For a few moments Jeanne was lost in her womanly admiration of Clint Hardin. He was not classically handsome, for his features were too rugged and his hair, shining almost blue-black in the summer sun, was coarse and couldn't be styled in waves and curls as was the fashion. He was so tall he stood heads above most men, and so muscular as to make them look weak and effeminate. He had gotten more sun this week, and his skin seemed to glow a golden bronze. Jeanne's heart beat a little faster, and she felt a treacherous warmth spreading throughout her body. He is absolutely gorgeous! And he doesn't even seem to know it!
With a jolt that shocked her to her very soul, Jeanne suddenly realized that she didn't just admire Clint's looks. She was deeply, helplessly in love with him. She drew in a sharp breath and for a few moments she felt lightheaded. When the dizziness passed she watched him again, with new eyes. I love him . . . for how long? How'd that happen? she thought with a half-hysterical giggle. Cautiously she looked back at Marvel, and was relieved that she still slept soundly. Jeanne definitely needed time to think, to absorb this horrible-wonderful love for Clint that she had so abruptly come to know. Realizing it had been something like being hit on the head with a club, and also like it used to be when she swam, taking a deep breath and diving underwater to swim in the perfect silence, surrounded and cradled by cool, clean spring water.
I don't know when, or how . . . over the past months we've become such good friends, and I thought that was all that I wanted from him.
But then Jeanne discovered that somehow during that time she had come to love him. She had slowly been pushing George Masters away, withdrawing more and more from him. Her thoughts had been filled with Clint Hardin, and she had wanted to be with him, not George. Clint was always fun to be with, he wasn't a moody man. He was filled with energy and worked hard. He was witty, he was interesting, and he had an active mind that made him interested in practically any subject that came his way. And he was the most charming man Jeanne had ever met.
Now her heart plummeted as she watched him. That was why she had deliberately fought hard to keep from acknowledging to herself that she was in love with him. Jeanne thought that probably every woman to whom he paid the least attention fell in love with him. He wasn't a predator, Jeanne knew that for certain. She had had a lot of experience with seducers in her four years at the Gayoso, and Clint Hardin was not one of those. He didn't have to be, she was sure. She knew Clint now. She knew that women seduced him, not the other way around.
And here she was, another in a long line of silly women to fall for his manly looks and irresistible charm.
No, be honest! I'm not just infatuated with him, I know him, I know that he's a kind, honest man, and I am in love with him. Even if he didn't look like he does, even if he had no charm, I would still love him. I love the man, not the trappings.
Jeanne must have known how much she loved him and depended on him the night Marvel almost died. She didn't want Dr. Eames or anyone else with her. She wanted Clint, and he was right there for her and Marvel. Even though she had been horribly cruel to him, he had forgiven her and had been a pillar of strength for her. She had instinctively known that he loved her and Marvel.
Jeanne sighed deeply, and would have become depressed from the hurt she felt; but instead she prayed. Blessed Father God, help me to be strong. I know that Clint loves me and Marvel as if we were his own family. I treasure his friendship, his care for us. Help me never to let him know that I love him as a woman loves a man. I know he doesn't feel that way about me, and I don't want to threaten our relationship in any way. Help me to be strong, and kind, and forgiving, and help me never to feel jealousy when he finds the woman he truly loves. I know that he will always be our faithful friend, and I thank You for him.
AFTER A JOLLY SUPPER—ACTUALLY, a picnic on the dock—Jeanne sat down at her desk to write a letter. It was, she thought, the most difficult letter she had ever written, and it took her four hours before she was at least satisfied with it. The letter was to George Masters. When she finally finished she was so tired she thought about crawling into bed and passing out.
But then she thought, I really have been wandering somewhere out of this world for the past two weeks! Just how am I going to mail this letter? And what about the mail we had picked up . . . forever ago, it seems like. She stood up, slightly panicked, but then she thought of the empty cargo bays. Someone had picked up their load of stoves, obviously, and Jeanne knew that Clint would have sent the mail on. But Jeanne had to get this letter to George, it was the only honorable thing she could do, under the circumstances. She went to find Clint, and Ezra told her he was out on the dock.
The night was milky-warm, the starlight bright. The waning moon was high in the sky, its reflection waving on the slow current. He was sitting at the end of the dock with a bucket beside him. As Jeanne went to him she saw him reach into the bucket and throw something out into the river. It made a soft plop.
"Hello, Clint," she said softly.
It startled him, and he jerked around and then smiled. "Hi. Want to join me? I'm stoning the moon reflection. It's funny how it kinda breaks up into pieces when I hit it head on."
Jeanne sat beside him. "You just can't sit still, can you?"
"I'm not so good at that, no. Ezra says I'm worse than Roberty, always fiddle-faddlin' around and gittin' inter somewhat. And then he told me to get out of his galley, someone else would have to teach me how to make rice flummery." Marvel had asked for the cold, creamy pudding over and over again. Ezra had gone up to the Eames house and demanded that Widow Eames teach him how to make it.
Jeanne chuckled. "He's right, you know. You are always inter somewhat. Anyway, apparently I have just today come back into my right mind, and I remembered that we are on a boat and that this boat hauls cargo. What happened with the stoves? And the mail?"
"When we first put up the yellow quarantine flags, the next boat that came by stopped to see if they could help." He looked amused. "It was the One-Eyed Jack. Maybe you've seen it."
"I have. And I believe their crew is called the One Eyes. Just like my crew is called the Petticoats. I would apologize for that, but personally I'd rather be called a petticoat than a one-eye."
"Me, too. Anyway, I was kind of surprised that they were so helpful. They took the mail on for us, and when they got to Pine Bluff they telegraphed Mr. Baxley at Kaufman Stoves warehouse. They sent on the Club King, one of the One-Eyed Jack's sister boats, to pick up the stoves. In the last two weeks four different boats have come by, and every one of them has stopped to see if they can help. Guess when it comes down to it, there is a brotherhood on the river."
"So someone could take a letter for me?" Jeanne asked anxiously. "I know that the Eames probably have a mailman that picks up and takes their mail to Pine Bluff, but I'd rather not go through the regular mail. I'd really like for it to be delivered by messenger as soon as possible."
Clint jumped up and started pacing back and forth. Jeanne craned her neck around and said, "Clint, don't walk around behind me like that. It's like having a tiger prowling around behind me."
"Sorry. But I have to stand up. The letter's for Masters, isn't it?"
Jeanne got to her feet and leaned up against a piling to face him. "Well, yes, it is. I have something—something very important to tell him. Since I don't know when I'll be seeing him again, I felt that I needed to write him and tell him this—this—information as soon as possible. What's the matter with you, Clint? I know you don't care for him, but surely you can't be upset that I'm writing him."
Clint stopped pacing, took a deep breath, and came to stand in front of her. "Yes, I'm upset that you're writing him. I'm upset about a lot of things. And I want—I need to know what's in that letter, Jeanne. But before I ask you about Masters, I have to tell you something. I—I have to talk to you. I think."
"Clint, you're not making much sense. I don't mind you knowing what's in the letter. It's personal, but you're my friend and if you really want to know, I'll t
ell you," Jeanne said with confusion. "And if you need to talk to me, of course you can, anytime, about anything."
He resumed his restless pacing. "I've prayed and prayed about telling you this, because now, for the first time in my whole life, I really want to do the right thing. But I'm so new to all this, to being a Christian and trusting in the Lord, that I haven't been able to understand what He wants me to do. But now, I think I have to tell you the truth, because—because—you're marrying the wrong man, Jeanne."
"What?" she said, astounded.
"I said you're marrying the wrong man," he repeated deliberately. "I know it. Ezra knows it, Vinnie knows it, Roberty knows it, even Marvel knows it. No, no, Jeanne, of all times please don't get mad at me now. We don't talk about it among ourselves, I promise you. It's just—it's just something that the people who really know you, and love you, can see, even though you can't."
"But I can see it, Clint, you half-wit," Jeanne said with some heat. "I've changed my mind, I don't think you need to know what's in this letter, because it's really none of your business. I don't go telling you how to pick and choose your women, do I?"
A spasm of pain crossed his face. "Jeanne, I'm so sorry about all of that. The Lord's forgiven me, and I'm different now. Those women—I mean, from now on my life is going to be different. Can't you forgive me? Will you forgive me?"
Immediately Jeanne's anger melted away. "Oh, Clint, of course I forgive you, and now you must forgive me. You weren't wronging me in any way, and I know very well that you've changed since that night that the Lord saved you. I'm sorry. I just—it's hard—I'm just sorry. I'll never, ever treat you like that again." Then hurriedly she added, "I just told George that I wouldn't be able to see him any more. For—for a lot of reasons. Perhaps I was thinking of marrying him, at first. But not now, it will never happen, and I have to let him know that as soon as I possibly can."
Now Clint seemed stunned. "You're not marrying him? How'd that happen? Oh, forget it! Forget about him! I have to tell you something, Jeanne. Right now." He stepped up to stand close to her but he didn't touch her. He looked down at her, and by the glitter of the starlight Jeanne could see the intensity on his face. "I love you, Jeanne. I'm so in love with you that I can hardly breathe when I'm with you. I wanted to tell you, even though I knew—I thought—that you were in love with George Masters. I just wanted you to know how much I treasure you, how I want to be with you, for as long as I can, even though it hurts, because I know you don't feel the same way about me."
She stared up at him, her dark almond eyes gleaming first from shock, and then from joy.
"Clint," she whispered, "I love you." She threw her arms around his neck and pressed the back of his neck, and he bent and she kissed him. Jeanne felt so much joy, so much happiness, her whole body felt delightfully warm. His lips were heated, and his hands pressed urgently against her back. She felt passionate desire, and she knew it was right. His kiss was hungry, demanding, yet gentle. Jeanne didn't want their embrace to end; she felt she could stand there on that dock, kissing him, for hours, days, forever. But finally she did gently draw her hands down to press against his chest.
He lifted his head and held her close. "Thank you, oh, Lord, for giving me the desire of my heart," he murmured.
"My beloved is mine, and I am his," Jeanne whispered. "Thank you, fairest Lord Jesus."
After a while, as if they were of one mind, they sat back down, holding hands.
"I can't believe you love me," Clint said wonderingly. "How? When? When did you know?"
"Just today," she answered mischievously. "I felt like someone had dropped a Kaufman Stove on my head."
"Really? Just today? Then it's no wonder I didn't know it. You've always treated me like a tiresome little boy. And I know, I know, I act the pure fool most of the time. No wonder you didn't mistake me for a man."
She put her hand on his cheek and turned him to face her. "You know very well that's not true. Who did I want, who did I desperately need when I thought Marvel was dying? You. Only you, because you're strong and you're loving and you give of yourself to your friends, to the people you care about. And as far as you acting like a fool, I don't think so at all, I never have. You're clever and you're witty and you're fun to be with. You have a merry heart, and it doeth good like a medicine."
"Yeah? Is that in the Bible?"
"It is. It's in Proverbs, I can't remember the chapter and verse. We can look it up."
"Yeah, I've been studying the Bible with Isaac Eames. Did we tell you that he's a preacher?"
"No, I didn't know that. I've been very distracted lately," she sighed. "I haven't thought about anything but Marvel . . . and you. Do you know, George Masters had not once entered my mind all this time, until today. And then it was only because I was staring at you through my window like a starved she-wolf, comparing him to you. He came up very, very short."
He squeezed her hand. "Jeanne, I have to ask you this. You—you aren't just angry with him, are you? I mean, because he left Memphis, because of the fever?"
"I was angry with him, yes, and it hurt me extremely. At first. Now I'm relieved. You know, he's in love with me, I guess, and today I was thinking that my letter was going to hurt him terribly. But then I realized that if he really, truly loved me as a man should love his wife, or at least the woman he was considering making his wife, he never would have left me and Marvel behind in Memphis. So I think his pride may be hurt, yes, and maybe he will feel some loss. But not much, and not for long."
"Good," Clint said cheerfully. "I don't want to talk about him any more. I want to talk about us. Me and you. Will you marry me?"
Jeanne laughed, a silvery trilling sound that was delightful to hear. "You really don't sit still for a minute, do you? Yes, my love, I will marry you. But not now. Not soon."
"Yes, I know," he said, now soberly. "I've talked to Isaac about everything. He's taught me about what it means to become a Christian. I talked to him about you, about how I love you so much, and I told him that you were going to marry George Masters. He kinda brushed that aside, for some reason. Anyway, he really drilled me about whether the love I had for you was true, and real, and godly. And it is, and I'm sure of that, I've prayed about it for hours and hours. When Isaac finally believed me, he told me that I should tell you. But then he went on to explain that brand-new Christians should spend some time to get to know their Lord before they get all taken up with getting married. I know you need time, Jeanne, and I know I need time. We can have a long engagement, as long as you say. But I had to ask you, I had to make sure. So—so we can be engaged? You'll be mine, really?"
"I already am yours," she said simply. "I am honored that you love me and want me to be your wife, Clint. When it's time for us to marry, the Lord will let us know. Both of us."
THEY STAYED ANOTHER WEEK, until the One-Eyed Jack brought them the news that the yellow fever epidemic, which had never been officially announced, had been officially announced to be over. That week was the happiest time of Jeanne's life. She and Clint spent every possible moment together, with Marvel and the crew during the day, and by themselves after Marvel went to bed. They talked about everything under the sun, of their plans and their dreams and how they wanted to spend their lives together.
The only thing they didn't talk about was Jeanne's marriage. "Please, Clint. I promise I'll tell you the whole sad, shabby story when we get back to Memphis. But right now, in this place, in this time, I want to be happy. I don't want to think of him, or talk about him."
"That's fine, my love," he had said quietly. "I understand."
One night they sat out on the dock, this time with Clint throwing rocks into a moonless river. "At least six more," he said airily, as they were discussing Marvel and Roberty, whom they decided to officially, legally adopt. "Three boys and three girls, please."
"Six? Why not eight? An even dozen?" Jeanne said with mock outrage.
"Yeah, I'd like that. I'll really, really be glad when we get to start
working on it."
"Clint? Shut up."
He took Jeanne and Marvel to visit her parents' graves. The Eames had built a church at the back of one of their cotton fields, and Isaac was the pastor. In the cemetery next to it Mr. Eames was buried, and two Eames children that had been stillborn. Kurt and Constance Langer were buried side by side, with two simple wooden crosses marking their graves. On them Jeanne had directed the Scripture from the Song of Solomon: I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine. Jeanne's mother had loved the Song, and when Jeanne got older she came to understand that it was how her mother felt about her father, and he about her. Jeanne learned that it was the perfect picture of Jesus as Husband to His Bride of Christ.
Weeping softly, Jeanne whispered to Clint, "Now I know. It was a blessing from the Lord for them to die together. Neither of them would have wanted to live without the other."
It was the first of September when the Helena Rose docked in Memphis. They had decided to go to Mütter Krause's to eat, and Jeanne was wearing her best dress, the pretty muslin with the flounced skirt and hoop skirt, and her lace parasol. As Jeanne and Clint went to the gangplank, arm in arm, she said, "It may be my imagination, but it already seems a little cooler, don't you think? I love autumn."
"I love you," he said. "And autumn. Spring's fun. Winter, though, yes, I love—"
Coming up the gangplank was a man that Clint didn't know. He was tall and slender, with sandy blond hair and pale blue eyes and a deeply tanned face. He was dressed in a black frock coat, red waistcoat, natty blue trousers, and a top hat set at a jaunty angle. Clint thought he might be a riverboat gambler, because he was flashy-looking, with a watch chain too large and ostentatious hanging from his vest button, and a flashing red ruby pinky ring.
Jeanne had frozen beside him. Clint glanced at her. Her face had gone utterly pale, her eyes were wide and stark, and her hand on his arm was trembling.
The man sauntered up to them, doffed his hat, and bowed deeply. "Hello, Jeanne. I've been looking for you for a long, long time. You're even more beautiful than I imagined."
The River Rose Page 26