Pearl in the Mist

5

Sad Songs

Daddy called the next morning, and I immediately told him about Gisselle and I changing roommates. Gisselle was peeved that he had asked to speak with me first, so she sat in her wheelchair and sulked in the hallway, threatening not to speak with him at all while I spoke to him.

"Is that working out?" he asked, his voice full of surprise. "Someone else sharing the room with Gisselle, I mean?"

"Her new roommate's Samantha. You remember which one she was?" He said he did. "She has grown very fond of Gisselle very quickly," I explained.

"I can talk for myself," Gisselle fumed. "Give me the phone." She wheeled up to me, and I handed her the receiver.

"Daddy," she spit into the phone. "I hate it here, but at least I have a roommate that doesn't nag me to death," she said, eyeing me. "Yes," she said, suddenly turning syrupy sweet. "I have gotten off to a good start in my schoolwork. I got an A+ on my math homework and an A on my English just yesterday. And that was without Ruby's help too," she added. "But none of this means I like being here. You can tell that to Daphne," she added and thrust the phone back into my hands.

"Hi, Daddy."

"Should I come up there?" he asked. He sounded so tired, his voice so small and thin.

"No. We'll be all right. Besides, we have the tea at Mrs. Clairborne's house today."

"Oh. Well, that sounds nice. I don't mean to put a great deal of burden on you, Ruby," he said, "but . . .″

"It's all right, Daddy. Gisselle is going to like it here after a while," I said, glaring at her. "I'm sure."

"Is there anything you girls need?"

"No. We're fine, Daddy. Are you all right?"

"I have a little chest cold. Nothing serious. I might be away for a week or so, but try to call you from wherever I am," he promised. "And if you should need me . . call the office," he added quickly. I knew that meant don't bother calling Daphne.

"Is everything all right at home, Daddy?"

"It's okay," he said.

"How are Nina, Edgar, and Wendy?"

He hesitated a moment. "We've replaced Wendy," he told me.

"Replaced her? But why?"

"Daphne wasn't happy with her work. I saw to it that she had a good recommendation and a few good leads. We have an older woman now. Daphne picked her out herself at the agency. Her name's Martha Woods."

"I feel so bad for Wendy."

"She'll be all right," he said quickly. "Enjoy your weekend. I love you," he said.

"And we love you, Daddy," I told him.

Gisselle smirked. "What about Wendy?" she asked. "Daphne had her replaced."

"Good. She was too uppity anyway," Gisselle said.

"That's a lie. She put up with a lot from you, Gisselle. I'm sure the new maid won't."

"Yes she will, or she'll go too," Gisselle promised with a smile. Then she took off, wheeling herself back to her room in a fury. I was sure she would do something to embarrass us at Mrs. Clairborne's tea, maybe by wearing something inappropriate just for spite, but she surprised me by dressing herself in a pretty light blue dress with matching shoes. She had Samantha brush out her hair and pin it back at the sides. Mrs. Penny had told us that Mrs. Clairborne did not like to see her girls wearing makeup, but a slight tinge of lipstick was permissible. I thought Gisselle would be defiant and do her eyelids and her cheeks, but she surprised me again by being conservative with her makeup.

Samantha wheeled her out to the main lobby to join Abby and me at a little before one-fifty.

"Chubs asked me to steal a few pralines for her," she told us. "When either of you get a chance, shove some in my purse."

"Kate doesn't need the added calories," I said.

"If she doesn't care, why should you?"

"Good friends try to help each other, not feed each other's weaknesses," I replied.

"Who's saying I'm good friends?" She laughed wickedly. Abby and I looked at each other and shook our heads. A moment later Mrs. Penny appeared dressed in a floral cotton dress with a wide pink sash tied around her waist. She wore a corsage over her right breast and had a sun hat and a matching straw pocketbook with an embroidered rose on each side.

"Well, I declare," Gisselle said. "Scarlett O'Hara." Samantha laughed and ran off to tell the others what Gisselle had said, I was sure.

Mrs. Penny blushed. "You all look so pretty," she said. "Mrs. Clairborne will be very pleased. Right this way, girls. Buck has the station wagon out front," she said.

"Buck?" Abby said, turning to me. We started to laugh. "Who's Buck?" Gisselle demanded.

"He's the young man in charge of most everything around here," Mrs. Penny said, but Gisselle eyed Abby and me suspiciously as I pushed her out and down the ramp to the wagon.

Close up in the daylight, Buck looked even younger than he had looked at the boathouse or riding on the lawn tractor. He had hair almost as black as Abby's, but his eyes were dark brown. He had a dark complexion, being a Native American. Even in his plaid shirt, we could see how strong he was. He looked taller too, and leaner, with a narrow waist and hips and long legs. The moment he set eyes on us he smiled softly, which was something Gisselle caught.

"Hello, Mr. Mud," Abby quipped. He laughed and then registered a look of surprise and great interest when he saw that Gisselle was my twin.

"Don't tell me there are two like you," he kidded. I just smiled.

"How do you know him?" Gisselle demanded. Neither Abby nor I replied.

"Here, let me help you," he offered Gisselle. "He put his left arm around her waist and his right under her legs and lifted her so gently out of the seat, it was as if she weighed no more than ten pounds. She smiled, her face so close to his that her lips could graze his cheek. He placed her comfortably into the wagon and then folded the wheelchair with such expertise, I felt certain he had done this before.

We all got into the car, Mrs. Penny up front.

"Who's wearing all that jasmine?" Gisselle demanded as soon as we were all settled in the station wagon.

"Oh, I am, dear," Mrs. Penny said. "It's Mrs. Clairborne's favorite scent."

"Well it's not mine," Gisselle remarked. "Besides, you should wear what you like, not what some rich old lady likes."

"Gisselle!" I said, widening my eyes. Had she no discretion?

"Well, you should!"

"I like it very much myself," Mrs. Penny said. "Please don't worry. Now, let me tell you about the Clairborne mansion as we drive up. Mrs. Clairborne likes it when the girls know its history. Actually, she expects it," she said in a lower voice.

"Will we be tested later?" Gisselle quipped.

"Tested? Oh no, dear," Mrs. Penny said with a laugh, and then she stopped and thought a moment. "Just be respectful and remember, it's her generosity that keeps Greenwood going."

"And provides a job for her niece," Gisselle muttered. Even I had to smile at that one, but Mrs. Penny, as usual, ignored anything unpleasant and began her lecture.

"The mansion was a very important sugar plantation as recently as ten years ago."

"That's 'recent'?" Gisselle asked.

Mrs. Penny smiled as if Gisselle had said something very silly, something that needed no response.

"The original four-room dwelling was built in the 1790s and is now connected to the main house by an arched carriageway, which serves as a main entrance during inclement weather. At the height of its success as a sugar plantation," she continued, "the estate had four sugar houses, each with a separate planting unit and its own set of slaves."

"My father says the Civil War didn't end slavery, it just raised the cost of labor from nothing to the minimum wage," Gisselle quipped.

I saw a smile break out on Buck's lips.

"Oh dear, dear," Mrs. Penny said. "Please don't say anything like that to Mrs. Clairborne. And whatever you do, don't mention the Civil War."

"I'll see," Gisselle replied, enjoying her hold over our worried housemother.

"Anyway," she continued, catching her breath, "many of the furnishings, such as the armoires, predate the Civil War. The gardens, as you will soon see, are modeled after the French style of the seventeenth century, with marble statues imported from Italy."

A few minutes later we arrived at the entrance to the Clairborne estate, and Mrs. Penny continued in her role as tour guide.

"Look at the magnolias and the old oaks," she pointed out. "Over there, behind that barn, are the family burial grounds. See the iron-grillwork fence shaded by the old oaks.

"All of the bookcases inside were hand-made in France. You'll see that most of the windows have brocaded draperies covering rose-point lace curtains and hand-painted linen shades. We will be having tea in one of the pretty sitting rooms. Perhaps you'll have a chance to see the ballroom."

"Is it ever used?" Gisselle asked.

"Not anymore, dear, no."

"What a waste," she said, but even she was impressed with the size of the mansion.

The enormous two-story structure had grand Doric columns with an upper-level galerie that wrapped around the house. Atop the second story was a glass-windowed belvedere. The west side of the house looked darker, probably because of the huge willow trees whose branches hung as though weighted, casting long, deep shadows over the plastered brick walls and dormer windows.

As soon as we drove up the front door opened, and a tall, lean black man with snow-white hair appeared in the entrance. He was bent forward so that his head projected unbecomingly, making him seem to be climbing hills even while standing-.in a doorway.

"That's Otis, the Clairborne butler," Mrs. Penny said quickly. "He's been with the Clairbornes for over fifty years."

"Looks like he's been here more like a hundred years," Gisselle quipped.

We got out, and Buck moved around quickly to take out Gisselle's chair. She waited in happy anticipation as he came around to lift her out of the car and place her gently into the chair. Fortunately there were only a few steps up to the portico, something Buck was able to navigate easily. After he had delivered Gisselle in her chair to the front door, he returned to our car.

"Why can't Buck come inside too?" Gisselle asked.

"Oh no, dear," Mrs. Penny said, shaking her head and smiling as if Gisselle had suggested the funniest thing. "This tea is only for new girls today. Mrs. Clairborne sees you in small groups all month."

"Mr. Mud," Gisselle muttered at me. "You'd better tell me how you know him."

I pretended not to hear her as I pushed her chair through the entryway. Otis nodded and greeted Mrs. Penny. Once inside, Mrs. Penny reduced her voice to a whisper as if we had walked into a church or famous museum.

"All of the rooms are furnished with French antiques, and as you will see, all have deep purple divans with scrolled walnut frames."

The marble floors were waxed like glass. In fact, everything from the antique tables and chairs to the statues and walls shone. If there was any dust in here it was hidden under the rugs, I thought, but I noticed that whoever was responsible for the winding of the hickory grandfather clock just inside the entrance hadn't done so, and it was stopped at five after two.

The spacious and airy rooms on the first floor all opened to the central hallway. Mrs. Penny explained that the kitchen was in the rear of the house. About halfway in was the gracefully curved stairway, with its polished mahogany balustrade and marble steps. Above us in the hallway, grand chandeliers were lit and sparkled like drops of ice. In fact, despite its tapestries, its paintings, its great drapes and velvet furniture, there was something cold about the mansion. Even though the Clairbornes had lived here for a long time it lacked the warmth and personality that a family usually imparted to a home. Why, it felt like a cold museum. The pieces looked like things amassed, collected for their value only, and the immaculate condition and appearance of everything around us gave me the impression that these were unused things, things only for show, a home on display, but not a home in which people really loved and lived.

We were brought to a sitting room on the right, where we found a velvet sofa and a matching settee arranged to face a high-backed deep blue velvet chair embroidered with gold, its dark walnut arms and legs scrolled with hand-carved designs. It looked like a throne set atop a large Persian rug. The remainder of the floor was uncovered blond hardwood.

Between the chair and the settees and sofas was a long matching walnut table.

After Abby and I took our places on the settee and Gisselle was wheeled in beside us, I had a chance to gaze around at the scenic wallpaper and the framed oil paintings of various scenes on the sugar plantation. On the mantel was another stopped clock with its hands pointing to five after two. Above that was a portrait painting of a distinguished-looking man who had been captured slightly turned and peering down, giving the impression he was someone royal.

Suddenly we heard the definite tap, tap, tapping of a cane on the marble hallway floor. Mrs. Penny, who had been standing near the doorway, remembered something and hurried back to us.

"I forgot to tell you, girls. When Mrs. Clairborne enters, please stand," she said.

"And how am I supposed to do that?" Gisselle snapped.

"Oh, you're excused, of course, dear," she said. Before Gisselle could say anything else, all eyes turned toward the doorway for Mrs. Clairborne's entrance, and then Abby and I rose.

She paused in the doorway, as if waiting to have her picture taken, and gazed over us, moving slowly from Abby to me and then to Gisselle. Mrs. Clairborne looked taller and stouter than she did in any of the portraits around the school. Also, none of the portraits depicted her with the bluing in her gray hair that now looked thinner and shorter, barely reaching the middle of her ears in length. She wore a dark blue silk dress with a wide collar, buttoned to the base of her throat. Hanging on a silver chain was a pocket watch encased in silver, the small hands frozen at five after two.

I wondered if either Abby or Gisselle had noticed the odd thing about the clocks.

I lifted my gaze to the large teardrop diamond earrings that dripped from her lobes. Her dress had sleeves with frilly lace cuffs that reached the base of her palms. Over her left wrist she wore a diamond and gold bracelet. The long, bony fingers of both her hands were filled with precious-jewel rings, some set in platinum, some in gold and others in silver.

Even in her pictures, Mrs. Clairborne had a narrow face that seemed out of place on her portly body; only in person, it seemed even more so. Because of the way her long, thin nose protruded, her dark eyes seemed to be set even more deeply than they were. She had a wide, thin mouth, so thin that when her lips were pressed together, it looked like a pencil line drawn from inside one cheek to the inside of the other. Her complexion, unaided by any cosmetic touch whatsoever, was pasty white, spotted with brown aging marks on her forehead and cheeks.

I quickly decided that the artists who had done her portraits had used their imaginations almost as much as they had used her as a model.

She stepped forward and leaned on her cane.

"Welcome, girls," she said. "Please, be seated."

Abby and I quickly did so, and Mrs. Clairborne walked directly to her chair, tapping her cane after each step as if to confirm it. She nodded at Mrs. Penny, who sat on the other settee, and then Mrs. Clairborne sat down and hooked her cane over the right arm of the chair before gazing at Gisselle for a moment and then looking at Abby and me.

"I like to have a personal relationship with each of my Greenwood girls," she began. "Our school is special in that we do not, as most public schools are prone to do, treat the students as if they were numbers, statistics. And so, I would like each of you," she said, "to introduce yourself to me and tell me a little about yourself. And then I will tell you why I decided a long time ago to ensure that Greenwood continues, and what I hope will be accomplished there now and in the years to follow." She had a firm, hard voice, as deep as a man's at times. "Afterward," she continued, "tea will be served."

She finally softened her expression, even though it was more of a grimace to me than a true warm smile.

"Who would like to begin?" she asked. No one spoke up. Then she fixed her gaze on me. "Well, since we're all so shy, why don't we start with the twins, just so we won't make any mistakes as to who is who."

"I'm the crippled one," Gisselle declared with a smirk. There was an unheard gasp, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Mrs. Clairborne turned to her slowly.

"I hope only physically," she said.

Gisselle's face filled with blood and her mouth fell open. When I looked at Mrs. Penny, I saw she wore an expression of satisfaction. Mrs. Clairborne was heroic in her eyes, and she couldn't be put off balance. I imagined girls a lot smarter than Gisselle had tried and found themselves just as she found herself right now: eating her own words.

"I'm Ruby Dumas and this is my sister, Gisselle." I started quickly so I could fill the embarrassing silence. "We're seventeen years old and we're from New Orleans. We live in what is known as the Garden District. Our father is an investor in real estate."

Mrs. Clairborne's eyes grew small. She nodded slowly, but she studied me so intently I felt I was sitting on a mound of swamp mud and slowly sinking.

"I'm quite familiar with the Garden District, a most beautiful area of the city. There was a time," she said a bit wistfully, "when I used to go to New Orleans quite often." She sighed and then turned to Abby, who described where she and her family now lived and her father's work as an accountant.

"You have no brothers or sisters then?"

"No, madame."

"I see." She sighed again, deeply. "Are you all comfortable in your rooms?"

"They're small," Gisselle complained.

"You don't find them cozy?"

"No, just small," Gisselle insisted.

"Perhaps that's because of your unfortunate condition. I'm sure Mrs. Penny will do everything she can to make you as comfortable as can be while you are attending Greenwood," Mrs. Clairborne said, gazing at Mrs. Penny, who nodded.

"And I'm sure you will find Greenwood a wonderful place in which to be educated. I always say our students come here as little girls and leave as young women, not only highly educated, but morally strengthened.

"I feel," she continued, her face thoughtful, still, "that Greenwood is one of the last bastions of the moral fiber that once made the South the true capital of gentility and grace. Here you girls will get a sense of your tradition, your heritage. In other places, especially in the Northeast and the West, radicals are invading every aspect of our culture, thinning it out, diluting what was once pure cream and turning it into skim milk."

She sighed.

"There is so much immorality and such a lack of respect for what was once sacred in our lives. That comes only when we forget who and what we are, from where we have evolved. Do you all understand?"

None of us spoke. Gisselle looked overwhelmed. I gazed at Abby, who returned my glance quickly with a knowing look.

"Oh well, enough of this deep, philosophical chatter," Mrs. Clairborne said and then nodded toward the doorway, where two maids stood, waiting for the signal to bring in the tea, cakes, and pralines. The conversation became lighter. Gisselle, after a little urging, told the story of her accident, putting the blame entirely on faulty brakes. I described my love of art, and Mrs. Clairborne suggested I look over some of the paintings in the hallways. Abby was the, most reticent to talk about herself, of course, something I saw that Mrs. Clairborne noticed but didn't pursue.

About midway through our tea, I asked to be excused to go to the bathroom, and Otis directed me to the closest one, which was on the west side of the house. As I was coming out, I heard piano music coming from a room farther down the corridor. It was so beautiful I was drawn toward it, and I looked through, a doorway that opened to a beautiful sitting room, behind which was a patio that opened to the gardens. But to the right of the patio door was a grand piano, the top up so that at first I couldn't see much of the young man who was playing. I took a step in and to the right to see more, and I listened.

Dressed in a white cotton shirt with a buttoned-down collar and dark blue slacks was a slim young man with dark brown hair, the strands thin and loose so that they fell over the sides of his head and over his forehead, settling over his eyes. But he didn't seem to mind—or to notice anything, for that matter. He was so lost in his music, his fingers floating over the keys as if his hands were independent creatures and he was just as much an observer and listener as I was.

Suddenly he stopped playing and spun around on the stool to turn toward me. However, his eyes shifted to my right, as if he were looking not at me but at someone behind me. I had to turn around myself to be sure I hadn't been followed.

"Who's there?" he asked, and I realized he was blind.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you."

"Who's there?" he demanded.

"My name's Ruby. I'm here for Mrs. Clairborne's tea."

"Oh. One of the greenies," he said disdainfully, the corners of his mouth dipping. Otherwise he had a strong, sensuous mouth, with a perfectly straight nose and a smooth forehead that barely wrinkled even when he smirked.

"I'm not one of the `greenies," I retorted. "I'm Ruby Dumas, a new student."

He laughed, folding his arms across his narrow torso, and sat back.

"I see. You're an individual."

"That's right."

"Well, my grandmother and my cousin Margaret, whom you know as Mrs. Ironwood, will see to it that you lose that independent spirit soon enough and become a proper daughter of the South, stepping only where you should step, saying only what you should say—and saying it properly—and," he added with a laugh, "thinking only what you should think."

"No one will tell me what to say and think," I replied defiantly. He didn't laugh this time, but he held his smile for a moment and then grew serious.

"There's a different sound in your voice, an accent I detect. Where are you from?"

"New Orleans," I said, but he shook his head.

"No, before that. Come on, I can hear things more clearly, more distinctly. Those consonants . . . Let me think . . . You're from the bayou, aren't you?"

I gasped at his accurate ears. He put up his hand. "Wait . . . I'm an expert on regional intonations.″

"I'm from Houma," I confessed.

He nodded. "A Cajun. Does my grandmother know your true background?"

"She might. Mrs. Ironwood knows."

"And she permitted you to enroll?" he asked with sincere surprise.

"Yes. Why wouldn't she?"

"This is a school for pure bloods. Usually, if you're not a Creole from one of the finest Creole families . . ."

"But I am that too," I said.

"Oh? Interesting. Ruby Dumas, huh?"

"Yes. And who are you?" He was hesitant. "You play beautifully," I said quickly.

"Thank you, but I don't play. I cry, I scream, I laugh through my fingers. The music just happens to be my words, the notes my letters." He shook his head. "Only another musician, a poet or an artist, would understand."

"I understand. I'm an artist," I said.

"Oh?"

"Yes. I have even sold some paintings through a gallery in the French Quarter," I added, finding myself bragging. It was not like me, but something about this young man's condescending, skeptical manner put a steel rod in my spine and hoisted my flag of pride. I might not be blueblood enough for the eyes of Mrs. Clairborne and her grandson, but I was Catherine Landry's granddaughter, I thought.

"Have you?" He smiled, showing a mouthful of teeth almost as white as his piano keys. "What do you paint?"

"Most of my paintings are scenes I did when I lived in the bayou."

He nodded and grew more pensive-looking.

"You ought to paint the lake at twilight," he said softly. "It used to be my favorite place . . . when the dying sun changes the colors of the hyacinths, shimmering from lavender to dark purple." He spoke about colors as if they were long lost, dead friends.

"You weren't always blind, then?"

"No," he said sadly. After a moment, he turned back to his piano. "You had better get back to my grandmother's tea before you're missed."

"You never told me your name," I said.

"Louis," he replied and immediately started to play again, only harder, angrier. I watched him for a moment and then I returned to the tea, feeling very melancholy. Abby noticed immediately, but before she could ask me about it, Mrs. Clairborne announced that our tea had come to an end.

"I'm happy you girls could come to see me," she declared and then stood up. Leaning on her cane, she continued. "I'm sorry you have to be going, but I know you young women have things to do. I will ask you all up here again soon, I'm sure. In the meantime, work hard and remember to distinguish yourselves by being proper Greenwood girls." She started out, clicking her cane over the marble, that stopped watch dangling on the chain around her neck like a small but hefty burden she was sentenced to carry the rest of her life.

"Come along, girls," Mrs. Penny said. She looked very pleased. "It was a nice afternoon, wasn't it?"

"I nearly got a heart attack from the excitement," Gisselle said, but she looked at me suspiciously, curious about where I had been and why my mood had changed too. I wheeled her out, and Buck came hurrying up the steps to help get her over the portico. Once again he lifted her gently out of the chair, only this time she deliberately saw to it that her lips grazed his cheeks. He shifted a quick gaze at Abby and me, and especially at Mrs. Penny, to see if we'd seen what Gisselle had done. Both of us pretended we hadn't, and Mrs. Penny was too oblivious to have noticed. He looked relieved.

Once we were all inside the car, Abby asked me where I had been so long.

"I met a very interesting but very sad young man," I said. Mrs. Penny gasped. "You went into the west side of the house?"

"Yes, why?"

"I never let the girls go there. Oh dear, if Mrs. Clairborne finds out. I forgot to tell you not to venture off like that."

"Why aren't we permitted to go into the west wing?" Abby asked.

"That's the most private area, where she and her grandson really reside," Mrs. Penny replied.

"Grandson?" Gisselle looked at me. "Is that who you met?"

"Yes."

"How old is he? What does he look like? What's his name?" she followed quickly. "Why wasn't he invited to the tea? At least that would have made it more interesting. Unless he was as ugly as she was."

"He told me his name was Louis. He's blind, but he wasn't always that way. What happened to him, Mrs. Penny?"

"Oh dear," she said instead of replying. "Oh dear, dear."

"Oh stop and just tell us what happened," Gisselle commanded.

"He became blind after his parents died," she said quickly. "He's not only blind but he suffers from melancholia. He usually doesn't speak to anyone. He has been that way ever since the deaths of his parents. He was only fourteen years old at the time. A great tragedy."

"Was Mrs. Clairborne's daughter Louis's mother?" Gisselle asked.

"Yes," Mrs. Penny replied quickly.

"What's melancholia?" she followed. Mrs. Penny didn't respond. "A disease or what?"

"It's a deep mental depression, a sadness that takes over your body. People can actually pine away," Abby said softly.

Gisselle stared at her a moment. "You mean . . die of heartbreak?"

"Yes."

"That's so stupid. Does this boy ever come out?" Gisselle asked Mrs. Penny.

"He's not a boy, dear. He's about thirty now. But to answer your question, he doesn't come out much, no. Mrs. Clairborne sees to his needs and insists he not be disturbed. But please, please," she begged, "let us not dwell on this anymore. Mrs. Clairborne doesn't like it discussed."

"Maybe she's why he's so sad," Gisselle offered. "Having to live with her." Mrs. Penny gasped.

"Stop it, Gisselle," I said. "Don't tease her."

"I'm not teasing her," she insisted, but I saw the tiny smile sitting comfortably in the corners of her mouth. "Did he tell you how his parents died?" she asked me.

"No. I didn't know they had. We didn't speak very long." Gisselle directed herself at Mrs. Penny again.

"How did his parents die?" she pursued. When Mrs. Penny didn't reply, she demanded an answer. "Can't you tell us how they died?"

"It's not a fit subject for us to discuss," Mrs. Penny snapped, her face firm. It was the first time we had seen her so adamant. It was clear the answer wasn't coming from her lips.

"Well, why did you start telling us the story then?" Gisselle said. "It's not fair to start something and not finish."

"I didn't start anything. You insisted on knowing why he was blind. Oh dear. This is the first time any of my girls have wandered into the west wing."

"He didn't seem to mind all that much, Mrs. Penny," I said.

"That's remarkable," she said. "He's never spoken to any of the Greenwood girls before."

"He plays the piano beautifully."

"Whatever you do, don't gossip about him with the other girls, please. Please," she added.

"I don't gossip, Mrs. Penny. I wouldn't do anything to get you in trouble."

"Good. Let's not talk about it anymore. Please. Did you all enjoy the little cakes?"

"Oh, damn," Gisselle said. "I forgot to take some for Chubs." She stared at me a moment, and then she looked at Abby and nodded. "I want to speak to you two as soon as we're alone," she ordered. Then she fixed her gaze on Buck all the way back to the dorm.

Once Mrs. Penny had left us inside, Gisselle spun around in her chair and demanded to know how we knew Buck. I explained about our walk to the boathouse that first night.

"He lives there?"

"Apparently."

"And that's all? That was the only time you saw him?" she asked, obviously disappointed.

"And once mowing the lawn," I said.

She thought a moment. "He's cute, but he's just an employee here. Still," she said thoughtfully, "he's the only game in town right now."

"Gisselle. You stay away from him and don't get him in any trouble."

"Yes, darling sister. Now you tell us about this blind grandson and what really went on between you two or I'll be the one who spreads the gossip and gets Mrs. Penny in trouble," she threatened.

I sighed and shook my head.

"You're impossible, Gisselle. I told you everything. I heard the music, looked into the room, and spoke to him for a few minutes. That was all."

"Did he tell you how his parents died?"

"No."

"Well, what do you think happened?" she asked.

"I don't know, but it must have been something horrible." Abby agreed.

"Well now," Gisselle said, smiling from ear to ear, "at least we have something to find out and something to hold over Mrs. Penny if she ever so much as threatens us with a demerit."

"Stop it, Gisselle. And don't start anything with your fan club either," I said, but I might as well have been talking to myself. The moment the other girls set eyes on us, Gisselle was ready to tell all, from Buck to Mrs. Clairborne's grandson.

Alone back in our room, after we had taken off our nice clothes and put on jeans and sweatshirts, I did tell Abby more about Louis. We lay on our stomachs, side by side on my bed.

"He doesn't think much of Greenwood girls," I explained. "He thinks Mrs. Ironwood and his grandmother turn us all into puppets."

"He might not be too far off thinking that. You heard Mrs. Clairborne's speech about the traditions we must uphold and how we must behave."

"Did you notice that all the clocks were stopped, even the watch around her neck?"

"No," Abby said. "Were they?"

"All at the same hour and minute: at five after two."

"How strange."

"I was going to ask Mrs. Penny about it, but when she became so agitated over my side trip and my meeting Louis, I decided not to add anymore pepper to the gumbo."

Abby laughed.

"What?"

"Every once in a while your Cajun background sneaks back," she said.

"I know. Louis could detect my accent and knew I was from the bayou. He was surprised I was permitted to enroll, considering I wasn't a true blueblood."

"What do you suppose would happen to me if they found out the truth about my past?" Abby said.

"And what truth is that?" Gisselle demanded.

We both spun around and gasped at the sight of her in our doorway. We were so engrossed in our conversation that we hadn't heard her open the door—or else, knowing her, she had opened it softly just so she could spy on us. She wheeled herself into the room, and I sat up in my bed.

"Having a heart to heart, girls?" she teased.

"You should knock before coming in here, Gisselle. You want your privacy, I'm sure."

"I thought you'd be happy to have me come by. I happen to have found out the story of poor Louis," she said, smiling her Cheshire cat smile. Actually, she reminded me more of the sort of muskrat Grandpère Jack trapped.

"And how did you do that?"

"Jacki knew. Seems it isn't all as big a secret as Mrs. Penny pretended. There are skeletons in Mrs. Clairborne's closets," she sang gleefully.

"What sort of skeletons?" Abby asked.

"What's your secret first?"

"Secret?"

"The thing you don't want Mrs. Ironwood to discover about you. Come on, I heard what you said."

"It's nothing," Abby said, her face turning crimson.

"If it's nothing, tell it. Tell it or I'll . . I'll make up something."

"Gisselle!"

"Well, it's a fair trade. I'll tell you what I learned, but you've got to tell me something too. I just knew you'd share secrets with her and not with your own twin sister. You probably told her things about us too."

"I did not." I looked at Abby, whose face was drooping with sadness, both for me and for herself. "All right, we'll tell," I said. Abby's eyes widened. "Gisselle can keep a secret. Can't you?"

"Of course. I know more secrets than you'll ever know, especially about the kids back in our old school, even secrets about Beau," she added happily.

I thought a moment and then blurted something I knew Gisselle would accept.

"Abby was suspended once for being caught with a boy in the basement of one of her previous schools," I said. Abby's surprise worked perfectly, because it looked like I had betrayed her. Gisselle gazed from her to me skeptically for a moment and then laughed.

"Big deal," she said. "Unless," she added, "you were naked when you were caught. Were you?"

Abby looked to me for a moment and then shook her head. "No, not completely."

"Not completely? How much then? Did you take off your blouse?" Abby nodded. "Your bra?" Abby nodded again. Gisselle looked impressed. "What else?"

"That's all," Abby said quickly.

"Well, well, little Miss Goody Goody isn't so pure after all."

"Gisselle, remember, you promised."

"Oh, who cares? That's not enough to interest anyone anyway," she said. She thought a moment and then smiled. "Now I suppose you want me to tell you why Louis is blind and what happened to his parents."

"You said you would," I replied.

She hesitated, enjoying her hold over us. "Maybe later, if I feel like it," she said and spun herself around in her chair and wheeled herself out of our room.

"Gisselle!" Abby cried.

"Oh, let her go, Abby," I said. "She'll just tease us and tease us."

But I couldn't help wondering myself what it was that had turned that handsome young man into a blind, melancholy soul, revealing his feelings and thoughts only through his fingers on the keys of a piano.