The River Rose (41 page)

Jeanne hesitated, for she knew very well now that the only reason Max had married her was because that was the only way he could seduce her. It was the thrill of the chase, of getting something that he couldn't have. It wasn't long after their wedding that she had seen that marriage vows meant little to him, and that once he had conquered her he cared nothing for her. He had still claimed his husbandly rights as far as the marriage bed, and Jeanne, who believed that she must be a dutiful wife, allowed him to without complaint. At least, she was submissive until she got pregnant, and then she began to refuse him. That was when he had started flaunting all his other women, throwing them in her face. He had never forced her, however. Back then he wasn't a violent man, but Jeanne had seen the brutality in him clearly yesterday. Her arm was bruised where he had grabbed her. Max Bettencourt had changed, and not for the better.

"So you loved each other," Marvel murmured.

"I know now that your father never did love me," Jeanne said firmly. "And this is the main thing that I want you to try to understand, Marvel. I thought that I loved him, and maybe I did. But it was wrong from the beginning. It was a sin for me to marry him, because I never asked the Lord if he was the right man for me. I guess I knew, deep down, that he wasn't, because he wasn't a Christian man, and the Lord teaches us that it's not wise at all, and it doesn't please Him, if a person that has been saved by the Lord Jesus Christ marries a person that doesn't know Him. And so I think that's why I didn't dare ask the Lord to bless our marriage. I just went ahead and married Max anyway."

"You make it sound like it's all your fault, Mama," Marvel said unhappily. "But you're a nice lady, and a good mother, and you love Jesus. It wasn't all your fault."

"No, but it was my sin, and now, it seems, I must bear the consequences of that sin. But listen to me, Marvel. Even though I made such a terrible mistake, and was so wrong, the Lord forgave me. He even made something good, something wonderful, out of the mess I'd made of my life."

"Huh? What, Mama?"

"You. You are the best thing that ever happened to me, Marvel. I thank the Blessed Lord for you every single day. And He is faithful and true, and He'll take care of us, always."

They hugged, and Jeanne said, "Why don't you and Roberty come up here and we'll do your lessons in the cabin today?"

JEANNE TRIED VERY HARD
,
but she was unable to concentrate on much of anything. She longed to be with Clint, to let him hold her and comfort her, to feel his strength, to know his love. But she couldn't do that any more, and she had a hard time maintaining a pleasant demeanor for Marvel. All she really wanted to do was crawl in bed, pull the covers over her head, and cry.

She kept going to the windows, watching the docks, expecting Max to show up any moment. Upon reflection, she was fairly certain that Clint was right, that Max wouldn't risk a direct confrontation, a physical confrontation, with Clint. But she thought that he very likely would come to demand to see Marvel. Or she thought that he might very well show up with a deputy sheriff to escort him on board. Jeanne had been bluffing about that yesterday; she really had no idea about the actual legal ramifications of the situation. All she did know for certain was that in Tennessee a man owned his wife as surely as he owned a slave, and all of her property was considered to be equally his.

She nagged and worried herself half to death all day long. Finally, at about four o'clock in the afternoon, she went down to the engine room to talk to Clint. "I can't stand this much longer," she said desperately. "Yesterday I just wished he would go away, and now I wish he would come here so I would know what he's going to do."

"Why are you sitting here waiting for him?" Clint said brusquely. "I don't care what he says, he's got nothing to do with the
Helena Rose.
Not unless a court of law decrees it, and there's no law that says you have to sit here and wait for a summons that may never come."

"But what should I do? I can't just pretended that yesterday never happened."

"I know that, Jeanne, my love," he said softly. "But we can still live our lives, he can't take that away from us. What were we going to do when he popped up in front of us yesterday?"

"We were going to contact the postmaster and our shippers and see what we needed to do to start moving freight again," Jeanne said slowly. That seemed like ages ago.

"So, let's contact the postmaster and our shippers and get some freight and go to work," Clint said steadily.

"But it's late afternoon already."

"Right now that doesn't matter. I know you've seen the docks today. The cotton's coming in. Every business, whether it has to do with cotton or not, is busy. We'll have plenty of time to go see the postmaster, and telegraph all of our shippers. Even if there's some problem with our regulars, we can haul all the cotton we could stuff into this old girl."

"Yes. You're right, of course. But I don't really want to go into town, Clint, not today."

"Don't you worry about a thing, little lady," he drawled. "Vinnie and I can take care of it. You're not worried about staying here by yourself?"

"No, I think you were right yesterday," Jeanne answered. "Max is a coward, and he wouldn't dare chance having to face you. I imagine he's talking to some slick lawyer right now. Anyway, I'll put the stepladder out on deck. That way, if he shows up, Roberty can climb it and punch him in the nose."

MAX BETTENCOURT WAS WATCHING
,
and he saw Clint and Vince leave the
Helena Rose.
He knew it, he knew that real men wouldn't stay cooped up on a riverboat babysitting a do-gooder nagging woman and a little kid when they were in a port town with plenty of saloons and brothels. He tried to watch where they went, but it was impossible. All four lanes that led down to the riverfront, and the docks themselves, had been crowded all day long with endless lines of carts and wagons bringing cotton to the waiting steamboats. Hundreds of slaves, roustabouts, shippers, clerks, errand boys, and riverboat crews jostled together in huge crowds. There were passengers, too, for there were a couple of the big luxurious passenger riverboats docked in Memphis. Max had particularly noted the grandiose
Lady Vandivere
, and had spent some of his day planning the trip he would take back to New Orleans on it, after he'd gotten Jeanne's money and had sold her boat.

When he'd left New Orleans, he'd been sick of Sin City, mainly because he'd been in the hospital for three days. He had almost died from alcohol poisoning. The doctor attending him had said sarcastically, "Mr. Bettencourt, if you aspire to be a drunkard, you're going to have to start more slowly. Drink a little all day long. Don't worry, before long you can drink gallons of the swill and it won't kill you."

The doctor didn't know that Max had gone almost six long years without a drink. The Sikhs didn't allow alcoholic beverages in their country. When Max first arrived he'd thought that if he had known that, he wouldn't have come, even though the money was good. Soon, however, he had gone native and chewed khat as practically everyone did in the Afghan Empire, men, women, and children alike. It gave one a supremely euphoric feeling, and also imparted a burst of energy. It had the added effect of making men aggressive, and they all chewed huge mouthfuls of the leaves before they went into battle. When Max had fled Afghanistan, he had only brought with him a small amount of khat that was gone after a few days on the ship. He'd had trouble finding any stimulant to replace it, until he had finally settled on laudanum and whiskey. The laudanum gave him a dreamy feeling of well-being, and the whiskey, once he drank enough of it, made him feel strong and tough.

As for women, as in any place where men lived, there were prostitutes. They were dark-skinned, exotic, dressed in exciting filmy veils and scarves and golden bangles. The Sikh culture regarded prostitution as a criminal offense, punishable on the first offense by cutting off the hands; if any woman was convicted of a second offense, her feet were cut off; and although it was unheard of, on a third offense they were beheaded. Consequently, the prostitutes were very exclusive, always beautiful women, skilled and eager to please—and outrageously expensive. But to Max they were the most alluring women in the world, and he loved them only a little more than he loved guns. He had spent all of his money on prostitutes and arms and fine clothing, and he would have been glad to live out his life in Kashmir. But the Sikhs had lost the war, and he had been forced to flee.

The British mercenaries that had been captured by the British Army had been hung as traitors. Max didn't know what they might do with Americans, and he didn't wait to find out. He stained his skin with walnut juice, killed an old man who lived alone, and took his clothing and the ruby ring that he wore. He went to the docks dressed as a Sikh with the
dulband
, a long black scarf wrapped around his head, and the
kirpan
, the short curved ceremonial sword strapped to his waist. He traveled under the name of Arjan Bhuppal, a fig merchant.

It was late afternoon, a blazing day that promised a late sunset. Max told himself that he wanted a couple, or three or four, more whiskeys before he went to the
Helena Rose
. It never quite came up to his conscious mind that he was waiting for the dark. What he was planning to do was night work. So he took a sip of laudanum and kicked back, the jug of whiskey on the floor beside him, and started rolling a cigarette. He had plenty of time.

JEANNE STOOD AT THE window, watching the docks. Even an hour after sunset, they were still a hive of activity. During cotton season, they often loaded steamers all night long. The marine service set up torches all along the warehouses and shipping offices on Front Street, down the avenues to the riverfront, and all along the docks. The roustabouts worked overtime. In September and October they earned more in one day than in five regular days shipping. All along Front Street, the first street of Memphis high on the bluff, every warehouse and office had lanterns in every window. The figures of men and horses and carts going in and out of them looked like little beetles to Jeanne.

She turned to watch Marvel. She sat on the floor in front of her dollhouse. It had taken both Clint and Vince to move the dollhouse from the main cargo deck up to the cabin, because by the time they had finished it, it had turned into an ornate house, four feet wide and six feet tall, with a steeply pitched roof painted red, and a high chimney made of small stones glued together.

The dollhouse had two stories and six rooms. The first floor had a parlor on one side, with two settees and a sofa, four little tables, and a fireplace with tiny sticks of wood stacked in it. Ezra had even sewed cushions for the settees and sofa, made out of one of Clint's old blue flannel shirts. Jeanne sighed at the poignant sight. Even the simplest reminder of him made her think of how much she loved him.

In the dollhouse, across the hall from the parlor, was the dining room with a table and two chairs, and at the back of the room was the kitchen. Ezra had actually made little cabinets with doors that opened, and Clint had made a little step stove, just like the one in the galley, painted black, with a real piece of curved pipe that went into the wall. Upstairs both Mrs. Topp and Avaymaria had their bedrooms and each had their own sitting rooms. Marvel was enchanted with the dollhouse, and could sit and play for hours with her dolls. Now Jeanne heard her whisper, "Mrs. Topp, may I serve you tea in my sitting room this evening?" And in a different tone, "Why, yes, Avaymaria, I'd be delighted."