Ruby

11

Just Like Cinderella

"Who is she?" Gisselle demanded, her eyes quickly moving from wide orbs of amazement to narrow slits of suspicion.

"Anyone can see she's your twin sister," Beau replied. "Her name is Ruby."

Gisselle grimaced and shook her head.

"What sort of a practical joke are you playing now, Beau Andreas?" she demanded. Then she approached me and we stared into each other's faces.

I imagined she was doing what I was doing—searching for the differences; but they were hard to see at first glance. We were identical twins. Our hair was the same shade, our eyes emerald green, our eyebrows exactly the same. Neither of our faces had any tiny scars, nor dimples, nothing that would quickly distinguish one of us from the other. Her cheeks, her chin, her mouth, all were precisely the same shape as mine. Not only did all of our facial features correspond, but we were just about the same height as well. And our bodies had matured and developed as if we had been cast from one mold.

But on second glance, a more scrutinizing second glance, a perceptive inspector would discern differences in our facial expressions and in our demeanor. Gisselle held herself more aloof, more arrogantly. There seemed to be no timidity in her. She had inherited Grandmère Catherine's steel spine, I thought. Her gaze was unflinching and she had a way of tucking in the right corner of her mouth disdainfully.

"Who are you?" she queried sharply.

"My name is Ruby, Ruby Landry, but it should be Ruby Dumas," I said.

Gisselle, still incredulous, still waiting for some sensible explanation for the confusion her eyes were bringing to her brain, turned to Nina Jackson, who crossed herself quickly.

"I am going to light a black candle," she said, and started away, muttering a voodoo prayer.

"Beau!" Gisselle said, stamping her foot.

He laughed and shrugged with his arms out. "I swear I've never seen her before tonight. I found her standing outside the gate when I drove up. She came from . . . where did you say it was?"

"Houma," I said. "In the bayou."

"She's a Cajun girl."

"I can see that, Beau. I don't understand this," she said, now shaking her head at me, her eyes swimming in tears of frustration.

"I'm sure there's a logical explanation," Beau said. "I think I'd better go fetch your parents."

Gisselle continued to stare at me.

"How can I have a twin sister?" she demanded. I wanted to tell her all of it, but I thought it might be better for our father to explain. "Where are you going, Beau?" she cried when he turned to leave.

"To get your father and mother, like I said."

"But . . ." She looked at me and then at him. "But what about the ball?"

"The ball? How can you go running off to the ball now?" he asked, nodding in my direction.

"But I bought this new dress especially for it and I have a wonderful mask and . . ." She embraced herself and glared at me. "How can this happen!" she cried, the tears now streaming down her cheeks. She clasped her hands into small fists and slapped her arms against her sides. "And tonight of all nights!"

"I'm sorry," I said softly. "I didn't realize it was Mardi Gras when I started for New Orleans today, but—"

"You didn't realize it was Mardi Gras!" she chortled. "Oh, Beau."

"Take it easy, Gisselle," he said, returning to embrace her. She buried her face in his shoulder for a moment. As he stroked her hair, he gazed at me, still smiling. "Take it easy," he soothed.

"I can't take it easy," Gisselle insisted, and stamped her foot again as she pulled back. She glared at me angrily now. "It's just some coincidence, some stupid coincidence someone discovered. She was sent here to . . . to embezzle money out of us. That's it, isn't it?" she accused.

I shook my head.

"This is too much to be a coincidence, Gisselle. I mean, just look at the two of you," Beau insisted.

"There are differences. Her nose is longer and her lips look thinner and . . . and her ears stick out more than mine do."

Beau laughed and shook his head.

"Someone sent you here to steal from us, didn't they? Didn't they?" Gisselle demanded, her fists on her hips again and her legs spread apart.

"No. I came myself. It was a promise I made to Grandmère Catherine."

"Who's Grandmère Catherine?" Gisselle asked, grimacing as if she had swallowed sour milk. "Someone from Storyville?"

"No, someone from Houma," I said.

"And a Traiteur," Beau added. I could see he was enjoying Gisselle's discomfort. He enjoyed teasing her. "Oh, this is just so ridiculous. I do not intend to miss the best Mardi Gras all because some . . . Cajun girl who looks a little like me has arrived and claims to be my twin sister," she snapped.

"Looks a little . . ." Beau shook his head. "When I first saw her, I thought it was you."

"Me? How could you think that . . . that," she said, gesturing at me, "this . . . this person was me? Look at how she's dressed. Look at her shoes!"

"I thought it was your costume," he explained. I wasn't happy hearing my clothes described as someone's costume. "Beau, do you think I'd ever put on something as plain as that, even as a costume?"

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" I asked, assuming an indignant tone myself.

"It looks homemade," Gisselle said after she condescended to gaze at my skirt and blouse once more.

"It is homemade. Grandmère Catherine made both the skirt and blouse."

"See," she said, turning back to Beau. He nodded and saw how I was fuming.

"I'd better go fetch your parents."

"Beau Andreas, if you leave this house without taking me to the Mardi Gras Ball . . ."

"I promise we'll go after this is straightened out," he said.

"It will never be straightened out. It's a horrible, horrible joke. Why don't you get out of here!" she screamed at me.

"How can you send her away?" Beau demanded.

"Oh, you're a monster, Beau Andreas. A monster to do this to me," she cried, and ran back to the stairway.

"Gisselle!"

"I'm sorry," I said. "I told you I shouldn't have come in. I didn't mean to ruin your evening."

He looked at me a moment and then shook his head.

"How can she blame me? Look," he said, "just go into the living room and make yourself comfortable. I know where Pierre and Daphne are. It won't take but a few minutes and they'll come here to see you. Don't worry about Gisselle," he said, backing up. "Just wait in the living room." He turned and hurried out, leaving me alone, never feeling more like a stranger. Could I ever call this house my home? I wondered as I started toward the living room.

I was afraid to touch anything, afraid even to walk on the expensive looking big Persian oval rug that extended from the living room doorway, under the two large sofas and beyond. The high windows were draped in scarlet velvet with gold ties and the walls were papered in a delicate floral design, the hues matching the colors in the soft cushion high back chairs and the sofas. On the thick mahogany center table were two thick crystal vases. The lamps on the side tables looked very old and valuable. There were paintings on all the walls, some landscapes of plantations and some street scenes from the French Quarter. Above the marble fireplace was the portrait of a distinguished looking old gentleman, his hair and full beard a soft gray. His dark eyes seemed to swing my way and hold.

I lowered myself gently in the corner of the sofa on my right and sat rigidly, clinging to my little bag and gaping about the room, looking at the statues, the figurines in the curio case, and the other pictures on the walls. I was afraid to look at the portrait of the man above the fireplace again. He seemed so accusatory.

A hickory wood grandfather's clock that looked as old as time itself ticked in the corner, its numbers all Roman. Otherwise, the great house was silent. Occasionally, I thought I heard a thumping above me and wondered if that was Gisselle storming back and forth in her room.

My heart, which had been racing and drumming ever since I let Beau Andreas lead me into the house, calmed. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Had I done a dreadful thing coming here? Was I about to destroy some-one else's life? Why was Grandmère Catherine so sure this was the right thing for me to do? My twin sister obviously resented my very existence? What was to keep my father from doing the same? My heart teetered on the edge of a precipice, ready to plunge and die if he came into this house and rejected me.

Shortly after, I heard the sound of Edgar Farrar's footsteps as he raced down the corridor to open the front door. I heard other voices and people hurrying in.

"In the living room, monsieur," Beau Andreas called, and a moment later my eyes took in my real father's face. How many times had I sat before my mirror and imagined him by transposing my own facial features onto the blank visage I conjured before me? Yes, he had the same soft green eyes and we had the same shaped nose and chin. His face was leaner, firmer, his forehead rolled back gently under the shock of thick chestnut hair brushed back at the sides with just a small pompadour at the front.

He was tall, at least six feet two, and had a slim but firm looking torso with shoulders that sloped gracefully into his arms, the physique of a tennis player, easily discernable in his Mardi Gras costume: a tight fitting silver outfit designed to resemble a suit of armor, such as those worn by medieval knights. He had the helmet in his arms. He fastened his gaze on me and his face went from a look of surprise and astonishment to a smile of happy amazement.

Before a word was spoken, Daphne Dumas came up beside him. She wore a bright blue tunic with long, tight sleeves, the skirt of which had a long train and an embroidered gold fringe. It fit closely down to her hips, but was wider after. It was buttoned in front from top to bottom. Over it, she wore a cloak, low at the neck and fastened with a diamond clasp at the right breast. She looked like a princess from a fairy tale.

She was nearly six feet tall herself and stood as correct as a fashion model. With her beautiful looks, her slim, curvaceous figure, she could have easily been one. Her pale reddish blond hair lay softly over her shoulders, not a strand disobedient. She had big, light blue eyes and a mouth I couldn't have drawn more perfectly. It was she who spoke first after she took a good look at me.

"Is this some sort of joke, Beau, something you and Gisselle concocted for Mardi Gras?"

"No, madame," Beau said.

"It's no joke," my father said, stepping into the room and not swinging his eyes from me for an instant. "This is not Gisselle. Hello," he said.

"Hello." We continued to stare at each other, neither able to shift his gaze, he appearing as eager to visually devour me as I was to devour him.

"You found her on our doorstep?" Daphne asked Beau.

"Yes, madame," he replied. "She was turning away, losing her courage to knock on the front door and present herself," he revealed. Finally, I swung my eyes to Daphne and saw a look in her face that seemed to suggest she wished I had.

"I'm glad you came along, Beau," Pierre said. "You did the right thing. Thank you."

Beau beamed. My father's appreciation and approval were obviously very important to him.

"You came from Houma?" my father asked. I nodded and Daphne Dumas gasped and brought her hands to her chest. She and my father exchanged a look and then Daphne gestured toward Beau with her head.

"Why don't you see how Gisselle is getting along, Beau?" Pierre asked firmly.

"Yes, sir," Beau said, and quickly marched away. My father moved in 'closer and then sat on the sofa across from me. Daphne closed the two large doors softly and turned in expectation.

"You told them your last name is Landry?" my father began. I nodded.

"Mon Dieu," Daphne said. She swallowed hard and reached for the edge of a high back velvet chair to steady herself.

"Easy," my father said, rising quickly to go to her. He embraced her and guided her into the chair. She sat back, her eyes closed. "Are you all right?" he asked her. She nodded without speaking. Then he turned back to me.

"Your grandfather. . . his name is Jack?"

"Yes."

"He's a swamp trapper, a guide?"

I nodded.

"How could they have done this, Pierre?" Daphne cried softly. "It's ghastly. All these years!"

"I know, I know," my father said. "Let me get at the core of this, Daphne." He turned back to me, his eyes still soft, but now troubled, too. "Ruby. That is your name?" I nodded. "Tell us what you know about all this and why you have presented yourself at this time. Please," he added.

"Grandmère Catherine told me about my mother . . . how she became pregnant and then how Grandpère Jack arranged for my sister's . . . "—I wanted to say "sale," but I thought it sounded too harsh—". . . my sister's coming to live with you. Grandmère Catherine was not happy about the arrangements. She and Grandpère Jack stopped living together soon afterward."

My father shifted his eyes to Daphne, who closed and opened hers. Then he fixed his gaze on me again.

"Go on," he said.

"Grandmère Catherine kept the fact that my mother was pregnant with twins a secret, even from Grandpère Jack. She decided I was to live with her and my mother, but . . ." Even now, even though I had never set eyes on my mother or heard her voice, just mentioning her death brought tears to my eyes and choked back the words.

"But what?" my father begged.

"But my mother died soon after Gisselle and I were born," I revealed. My father's cheeks turned crimson. I saw his breath catch and his own eyes tear over, but he quickly regained his composure, glanced at Daphne again, and then turned back to me.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he uttered, his voice nearly cracking.

"Not long ago, my Grandmère Catherine died. She made me promise that if something bad happened to her, 1 would go to New Orleans and present myself to you rather than live with Grandpère Jack," I said. My father nodded.

"1 knew him slightly, but I can understand why your grandmother didn't want you to live with him," he said.

"Don't you have any other relatives . . . aunts, uncles?" Daphne asked quickly.

"No, madame," I said. "Or at least, none that I know of in Houma. My grandfather talked of his relatives who live in other bayous, but Grandmère Catherine never liked us to associate with them."

"How dreadful," Daphne said, shaking her head. 1 wasn't sure if she meant my family life or the present situation.

"This is amazing. I have two daughters," Pierre said, allowing himself a smile. It was a handsome smile. I felt myself start to relax. Under his warm gaze the tension drained out of me. I couldn't help thinking he was so much the father I'd always wanted, a soft-spoken, kindly man.

But Daphne flashed him a cool, chastising look.

"Double the embarrassment, too," she reminded him.

"What? Oh, yes, of course. I'm glad you've finally revealed yourself," he told me, "but it does present us with a trifle of a problem."

"A trifle of a problem? A trifle!" Daphne cried. Her chin quivered.

"Well, somewhat more serious, I'm afraid." My father sat back, pensive.

"I don't mean to be a burden to anyone," I said, and stood up quickly. "I'll return to Houma. There are friends of my Grandmère's."

"That's a fine idea," Daphne said quickly. "We'll arrange for transportation, give you some money. Why, we'll even send her some money from time to time, won't we, Pierre? You can tell your grandmother's friends that—"

"No," Pierre said, his eyes fixed so firmly on me, I felt like his thoughts were traveling through them and into my heart. "I can't send my own daughter away."

"But it's not as if she is your daughter in actuality, Pierre. You haven't known her a day since her birth and neither have I. She's been brought up in an entirely different world," Daphne pleaded. But my father didn't appear to hear her. With his gaze still fixed on me, he spoke.

"I knew your grandmother better than I knew your grandfather. She was a very special woman with special powers," he said.

"Really, Pierre," Daphne interrupted.

"No, Daphne, she was. She was what Cajuns call. . . a Traiteur, right?" he asked me. I nodded. "If she thought it was best for you to come here, she must have had some special reasons, some insights, spiritual guidance," Pierre said.

"You can't be serious, Pierre," Daphne said. "You don't put any validity in those pagan beliefs. Next thing, you'll be telling me you believe in Nina's voodoo."

"I never reject it out of hand, Daphne. There are mysteries that logic, reason, and science can't explain," he told her. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply.

"How do you propose to handle this . . . this situation, Pierre? How do we explain her to our friends, to society?" she asked. I was still standing, afraid to take a step away, yet afraid to sit down again, too. I clung so hard to my little bit of possessions, my knuckles turned white while my father thought.

"Nina wasn't with us when Gisselle was supposedly born," he began. "We had that mulatto woman, Tituba, remember?"

"I remember. I remember hating her. She was too sloppy and too lazy and she frightened me with her silly superstitions," Daphne recalled. "Dropping pinches of salt everywhere, burning clothing in a barrel with chicken droppings . . . at least Nina keeps her beliefs private."

"And so we let Tituba go right after Gisselle was supposedly born, remember? At least, that was what we told the public."

"What are you getting at, Pierre? How does that relate to this trifling problem?" she asked caustically.

"We never told the truth because we were working with private detectives," he said.

"What? What truth?"

"To get back the stolen baby, the twin sister who was taken from the nursery the same day she was born. You know how some people believe that missing children are voodoo sacrifices, and how some voodoo queens were often accused of kidnapping and murdering children?" he said.

"I always suspected something like that, myself," Daphne said.

"Precisely. No one's ever proven anything of the sort, however, but there was always the danger of creating mass hysteria over it and causing vigilantes to go out and abuse people. So," he said, sitting back, "we kept our tragedy and our search private. Until today, that is," he added, pressing his hands together and smiling at me.

"She was kidnapped more than fifteen years ago and has returned?" Daphne said. "Is that what we're to tell people, tell our friends?"

He nodded. "Like the Prodigal Son, only this case, it's the Prodigal Daughter, whose fake grandmother got a pang of conscience on her deathbed and told her the truth. Miracle of miracles, Ruby has found her way home."

"But, Pierre . . ."

"You'll be the talk of the town, Daphne. Everyone will want to know the story. You won't be able to keep up with the invitations," he said. Daphne just stared at him a moment and then looked up at me.

"Isn't it amazing?" my father said. "Look at how identical they are."

"But she's so. . . unschooled," Daphne moaned.

"Which, in the beginning, will make her more of a curiosity. But you can take her under your wing just as you took Gisselle," my father explained, "and teach her nice things, correct things, make her over . . . like Pygmalion and Galatea," he said. "Everyone will admire you for it," he told her.

"I don't know," she said, but it was with much less resistance. She gazed at me more analytically. "Maybe scrubbed up with decent clothes . . ."

"These are decent clothes!" I snapped. I was tired of everyone criticizing my garments. "Grandmère Catherine made them and the things she made were always cherished and sought after in the bayou."

"I'm sure they were," Daphne said, her eyes sharp and cold. "In the bayou. But this is not the bayou, dear. This is New Orleans. You came here because you want to live here . . . be with your father," she said, looking at Pierre before looking back at me. "Right?"

I looked at him, too. "Yes," I said. "I believe in Grandmère Catherine's wishes and prophecies."

"Well, then, you have to blend in." She sat back and thought a moment. "It will be quite a challenge," she said, nodding. "And somewhat of an interesting one."

"Of course it will be," Pierre said.

"Do you think I could ever get her to the point where people really wouldn't know the difference between them?" Daphne asked my father. I wasn't sure I liked her tone. It was still as if I were some uncivilized aborigine, some wild animal that had to be housebroken.

"Of course you could, darling. Look at how well you've done with Gisselle, and we both know there's a wild streak in her, don't we?" he said, smiling.

"Yes. I have managed to harness and subdue that part of her, the Cajun part," Daphne said disdainfully.

"I am not wild, madame," I said, nearly spitting my words back at her. "My Grandmère Catherine taught me only good things and we went to church regularly, too."

"It's not something people teach you, per se," she replied. "It's something you can't help, something in your heritage," she insisted. "But Pierre's blue blood and my guidance have been strong enough to conquer that part of Gisselle. If you will help, if you really want to become part of this family, I might be able to do it with you, too.

"Although, she's had years and years of poor breeding, Pierre. You must remember that."

"Of course, Daphne," he said softly. "No one expects miracles overnight. As you said so yourself just a moment ago—it's a challenge." He smiled. "I wouldn't ask you if I didn't think you were capable of making it happen, darling."

Placated, Daphne sat back again. When she thought deeply, she pursed her lips and her eyes glittered. Despite the things she had said, I couldn't help but admire her beauty and her regal manner. Would it be so terrible to look and act like such a woman? I wondered, and become someone else's fairy-tale princess? A part of me that wouldn't be denied cried, Please, please, cooperate, try, and the part of me that felt insulted by her remarks sulked somewhere in the dark corners of my mind.

"Well, Beau already knows about her," Daphne said.

"Exactly," my father said. "Of course, I could ask him to keep it all a secret, and I'm sure he would die in a duel before revealing it, but things are revealed accidentally, too, and then what would we do? It could unravel everything we've done up until now."

Daphne nodded.

"What will you tell Gisselle?" she asked him, her voice somewhat mournful now. "She'll know the truth about me, that I'm not really her mother." She dabbed at her eyes with a light blue silk handkerchief.

"Of course you're really her mother. She hasn't known anyone else to be her mother and you've been a wonderful mother to her. We'll tell her the story just as I outlined it. After the initial shock, she'll accept her twin sister and hopefully help you, too. Nothing will change except our lives will be doubly blessed," he said, smiling at me.

Was this where I got my blind optimism? I wondered. Was he a dreamer, too?

"That is," he added after a moment, "if Ruby agrees to go along with it. I don't like asking anyone to lie," he told me, "but in this case, it's a good lie, a lie which will keep anyone from being hurt," he said, shifting his eyes toward Daphne.

I thought a moment. I would have to pretend, at least to Gisselle, that Grandmère Catherine had been part of some kidnapping plot. That bothered me, but then I thought Grandmère Catherine would want me to do everything possible to stay here—far away from Grandpère Jack.

"Yes," I said. "It's all right with me."

Daphne sighed deeply and then quickly regained her composure.

"I'll have Nina arrange one of the guest rooms," she said.

"Oh, no. I want her to have the room that adjoins Gisselle's. They will be sisters right from the beginning," my father emphasized. Daphne nodded.

"I'll have her prepare it right away. For tonight, she can use some of Gisselle's night garments. Fortunately," she said, smiling at me with some warmth for the first time, "you and your sister look to be about the same size." She gazed down at my feet. "Your feet look fairly close as well, I see."

"You'll have to go on a shopping spree tomorrow though, darling. You know how possessive Gisselle is with her clothes," my father warned.

"She should be. A woman should take pride in her wardrobe and not be like some college coed, sharing her garments down to her very panties with some roommate." She rose gracefully from the high back chair and shook her head slightly as she gazed at me. "What a Mardi Gras evening this turned out to be." She turned to Pierre. "You're positive about all this. This is what you want to do?"

"Yes, darling. With your full cooperation and guidance, that is," he said, rising. He kissed her on the cheek. "I guess I'll have to make it all up to you doubly now," he added. She looked into his eyes and gave him a small, tight smile.

"The cash register has been ringing for the last five minutes without a pause," she said, and he laughed. Then he kissed her gently on the lips. From the way he gazed at her, I could see how important it was for him to please her. She appeared to bask in the glow of his devotion. After a moment she turned to leave. At the doorway, she paused.

"You will be telling it all to Gisselle?"

"In a few minutes," he said.

"I'm going to bed. This has all been too shocking and has drained me of most of my energy right now," she complained. "But I want to have the strength for Gisselle in the morning."

"Of course," my father said.

"I'll see to her room," Daphne declared and left us.

"Sit down. Please," my father asked. I took my seat again and he sat down, too. "You want something to drink . . . eat?"

"No, I'm fine. Nina gave me something to drink before."

"One of her magical recipes?" he asked, smiling.

"Yes. And it worked."

"It always does. I meant it when I said I have respect for spiritual and mysterious things. You'll have to tell me more about Grandmère Catherine."

"I'd like that."

He took a deep breath and then let it out slowly, his eyes down. "I'm sorry to hear about Gabrielle. She was a beautiful young woman. I had never and have never met anyone like her. She was so innocent and free, a true pure spirit."

"Grandmère Catherine thought she was a swamp fairy," I said, smiling.

"Yes, yes. She might very well have been. Look," he said, growing very serious very quickly, "I know how disturbing and how troubling this all must be to you. In time, you and I will get to know each other better and I'll try to explain it. I won't be able to justify it or turn the bad things that happened into good things. I won't be able to change the events of the past or make mistakes go away, but I hope I will at least get you to see why it happened the way it did. You have a right to know all that," he said.

"Gisselle knows nothing then?" I asked.

"Oh, no. Not a hint. There was Daphne to consider. I had hurt her enough as it was. I had to protect her, and there was no way to do that without creating the fabrication that Gisselle was her child.

"One lie, one mistake, usually creates the need for another and another, and before you know it, you've spun a cocoon of deception around yourself. As you see, I'm still doing that, still protecting Daphne.

"Actually, I was fortunate and am fortunate to have Daphne. Besides being a beautiful woman, she's a woman capable of great love. She loved my father and I believe, she accepted all this because of her love for him, as much as her love for me. In fact, she accepted some responsibility."

His head bowed down into the cradle of his hands.

"Because she was unable to get pregnant herself?" I asked. He lifted his eyes quickly.

"Yes," he said. "I see you know a lot more than I thought. You seem like a very mature girl, perhaps a lot more mature than Gisselle.

"Anyway," he continued, "throughout it all, Daphne has maintained her dignity and poise. That's why I think she can teach you a great deal and why, in time, I hope you will accept her as your mother.

"Of course," he added, smiling, "first, I have to get you to accept me as your father. Any healthy man can make a baby with a woman; but not every man can be a father," he said.

I saw there were tears in his eyes when he spoke. As he talked, I sensed every molecule of his being was striving to reach out and force me to understand even what he himself must have found inexplicable.

I bit down on my tongue to keep from asking any questions. It was difficult to breathe, not to be drowned by everything that was happening so fast.

"What's in your bag?" he inquired.

"Oh, just some of my things and some pictures."

"Pictures?" His eyebrows rose with interest.

"Yes." I opened the bag and took out one of the pictures of my mother. He took it slowly and gazed at it for a long moment.

"She does seem like a fairy goddess. My memory of those days is like the memory of a dream, pictures and words that float through my brain on the surface of soap bubbles ready to burst if I try too hard to remember the actual details.

"You and Gisselle look a lot like her, you know. I don't deserve the good fortune of having two of you to remind me of Gabrielle, but I thank whatever Fate has brought you here," he said.

"Grandmère Catherine," I said. "That's who you should thank." He nodded.

"I'll spend as much time with you as I can. I'll show you New Orleans myself and tell you about our family."

"What do you do?" I asked, realizing I didn't even know that much about him. The way I asked, the way my eyes widened at the sight of all these expensive furnishings in this mansion made him laugh.

"Right now I make my money in real estate investments. We own a number of apartment buildings and office buildings and we're involved in a number of developments. I have offices downtown.

"We are a very old and established family, who can actually trace their lineage back to the original Mississippi Trading Company, a French colonial company. My father did a genealogy which I will have to show you some day," he added, smiling. "And he proved that we can trace our lineage back to one of the hundred Fines a la Casette or casket girls."

"What were they?" I asked.

"Women back in France who were carefully chosen from among good middle-class families and each given only a small chest containing various articles of clothing, and sent over to become wives for the Frenchmen settling the area. They didn't have all that much more than you're carrying in your small bag," he added.

"However," he continued, "the Dumas family history isn't filled only with reputable and highly prized things. We had ancestors who once owned and operated one of the elegant gambling houses and even made money on the bordellos in Storyville. Daphne's family has the same sort of past, but she isn't as eager to own up to it," he said.

He rubbed his hands together and stood up.

"Well, we'll have plenty of time to talk about all this. I promise. Right now, I imagine you're tired. You'd like a bath and a chance to relax and go to sleep. In the morning, you can begin your new life, one that I hope will be wonderful for you. May I kiss you and welcome you to what will become your new home and family," he asked.

"Yes," I said and closed my eyes as he brought his lips to my cheek.

My father's first kiss . . . how many times had I dreamt about it, had I seen him in my dreams approach my bed and lean down to kiss me good night, the mysterious father of my paintings who stepped off the canvas and pressed his lips to my cheek and stroked my hair and drove away all the demons that hover in the shadows of our hearts . . . the father I had never known.

I opened my eyes and looked up into his and saw the tears. His eyes were filled with sorrow and pain, and it seemed he aged a little as he stared at me with much regret.

"I'm glad I've finally found you," I said. In an instant, that sorrow that washed over his beautiful eyes disappeared and his face beamed.

"You must be very special. I don't know why I should be this fortunate." He took my hand and led me out of the living room, talking about some of the other rooms, the paintings, the artworks as we approached the winding stairway.

Just as we reached the upstairs landing, a door was thrust open down right and Gisselle stepped out with Beau Andreas right beside her.

"What are you doing with her?" she demanded.

"Take it easy, Gisselle," our father said. "I'll be explaining it all to you in a moment."

"You're putting her in the room next to mine?" she asked, grimacing.

"Yes."

"This is horrible, horrible!" she screamed, and stepped back into her room before slamming the door.

Beau Andreas, who had come out, looked embarrassed. "I think I'd better be going," he said.

"Yes," my father told him.

Beau started away and Gisselle jerked open her door again.

"Beau Andreas, how dare you leave this house without me!" she cried.

"But . . ." He looked at my father. "You and your family have things to discuss, to do and—"

"It can wait until morning. It's Mardi Gras," Gisselle declared, and glared at our father. "I've been waiting all year to attend this ball. All my friends are there already," she moaned.

"Monsieur?" Beau said. My father nodded.

"It can wait until morning," he said.

Gisselle swept back the strands of hair she had shaken over her shoulders in her rage and marched out of her room, glaring at me as she walked by to join Beau Andreas. He looked uncomfortable, but let her take his arm, and then the two of them marched down the stairs, Gisselle pounding each step as she descended.

"She has been so looking forward to this ball," my father explained. I nodded, but my father felt the need to continue to justify her behavior. "It wouldn't do any good to force her to stay. She would be less apt to listen and understand. Daphne does so much better with her when she's like this anyway," he added.

"But I'm sure," he said as we continued toward my new bedroom, "in time she will be overjoyed and excited about getting a sister. She's been an only child too long. She's a bit spoiled. Now," he said, "I have another young lady to spoil, too."

The moment we stepped into my new room, I felt that spoiling had begun. It had a dark pine canopy queen-size bed, the canopy made of fine pearl-colored silk with a fringe border. The pillows were enormous and fluffy looking, the bedspread, pillowcases, and top sheet all in chintz, the flowers full of Color and glazed. The wallpaper duplicated the floral pattern in the linens. Above the headboard was a painting of a beautiful young woman in a garden setting feeding a parrot. There was a cute black and white puppy tugging at the hem of her full skirt. On each side of the bed were two nightstands, each with a bell shaped lamp. But beside a matching dresser and armoire, the room had a vanity table with an enormous oval mirror in an ivory frame, the frame covered with hand painted red and yellow roses. And in the corner beside it, an old French birdcage hung.

"I have my own bathroom?" I asked, gazing through the open doorway on my right. The plush bathroom had a large tub, sink, and commode, all with brass fixtures. There were even flowers and birds hand painted on the tub and sink.

"Of course. Twin sister or not, Gisselle is not the sort you share a bathroom with," my father said, smiling. "This door," he added, nodding at the door on my left, "joins the two rooms. I hope the day will soon come when the two of you will move back and forth through it eagerly."

"So do I," I said. I went to the windows and gazed out at the grounds of the estate. I saw that I faced the pool and the tennis court. Through the open window, I could smell the green bamboo, gardenias, and blooming camellias.

"Do you like it?" my father asked.

"Like it? I love it. It's the most wonderful room I've ever seen," I declared. He laughed at my exuberance.

"It will be something fresh to see someone appreciate everything around here again. So often, things are taken for granted," he explained.

"I'll never take anything for granted again," I promised.

"We'll see. Wait until Gisselle works you over. Well, I see you've been brought a nightgown to use and there's a pair of slippers beside the bed." He opened a closet and there was a pink silk robe hanging in it. "Here's a robe, too. You'll find all you need in the bathroom—new toothbrush, soaps, but should you need anything, just ask. I want you to treat this house as your home as soon as you can," he added.

"Thank you."

"Well, get comfortable and have a nice sleep. If you get up before the rest of us do, which is quite possible the morning after Mardi Gras, just go down to the kitchen and Nina will fix you some breakfast."

I nodded and he said good night, closing the door softly behind him as he left.

For a long moment I simply stood there gaping at everything. Was I really here, transported over time and distance into a new world, a world where I would have a real mother and father, and as soon as she could accept it, a real sister, too?

I went into the bathroom and discovered the soaps scented with the fragrance of gardenias and the bottles of bubble bath powder. I drew myself a hot bath and luxuriated in the silky smoothness of the sweet-smelling bubbles. Afterward, I put on Gisselle's scented nightgown and crawled under the soft sheet and down bedspread.

I felt like Cinderella.

But just like Cinderella, I couldn't help feeling trepidation; I couldn't help being frightened by the ticking of the clock that swung its hands around to clasp them finally on the hour of twelve, the bewitching hour.

Would it burst my bubble of happiness and turn my carriage into a pumpkin?

Or would it tick on and on, making my claim to a fairy-tale existence that much more secure with each passing minute?

Oh, Grandmère, I thought as my heavy eyelids began to shut, I'm here. I hope you're resting more comfortably because of it.