Pearl in the Mist

6

A Surprising Invitation

Despite my having enough curiosity to fill the eyes of a dozen cats, I didn't give Gisselle the satisfaction of pleading with her to tell us what she had found out, and I certainly didn't go to Jacki. But as it turned out, I didn't have to beg anyone in Gisselle's fan club.

Right after breakfast the next morning, I was called to the telephone to speak to my art teacher, Miss Stevens.

"I was on my way out today to do some work and thought of you," she said. "I know this place just of the highway where we can get a wonderful view of the river. Would you like to come along?"

"Oh yes, I would."

"Fine. It's a bit overcast, but the weatherman guarantees us it will clear up shortly and warm up another ten degrees. I'm just wearing a sweatshirt and jeans," she said.

"So am I."

"Then you're ready. I’ll be by in ten minutes to pick you up. Don't worry about supplies: I have everything we'll need in the car."

"Thank you."

I was so excited by the prospect of drawing and painting scenes in nature again that I nearly bowled Vicki over in the corridor. She had her arms filled with books she had just taken out of the library.

"Where are you going so fast?" she asked.

"Painting . . . with my teacher . . . sorry."

I hurried into our room and told Abby, who was curled up on her bed reading her social studies assignment.

"That's great," she said. I started to change from loafers to a pair of sneakers. "You know, I never noticed that string around your ankle," Abby remarked. "What is it?"

"A dime," I replied, and I told her why Nina had given it to me. "I know you think it seems silly, but . . ."

"No," she said, her face dark, "I don't. My father secretly practices voodoo. Remember, my grandmother was Haitian. I know some rituals and . . ." she said, getting up and going to the closet, "I have this." She plucked a garment out of her suitcase and unfolded it before me. It was a dark blue skirt. I thought there was nothing remarkable about it at first, and then she moved the skirt through her fingers until I saw the tiny nest woven with horsehair and pierced with two crossed roots sewn into the hem.

"What's that?" I asked.

"It's for warding off evil. I'm saving this for a special occasion. I'll wear it when I fear I am in some sort of danger," she told me.

"I never saw that before, and I thought Nina had shown me just about everything in voodoo."

"Oh no," Abby said, laughing. "A moma can invent something new any time." She laughed. "I was hiding this from you because I didn't want you to think me strange, and here you are, wearing a dime on your ankle for good gris-gris." We laughed and hugged just as Samantha, Jacki, and Kate came wheeling Gisselle past our doorway.

"Look at them!" my twin cried, pointing. "See what happens when you don't have boys at your school."

Their laughter brought blood to both our faces.

"Your sister," Abby fumed. "One of these days I'm going to push her and that wheelchair over a cliff."

"You'll have to get in line," I told her, and we laughed again. Then I hurried out to wait for Miss Stevens.

She drove up a few minutes later in a brown jeep with the cloth top down, and I hopped in.

"I'm so glad you can come," she said.

"I'm glad you asked me."

She had her hair in a ponytail and the sleeves of her sweatshirt pushed up to her elbows. The sweatshirt looked like a veteran of many hours of painting, because it was streaked and spotted with just about every color of paint. In her beat-up jeans and sneakers, she looked hardly more than a year or two older than me.

"How do you like living at the Louella Clairborne House? Mrs. Penny is sweet, isn't she?"

"Yes. She's always jolly." After a moment I said, "I switched roommates."

"Oh?"

"I was rooming with my twin sister, Gisselle."

"You don't get along?" she asked, and then she smiled. "If you think I'm getting too personal . . ."

"Oh no," I said, and I meant it. I remembered Grandmère Catherine used to tell me your first impressions about people usually prove to be the truest because your heart is the first to react. Right from the beginning I felt comfortable with Miss Stevens, and I believed I could trust her, if for no other reason than the fact that we shared a love of art.

"No, I don't get along with her," I admitted. "And not because I don't want to or I don't try. Maybe if we had been brought up together, things would be different."

"If?" Miss Stevens's smile melted with confusion.

"We've only known each other a little more than a year," I began, and I told her my story. I was still talking by the time we arrived at the place that overlooked the river. She hadn't said a word the whole time; she just listened quietly.

"And so I agreed to come to Greenwood with Gisselle," I concluded.

"Remarkable," she said. "And I used to think my life was complicated because I was brought up by nuns at an orphanage, St. Mary's in Biloxi."

"Oh? What happened to your parents?"

"I never really knew. All the nuns would tell me was that my mother gave me over to them shortly after I was born. I tried to find out more about myself, but they were very strict about keeping confidences."

I helped her set up our easels and put out paper and drawing utensils. The sky had begun to clear, just as the weatherman had promised, and the thick layers of clouds separated to reveal a light blue sky behind them. Here at the river, the breeze was stronger. Behind us the branches of some red oak and hickory trees shuddered and swayed, sending a flock of chirping sparrows off over the riverbank and then into a quieter section of cottonwoods.

An oil barge and a freighter moved rapidly downriver, while off in the distance, a replicated steamboat carrying frolicking tourists churned its way lazily toward St. Francisville.

"Do you think you'll ever find out about your parents?" I asked.

"I don't know. I've sort of accepted that I won't?' She smiled. "It's all right. I have an extended family: all the other orphans I knew, some of the nuns." She gazed around. "It's pretty here, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"What catches your eye?"

I studied the river, the boats, and the shore. Downstream I saw the spiraling smoke from the oil refinery stacks get caught in the wind and disappear against the clouds, but it was a pair of brown pelicans bobbing on the water that held my attention. I told her, and she laughed.

"You're like me. You like to put some animal in your settings. Well, let's begin. Let's work on perspective and see if we can capture the feel of movement in the water."

We started to draw, but our conversation didn't stop as we worked.

"How was your tea with Mrs. Clairborne?" she inquired. I described it and how impressed I was with the house. Then I told her about Louis.

"You actually spoke to him?" she asked, pausing.

"Yes."

"I've heard a great deal about Mrs. Clairborne and her grandson from the other teachers, but there are teachers who have been here for years and never set eyes on him. What's he look like?"

I described him and his beautiful piano playing.

"After I told him I was an artist, he suggested I go down to the lake at twilight and try to paint that scene. He wasn't always blind, and he remembers it vividly," I told her.

"Yes. What a tragic story."

"I don't know it."

"You don't? Yes, I understand why. It is one of the unspoken tales, one of those secrets everyone knows but pretends not to," she said. "It has been made clear to me by the old-timers here on more than one occasion not to be caught gossiping about the Clairbornes."

I nodded.

"But I can tell you the story," she said with a smile. "Even if it does seem like gossip. We're simpatico artists and we're permitted little indiscretions." She grew serious for a moment as she focused on the river. Then she began. "It seems Mrs. Clairborne's daughter, Louis's mother, was having an affair with a younger man." She paused and swung her eyes to me. "A much younger man. Eventually her husband discovered it and was so emotionally wounded and embarrassed, he committed what is known as a murder-suicide. He smothered his wife to death a la Othello, using a pillow in their bedroom, and then he shot himself in the head. Poor Louis somehow witnessed it all, and the traumatic effect put him into a coma, from which he eventually emerged blind.

"From what I've been told, there was a major effort to cover it all up, but the story leaked out over time. To this day, Mrs. Clairborne refuses to accept the actual facts, choosing instead to believe her daughter died of heart failure and her son-in-law, unable to accept her death, took his own life." She paused and then widened her eyes when she looked at me.

"After orientation for the new members of the faculty, we were all invited to a tea at the Clairborne mansion. When you were there, did you notice anything unusual about the clocks in the house?"

"Yes. They're all stopped at two-oh-five."

"That's when Mrs. Clairborne's daughter supposedly died. When I asked one of the older teachers about it, he told me Mrs. Clairborne thinks of time as having stopped for her and makes it appear symbolically that way in her home. It's really a very sad story."

"Then there is nothing physically wrong with Louis, nothing wrong with his eyes?"

"From what I've been told, no. He rarely emerges from that dark section of the mansion. Over the years he's been treated and tutored there, and as far as I know, there have been only a handful of people with whom he has carried on any sort of conversation. You made history," she said, and smiled warmly. "But after knowing you only a short time, it's not hard for me to understand why someone reluctant to talk would talk to you."

"Thank you," I said, blushing.

"All of us have trouble communicating with each other. I know I do. I'd rather communicate through my artwork. I'm especially bashful when it comes to men," she confessed. "Maybe because of how I was brought up." She laughed. "I suppose that's why I feel so comfortable at Greenwood, why I wanted to teach at an all-girls school."

She smiled at me again.

"There. We've traded secrets about ourselves, just like sisters in art should. Actually," she continued, "I've always longed for a sister, someone in whom I could confide and someone who would confide in me. Your twin sister doesn't know what she's missing, treating you the way she does. I envy her."

"Gisselle would never believe anyone envied her. She doesn't want envy anyway; she wants pity."

"Poor dear. A severe handicap after being so active would be devastating. I suppose you'll just have to put up with her. But if there is ever anything I can do to help . . ."

"Thank you, Miss Stevens."

"Oh please, Ruby. Call me Rachel when we're not in class.

I really would like to feel we're more friends than simply a teacher and her student. Okay?"

"Okay," I said, surprised but not displeased.

"Oh, look: We've been talking so long we've hardly done anything. Come on. Let's shut our mouths and put our fingers to work," she said. Her soft, happy laughter caught the attention of the pelicans, who looked up at us with what seemed to me to be expressions of annoyance. After all, they were here to fish so they could eat.

"Animals know when you sincerely respect them," Grandmère Catherine once told me. "Too bad people don't."

We worked for about two and a half hours, after which Miss Stevens thought we should go for lunch. She took me to a small restaurant just outside the city. Even before we entered, we could smell the delicious aromas of the crab-boil, sautéed shrimp, and salami, fried oysters, sliced tomatoes, and onions that went into a po'boy sandwich. We had a wonderful time talking, comparing the things we liked and disliked about styles and fashions, food and books. I did feel as if I were with an older sister.

It was midafternoon by the time she brought me back to the dorm. She kept my work, promising to bring it to the art studio for me to complete in school.

"This was fun," she said. "We'll do it again if you want to."

"Oh yes, but I can't let you pay for my lunch all the time." She laughed.

"I have to, otherwise it might be construed a bribe," she teased.

I said goodbye and ran into the dorm, where I found Mrs. Penny wringing her hands and waiting for me. Her hair was unraveled, and she was biting her lip.

"Oh, thank goodness you've returned! Thank goodness."

"What's wrong, Mrs. Penny?" I asked quickly.

She took a deep breath, pressing her right palm to her heart, and sat down on the sofa.

"Mrs. Clairborne called. She called herself. I spoke to her." Mrs. Penny gasped as if she had received a call from the president of the United States. "She asked to speak to you, so I went looking for you, and your roommate, Abby, told me you had gone to someplace on the river to paint with your art teacher. She should know better; she should know better."

"What do you mean, know better?" I asked, smiling inquisitively. "Better about what?"

"On the weekends especially, if you're going to leave the grounds, you have to have permission. I have to have something on record."

"But we just went down to the river to paint," I explained.

"It doesn't matter. She should know better. I had to tell Mrs. Clairborne you weren't here. She was very disappointed."

"What did she want?"

"Something remarkable has happened," Mrs. Penny said, leaning over and whispering loudly. She looked around to be sure none of the other girls were in earshot.

"Remarkable?"

"Her grandson . . . Louis . . . he asked that you be invited to dinner at the mansion . . . tonight!"

"Oh," I said, surprised.

"None of the girls at Greenwood have ever been asked to dinner at the Clairborne mansion," Mrs. Penny said. I just stared at her. My lack of elation shocked her. "Don't you understand? Mrs. Clairborne called to invite you to dinner. You'll be picked up at six-twenty. Dinner is at six-thirty sharp."

"You told her I would go?"

"Of course. How could you think of not going?" she asked. She studied me a moment, her face trembling. "You will go, won't you?"

"I feel a bit nervous about it," I confessed.

"Oh, that's only natural, dear," she said, relieved. "What an honor. And one of my girls too!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. Her smile evaporated quickly. "But I must chastise your art teacher. She should have known better."

"No, you must not, Mrs. Penny. If you do, I won't go to Mrs. Clairborne's," I threatened.

"What?"

"I'll tell her about the rule and I'll see to it that my father provides the necessary permission slip, but I don't want Miss Stevens to get into trouble because of me," I said firmly.

"Well . . . I . . . if Mrs. Ironwood should find out."

"She won't."

"Well . . . you just make sure you tell your teacher and get that permission slip," she said. She paused and returned a happy smile to her face. "Now go find something pretty to wear. I'll see to it that the car is here at six-twenty. Congratulations, dear. One of my girls . . . my girls," she muttered as she hurried off.

I took a deep breath. I couldn't help myself from trembling. How silly, I thought. It was just a dinner. It was not like I was being tested or auditioned for anything.

But now that I knew the dark history of the Clairbornes and why Louis was the way he was, I couldn't help swallowing back lumps. Why had I followed the sound of that sweet, sad music and wandered into that room?

Of course, it would have been impossible to keep my invitation a secret, even if I had wanted to. Mrs. Penny was determined to brag about it, and in no time all the girls at the dorm had heard about Mrs. Clairborne's call. Gisselle was annoyed because she thought I had known about it since the tea and kept it from her.

"I have to find out about my sister from strangers," she chided after she had wheeled herself through our doorway. As usual, Samantha was at her side, ready to do her beck and call.

"I just returned from painting all day at the river with Miss Stevens, so I just found out myself, Gisselle."

"Painting all day with Miss Stevens. Peachy."

She gazed at the dresses I had laid out on my bed for Abby and I to consider.

"It looks like you've been planning. You must have known about this."

"I haven't. I just this moment took out my clothes, right, Abby?"

"Yes," she said, eyeing Gisselle, who still fumed. "Well, why did she ask only you?" she demanded. "I don't know," I said.

"It's because her grandson wants you there, right?" Gisselle followed quickly. Sometimes there was no hiding things from her. Her mind wandered through the labyrinths of deceptions and intrigues so often she knew the routes better than a professional spy.

"I guess," I said.

"He can't even see you and he wants you to come back? What did you two do?"

"Gisselle!" I looked from Abby to Samantha and back to my sister. "We didn't do anything. I spoke to him for a few minutes, listened to him play, and left. I'm very nervous about this as it is, so please don't make it any harder. The truth is, I don't even want to go, but Mrs. Penny's made it seem like the event of the century."

"I like the light blue dress," Abby said. "It's elegant but not too formal."

"Oh, it's just perfect for a little dinner with a blind boy," Gisselle quipped, glaring at me. "You'll be up there having a feast and we'll be down here eating dorm rot."

"We don't eat rot," Abby flared.

"Obviously, you're used to it," Gisselle retorted. "Wheel me out of here, Samantha. The air is too rich for our poor nostrils."

Abby whitened and was about to sting Gisselle with some retort when I looked at her and shook my head. "Don't get yourself upset, Abby," I advised. "That's all she wants anyway."

"You're right," Abby said, and we returned to choosing my wardrobe.

The blue dress was elegant. It had a sweetheart collar that revealed just an inch or so of cleavage, but we decided that with my locket and gold chain it still looked discreet. Abby loaned me a pair of gold-leaf earrings and a gold charm bracelet. We decided I should brush my hair and pin it up. I smeared on a trace of lipstick, sprayed myself with the jasmine cologne Mrs. Penny lent me, and finally went out to wait for the car. Mrs. Penny looked me over one final time and placed her stamp of approval on my appearance.

"This is historic," she continued. "Mark every detail in your mind to remember. I can't wait to hear about it. I'll be right here waiting for you, okay?"

"Yes, Mrs. Penny," I said.

Abby smiled at me. "Have a good time," she said. "Thanks, but I'm as nervous as a jackrabbit."

"You've got nothing to worry about," Abby said, and winked. "You've still got your good luck gris-gris."

I laughed. I had hidden the dime in my shoe, but it was there.

"The station wagon's here," Mrs. Penny announced. I hurried out. Buck was waiting at the car, holding the door open for me. When he turned, his eyes widened and took on a glint of appreciation, but he said nothing. I got in and he hurried around to the driver's side. Mrs. Penny stood on the steps and waved as we drove off. After we were away, Buck turned around.

"You look very nice," he said.

"Thank you."

"I've been here only three years," he said, "but this is the first time I've taken a Greenwood girl to the mansion for dinner. Are you related to the Clairbornes?"

"No," I said, laughing.

When we arrived at the mansion, he hurried around to open the door for me.

"Thank you," I said.

"Have a good time."

I smiled at him and hurried up the steps. The door opened for me before I reached it and Otis nodded.

"Good evening, mademoiselle," he said, bowing even deeper than usual.

"Good evening."

I entered and he closed the door.

"Right this way, mademoiselle."

He led me down the corridor and off to the right through another hallway that took us deep into the west wing and the dining room. Unlike the other sections of the house, the west wing was somber. The walls had darker paper, the windows darker drapes, and the floors darker carpet. The pictures that were hung depicted the most eerie settings on the river and in the bayou, swamps with ghostly Spanish moss that was caught swaying in the twilight breeze, and the Mississippi at one of its wider points, with the water rust-colored, the boats and ships drifting shadows of themselves. Whatever portraits I saw were portraits of austere ancestors gazing out with looks of disapproval and condemnation.

The long dark oak table was set for three at one end. Two silver candelabra held long, bone-white lit candles, their tiny flames flickering. Above the table the chandelier was only dimly lit. Otis moved to the chair on my right and pulled it out to indicate that was where I was to sit.

"Thank you," I said.

"Madame Clairborne and Monsieur Clairborne will be in shortly," he told me, and then left me sitting there alone in the solemn room. It was deathly quiet for a long moment, and then I heard what was now the familiar tap, tap, tap of Mrs. Clairborne's cane as she came down the corridor outside and finally turned into the dining room.

She wore a black dress with a hem that reached almost to her ankles. The ebony color of her garment made the stopped watch on a chain more prominent as it rested in the valley between her breasts. There were no changes to her hairdo, but she had replaced her diamond earrings with pearl ones and wore a pearl bracelet. Her fingers were still filled with all her rings.

"Good evening," she said, making her way to her chair at the head of the table.

"Good evening." After Otis had pulled her chair out and she sat down, I added, "Thank you for inviting me to dinner."

"I didn't," she said quickly. This close to her, I thought her nose looked sharper. Her pale skin was so thin it was almost transparent. I could see the tiny blue veins in her cheeks and temples, and the hairline above her lip was more conspicuous, darker. She reeked of jasmine, overpowering my own.

"I don't understand," I said.

"My grandson is the one who insisted. As a rule I don't invite the schoolgirls to dinner. There are just too many who deserve it," she said. "I was unaware that you had gone off and met him while you were at tea here."

"I heard him playing the piano when I went to the bathroom and . . ."

"Mrs. Penny should have made it perfectly clear that I—"

"Grandmother, you're not misbehaving now, are you?" we heard, and I spun around to see Louis standing in the doorway. Unlike Mrs. Clairborne, he carried no cane to help him navigate the corridors and rooms, and from what I could see, apparently no one had brought him here.

He looked rather handsome in his dinner jacket, black tie, and slacks, with his hair brushed neatly back.

"I don't misbehave," Mrs. Clairborne muttered. Louis smiled and walked with perfect precision to his place at the table.

"Don't be impressed, Ruby," he explained as he waited for Otis to pull out his chair. "I've been walking the same paths through this house so long I've worn ditches into the floors, and everyone knows not to change a thing in any of the rooms."

"Which is why I don't permit visitors in this section of the house," Mrs. Clairborne said quickly. "If someone moves a chair or shifts a table . . ."

"Now why would anyone, especially Ruby, do that, Grandmother?" Louis asked. Mrs. Clairborne sighed. She nodded at Otis, who began the dinner service by pouring us some bottled water.

"Aren't we going to have any wine tonight?" Louis inquired.

"I don't serve wine to Greenwood girls," Mrs. Clairborne replied firmly.

Louis held his smile. "At least we have our special dinner tonight, don't we, Grandmother?"

"Unfortunately, yes," she said, and turned to me. "Louis insisted also on having a Cajun menu."

"Let me tell her," Louis said eagerly. "We're beginning with a crawfish bisque and then we're having duck gumbo. But for dessert, I ordered orange crème brûlée, a New Orleans favorite."

"Sounds wonderful," I said. Mrs. Clairborne groaned. Then she nodded reluctantly and the meal was begun. During it, Mrs. Clairborne said very little. Louis wanted to hear about my paintings and asked me to describe the ones I had sold from the gallery in the French Quarter. He had never been to the bayou and wanted to hear about life in the swamps. A number of times during our conversation, Mrs. Clairborne clicked her tongue and gave me a look of disapproval, especially when I described Grandmère Catherine and her work as a traiteur.

"I wonder if a traiteur could help me to see again," Louis said aloud. That set Mrs. Clairborne of on a tirade.

"I will not bring these charlatans into this house. The countryside is inundated with fake faith healers and scam artists. Unfortunately, the river has attracted that sort since the colonists arrived. You have the best doctors."

"Who haven't done a thing for me," Louis remarked bitterly.

"They will. We must . . ." She stopped herself.

Louis turned slowly and smiled. "Have faith, Grandmother? Was that what you were about to say?"

"No. Yes. Faith in proven science, in medicine, not in mumbo jumbo. Next thing you know we'll have someone to dinner who believes in voodoo," she said, and I held my breath. There was a moment of silence, and then Louis laughed.

"As you see, my grandmother has definite feelings about everything. It makes things easier," he added sadly. "I don't have to think for myself."

"No one ever said you can't think for yourself, Louis. Didn't I agree to have this young lady to dinner tonight?"

"Yes. Thank you, Grandmother." He turned to me. "Did you enjoy the food?"

"It was delicious."

"It should be. I have the finest cook in Baton Rouge," Mrs. Clairborne said.

"Would you like to hear me play the piano?" Louis asked.

"I'd love to."

"Good. May we be excused now, Grandmother?"

"I have instructed the school driver to be ready to pick her up at nine sharp. The Greenwood girls have their homework and their curfew."

"I've done all my homework," I said quickly.

"Still, you should be returned early to your dorm," Mrs. Clairborne insisted.

"What time is it now, Grandmother?" Louis asked. "What time is it?" he demanded. I held my breath. Would she say, two-oh-five?

"Otis, what is the time?" she asked the butler standing in the doorway.

"It's seven-forty, madame."

"Oh then, we have plenty of time," Louis said. "Shall we go to the music studio." He stood up. I looked at Mrs. Clairborne, who appeared very unhappy, and then stood up too.

"Thank you for a wonderful dinner, Mrs. Clairborne." Her thin lips moved into a grotesque mockery of a smile. "Yes, you're very welcome," she said quickly.

Louis held up his arm, and I walked around the table and threaded mine through his.

"Wearing Grandmother's favorite scent, I see," he said, smiling. "Someone prompted you, huh?"

"Mrs. Penny, our housemother," I confessed. He laughed and led me out of the dining room and to his study. He did move through the house as confidently as one who could see, and when we arrived at the study, he went directly to his piano without the slightest hesitation.

"Sit beside me," he suggested, making room on the stool. After I did so, he began to play something soft and sweet. The melody seemed to flow out of his fingers and then into the piano. His torso swayed gently, his shoulder grazing mine. I watched his face as he played and saw the tiny movements in his lips and eyelids. When the piece came to an end, he kept his fingers on the keys as if the music still continued to flow from him.

"That was beautiful," I said softly.

"My piano teacher . . . ordinarily a stuffed shirt . . . believes my blindness makes my playing sharper. He sounds almost envious at times. He confessed to me that he has taken to blindfolding himself when he is alone and plays. Can you imagine?'

"Yes," I said.

With his fingers still on the keys, his body postured for him to play another piece, he continued to speak instead. "I've never had a girl . . . a young woman . . . beside me before," he confessed. "I've never been this close."

"Why not?"

He laughed. "Why not?" His smile faded. "I don't know. I've been afraid, I suppose."

"Afraid?"

"Of being at a great disadvantage. For Grandmother's sake, more than my own, I pretend I'm all right. Of course, she doesn't see me groping about. I make sure of that. She doesn't hear my moans. I can't remember the last time she's seen me cry. We do a lot of pretending here. I'm sure you've noticed. We pretend everything's all right. We pretend nothing's happened.

"But I'm tired of pretending," he said, turning around. "I want . . . some reality too. Is that wrong?"

"Oh no."

"I heard something in your voice when you first came in here, something honest and true, something that put me at ease, that gave me hope. It was almost as if . . . as if I could see you," he said. "I know you're beautiful."

"Oh no, I'm not. I'm . . . ″

"Yes you are. I can tell from the way Grandmother speaks to you. My mother was beautiful," he added quickly. I held my breath. My heartbeat started to quicken. Was he going to tell me the tragic tale? "Would you mind if I touched your face, your hair?"

"No," I said, and he brought his fingers up to my temples and slowly, gently, traced the lines of my face, running the tips of his fingers over my lips and down to my chin.

"Beautiful," he whispered. The tip of his tongue swept over his lower lip as he continued down my neck and found my collarbone. "Your skin is so soft. Can I go on?"

My throat felt tight. My heart began to pound. I was confused but afraid to deny him. He seemed so desperate.

"Yes," I said. His fingers moved down to the border of my collar and followed it to my cleavage. I saw his breathing quicken. He ran his hands over my breasts, turning and pressing his fingers as if he were a sculptor shaping them. His hands moved down my ribs to my waist and then back up again so that his palms flowed over my breasts.

Then, suddenly, he pulled them away as if he had touched an uncovered electrical wire. He lowered his head.

"It's all right," I said. Instead of replying, he brought his fingers to the keys again and began to play, only this time his music was loud and hard. A line of sweat broke out along his temple. His breathing quickened. He seemed determined to exhaust himself. Finally he concluded, this time slapping his palms over the keys.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have had Grandmother ask you here."

"Why not?"

He turned his head slowly.

"It's a torment, that's why," he said. "I'm nearly thirty-one years old, and you are the first woman I've touched. My grandmother and my cousin have kept me in mothballs," he added bitterly. "If I hadn't thrown a temper tantrum, Grandmother wouldn't have called you today."

"That's terrible. You shouldn't be kept prisoner in your own house."

"Yes, I am a prisoner of sorts, but my prison isn't the house. It's my own thoughts that lock me up!" he cried, bringing his hands to his face. He groaned deeply. I put my hand on his shoulder. He lifted his hands from his face and asked, "You're not afraid of me? I don't disgust you?"

"Oh no."

"You feel sorry for me, is that it?" he asked bitterly.

"Yes, somewhat, but I also appreciate your talent," I added.

He softened his expression and took a deep breath. "I want to see again," he said. "My doctors tell me I'm afraid to see again. You think that's possible?"

"I guess so."

"Have you ever run away from anything you couldn't face?"

"Oh yes," I said.

"Will you tell me about it sometime? Will you return?"

"If you'd like me to, yes."

He smiled. "I made up a melody for you," he said. "Want to hear it?"

"You did? Yes, please."

He started to play. It was a wonderfully flowing piece that, remarkably, made me think of the bayou, of water and of beautiful birds and flowers.

"It's very beautiful," I said when he had finished. "I love it."

"I call it 'Ruby.' I'll have my teacher write out the notes, and the next time you come I'll give you a copy, if you like."

"Yes, thank you."

"I'd like to know more about you . . . especially how you came to be brought up in the Cajun world but ended up living with a well-to-do Creole family in the Garden District."

"It is a long story."

"Good," he said. "I'd like it to be like Scheherazade and the Arabian Nights . . . A story that goes on and on, just so you would be here on and on."

I laughed, and he brought his fingers to my face again and again he traced the lines down to my lips, only this time he held his fingers there longer.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked. "I've never kissed a girl before."

"Yes," I said, not quite sure why I was allowing him such intimacies. He leaned toward me and I guided him with my hands to my lips. It was a short kiss, but it quickened his breath. He dropped his hands to my breasts and leaned in to kiss me again, holding his lips to mine longer as his fingers brushed my breasts as lightly as feathers. He tried to push the material away from more of my breasts and was frustrated.

"Louis, we shouldn't . . . ″

It was as if I had slapped him. He not only pulled back but this time rose from the stool.

"No, we shouldn't. You should go now," he said angrily.

"I didn't mean to . . . ″

"To what?" he cried. "Make me feel like a fool? Well do. I'm standing here aroused, aren't I?" he asked.

One glance told me it was so.

"Louis."

"Just tell my grandmother I got tired," he said. His arms dropped stiffly to his sides and he started away, moving toward the door.

"Louis, wait," I cried, but he didn't stop. He hurried off. Pity for him flooded through me. I followed to the doorway and gazed down the corridor after him. He seemed to be absorbed by the very darkness in which he dwelt and in moments was gone. I listened for his footsteps, but there was only silence. Curious, I walked farther into the west wing of the house, passing another, smaller sitting room and then going around the corner to stop at the first door. I knocked gently.

"Louis?"

I heard no response but tried the handle anyway. The door opened, and I looked in on a beautiful, spacious bedroom with a grand canopy bed, the mosquito netting draped around it. The room had a damp, fecund odor, and I saw that the flowers in the vases were all dead. Two small lamps that looked like antique oil lamps were lit. They were on the night stands and threw just enough illumination to outline what looked like someone lying in the bed, but on closer inspection, I saw it was just a woman's nightgown laid out for someone's use.

I was about to close the door when suddenly, an adjoining door on the right was thrust open and Louis appeared. I wanted to call to him but he groaned deeply and slammed his fists into his eyes, falling to his knees at the same time. The act took away my breath. I stood trembling in the doorway. He wrapped his arms around himself and swayed for a moment, then he clawed at the door jamb and pulled himself into a standing position. Head down, he turned and closed the door. I waited a moment, looked over the bedroom once again, and then stepped back and closed the door softly.

Practically tiptoeing, I made my way back to the center of the house and finally to the sitting room in which we had had our tea. Mrs. Clairborne was in her chair, staring up at the portrait of her husband.

"Excuse me," I said. She turned slowly. I thought I saw tears winding down her pale cheeks. "Louis said he was tired and went to his room."

"Oh. Fine," she said, rising. "Your driver is waiting outside to take you back to your dorm."

"Thank you again for dinner," I said.

Otis appeared at the door as if he'd popped out of thin air and opened it for me.

"Good night, mademoiselle," he said, bowing.

"Good night."

I hurried out and down the steps to the car. Buck hopped out quickly and opened the door.

"Have a good time?" he asked.

I didn't respond. I got in and he closed the door. As we drove off, I looked back at the mansion. Louis and his grandmother were about as rich and as powerful as any family I had known or would know, I thought, but that didn't mean that unhappiness stopped outside their door.

How I wished Grandmère Catherine were still alive. I would bring her up here secretly one night, and she would touch Louis and he would see again and put aside all his sadness. Years later, I would attend a concert in some magnificent hall to listen to him play. Before it was over, he would stand up and announce that the next piece was something he had written for someone special.

"It's called 'Ruby,'" he would say, and then he would begin and I would feel like someone who walked in the spotlights.

Grandmère would say it was all wishful thinking, dreams as thin as soap bubbles. But then she would shake her head sadly and add, "At least you can have dreams. That boy . . . he lives in a house without any dreams at all. He truly lives in darkness."