The Immortelles (17 page)

Charissa stared at him, wondering what he wanted. “Yes, sir, what is it?”

“I was just going to help you into the buggy,” Whitman said, surprised. “That's what gentlemen are supposed to do, isn't it?”

Charissa flushed. She had seen this courtesy many times, but no one had ever extended it to her. She reached out, her face burning, and felt his big hand close about hers. She stepped up into the buggy, and he released her at once. “Thank you, sir.”

“You're very welcome.” He climbed into his seat. “Now, it's time we got a bite to eat. Let's go home and see what Rose can stir up for us. This shopping is hard work.”

“Dr. Whitman—”

“Yes, what is it?”

“I don't understand. Why are you doing all this for me?” She knew well enough the history of men who took mulatto and quadroon girls and made them their mistresses. She wanted no misunderstanding. “I appreciate all of it, but I hope you don't think that I—” She could not say any more but looked at him squarely.

Jeff Whitman shook his head. “Don't worry. You don't ever have to worry about me—or my father—bothering you in any way, Charissa. I swear it on my honor. Do you believe me?”

Suddenly, Charissa Desjardin knew that she had met a man who was truthful. His warm brown eyes were mild, and she saw in them honesty and strength. He sat loosely, almost disjointedly, beside her, a taller man than she had never met before.

“Yes, sir, I believe you.”

“Good. Then we won't have to talk about that anymore. Get up, boys. Let's get home.”

The engines of the
Miranda
began to shake, and Charissa was fascinated by the big paddle wheels on each side of the vessel beginning to churn the water. She had never been on a boat before, although she had often watched them making their way up and down the river.

“Come along. We'll find where we're going to stay.”

Charissa glanced at Whitman and followed him along the deck. He asked one of the stewards for directions, then led her to a corridor. He quickly located the assigned cabin, opened the door, and stepped back. “This is it, I suppose.”

Charissa stepped in and looked around. It was a small room, but there was a set of bunk beds, one chair, and a small washstand.

He saw her eyes go to the beds and said, “My room ought to be right next door. Why don't you get settled in? Then, I always like to go up in the front of the boat and watch as we travel. We've got a long way to go—all the way to St. Louis.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'm anxious for you to get home and meet my father.”

“You have no other family?”

“No, it's just the two of us.”

“You tell me he's been ill for a while?”

“Yes, I'm concerned about him.” A frown darkened Jeff Whitman's face. “He's been very good to me.”

Charissa wanted to question him further, but he left, saying, “I'm going up to the front. When you're ready, come on up, and we'll do some sightseeing.”

They had left the Debakky house that morning, and Dr. Debakky had warmly bid Charissa to come back for a visit. He had shaken hands with her, which gave her quite a shock. Now, as she stood in the small stateroom, she felt a sense of joy.
Can it be true that my new master is truly kind and decent?
she thought.
He's been so good to me, and he even gave me my own cabin on the ship!

She left the stateroom and found Whitman leaning on the rail of the deck. He talked about steamboats and Charissa, delighted, watched the shore disappear. The ship paddled to the middle of the channel, where the wind blew more strongly. The breeze blew off her small hat, and she grabbed for it. Whitman was quicker than she. He chased it down, snatched it up, and strode back, saying, “I think you have to pin these things on.”

“Yes. I didn't do a very good job.”

Whitman smiled down at her. “Women have more trouble keeping themselves pulled together than men. Ladies are always having to arrange things.”

“Don't call me a lady, please, Dr. Whitman. I'm not a lady.”

Whitman's
face grew serious. “You are a lady,” he said. “You've had a hard time, Charissa, but things are going to be different now. You're in a new world.”

“Who sent you to get me? And why does he want to help me? Why did he want to help me and my mother?”

“I can't tell you that now, Charissa, but I will say this. You shouldn't worry about the one who sent me. He means nothing but good for you. Please let me ask you one favor.”

“Yes, sir, what is it?”

“Let's just have a nice trip on the
Miranda.
We'll enjoy the scenery. We'll eat in the fine dining room. We may even get off at a few ports when the boat stops and do a little exploring. But please, don't ask me any more about why I came looking for you. You'll know soon enough, I think. Will that be all right?”

“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 the 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.