“Yes, sir, that will be all right.” The earnestness of Jeff ’s eyes gave Charissa confidence. She looked down and smiled. She did not know what was happening to her, but somehow she felt that it was good.
“Charissa, this is Mrs. Shultz. She’s our housekeeper. Mrs. Shultz, I would like you to meet Miss Charissa Desjardin.”
The older woman smiled and said in her thick, German accent, “Yah, it is gute to have you here.”
“Will you show her to her room?”
“Yes, indeed, sir.”
“How is my father?”
“He’s somewhat better.”
“Thank the Lord for that. Charissa, you go along with Mrs. Shultz.”
“Yes, sir,” Charissa said as she turned and followed the housekeeper.
“Did you haff a good journey?” Mrs. Schultz asked.
“Yes, ma’am. It was very nice. I had never been on a boat before.”
Mrs. Shultz was obviously curious about her, but she asked no more questions. The room to which the housekeeper took Charissa was every bit as beautiful as the one at Dr. Debakky’s. It was a large room with two floor-length windows along the far wall, and a small desk and chair between them. The room had dark green and white wallpaper with illustrations of trees and birds, and wall-to-wall carpet of a light brown color. The furniture was made of shining wood, and a canopy floated over the bed enveloped in dark green velvet curtains.
“Such a lovely room!” she exclaimed to Mrs. Shultz.
“Yah, it is. I vill leave you alone now. Marcus vill bring up your tings.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“You can call me Olga.”
“Yes, Olga.”
As soon as the housekeeper left the room, Charissa studied the furniture more closely. She opened the drawers on the big chest and saw that they were empty. Plenty of room for my new things.
She sat on the bed, then walked to the window and looked outside at the street. A knock sounded at the door, and she moved to open it.
Dr. Whitman greeted her. “I’d like for you to meet my father, if you would.”
“Yes, sir.” Charissa was very interested in this man. She followed Jeff down to the first floor, into a big bedroom, and found, to her surprise, a rather small man. He was wearing a white linen suit and sat in a chair beside the window. He stood slowly, and she saw the signs of illness on his face. Why, he looks nothing like Dr. Whitman!
“This is my father, Dr. Irving Whitman. Father, this is Miss Charissa Desjardin.”
“I am so happy to meet you, my dear.”
The old man bowed to her, and Charissa curtsied as she had seen ladies do. This was indeed a strange new world.
“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.”
“Thank you, Jeff,” Dr. Whitman said. When the door closed, the old man said, “Please, I haven’t been too well lately, and I need to sit down.” They both took seats in chairs by the window.
Charissa sat nervously. Dr. Irving Whitman was watching her carefully, and he had a strange expression on his face. He asked her about her trip, and while she spoke, she saw that he was staring at her. He was clearly a troubled man. He fidgeted, clasping and unclasping his hands.
“Is something wrong, sir?”
“No . . . no, of course not. It’s just that I was thinking of other things and of someone else.”
Charissa realized that this was the man at whose bidding Jefferson had come. “Please, Dr. Whitman, I don’t understand what’s happening. Did you send your son to find me?”
“Yes, I did.”
“But why? It has something to do with my mother, doesn’t it?”
Irving Whitman sighed heavily and nodded.
“Won’t you please tell me? I need to understand what I’m doing here. It’s all so—it’s all so strange.”
Irving Whitman had imagined this moment for a long time. When he had gotten word from Jeff that Bethany had died, he had felt grieved that he could not make up some of his wrongdoing to her. Then all of his attention had turned to his daughter. He knew that she was, for he saw traces of Bethany, but also some of his own features in her. Finally he said, “I want you to do me a great favor, my dear young lady.”
“Yes, sir. What is it?”
“I want you to listen to everything I have to say without saying a word. Please don’t leave. Don’t speak until I have finished. Then you may say anything you wish.”
Mystified by this, Charissa said, “Yes, sir.” She trembled as the old man began to speak. He rambled at first about his youth, how he grew up, what sort of a man he was, and she could not imagine what was coming. When at last he began to speak of the beautiful young mulatto girl who served in his household, truth began to dawn upon her. Her lips parted, and her eyes widened as he spoke of how he had taken advantage of the young woman.
“I think, my dear, you can guess the rest of it. I behaved badly. I persuaded my father to sell your mother. She left, and I thought that was the end of it. Then, when I sent Jeff to find your mother, of course, he didn’t find her, but he found you.”
The old man’s eyes held pure misery, and he shook his head sadly. “I suppose all of us would like to go back and change things. I don’t know if I would ever have had the strength.” He whispered, “Your mother was a lovely woman in every way. I’m so sorry, my dear. So very sorry.”
Charissa saw that he had finished, and she asked quietly, “But—why am I here?”
“Charissa, I want to try to make up for the wrong I did your mother. You’re my daughter. I know I don’t have too many years left to live, but what time I have, I want to do my best to help you. Can you ever forgive me, do you think?”
Charissa felt numb.
“I know this is a shock for you, and I won’t ask you to speak now. But when you’ve thought it over, if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, you would make an old man very happy. Why don’t you go now, and think this all over?”
“Yes, sir.” Charissa tore her eyes from Irving’s and left the room. Her mind was whirling. Without thinking, she moved toward two French doors that led to a side garden. She stepped outside and stopped. Jefferson Whitman, who had been sitting on a cast-iron bench, stood. She said, “Your father has just told me about . . . about my mother.”
“He’s very grieved, Charissa. He’s an old man and sick, and he’s doing all he can to make up for the wrong he did your mother. I know you’re confused, but in time, I hope that you’ll forgive him.”
Charissa was silent for a minute. Then she turned and looked up into his face. “I’m your half-sister?”
“Not really, Charissa. You see, I’m adopted. Dr. Whitman is not my real father, so we’re not related by blood. But Dr. Whitman wants you to have all the rights of a daughter.”
Charissa found her hands were trembling. Jeff saw and reached out and took them. “I know this is so hard for you.”
“I don’t know what to do. I can see your father is a good man.”
“He’s the best man I’ve ever met. He made a terrible mistake, but he wants to make it right.”
Charissa looked down. His hands were large and strong, and they gave her a sense of comfort. “I don’t think I can do it, sir.”
“Of course you can,” Jefferson smiled. “I’ll help you.”
Charissa studied his eyes. “Will you, sir?”
“Not ‘sir.’ Just Jeff. We’re brother and sister, after a fashion, and I’d like for you to think of me as an older brother. Yes, I’ll help you. You know,” he said with a crooked smile, “I think it would be rather fun, having a younger sister.”
“Fun?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. He released her hand and stood loosely before her, a tall, lanky man with a homely face and a kindly light in his eyes. “When your suitors begin to come, Charissa, I’ll be very stern. I’ll scare them to death and run most of them off. Yes, I’ll be very particular about the man who comes calling on my sister!”
Charissa suddenly thought about t
he first time she had seen him. “I hated you when you first came.”
“I realized that,” he said dryly. “I believe you would have shot me, if you had had a gun.”
“I thought you were like all the other men who had tried to use me. But you’re different. I don’t think you’d ever hurt anyone.”
Jeff released her hands and put both of his on her shoulders. Ordinarily, she felt tense and afraid when a man did this. But she felt no fear of this man who stood before her. He held her glance for a moment, then said, “You’ve come home, Charissa, and I’ll take care of you.”
Charissa Desjardin knew he meant exactly what he said. After years of fighting and struggling and building walls, she had come to this. She smiled then at the tall young man, a full smile, and said, “I’m glad to be here, Jeff.”
PART THREE
• 1834–1835 •
Jeff
Chapter thirteen
A yellow beam of sunlight shone from the window as Charissa stirred the saucepan. She turned toward it, noting the dust motes dancing, and the sight pleased her. No one could count those tiny things—but if Papa is right, God knows every one of them.
“It’s April the first—April Fool’s Day, the Americans call it.” Olga Shultz had entered, and, coming over to stand beside Charissa, she bent and sniffed the food simmering. “That smells gute,” she commented, “but it should be. I haf been teaching you for two years now how to cook!”
Charissa smiled. When she had first come to live with her father two years earlier, she wasn’t sure she liked the older woman. Olga had a stern manner, and several months had passed before Charissa learned that she was a kindly, generous woman. Now the two were friends.
“The doctor seems happier these days. I think part of it is your doing.” Olga always referred to the older Whitman as “the doctor.” “And that is gute! You know that man lives for you, I tink. Your coming here vas like a medicine to him.”
“It was for me, too, Olga. I’d never known anything like contentment before I came here.” Charissa chewed her lip thoughtfully and shook her head. “Papa isn’t doing as well as I’d like. I’m afraid for him.”
“You just haf to trust the gute Lord, Charissa.”
At that moment, Jeff entered the kitchen and smiled at the two women. “You’re fixing me something good to eat, I trust.” He wore his work suit, and his face was rosy from the razor.
“No, this is for Papa.”
“Are you going to be able to come in and help later on? I need you at the hospital.”
“Yes. I’ll be there as usual.”
Jeff put his arm around Charissa and squeezed her. “You’ve become a fine nurse, but a better sister.”
Olga Shultz, standing off to one side, watched the scene with careful scrutiny. She saw that Jeff was careless as always, quick to give Charissa a hug or a pat—but she saw the look in Charissa’s eyes, and the thought came to her as it had often. She cares more for Jeff than he knows. He knows nothing about vimmen!
“You know, it’s a good thing to have a baby sister.” He touched her cheek. Then he headed for the door, saying, “I’ll see you later at the hospital.”
Olga watched as Charissa stared after Jeff, then heard her mutter between clenched teeth, “I am not your sister!” Then Charissa shook her head. Picking up a bowl, she poured it full of broth and put it on a tray along with a napkin and silverware. “I’ll take this in to Papa.”
When Charissa entered her father’s room, she found him still in bed. His eyes brightened and he said, “I’m lazy this morning.”
“You don’t have to get up. I brought breakfast to you. Here, I’ve come to see that you eat all of this.” She put the tray down so that he could reach it easily and then waited until he said grace, which he always did. Then he took a big bite and almost choked.
“That’s hot!” he said.
“Of course it’s hot. That’s what’s good for you.” Charissa busied herself about the room as he ate and then said, “I’m going to shave you this morning. I’ll go get the hot water.” When she came back with a basin full of steaming water, she put it down, then pulled the shaving mug from the cabinet and expertly worked up a lather. “Are you through?”
“All through.”
She moved the breakfast tray, then leaned over him. She lathered his face quickly and picked up a clean cloth, put it over her left arm, and picked up a razor. “Now, be still. Don’t wiggle.”
Irving Whitman sat quietly, leaning back as the young woman began to move the razor over his face. Her hands were sure, and she shaved him far more efficiently than any male barber ever had. As she worked on him, he studied her face, marveling at how she had changed since she had come to live under his roof. She had been sixteen then, almost seventeen, and now, in a few more days, she would reach her nineteenth birthday. Those two years had brought a miracle, as far he was concerned. She had been an adolescent then, but now she was a woman. Her eyes mirrored a kind of wisdom. And there was a rich store of vitality within Charissa that reminded him of her mother. She had blossomed indeed since coming to live in St. Louis, and not only physically; living without fear, she developed a sweetness and a strong spirit that pleased him greatly.
“There,” she said, wiping off the last of the lather and feeling the smoothness of his cheeks. “If I ever have to make a living, I can become a barber.”
“There are no lady barbers,” Whitman protested.
“There should be. Women are better at it than men.”
Irving laughed softly. “I expect you’re right about that. Sit down and talk to me.”
The two of them spoke quietly together for twenty minutes. One of the high points of Irving’s day was having Charissa simply spend time with him. “Jeff got a letter from Damita yesterday,” he said. “It’s a little strange to me, and I suppose it is to you.”
“It surprises me.”
Indeed, Charissa had watched the development of a relationship of some sort between Jefferson and Damita Madariaga ever since she had been there. She knew it had begun with a simple letter from Jeff telling Damita how well Charissa was doing. Damita had written back, and Jeff had shared the letter, at least the parts that expressed an interest in Charissa. Other letters had followed, and Jeff made two trips to New Orleans, giving for a reason his desire to spend more time with Elmo Debakky.
“What kind of a woman is she, Charissa? Jeff seems more interested in her than he has been in anyone for a long time.”
The question was hard for the young woman to answer. “I can think of her only as a harsh slave owner.”
Whitman saw displeasure written on Charissa’s face. “I suppose that’s inevitable,” he said. He was silent for a moment, and when she did not speak, he said, “What about you? That young Bradford fellow who called on you for a while doesn’t come around anymore.”
“No, he’s engaged to Emily Stratton.”
“You let her take him away from you? I’m surprised at you, Charissa.”
Charissa laughed. “I wasn’t interested in him. He was one of the most boring men I’ve ever met.”
“He was kind, though.”
“Yes, but boring.”
For a time the two were silent, and then Whitman reached over and took the young woman’s hand. “I’d like to see you marry before I go,” he said quietly.
“Please don’t talk like that!” Charissa did not like to hear about the possibility of Irving Whitman’s death, although she knew it could come at any moment. She had become so very fond of, and was so very grateful to, this good man that she could not bear to think of losing him.
“Why, I can’t think why you feel like that, Charissa. It’s a natural thing. I’ll hate to leave you, but at least God has enabled me to do something for you.”
“Something?” She leaned forward and took his hand in both of hers. “You’ve done everything for me.”
“I’m glad you feel that way.” He squeezed her hands and said, “The one thing I’d m
ost like to do for you is to introduce you to the Lord Jesus.” He saw her face change and said quickly, “I know you’ve got some memories that are very dark, but someday, you’re going to find out that Jesus is the best friend you could ever have.”
The two subjects that Charissa could not discuss with Dr. Whitman were his own precarious life and the matter of her feelings toward God. She had watched him, Jeff, and even Olga Shultz, and she saw in them an honest religion, but her early years had hardened her heart. She stood and said, “You need to get up now. I’ll lay your clothes out. Maybe we can go for a walk in the garden. It’s beautiful today.”
“All right, daughter. I think you’re right.”
The young man who lay on the table was not badly injured, but he had suffered a deep gash on his right forearm when he had crashed his buggy. His name, Charissa knew, was Howell Peters, for she had heard one of the doctors speak of him before Jeff had come in to stitch his wound. “Peters is a playboy,” Dr. Simpson had said as Charissa followed him down the hall. “Family’s got all the money in the world, but he’s a wild sort.”
Charissa had helped to prepare the patient, and he was groggy from the laudanum that she had administered to kill some of the pain. He evidently had a tough constitution: the medication knocked most men out. He was a tall young man, well built, with blue eyes and blond hair.
When Charissa had cleansed the wound, Jeff entered. “This will sting some, Mr. Peters.” He prepared to sew the wound.
“Go ahead, Doc. I’ll try not to cry.” He turned then and looked Charissa full in the face. “When a fellow gets hurt, it’s nice to have a handsome nurse.” When she did not answer, he said, “Are you married?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Oh, that’s good. Then I’d like to ask if I can come calling on you.”
“You’ll have to ask my brother.”
Peters winced as the needle bit into his flesh and then grinned. “He must be a sour old fellow, but I’ll chance it. Where will I find him?”
The Creole Historical Romance 4-In-1 Bundle Page 40
