and her fellow laundresses, to fix his stripes. He’d known punishment would be forthcoming, and he’d been waiting.

  Well, the waiting was over. How many times had he been demoted and promoted again?

  He’d lost count.

  The guardhouse wasn’t bad—a small, one-room building with a single window, set high up. The guardhouse was located behind the commissary and furnished with a cot, a table and chair. He’d been in worse places.

  Still, he didn’t like losing a stripe or spending the day cooped up. It would be a freezing day in hell before he forgot what Felix had done, turning him in, to pull ahead in rank and lord it over him. Some men couldn’t be trusted, and Felix Dawes was one of them. A lifer and a lick-spittle.

  He met the captain’s gaze square on. “Gambling is it? Sure, and begorrah, a bit of playing at gambling with matchsticks. Not real money. How can a man be—?”

  “No sweet talking me, laddie,” the captain said, taking hold of his arm. “The commander said you’re to stay a day in the brig, and a day, you’ll stay. Gambling is gambling, no matter the coin.”

  “Oh, Sweet Jesus—”

  “We’ll have none of that, either. You know how the commander feels about swearing. He’s an upstanding man.”

  Davie huffed. “All right. Take me to my doom without a say-and-so.” He handed the captain his sidearm and sighed. The commander was a fair man, and everyone on the post knew his wife was dying, which must be hard for any man.

  He glanced again at the laundry shack, wondering how he’d feel if he knew something bad might be happening to his Crissy?

  His Crissy—where had that come from?

  Chapter Two

  Crissy followed Nurse Phillips into the largest of the limestone houses on Officer’s Row. The commander’s home, unlike the other officers’ houses, didn’t share a common wall between the row houses. His home stood in solitary splendor at the head of a dirt-rutted street and had a long, deep front porch.

  She hesitated on the threshold, taking in the large but neat sitting room. There was a small couch, an overstuffed chair, and a rocker clustered around the hearth. Each of them had a lace doily covering the headrests and arms. A tall grandfather clock stood in one corner. And there was a refractory table with a large vase, holding a bouquet of spring wildflowers to lend color to the cozy room.

  She’d heard of such opulence but had never, in he
r short life, seen a house like this. She was more accustomed to one room serving as both sitting room and bedroom, and sometimes, as a kitchen, too, if they’d been lucky enough to have a fireplace or pot-belly stove.

  The wood on the furniture gleamed with oil and the lace doilies were pristine white, but in the corner by the hearth, a young girl sat, hunched over. Her head was in her hands, and Crissy could hear her softly sobbing.

  The girl must be the commander’s daughter, and Crissy’s heart went out to her. She knew exactly how it felt to have a sick mother who could pass from this world to the next at any time. She took a step toward the girl, wanting to comfort her.

  Nurse Phillips stopped her, yanking on her arm. “She’s the daughter, Margaret. You’ve not been introduced.” The older woman snorted. “And not likely to be. Leave the girl alone. Can’t you see she’s grieving?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I need you to help me, Miss Smith. Not be bothering the commander’s family.” She tugged on her arm and led her down a short hallway to a door. The nurse opened the door, and they slipped inside.

  The room was a complex mixture of the not-so-nice smells typical of a sickroom, overlaid with the stringent odors of lye and bleach. At least Nurse Phillips kept the room as clean and fresh as possible, given the circumstances.

  Crissy struggled each day, working at the laundry, and making sure her mother was fed and cared for. Most nights, she was lucky to get a few hours of sleep.

  The commander’s wife, a small lump under a brightly-patterned quilt, lay on her side. Her pillow and the mattress were bare. Crissy realized the nurse had stripped the soiled sheets and brought them to the laundry.

  “I need your help to move her, so we can make up the bed,” Nurse Phillips said. “Before, she was strong enough to sit beside the bed for a few minutes, but now, she’s seldom conscious.” The nurse shook her head and sighed. “I can’t lift her and make the bed at the same time. Lieutenant Colonel Gregor wouldn’t be pleased to see his wife lying in an unmade bed, no matter the circumstances.”

  The older woman snorted again. “And their girl ain’t no help. All she does is lolly-gag around and cry.”

  “I’ll help, Miss Phillips. Please, tell me what to do,” Crissy said.

  The next hour passed in a flurry of orders issued by Nurse Phillips with Crissy doing her bidding. Half-way through getting a senseless Mrs. Gregor cleaned up and settled on freshly-laundered sheets, the fort’s trumpeter bugled the second mess call of the day.

  Crissy’s stomach grumbled, and she glanced at the overhead sun through one of the large, glazed windows. Her fellow laundresses would be taking their mid-day break, and she was hungry enough to eat a bear. She hadn’t eaten since supper last night.

  But they weren’t done. Nurse Phillips was a taskmaster, and she wasn’t satisfied until Crissy had wiped down all the furniture and scrubbed the floor.

  She almost balked at doing the nurse’s housekeeping work but decided against it. Instead, she watched as the nurse cradled her frail patient’s shoulders and tried to rouse her enough to dribble water into her mouth.

  Mrs. Gregor woke for a moment and swallowed some water. But when the nurse tried to feed her broth, she turned her head away. Nurse Phillips hugged her patient and rocked her back and forth, as if she was a baby.

  Crissy’s eyes stung, and she had to swallow back tears. She looked away and finished the last patch of floor. She hefted the bucket of dirty water and trudged to the front door. Mrs. Gregor’s daughter had quit the sitting room, and Crissy thought she smelled burnt bread, coming from the kitchen.

  She walked a few yards from the house and dumped the water in a ditch on the other side of the dusty street. She returned, eager for her release, to eat the bacon and biscuits she’d packed. If she was late for the mid-day meal, she hoped Isabel would be kind enough to let her have a few minutes.

  She entered the house and found the commander’s daughter standing on the threshold of what must be the kitchen, twisting her hands in her apron.

  “My name is Margaret,” the girl greeted her. “Though most people call me Peggy.” She held out her hand.

  Crissy took her soft, child’s hand and shook it. “My name is Cristabelle, though most people call me Crissy.” She echoed the girl’s introduction, while realizing Nurse Phillips wouldn’t approve.

  “Would you like some toast, butter, and tea? It’s all I know to make. Nurse Phillips promised to teach me to cook, but my mother has been sick.” She hung her head and gazed at the floor.

  Crissy wanted to hug the half-grown child, but she settled for patting her shoulder. “How kind of you. I’d love some bread and butter and tea.”

  She’d had tea on rare occasions. It was an exotic luxury she saved for her mother. Mostly, she made do with black coffee, sweetened by an occasional sugar lump when they had a little extra money.

  “It’s thoughtful of you, Peggy, as I missed my break at the laundry—”

  “And you’ll not be taking your break here, girl.” Nurse Phillips appeared and took her by the arm, tugging. “It’s time you got back to the laundry.” She pulled her out the front door and practically threw her off the porch.

  The nurse shook her finger at her. “You’ll not be befriending the commander’s family.” She sniffed. “Not the likes of you. But I’ll need you to come every day to help with Mrs. Gregor.”

  “But I have to get permission from Mrs. Garza to—”

  “See that you do.” The nurse had joined her in the yard and stood towering over her. For a big woman, Nurse Phillips certainly could move fast and with the grace of a well-fed cat. “Be sure you get permission. I’ve no one else to help.”

  Crissy didn’t mind helping, feeling sorry for the Gregors, but at the same time, Nurse Phillips had no right to order her around. “I’m sure some of the other girls could come, too. Knowing Mrs. Garza, I think it’s what she’d want, to have us take turns.”

  Nurse Phillips grabbed her arm again, and her fingernails dug into Crissy’s tender skin. “I don’t want to be beholden to Mrs. Garza. Mexican woman, isn’t she? Like those devils who raid across the border.” She pushed her face into Crissy’s. “You’ll do my bidding and your job at the laundry, or I’ll be telling the commander what your mother is, Miss Shannon.”

  Crissy gasped and lowered her head, her heart pounding in her ears.

  She’d been careful to keep her mother a secret—only a few people knew she was taking care of her: Isabel, Father Fernández, and the fort’s doctor, a kind man, Dr. Irving. And of course, Mr. Brackett and his wife, Maxine, who they rented their room from knew. And without thinking too hard, she could guess who had talked.

  The commander was known as a fair man, but he was also puritanical in his beliefs, frowning on any kind of vice. Would Isabel be allowed to keep her on, if the commander knew her mother had been… a whore?

  She looked up and found Nurse Phillips staring down at her, a smug smile on her face.

  Crissy couldn’t take the chance. Being a laundress at the fort was one of the few decent jobs for a woman in this frontier outpost. She knew because she’d tried everything when her father, Renzo Martinelli, a stone mason, had fallen to his death when he was building the fort’s headquarters.

  With Nurse Phillips knowing her secret, her long, never-ending days had gotten longer.

  “When do you want me to come?” she asked.

  “I’ll fetch you when you’re needed. Peggy can sit with her mother for a few minutes.”

  “All right.” Crissy screwed up her courage and stared the big, ugly woman down. “How long will you be needing my help?”

  The nurse snorted, and her eyes filled with tears. She looked away. “Until Mrs. Gregor dies, Girl. What do you think?” She stared at her hands and sniffed. “Don’t be worrying about the extra work.” A tear slipped down her lined face. “It won’t be long now. You’ll be free and your secret safe.”

  C
rissy gulped. Put that way, she was ashamed for dreading the extra work. It was obvious the nurse was a tough woman, accustomed to getting her way. And as a nurse, she must have seen a lot of sickness and death. Crissy was surprised at Nurse Phillips’ genuine grief for her patient.

  But Nurse Phillips obviously cared for Mrs. Gregor, and Crissy knew how precious that was—true and unselfish compassion.

  She sighed, knowing it would be hard to keep Isabel happy, Nurse Phillips from spilling her secret, and her mother cared for.

  Maxine often looked in on her mother during the day, but Crissy couldn’t afford to pay her anything. She’d thought the woman was being kind, but now it seemed, Mrs. Brackett was gossiping behind their backs.

  What would happen if her mother became as weak as Mrs. Gregor?

  She mustn’t dwell on it—praying daily her mother would get better. She had to meet each day as it came.

  Thinking back to the morning, she knew she was being tested. She’d kissed a man, breaking her vow, and she’d dreamed about him, too. She was guilty, and this was her penance.

  It couldn’t have been more fitting.

  * * *

  Crissy opened the general store’s front door, and the brass bell tinkled overhead. She glimpsed the beautiful, ice-blue moiré silk dress in the window. She’d often dreamed about the dress, wishing she could own one pretty thing in her life.

  But for what?

  To attract young men? Her longing was pure worldly avarice on her part. She needed to put those thoughts aside, especially now.

  Staring at the floor, she wanted to go straight to her room in the back. It was long past mid-afternoon when she usually got off, and she was worried about her mother.

  “You’re late today, Crissy,” Maxine Brackett greeted her from behind the store’s long counter. “Everything all right at the fort?”

  Crissy glanced up, but she was tempted not to answer, almost certain Maxine was the one who’d shared her mother’s secret. Suspecting Mrs. Brackett of gossiping and compromising her position, she wished they could move.