The River Rose
Authors: Gilbert Morris
The River Rose, Digital Edition
Based on Print Edition
Copyright © 2012 by Gilbert Morris
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
978-1-4336-7321-4
Published by B&H Publishing Group,
Nashville, Tennessee
Dewey Decimal Classification: F
Subject Heading: BOATS AND BOATING—FICTION \ LOVE STORIES \ STEAMBOATS—FICTION
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
C
ONTENTS
C
HAPTER
O
NE
The Gayoso House Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee, gleamed like Mount Olympus on the bluff high above the Mississippi River. Its six fifty-foot-high Doric columns topped by the grand, white marble pediment had become a sure landmark to the lesser beings on the river. A pallid December sun rose behind the hotel, its weak light still making the grand edifice seem to glow.
Jeanne Bettencourt's eyes watered a little as she stared up at the hotel. The wind was keening off the river, and as she hurried along Front Street she adjusted her woolen muffler to cover her mouth and nose. Above the plain gray wool were wide-set velvet brown eyes, odd because they had a perfect almond shape that was more East Indies than red-blooded American. The searching bitter wind teased out several thick chestnut-brown curls from her mobcap and hood, and impatiently she tucked them back in.
She went around to the back of the hotel to the servant's entrance, of course, because she was a chambermaid, not a guest. Sometimes Jeanne dreamed of having enough money to stay at Gayoso House. It was a luxurious place, with real brass room keys and fobs, daintily wrapped guest soaps, satiny bed linens, eiderdown comforters, fireplaces, and velvet chairs and cherry tables in each room. And most elegant and desired—marble tubs, silver faucets, hot and cold running water, and even flush toilets. Indoor plumbing was grandiose indeed.
A crowd of maids, porters, waiters, and wood boys were gathered at the service entrance, and just as Jeanne reached the bottom step the great Gothic bells of St. Peter's church began to ring the hour of 7:00 a.m. The door was opened by Mrs. Wiedemann, the stern German housekeeper, who stood frowning as the servants filed in. Jeanne was last, on the final stroke of seven, and Mrs. Wiedemann frowned. "You are almost late, Jeanne."
"Yes, ma'am," she said submissively, following the woman's heavy tread into the housekeeping supply room. She wasn't late, of course. But Jeanne was lucky to have this job, and she never crossed Mrs. Wiedemann. Under the circumstances, the two got along very well.
The housekeeping supply room was something like a long railroad car. Along one wall was a row of hooks, each with a neatly printed white card above it. Jeanne hung her cape and muffler on the hook labeled
J.Bettencourt
, gave another quick pat-push to the hair escaping from her mobcap, and checked her white apron to make sure it was spotless. At the Gayoso one was not required to have a uniform as such, though they required that the maids wear gray skirts and plain white blouses. The hotel supplied each maid with two aprons and two mobcaps, and if you came to work at the Gayoso with your apron dirty you did not work at the Gayoso on that day. Satisfied that she presented a neat and clean appearance, Jeanne began to gather her cleaning supplies. They were all stored in a long row of closets across from the hooks, kept locked to deter stealing. Mrs. Wiedemann had a very impressive bunch of keys hanging at her waist. She stood watching suspiciously as the maids gathered their supplies.
When they were all ready with their five-gallon buckets full, they started filing up the back staircase to begin the day. Mrs. Wiedemann called out, "Jeanne, I would speak with you for a moment."
Jeanne kept her face expressionless, though she was dismayed. She never knew what Mrs. Wiedemann was going to say to her when she asked to speak to her. Sometimes she berated her for some imaginary wrong, or chided her for the faults of other maids assigned to her. Sometimes she asked polite questions of Jeanne, as to how so-and-so new maid was adjusting, how Mr. Such-and-Such was enjoying his stay, was Jeanne happy with her supplies, did she feel anything useful may be added to the cleaning materials?
Jeanne hurried back to her and asked politely, "Yes, Mrs. Wiedemann?"
"Yes, Jeanne. This week we have some soaps barely used from overnight guests. Also we have pillow slip turnover. You may buy ten soaps for one penny, and five pillow slips for one penny, if you wish."
Jeanne's dark winged eyebrows rose with surprise. All such perquisites belonged to the housekeeper, and in four years this was the first time she had ever known Mrs. Wiedemann to let anyone have a chance to buy any cast-off supplies. And the price she quoted was excellent; the swift thought went through Jeanne's mind,
she could sell them to the secondhands five for a penny, one for a penny . . .
"Yes, ma'am, I would very much like to buy some soaps and pillow slips," Jeanne said gratefully. "Ten soaps for one cent and five pillow slips for one cent is very generous. Thank you, ma'am."
To Jeanne's surprise, Mrs. Wiedemann seemed slightly uncomfortable. "The pillow slips are very thin. Perhaps we make it six for one penny. Yes. I will have them for you tonight, when you leave."
"Oh, I am so sorry, Mrs. Wiedemann, I have no money with me at all," Jeanne said in embarrassment. "Please, hold them for me until tomorrow. I'll bring the money then."
"No. You take them tonight. I know you will bring the money, Jeanne. Now get to work, please." She turned and marched away.
Jeanne was ecstatic as she flew up the three flights of stairs to the top floor. It was December 18, 1854, two days before her daughter's birthday and seven days until Christmas morning. She would have time to sew a soft long-sleeved chemise from the pillow slips in the next week, so Marvel would have two birthday presents and two Christmas presents.
Jeanne began, as always, with the first room, #301. All of the rooms at the Gayoso were alike, but the wealthiest and most prestigious patrons preferred the top floor. In winter it was warm, and in summer the cool breezes off the river kept them bearable. The third floor was, of course, the most difficult one for the chambermaids because they had to travel up and down three flights of stairs to resupply or to take their twenty-minute lunch break. Mrs. Wiedemann had started giving Jeanne the top floor every day she worked, and at first Jeanne had thought that the woman was deliberately making it difficult for her. But then she realized that the third floor patrons tipped generously, as a rule. Too, Mrs. Wiedemann had started assigning all the newest maids to work with Jeanne, and over time she had stopped coming up to the top floor to check the maids' work. Jeanne slowly started training the maids, and then supervising them.
Jeanne was very happy to see that her first guest was a regular, an older man named Mr. Borden. She knew that he was a very prominent man, for she had overheard snippets of conversations and she knew that when he was in town he saw the mayor, city council members, judges, presidents of companies, insurance executives, and the sheriffs and marshals. He was no salesman.
She knocked twice on the door and said, "Chambermaid to attend the room, sir?"
"Yes, yes, come in, come in," he called. She opened the door, stepped in, and curtseyed. At the Gayoso the chambermaids always curtseyed.
He was sitting at the tea table by the window wearing a maroon satin dressing gown over his clothes, for the fire had not yet caught well and the room was chilly. His tea table was littered with newspapers. A fat cigar was lit and smoldered in an ashtray next to a silver coffee service. Mr. Borden was a round, jovial man, bald with a thick silver fringe and sideburns, and bright blue eyes. "Jeanne! Oh, I am glad to see you, Jeanne. Come in, come in, girl!"
"Good morning, Mr. Borden," Jeanne said with real pleasure. She went to the fireplace, noting that the wood boy had cleaned the mantel and hearth well, and stirred the coals and added another log. The flames leapt up and the fire began crackling comfortably. Then Jeanne picked up her bucket and started toward the bathroom.
"Just a minute, Jeanne. Come here, I have something for you," he called after her. "Besides, I'm too lazy to pour my own coffee. Sad, isn't it? Would you do me the honor?"
"Of course, sir," she said, returning to pour out a steaming cup of coffee with three sugars and heavy cream, just as he liked it.
"Mmm, you fix it better than I do anyway," he said appreciatively. "Now, I've got some things here—oh, where is the blasted—there it is.
Frank Leslie's Illustrated Weekly
. From last week, but I thought that you might not have seen it yet," he said tactfully.
"No, I have not," Jeanne said. "That's very kind of you, Mr. Borden. Thank you."
He waved dismissively. "And there's some other papers, the
New York Herald
, the
Arkansas Gazette
, the local
Appeal.
I believe you'll find them underneath the night table."
Jeanne found the newspapers and looked up at him questioningly. "You brought all these for me, sir?" Mr. Borden always left her his newspapers when he stayed, but this was a stack of about a dozen current papers.
"Of course," he replied with a smile. "Ever since I caught you sneaking a read of my
Herald
, I've thought about it. You see, Jeanne, I've never thought twice about buying half-a-dozen newspapers every morning, skimming the headlines, then throwing them away. But you can't do that, can you?"
"No, sir," Jeanne said, slowly rising. "But I never meant to—"
"I know," he interrupted her hastily. "No, you wouldn't. I just think you should be able to read the newspapers if you want." Very busily he re-lit his cigar, sipped his coffee, shuffled newspapers, and finally began reading.
Jeanne put the newspapers outside the door and began cleaning. She scrubbed the bathroom, polished the faucets, cleaned the toilet, then went into the room to shake out the sheets and plump the comforter, change the pillow slips, remake the bed, sweep the carpet, and clean the windows. As she was gathering her supplies to leave, he looked up from his newspaper and said, "Jeanne, don't forget your
Leslie's.
"