The River Rose

by Gilbert, Morris

  "Can't, 'less you take on another crewman," Ezra said succinctly.

  Jeanne nodded. "Yes, I agree, it takes at least three deckhands, doesn't it? I'll talk to Mr. Hardin about it. Marvel, are you sure you're not tired? The cabin's all fixed, you could take a nap."

  "Do I have to?" she complained. "I'd rather peel potatoes."

  "Then I'll leave you to it," Jeanne said with amusement. "If any of you see Mr. Hardin, would you ask him to come up to the cabin, please?"

  She went back up to her papers and was poring over a map when Clint knocked once and came in. "Masters doesn't know a boiler from a reach rod," he said with satisfaction. "He's a nice toff, though."

  "He's not a toff," Jeanne argued.

  "He is. He can't help it. Anyway, I'm grateful to him for everything he's done. It's come in handy, you being friends with the man that owns the Lady Vandivere. And the mail. And all of the crushed stone and lumber in Arkansas."

  "Silly. No one owns the mail," Jeanne replied. "I've been down to the galley and talked to Ezra. Thank you so much for taking care of the food and supplies. You know, we really should start keeping records of the expenses we incur for the boat."

  "Yeah, I'm keeping up with my end. We'll need to get a system going," Clint said. "But not now. I wanted to talk to you about hiring my buddy Vince Norville. He's been a roustabout for years. I know that doesn't mean he knows about crewing a boat, but he sure knows more than I did when I first walked onto the Rose."

  Jeanne nodded. "If you think he'll be good help, then by all means hire him. And that reminds me, I haven't thanked you for letting me take on Roberty. I just couldn't think of what else to do with him."

  "Way I see it, it's not a question of you doing anything with him. He's young and yeah, he's kinda small, but that boy works. If he doesn't have something to do he comes and begs for chores. Feed him some good solid food, fatten him up, give him a warm place to sleep, he'll do fine."

  "That's a great relief to me. I've been worrying about him for a long time. Thank you."

  "No, no thanks needed," Clint said dismissively. "So, Mrs. Bettencourt, are you ready?"

  "Mr. Hardin, I am ready!"

  SATURDAY DAWNED, A COLD and crisp day with a cheerful sun. George Masters walked up the gangplank, taking measured steps, rhythmically tapped out with his gold eagle's-head walking stick. Behind him Buck Buckner ambled along, looking over the Helena Rose with a disdainful expression. Jeanne and Clint met them, and after desultory introductions Jeanne took Masters's arm and led him to her cabin, while Clint and Buck went up to the pilothouse.

  "Never thought you'd be working for me, Buck," Clint needled him.

  "And don't think it now," he retorted. "I wouldn't do this for anyone but my owner."

  "Masters says you're doing it because you're such a charitable man. That's when I was sure it must be someone else, not Buck Buckner. Oh, I forgot! It was Francis Buckner we were talking about!"

  "If you mention that name again I'm going to beat you senseless," Buckner said casually.

  "Uh—you might have a little problem there, Buck. Remember me? Clint the Flint Fist?"

  "So I'll pay someone else to beat you senseless. And just so you won't worry about me, my man, there's no charity about it. Masters is paying me top dollar for this little scheme," Buckner said, opening the door of the wheelhouse and looking around. "So this is it, huh?"

  "This is it. What do you think?"

  Buck turned to him and crossed his arms. "I think this little hopped-up flatboat isn't going to make you a wooden nickel, Hardin. Don't you have any good sense? Running a riverboat with a bloomin' petticoat for a pilot?"

  "She wouldn't like you to call her a bloomin' petticoat," Clint warned him. "I wouldn't do it if I were you. She's tougher than she looks."

  Buckner shrugged. "I'll call her Royal Exalted Highness if it makes her happy. But she'll never be able to cut it, you know that. It's a man's world, and no pilot on this river or any other is going to put up with a female pilot."

  "You are," Clint said idly.

  Buck's smooth brow lowered, but before he could say anything Jeanne and George Masters came into the pilothouse. "Everything in order, Mr. Buckner?" George asked.

  "It would seem so, sir. She's a fine, neat little boat," Buckner said politely. Behind Jeanne, Clint rolled his eyes at him.

  "Good, good," George murmured.

  Jeanne stepped up to the wheel and Buckner turned, solicitously leaning over her as she told him, "Just so we're very clear, Mr. Buckner, I'd like to go over the points and markers before we go. It's been a long time since I've been down the river."

  "I'm sure you'll do fine, Mrs. Bettencourt," he said courteously. "Would you like to go over the charts?"

  Clint left them then, and George Masters settled down on the bench, his top hat tipped back a little, his legs crossed, and his manicured hands resting on his cane.

  "That's correct, Mrs. Bettencourt, President's Island, Council Bluff, Cottonwood Grove, Island Number 60," Buck was saying, pointing to her waterway chart. "Helena's just past there. It's about seventy-five miles to Helena—that's five hours—and from there eighty to the mouth of the Arkansas, another five hours. Do I understand that you want to stay in Napoleon Trading Post overnight? Because I don't think they have a hotel or anything there."

  "No, I'm afraid we've had a misunderstanding," Jeanne said quickly. "I have no intention of steaming the Rose at fifteen miles an hour. We're not racing, Mr. Buckner. And the way we have our freight worked out, there's no need; we're on a four-day run to Little Rock, and that means overnight in Helena, Napoleon, and Pine Bluff. That suits me just fine, because I have no intention of staying at the wheel for more than eight hours at a time."

  Buckner shrugged. "Whatever you say, Mrs. Bettencourt."

  "That's very kind of you, Mr. Buckner," Jeanne said gratefully. "Naturally, we'll pay for your hotel in Helena. At Napoleon, I'm afraid you'll have to bunk in the crew quarters."

  Seeing the expression on Buckner's face, George said quickly, "I apologize that I didn't make it quite clear to you, Mr. Buckner. I'm sure we can work out any adjustments needed."

  Buckner's face cleared. "That's fine, Mr. Masters. Mrs. Bettencourt, we'll just go with your schedule, ma'am. Your boat, your call."

  Jeanne turned to Masters. "I can't thank you enough, George. I can't tell you how much this means to me and to Marvel."

  He rose and bowed deeply, doffing his hat. "Ma'am, it has been a particular pleasure working with you, and I'm glad to do anything to make you happy. Mr. Buckner, I know you'll take very good care of Mrs. Bettencourt?"

  "Of course, sir."

  George nodded and replaced his hat. "I'll say good-bye then, Jeanne. I'll see you when you get back, I'll be waiting."

  After he left, Buckner turned to Jeanne. "Your pilothouse, your call, ma'am."

  The Helena Rose backed away from the Memphis shore, shivered a little as she filled, then she slipped into the lazy brown waters of the Mississippi River. As they started downriver, Jeanne breathed, "At last!"

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Buck Buckner proved to be a good river tutor for Jeanne; he was professional, though a bit cool. He stood by the wheel, arms crossed, saying very little except for pointing out the landmarks and snags and currents. Jeanne was surprised at how much she remembered of the Mississippi between Memphis and the Arkansas River mouth. She was also surprised at how extremely weary she was after piloting for eight hours. But she told herself that that would get better.

  After their four-day trip, Jeanne was feeling like an old hand when she pulled the Helena Rose up to the familiar docks at Memphis. Buckner turned to her and smiled, a tight controlled expression. "You did very well, ma'am. Good luck to you and the Rose. You're going to need it." It was the only smile, and the only hint of his attitude he had given her the entire trip.

  Jeanne went down to the main deck. Marvel immediately clasped her legs, and the others crowded around her. "You did re
al good, Captain Jeanne," Clint said, extending his hand, and Jeanne readily shook it.

  Ezra, Roberty, and Vince all congratulated her, calling her 'Captain Jeanne', and Jeanne decided to let the rather impertinent nickname stand. "You're a good crew," she told them. "I appreciate you all very much."

  They all talked excitedly until Clint looked over Jeanne's shoulder and said, "The toff is here, Cap'n."

  "He's not a toff," Jeanne said with gritted teeth, then went to meet George Masters at the gangplank. "I did it, George!" she exclaimed. "I can't believe it!"

  He tucked her hand into his arm and said warmly, "I can believe it. I passed Mr. Buckner back there, and he tells me you're a good, solid pilot." They slowly walked to the railing on the main deck and stood talking quietly.

  Clint and Vince exchanged meaningful glances, while Ezra said, "You Roberty and you Miss Marvel, I'm thinking I might roast up that big fat ham for celebratin' tonight. I could use some help." He led them to the stairs, their young voices piping excitedly about some promised fried apples.

  Vince said to Clint, "Looks like the captain's going to be occupied for awhile. Want to go check in at the Bell and Whistle?"

  "Sure," Clint agreed, watching Jeanne and Masters thoughtfully. "But don't start a fight this time, Vinnie. My knuckles have just now healed up."

  "I keep telling you to carry a gun. All you have to do is wave it around a little, puts a stop to all the nonsense."

  "Then why do I keep getting dragged into saloon brawls with you all the time?"

  "Aw, admit it, it's fun. You brawl all the time, Clint the Flint Fist."

  "Yeah, but that's because people give me money for it."

  Jeanne and George, still arm-in-arm, joined Clint and Vince. Jeanne said, "We're going to pick up our first load Tuesday, Mr. Hardin. It's all set. May I ask if you'll be on the boat tomorrow?"

  "I was planning on it," Clint answered. "Why, did you need something?"

  Jeanne glanced up at George hesitantly, but he merely smiled at her. Finally with some difficulty Jeanne said, "Mr. Masters has invited me to visit his home tomorrow. But someone needs to be here, just in case there's any business that needs to be done with the shippers or suppliers. And then there's Marvel . . . I suppose I need to take her to the O'Dwyers."

  "Why? The Rose is her home, and she's got the whole crew wrapped around her little pinky finger," Clint said. "She'll be fine here. And yes, I'll be glad to take care of anything that comes up, Captain Jeanne."

  AS JEANNE WALKED DOWN the gangplank to meet George, she saw that he had traveled in a new carriage. It was bigger than the one he had borrowed, with brass lanterns and door latches, and the body painted midnight blue. The driver was a dignified-looking black man with his coachman's cloak and tall gray top hat. It was hitched to a couple of dappled horses that pranced and snorted, their breath making little steam bursts in the cold air. George helped her into the carriage and then got in and as always tucked a fur around her lap.

  "This is a new carriage," Jeanne said. "Did you buy it?"

  "No, Dr. Hightower just got tired of loaning me his barouche. I sent word to the plantation and instructed my driver to bring my own carriage into town yesterday. Do you like it?"

  "Oh, yes, it's as big as a parlor," Jeanne said. "And the seats are so much more comfortable."

  "They are, aren't they? I think Hightower skimped a little on his padding. So, Jeanne, now we have time. Tell me all about your trip."

  They talked all the way about Jeanne's experience piloting again, about Buck Buckner, about the Helena Rose and her upcoming first freight run. After about two hours George glanced out the window and said, "Well, there's my home. How do you like it?"

  Jeanne was ready for something better than ordinary but was taken aback at the sight of Morecambe, the Masters family plantation. A long sweeping drive lined with massive oaks and broad enough for three carriages led up a gentle slope to the mansion crowning it.

  Morecambe House was a two-story building with white Corinthian columns across the front and along both sides. A balcony, set off by an ornate iron grill painted black ran all the way around the second floor. Tall wide windows could be seen on both floors of the house, with pale blue shutters breaking the luminous white of the stucco. The steeply pitched roof ran up to a center point broken by three gables on each side. High-rising chimneys capped with curving covers of brick added further beauty to the building. They pulled up in front of the house, and a black servant wearing a butler's tie and tails came out to open the carriage door, bowing deeply as Jeanne alighted.

  George and Jeanne mounted the steps and the pair of enormous oak doors opened as if by magic. As they passed into the foyer Jeanne saw two black maids curtseying by the open doors. Jeanne's attention was immediately drawn to a broad, graceful stairway leading up to the second floor. The entrance hall and the staircase were of marble with a twilight gray swirl, and the elaborate wrought-iron stair railing looked like black lace.

  A dignified-looking lady in her fifties came up to them and George said, "This is Mrs. Rawlings, my housekeeper." The lady nodded and took their hats and coats. George asked Jeanne, "Would you like to see the house?"

  "Yes, very much."

  George led Jeanne around the first floor of the house and the tour included a somber, well-stocked library, with glassed cases and busts of Roman emperors displayed. "I haven't spent much time in here," George admitted.

  "I think I would have a hard time ever leaving this room," Jeanne said. There must have been four or five hundred books.

  "You're a big reader, are you? A bluestocking," he teased. "You've surprised me again, Jeanne. How about we take a look at my favorite room?"

  She followed him across the hall, and he opened the double doors. "The dining room," he said with a boyish grin. "You might know it would be my favorite."

  It was at least twenty by twenty-two feet in size and floored from wall to wall with Aubusson carpet. The walls were wallpapered in gold with a bright green fleur-de-lis pattern. At the far end, overlooking the front grounds, were twelve-foot-high glassed French doors. On each side was a fireplace, the marble mantles holding pairs of silver George III six-light candelabras on a spreading circular base. Candle chandeliers of silver and crystal hung over the dining table, which was of mahogany and seated twelve. Lining the walls were Elizabethan carved chairs that looked like small thrones. "What an elegant room," Jeanne breathed.

  "It's not really my favorite," George admitted. "It's far too formal. We have a smaller family dining room that I like to use unless I have a number of guests. In fact, that's where I told Mrs. Rawlings to serve dinner tonight. I hope that's all right with you."

  "Oh, but I was so looking forward to being stranded about a mile and a half from you at the end of that monstrous table," Jeanne said.

  "Sorry, I had something a little closer in mind. Over here, across the hall, is the ballroom." The empty room, with gleaming oak flooring, had a graceful arched entryway. George continued, "This comes in handy for big parties. In the summer we sometimes have as many as fifty or sixty of our neighbors come for two or three days. We have picnics and barbecues, hunting and archery, horse races, things like that, and dancing at night."

  "It's very beautiful! I never saw a house with its own ballroom. You didn't build this house, did you, George?"

  "No, my great-grandfather did. We've added onto it, though. In fact, it was my father that added the ballroom. He did love dancing."

  "You must miss him very much."

  "I do," George said quietly. "He was a good man, and a good father."

  He then led her upstairs, where there were nine bedrooms, all roomy and grandly furnished. Jeanne's mind whirled. Even the smallest bedroom was much bigger than her room at the Pinch. But she was careful to say nothing like that; ever since she had come to understand that it was she, not George, who was so mindful of the difference in their stations, she had determined not to be so class-conscious. She admired all the rooms, a
nd George led her back downstairs. "I'd like to take you on a tour of the plantation. I have an open landau that I thought you might like. It's sort of like a sleigh, only without the snow. But it is cold today, so we can put the top up if you wish."

  "No, I'd love the open landau," Jeanne said. "It's a still day, with no wind, and the sun is warm. I think we'd be perfectly comfortable."

  "I was hoping you'd say that," he said with pleasure. "In fact, I ordered Marcus, my coachman, to go ahead and bring the landau around."

  They put on their outerwear again and went outside. A long black carriage drawn by two white horses and the mum coachman waited for them. It seated four, and instead of George sitting five feet across from her he settled in beside her. "May I?" he asked.

  "Of course. How many horses do you have?" Jeanne asked curiously as they went around the graveled drive that circled the house.

  "Eighteen carriage and saddle horses, and twelve farm horses."

  "You have thirty horses," Jeanne couldn't help but say. "And how many carriages?"

  "Four: the barouche, the landau, a stanhope, and a gig."

  "That is a lot of carriages for one man," Jeanne observed.

  "I don't plan on being one man forever," he said lightly.

  Jeanne cocked her head and asked, "You've never been married, have you? May I ask why?"

  He frowned slightly. "I was engaged, once. I was twenty, and I asked a young lady to marry me. But as soon as we became engaged, she changed. I don't like to speak ill of a lady; all I'll say is that as the year of our engagement went on, I came to realize that I had asked her to marry me because it just seemed the thing to do, to settle down and have a family. I didn't love her. I tried to make the best of it, you know, but after a while she knew of my feelings, or lack of them, and she released me. It was a very good thing for both of us. She's happily married now, with two children."

  "But what about you? There's been no one since then?"

  "No one I wanted to marry," he said delicately. "Because I've never been in love. Enough about me. What about you, Jeanne? You've never said anything about your husband."