Diane T. Ashley (8 page)

Jasmine knew the words were true. And they sounded like excellent advice … for someone who wanted a conventional life. “You sound like Papa and Lily. But what if God listens to them instead of me? I know they don’t want me to be an actress.”

Tamar’s dark face was dear to her. She had been more a mother than a servant to her and her two sisters. When Lily had secured Tamar’s freedom almost a dozen years earlier, it had been a moment of celebration for all of them. Her marriage to Jensen, a close friend of Blake’s, had been as sweet as caramel icing. Now she and Jensen made their home with Lily and Blake on the river, their happiness apparent in their actions and words. “Where did you ever get the idea that God shows favor to one of his children over the other?”

Jasmine shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious? Some people are rich. Others have nothing. He shows favor to them, doesn’t He? And I know both Papa and Lily are better Christians than I am. So it makes sense that He would listen to—”

Tamar’s laugh interrupted her words. “Child, child. You do have the oddest way of looking at life. People are not more or less Christian. We either accept Jesus and His free gift or we do not.” She put her pan on the table and reached for Jasmine’s hands. “Do you have Jesus in your heart?”

Jasmine remembered the day Papa had led her to Christ. She remembered the incredible lightness she’d experienced when she turned her life over to Him. But since then He’d become less and less a part of her daily routine. “Of course I do.” She silenced her conscience with an effort and met Tamar’s gaze.

“Then you should know that He places as much importance on your hopes and dreams as He does on those of your sister or your father.”

She wanted to believe what Tamar said. But it made no sense. Everyone had a favorite. Camellia was Aunt Dahlia’s favorite niece. Grandfather, a man who had spent little time with her, had lavished Lily with his love and attention. Jasmine knew she had been Grandmother’s favorite. Grandmother always said she was most like their mother, Rose, even though the portrait of her in the upper hallway at Les Fleurs showed more resemblance to Camellia. Mama’s hair had been blond, not dark like Jasmine’s. Nor were her eyes as dark. Grandmother had obviously been mistaken in her assessment.

It was time to turn the conversation in a different direction. “Do you think I’m a good actress?”

Tamar sat back and released Jasmine’s hands. “God’s given you many gifts, like He does all of His children. He’ll show you how to use them … if you’ll let Him.” She picked up her pan and began snapping beans once more. “Lily told me you want to go to Chicago.”

Irritation blew through Jasmine like a hot wind. Was there no one Lily had not discussed her with? First David and now Tamar. Was she to expect a homily from Blake next? “So the two of you talked about what should be done with me?”

“Your sister wants the best for you.”

Click, click, splatter
. More beans joined the growing pile in the pan.

Jasmine felt hemmed in on all sides. “Is it so wrong to want to use my God-given talents?”

“Of course not.”
Click, click, splatter
. “But maybe you should try to find a way that will ease Lily’s worries. She only wants what’s best for you.”

Frustration pushed Jasmine out of the chair. She walked to the doorway and looked out at the river sliding past them. She wished she could float away on that current, escape her overprotective family. If only they would let her go.

“Could you try for a job in New Orleans?”

The thought had occurred to Jasmine from time to time. New Orleans was a cosmopolitan city with many opportunities. But if she did start to gain notoriety, Lily would drag her back to Natchez, certain some nonexistent disaster was about to befall her. “I don’t think that will work.”

“I’ll pray about it.” Tamar sent her a sympathetic smile. “God is certain to see a way that we haven’t considered.”

Escaping from the galley, Jasmine wondered how Lily had managed to get most everyone on this boat to tell her the same thing. Was it some ploy to convince her to give up her dreams? She glanced up at the sky. Clouds obscured the sun, but its heat made the air sticky and warm, like a damp sponge surrounded her. Wishing for a fan, Jasmine considered going to her room, but the effort seemed too great. She’d have to return there soon enough to change for dinner.

Would God really listen to her? Over the years she’d come to see Him as a white-bearded king sitting on His throne in heaven—kindly but distant. Wouldn’t He be busy with others? People with more pressing needs than hers?

When she had first become a Christian, she’d talked to Him on a daily basis, asking Him to watch over her loved ones and petitioning Him for her heart’s desires. But somewhere along the way she had fallen out of the habit of praying every day. And little by little God and Christ and the Bible had become less important to her.

Closing her eyes, Jasmine leaned against the rail. She felt a little silly praying out here in the open. Maybe she should go to her room. Besides, God would probably laugh at her anyway. What could she promise Him in exchange for making her dreams come true?

Her eyes popped open of their own accord, and she took a step back, wiping her hands on her skirt. She would pray this evening, when the time was right.

D
avid washed his face and stared into the mirror hanging on the wall. He was so foolish. No amount of water would wash away the words he’d flung at Jasmine earlier. Why had he even thought he could talk to her? Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut? He had enough to worry about with his assignment. He needed to focus on that instead of Jasmine.

For a moment he’d dared dream they might have a future together. That she might return his feelings after all. But she would never see him as anything but the homeless kid she’d rescued. A companion maybe. A brother certainly. But not a man she could love. No matter what he did, no matter what he accomplished, he would never be someone she adored.

When he saw her at dinner, he would be polite. Distant. He wouldn’t give her the chance to wound him again.

He picked up a white towel and turned it over in his hands, his gaze tracing the blue curlicues that spelled out
Water Lily
. The towels were finer than what Lily and Blake had supplied back when he traveled with them.

Who had done the handwork? Lily was too busy with running the boat and raising her children, and Camellia never could sew an even line. Had Jasmine’s fingers been the ones to stitch the letters into the linen? He could almost see her seated in a rocker next to the fireplace, her midnight-dark hair held back loosely with a ribbon as she leaned over an embroidery hoop.

A smile slipped into place as the scene became more detailed in his imagination. He would be reading a book on the far side of the fireplace. Maybe they would have a child playing on a knotted rug between them—

No! He had to stop this foolishness. Jasmine was following her own path, and it was not one he wished to tread with her. He would purge her from his mind and heart.

With careful movements, he folded the linen cloth and put it next to his washbasin before moving to his bed and reaching for his valise. Digging past his nightclothes and stockings, he felt for the hard edge of his Bible. He sat on the edge of his bed, his fingers finding the ribbon bookmark as he closed his eyes. “Lord, please give me peace about her. Help me follow You wherever You lead.” He sat still in the room and let his mind relax as he thought about God. The sounds of the boat and the river faded away as peace filled him. After a period of time, he opened his eyes and began to read.

One verse leaped up at him.
“For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.”
The ache in his heart faded further. God knew what he needed and would provide it. “Thank You, Lord.”

He closed the Bible and left it sitting on the bed as he continued dressing. No matter what happened, he could face life with calm certainty. God had spoken through His Word, a promise that David knew he could claim.

Shrugging into his coat, David checked his appearance one last time, winking at the reflection in the mirror. God had brought him this far. All he had to do now was forego trying to win Jasmine’s affections. Like Jehoshaphat had done when the Edomites, the Ammonites, and the Moabites gathered against him, he would allow God to fight his battles for him. This ensured ultimate victory.

The sound of the dinner bell made his stomach rumble. David left his room and strode down the narrow passageway.

Jensen’s scarred face was the first one he saw as he entered the dining room. “I wasn’t sure you would still be cooking for Lily and Blake.”

“Look at you all gone and grown up.” The older man might give the appearance of a pirate to a stranger, but David knew his true nature. David held out his right hand, but Jensen ignored the gesture, pulling him into a bear hug instead. “Tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself.”

Feeling like he’d not matured a day as he emerged from the older man’s grasp, David shrugged. The boat shifted under his feet, and he automatically adjusted his stance to compensate. “I’ve been up in Chicago.”

Jensen’s bushy eyebrows lowered, emphasizing the scar over his left eye. In past years David would have been intimidated by the look indicating skepticism. “Come to the galley when you finish your dinner. I want to hear what’s been keeping you so far from the people who care about you.”

Not sure if he would have time since he calculated that the
Water Lily
would reach port in a couple of hours, David replied, “I’ll do my best.” He took a seat at one of the tables as the other diners began to file in.

A bald man with a wide mustache sat to his right, while a younger fellow dressed in the sober suit of a professional businessman sat on his left. The other two chairs at the table were taken by two redheaded females who appeared to be mother and daughter.

The bald man nodded to them and introduced himself as Albert Culbertson. Weldon Brown was the name of the younger man. He also told them he was a photographer and offered his services to them at a reduced rate.

The ladies were Mrs. Bertha Dickinson and her daughter, Adina. As he introduced himself, David noticed that Adina seemed quite taken by the dapper photographer. Her mother also noticed and immediately engaged Mr. Brown in a rigorous interrogation as to his pedigree and prospects.

All conversations stopped when Jasmine and her family arrived. Blake welcomed the guests and asked everyone to bow their heads for the blessing.

He had barely uttered, “Amen,” before Mr. Culbertson picked up his napkin and tucked it into his shirt collar. “I hope you ladies have a male relative meeting you at the docks.”

Mrs. Dickinson shook her head. “My husband would have come with us, but an unexpected matter detained him. He’ll be joining us in a few days, however.”

Mr. Culbertson looked grave at this news. “You know how dangerous it is to be unescorted, don’t you? Even before the war, women had to be suspicious of strangers, but now that we’ve been overrun by carpetbaggers and scalawags, it’s much worse.”

Mr. Brown cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t frighten the ladies. I’m certain they’ll be safe enough in a New Orleans hotel.”

“Which shows how little you know. I’ve been traveling these waters for years now, and I can tell you this part of the country is a nest for the worst thieves in the country.”

Even though the older lady looked frightened, Adina seemed nothing more than curious. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“A long curve just south of Natchez has long been known as Dead Man’s Curve because of all the unwary travelers whose bodies have been found there.” Enjoying the attention, Mr. Culbertson smoothed his mustache with two fingers. “The innkeepers at Natchez Under-the-Hill offer cheap rates and then murder their guests, tossing them into the river from trapdoors.”

The daughter turned to her mother. “I told you we should have stayed at home until Papa could come. No amount of European imports are worth dying over.”

“All of that is ancient history.” David would rather have kept silent, but he could not bear to see both females so concerned for their safety. “Most towns have cleaned out the criminal element. You’ll be as safe in those places as in your home.”

“I don’t know where you get your opinion, sir.” The mustached storyteller tossed him a disdainful glance. “While those inns may not be murdering helpless souls, bank robbers—probably Confederate deserters for the most part—are very active now. I heard of a robbery across the river from Natchez in Vidalia just a few weeks ago.”

David had visited the bank in question as Mr. Bastrup had suggested, so he probably knew more about the robbery than the man beside him. But that didn’t mean he could erase the fear in the ladies’ faces. Or could he?

“That was far from here. And I’ve met the sheriff there. He’ll probably make an arrest before long.”

Mr. Culbertson snickered. “He’s more likely to be in league with them. Why else would a gang of robbers be able to get away so easily?”

“Nevertheless, they will be caught.” David found the man’s foot with his own and stepped on it with some force. “I’m certain these ladies will rest more easily knowing that.”

After a grunt and an angry glance that David met with a warning stare, the man took a deep breath and nodded his agreement. “Of course you’re right. I apologize. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

The ladies exchanged a worried glance. The mother put her fork down on the table and pushed her chair back. “I am feeling a bit out of sorts, Adina. I believe we should retire to our stateroom and rest.”

Adina cast a sorrowful glance toward the photographer before nodding her agreement.

David was the first one to stand and bow to them, regret filling his heart because he’d been unable to reassure the ladies. As he watched them make their way around the other tables, his gaze clashed with Jasmine’s. He shrugged his shoulders at her frown. Was she so eager to condemn him when she knew nothing about what had just happened?