The River Rose (12 page)

"More circumstances," Jeanne said lightly. "I don't suppose I may know these, either."

"Er—" Deshler began, but just then the door opened and Mr. Beebe's sonorous voice announced, "Mr. Hardin, Mr. Deshler."

Jeanne was sitting with her back to the door, and she couldn't restrain herself from turning around to look at her co-beneficiary. She looked—she stared—her mouth opened and she blurted out, "You? The Singing Man?"

He loomed over her, for he was very tall and broad-shouldered, and stared down at her with perplexity, and then astonishment. "You? I saw you! And your little sister! You had on the holly crowns!"

Deshler, who had remained seated, frowned deeply. "Are you two already acquainted? Are you in some sort of theatrical production, maybe?"

They both ignored him. Jeanne said indignantly, "She's not my little sister, she's my daughter."

"Huh?" he said, his one-eyed gaze raking her up and down. "Your daughter? How'd that happen?"

"What?" Jeanne said blankly.

Mr. Deshler rose. "Pardon me for interrupting, but perhaps formal introductions are in order. Mr. Hardin, I have the honor of making known to you Mrs. Jeanne Bettencourt, who is a distant relation of my client's and, therefore, of yours. Mrs. Bettencourt, may I present to you Mr. Clinton Hardin, of the Memphis Hardins. Please, Mr. Hardin, won't you be seated?"

Clint sat down in a chair next to Jeanne's, grimacing a little as he did so.

Jeanne watched him with a mixture of exasperation and consternation. "What happened to your face?"

"My—oh. Uh, accident. Had an accident on Boxing Day," he managed to reply, glancing with amusement at Nate Deshler, who was in on the joke. He had backed Clint.

"You had an accident while boxing up the gifts for your servants?" Jeanne said sarcastically.

Clint said with surprise, "How'd you know what Boxing Day really is?"

"How did I know? Apparently you're the one who thought it was some sort of fistic competition, as in
boxing
," Jeanne replied smartly.

"Well, yeah, but I really did know what it was," Clint said lamely.

"Perhaps we might begin again?" Mr. Deshler said, giving Clint a dire glance.

"Sorry, Mr. Deshler," Clint said quickly, and turned to Jeanne. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bettencourt, I've been very rude, I know. It's a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma'am."

"I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Hardin," she said, still a little stiffly. They both turned to Deshler.

He steepled his fingers and said, "First I'd like to explain the connection between the two of you, and my client, Mr. Ira Hardin. I first met him on November 7 of this year, at which time he gave me instructions concerning his last wishes. He died the next day, I'm sorry to say. He wished to leave his property to, and I'm quoting him, 'any Memphis Hardins' I could find. It has taken me almost two months, but through the census records I traced the two of you, who are the only remaining Memphis Hardins."

"I understand Mr. Hardin's claim, for that's obvious," Jeanne said. "But you know that I'm not truly a Hardin, Mr. Deshler."

Deshler said, "It's an odd point of law, but I am obliged to interpret it thus: when Mr. Ira Hardin instructed me the way he did, it meant any blood relation of any Hardin that lived in Memphis. You do have Hardin blood, Mrs. Bettencourt, and so you are entitled, as Mr. Clint Hardin is entitled.

"But let me make it clear to you, my one conversation with Mr. Hardin was not of long duration, for he was extremely ill, and I had no time to press him for the finer points of law as I drew up his last will and testament. I've interpreted his dying wishes as best I could, and I believe that he meant for anyone of Memphis Hardin blood to share equally in his legacy. That, of course, could possibly be open to another interpretation, if either of you feel the need to contest the terms that I have defined."

Jeanne and Clint exchanged furtive sidelong glances, and then both shook their heads.

"I'm sure your interpretation of the will is knowledgeable and expert, Mr. Deshler," Jeanne said. "Whatever you say is just fine with me."

"You've got a reputation as a fair man, sir," Clint said easily. "So I'm happy with whatever it is. By the way, I brought my mother's marriage certificate." He pulled a piece of parchment out of his pocket and handed it to Deshler.

As he had done with Jeanne's birth certificate, he scanned it quickly, then handed it back. "That's fine, Mr. Hardin, thank you. Very well. Now I can tell you everything, because I know you must be monstrously curious, and I'm sorry I had to make you wait."

Jeanne sat up a little straighter and Clint leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. Deshler said flatly, "You have both inherited a riverboat. A Mississippi steamboat named the
Helena Rose
."

Jeanne stared at him; Clint stared at him. Deshler was enjoying himself immensely. This was a most unusual will, a most unusual legacy, and two very unusual legatees. He sat back, steepled his fingers again, and waited.

The heavy silence stretched on and on. Finally Jeanne said in a low voice, "A riverboat? I own a riverboat?"

"Half of one," Deshler replied. "Mr. Clint Hardin owns the other half."

Jeanne turned to Clint again. He was staring into space. Finally he turned and grinned at her. "Hello, partner."

Jeanne said, "I'm not your partner. Oh. Oh, I
am
your partner. How very odd."

"Ain't it?" Clint said flippantly, then turned to Deshler. "So, what kind of steamboat is the
Helena Rose
? Pretty name, by the way. Where is she? How big is she? Is she worth much?"

"I have seen the
Helena Rose
, because that's where I was summoned when Mr. Hardin decided to consult me for his last will and testament. He wanted to die on the boat, you see. She's here, right down on the docks. Anyway, I'm afraid I'm no expert on steamboats. What I observed was that she seemed trim and river-ready, as they say. She is not a big boat at all and she is outfitted for cargo only, not passengers. However, I understand that Mr. Hardin was making a tidy profit with her. He did leave a sum of monies. After I settled his outstanding debts, and of course paid my fee, there was just a little more than five hundred dollars in cash remaining, so each of you will receive two hundred and fifty two dollars and some cents."

"What?" Jeanne breathed.

"Wow," Clint said.

"Yes, Mr. Hardin had the cash on the boat, not in a bank. So I have it here, in his lockbox. You may have it now, if you wish."

"No!" they said in unison, then looked at each other in surprise. Quickly Jeanne said, "No, I would really like to go see the
Helena Rose
, and I don't want to be carrying around such a great sum of money, that would be foolish."

"My thoughts exactly, Mrs. Bettencourt," Clint agreed. "You know, I've got a whole bunch of questions about this Mr. Ira Hardin, but I'd kinda like to take some time, think it all over. I do want to see the
Rose
, though."

"Perfectly understandable. In fact, I would advise you both to see the boat first of all, and then consider all of your options. We can meet again to formalize everything, and by then I'm sure you'll have any questions or concerns firm in your minds."

Clint said eagerly, "That sounds right to me," and Jeanne nodded agreement.

Deshler said cautiously, "Now I must tell you that Mr. Hardin specified one stipulation to his inheritors. He had a dog, and apparently Mr. Hardin was very attached to him. He told me that anyone who inherits his boat has to take care of his dog."

Clint looked relieved. "Is that all? Sure, I like dogs."

Jeanne asked, "A dog? What is the dog's name?"

"Hmm? Oh," Deshler said with some confusion, shuffled some papers on his desk, and then pointed. "Here. The dog's name is Leo. He was with Mr. Hardin when I met him, and he's a big, sort of spotty dog," he added informatively. "So I'm assuming that you both agree to Mr. Hardin's stipulation? Good. Now, I will need a couple of days to formalize the title documents and file them appropriately. We can do all the paperwork on your next visit."

"Good, thanks, Mr. Deshler," Clint said gratefully. "So, Mrs. Bettencourt? May I have the honor of escorting you to see our new steamboat?"

"Our new . . . ? Oh, yes," Jeanne said, still feeling slightly dazed. "I mean, of course I want to go see the
Helena Rose.
" She stood up abruptly, and so of course Clint and Mr. Deshler jumped up out of their seats. "Thank you, Mr. Deshler, for everything. I'll see you . . . when should I see you again?"

"Perhaps both of you might come back at the same time on Thursday," he said.

"Ten o'clock, Thursday," Jeanne said, as if talking to herself.

She turned and rushed out the door, and Deshler and Clint exchanged quick helpless glances and then practically ran after her. Deshler hurriedly told Clint, "The
Rose
is at the north end of the waterfront. Mr. Hardin specified that one of his crewmen, a Mr. Ezra Givens, stay on the boat. He'll be able to tell you much more than I've been able to, I'm sure."

"Thanks," Clint said, trailing Jeanne out the front door. She was walking fast, wrapping her muffler around her head and pulling up her hood. He caught up to her and she glanced up at him with a distracted look.

"Hi there. Remember me? Your partner?" He offered her his arm.

She came to a dead stop. "I—this is all too much right now, Mr. Hardin. You'll have to excuse me."

"What does that mean? You're going to the docks, I'm going to the docks. We're going to the same place on the docks. Doesn't it seem like maybe we should go together?"

"No. I mean—yes. I suppose so. But I—I don't know you, you're a complete stranger to me, and I'm not comfortable walking arm-in-arm with a man I don't know," she said darkly.

"But you do know me, ma'am," he said lightly. "I'm your partner. I'm the Singing Man."

"That's silly!"

"You said it, not me. Anyway, what can we do? You want me to follow behind you like a lackey or something?"

"Would you?" Jeanne snapped, her dark eyes hard and brilliant.

He stared down at her for a brief moment, then grinned slowly, for his mouth was still swollen and sore. "Well, yeah. If that's what you want, ma'am."

Jeanne started to fling out a reply, then dropped her head and pressed her fingers to her temples. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hardin. It's just that all of this has been such a shock."

"It's okay, I understand. So does this mean that you'll take my arm, and we'll walk, not run, to the docks, and talk like grown-ups?"

Jeanne's hackles rose again, but she took his arm and said, "Yes, I suppose we must."

They proceeded along for several steps, and Jeanne didn't say a word, so Clint asked politely, "So I assume you're widowed, Mrs. Bettencourt."

"Yes."

"And the pretty little girl, at the Regale. You both had holly and ivy crowns, and I thought you—never mind about that. So she's your daughter?"

"Yes."

"And what is her name?"

"Marvel."

"And how old is Marvel?"

"Six."

"And I'm curious, ma'am, since you don't seem old enough to have a daughter that age. Would you mind telling me how old you are?"

"Yes, I would mind."

Clint sighed, then stopped and turned toward her, placing his hand over hers. "Ma'am, please. I know it's kind of hard to take all of this in, but right now I think it's important for us to get to know each other. After all, in the position we're in, we're going to have to work together, to make some important decisions, together. Isn't that right?"

"I know," Jeanne sighed. "It's just that it's such a bizarre, such an uncomfortable situation, to be forced into a personal relationship like this," Jeanne said.

"Then think of it as strictly a business relationship. That's what it really is, anyway."

Slowly she nodded. "Yes . . . yes. I can do that."

They resumed walking, and Jeanne went on, "My daughter's name is Marvel, and she just turned six years old. I am twenty-five, and widowed, and my parents are both dead. And your family, Mr. Hardin?"

"My mother's dead, and I don't know about my father. I never knew him," he said coldly. "No brothers or sisters, but I guess you knew that, considering we're the last two of the Memphis Hardins," he added in his normal lazy drawl.

"Actually I suppose my daughter is one," Jeanne said. "She would be . . . one-eighth Hardin."

He shot her a quick cautious glance, and Jeanne's eyes widened. "You think—no. No, no. I didn't mean that. I would never try to—to get more, to get a portion for Marvel."

Clint shrugged with apparent carelessness, but his gaze was intent. "Why not? From what Mr. Deshler said, the percentage of Hardin blood doesn't make any difference. It could be argued that she has as much right to the
Rose
as I do. Or as you do, for that matter."

Jeanne shook her head. "No. She already has my share, for everything I have belongs to her. Therefore, she has received the very same thing that I have, and your portion should not be infringed upon at all."

"Wow, you'd make a great lawyer," he said admiringly. "And I'm not just saying that because what you said is all the better for me."

Jeanne made a quick impatient movement with her hand. "It would just be dishonorable and greedy to try to do you out of your share. Not to mention ill-bred."

"That is one thing that you are not, ma'am," Clint said gravely. "So. You're a widow and you're well-bred, we've established that. What else are you?"

"Hmm? Oh. I'm a chambermaid, at the Gayoso."

"You are? But you don't look like a chambermaid!"

"So I hear," Jeanne said dryly, "but so far no one has told me exactly what a chambermaid is supposed to look like, and why, in particular, I don't look that way. No, never mind all that, please, I don't want to discuss the average chambermaid's countenance. Let's talk about the
Helena Rose.
Do you know anything about steamboats, Mr. Hardin?"

"Not a blessed thing," he said cheerfully. "Do you?"