The River Rose (9 page)

Jeanne didn't understand the ancient Latin words, but it made no difference. Whoever or whatever this man was, his voice was a gift from God. The sweet strands of the harp were his angels' accompaniment. The tenor notes soared, then became fathomless depths, and then the last "Ave Maria" was held so long and with such unwavering strength that now Jeanne almost forgot to breathe. A few last whispers from the harp, and the song was done.

Heavy silence reigned in Court Square for long moments, and the man bowed his head. Then the applause began, and men's hoarse shouts of "Bravo! Bravo!"

Marvel turned and in the cacophony Jeanne could not hear her but saw her mouth, "Gunness!"

Jeanne nodded. "Gunness, indeed!"

"
MAMA
,
WHAT IS THAT
?"
Marvel asked with wonder.

Jeanne looked at the vendor's table, where she had seen big round balls of Christmas puddings wrapped up in muslin. But now that the entertainment was over and everyone was making their final purchases, the smiling matron attending the table had unwrapped a pudding. She placed a sprig of holly on the top, poured brandy all around it, and then lit it. Now the sumptuous thick ball glowed with a ghostly blue light. "That's a Christmas pudding, darling one. It takes several days to make, and you eat it at the end of Christmas dinner."

Marvel started to say something, but her eyes focused up beyond Jeanne's shoulder and her eyebrows raised. Jeanne turned, and to her surprise, she saw George Masters bowing low. She had forgotten that he'd said he would see her at the Regale. In fact, she had dismissed it as mere politeness.

"Mr. Masters, good evening," she said.

"Good evening, ma'am," he said. "I am so happy that I finally found you, Je—ma'am."

Jeanne smiled a little at his discomfort. It was an odd situation; at work all of the maids were called by their given names, but in polite company it was considered boorish for a gentleman to call a lady by her first name. "I am happy to see you too, Mr. Masters," she said warmly. "May I introduce to you my daughter, Miss Marvel Bettencourt. Marvel, this is Mr. George Masters."

Marvel made a neat little curtsey and peered up at him. "Mr. Masters? We prayed for you the other night. Well, we didn't really pray
for
you but we prayed
about
you because you gave my mama some money. That was you, wasn't it?"

Master's firm features were ludicrously twisted with confusion after this speech, and he stuttered, "Um—ah—yes, Miss Marvel, I suppose it might have been me. Uh—Miss—that is, it is Mrs. Bettencourt, I'm sure—isn't it? Of course it is! It's just that I saw you, and I thought that she was your sister."

Far from being discomposed at all this, Jeanne was amused. "No, she is my daughter, Mr. Masters. I am widowed."

"Angus says that men always think Mama's my sister," Marvel told Masters disdainfully.

"Angus?" he blurted out.

"Angus O'Dwyer, ten years old, man of the world," Jeanne told him.

Masters stared blankly at Marvel, then asked Jeanne, "And how old is she?"

"She takes after me, I suppose," Jeanne answered lightly. "She looks younger than she really is, at heart."

"I'm six years old now," she told Masters proudly. "I'm going to school in March. Mr. Masters, have you ever eaten a Christmas pudding that's been on fire?"

"Have I—well, yes. That is, not an entire pudding, but a portion, yes, I have." He glanced up at the table, where several people had now gathered and were purchasing their puddings. "They're really very good, Miss Marvel."

Marvel transferred her steady gaze to Jeanne, who said encouragingly, "You may buy one if you wish, Marvel."

Marvel skipped over to the table, and they heard her reedy high voice ask, "May I see that one, please?"

Masters smiled at Jeanne. "She's an intriguing lady, like her mother."

"Thank you, sir," Jeanne said, nervously raising her hand to touch the holly and ivy garland. She felt very self-conscious wearing it.

He studied her gravely. "And may I compliment you on your holly and ivy, Mrs. Bettencourt. It suits you particularly well. I've never seen your hair before, it's lovely." He held out his arm. "Would you allow me to walk you around the displays? They have some fine wares here."

Jeanne lightly rested her hand in his arm and they walked slowly toward the table where Marvel was still considering all the puddings. "You may, because for the third time tonight we are going to each and every table to peruse each and every item on it. I gave Marvel some money, you see, and told her she was responsible for choosing how to spend it. She's a most careful shopper."

"I see," he said gravely. "Then I suppose it wouldn't be quite the thing for me to offer to buy you ladies some Christmas gifts."

Jeanne replied sharply, "No, sir, that would not be quite the thing, for many reasons."

Instead of being taken aback, George Masters looked pleased. "Thought not," he said under his breath. Marvel ran to them then, holding the wrapped pudding in both hands. "This is the fattest one," she said. "I looked at all of them. Now—" she looked uncertainly toward the fruit vendor, and seemed confused what to do with her bulky burden.

Masters made a small bow and said, "Miss Marvel, may I carry your pudding for you?"

"You wouldn't mind?" she asked.

"Not at all, it would be my honor." She handed it to him, and he continued walking with Jeanne, following Marvel. It should have been funny, Jeanne thought, but he was a man of dignity, tall, with a proud posture, and somehow he didn't look silly cradling the muslin ball.

He looked down at her, saw her perusal, and smiled a little. "I don't feel a bit awkward. I've seen men carrying bigger and more ludicrous packages, following their ladies. And at the rate Miss Marvel is going, I think I may be carrying other things before the night is ended. Would that be all right with you, Mrs. Bettencourt? May I escort you and Miss Marvel this evening?"

"Why—yes, I suppose so, Mr. Masters," Jeanne said, a little perplexed. She had thought that he would say a kind word or two to her and Marvel and then return to his friends.

He continued quietly, "For a long time now I've been hoping that we might meet on a social basis. It would never have done for me to have asked to see you while you were working. But tonight is different."

"But it's not," Jeanne said abruptly. "We are far from meeting on a social basis, Mr. Masters. At least, on an
equal
social basis. And there is nothing different about tonight. I am still a chambermaid, and you are still—"

Curiously, he asked her, "Yes? I'm a what?"

"A—a swell," she finished defiantly.

He stared at her, and she stared back at him, and then suddenly Jeanne giggled and George Masters chuckled. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Masters," Jeanne finally said. "I'm afraid that came out all wrong. I'm the one who sounded like the worst snob, only in reverse."

"You're right," he agreed lightly, "but I forgive you."

They followed Marvel around, talking about the foods and decorations and the Choristers' performance, until Marvel had made all of her purchases. George Masters ended up carrying a Christmas pudding, two oranges, a gingerbread man, and a handful of butterscotch drops.

"Mrs. Bettencourt, please allow me to buy you ladies a hot drink," he pleaded. "I'm cold, and I know you must be, and I should very much like to shift all of Miss Marvel's purchases so that I'm carrying them more carefully."

Jeanne said evenly, "I believe it's time for us to go home, Mr. Masters. You've been very kind, and I will take Marvel's purchases now."

"But I hoped you would allow me to escort you home, Mrs. Bettencourt. It's the least you can do to oblige me, you know, after calling me a swell," he said insistently.

Marvel was listening carefully to the conversation, her curious gaze fixing on Masters and her mother as they spoke. Now she announced, "We live in the Pinch, Mr. Masters. It's a long way."

"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.