All That Glitters

6

Masquerade

After Paul had left me, I lay there on my bed feeling sorry for myself. The late afternoon sun had begun to fall below the willows and cypress trees so that the shadows in the room grew somewhat deeper and darker. When I gazed out through the top of my windows, I saw that the sky had turned a darker turquoise and the scattered clouds were the color of old silver coins. The house was very quiet. It had been so well built that the sounds from downstairs or even from inside rooms across the hall were insulated when doors were closed. How different it was from living in my Grandmère Catherine's shack on the bayou, where even from our upstairs bedrooms, we could hear the scurry of a field mouse across the living room floor.

But suddenly I heard the distinct clip-clopping of boots down the corridor outside my doors. I heard what sounded like the rattle of a saber, too. They grew louder and closer. Curious, I sat up just as my door was opened and Paul stepped through, dressed in a Confederate officer's uniform, sword at his hip. He wore a fake sweet-potato red Vandyke beard as well, and he carried a package under his right arm. The costume and the beard fit him so well that for a moment I didn't know who it was. Then I smiled.

"Paul! Where did you get all that?"

"Pardon, madame," he said, and took off his hat to make a sweeping, graceful and elegant bow. "Colonel William Henry Tate at your service." He scowled. "I was just informed that some Yankees had invaded your privacy and caused you some consternation. I'll need a full report before I send my troops after the scoundrels, who, I promise you, will be swinging in the wind under the old oak before sundown.

"Now," he continued, straightening into a formal military posture and running his left forefinger over his mustache, "if you will just be so kind as to give my adjunct their descriptions . . ."

I clapped my hands and laughed.

"Oh, Paul, that's so funny."

He stepped toward me, not cracking a smile.

"Madame, I am William Henry Tate and I am at your service. There is no more distinguished service for a southern gentleman to perform than the service he performs on behalf of a lady, a truly beautiful and elegant daughter of the South."

With that he took my hand and kissed it softly.

"Well, suh," I said, thickening my accent and stepping into his make-believe, "I am flattered. No fine nor more handsome gentleman has come to my aid so quickly before."

"Madame, think of me as your devoted servant." He kissed my hand again. "May I be so bold as to invite you to my tent this evening for dinner. Of course, the service and the victuals won't be up to the standard they should be for a woman of your stature, but we are in the midst of a desperate struggle to keep our way of life survivin', and I'm sure you will understand."

"It's ma contribution to the great effort, suh, to sacrifice, too. You do have linen napkins, however, do you not?" I asked, batting my eyelashes.

"Of course. I didn't mean to imply you would dine like some dirtbag Yankee merchant. And on that note, may I offer you this dress for the occasion. It belonged to ma own sweet departed mother."

He handed me the package under his arm. I set it on my lap and unwrapped it. Within was a brownish pink taffeta dress. I held it up. It had high bodice sleeves that were bell-shaped at the wrists and lavishly embroidered. From these emerged undersleeves made of batiste covered with embroidery. The collar was like the sleeves.

"Why, suh, this is a beautiful dress. I'd be honored to wear such a garment."

"The honor is all mine, madame," he said, stepping back with another sweeping bow. "Shall I stop by . . . say, in twenty minutes and escort you to the dining area?"

"Make that twenty-five minutes, suh. I do want to make special preparations."

"Madame, for you, the clock stops." He stood up and pulled a beautiful, antique gold pocket watch out of his pants pocket and flipped it open. It began to play a sweet tune. "I shall return as you requested."

"Paul," I cried, "where did you get all this?"

"Paul? Madame, my name is William Henry Tate," he said, and with that he pivoted and marched out. I stared after him, the laughter on my lips. Then I looked at the dress again and wondered what I would look like in it.

The dress fit nearly perfectly. I took it in slightly at the waist with safety pins, but the bodice and the sleeves were perfect. Once I had the dress on, the magic of pretending took control and I thought about my hair. Quickly I brushed and pinned it up, making a part down the middle just the way southern women in historical pictures I had seen wore their hair. I stood there gazing at myself in the full-length mirror, wishing for the moment that our make-believe were true and I really was a member of southern aristocracy about to dine with a gentleman officer.

There was a gentle knock at my door. When I opened it, Paul, in his costume, stepped back with a wide smile over his face, his eyes brightening with pleasure. He had a corsage of white baby roses in his hands.

"Madame, you surpass even my most ambitious expectations. Beauty has no better place to call its home but in your face and fine figure."

I laughed. "Where did you get these words?"

"Madame, please. These are the words of a southern gentleman, and the words of a southern gentleman are never trifling."

"Excuse me, suh." I curtsied.

"May I?" he asked, approaching with the corsage. I stood still as he pinned it on my bodice. When I looked into his face and he looked into mine, it was as if I were looking at the face of a handsome stranger. He smiled and then stepped back and offered me his arm. "Madame."

"Suh," I said, taking it. He escorted me down the corridor and we descended the stairway like the lord and lady of some great manor. Paul had prepared our servants for this costume party, for neither Molly nor James looked surprised. Molly smiled and bit down on her lower lip, but everyone behaved as if this were a perfectly normal evening.

Paul had the lights turned down in the dining room and candles burning in the silver candelabra. He had soft dinner music piped in. After he brought me to my seat, he took his and offered me a glass of wine.

"You set a fine dinner table in the field, suh," I remarked.

"We make do with what we can, madame. These are times to try the souls of gallant men and gallant women. I am not one to diminish the sacrifice made by southern ladies. However, rank has its privileges, and I was able to manage this fine French Chablis." He leaned over, pretending not to want the servants to hear. "Bought it from some smugglers," he said.

"Oh dear. Well, suh, they say the higher the grape, the sweeter the wine."

"Well put, madame. Shall we make a toast?" he said, lifting his glass toward mine. "To the return of better times when the most important thing for a man to do is make the woman of his heart happy."

We clinked glasses and sipped, eyes open and fixed on each other as we did so. Then Paul dabbed his napkin over his lips, taking care not to move his fake Vandyke, and nodded to Molly and James so they could begin to serve our dinner.

I had expected to have little or no appetite this evening, but Paul's elaborate plotting to create these illusions and pleasant distractions was so delightful and romantic, I had to leave my dark and depressing thoughts behind. I had the feeling he had been planning such activity before and had everything ready just in case.

Letty had prepared glazed wild duck as our entrée. And for dessert, with our rich Cajun coffee, we had floating island with strawberries. While we dined, Paul was charming and funny. Apparently he had studied up on the Civil War battles in which his ancestor William Henry Tate had fought. Like an actor who had rehearsed his part for months and months, he kept in character. He sang Civil War ditties, talked about the occupation of New Orleans by the Yankee army and the hated General Butler, whose face was painted on the inside of chamber pots that became known as Butler pots.

He kept me so amused, I had little time to recall Gisselle's visit and the dreadful things she had told me. By the time Paul and I finished dinner, I was giggly and happy and very content. He offered his arm and escorted me to the patio, where we were to have an after-dinner cordial and gaze at the stars.

Over a hundred years ago, I thought, a Confederate officer and his lady looked up at the same night sky dazzled by the same stars. A hundred years wasn't much time to the stars, even less than a second was to us. How small and insignificant we are beneath the celestial firmament, I thought. All our great problems were so tiny.

"A Dixie for your thoughts," Paul said.

"My thoughts that valuable to you?"

"So valuable, it makes no sense to put any monetary offer. That's why I symbolically offer the Dixie."

"I was just thinking how small we are under the stars."

"I beg to differ, madame. You see that one star up there, the one that's blinking brighter than the others?"

"Yes."

"Well, it's blinking that way because it's jealous of the radiance that comes from your face this night. Some-where on another planet like ours, two people are looking up at their night sky and seeing the brilliance from your eyes, the glow of your lips, and thinking how small their world is."

"Oh, Paul," I said, moved by his words.

"William Henry Tate," he corrected, and leaned over to brush my lips with a kiss. It was so soft and quick, I could have been kissed by the breeze coming up from the Gulf and thought it was Paul's kiss, but when I opened my eyes, his face was still close to mine.

"I can't be happy when you're unhappy, Ruby," he whispered. "Are you a little happier now?"

"Yes, I am," I said. I heard the way my words sounded; I felt the trembling in my body. The cordial, the wine, the wonderful meal, had filled me with a warm glow. The night, the stars, the very air we breathed, all conspired against that part of me that struggled to remind me how close I was to surrendering myself.

"Good," Paul said, and brought his lips to my forehead. He kissed my closed eyes and my nose and brought those warm lips to mine. The tingling that stirred in my breast radiated into my neck, where his lips followed. I moaned and then I pulled away.

"I'm tired," I said quickly. "I think I should go up."

"Of course." He stood up when I did.

"Thank you, suh," I said, smiling, "for a most wonderful evening."

"Perhaps when the war ends, we will do it again," he replied, "in surroundings more suited to your beauty and stature."

"It was fine, wonderful," I said. He nodded and I turned and walked into the house, my heart pounding. It was as if I really were saying good night to a beau who had been courting me and with whom I had fallen deeper and deeper in love.

Molly had turned down all the lights in the house. Mrs. Flemming had fed and put Pearl to sleep. I hurried up the stairs and to my bedroom, gasping as I entered and falling back against the closed door to catch my breath, my eyes closed, my blood rushing madly through my veins.

After a few moments, I stepped away from the door and went to the vanity table. Slowly I slipped out of the old dress, but I stood there staring at myself in my slip and panties. I unpinned my hair and let the strands fall down my still crimson neck and over my shoulders. I couldn't stop my body from trembling with a longing I had naively thought I could subdue at will. My breath quickened as I continued to undress, stepping out of my panties and undoing my bra. Naked, I gazed upon myself in the mirror, imagining a gallant Confederate officer stepping up behind me and placing his hand on my shoulder until I turned to raise my lips to his.

Finally I turned off the lights and crawled under my comforter, luxuriating in the cool touch of the linen on my hot skin. Paul's romantic words lingered in my ears. I lay there thinking about the stars, dreaming. I didn't hear the adjoining door open, nor did I hear him approach my bed. I didn't realize he was beside me until I felt the weight of his body shift the mattress and then felt the warmth of his lips on my neck.

"Paul."

"It's William," he said softly.

"Please, don't . . ." I began, but the words choked in my throat.

"Madame, war makes time a luxury. If we were to have met and fallen in love before or after, I would spend weeks, months, courting you, but in the morning, I am to lead my troops into a desperate battle from which many will not return."

I spun around and when I did so, his hands cupped my shoulders and he brought my lips to his. It was a long, hot kiss. His chest pressed against my naked breasts and his legs moved between mine until I could feel his manliness probing gently.

I started to shake my head, but his lips went to my throat, and the touch of them pushed back my resistance. I laid my head against the pillow as his lips moved down my neck and grazed the crowns of my breasts, nudging the already erect nipples. Outside my window, I thought I could hear the snorting of horses, impatiently tapping their hooves on the stone.

"I, too, may not return, madame. But if Death is waiting to claim me, he will be disappointed, for on my lips will be your name and in my eyes will be your face."

"No," I said weakly, and then I said, "William . . ."

When he entered me, I gasped and started to cry, but his lips were over mine again. We moved in a gentle rhythm that grew stronger and stronger until we galloped toward an ecstatic explosion that made me moan.

Afterward, we lay beside each other, waiting for our breathing to slow. Then he lifted himself from the bed, turning to say, "God bless you, madame," before he slipped through the darkness to the door and was gone.

I closed my eyes. There was a part of me in turmoil, hysterical, screaming about sin and evil, raging about the curses and the punishments that would rain down over me with hurricane force. But I pressed those voices back and heard only my own thumping heart. I fell asleep to the sound of my blood pumping through my body and didn't wake until the dim light of false dawn played shadows over the walls.

I thought I heard the sound of cannons in the distance and sat up slowly. It sounded like a troop of horses were clip-clopping their way over the yard. I rose from my bed and went to the window. Pulling back my curtain, I looked out. inflamed swamp gas rolling over the surface of the canals did resemble the flash of cannons. Off in the distance, the silhouetted willows seemed to swallow a company of men on horseback. And then the sun really lifted its first rays over the rim of darkness and sent dreams scurrying back to their havens to wait for another night.

I returned to bed and lay awake until I heard Pearl's first cries and Mrs. Flemming hurrying to her crib. Then I got up and dressed myself to face the reality of another day.

Paul was at the table having coffee and reading his newspaper when I came down with Mrs. Flemming and Pearl. He snapped the pages and folded them quickly and

"Good morning. Did everyone sleep well?"

"The little one slept through the night," Mrs. Flemming said. "I've never seen such a contented infant. I feel like I'm stealing by taking money from you for caring for such a perfect baby."

Paul laughed and gazed at me. He looked fresh and awake and absolutely glowed with vibrancy. There was not the slightest sign of remorse in his face.

"I thought it was going to rain last night. Did you hear the thunder toward the Gulf?" he asked me.

"Yes," I said. From the way he was smiling and talking, it was as if I had dreamed our entire encounter. Had I?

"I absolutely passed out myself," he said to Mrs. Flemming. "Slept like a log. I guess it was the wine. But I feel well rested. So what are your plans for the day, Ruby?" he asked me.

"Your sister's coming over later to show me some pictures of wedding dresses and bridesmaid gowns. I'm going to be working in my studio most of the day."

"Good. I've got to go to Baton Rouge and won't be back until dinner. Ah," he cried when Molly began to bring in our eggs and grits, "I'm starving this morning." He beamed a smile at me and we had our breakfast.

Afterward I went up to my studio, and just before he left, Paul came up to say good-bye.

"I'm sorry I've got to be away so much of the day," he said, "but it's oil business that can't wait. Have you any idea how much money I've deposited in our various accounts?"

I shook my head but gazed at my easel instead of him.

"We're millionaires many times over, Ruby. There isn't anything you can't have or can't have for Pearl, and—"

"Paul," I said, turning sharply, "money, no matter how much, can't ease my conscience. I know what you're trying to do, to say, but the fact is, we violated our promises to each other last night. We made our own special vows, remember?"

"What do you mean?" he said, smiling. "I went to bed and passed out last night, just as I described. If you had dreams. . ."

"Oh, Paul . . ."

"Don't," he said. He pleaded with his eyes, and I understood that as long as I went along with the make-believe, he could live with what happened. Then he smiled. "Who knows what's real and what isn't? Last night someone rode a horse over our grounds, right over our newly planted lawn. Go on and look for yourself, if you like. The tracks are still there," he said. Then he leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. "Paint something . . . from your dream," he suggested, and left me.

Could I do what he asked . . . imagine that it had all been a dream? If I couldn't, I couldn't live with my conscience, and Pearl and I would have to leave, I thought. Paul had become so attached to her, and she to him. No matter what sins I might have committed and might yet commit, I had given Pearl a loving and caring father.

I smothered the voices that would haunt me and turned instead to do just what Paul had suggested . . . paint from the pictures within me. I worked in a frenzy, drawing, constructing and creating an eerie swamp landscape. From out of the moss-hung cypress emerged the shadowy, ghostlike figures of Confederate calvary, their heads bowed. They were returning from some battle, their ranks greatly depleted. The mist curled around the legs of their horses, and on the branches of nearby oak trees, owls peered sadly. Off in the background, the glow of yet-burning fires lingered and turned that part of the inky night sky bloodred.

I became inspired and decided I would create a whole series of pictures depicting this romance. In my next picture, I would have the officer's lady waiting on the balcony of the plantation house, her eyes searching desperately for the sight of him as the men emerged from the night of death and destruction. I was so entranced with my work that I didn't hear Jeanne come up the stairs and couldn't help showing my chagrin at being disturbed.

But she was so excited about her upcoming wedding, I felt terrible about disappointing her.

"You mustn‟t mind me," I said when her face dropped into glum despondency over my reaction at seeing her. "I get so involved in my painting, I forget time and place. This house could go up in flames and I wouldn't realize it."

She laughed.

"Come, let me see the pictures of the dresses," I said, and we spent the afternoon talking about designs and colors. She had a half dozen friends to serve as brides-maids. We discussed the little gifts she would get for each of them and their escorts and then she described her mother's plans for the reception.

As we talked and I listened, my regret over not having a wonderful real wedding for myself deepened. Even Jeanne remarked how sorry everyone was that Paul and I had eloped and not given them the same opportunity to plan a grand affair.

"What you should do is get married again," she suggested excitedly. "I've heard of couples doing that. They have a ceremony for themselves and then an elaborate one for all of the friends and relatives. Wouldn't that be fun?"

"Yes, but for the time being, one elaborate party is enough," I said.

The planning continued as if it were a major campaign. We had dinners at the house after which the family gathered in the living room to discuss the menus, the guest list, the arrangement of flowers, and the location of every part of the ceremony and reception. There were some heated arguments over the music, the girls wanting a more modern band, and Gladys and Octavious wanting a more eloquent orchestra. Every time a disagreement became impossible to solve, Paul would force me to give my opinion.

"I don't see why we can't have both," I suggested. "Let's have an orchestra for the dinner reception and then afterward, bring in a zydeco band or one of those rock bands and let the younger people have their fun, too."

"That's a ridiculous waste of money," Gladys said.

"Money is the least of our worries, Mother," Paul said gently. She fixed her eyes of fire on me for a moment and then gave a little shudder of disgust.

"If you and your father don't care how you throw your money into the swamp, I don't care," she quipped.

"It won't be that much more," Octavious said softly, but Gladys only pressed her lips more firmly together and glared at me. I was happy when these meetings finally came to an end.

Time passed more quickly for me now that I was heavily involved in my series of paintings. I couldn't wait for the day to begin, and some days I got so lost in my work, the sun had started to go down before I realized I had forgotten lunch and it was time to get ready for dinner. I regretted neglecting Pearl, but Mrs. Flemming was more than an adequate nanny. She was really part of the family and took wonderful, loving care of her.

As for Paul, he didn't come into my room at night again, nor did either of us mention the night he had. It soon began to feel like something I had only really dreamed. With the planning of the wedding ceremony, with the satisfaction I was having painting, life at Cypress Woods continued to be fulfilling and exciting. It seemed a day didn't pass without Paul announcing some grand new purchase or development.

One evening after one of our family dinners, I found myself alone with Gladys on the patio having an after-dinner cordial. Paul and his father were still in the house talking, and his sisters had gone to meet some friends. At dinner Octavious revealed he and Gladys had political ambitions for Paul. When I questioned it on the patio, Gladys widened her eyes with surprise.

"People in high places are getting to know about the Tates," she said. "Legislators are already courting Paul. He has all the qualities that could make him governor someday, if he wants."

"Do you think he wants that?" I asked, surprised.

"Why not?" Gladys said. "Of course, he won't do anything if you don't want him to do it," she said with disgust.

"I wouldn't stand in Paul's way if he really wanted something," I said. "I just wonder if it's what he wants or what you want."

"Of course it's what he wants," she fired back. Then she smiled coldly. "What's the matter, can't you see yourself as the first lady of Louisiana? We've got no reason to feel inferior to anyone. Don't you forget it," she added.

Before I could reply, Paul and his father came out and Gladys complained about a headache and asked Octavious to take her home. Nevertheless, I had to smile to myself imagining how my sister would react to such a possibility: me, the first lady of Louisiana? Gisselle would burst with envy.

It had been some time since Gisselle's visit, and I always felt as if a second shoe was going to drop. It came in the form of a postcard she sent to me from France. There was a picture of the Eiffel Tower on the front. I didn't know it then, but I was going to receive one, even two, a week from my darling twin sister, each like a pin stuck into a voodoo doll, each describing the fun she was having with Beau in Paris. "Chère Ruby," the first one began . . .

I finally got here and guess who was at the airport waiting for me . . . Beau. You wouldn't recognize him. He has this thin mustache and looks like Rhett Butler in Gone With the Wind. He speaks French fluently. He was so happy to see me. He even brought flowers! He is going to show me around Paris, the first sight beginning with his apartment on the Champs-Elysées.

Give my love and kisses to Paul. I'm about to tell Beau all about Pearl.

Amour, Gisselle

The tears that filled my eyes after reading one of Gisselle's postcards from France lingered for hours, clouding my vision, making drawing and painting difficult, if not impossible. It got so I regretted sorting through the mail and finding one of those picture cards. She would describe the nightclubs they frequented, the cafes, the fine restaurants. With each postcard, the suggestion that more was going on between her and Beau than simply the reunion of school friends grew stronger and stronger.

"Today Beau told me that I have really matured," she wrote. "He said whatever differences there were between you and me have diminished. Isn't that sweet?"

She described the jewelry he bought her and the way they held hands when they walked and talked softly at the banks of the Seine in the evening after one of their wonderful dinners at some romantic café. Always, other lovers walking nearby looked at them enviously.

"I know Beau thinks he can have you by having me and I should be annoyed, but then I think, why not use his love for you to win him back? It's fun."

On the next card, however, she wrote:

"I think I can say with some certainty now that Beau is falling in love with me, not just because I look like you, but because . . . it's me! Isn't that nice?"

A week later she wrote specifically to tell me that Beau no longer asked her questions about me.

He has finally accepted that you are married and gone from his life. But of course, that means nothing now. He has a lot more to look forward to with me at his side again.

Toujours amour,

Your sister Gisselle

I never showed Paul any of these postcards. After reading them, despite my reluctance to read them, I tore them up and threw them away. It always took me hours to recover.

But as the date of Jeanne's wedding grew closer, I had much to occupy my mind anyway. Three hundred guests had been invited. People were coming from as far away as New York and California. Anyone who was important to the cannery and the oil businesses, of course, as well as friends and relatives, was invited.

We had a beautiful day for the wedding. It was warm with bearable humidity and a sky of deep blue with clouds that looked scrubbed clean. Cypress Woods was buzzing with activity from the crack of dawn. I felt like I was queen of the anthill; there were that many people scurrying about, arranging this and that.

Father Rush and the choir arrived early. Most people had not seen Cypress Woods and were very impressed. Paul was beaming with pride and happiness. We all got dressed and began greeting the guests, many of whom arrived in limousines. Before long, our long driveway was lined with automobiles and drivers. The men were dressed in tuxedos, and the women wore gowns of every fashionable design. I thought we might all go blind from the glitter of diamonds and gold in the midday sun.

I gave Jeanne my bedroom suite to use, and Paul gave James his. Of course, the traditions were observed and James did not see his bride until she emerged from the French doors to the patio at the start of "Here Comes the Bride." Before the actual wedding ceremony, Father Rush conducted a service and the choir sang hymns. Under the flower-laden canopy, Jeanne and James took their vows.

How different this ceremony was from mine, I thought sadly. They could take their oaths in the light of day in front of hundreds of people without shame, without fear, without guilt. When they turned and were showered with rice, their faces were full of smiles of anticipation, happiness, and delight. If there were any fears in their hearts, they were well subdued, buried under the weight of great love.

I was filled with a heavy sadness and lowered my eyes. Had this most wonderful part of a woman's life been denied to me or had I denied it to myself? What dark threads of evil had woven their fabric in the bayou and cast it over my destiny?

This was not the time to be melancholy, however. The music started, the waiters and waitresses circulated with their trays of hors d'oeuvres, and the dancing began. We had to gather for family pictures, and my face had to shine with smiles. Only Paul, who had this second sense about me, gazed at me and saw the undercurrent of sadness that ran just below my laughter and grins. Later, when the feast began and the music continued, he and I danced and he brought his lips to my ear to whisper.

"I know what you're thinking," he said. "You wish you had had a wedding like this. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. You have no reason to apologize."

"We'll make a wonderful wedding for Pearl," he promised. He kissed me on the cheek and then the music became livelier and we were all doing the Cajun two-step.

The feasting and celebrating went on into the evening, long after Jeanne and James left for their honeymoon. Just before they went to their car, covered with JUST MARRIED signs and cans tied to the back bumper, Jeanne pulled me aside.

"I don't know how to thank you enough, Ruby. You made my wedding wonderful with all of your suggestions and work. But most importantly, with your advice and concern. You are really my sister now," she said, and hugged me.

"Be happy," I said, smiling through my joyful tears. She hurried off to join her impatient new husband.

Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, the last few guests left and the crews of workers completed the cleanup work. Exhausted, I went up to my suite and undressed to collapse in bed. Shortly after I had put out my lights, I heard Paul open the adjoining door. I opened my eyes just enough to see him standing there, silhouetted in his lamplight.

"Ruby?" he whispered. "Are you asleep?"

When I didn't reply, he sighed deeply.

"I wish," he said, "we had had a honeymoon, too. I wish I could love you freely and wholly."

He stood there a moment longer and then he closed the door softly and I shut my eyes before a single tear could find its way to the edge of my lids. Sleep, the best consoler of all, came mercifully quickly and shut away the voices and the regrets.

Two days later I received what was to be my final picture postcard from Gisselle. It had actually arrived after she and Beau had already returned from Paris. She told me about their plans. Beau was returning to New Orleans to attend medical school, and she was going to attend college. Despite her horrible school records, Daphne had somehow arranged it. She promised, or I should rather say, threatened, to come visit me again. Maybe . . . with Beau.

The very thought of such a visit made me tremble. I couldn't imagine what my first words would be to him if he should ever drive up to Cypress Woods. Of course, I would bring Pearl to him quickly. She was walking now and saying quite a few words. She loved to sit on Mrs. Flemming's lap at the piano and tap the keys. Everyone who heard her said she was musically inclined.

I had completed four of the pictures for my Confederate Romance series. Paul wanted me to show them in a gallery in New Orleans, but I was not yet ready to part with them and actually feared someone buying them. Meanwhile I continued to do landscapes of the bayou and those were sent regularly to Dominique's gallery, the first gallery that had shown and sold my early works.

We learned that they were selling quickly. I no sooner had one completed and there than it was bought. Paul was delighted and had some art critic visit me to discuss my works, take pictures of my studio and of me. A few months later, the photo spread appeared in an art magazine and then in the New Orleans Times. That publicity brought a new letter from Gisselle.

. . . Daphne nearly dropped her coffee cup in her lap when she opened the paper and saw your picture. Bruce was very impressed. I don't know what Beau thought. I didn't mention it to him and he didn't mention it to me. We see each other nearly every day. I think he's on the verge of offering me a ring. You'll be the first to know. It may happen a week from today because we're all going to the horse ranch and Daphne has invited Beau, too.

Anyway, we've only got six months to go and then we inherit our fortunes. It doesn't mean all that much to you now that you are filthy rich through marriage, I know, but having control of my own money will mean a great deal to me. And to Beau.

Anyway, I suppose I should say congratulations.

So, congratulations. Why is it you were born with a talent and I wasn't if we're twins?

Gisselle

I didn't write back, for I had no answer. If she had no talent at birth, she had no curse on her either. Was it just a chance thing that she had been born first and delivered to the Dumas, and I was to remain behind and be the one who would learn all about our troubled past? I felt like throwing that in her face, but then I thought about Grandmère Catherine and how precious she had been to me. What if I had been the firstborn? I would never have known her.

Does everything good have to come with something bad attached? I wondered. Is the world a balance between good and evil? Why weren't there more angels than devils? Nina Jackson used to tell me there were far more devils and that was why we needed all the powders and the chants, the bones and good-luck charms. Even Grandmère Catherine gazed into the darkness with the belief that evil lurked within every shadow and she had to be vigilant and prepared to do battle. Was that my fate, too . . . to always do battle?

I hated when I fell into these despondent moods, but that was what Gisselle's letters and cards always did to me. But nothing she had written or would write would compare to the phone call I received from her a week later.

Paul and I were just finishing dinner. Mrs. Flemming had fed Pearl and taken her to the den to play with her toys. Molly poured us coffee and went into the kitchen to bring out the strawberry shortcake Letty had made. We were both complaining about the weight we had gained since we had moved into Cypress Woods and had Letty prepare our meals, but neither of us was willing to put restrictions on what she prepared. We laughed at our self-indulgence.

Paul began to tell me about some legislators who were trying to get him to run for office and who would be paying us a visit in a week or so when James suddenly appeared to announce I had a phone call. Neither Paul nor I had heard the phone ring.

"I was standing right beside it and picked it up quickly," James explained.

"Who is it?"

"Your sister. She sounds very excited and demanded I call you to the phone immediately," he said.

I grimaced. I was sure she was going to tell me she and Beau had become formally engaged. That was one bit of news she wanted to deliver personally so she could hear my reaction.

"Excuse me," I said to Paul, and rose.

"Take it in my office," he suggested. I went there quickly, fortifying myself for the announcement. "Hello, Gisselle," I said. "What's so urgent?" She didn't respond for a moment.

"Gisselle?"

"There's been an accident," she said breathlessly. Oh no, I thought. Beau.

"What? Who?"

"It's Daphne," she gasped. "She fell from her horse late this afternoon and struck her head on a rock."

"What happened?" I asked, my heart pounding.

"She died . . . just a little while ago," Gisselle said. "I have no father. . . I have no mother. I have only you."