The Creole Historical Romance 4-In-1 Bundle

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Try to get some sleep,” he said and walked back down the stairs.

  Damita awoke with a start at the gentle knock on her door. She sat up and looked around, remembering where she was. “Who is it?” she called.

  “It’s me, Yancy. Do you want to go eat?”

  Realizing she was hungry, she got up and said, “Yes. I’ll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes.” Quickly she dressed and did the best she could with her hair. She had no brush, no comb, no cosmetics, nothing but the water-damaged clothes she was wearing. Leaving her room and descending the stairs, she walked into the hotel restaurant she had seen when they registered. As she approached Yancy at a table, he arose and drew back a chair for her. “I thought we’d have something to eat, and then maybe go buy you something to wear and other things you’ll need.”

  “That’s thoughtful of you,” she said, thawing a little. “Did you find out about a ship?”

  “There’s one leaving tomorrow. Not much of a ship, but at least it’s going to New Orleans.”

  “Could you get tickets on it?”

  “They don’t ordinarily take passengers, but the captain said that he’d make an exception after I explained what had happened. They’re on the last leg of a journey—they’ve been down in Venezuela.”

  The waiter came, and the two ordered steaks. When the food arrived, the meat was tender and tasted wonderful to Damita. She ate the entire steak, and Yancy grinned, saying, “You’re starved to death. You’re going to get fat if you eat like that.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” She said, “I’m sorry I have to depend on you, but my father will pay you when we get back.”

  “I’m not going back.”

  Damita stared at him. “You’re not going back? Why?”

  “Nothing to go back to New Orleans for. I’m headed to Savannah.”

  “Oh, I see.” Damita felt lost for a moment, then she made the best of it. “You can give me your address, and I can have him send you the money.”

  “To perdition with the money! Who cares about it?” Yancy said roughly. He picked up his coffee, sipped it, and said, “I thought hard times drew people together, Damita. That was a horrible experience. We were hanging on to each other, and we were all we had. I’ll never forget it, but evidently, you don’t want to think about it.”

  Damita studied his face. He had not shaved, and his whiskers had a reddish glint. His face looked thinner even in the short time since the shipwreck, but his eyes were blue as cornflowers and intense as anything she had ever seen. She remembered how she had clung to him and returned his caresses. Her face flushed, and she knew she could not hide her thoughts from him.

  “Look, Damita, we barely survived a disaster. You had lost a beloved relative. We were cold and alone, and the only thing we had on earth was each other. When something like that happens, your defenses are down. It can happen to anyone.” He reached over and put his hand on her wrist. “Don’t be ashamed of being human, Damita.”

  Her first impulse was to give him the same kind of warmth and confidence that he was showing toward her. But she could not forget that he was the one who had broken away from their embrace. Damita, who had always prided herself upon her ability to stand, had nearly fallen. It was Yancy, the rough Kaintock with no manners, who had shown strength. This galled her anew. If she had been the one who had drawn back, she could have borne it. But she had not, and both of them knew it. She tightened her lips and gave him a level look. “You saved my life, Yancy, and for that, I’ll always be thankful.”

  Yancy saw that she was hardened against him and removed his hand. He studied her for a moment and then shook his head. “You’ve got too much pride. One day, if you’re lucky, you’ll lose it. And then, you’ll have to admit that you’re human just like the rest of us. If that ever happens, you’ll be a real woman with real pride. The ship leaves in the morning at nine o’clock. I’ll be in the lobby, waiting to take you there. Good night.”

  Damita watched, shocked, as Yancy stood and walked out of the restaurant. He disappeared around the corner, and she felt deflated, and that she had somehow demeaned herself. Her mind returned to the time that she had lain in his arms and shame came. I’m no better than the women at those balls who give themselves to men for money, she thought. I’m the same as they are. Her hands clenched. She rose and went to her room, and when she had shut the door, she lay down on the bed and tried to blot everything out of her mind.

  The ship was terrible. It was filthy and smelly, and the sailors leered at her. Even the captain was drunk.

  Yancy had brought Damita on board and introduced her to Captain Passen, who had not shaved recently and had a rank odor about him. He had grinned and said, “You’re all right, lady. My first mate will give you his cabin for the trip.”

  “Thank you, Captain, and thank the mate for me.”

  “We’ll be settin’ sail in half an hour. You better get your good-byes said. Don’t worry, little lady. We don’t get many passengers, but we’ll have time to get acquainted.”

  Damita turned toward Yancy, and they moved a few steps away from the captain, aware of the eyes of the crew. The two of them had hardly spoken all morning. She looked down at her hands, unable to meet his eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  Damita lifted her head and nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid of these men.”

  Yancy studied her for a moment, then shrugged. “I’m in no big hurry. I’ll pay my passage and take you back to your parents.”

  “I . . . I thank you for that, Yancy,” she said a bit stiffly.

  “No bother,” he said without expression and left her to go make arrangements with the captain.

  The first mate’s cabin stank of stale flesh, alcohol, and tobacco smoke. As soon as Damita saw it, she knew she would not be able to sleep on the bed because the covers were so soiled. Yancy arranged to get fresh bedding for her.

  The first day she spent almost entirely in her cabin. On deck, the men had whispered loudly enough for her to hear crude remarks that brought color to her face.

  Yancy left her alone. On the second day of the voyage, Damita left her cabin and saw him standing in the prow of the ship. She took a deep breath and walked over. He nodded, saying, “We’ll be in New Orleans by late afternoon.”

  “That will be good.”

  “It’s been an unpleasant voyage.”

  “It hasn’t been all bad, and I thank you for coming with me.” He did not answer, and she leaned against the rail. “I can’t stop thinking about my aunt. She was so good to me,” she said, describing some of her aunt’s qualities.

  Yancy said quietly, “It’s hard to lose someone like that. I’m sorry.”

  The silence continued, and Damita said, “I can’t put the McCains out of my mind.”

  “I’ve thought about them a lot too.”

  “Esther was so happy. She had her future completely planned out. Now it’s all over.”

  Yancy studied Damita’s face. He knew she was a girl with great vitality and imagination, and he saw now her will and the pride in the corners of her eyes. He was also aware of the clean-running, physical lines of her body. He well understood the reserve that had come between them since that day in the barn, and he realized it would always be there. “They were happy for a while,” he answered.

  “But such a short while. What was it? Only five or six days.”

  “I think it was longer than that. He courted her for more than a year. That was a happy time for them.”

  “But still, Yancy, it’s so short.”

  Something was in his eyes that she could not read. He shrugged. “We don’t have any guarantees.”

  His answer was enigmatic. He himself was a man she could not understand, and abruptly she asked him, “When we thought we were going to die, were you afraid?”

  “Of course I was.”

  “I’m surprised. You don’t s
eem to be afraid of anything.”

  “You’re wrong about that, Damita.”

  Damita studied him even more carefully. “What are you afraid of, Yancy?”

  “Growing old. Getting helpless. Being alone with no one to care.” He hesitated, then added, “What comes after death.”

  Damita suddenly realized that she was afraid of those things, too. She said as much, and he nodded.

  “I think most people are, but my mother wasn’t.”

  “Your mother?”

  “After my father died, life was hard. We had no money, but she was a happy woman. She had a joy inside her I’ve never seen in anyone else. She went about the house singing songs about Jesus. I’ll never forget that. And when she came to death,” he added, “it was as if she were going on a vacation. She couldn’t wait to get on ‘the other side,’ as she called it.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “You know, Damita, I’ve met a few atheists. Some of them were pretty smart men, but my mother’s the answer I have for them. I saw God in my mother.”

  Somehow Yancy’s simple words touched Damita. “What was her name?” she asked.

  “Her name was Kate. I wrote a poem about her once—the only poem I ever wrote.”

  “You wrote a poem?”

  Yancy looked embarrassed. “Yep, I did.”

  “I’d like to read it.”

  “I don’t have it written down.”

  “But you know it.”

  “Oh, yes, I know it.”

  “Would you say it for me, please?”

  Yancy was taken aback. “I’ve never said it for anybody.”

  “I’d like to hear it.”

  The wind was not strong, but it blew Yancy’s auburn hair over his face. He looked embarrassed but said, “All right.” He stared at the sea and said:

  When she was thirty-three Kate Devereaux slipped

  Away from earth, and I was there to see

  Her debut into immortality.

  Death for her—a fine wine to be sipped

  Before her voyage on a darkling sea.

  So deep she lay in downy feather bed,

  Beneath the handmade quilt I saw no form,

  But lightly swelled the patterns cuneiform

  Of orange circles squared in turkey-red—

  Primly gay, her deathbed uniform!

  First light, Kate willed away her best:

  Husband, children, home, to God’s defense.

  And then her heart, in spritely cadence,

  Drummed, then slowed—then settled down to rest.

  So well she endured her going hence.

  “That’s . . . that’s beautiful.”

  Yancy saw that Damita had tears in her eyes. “Why, it’s nothing to cry about,” he said gently.

  She could not answer but dashed the tears away. “I think your mother must have been a wonderful woman.” The poem had moved her, and Yancy Devereaux had become even more of an enigma. How could a man like this write words like that?

  One thing turned out well: Word of the ship’s going down had not yet reached Damita’s parents. When she had appeared at the door with Yancy at her side, Alfredo and Elena had stared at them in shock. She explained quickly what had happened, and they expressed grief and sadness over the loss of Juanita, mingled with rejoicing that Damita had survived.

  Alfredo had almost swamped Yancy with his thankfulness. When Damita had told him how he saved her, Alfredo hugged the young man, something neither his wife nor his daughter had ever seen him do. Elena also had taken Yancy’s hand and kissed it in the Latin manner. This had embarrassed Yancy.

  “You must stay with us for a time. You must give me a chance to show my gratitude,” Alfredo had said. And at his and his wife’s insistence, Yancy had agreed to stay for a few days, at least until he could find a ship to Savannah.

  In the days that followed, Damita felt an almost crippling discomfort when she was near Yancy. She had insisted that her father give him a reward, which Alfredo tried to do, but Yancy firmly refused it.

  No ship was headed for Savannah for five days, and during those days, Damita saw a great deal of the tall visitor she had brought into their lives. She saw how quickly her mother and father accepted him. They told her separately they were shocked that an American could be so nice. Elena said, “Why, with a little training in manners, he could pass for one of us.”

  Damita smiled. “I doubt he would like to do that, Mother.”

  Damita also noticed how well Yancy got along with the servants. Within a day’s time, he knew each one of them by name and most of their histories. He had become a favorite of Ernestine, the cook, and also of Dolores Aznar, the housekeeper.

  Damita noticed more than once that Charissa seemed to be taken with Yancy. She once saw them sitting together in the kitchen, cracking pecans, and when she entered, Yancy said, “We’re going to make some pralines. Charissa’s going to show me how.”

  “I’m sure she makes very good ones.”

  “We have a lot in common, Charissa and I. We’ve both picked lots of cotton, haven’t we, Charissa?”

  “Yes, we have,” Charissa said, smiling at him. “I’ve picked enough to last me a lifetime.”

  “So have I. I’d rather make pralines with a pretty girl anytime.”

  Something about the scene had disturbed Damita. She could not put her finger on it, but she filed it away in her mind.

  On the day before he was to leave, Yancy visited the garden market with Charissa. He helped her carry the packages back, and the two deposited the groceries in the kitchen with Ernestine. Then they went outside to the courtyard, where Charissa asked him to tell her what life was like where he grew up in Virginia.

  The two of them stood beside a wall, and Yancy began to describe bear hunting to her. Charissa’s eyes glowed as he talked.

  “One time, my friend Ed and I were hunting bear, and we hadn’t had any luck tracking one at all. Then suddenly, one came roaring out of nowhere. He reached out just like this, and he grabbed me, and I knew I was a goner.”

  To illustrate his point, Yancy put his arms around Charissa. “He had big, long, white teeth, and I just knew he was going to bite my head off.”

  “What are you doing?”

  Yancy turned and saw that Damita had come out into the courtyard. He stepped back and smiled. “Why, I was just telling Charissa—”

  “I could see what you were doing. Mr. Devereaux, I would appreciate it if you would not trouble the female servants.”

  “He was just telling me a story,” Charissa said.

  “You keep out of this, Rissa.”

  “My name is Charissa.”

  “You be quiet, or I’ll have you whipped!”

  “You’ve done it before, haven’t you?” Charissa stared at her mistress for a moment, then turned and walked away, her back stiff.

  Yancy glared at Damita. “You had that girl beaten?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Yancy’s smile had disappeared. “That’s your way, isn’t it? Somebody doesn’t do what you like, you have them punished! If you don’t own them, then you take it out in other ways. You’re nothing but a spoiled brat, Damita! Other people who went down on that ship were more fit to live than you are.” He walked briskly out of the courtyard and back into the house.

  Damita stood silently. She began to tremble and turned to go talk to Charissa, but she knew that would be useless. She looked at the door into which Yancy had disappeared. It’s all his fault, she thought angrily. Everything he does hurts me somehow. I’ll never have anything to do with another Kaintock as long as I live!

  PART TWO

  • SPRING 1832 •

  Charissa

  Chapter seven

  From the surgical viewing area, Dr. Aaron Goldman watched the operation that took place below him with avid interest. He was a small man with coal-black hair despite his sixty years, and he exuded a certain elegance. All of the other doctors who had gathered to wat
ch the operation wore black, but Goldman gave the Prince Albert coat he wore a special sort of dignity. He ran his hand over his hair, then shook his head in wonder. Turning to the man who sat beside him, he said, “Dr. Pryor, that is what I call a fine piece of work.”

  John Pryor was much younger. He was also much larger. As the two stood up to leave, he towered over Goldman. He took one more look at the patient being wheeled out and at the surgeon walking toward the door of the operating room. “I’ve never seen a better man with a knife,” he admitted. Pryor was a broad, tall man with blunt features, red hair, and direct brown eyes. He wore a beard and now he stroked it thoughtfully. “He’s very young to be so good.”

  “Yes, he’s only twenty-six. Come along. Let’s be on our way,” Goldman said. “I want to find out how his father’s doing.”

  “You know the family, then?”

  “Yes, his father is Irving Whitman. I’ve known him since we were young men in medical school together.” He turned, and the two men joined the others filing out of the balcony that circled the operating room. They made their way into the hall, and as they turned toward the stairs, Pryor asked, “What sort of training did he have, Dr. Goldman?”

  “His father is one of the finest physicians I’ve ever known—a skillful surgeon and all-around physician. His wife died years ago, and they never had any children. Irving missed her terribly. We were afraid, for a while, that he might take his own life, his loss so devastated him. I don’t know how he ran across him, but he adopted this boy and named him Jefferson. The two were inseparable, and I suppose Jeff just soaked up everything his father taught him. He’s a bright young man with a brilliant future.”

  “Will he stay here in the hospital?”

  “I suppose he will. His father is very closely tied to this place. Oh, there he is. Come on, I want you to meet him.”

  Pryor hurried along with Aaron Goldman, who walked fast for a man his age. As they approached the young physician, Pryor studied him and thought, Well, he’ll never take any prizes for beauty. He waited as Goldman approached first, and the young surgeon turned to greet him. Jefferson’s eyes lit up with pleasure as he shook hands with the older man. Jefferson had coarse black hair and expressive brown eyes and was quite tall: six feet, three inches, Pryor guessed. There was nothing fine about the tall, lanky body, or the face itself. Whitman’s face was craggy, with deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, and hollow cheeks. He was very lean, but when he was introduced and Pryor took his hand, he felt the strength of the young man’s grasp.