The River Rose (15 page)

"Hi!" Roberty said, beaming. Jeanne was taken aback, for she had never seen a truly happy smile on his face. His face and hands were clean, his cheeks had a little color, and his normally unkempt tow-colored hair was neatly combed. "Me and Ezra and Vinnie are back here in the boiler room, I mean the firebox, 'cause Clint said we could go ahead and steam 'er up since it's so cold. And he said to tell you when you got here that he's upstairs, I mean up on the Texas deck."

"You sound like a riverman already. I assume you made it all right with Mr. Givens last night?" Jeanne had been exhausted when she left for home last night, and she had just wearily told Roberty to stay on the boat.

Roberty nodded. "Ol' Ezra don't talk nice, but he really is nice. He makes good macaroni. I slept with Leo. I mean, he slept in my bunk with me." He looked up at her anxiously. "Is that okay?"

"If it's okay with you and Leo, then it's okay with me."

They went into the boiler room, where Ezra and Vince were playing checkers on an upturned crate, and they came to their feet when Jeanne came in. One of the boilers was throwing off waves of heat, and the small cluttered room was almost hot. Leo lay stretched on the floor underneath the boilers, and he opened one eye and his tail thumped twice when Jeanne greeted them.

"Please, sit down, Mr. Givens, Mr. Norville. I just wanted to say hello, and to ask you, Mr. Givens, if it inconvenienced you in any way to have Roberty on the boat last night."

"That young 'un wouldn't trouble a dozing cat," he declared. "He's quiet, he don't ask a hunnerd tomfool questions, he looks after hisself, made up his bunk real nice this morning. Had a nice leetle fire already going in the cookstove when I got up at dawn. He can eat a pile of macaroni, though."

"We had macaroni for supper last night
and
breakfast this morning," Roberty told her. "I love macaroni."

"It's a good thing," Jeanne said lightly, though she was thinking,
What is there to eat here? Does Mr. Givens have any money? And if he does, whyever did I just dump Roberty on him and expect him to take care of him?

"I'm glad you made it all right," she said to Ezra. "We'll all talk later, about the food and things."

She went up to the Texas deck and found Clint Hardin sitting at the desk in the captain's cabin. Several long narrow books were piled on the desk, open, and there was a messy pile of papers. When she came in, Clint jumped to his feet. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Bettencourt. Look at your cheeks, they're all red. No, what I meant to say was that they have a blush like a rose."

"Hmm. And I see that your eye has turned a nice azure blue, and your mouth is a pleasing hue of violet," she said pleasantly. She was removing her scarf and mantle as she spoke, and he reached out to take them, and she saw his knuckles. All four on the right hand, and the two middle on the left, were swollen and gaped open in weeping sores. "Good heavens! I thought you said you were a machinist. I was under the silly impression that machinists were required to use their hands and must be able to see."

He took her things to hang up in the armoire. "Yeah, it helps a lot. That's why I didn't work today. Because of the eye, not the knuckles, I can manage with those." He came back to the desk and held out the straight chair. "Sit down, Mrs. Bettencourt, I've just got to show you all this stuff that Ira Hardin left."

She sat down and picked up one of the books. "Captain's logs, yes, I do want to look at those."

"You really do!" he said excitedly. "You know how you told me you knew the Arkansas River? Well, Bull Hardin ran the Arkansas for almost five years. It's all here, all about the freight he had, the stops, the river, the stuff about snags and sandbars and course changes."

Jeanne nodded. "Yes, that would be what's in the captain's logs, of course."

"So, there it all is! Of course, he was on the Arkansas years ago—see, this first logbook is 1848—but the five years following are all documented thoroughly. Last two years aren't nearly as thorough; Ezra told me that after his wife died, Bull kinda went to pieces. Anyway, I'll bet that we could still contact some of these shippers—"

"Stop," Jeanne said quietly, holding up her hand, and he abruptly fell silent. She rose and paced down the room and back, "Mr. Hardin, you are moving much too quickly, and I must tell you that you really have no idea of what you're talking about. Running a riverboat is an extremely complicated endeavor. Making a profit is even harder. Of course I thought a lot about this, but I have to think about it more, much more. And so should you, before making any decision."

He studied her. "I don't see it that way. You're talking about deciding whether to live on this boat and work her, or sell her off. To me that's a simple decision. I don't want to sell the
Rose.
"

"But you know nothing about the river! And though I don't know anything about boilers or engines, I can see that this boat is in good shape, and would probably sell at a good price!" Jeanne argued.

"So you
do
want to sell her? Now who's making a snap decision?"

"I don't want to sell her! I mean, I'm just thinking about it!"

"Why? I don't want to be rude or anything, but I've told you I have no intention of selling," Clint said calmly. "She might bring a nice price sold outright, but she's not going to be profitable enough that you could sell a fifty-percent interest in her."

Jeanne propped her hands on her hips and her eyes flashed like ice on ebony. "This is not fair! You're forcing my hand, you're leaving me with no option!"

"Sorry," he said blithely. "Guess that's a problem with an even 50-50 split."

"Problem? You're the problem!" Jeanne said rudely. "So you're just going to take off in my boat. And this of course, would be
after
you've hired a pilot who, by the way, makes at least a hundred dollars a month, and other crewmen, and other expenses . . . and off you merrily go. When you get back, you have no profit to split with me, if you haven't actually
lost
money. Apparently somehow my fifty percent isn't quite the same as your fifty percent."

"Look, ma'am, you were excited yesterday, I could see it. You started thinking right away about exactly what I'm talking about.
You
pilot the boat, I can engineer it, and together we can figure out how to keep her loaded and running. Why don't we forget this nonsense of selling and concentrate on all that?"

"Because you have no idea what
all that
is," Jeanne said tightly. "You may know about the engine, I understand that. But you have no idea of what it takes to pilot a steamboat. You have to know the river, better than you know your own face in the mirror. You have to know every foot of it, four ways: up, down, day, night. You have to know every snag, every submerged tree, every shallow, and what's around every bend. It's hard, taxing, stressful work."

As she spoke his expression changed from vexation to comprehension. "You're scared. That's it, isn't it? You're afraid that you can't do it."

"I am not!" Jeanne fired back at him. "It's just that I'm an adult, with responsibilities, not a—a—singing machinist! And while we're talking about this, just where were you thinking you'd live while you're swaggering up and down the river?"

"Where I'll live? Of course I want to live on the
Helena Rose
. Don't you?"

"Yes, I do, I love this cabin. And you?" she snapped.

He shrugged. "Sure, if you like this one you can have it, and all the furniture, too, if you want. The cabin across the hall is the same size, and I'll figure out furniture."

"So, la-di-da, you think you and I are going to live together," Jeanne said furiously. "I knew it!"

He retorted angrily, "You knew what? Pardon me, Mrs. Bettencourt, but what has got into that hot head of yours that you think I'm trying to seduce you? What have I said? Or done? Have I even looked at you funny?"

"Well, no, but—"

"No," he growled, "I have not. I'm half owner of this boat, and the engineer, and I deserve a cabin, and it has nothing to do with you."

"But it doesn't look right!" Jeanne countered heatedly.

"Unless you're planning on having a female crew, that's just part of the deal," he said bluntly.

Jeanne looked startled. "Oh . . . yes, I see what you mean. That is—I wasn't thinking—about that."

"Maybe not, but you are talking about living on the
Rose
, and that means you're thinking about piloting," Clint said with a hint of triumph. "So, can we talk about business now?"

"What? No. I need time to think," Jeanne said absently as she frowned ferociously and bit her lip.

"I thought we already covered all that.
Now
what do we have to think about?"

"I don't know, I don't know! Now I'm worse than when I got here, and it's all your fault!" Jeanne cried.

"My fault?" Clint blustered. "How'd that happen?"

"
YOU DON
'
T MIND STAYING overnight with the O'Dwyers, do you?" Jeanne asked.

"'Course not, Mama," Marvel answered happily. "Aideen and Noleen both got dolls for Christmas. Their dolls and Mrs. Topp and Avaymaria are having a weekend party in the country. They're going to dance, and sing, and eat cake and have tea."

Angus O'Dwyer was rarely home, for he was a crewman on a riverboat. Mrs. O'Dwyer was a good sitter for Marvel. She had six children, from ten years old to the year-old-twins. Her two daughters were six and four, and good company for Marvel. Jeanne paid the O'Dwyers ten cents a week to take care of Marvel, and often she gave them little gifts of food. Today she had bought a whole coconut sponge cake and a half pound of tea to give them. Jeanne had offered to pay Mrs. O'Dwyer extra for Marvel to stay the night, for the O'Dwyers usually went to bed at dark and Jeanne was meeting George Masters at six o'clock, which was after sunset in the winter. But Mrs. O'Dwyer had soundly refused the money, saying that she really should be paying Marvel, because she helped so much with the twins.

"Mama, I'm glad you're going with Mr. Masters," Marvel said. "I think he's nice. And you look so pretty!"

"Thank you, little one," Jeanne said. "Maybe sometime we can both go out in the carriage with Mr. Masters again."

"Okay. Um—Mama? Do you think I could go on over to the O'Dwyers now? Mrs. Topp and Avaymaria don't want to miss cake and tea."

"Of course." Jeanne bent to kiss her, and Marvel hurried out with her dolls.

Jeanne went back to look in the mirror, a dark clouded square hung on the wall. Her dark eyes sparkled, and her cheeks were not a chapped red, as Clint Hardin had blurted out that morning, but were flushed a delicate peach. Jeanne didn't own a bonnet, which bothered her in the extreme, for all ladies wore bonnets in public. But she had a bright green grosgrain ribbon she entwined in her curls and tied in a small jaunty bow just above her left ear. Her hair looked particularly well, she thought, with curls piled high at the crown and long ringlets cascading down to her shoulders.

She sighed when she looked down at her clothes. Jeanne didn't own a dress; she only had white blouses and four skirts: two gray, one dark blue, and one black. One of her blouses had a tiny bit of lace around the collar, and she had decided on that one, with a green tie made of the same ribbon in her hair, and the black skirt with three petticoats. She reflected that she was decidedly unfashionable, for her clothes still looked like a maid's Sunday clothes—which they were—and she had no fashionable Basque jacket or pelisse or bonnet or hoop skirt.

St. Peter's church bells began to ring the six o'clock hour, and Jeanne hurried to throw on her mantle and scarf. Then she thought wryly,
Why am I always hurrying to the sound of bells? And he's probably not there, anyway. He's probably come to his senses and is somewhere with his friends, congratulating himself on his narrow escape from mingling with the commoners . . .

But he was there, standing outside the carriage, watching up the street. As soon as she appeared, he hurried to her. "I didn't think you'd come," he said happily. "I'm very glad you did."

"I am, too," she replied, "somewhat to my surprise."

He tucked her arm securely in his, then pulled her close to shelter her as they hurried to the carriage. The cold wind was still strong, and when it blew from the river it carried little stinging shards of ice. He opened the door to the carriage and helped her inside, then hurriedly climbed in. "Here, this will help, I think. What a bitter night!" He reached over to lay a beautiful fur lap robe over her. To Jeanne it was a curiously personal thing to do, though Masters showed no hint of such as he securely tucked the fur around her. He tapped the ceiling twice with his walking stick, then leaned back in his seat across from her and asked anxiously, "Are you frozen solid?"

"No, thank you, I'm quite warm now. Do you think we may be the only two fools out and about in this horrible weather?" she asked, her eyes alight.

"Oh, no, there'll be lots of other fools at the Courtier, I'm sure," he answered, matching her tone. "It's a very popular restaurant. Have you ever been there, Mrs. Bettencourt?"