The River Rose

by Gilbert, Morris

  "M-Max?" she stuttered in a broken whisper. "Max? How . . . you . . . I thought . . . ?"

  "I know, but I'm alive," he said carelessly. Now he turned his cold gaze on Clint. "My name is Max Bettencourt. Whoever you are, I want you to take your hands off my wife."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The oddest thing happened to Clint. He remembered his fight with Mike the Hammer, the one he had lost, and he remembered how he had felt when Mike's last blow had landed, because that was how he felt when he heard the man say "Max Bettencourt." He felt as if he'd been slammed in the gut with a sledgehammer, and that there was no air to breathe.

  His eyes narrowed to glaring iron-blue slits as he stared at Bettencourt, who met his gaze flippantly. Jeanne's arm slowly slipped away, and then he felt a tiny soft hand take his. He looked down, and Marvel was half-hidden behind him, holding his hand. She looked confused and scared.

  Bettencourt looked down at her and gave her a slick smile. "Hello, Marvel. You don't remember me, do you? I'm your father. You've grown into a very pretty little girl. You look a lot like me, bet she reminds you of me all the time, huh, Jeanne?"

  "No. She has never reminded me of you, Max. She's nothing like you," Jeanne said between gritted teeth. She had recovered from the initial shock of seeing her husband alive, and some of the color returned to her cheeks. "Why are you here, Max? What do you want?"

  "Those are stupid questions, Jeanne. I'm your husband."

  "I know that," she said helplessly. "But what do you want?"

  His eyes went to search the Helena Rose. He looked all around, up at the pilothouse, the Texas deck, the main deck, at Vince and Ezra and Roberty and Leo gathered behind Clint, Jeanne, and Marvel in a phalanx. "Nice boat. I hear you've been doing very well for yourself, Captain Jeanne, with this little moneymaker. That cute little outfit you're parading around in, I'll bet that cost a pretty penny." His eyes narrowed and he said deliberately, as if he were speaking to a backward child, "We have to talk, Jeanne. Now let's go on up to your cabin so we can be alone."

  "No!" Clint and Jeanne said in unison.

  Max's brow lowered. "I'm not talking to you, Hardin. You just keep your mouth shut. This is between me and Jeanne."

  "Thought you didn't know who I was," Clint said in a hard voice. "This boat is half mine. I'm not giving you permission to board her, now or ever. In fact, take yourself off my gangplank before I throw you in the river."

  "This is half Jeanne's boat," Max retorted. "And that means it's half mine. So I'm standing on our half of the gangplank."

  "No, that is my gangplank," Clint said, taking a threatening step toward him. "That other one that hasn't been lowered is Jeanne's. Now get off my gangplank."

  "Stop it," Jeanne said dully. "Clint, I have to talk to him, of course. And no, Max, you are not coming up to my cabin. So do you want to stand here and argue all day, or do you want to go somewhere so we can talk?"

  "This isn't the end of it, by far, Hardin," Max warned, grabbing Jeanne's hand and tucking it tight beneath his arm. "Don't wait up for her, lover boy." He turned and half-dragged Jeanne down the gangplank onto the wharf.

  Clint's vision was rimmed with crimson, and he took a step forward, intending to follow them, and that might have been very bad news for Max Bettencourt. But Vince stepped up in front of him and put his hands on Clint's shoulders. "Man, this is bad, and I know how you must be feeling, like you wanna kill something right now. But what's done is done, brother. We need to take care of the little one." He nodded toward Marvel.

  Clint's jaw tightened and he kept watching Max and Jeanne until they disappeared into the crowd on the docks. Then he took a deep breath, settled his face into a less tense expression, and turned to go down on one knee in front of Marvel and take her hands. "Hey, little girl. I know this is hard. But don't you worry, everything's going to be okay."

  Marvel was pale. Clint realized with a jolt that her facial features were those of Max Bettencourt's, except for her wide-spaced dark eyes. She had the same long thin nose, the same pointed chin, the same wide thin mouth. Her hair was like his, too. But he understood perfectly what Jeanne had said. Max's face was hard, as hard and bitter as a dark winter night. His blue eyes were cold, with no semblance of any emotion whatsoever. Even though he had sounded angry, he had looked utterly uncaring, as if he were dead. Marvel's sweetness showed in her face, her love, her purity, her innocence. She was nothing at all like her father.

  She asked, "So that really was my father? That awful, mean man?"

  "I guess so," Clint muttered.

  "So you can't marry Mama now?" Tears sprang into her eyes.

  Clint picked her up and held her close. She threw her arms around his neck and sobbed on his shoulder. "You know what?" he said softly. "Let's go pray. That always makes you feel better, doesn't it? I know it sure does me."

  But this time he wasn't so sure even prayer would help.

  "IT IS SO RIDICULOUS for us to sit in a public place to discuss our future," Max said sarcastically. "You're going to have to do better than this, Jeanne."

  They had gone to Dooley's Confectionery, the shop that had had the famous chocolate castle in the window. When warm weather came it had disappeared, of course, replaced by watercolor signs advertising the candies and ice cream and the prices. Dooley's had done so well, particularly with the ladies, that he had opened up a little courtyard behind the shop, with wrought-iron tables with big umbrellas to shield the patrons from the hot southern sun. Even now Jeanne felt a pang as she recalled that she had gone with George Masters that day instead of coming here with Clint and Marvel and the crew.

  With an effort she made herself pay attention to Max. "Do better than what?" she asked.

  "I have no intention of having intimate discussions with my wife in a confectioner's shop. Right now I want to make this clear to you: what you own, I own. Tonight I'm moving onto the boat, into our cabin."

  "How dare you," Jeanne said between gritted teeth. "Did you actually think that you could just show up on my doorstep and we'd go back to being husband and wife? After everything you've done?"

  He shrugged carelessly. "So what if I did take the money? It was mine. And you've obviously done all right for yourself."

  "It was not your money, my father gave it to me! You left me penniless with a five-month-old baby! How Marvel and I managed to live is only by the grace of God. And it's none of your business how I'm doing. You've been dead to me for six years, Max! What do you expect?"

  "Hmm, well, I expected that my wife would at least ask me how I've been, what happened to me, why it seemed as if I were dead for six years."

  "I knew where you went, or have you forgotten that among all your women you did mention to me that you were going halfway across the world to the Afghan Empire. Under the circumstances, I assumed you had been killed."

  "I almost was, many times," he snarled. "And I was captured and taken prisoner, and tortured, Jeanne. You think I was off having a party in the Punjab? You have no idea of the tortures they've devised in that heathen part of the world!"

  "Oh, really? Just let me get this straight," Jeanne said calmly. "You went as a mercenary and joined the Khalsa, the Sikh Army, didn't you? Because Maharajah Ranjit Singh needed artillerymen, mercenary English and American artillerymen, to train his army."

  "Yes? So?"

  "So who, exactly, took you prisoner, Max? You were fighting for the Sikhs. Did the British East India Company capture you and torture you? What did they do, mess up your hair?"

  He grinned a shark's smile. "You always were sly in some ways, Jeanne. Stupid about men and their needs, but otherwise you're clever. Okay, so let's forget the past six years. It doesn't matter now anyway. What matters is that I am most certainly alive and you are my wife, and I am going to claim what's mine."

  "I'll never forget the past six years! In spite of the hardships Marvel and I have gone through, they've been very good years—without you! So I don't want you or need you now!"

&nbs
p; "Yeah, I've heard all about that too. Everyone on this river, and the Arkansas River, knows you and Hardin are living together on the boat. How convenient. I can see that you're so besotted with him that you wish I really were dead right now. But I'm not, Jeanne. I'm alive, and I am your husband, in the eyes of the law, and in the eyes of God, like you always preached at me. That's a fact and you're going to have to learn—again—to live with it. And to live with me, because I'm moving in with you tonight."

  "If you so much as set foot on that boat, I'll let Clint Hardin deal with you," Jeanne said evenly. "I'm warning you, Max. He will hurt you, and I won't be able to stop him, even if I wanted to."

  "Oh, really? But Jeanne, my dear, I thought you were supposed to be a Christian woman. At least, that's how you see yourself, and you put on a good act, so holy and pure, ask the Lord for this, pray for that. So you've prayed to God, and He told you to set your big mutt on me and beat me up?"

  "Stop it!" she cried, much too loudly. Two finely dressed ladies sitting nearby stared at her with disapproval. How did Max Bettencourt do this to her? He always made her feel ugly, inside and outside, and ashamed. He was so reprehensible, so cruel and heartless, how was it possible that she was always the one who felt guilty?

  He went on, "And what about Marvel? Are you going to deny me the right to see my own daughter? And have your river rats assault me, right in front of her, I presume, if I try? Where does it say that in your Bible, Jeanne? You should be ashamed of yourself, anyway, the way you're raising her. On a riverboat, with river rats as her only companions. And you living in sin on that boat with Clint Hardin."

  "I am not living with Clint Hardin!" Jeanne said, stung. "I've never had a man in my life, except for you!"

  "Ah, so there's nothing between you and him?" Max said knowingly.

  "I—I didn't say—it's none of your business!"

  "But it is my business," he said with a great show of patience. "You are my wife. Marvel is my daughter. You two are my only family." Then he leaned over, grabbed her arm and squeezed hard, and muttered in a spiteful undertone, "And I'm warning you, Jeanne. I have a legal right to anything and everything that you own. That's the law of Tennessee, believe me, I've already checked into it. So you'd better just call off your big mutt, because if he so much as lays a finger on me I'll have him arrested for assault."

  "You're hurting me," Jeanne hissed.

  "Yeah, I know," he said maliciously. With one last brutal squeeze he let go of her upper arm. "You were a stupid little girl, and now you're a stupid woman. You'd better think about this, Jeanne. You haven't got a chance of running me off. The law is on my side."

  Jeanne rubbed her arm and looked down, her cheeks flaming. This situation was so intolerable she felt nauseated. She remembered now, all too well, that in the last months before Max had left she found every second in his company, rare though it was, to be a nightmare of shame and crippling remorse. And she had no one to blame but herself. She had married him. She had wanted to marry him.

  Finally she looked back up at him defiantly. "You know, Max, you've made a lot of plans that you're going to have trouble carrying out. In the first place, if you try to board my boat, I will tell Clint, and Ezra, and Vince, to remove you forcibly. And as I said, you will get hurt, probably extremely hurt. Any one of those men will be all too happy to go to jail, probably just overnight, for beating you senseless. And in the second place, I will never consent to you claiming a husband's right to my property. If you think that's what you're going to do, you'll have to take me to court. If that's your choice, then fine. But until I get a decision by a judge, you cannot set foot on board the Helena Rose. As far as seeing Marvel, I'll have to think about that. Even if I do decide to let you see her, it will never be unless I'm with her, and not on the Helena Rose."

  "I can get the sheriff to escort me on board!" he blustered.

  "Not without a court order, he won't," Jeanne retorted.

  "You'd better not do this, Jeanne. I'm warning you, you're going to pay for it if you defy me," he said balefully. "And when that day comes, your payment is going to be a lot more than you bargained for." He jerked to his feet, overturning the small wrought-iron chair, and stalked out of the courtyard. Everyone stared at Jeanne, and she buried her face in her hands.

  No matter how unfair it was, she was once again the one who felt shame.

  WHEN MAX BETTENCOURT LEFT Dooley's, he felt that he had made a grand exit. He'd left Jeanne sitting there like a cast-off whore, and she'd have to make her own way back to the boat alone. He considered waiting for her somewhere along the way, but decided against it. It was still several hours until dark and he had no intention of taking such a risk in broad daylight.

  He stopped at a dank, dark liquor store and bought the cheapest gallon of whiskey they had. A few blocks down was his hotel, a filthy flophouse that rented rooms by the half hour, the hour, or the night. Paying for another night, he went up the rickety stairs, almost choking from the stench of body odor, rotten fish, and urine. In his room he pulled the single chair up by the window and leaned his whole upper body out of it. Uncorking the whiskey, he took four harsh gurgling swallows from it. This hotel, which apparently had no other name than Rooms to Rent, had no such luxuries as glasses or sheets or even pitchers and washbowls. To wash up he had to go to the pump out back, which was right by the privy. It occurred to him that a pitcher and washbowl would cost less than the whiskey, but cursing silently he decided to use one of the empty gallon jugs—there were two of them in the room, the idea that this place had any maids to clean up was farcical—to fetch water for washing. He couldn't afford a pitcher and washbowl. His lip curled in a snarl, thinking that Jeanne had backed him against the wall, telling him that he'd have to take her to court. Lawyers cost money, and Max Bettencourt's money was almost gone.

  He cursed Jeanne in his mind, over and over again. Though she had always been a little spitfire, he had always been able to manipulate her, in fact, to bully her. She had grown much less vulnerable; in fact, it had been an extremely unpleasant shock to him that she so strongly and openly defied him. And she had that big bruiser Clint Hardin to defend her. But he wouldn't stay by her side and protect her all the time, Max thought confidently. He had heard on the river that Hardin was quite the ladies' man. To Max that meant that Hardin was like him. Oh, yes, soon enough Hardin would be out chasing whores. No matter what Max said, he knew that Jeanne would never take a lover, she really was way too holier-than-thou religious. Hardin had needs, like any man, and he wouldn't be finding them satisfied by prudish Jeanne Bettencourt. All he had to do was watch for his opportunity.

  There was only one thing that Max liked about this room. The hotel was on Front Street, the waterfront that ran right along the river. Sandwiched between a beef warehouse and an icehouse, the only windows were on the front of the hotel. His window looked right over the river, the northern part of the docks, in fact. He got up and got his field glasses and settled back down in his chair. They were sensitive, and it took him a few moments to adjust them, but finally they were in such good focus that he could read the letters on the side of the boat: Helena Rose.

  JEANNE'S RETURN TO THE Helena Rose was slow and torturous. She walked as slowly as she had ever done, feeling barely able to drag one foot in front of the other. Still, she went several blocks out of her way, walking in circles for a couple of hours. She had to think.

  But her mind wasn't working properly; her thoughts were incoherent. All she could do was cry out to the Lord. What am I going to do? Oh, my God, my loving Father God, whatever can I do? I can't stand the thought of him anywhere near Marvel! An abominable picture of Max Bettencourt picking up Marvel and holding her as she and Clint did, loomed up in her mind. She stopped dead and bent over, clutching her stomach. She actually thought that she was going to vomit.

  But the picture faded and she kept on her dogged way. Eventually her mind cleared somewhat, though her thoughts were as painful as if she were being stabbed. I am hi
s wife, and he is Marvel's father. But I will never, never live with him. And I don't care what the law says or even whether it's right or wrong . . . no, I know it's right. That man shouldn't have any part of Marvel's life. If I have to, Marvel and I will run away. Thank you, God, that I have the money! And he'll never find me again!

  Sudden hot tears stung her eyes, and she stifled a sob. Oh, Clint, Clint, my lost love! What have I done to us! I thought it was unbearable before, my regret at marrying him, but now, how can we stand this pain, this sorrow? Not together. If I have to run away, it will be from you, too, my beloved . . .

  She had almost reached the Helena Rose, so she dashed the tears away from her eyes and scrubbed her face with her handkerchief. They were all sitting outside, on the main deck, in the deck chaises. Marvel was sitting in Clint's lap, resting her head against his shoulder. He was caressing her hair, smoothing it back over and over again.

  When they saw her, they all jumped up and met her at the gangplank. She said, "All of you, please, go ahead and sit back down. Ezra, will you bring me a chair? Here, Marvel, my darling, come sit with me."

  They all got seated except for Clint, who stood and paced. His tanned face was tense, his jaw hardened, his eyes dark and foreboding.

  "I suppose there's no way to explain this except just to say it," Jeanne said quietly. "I met Max Bettencourt when I was sixteen years old, and I fell in love with him. Or at least I thought I did, now I don't think what I felt had anything whatsoever to do with true love. He was older, he was handsome, he was dashing, a captain of artillery in the army, stationed at Fort Smith. My parents were horrified that at sixteen I wanted to get married, and they made me promise to wait at least a year. And so we did, and when I turned seventeen we married. Max's term of enlistment had expired, and so he resigned from the army. We moved to Memphis, and he got a job at the Victory Ironworks, making cannons and ammunition. He was quickly promoted to supervisor of the light arms division, and there he learned how to make handguns and rifles. He was all right, for a while . . . but . . ." She choked back tears. Marvel started crying.