"Marvel, I must remind you about speaking out of turn," Jeanne said more sharply than she intended. Marvel's face fell and Jeanne added gently, "It's all right, darling, it's just that there's no need for Mr. Masters to walk us all the way home. He is here with a group of friends, and I'm sure he has other plans for the evening."
"I'm sorry," Marvel said, both to her mother and to Masters.
After a cautious glance at Jeanne, he said gallantly, "Miss Marvel, I think you'll learn very soon that pretty ladies need never apologize to gentlemen. Mrs. Bettencourt, my plans for the evening are to return to my lonely room at the Gayoso House Hotel. You would really be granting me a favor if you'd stay a little longer and raise a glass of wassail with me. Then, when you're ready, I'd be happy to take you home in a carriage that a friend has placed at my disposal."
Jeanne was very reluctant, for to her the situation was absurd. Their shanty wasn't even on a street, it was bordered only by alleys. For her and Marvel to be driving up in a fine carriage, with a fine gentleman, and they in their shabby gray woolens, seemed a silly satire.
But then she saw Marvel's upturned face, her pleading expression and hope-filled eyes, and she relented. "Thank you, Mr. Masters, that would be very kind of you."
He smiled. "On the contrary, Mrs. Bettencourt, it would be my pleasure."
They went to the punch table, where Jeanne and Marvel decided on hot spiced cider, while Masters had a cup of steaming wassail. He knew the couple attending the table, and said, "Look here, Darnley, Miss Marvel has several valuable purchases here and I'm having a hard time carrying them properly. Would you have a bag or something back there we could use?"
After much discussion, it was decided that Marvel's treasures could be made into a parcel with a big square of brown paper, and they went to sit on the benches and arrange everything properly. Then Marvel decided that the gingerbread man might get crushed, and she wanted to carry it. But Master's gallantry was such that he went and snagged a piece of muslin from the Christmas pudding lady, wrapped it up, and stuck it in his pocket. They all sat down on the now-empty benches to finish their drinks.
"You're a very resourceful man, Mr. Masters," Jeanne said lightly.
"Nothing is too much trouble to make beautiful ladies happy," he said. "Now, I see that you've finished your cider. Would you like more, or perhaps something else? The Courtier is staying open until midnight. It would give me very great pleasure if you would join me for a late supper."
Jeanne looked at him incredulously. The Courtier was a lavish, very expensive restaurant on Court Square. Did he really think that she and Marvel would dare go into that restaurant, dressed as they were? It was all very well for him. He was wearing the usual outfit for wealthy men, a fine worsted topcoat, black frock coat and satin vest, and a top hat. She and Marvel looked like his scullery maids. What was he thinking?
Then she saw Marvel yawn hugely and blink heavily as she stared down into her silver cup of cider. "I appreciate your offer, Mr. Masters, but as you can see my daughter is practically asleep already. It's very late, it's time we went home."
He looked disappointed, but he merely bowed slightly and said, "Then please wait right here, Mrs. Bettencourt. I'll go get the carriage, and I'll be back very shortly."
She watched him walk toward Court Street, with his confident slow stride and straight back and shoulders. What was all this about? In other men she had met at the Gayoso, she would have been very suspicious, thinking that they were just trying to seduce her. But she had never gotten that uncomfortable feeling from George Masters. The only thing she had ever observed in passing about him was that he seemed a little too kind and solicitous to what was, after all, merely a servant. Perhaps that was it; he was just a kind man who was charitable at Christmastime.
Beside her, Marvel finally surrendered and fell against Jeanne's shoulder, sound asleep. Jeanne took the empty cup out of her limp hand and put her arms around her. In minutes George Masters returned, smiling a little as he saw them. "The carriage is just over there. May I carry her?"
"No, no, thank you," Jeanne said hastily. "I'm accustomed to it." She stood up and pulled Marvel up with her, as lightly as if she were a rag doll. Marvel never woke up.
A barouche box was waiting for them, with a driver in a gray top hat and many-caped driving coat. Masters helped Jeanne get Marvel inside and get Jeanne seated, then asked, "How do I direct the driver?"
"Tell him to go up to the intersection of Main Street and Overton," Jeanne said. "That will be fine."
Masters instructed the driver, then climbed in to sit across from Jeanne and Marvel. When the coach started, Marvel stirred, then woke up. "Mama, you were going to let me sleep? When we're riding in a carriage?"
"I don't know what I was thinking," Jeanne said. "But now you're awake. And apparently," she added with a knowing look at Masters, "Mr. Masters has told the driver to go slowly, so that you can see everything." They were going as slowly as the horse could possibly walk. Masters looked slightly bemused.
Though it was after ten o'clock, most of the shops on Main Street were still open and doing a merry business. The strolling carolers had moved from Court Square to the business section, the snow was still glistening and pretty, the night was cold but clear, the air sharp and bracing. Marvel turned to sit on her knees so she could see out the window better.
George Masters seemed to be struggling to find words. His eyes kept going to Marvel, then back to Jeanne. "Um, Mrs. Bettencourt, I can't tell you how very much I've enjoyed your company this evening. And Miss Marvel's, of course."
"And we have enjoyed yours, Mr. Masters," Jeanne said politely.
"No, I mean I have truly enjoyed our time together," he said insistently. "And I would like—that is, I hope—if you would be so kind—I mean—"
Marvel suddenly sat up stiffly and said, "Mama, look! There's the Singing Man! Right there, walking with those other men! Hello, hello!" she called loudly.
"Marvel, please," Jeanne said, flustered. "Don't shout. Ladies never call out to men. Especially men they don't know."
"But he winked at me," Marvel said in a small voice. "He would know me again if he saw me, I know." She came up to a kneeling position, put her mittened hands against the windows, and stared out. She thought she saw the tall dark man look at her and smile.
"No, he wouldn't. And don't wave." Jeanne said to Masters, "I apologize, sir. Marvel was very taken with the tenor soloist with the Calvary Choristers."
"He's good enough for the stage," Masters agreed. "His rendition of 'Ave Maria' and 'O Holy Night,' with only the harpist's accompaniment, was very powerful. It sort of overshadowed the rest of the performance, I thought."
"I thought the same," Jeanne exclaimed. "The Choristers, as a choir, are the best I've ever heard, but the man was outstanding. And the lady harpist was very proficient, and a fine soprano herself."
"And so beautiful," Marvel sighed. "She looked like a queen."
With amusement Masters said, "I'll have to tell her that you said that, Miss Marvel. She'll be pleased."
Marvel turned to him. "You know her, that lady?"
"I am acquainted with her, yes. Her name is Mrs. Eve Poynter Maxfield. Her father is a judge here in Memphis." He faltered a little as he saw the stiff expression on Jeanne's face. "My family has known the Poynter family for many years."
And here it is, the name dropping, Jeanne was thinking. She turned to look neutrally out the window. An awkward silence prevailed.
But Marvel didn't know it was an awkward silence, and she told Masters, "My mama and I said that when the Singing Man sang "Ave Maria," it made us both forget how cold it is." She said it all together, "avaymaria."
"It is cold," Masters said with emphasis, his eyes on Jeanne's profile. "May I ask you ladies what part of the Regale you enjoyed the most?"
Marvel readily answered, "The puppet show. And the Singing Man. And the huge Christmas tree. And the oranges. And the sleigh ride, I almost forgot! But this
is just as nice, in the carriage." She turned back to stare out the window again.
"Mrs. Bettencourt?" Masters said quietly. "I hope you, too, are finding the carriage ride as nice as the sleigh ride."
Jeanne answered, "I admit it is very pleasant, riding home in such a fine carriage. I'm sure Marvel and I will always remember it."
"But you don't have to remember it," Masters blurted out. "No, that's not what I meant. What I mean is, it doesn't have to be the only time. We can do it again. We can ride in carriages a lot."
"I suppose you can," Jeanne said quietly. "But Marvel and I don't have many carriages at our disposal."
He looked extremely frustrated, and started to reply, but just then the carriage came to a stop. Jeanne looked out the window and saw the tawdry little shacks of the Pinch. "Here we are, darling," she said brightly to Marvel.
George Masters opened the door, kicked down the steps, and handed Jeanne and Marvel down, looking around with his eyes narrowed. "Is that your house, Mrs. Bettencourt?" he asked warily, nodding to a weather-beaten clapboard cottage directly on the corner of Main and Overton.
"No, we live a little farther on," Jeanne said vaguely. She took Marvel's hand and held out her right hand to Masters. "Thank you very much for such a wonderful evening, Mr. Masters. It was so kind of you."
Quickly he took her hand, bent over it, then clasped it in both of his own. "I assure you, Mrs. Bettencourt, the pleasure was all mine, and a great pleasure it has been. But please, you must allow me to walk you to your door."
Jeanne gently pulled her hand free. "No, that's not at all necessary. Would you hand me Marvel's parcel please?"
"And my gingerbread man, please, from your pocket," Marvel added.
But George Masters ignored her and frowned at Jeanne. "Ma'am, I'm afraid I must insist. I am not at all comfortable with leaving you on the street like this, in this place."
Jeanne said evenly, "Mr. Masters, I walk to work every day from this street, and I walk home every night to this neighborhood. This is my home. I appreciate your consideration, but surely you must see that it's misplaced."
"No, I don't see that at all," he said quietly. "But I don't wish to upset you, ma'am, of all things. Here is your package, and Miss Marvel, here is your gingerbread man. I hope that you both will have a very merry and happy Christmas. Thank you so much for allowing me to share in your Christmas Eve."
Marvel curtseyed and said formally, "Thank you, Mr. Masters, for taking such good care of me and my mama. You're a really nice man."
Now Jeanne was feeling perfectly horrible, so she mustered the warmest smile she could and said, "Mr. Masters, you have truly made our Christmas Eve a wonderful time, and I thank you. Merry Christmas to you and yours, and good night."
She and Marvel turned and walked in silence. Jeanne was very aware that he stood watching them until they went down the block and disappeared into the alley toward their house. Marvel sighed deeply and said, "See, Mama, I told you. You just don't like men."
And again Jeanne wondered if she was right.
THEY AWOKE TO THE sound of church bells, for all churches had services or mass on Christmas Day. Immediately Marvel ran to the tree, for there were two packages for her, wrapped in plain brown paper and decorated with small felt white and red stars. "Mama, may I open them now?"
"Mmph, just a minute," Jeanne said sleepily. "My eyes aren't even open yet."
"Okay," she said, then went to stand on tiptoe to look out the window. A cheerful golden sun in a periwinkle-blue sky shone down on the snow blanket, making it glitter as if it were strewn with diamonds. It was still bitterly cold, but there was no wind. It was peaceful.
"Why don't you go ahead and light the candles on the tree while I make us some tea?" Jeanne said, tending the fire. "And then you can open your gifts."
"But Mama, we have to wear our holly crowns!" she said excitedly.
"All right, we will," Jeanne said. She had put them in a bucket of water to keep them from wilting, and she went to take them out and dry them on a rag.
Marvel stood on an upturned bucket to light the candles with long thin pine sticks. Then they put on their garlands, got their tea, and settled onto their mattress. Jeanne said, "Open this one first."
It was not one but two long-sleeved chemises that Jeanne had made for Marvel from the Gayoso pillow slips. "Oh, thank you, Mama. They are so soft! May I wear one to church?"
"Well, if you wear a dress over it," Jeanne said. "Go ahead, darling, open the other."
It was a real, store-bought, German-made lady china doll. She had a glazed porcelain head with molded hair painted black, wooden limbs padded with kid, little porcelain hands, and painted blue eyes and a small red cupid mouth. Her full-skirted white dress was made of embroidered eyelet trimmed with delicate lace. For long moments Marvel was speechless, her dark eyes as round as buttons.
"Oh my gunness!" she breathed. "She's beautiful! Thank you, thank you, Mama!"
"You're very welcome, Marvel," Jeanne said happily. "She is very pretty, isn't she? Just like you. What are you going to name her?" Jeanne had made Marvel a rag doll, and because Marvel fancied the name of the owner of Gayoso House, Robertson Topp, she had named her doll Mrs. Topp. She had always been very insistent that Jeanne call the doll by her name.
Now Marvel frowned with concentration. "I think," she said slowly, "I'll name her Avaymaria."
"Avaymaria?" Jeanne repeated with amusement. "That's a nice name for a grand lady."
Marvel touched the doll's head, smoothed her hair, felt of the dress. "Mama, did you know the words to that song?"
"No, darling, it was in Latin. I do know that it's actually two words: Ave Maria, and that means Hail, Mary."
"Mary, Jesus' mother?"
"That's right."
Marvel nodded, her eyes still on the doll. "Why did you say that the Singing Man couldn't be married to the Harp Lady?"
Jeanne explained, "I could tell by their clothes that the lady was rich and the man was poor. Rich people don't marry poor people."
"Ever?"
Jeanne hesitated. She always tried to tell Marvel the exact truth, as much as she could comprehend. "I suppose that it does happen sometimes, but not very often. Rich people just usually don't want to marry someone that is poor, because they think that the poor person just wants to marry them for their money."
Marvel digested this for a few moments, then asked, "Is Mr. Masters rich?"
"I think so. Yes, I know he is."
Now Marvel looked up to meet Jeanne's eyes squarely. "So you don't like him because we're poor and he's rich?"
Flustered, Jeanne said, "No, that's not why—I mean, I guess I didn't explain it properly. I think—that is, Mr. Masters thinks—oh, never mind, Marvel. This is something about adults that you're not old enough to understand yet. And besides, we were talking about rich people and poor people getting married, and that has nothing to do with me and Mr. Masters. In fact, you need to just forget about Mr. Masters, and the Singing Man, too, because you probably won't see either of them again."
Marvel looked downcast. "Yes, Mama."
Jeanne thought, What's wrong with me? Making my own child unhappy on Christmas morning? But it's not my fault, if she questions these things I have to tell her the truth!
She reached over and put one finger under Marvel's chin to lift her head. "My darling girl, we're happy, aren't we? You're not sad about Mr. Masters, are you?"
Marvel gave her a sunny smile. "No, Mama. If you're happy, then I am too."
Jeanne nodded. "I am happy, Marvel. The Lord has blessed us so much this Christmas. We have a home, and good food, and nice presents!"
"Like snow, and a Christmas pudding, and Avaymaria," Marvel agreed, hugging the doll. "Thank you, Mama, and thank you, Baby Jesus."
"Yes," Jeanne said quietly, "thank you, Lord Jesus."
CHAPTER FIVE
Jeanne went back to work the day after Christmas, a sparkling and warm day that immediately melted the h
eavenly snow. Grimly, she realized that her boots were so muddy that Mrs. Wiedemann would never allow her to come into the hotel, and Jeanne would have to sit down outside, take them off, and clean them thoroughly. She picked up her pace so she wouldn't be late. When she stepped off the Main Street boardwalk to cross Union Avenue, she felt the cold muck of the street slide greasily up into her left shoe. The patch on the sole had worn through. Three dollars for new boots. Jeanne could have cried. But she didn't; she squared her shoulders, cleaned her boots, and reported to Mrs. Wiedemann at the service door.
"Only thirteen rooms in the whole hotel," Mrs. Wiedemann told her, "so today only you and Agatha work." She handed Jeanne her list of rooms to clean.
Jeanne collected her supplies and went up to the third floor. She was surprised to see that George Masters was still in residence. Christmas was a time for families to be together, and even the most hard-nosed businessmen gave up work travel to go home for the holidays. Then Jeanne realized that Masters had said something about being alone on Christmas Eve. I didn't even think about that, or ask him about it . . . How unkind of me . . . She determined that she would be warm and cordial to him, and she would find a way to ask him about his family and his plans for the remainder of the holidays, and to let him know she wished him well. Jeanne was fairly sure that wasn't exactly the impression she had given him on Christmas Eve.
She knocked on his door and called out, but no welcoming answer came. She was strangely crestfallen, and went into the empty room feeling disappointed. But staunchly she told herself, Jeanne, you are a plain fool. What did you expect? Vigorously she began her cleaning, determining not to entertain one more moment's consideration of George Masters.
Only one guest was resident in Jeanne's list of rooms, and he gave her a belated Christmas one-dollar tip, which cheered her up. One-third of a pair of new leather half-boots. On her last room the guest had already checked out, so she left the door open. When she was almost finished she was surprised to look up and see Mrs. Wiedemann come into the room with a gentleman.
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