River Queen Rose

by Shirley Kennedy

  “Sixty thousand, give or take.”

  “Really! That’s a lot of sheep.”

  He shrugged as if it were nothing. “There are lots of stations bigger than Amalie.”

  So Deke was a land owner? How wrong she’d been. One of her mother’s favorite sayings was, “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” yet that’s what she’d done with Deke when she saw him as a down-and-out loser because of his crutches and the way he looked. And he, unpretentious man that he was, had never told her otherwise. She had lots to think about, and she’d deal with it later. “So of course you got rid of him.”

  “Hell no. If I’d let him go, he’d have been free to steal even more lambs, so I kept him on. He never stole from me again, I saw to that. There’s a saying, ‘It’s better to deal with the devil you know than the devil you don’t know.’ Do you get my meaning?”

  “That settles it. I’ll rehire him.” Rose sighed. “Jake can handle all the ordinary, everyday things, but that doesn’t solve all my problems. I’m not sure how to start. There’s so much to do, and I must confess, I’m not sure how to go about it. There’s the cellar that needs to be dug. The dining room and that awful-looking lobby must be completely designed and remodeled. Then there’s the women’s ordinary I want to build, and then—”

  “Stop.” Deke held up his hand. “You can’t do all of that by yourself and neither can Jake.”

  “You’re so right. I’m beginning to realize that. Running a hotel is one thing, but renovating and remodeling? That’s another matter entirely and I’m not sure—”

  “You need help and I’ve got just the man for you. Name’s Tim Delahunty. He’s an Irishman from New York. Worked as an architect and built buildings. Right now, he’s chopping ice for me, one of those down-and-out miners I was telling you about. He worked the diggings for a while, but never found so much as an ounce of gold. Then caught pneumonia and nearly died. Now all he wants is to make enough money to get home to his family. I’m not sure he’d say yes, but I could ask.”

  “Would you?” Relieved, she continued, “You’re a good friend, Deke. It seems you always come through for me.”

  A wry smile played at the corners of his mouth. “At your service, Mrs. Peterson. Always glad to help a grieving widow.”

  Was her less-than-deep grief for her husband that obvious? She stifled an impulse to giggle. “You know me too well.”

  His smile disappeared. “Well enough. So tell me, how was your dinner last night with the great Mason Talbot?”

  She ignored his sarcasm. “It went beautifully, thank you. The food was wonderful. I was so impressed I plan to open a French restaurant at the River Queen. Mason knows of a French chef who’s absolutely fabulous.” She could stop right there, but couldn’t resist a playful urge to annoy him. “Mason was the perfect host, so thoughtful and generous. He’s a wonderful person, and I really can’t understand why you don’t like him.”

  For once, Deke lost the amiable expression she was accustomed to. For a long moment he sat silent. “He killed your husband, Rose.”

  She could have sworn he’d uttered those last words through clenched teeth. “I know all that. I don’t want to sound disloyal to Emmet, but you know the circumstances even better than I. My husband brought it all on himself, and that’s the truth of it. Mason isn’t to blame, and I wish you could see that.”

  For the longest time, Deke simply stared at her until his continued scrutiny caused her to ask, “Aren’t you going to say something?”

  Finally he spoke. “I don’t want to hear another word about Mason Talbot, not now, not ever.”

  She had planned a further argument, but the gritty firmness in Deke’s voice stopped her cold. For the first time, she saw a side to her friend from Australia she’d never seen before. He wasn’t all light-hearted and friendly as she’d thought. He had a deeper side, too, but right now she couldn’t figure it out.

  He was wrong about Mason, though. She would continue to see him, despite Deke’s low opinion of the man.

  That afternoon, upon Deke’s recommendation, Rose summoned Tim Delahunty to her office. A tall man with a full head of curly dark hair, he possessed a jovial laugh and friendly, outgoing nature. Only his pallid face and thin appearance disclosed how he’d toiled at the diggings and barely survived. “I should never have left New York,” he told Rose. “Left my wife and three kids so I could rush to the gold fields and get rich. What a fool. Now all I want is to make enough money to get back to New York.”

  Rose liked the man but had a concern. “If I hire you to oversee the renovation of the River Queen, would you run out on me the minute you had enough money and head for home?”

  “Absolutely not. I’d stay till the job was done. I’m a man of my word, Mrs. Peterson. What have I left but my honor?”

  She believed him and hired him on the spot.

  After Tim left Rose’s office, such an overwhelming sense of apprehension suddenly ran through her that a knot formed in her stomach, and she had to breathe deep and sit back in her chair. Dear Lord, what had she done? Not long ago, she was Mrs. Emmet Peterson, wife, mother, and that was all. Now she was Rose Peterson, owner of a notorious, run-down hotel and saloon that she, with little experience, without the least idea of what she was doing, planned to turn into a luxury hotel better than the Egyptian. She wasn’t at all sure she could do it, but she’d burned her bridges behind her, and by God, she’d give it a try.

  Chapter 11

  The first thing Rose did the next morning was to take Deke’s advice and hire Jake back. She still had her doubts, but she’d keep a close eye on him.

  In the days that followed, she threw herself into the daunting task of improving and expanding the River Queen. She took care of the easy things first, like removing the obscene pictures behind the bar. They needed to be replaced, and when Mason offered to loan her a few “more tasteful” portraits from the Egyptian, she gladly accepted. “Until I can get to San Francisco to buy my own.”

  She worked hard at the hotel all day, but Lucy came first in her life, so when night came, she went home and let Jake run the place. So far, he seemed to be doing a good job. Even so, she remained vigilant so he wouldn’t rob her blind.

  Other than their daily buggy ride from home and back, she didn’t see much of Drucilla, who had thrown herself into her housekeeping responsibilities with joyful zeal. Since women were scarce in Sacramento, Rose had warned her she’d have trouble finding maids, but Drucilla easily found the answer. She visited the third floor and hired two of the younger girls, both of them happy to leave the oldest profession.

  After checking the hotel’s inventory, Drucilla found the entire supply of linens and towels in such deplorable condition she ordered everything new from San Francisco. The bathrooms at each end of the hall which had been, as she put it, “too disgusting to discuss,” now sparkled with cleanliness. To Rose’s relief, nothing upset Drucilla, not even the drunken, disorderly behavior she daily witnessed among the River Queen’s regular clientele. She did her job, did not complain, and kept her opinions to herself. Only once, after seeing a particularly disheveled and rowdy customer tossed out on the street, did she cast a skeptical glance at Rose and remark, “What a shame. There goes my knight in shining armor. Do you suppose he’ll sober up by morning so we can tie the knot?”

  Rose had little time to devote to her sister-in-law’s skeptical attitude toward romance. Her biggest concern was what to do about the wretched condition of the River Queen’s one and only restaurant until one day Mason stopped by with exciting news. “I’ve found that French chef you wanted, the one who’s a friend of Pierre. He has just arrived from San Francisco.”

  Ever since she’d eaten that fabulous meal at Le Chantecler, she’d dreamed of a similar restaurant for the River Queen. “That’s wonderful, Mason. Who is he, and when can I see him?”

  Next morning, Monsieur Gaston Bernier
presented himself in Rose’s office. Of medium height and slim, thirty-five or so, he fulfilled her image of a gallant Frenchman when he bowed and with a flourish kissed her hand. “Madame Peterson, I presume?”

  Oh, my. His dark, snappy eyes and flirtatious smile made her heart flutter, but only for a moment. She must get serious. “You’re the chef who worked with Pierre? And you’re from Paris? Please do sit down.”

  She had prepared a list of questions but had hardly started to ask them when Monsieur Bernier made it clear who would be in charge of the interview, and it wasn’t her. He told her of his greatest successes: his steak au poivre, his blanquette de veau. At the end, with an arrogant lift of his chin, he declared in his charming French accent, “In Paris, I worked only in the finest of restaurants. Some of my dishes are famous. My coquilles St-Jacques?”—he kissed his fingers and tossed his hand in the air—“Superb! In the spirit of adventure, I ’ave come to America to, shall we say, seek new worlds to conquer. You need to know I will not lower my standards. I must inspect your kitchen and the entire restaurant at length before making a commitment.”

  Despite his arrogance, she immediately knew she must have him. But oh, dear God! What would he say when he laid eyes on River Queen’s restaurant as it was now with its greasy stoves, rough plank tables, and worst of all, fat Gus in his sweaty headband and dirty apron. Well, she’d do the best she could. She stood and put on a confident smile. “I want you to see our restaurant but hope you’ll keep in mind it’s about to be renovated and currently doesn’t look…uh…quite what I know you would like.”

  He stood and bowed. “Lead the way, madame.”

  When they arrived at the restaurant, her worries were confirmed. Monsieur Bernier took one look through the door, flinched, and wrinkled his nose. “This is the best you ’ave?”

  Before she could answer, Tim Delahunty walked up. In the few days he’d been at the River Queen, he’d pitched into his job with endless energy and enthusiasm. Already he’d begun to draw plans for remodeling the restaurant. Rose introduced him. “Monsieur Bernier, this is my man in charge of the remodeling.”

  Tim must have noted the sour look on the French chef’s face. After a quick glance at Rose, he declared in his booming voice, “Wait till you see the plans!” He slung a friendly arm around Bernier’s shoulders. “Come with me, my friend. We’ll take in the kitchen first. We’re just getting started. Want any changes? We’ll be glad to oblige.”

  If the chef was offended by Tim’s over friendly behavior, he showed no signs of it. Rose trailed silently behind as the two toured the entire restaurant with Tim urging Monsieur Bernier to ignore the shoddy present and look at the glowing future when the River Queen Restaurant would be transformed into “The best damn restaurant in town, and that includes Le Chantecler at the Egyptian.”

  By now, the Frenchman’s sour expression had disappeared. He beamed with interest. “But that name! It won’t do. Mon Dieu! You cannot call a first class French restaurant by a name as common as ‘The River Queen Restaurant.’”

  Rose thought fast and took advantage of the opportunity. “But that will be up to you, monsieur. If you stay, you will be the one to pick a new name. I give you my word, whatever you choose, we shall honor it.”

  Gaston Bernier’s eyes lit. Although he said nothing more, Rose could see she’d found just the right thing to say.

  When they finished the tour and had walked through the saloon, they encountered Drucilla headed down the staircase, hair flying in all directions, a harried expression on her face. “Some of our guests are like pigs!” she exclaimed.

  She was about to move on when Rose stopped her at the bottom of the stairs. “Drucilla, I would like you to meet Gaston Bernier, who might be our first French chef.” She turned to Bernier. “Monsieur, may I introduce Miss Drucilla Peterson, my sister-in-law and the hotel’s housekeeper?”

  Drucilla stuck out her arm and blurted a hasty, “Bonjour, monsieur! Ravi de faire votre connaissance.”

  Obviously she’d planned on a fast handshake and get-away, but before she could move on, the Frenchman uttered, “Enchanté,” and with a gracious bow, kissed the back of Drucilla’s hand. Rising up, he inquired, “Vous parlez francais, mademoiselle?”

  “Un peu.”

  “Vous avez de beaux yeux.”

  “Mes yeux sont ordinaires, et n’ont rien de special.”

  “Ah non! Vous etes une femme magnifique!”

  Drucilla rolled her eyes, uttered a quick, “I must go,” and hurried away.

  Bernier looked after her. “Charming!”

  “Yes, isn’t she?” Really? Rose couldn’t believe anyone could find her blunt sister-in-law charming, but then, he was looking at her through a man’s eyes, seeing something that had somehow escaped her attention.

  Before the chef departed, she made herself clear with her final words. “The job is yours if you want it, Monsieur Bernier. What do you think? Would you like to work here?”

  He frowned, as if in deep thought. “Perhaps… Yes, I will indeed consider it. You will ’ave my answer tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, monsieur. I shall be anxiously waiting to hear from you.” Not true. She wasn’t anxious at all. Thanks to buoyant Tim Delahunty and his infectious optimism, she had no doubt that Gaston Bernier was going to be the new French chef at the River Queen. And maybe a bit of thanks to Drucilla? Whatever she’d said in French must have impressed him.

  Later, Rose caught up with her sister-in-law in the hallway. “What was all that French about?”

  Drucilla gave an impatient shrug. “It was nothing. The man’s a flirt. He told me I had beautiful eyes.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I informed him I had ordinary eyes and there was nothing special about them.”

  “And then what did he say?”

  “He said I was a beautiful woman. Me. Can you believe that? I let him know he was being ridiculous.”

  “Perhaps he meant it.”

  Drucilla burst out laughing. “Of course, he didn’t mean it, but what if he did? I’m not the least bit interested in finding a man, as you very well know. And besides, he’s shorter than I am.”

  “Only an inch or so.”

  “Ha! Be it an inch or a foot, I will never have a man I can’t look up to.”

  She stalked off with her nose in the air, leaving Rose shaking her head. What a shame. Why did Drucilla have to be so bull-headed? But still…

  Despite all the nonsense, she’d sensed a spark between her obstinate sister-in-law and the arrogant French chef.

  * * * *

  Rose’s biggest problem hung over her like a dark cloud. Over a week had gone by since she’d told Ben she would end prostitution at the River Queen. Ben remained adamant that the River Queen’s ladies of the night must go. Every day when she got home, he asked in his caustic voice, “Are they gone yet?” So far, she’d held him off by explaining she’d been so busy she hadn’t had time to deal with the situation. Up to now, Ben replied with a grunt and said nothing more. That wouldn’t last, though. “He’s running out of patience,” she told Dulcee one evening when she’d gone to visit. “You know how he is. He won’t bend.”

  “Ben’s right for all the wrong reasons,” came Dulcee’s surprising reply. “He says prostitution is a sin. I say the fate of those poor girls is where the sin lies. They might look like they’re having a fine time, but they live a life of degradation, and don’t tell me otherwise. They never last long. If they don’t die from some disease, they soon lose their looks and end up on the streets, hungry and destitute.”

  Dulcee’s wise words strengthened Rose’s resolve. If she wanted to do the right thing, as well as keep the peace with her in-laws, she’d have to take action, and soon.

  But how? More than once, Tillie dropped by Rose’s office. Hand on hip, in her usual cheeky manner, she’d inquire, “Made up
your mind yet? What will you do after Cherry’s baby is born?”

  All Rose could do was reply, “I’m not sure yet.” What a dilemma. She was getting pressured by both sides and kept putting off her final decision. Occasionally, early in the day when no men were around, she visited the third floor to see how Cherry was doing. Oddly enough, she didn’t feel in the least uncomfortable, mainly because in the cold morning light, the third floor dwellers of the River Queen didn’t look so much like tarts, harlots, and whores as much as they looked like ordinary women, relaxing in their wrappers, sipping their coffee, engaging in gossip and friendly conversation. They were all concerned about Cherry. “She cries a lot,” Tillie said. “Stays in her room all the time. She needs you to cheer her up, Mrs. Peterson.”

  On Rose’s latest visit to Cherry’s tiny room, she’d found the girl lying on the bed, her eyes red from crying. “But why the tears, Cherry? You know you can stay. I promised I wouldn’t throw you out, and I assure you I won’t.”

  Cherry turned her face to the wall. “It’s not that, Mrs. Peterson. You’ve been very kind. It’s just…”

  “Just what? You know you can tell me anything.”

  Cherry turned toward her, her face a mask of despair. “I didn’t want to do this in the first place…”

  She went on to describe how, as a child, her father had beaten and abused her. “He did things to me a father ought not to do.” Finally she ran away. Then, even worse, she, a naïve girl of fourteen, with no place to go and starving, fell into the hands of a depraved individual who forced her into this life of sin. A tear rolled down her cheek. “I don’t want to give my baby up. Tillie and the other girls say I have to if I want to keep working, but I love it already, be it a he or a she, and I don’t know how I can do it. Sometimes I think I’ll kill myself so I can get out of this misery.”

  Rose hated to be honest but had no choice. “I must confess I haven’t given a thought to the fate of your baby. I will think about it, though. I promise. And maybe…well, maybe I can come up with something.”