The River Rose (2 page)

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.

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," she replied politely. She picked up her bucket and started toward the bathroom.

"I'm glad to hear it," he said, and Jeanne stopped, put her bucket down, and turned to face him. When a guest wished to converse with you, you stopped what you were doing until they were finished with you. He went on, "I came into town particularly for the Christmas Regale. I was wondering if you were planning on attending?"

This year, for the first time, the City of Memphis was sponsoring a public Christmas fair. The playbills posted all over the city promised a lavish party at Court Square on Christmas Eve.

"Yes, sir, I do plan to attend," Jeanne said with pleasure. "It sounds like it's going to be quite a fête."

One of his smooth eyebrows arched. "Yes, a fête. How do you know—er, pardon me. Perhaps I may see you there, Jeanne?"

"Perhaps, sir," she said evenly, and waited.

He looked as if he wanted to say more, but finally he went to the armoire and pulled out a heavy, dark blue double-breasted topcoat and a fine beaver top hat. "If you'll excuse me, I have people waiting for me. There is an envelope on the mantel, it's for you. I hope you have a good day. I'll see you in the morning, Jeanne."

She curtsied as he went out the door, and then hurried to open the envelope. He had left her two dollars. She smiled a little. He never handed her a tip; he always left it for her. Jeanne marveled at his delicacy. Most of the guests—who were males, of course—made a show of tipping her, with the obvious expectation of gratitude, and sometimes more. George Masters had always shown her unusual respect.

When she finished with George Masters' room she returned to Cunningham's. He was shaved and clothed, to her relief. He gave her a dollar tip, and then tried to envelope her in a hug. But Jeanne was not going to give anyone a hug for a dollar, or even for a lot of dollars, and she slipped away from him.

Each floor of the hotel had fifty rooms, and normally all one hundred and fifty rooms were occupied. This close to Christmas, however, the hotel had only eighty occupied rooms, and many of them were checking out today. Twenty-two rooms had to be cleaned on the third floor, and Jeanne had two other maids working with her. They interrupted her several times so that she could let them into a room when the guest wasn't there. As far as she knew, she was the only person that Mrs. Weidemann ever gave a master key to. She did her seven rooms, and the extra. She then checked all the other girls' rooms to make certain they were thoroughly cleaned. It was about five o'clock, and close to full dark, when she left the Gayoso.

She carried her newspapers, her soaps, her pillow slips, and eight dollars and forty cents in cash. It usually took her over seventeen days of work to earn that much money.
Thank you, Lord!
she exulted to the bitter east wind.
Thank You for taking such good care of us!

Because of the Christmas season, the shops along Main Street were staying open late, and the streets were still busy. Men in heavy wool topcoats and tall beaver hats, arm-in-arm with fur-clad women, mingled with the rivermen, the clerks, the charwomen, the coal scuttlers, the woodcutters, the couriers, the tradesmen, and all of the different kinds and shapes of people that made up a relatively cosmopolitan city such as Memphis. Jeanne was charmed by Main Street at Christmastime. Every shop window was framed with holly and evergreens, and the lanterns cast an angelic golden glow over the boardwalk. She would have liked to linger and look at some of the shops that she could never go into, like Madame Chasseur's Cosmetics and Perfumery, but she was in a hurry to get home to Marvel. And it was still harshly cold, though the wind had died down.

Quickly she made her way down Main to Anderton's Grocery and Butchery. The store was busy, with women crowding around the fresh vegetables that Mr. Anderton had just gotten in that very day. Jeanne looked at the bins with a jaundiced eye. She disliked the most common winter vegetables—beets, collard greens, turnips, and particularly brussels sprouts. Her long mouth twisted as she looked at the little, round green balls and thought how very good they would be for Marvel, but she had never been able to bring herself to buy them, she loathed them so. She didn't think she could take a bite of a brussels sprout, not even for Marvel. The kale did look freshly green, and cabbage cooked with a ham hock would be very good. Picking through the bundles of kale carefully, she finally chose one that seemed full and without blemish and went up to the long counter, where Mr. and Mrs. Anderton were busy waiting on customers. Mrs. Anderton finally looked up at her with a flushed plump face and said, "Oh, Mrs. Bettencourt, I see you found the nice kale we got in today. Did you see the brussels sprouts?"

"Yes, ma'am, they look very—green," Jeanne said politely. "May I please have a quart of milk, and would you happen to have any ham hocks at a good price this evening?"

Mrs. Overton frowned. "Hmm, I'll check for you, Mrs. Bettencourt. We did this afternoon, but we've been this busy all the day long . . ." She bustled off toward the butchered meats in the back. Jeanne leaned over to look behind the counter, for there were two large bins of the plumpest, reddest apples she had ever seen. Her mouth watered. Mrs. Overton returned, still a-bustling, holding a ham hock in brown paper and a glass quart of milk. "This is the smallest ham hock we have, Mrs. Bettencourt, but it still has some good meat and fat to it. That would be seven cents a pound, and this is about two pounds."

"That's fine, Mrs. Overton, I'll take it. Those apples, they are very fresh, aren't they?"

"Oh, yes, fresh-picked in Pennsylvania, I understand, and shipped downriver. We just got them today. I apologize, but we had to put them back here, people were stealing them, and they're a nickel apiece. Would you like to come around and look at them?"

"No, thank you, ma'am, if you would—"

But suddenly the kind, warm Mrs. Overton turned into a termagant. She leaned over to look behind Jeanne, her face red with outrage. "Here, you! D'ye think I'm blind? Plain as plain, I saw you poking holes in that there cabbage! Y'ain't gittin' no deals, neither! Plain as plain!" She turned back to Jeanne with a polite smile. "You were saying, Mrs. Bettencourt?"

"I'd like for you to choose two of the best apples, please, Mrs. Overton. And I'd like a half-pound bag of black tea," Jeanne said with amusement. The Overtons, like most of her guests at the Gayoso, treated her with respect, in spite of her lowly status. Jeanne knew it was because of her upbringing, which had been unorthodox, but her mother had been a gentlewoman and had taught her well. J. B. Cunningham had been right about one thing, at least. She really wasn't like a chambermaid.