The River Rose, Digital Edition
Based on Print Edition
Copyright © 2012 by Gilbert Morris
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
978-1-4336-7321-4
Published by B&H Publishing Group,
Nashville, Tennessee
Dewey Decimal Classification: F
Subject Heading: BOATS AND BOATING—FICTION LOVE STORIES STEAMBOATS—FICTION
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
CHAPTER ONE
The Gayoso House Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee, gleamed like Mount Olympus on the bluff high above the Mississippi River. Its six fifty-foot-high Doric columns topped by the grand, white marble pediment had become a sure landmark to the lesser beings on the river. A pallid December sun rose behind the hotel, its weak light still making the grand edifice seem to glow.
Jeanne Bettencourt's eyes watered a little as she stared up at the hotel. The wind was keening off the river, and as she hurried along Front Street she adjusted her woolen muffler to cover her mouth and nose. Above the plain gray wool were wide-set velvet brown eyes, odd because they had a perfect almond shape that was more East Indies than red-blooded American. The searching bitter wind teased out several thick chestnut-brown curls from her mobcap and hood, and impatiently she tucked them back in.
She went around to the back of the hotel to the servant's entrance, of course, because she was a chambermaid, not a guest. Sometimes Jeanne dreamed of having enough money to stay at Gayoso House. It was a luxurious place, with real brass room keys and fobs, daintily wrapped guest soaps, satiny bed linens, eiderdown comforters, fireplaces, and velvet chairs and cherry tables in each room. And most elegant and desired—marble tubs, silver faucets, hot and cold running water, and even flush toilets. Indoor plumbing was grandiose indeed.
A crowd of maids, porters, waiters, and wood boys were gathered at the service entrance, and just as Jeanne reached the bottom step the great Gothic bells of St. Peter's church began to ring the hour of 7:00 a.m. The door was opened by Mrs. Wiedemann, the stern German housekeeper, who stood frowning as the servants filed in. Jeanne was last, on the final stroke of seven, and Mrs. Wiedemann frowned. "You are almost late, Jeanne."
"Yes, ma'am," she said submissively, following the woman's heavy tread into the housekeeping supply room. She wasn't late, of course. But Jeanne was lucky to have this job, and she never crossed Mrs. Wiedemann. Under the circumstances, the two got along very well.
The housekeeping supply room was something like a long railroad car. Along one wall was a row of hooks, each with a neatly printed white card above it. Jeanne hung her cape and muffler on the hook labeled J.Bettencourt, gave another quick pat-push to the hair escaping from her mobcap, and checked her white apron to make sure it was spotless. At the Gayoso one was not required to have a uniform as such, though they required that the maids wear gray skirts and plain white blouses. The hotel supplied each maid with two aprons and two mobcaps, and if you came to work at the Gayoso with your apron dirty you did not work at the Gayoso on that day. Satisfied that she presented a neat and clean appearance, Jeanne began to gather her cleaning supplies. They were all stored in a long row of closets across from the hooks, kept locked to deter stealing. Mrs. Wiedemann had a very impressive bunch of keys hanging at her waist. She stood watching suspiciously as the maids gathered their supplies.
When they were all ready with their five-gallon buckets full, they started filing up the back staircase to begin the day. Mrs. Wiedemann called out, "Jeanne, I would speak with you for a moment."
Jeanne kept her face expressionless, though she was dismayed. She never knew what Mrs. Wiedemann was going to say to her when she asked to speak to her. Sometimes she berated her for some imaginary wrong, or chided her for the faults of other maids assigned to her. Sometimes she asked polite questions of Jeanne, as to how so-and-so new maid was adjusting, how Mr. Such-and-Such was enjoying his stay, was Jeanne happy with her supplies, did she feel anything useful may be added to the cleaning materials?
Jeanne hurried back to her and asked politely, "Yes, Mrs. Wiedemann?"
"Yes, Jeanne. This week we have some soaps barely used from overnight guests. Also we have pillow slip turnover. You may buy ten soaps for one penny, and five pillow slips for one penny, if you wish."
Jeanne's dark winged eyebrows rose with surprise. All such perquisites belonged to the housekeeper, and in four years this was the first time she had ever known Mrs. Wiedemann to let anyone have a chance to buy any cast-off supplies. And the price she quoted was excellent; the swift thought went through Jeanne's mind, she could sell them to the secondhands five for a penny, one for a penny . . .
"Yes, ma'am, I would very much like to buy some soaps and pillow slips," Jeanne said gratefully. "Ten soaps for one cent and five pillow slips for one cent is very generous. Thank you, ma'am."
To Jeanne's surprise, Mrs. Wiedemann seemed slightly uncomfortable. "The pillow slips are very thin. Perhaps we make it six for one penny. Yes. I will have them for you tonight, when you leave."
"Oh, I am so sorry, Mrs. Wiedemann, I have no money with me at all," Jeanne said in embarrassment. "Please, hold them for me until tomorrow. I'll bring the money then."
"No. You take them tonight. I know you will bring the money, Jeanne. Now get to work, please." She turned and marched away.
Jeanne was ecstatic as she flew up the three flights of stairs to the top floor. It was December 18, 1854, two days before her daughter's birthday and seven days until Christmas morning. She would have time to sew a soft long-sleeved chemise from the pillow slips in the next week, so Marvel would have two birthday presents and two Christmas presents.
Jeanne began, as always, with the first room, #301. All of the rooms at the Gayoso were alike, but the wealthiest and most prestigious patrons preferred the top floor. In winter it was warm, and in summer the cool breezes off the river kept them bearable. The third floor was, of course, the most difficult one for the chambermaids because they had to travel up and down three flights of stairs to resupply or to take their twenty-minute lunch break. Mrs. Wiedemann had started giving Jeanne the top floor every day she worked, and at first Jeanne had thought that the woman was deliberately making it difficult for her. But then she realized that the third floor patrons tipped generously, as a rule. Too, Mrs. Wiedemann had started assigning all the newest maids to work with Jeanne, and over time she had stopped coming up to the top floor to check the maids' work. Jeanne slowly started training the maids, and then supervising them.
Jeanne was very happy to see that her first guest was a regular, an older man named Mr. Borden. She knew that he was a very prominent man, for she had overheard snippets of conversations and she knew that when he was in town he saw the mayor
, city council members, judges, presidents of companies, insurance executives, and the sheriffs and marshals. He was no salesman.
She knocked twice on the door and said, "Chambermaid to attend the room, sir?"
"Yes, yes, come in, come in," he called. She opened the door, stepped in, and curtseyed. At the Gayoso the chambermaids always curtseyed.
He was sitting at the tea table by the window wearing a maroon satin dressing gown over his clothes, for the fire had not yet caught well and the room was chilly. His tea table was littered with newspapers. A fat cigar was lit and smoldered in an ashtray next to a silver coffee service. Mr. Borden was a round, jovial man, bald with a thick silver fringe and sideburns, and bright blue eyes. "Jeanne! Oh, I am glad to see you, Jeanne. Come in, come in, girl!"
"Good morning, Mr. Borden," Jeanne said with real pleasure. She went to the fireplace, noting that the wood boy had cleaned the mantel and hearth well, and stirred the coals and added another log. The flames leapt up and the fire began crackling comfortably. Then Jeanne picked up her bucket and started toward the bathroom.
"Just a minute, Jeanne. Come here, I have something for you," he called after her. "Besides, I'm too lazy to pour my own coffee. Sad, isn't it? Would you do me the honor?"
"Of course, sir," she said, returning to pour out a steaming cup of coffee with three sugars and heavy cream, just as he liked it.
"Mmm, you fix it better than I do anyway," he said appreciatively. "Now, I've got some things here—oh, where is the blasted—there it is. Frank Leslie's Illustrated Weekly. From last week, but I thought that you might not have seen it yet," he said tactfully.
"No, I have not," Jeanne said. "That's very kind of you, Mr. Borden. Thank you."
He waved dismissively. "And there's some other papers, the New York Herald, the Arkansas Gazette, the local Appeal. I believe you'll find them underneath the night table."
Jeanne found the newspapers and looked up at him questioningly. "You brought all these for me, sir?" Mr. Borden always left her his newspapers when he stayed, but this was a stack of about a dozen current papers.
"Of course," he replied with a smile. "Ever since I caught you sneaking a read of my Herald, I've thought about it. You see, Jeanne, I've never thought twice about buying half-a-dozen newspapers every morning, skimming the headlines, then throwing them away. But you can't do that, can you?"
"No, sir," Jeanne said, slowly rising. "But I never meant to—"
"I know," he interrupted her hastily. "No, you wouldn't. I just think you should be able to read the newspapers if you want." Very busily he re-lit his cigar, sipped his coffee, shuffled newspapers, and finally began reading.
Jeanne put the newspapers outside the door and began cleaning. She scrubbed the bathroom, polished the faucets, cleaned the toilet, then went into the room to shake out the sheets and plump the comforter, change the pillow slips, remake the bed, sweep the carpet, and clean the windows. As she was gathering her supplies to leave, he looked up from his newspaper and said, "Jeanne, don't forget your Leslie's."
She had not forgotten it—far from it—but she was too embarrassed to intrude upon him to greedily shuffle through the untidy pile of newspapers on the table to find it again. She went back to the table, and it was lying to the side, with a five-dollar bill on top of it. Eyes wide, she stared at him.
"Merry Christmas, Jeanne!" he said as jovially as Santa Claus himself.
"Oh, thank you, sir," she breathed. "It's—it's—very generous, sir."
"Not really," he said lightly, then cocked his head, as alert as a bird. "Jeanne, may I be extremely impertinent and ask you a personal question? Dunno why you'd object, you see, I'm already rude enough to call you by your given name and smoke cigars in front of you."
"I don't object to any of that, sir," she said with a small smile, "and you may ask me a question."
"Hmm. Are you married, Jeanne?"
"I am a widow, Mr. Borden."
"And do you have children?"
"Yes, sir. A daughter."
"And how old is she?"
"She will be six years old in two days, sir," Jeanne replied, now thoroughly surprised. In her experience even the kindest guests had no interest in a chambermaid's life, unless it was one of the men who took a great deal of interest, generally in a chambermaid's person. When Mr. Borden had asked the first question, she had had a moment of discomfort, but it had swiftly passed. She knew he wasn't that type of man. She had always known. Still, his questioning was curious.
"And what is her name, if you please?" he continued.
"Marvel Bettencourt. No middle name, sir."
He nodded. "I have two sons and two daughters. They're all grown now, of course. And I have a grandson that is possibly the most intelligent, the most wondrous child that has ever been born."
Deadpan, Jeanne said, "I'm sorry to tell you this, sir, but my daughter is quite the cleverest and most wonderful child ever."
He laughed, a delightful boyish sound. "So she is clever, is she? Must take after her mother. Thank you for indulging my boorish questions. I've just wondered about you, you see. I'd like for you and your daughter to have a good Christmas."
"Mr. Borden, with this money, I can assure you that my daughter and I will have a glorious Christmas. Thank you again, sir." She gathered up her things, gave him a final curtsey and a smile, and left.
As soon as she pulled the door closed behind her she stretched out the five-dollar bill and stared at it in wonder. In the previous Christmases, she had made some one-dollar tips but never five dollars. Happily tucking it into her ankle boot, she checked her list for the occupant of the next room. She was the only chambermaid that could read. The other girls had lists with the room numbers carefully drawn the exact same way as the brass numerals on the doors.
With some trepidation she knocked on Room #302, for her cleaning list told her that this was J. B. Cunningham. "Chambermaid to attend the room, sir?" she called.
"Come on in."
She entered the room, which was deliciously heated by the roaring fire. On the air was the sharp mentholated scent of shaving lather. The bathroom door was open and delicate wisps of steam wafted out of it. A young man peered around the door, his face half smothered with big dollops of shaving cream. He held a straight razor in his hand. "Hello, Beautiful! Just give me a minute, I'm finishing up."
It's not like I'm calling on you, Jeanne thought grimly with an angry bob to pass for a curtsey. "No, Mr. Cunningham, since you are still at your morning toilette I will return later."
She turned, but too late. He popped into the room. He had trousers on—for which Jeanne was excessively grateful—but he was in his sock feet, and he wasn't wearing a shirt. His face still had shaving cream on it, but he seemed unaware as he came and put both hands on her waist. "Who says toilette? You're not like any chambermaid I ever saw, Jeanne." He tried to draw her closer. "And you're so beautiful—"
With deliberation Jeanne grabbed his hands and lifted them away from her as if they were some loathsome rodents, and said icily, "Didn't you know? I learned it at Chambermaid School. It's very exclusive; they all look like me at Chambermaid School."
He laughed. "Wish I knew where that school was! Aw, c'mon, Jeanne, I'm sorry I'm—er—"
"Half naked?" she supplied. "I know that word, too. I'll be back after I do the next two rooms, Mr. Cunningham. Please be clothed by then."
Without waiting for his comment, she flung the door open and stalked out. J. B. Cunningham pawed all of the maids. The first time she had cleaned his room, he had lightly laid his hands on her shoulders, turned her around to give her a jolly hug, and then tried to kiss her. She had been new, and frightened, and awkward, and she had barely managed to keep darting away from him until finally she had managed to complete her work. Since then he had tried again and again, but as Jeanne gained more experience she had become quite adept at keeping men at arm's length. This was the first time, however, that he had been half-clothed—or half-naked, as she saw
it—and she had been sharper with him than ever before. Lost that tip, she thought dryly as she went to the next room.
The guest wasn't in the room, so Jeanne unlocked it with her master key and went in. After automatically checking the hearth she went into the bathroom and paused before the big gilt-edged mirror over the sink to study her reflection. In her opinion, J. B. Cunningham always told her she was beautiful because he was trying to seduce her. She was not beautiful; she was pretty. Her eyes were dark and fringed with heavy, dark lashes, and above them her eyebrows made perfect arched wings. Her face was a small oval, with a delicate nose and wide mouth. Her hair was rich, dark brown, luxuriously thick and curly, reaching almost to her waist. She was of average height but her frame was slender, almost boyish. She looked much younger than her age; she was twenty-five but she knew that she barely looked eighteen. That, she reflected, was something that women usually desired, but to her it was a nuisance. Men would have been more respectful of her, surely, if they knew she was a widow with a young daughter.
Efficiently she finished the room and went on to the next, noting that it was another frequent guest, Mr. George Masters. He responded to her knock and bid her to come in. She opened the door, stepped inside, and curtseyed.
"Good morning, Jeanne," he said with pleasure. "How are you today?" George Masters was thirty years old, with wavy yellow hair, blue eyes, and a classic Greek profile. He was a wealthy planter, and in the last six months his stays at the Gayoso had become much more frequent and of longer duration. He always looked at Jeanne with admiration, she had seen, but he was never forward or insinuating. He did talk to her, much like Mr. Borden did, with particular cordiality, though he didn't ask personal questions. He seemed to be truly interested in what she had to say.
"I am doing very well, thank you, Mr. Masters," she replied.
"And are you looking forward to Christmas?" he asked. He was standing in front of the fireplace, his hands behind his back. His tailoring was always elegant, his frock coats perfectly fitted, his double-breasted waistcoats of satin, with a fine gold watch chain suspended from the pocket and hooking onto the middle button. His hair was perfectly styled. Jeanne could not imagine him allowing her into the room in such a coarse state of undress as Cunningham had done.
The River Rose Page 1
