The River Rose

by Gilbert, Morris

  She sat down and picked up one of the books. "Captain's logs, yes, I do want to look at those."

  "You really do!" he said excitedly. "You know how you told me you knew the Arkansas River? Well, Bull Hardin ran the Arkansas for almost five years. It's all here, all about the freight he had, the stops, the river, the stuff about snags and sandbars and course changes."

  Jeanne nodded. "Yes, that would be what's in the captain's logs, of course."

  "So, there it all is! Of course, he was on the Arkansas years ago—see, this first logbook is 1848—but the five years following are all documented thoroughly. Last two years aren't nearly as thorough; Ezra told me that after his wife died, Bull kinda went to pieces. Anyway, I'll bet that we could still contact some of these shippers—"

  "Stop," Jeanne said quietly, holding up her hand, and he abruptly fell silent. She rose and paced down the room and back, "Mr. Hardin, you are moving much too quickly, and I must tell you that you really have no idea of what you're talking about. Running a riverboat is an extremely complicated endeavor. Making a profit is even harder. Of course I thought a lot about this, but I have to think about it more, much more. And so should you, before making any decision."

  He studied her. "I don't see it that way. You're talking about deciding whether to live on this boat and work her, or sell her off. To me that's a simple decision. I don't want to sell the Rose."

  "But you know nothing about the river! And though I don't know anything about boilers or engines, I can see that this boat is in good shape, and would probably sell at a good price!" Jeanne argued.

  "So you do want to sell her? Now who's making a snap decision?"

  "I don't want to sell her! I mean, I'm just thinking about it!"

  "Why? I don't want to be rude or anything, but I've told you I have no intention of selling," Clint said calmly. "She might bring a nice price sold outright, but she's not going to be profitable enough that you could sell a fifty-percent interest in her."

  Jeanne propped her hands on her hips and her eyes flashed like ice on ebony. "This is not fair! You're forcing my hand, you're leaving me with no option!"

  "Sorry," he said blithely. "Guess that's a problem with an even 50-50 split."

  "Problem? You're the problem!" Jeanne said rudely. "So you're just going to take off in my boat. And this of course, would be after you've hired a pilot who, by the way, makes at least a hundred dollars a month, and other crewmen, and other expenses . . . and off you merrily go. When you get back, you have no profit to split with me, if you haven't actually lost money. Apparently somehow my fifty percent isn't quite the same as your fifty percent."

  "Look, ma'am, you were excited yesterday, I could see it. You started thinking right away about exactly what I'm talking about. You pilot the boat, I can engineer it, and together we can figure out how to keep her loaded and running. Why don't we forget this nonsense of selling and concentrate on all that?"

  "Because you have no idea what all that is," Jeanne said tightly. "You may know about the engine, I understand that. But you have no idea of what it takes to pilot a steamboat. You have to know the river, better than you know your own face in the mirror. You have to know every foot of it, four ways: up, down, day, night. You have to know every snag, every submerged tree, every shallow, and what's around every bend. It's hard, taxing, stressful work."

  As she spoke his expression changed from vexation to comprehension. "You're scared. That's it, isn't it? You're afraid that you can't do it."

  "I am not!" Jeanne fired back at him. "It's just that I'm an adult, with responsibilities, not a—a—singing machinist! And while we're talking about this, just where were you thinking you'd live while you're swaggering up and down the river?"

  "Where I'll live? Of course I want to live on the Helena Rose. Don't you?"

  "Yes, I do, I love this cabin. And you?" she snapped.

  He shrugged. "Sure, if you like this one you can have it, and all the furniture, too, if you want. The cabin across the hall is the same size, and I'll figure out furniture."

  "So, la-di-da, you think you and I are going to live together," Jeanne said furiously. "I knew it!"

  He retorted angrily, "You knew what? Pardon me, Mrs. Bettencourt, but what has got into that hot head of yours that you think I'm trying to seduce you? What have I said? Or done? Have I even looked at you funny?"

  "Well, no, but—"

  "No," he growled, "I have not. I'm half owner of this boat, and the engineer, and I deserve a cabin, and it has nothing to do with you."

  "But it doesn't look right!" Jeanne countered heatedly.

  "Unless you're planning on having a female crew, that's just part of the deal," he said bluntly.

  Jeanne looked startled. "Oh . . . yes, I see what you mean. That is—I wasn't thinking—about that."

  "Maybe not, but you are talking about living on the Rose, and that means you're thinking about piloting," Clint said with a hint of triumph. "So, can we talk about business now?"

  "What? No. I need time to think," Jeanne said absently as she frowned ferociously and bit her lip.

  "I thought we already covered all that. Now what do we have to think about?"

  "I don't know, I don't know! Now I'm worse than when I got here, and it's all your fault!" Jeanne cried.

  "My fault?" Clint blustered. "How'd that happen?"

  "YOU DON'T MIND STAYING overnight with the O'Dwyers, do you?" Jeanne asked.

  "'Course not, Mama," Marvel answered happily. "Aideen and Noleen both got dolls for Christmas. Their dolls and Mrs. Topp and Avaymaria are having a weekend party in the country. They're going to dance, and sing, and eat cake and have tea."

  Angus O'Dwyer was rarely home, for he was a crewman on a riverboat. Mrs. O'Dwyer was a good sitter for Marvel. She had six children, from ten years old to the year-old-twins. Her two daughters were six and four, and good company for Marvel. Jeanne paid the O'Dwyers ten cents a week to take care of Marvel, and often she gave them little gifts of food. Today she had bought a whole coconut sponge cake and a half pound of tea to give them. Jeanne had offered to pay Mrs. O'Dwyer extra for Marvel to stay the night, for the O'Dwyers usually went to bed at dark and Jeanne was meeting George Masters at six o'clock, which was after sunset in the winter. But Mrs. O'Dwyer had soundly refused the money, saying that she really should be paying Marvel, because she helped so much with the twins.

  "Mama, I'm glad you're going with Mr. Masters," Marvel said. "I think he's nice. And you look so pretty!"

  "Thank you, little one," Jeanne said. "Maybe sometime we can both go out in the carriage with Mr. Masters again."

  "Okay. Um—Mama? Do you think I could go on over to the O'Dwyers now? Mrs. Topp and Avaymaria don't want to miss cake and tea."

  "Of course." Jeanne bent to kiss her, and Marvel hurried out with her dolls.

  Jeanne went back to look in the mirror, a dark clouded square hung on the wall. Her dark eyes sparkled, and her cheeks were not a chapped red, as Clint Hardin had blurted out that morning, but were flushed a delicate peach. Jeanne didn't own a bonnet, which bothered her in the extreme, for all ladies wore bonnets in public. But she had a bright green grosgrain ribbon she entwined in her curls and tied in a small jaunty bow just above her left ear. Her hair looked particularly well, she thought, with curls piled high at the crown and long ringlets cascading down to her shoulders.

  She sighed when she looked down at her clothes. Jeanne didn't own a dress; she only had white blouses and four skirts: two gray, one dark blue, and one black. One of her blouses had a tiny bit of lace around the collar, and she had decided on that one, with a green tie made of the same ribbon in her hair, and the black skirt with three petticoats. She reflected that she was decidedly unfashionable, for her clothes still looked like a maid's Sunday clothes—which they were—and she had no fashionable Basque jacket or pelisse or bonnet or hoop skirt.

  St. Peter's church bells began to ring the six o'clock hour, and Jeanne hurried to throw on her mantle and scarf.
Then she thought wryly, Why am I always hurrying to the sound of bells? And he's probably not there, anyway. He's probably come to his senses and is somewhere with his friends, congratulating himself on his narrow escape from mingling with the commoners . . .

  But he was there, standing outside the carriage, watching up the street. As soon as she appeared, he hurried to her. "I didn't think you'd come," he said happily. "I'm very glad you did."

  "I am, too," she replied, "somewhat to my surprise."

  He tucked her arm securely in his, then pulled her close to shelter her as they hurried to the carriage. The cold wind was still strong, and when it blew from the river it carried little stinging shards of ice. He opened the door to the carriage and helped her inside, then hurriedly climbed in. "Here, this will help, I think. What a bitter night!" He reached over to lay a beautiful fur lap robe over her. To Jeanne it was a curiously personal thing to do, though Masters showed no hint of such as he securely tucked the fur around her. He tapped the ceiling twice with his walking stick, then leaned back in his seat across from her and asked anxiously, "Are you frozen solid?"

  "No, thank you, I'm quite warm now. Do you think we may be the only two fools out and about in this horrible weather?" she asked, her eyes alight.

  "Oh, no, there'll be lots of other fools at the Courtier, I'm sure," he answered, matching her tone. "It's a very popular restaurant. Have you ever been there, Mrs. Bettencourt?"

  "No, I haven't. I've heard it's very grand."

  "I suppose it is," he said carelessly, "but what I like about it is the excellent food and the quality of service. Every waiter treats you as if he were your own private butler."

  "Really? What a treat for me. I've never seen a real live butler," Jeanne said dryly.

  He studied her for long moments. "Mrs. Bettencourt, with your permission, I'd like to speak plainly to you."

  "You have my permission."

  "I would very much like for us to get past this class distinction," he said quietly.

  "But that's ridiculous," Jeanne said instantly. "You're rich—apparently—and I am not. Those are just facts, and it would be silly for me to ignore them."

  "And so that is how you define me, and how you define yourself. I am rich. You are poor. That's all there is to either of us."

  "I didn't say that," Jeanne objected. "It's just that it's an obstacle."

  "Only to you," he shot back. "Not to me. And I have to tell you, Jeanne, that I'm disappointed that you only see me as a sort of mindless puppet, going around spending money. I certainly don't see you as a 'poor' woman. You're intelligent and witty, you're intriguing, you have all the graces of a highborn lady. You are, in fact, a lady that I wish to know better. Couldn't you give me the same consideration?"

  Jeanne thought for a few moments, then said, "As a matter of fact, I can, and I will. From now on I will treat you as a gentleman that I wish to know better."

  "Good," he said with relief. "So let's start over again, shall we?"

  "I'll start over again, there's no need for you to do so, you've been doing just fine. I have been wondering about you, and not just how much money you have," Jeanne said with a smile. "You've been residing in the hotel the entire holidays. Do you have any family?"

  "I have an uncle who lives in Charleston, South Carolina," he said, "and some cousins. My mother died eight years ago, and my father died just this past June."

  "That's not a long time to get over such a loss. Has the holiday season been difficult for you?"

  "In some ways. But as I'm making a new friend that I find is excellent company, and also is lovely to look at, the holiday season is getting better all the time," he said, his blue eyes alight. "If I may be so bold."

  "You may. I'm glad I can provide you some diversion."

  "A lot of diversion," he said solidly. "Very welcome diversion, Jeanne. May I please call you 'Jeanne'?"

  "Now that is bold," Jeanne teased, "and you may. Now tell me about your home. I assume you do have one besides the Gayoso House Hotel?"

  George told her about his plantation, Morecambe, that was ten miles north of Memphis, until they reached the Courtier, a two-story stucco building with every window alight and a wide glassed double-door entry. In the foyer a heavy-lidded, disdainful-looking man standing at a podium came forward to greet them. "Mr. Masters, welcome. And madame," he said with a slight nod, looking Jeanne up and down with a jaundiced eye.

  "Good evening, Martel," George said pleasantly. "I assume you have the table I requested?"

  "Certainly, Mr. Masters. Please follow me."

  The main floor of the restaurant had eight large round tables. Five of them were occupied by families with children, two of them had groups of well-dressed gentlemen engaged in earnest conversation. On each side was an enormous fireplace, six feet high and eight feet wide, with great roaring fires crackling hungrily. Along the side walls and back wall, one floor up, was a gallery. Martel led them up a curved marble staircase to the gallery, and indicated one of the walled alcoves with a small table and two chairs. The table was set up against the balustrade overlooking the main dining room. All of the tables were lit with long white taper candles, and along the velvet-upholstered walls were lanterns with golden yellow shades. The entire room glowed with soft light.

  Martel took George's hat, coat, and gloves and Jeanne's cape and muffler. "Your steward will be here shortly, Mr. Masters," he said with a low bow and disappeared.

  Jeanne looked around with appreciation. "This is lovely. It looks like the great hall of a castle, and we're in the minstrel gallery."

  "I think that's what Kinley had in mind when he built it," George said. "But as I said, it's not the trappings I come for, it's the food. Tell me, what would you like? They have all kinds of roast joints, oysters, salmon, lobster, any kind of soup you can think of, and the vegetables are all fresh. They bring them in from Mexico."

  "Really?" Jeanne said with delight. "Oh, how I miss fresh vegetables in the winter! I don't care for winter fare, cabbages and turnips, and I hate to admit it but I can't abide brussels sprouts."

  "Then you certainly shall not have brussels sprouts. What about meat?"

  "I like beef best of all. Any kind of beef."

  "Then may I recommend we have beef Wellington? It's my particular favorite. Of course, many ladies say that it's too rich and heavy for them," he added deferentially.

  "I don't know what beef Wellington is," Jeanne said, "but since it has the word 'beef' in it, I'm sure I'll like it."

  "It's a very lean roasted joint, covered with pâté de foie gras and mushroom duxelles and then baked in a puff pastry," he said with animation. "Courtier's is the best I've ever had."

  Their starter was a buttery oyster soup, then deviled eggs with a pickled pepper-and-celery relish. The beef Wellington arrived, along with sliced brown carrots, green peas, sautéed onions, and fresh rolls with sweet cream butter. Jeanne took her first bite of beef Wellington and her eyes grew round. "Oh, oh, this is the most delicious morsel I've ever put in my mouth," she said. "I'm afraid now I'll be spoiled, I won't want just plain roasted beef any more."

  "Then we'll have beef Wellington all the time," George said. "That would be fine with me. So, Jeanne, I've been very curious about what you said yesterday, that you've had some good news, and you have some important decisions to make. If you feel you can talk about it, I'd be interested to hear."

  "You know, ordinarily I wouldn't discuss my personal life with a comparative stranger, but I've been feeling very reckless the past few days," Jeanne said, her dark eyes dancing. "I just don't want to bore you."

  "I don't think that's possible, Jeanne," he said gallantly. "Tell me all."

  She told him about Deshler, and about Ira Hardin and inheriting the Helena Rose. "But one complication is that I'm a one-half partner with the most infuriating man," she said, her color high. "I'm beginning to see that a business partnership can be difficult."

  He frowned. "You aren't speaking of an actual working
relationship, are you? Surely you're going to sell the Helena Rose, so you're just worried about dealing with splitting the proceeds with this man, correct?"

  "It's more complicated than that. You see, I lived on a riverboat with my parents until I was seventeen. My father owned the boat, and was the pilot and captain. It was wonderful," she said, starry-eyed. "My mother was my tutor, and my father taught me about the river. In fact, he taught me to pilot."

  George's eyebrows shot up. "You can pilot a riverboat?"

  "Yes, I can. It's odd, because the Helena Rose is so much like our boat, the Pearl; they're about the same size, with the same tonnage. Even the pilothouse and captain's cabins are similar. I think piloting the Rose would be much like the Pearl."

  "Surely you can't be thinking of becoming a riverboat pilot!" George exclaimed.

  "But I am," Jeanne said spiritedly. "That's the important decision I was talking about."

  He sat back in his chair, his face a study in surprise. "I don't understand. It's unheard of, Jeanne, a woman piloting a riverboat. You would be subject to all kinds of abuse from rivermen, not to mention the scandal."

  "I don't care about any of that! I'm a chambermaid, George, it's not like I'm a daughter of the Founding Fathers. And as far as abuse from rivermen, I know very well how to handle them. My mother taught me to read and speak and behave with dignity, but my father taught me the river. I can do this, George, and I can do it well."

  Now Jeanne was herself surprised, because she realized that in the afternoon she had been arguing with Clint Hardin about selling the boat, and now she was arguing with George Masters about piloting the boat. But even as she reflected, she suddenly knew that she wanted her and Marvel to live on the Helena Rose, she wanted to get her pilot's license, she wanted to find out how to get freight, she wanted to know everything about making a living with a boat that she owned. "I'm going to do it," she told George with a bright smile. "Just now, I've realized that this is a blessing from the Lord, and I'd be crazy to sell the Rose."

  "Well then," he said, sitting up again and spearing a chunk of beef Wellington, "I think you should do it. If anyone can do it, you can. I've seen that already. And what's more, Jeanne, I'll help you."