Ruby

12

Blue-Blood Welcome

I awoke to the sweet singing of blue jays and mockingbirds and for the first few moments, forgot where I was. My trip to New Orleans and all that had subsequently followed now seemed more like a dream. It must have rained for a while during the night for although the sun was beaming brightly through my windows, the breeze still smelled of rain and wet leaves as well as the redolent scents of the myriad of flowers and trees that surrounded the great house.

I sat up slowly, drinking in my beautiful new room in the light of day. If anything, it looked even more wonderful. Although the furniture, the fixtures, and everything down to a jewelry box on the vanity table were antique, it all looked brand-new, too. It was almost as if this room had been recently prepared, everything polished and cleaned in anticipation of my arrival. Or that I had gone to sleep for years when all these things were brand-new and woken up without realizing time had stood still.

I rose from bed and went to the windows. The sky was a patchwork quilt of soft vanilla clouds and light blue. Below the grounds people were vigorously at work clipping hedges, weeding flower beds, and mowing lawns. Someone was on the tennis court sweeping off the myrtle leaves and tiny branches that had probably been torn and blown in the rain, and another man was scooping the oak and banana tree leaves out of the pool.

It was a wonderful day to start a new life, I decided. With my heart full of joy, I went to the bathroom, brushed my hair, and got dressed in a gray skirt and blouse I had brought in my little bag. I put all my precious possessions in the nightstand drawer and then slipped on my moccasins and left my room to go down to breakfast.

It was very quiet in the house. All the other bedroom doors were shut tight, but as soon as I reached the top of the stairway, I heard the front door thrust open and slammed closed and saw Gisselle come charging into the house, unconcerned about how much noise she was making or whom she might waken.

She threw off her cloak and a headdress of bright feathers, dropping it all on the table in the entryway, and then started for the stairway. I watched her walk halfway up with her head down. When she lifted it and saw me gazing down at her, she stopped.

"Are you just coming in from the Mardi Gras Ball?" I asked, astounded.

"Oh, I forgot all about you," she said, and followed it with a silly, thin laugh. There was something about the way she wobbled that led me to believe she had been drinking. "That's how good a time I had," she added with a flare. "And Beau was good enough not to mention your shocking appearance all night." Her expression turned sour, indignant as my question to her sunk in. "Of course I'm just coming home. Mardi Gras goes until dawn. It's expected. Don't think you can tell my parents anything they don't know and get me in trouble," she warned.

"I don't want to get you in trouble. I was just . surprised. I've never done that."

"Haven't you ever gone to a dance and enjoyed yourself, or don't they have such things in the bayou?" she asked with disdain.

"Yes. We call them fais dodos," I told her. "But we don't stay out all night."

"Fais dodos? Sounds like a good old time, two-stepping to the sounds of an accordion and a washboard." She smirked and continued to climb the stairs toward me.

"They're usually nice dances with lots of good things to eat. Was the ball nice?" I asked.

"Nice?" She paused on the step just below me and laughed again. "Nice? Nice is a word for a school party or an afternoon tea in the garden, but for a Mardi Gras Bail? It was more than nice; it was spectacular. Everyone was there," she added, stepping up. "And everyone ogled me and Bean with green eyes. We're considered the handsomest young Creole couple these days, you know. I don't know how many of my girlfriends begged me to let them have a dance with Beau, and all of them were dying to know where I had gotten this dress, but I wouldn't tell them."

"It is a very pretty dress," I admitted.

"Well, don't expect I'll let you borrow it now that you've stormed into our lives," she retorted, gathering her wits about her. "I still don't understand how you got here and who you are," she added with ice in her voice.

"Your father . . . our father will explain," I said. She flicked me another of her scornful glances before throwing her hair back.

"I doubt anyone can explain it, but I can't listen now anyway. I'm exhausted. I must sleep and I'm certainly not in the mood to hear about you right now." She started to turn but paused to look me over from foot to head. "Where did you get these clothes? Is everything you have handmade?" she asked contemptuously.

"Not everything. I didn't bring much with me anyway," said.

"Thank goodness for that." She yawned. "I’ve got to get some sleep. Beau's coming by late in the afternoon for tea. We like reviewing the night before, tearing everyone to shreds. If you're still here, you can sit and listen and learn."

"Of course I'll still be here," I said. "This is my home now, too."

"Please. I'm getting a headache," she said, pinching her temples with her thumb and forefinger. She turned and held her arm out toward me, her palm up. "No more. Young Creole women have to replenish themselves. We're more . . . feminine, dainty, like flowers that need the kiss of soft rain and the touch of warm sunlight. That's what Beau says." She stopped smiling at her own words and glared at me. "Don't you put on lipstick before you meet people?"

"No. I don't own any lipstick," I said.

"And Beau thinks we're twins."

Unable to hold back, I flared. "We are!"

"In your dreams maybe," she countered, and then sauntered to her bedroom. After she entered and closed her door, I went downstairs, pausing to admire her headdress and cloak. Why did she leave it here? Who picked up after her? I wondered.

As if she heard my thoughts, a maid came out of the living room and marched down the corridor to retrieve Gisselle's things. She was a young black woman with beautiful, large brown eyes. I didn't think she was much older than I.

"Good morning,." I said.

"Mornin'. You're the new girl who looks just like Gisselle?" she asked.

"Yes. My name's Ruby."

"I'm Wendy Williams," she said. She scooped up Gisselle's things, her eyes glued to me, and then walked away.

I started down the corridor to the kitchen, but when I reached the dining room, I saw my father already seated at the long table. He was sipping coffee and reading the business section of the newspaper. The moment he saw me, he looked up and smiled.

"Good morning. Come on in and sit down," he called. It was a very big dining room, almost as big as a Cajun meeting hall, I thought. Above the long table hung a shoo-fly, a great, wide fan unfurled at dinnertime and pulled to and fro by a servant to provide a breeze and do what it was named for: shoo away flies . . . I imagined it was there just for decoration. I had seen them before in rich Cajun homes where they had electric fans.

"Here, sit down," my father said, tapping the place on his left. "From now on, this is your seat. Gisselle sits here on my right and Daphne sits at the other end."

"She sits so far away," I remarked, gazing down the length of the rich, cherry wood table, polished so much I could see my face reflected in its surface. My father laughed.

"Yes, but that's the way Daphne likes it. Or should I say, that's the proper seating arrangement. So, how did you sleep?" he asked as I took my seat.

"Wonderfully. It's the most comfortable bed I've ever been in. I felt like I was sleeping on a cloud!"

He smiled.

"Gisselle wants me to buy her a new mattress. She claims hers is too hard, but if I get one any softer, she'll sink to the floor," he added, and we both laughed. I wondered if he had heard her come in and knew she had just returned from the ball. "Hungry?"

"Yes," I said. My stomach was rumbling. He hit a bell and Edgar appeared from the kitchen.

"You've met Edgar, correct?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. Good morning, Edgar," I said. He bowed

"Good morning, mademoiselle."

"Edgar, have Nina prepare some of her blueberry pancakes for Mademoiselle Ruby, please. You'd like that, I expect?"

"Yes, thank you," I said. My father nodded toward Edgar. "Very good, sir," Edgar said, and smiled at me.

"Some orange juice? It's freshly squeezed," my father said, reaching for the pitcher.

"Yes, thank you."

"I don't think Daphne needs to worry about your manners. Grandmère Catherine did a fine job," he complimented. I couldn't help but shift my eyes away for a moment at the mention of Grandmère. "I bet you miss her a great deal."

"Yes, I do."

"No one can replace someone you love, but I hope I can fill some of the emptiness I know is in your heart," he said. "Well," he continued, sitting back, "Daphne is going to sleep late this morning, too." He winked. "And we know Gisselle will sleep away most of the day. Daphne says she'll take you shopping midafternoon. So that leaves just the two of us to spend the morning and lunch. How would you like me to show you around the city a bit?"

"I'd love it. Thank you," I said.

After breakfast, we got into his Rolls Royce and drove down the long driveway. I had never been in so luxurious an automobile before and sat gaping stupidly at the wood trim, running the palm of my hand over the soft leather.

"Do you drive?" my father asked me.

"Oh, no. I haven't even ridden in cars all that much. In the bayou we get around by walking or by poling pirogues."

"Yes, I remember," he said, beaming a broad smile my way. "Gisselle doesn't drive either. She doesn't want to be bothered learning. The truth is she likes being carted around. But if you would like to learn how to drive, I'd be glad to teach you," he said.

"I would. Thank you."

He drove on through the Garden District, past many fine homes with grounds just as beautiful as ours, some with oleander-lined pike fences. There were fewer clouds now which meant the streets and beautiful flowers had fewer shadows looming over them. Sidewalks and tiled patios glittered. Here and there the gutters were full of pink and white camellias from the previous night's rain.

"Some of these houses date back to the eighteen-forties," my father told me and leaned over to point to a house on our right. "Jefferson Davis, President of the Confederacy, died in that house in 1899. There's a lot of history here," he said proudly.

We made a turn and paused as the olive green streetcar rattled past the palm trees on the esplanade. Then we followed St. Charles back toward the inner city.

"I'm glad we had this opportunity to be alone for a while," he said. "Besides my showing you the city, it gives me a chance to get to know you and you a chance to get to know me. It took a great deal of courage for you to come to me," he said. The look on my face confirmed his suspicion. He cleared his throat and continued.

"It will be hard for me to talk about your mother when someone else is around, especially Daphne. I think you understand why."

I nodded.

"I'm sure it's harder for you to understand right now how it all happened. Sometimes," he said, smiling to himself, "when I think about it, it does seem like something I dreamt."

It was as though he were talking in a dream. His eyes were glazed and far away, his voice smooth, easy, relaxed.

"I must tell you about my younger brother, Jean. He was always much different from me, far more outgoing, energetic, a handsome Don Juan if there ever was one," he added, breaking into a soft smile. "I've always been quite shy when it came to members of the genteel sex.

"Jean was athletic, a track star and a wonderful sailor. He could make our sailboat slice through the water on Lake Pontchartrain even if there wasn't enough breeze to nudge the willows on the bank.

"Needless to say, he was my father's favorite, and my mother always thought of him as her baby. But I wasn't jealous," he added quickly. "I've always been more business minded, more comfortable in an office crunching numbers, talking on the telephone, and making deals than I have been on a playing field or in a sailboat surrounded by beautiful young women.

"Jean had all the charm. He didn't have to work at making friends or gaining acquaintances. Women and men alike just wanted to be around him, to walk in his shadow, to be favored with his words and smiles.

"The house was always full of young people back then. I never knew who would be encamped in our living room or eating in our dining room or lounging at our pool."

"How much younger than you was he?" I asked.

"Four years. When I graduated from college, Jean had begun his first year and was a track star in college already, already elected president of his college class, and already a popular fraternity man.

"It was easy to see why our father doted on him so and had such big dreams for him," my father said, and he made a series of turns that took us deeper and deeper into the busier areas of New Orleans. But I wasn't as interested in the traffic, the crowds, and the dozens and dozens of stores as I was in my father's story.

We paused for a traffic light.

"I wasn't married yet. Daphne and I had really just begun to date. In the back of his mind, our father was already planning out Jean's marriage to the daughter of one of his business associates. It was to be a wedding made in Heaven. She was an attractive young lady; her father was rich, too. The wedding ceremony and reception would rival those of royalty."

"How did Jean feel about it?" I asked.

"Jean? He idolized our father and would do anything he wanted. Jean thought of it all as inevitable. You would have liked him a great deal, loved him, I should say. He was never despondent and always saw the rainbow at the end of the storm, no matter what the problem or trouble."

"What happened to him?" I finally asked, dreading the answer.

"A boating accident on Lake Pontchartrain. I rarely went out on the boat with him, but this time I let him talk me into going. He had a habit of trying to get me to be more like him. He was always after me to enjoy life more. To him I was too serious, too responsible. Usually, I didn't pay much attention to his complaints, but this time, he argued that we should be more like brothers. I relented. We both drank too much. A storm came up. I wanted to turn around immediately, but he decided it would be more fun to challenge it and the boat turned over. Jean would have been all right, I'm sure. He was a far better swimmer than I was, but the mast struck him in the temple."

"Oh no," I moaned.

"He was in a coma for a long time. My father spared no expense, hired the best doctors, but none of them could do anything. He was like a vegetable."

"How terrible."

"I thought my parents would never get over it, especially my father. But my mother became even more depressed. Her health declined first. Less than a year after the tragic accident, she suffered her first heart attack. She survived, but she became an invalid."

We continued onward, deeper into the business area. My father made one turn and then another and then slowed down to pull the vehicle into a parking spot, but he didn't shut off the engine. He faced forward and continued his remembrances.

"One day, my father came to me in our offices and closed the door. He had aged so since my brother's accident and my mother's illness. A once proud, strong man, now he walked with his shoulders turned in, his head lowered, his back bent. He was always pale, his eyes empty, his enthusiasm for his business at a very low ebb.

" 'Pierre,' he said, 'I don't think your mother's long for this world, and frankly, I feel my own days are numbered. What we would like most to see is for you to marry and start your family.'

"Daphne and I were planning on getting married anyway, but after his conversation with me, I rushed things along. I wanted to try to have children immediately. She understood. But month after month passed and when she showed no signs of becoming pregnant, we became concerned.

"I sent her to specialists and the conclusion was she was unable to get pregnant. Her body simply didn't produce enough of some hormone. I forget the exact diagnosis.

"The news devastated my father who seemed to live only for the day when he would rest his eyes on his grandchild. Not long after, my mother died."

"How terrible," I said. He nodded and turned off the engine.

"My father went into a deep depression. He rarely came to work, spent long hours simply staring into space, took poorer and poorer care of himself. Daphne looked after him as best she could, but blamed herself somewhat, too. I know she did, even though she denies it to this day.

"Finally, I was able to get my father interested in some hunting trips. We traveled to the bayou to hunt duck and geese and contracted with your Grandpère Jack to guide us, That was how I met Gabrielle."

"I know," I said.

"You have to understand how dark and dreary my life seemed to me during those days. My handsome, charming brother's wonderful future had been violently ended, my mother had died, my wife couldn't have children, and my father was slipping away day by day.

"Suddenly . . . I'll never forget that moment . . . I turned while unloading our car by the dock, and I saw Gabrielle strolling along the bank of the canal. The breeze lifted her hair and made it float around her, hair as dark red as yours. She wore this angelic smile. My heart stopped and then my blood pounded so close to the surface, I felt my cheeks turn crimson.

"A rice bird lighted on her shoulder and when she extended her arm, it pranced down to her hand before flying off. I still hear that silver laugh of hers, that childlike, wonderful laugh that was carried in the breeze to my ears.

"'Who is that?' I asked your grandfather.

"'Just my daughter,' he said.

"Just his daughter? I thought, a goddess who seemed to emerge from the bayou. Just his daughter?

"I couldn't help myself, you see. I was never so smitten. Every chance I had to be with her, near her, speak to her, I took. And soon, she was doing the same thing—looking forward to being with me,

"I couldn't hide my feeling from my father, but he didn't stand in my way. In fact, I'm sure he was eager to make more trips to the bayou because of my growing relationship with Gabrielle. I didn't realize then why he was encouraging it. I should have known something when he didn't appear upset the day I told him she was pregnant with my child."

"He went behind your back and made a deal with Grandpère Jack," I said.

"Yes, I didn't want such a thing to happen. I had already made plans to provide for Gabrielle and the child, and she was happy about it, but my father was obsessed with this idea, crazed by it."

He took a deep breath before continuing.

"He even went so far as to tell Daphne everything,"

"What did you do?" I asked.

"I didn't deny it. I confessed everything."

"Was she terribly upset?"

"She was upset, but Daphne is a woman of character, she's as they say, a very classy dame," he added with a smile. "She told me she wanted to bring up my child as her own, do what my father had asked. He had made her some promises, you see. But there was still Gabrielle to deal with, her feelings and desires to consider. I told Daphne what Gabrielle wanted and that despite the deal my father was making with your grandfather, Gabrielle would object."

"Grandmère Catherine told me how upset my mother was, but I never could understand why she let Grandpère Jack do it, why she gave up Gisselle."

"It wasn't Grandpère Jack who got her to go along. In the end," he said, "it was Daphne." He paused and turned to me. "I can see from the expression on your face that you didn't know that."

"No," I said.

"Perhaps your Grandmère Catherine didn't know either. Well, enough about all that. You know the rest anyway," he said quickly. "Would you like to walk through the French Quarter? There's Bourbon Street just ahead of us," he added, nodding.

"Yes."

We got out and he took my hand to stroll down to the corner. Almost as soon as we made the turn, we heard the sounds of music coming from the various clubs, bars, and restaurants, even this early in the day.

"The French Quarter is really the heart of the city," my father explained. "It never stops beating. It's not really French, you know. It's more Spanish. There were two disastrous fires here, one in 1788 and one in 1794, which destroyed most of the original French structures," he told me. I saw how much he loved talking about New Orleans and I wondered if I would ever come to admire this city as much as he did.

We walked on, past the scrolled colonnades and iron gates of the courtyards. I heard laughter above us and looked up to see men and women leaning over the embroidered iron patios outside their apartments, some calling down to people in the street. In an arched doorway, a black man played a guitar. He seemed to be playing for himself and not even notice the people who stopped by for a moment to listen.

"There is a great deal of history here," my father explained, pointing. "Jean Lafitte, the famous pirate, and his brother Pierre operated a clearinghouse for their contraband right there. Many a swashbuckling adventurer discussed launching an elaborate campaign in these courtyards."

I tried to take in everything: the restaurants, the coffee stalls, the souvenir shops, and antique stores. We walked until we reached Jackson Square and the St. Louis Cathedral.

"This is where early New Orleans welcomed heroes and had public meetings and celebrations," my father said. We paused to look at the bronze statue of Andrew Jackson on his horse before we entered the cathedral. I lit a candle for Grandmère Catherine and said a prayer. Then we left and strolled through the square, around the perimeter where artists sold their fresh works.

"Let's stop and have a cafe au lait and some beignets," my father said. I loved beignets, a donutlike pastry covered with powdered sugar.

While we ate and drank, we watched some of the artists sketching portraits of tourists.

"Do you know an art gallery called Dominique's?" I asked.

"Dominique's? Yes. It's not far from here, just a block or two over to the right. Why do you ask?"

"I have some of my paintings on display there," I said.

"What?" My father sat back, his mouth agape. "Your paintings on display?"

"Yes. One was sold. That's how I got my traveling money."

"I can't believe you," he said. "You're an artist and you've said nothing?"

I told him about my paintings and how Dominique had stopped by one day and had seen my work at Grandmère Catherine's and my roadside stall.

"We must go there immediately," he said. "I've never seen such modesty. Gisselle has something to learn from you."

Even I was overwhelmed when we arrived at the gallery. My picture of the heron rising out of the water was prominently on display in the front window. Dominique wasn't there. A pretty young lady was in charge and when my father explained who I was, she became very excited.

"How much is the picture in the window?" he asked.

"Five hundred and fifty dollars, monsieur," she told him.

Five hundred and fifty dollars! I thought. For something I had done? Without hesitation, he took out his wallet and plucked out the money.

"It's a wonderful picture," he declared, holding it out at arm's length. "But you've got to change the signature to Ruby Dumas. I want my family to claim your talent," he added, smiling. I wondered if he somehow sensed that this was a picture depicting what Grandmère Catherine told me was my mother's favorite swamp bird.

After it was wrapped, my father hurried me out excitedly. "Wait until Daphne sees this. You must continue with your artwork. I'll get you all the materials and we'll set up a room in the house to serve as your studio. I'll find you the best teacher in New Orleans for private lessons, too," he added. Overwhelmed, I could only trot along, my heart racing with excitement.

We put my picture into the car.

"I want to show you some of the museums, ride past one or two of our famous cemeteries, and then take you to lunch at my favorite restaurant on the dock. After all," he added with a laugh, "this is the deluxe tour."

It was a wonderful trip. We laughed a great deal and the restaurant he'd picked was wonderful. It had a glass dome so we could sit and watch the steamboats and barges arriving and going up the Mississippi.

While we ate, he asked me questions about my life in the bayou. I told him about the handicrafts and linens Grandmère Catherine and I used to make and sell. He asked me questions about school and then he asked me if I had ever had a boyfriend. I started to tell him about Paul and then stopped, for not only did it sadden me to talk about him, but I was ashamed to describe another terrible thing that had happened to my mother and another terrible thing Grandpère Jack had done because of it. My father sensed my sadness.

"I'm sure you'll have many more boyfriends," he said. "Once Gisselle introduces you to everyone at school."

"School?" I had forgotten about that for the moment.

"Of course. You've got to be registered in school first thing this week."

A shivering thought came. Were all the girls at this school like Gisselle? What would be expected of me?

"Now, now," my father said, patting my hand. "Don't get yourself nervous about it. I'm sure it will be fine. Well," he said, looking at his watch, "the ladies must all have risen by now. Let's head back. After all, I still have to explain you to Gisselle," he added.

He made it sound so simple, but as Grandmère Catherine would say, "Weaving a single fabric of falsehoods is more difficult than weaving a whole wardrobe of truth."

Daphne was sitting at an umbrella table on a cushioned iron chair on a patio in the garden where she had been served her late breakfast. Although she was still in her light blue silk robe and slippers, her face was made up and her hair was neatly brushed. It looked honey-colored in the shade. She looked like she belonged on the cover of the copy of Vogue she was reading. She put it down and turned as my father and I came out to greet her. He kissed her on the cheek.

"Should I say good morning or good afternoon?" he asked.

"For you two, it looks like it's definitely afternoon," she replied, her eyes on me. "Did you have a good time?"

"A wonderful time," I declared.

"That's nice. I see you bought a new painting, Pierre."

"Not just a new painting, Daphne, a new Ruby Dumas," he said, and gave me a wide, conspiratorial smile. Daphne's eyebrows rose.

"Pardon?"

My father unwrapped the picture and held it up. "Isn't it pretty?" he asked.

"Yes," she said in a noncommittal tone of voice. "But I still don't understand."

"You won't believe this, Daphne," he began, quickly sitting down across from her. He told her my story. As he related the tale, she gazed from him to me.

"That's quite remarkable," she said after he concluded.

"And you can see from the work and from the way she has been received at the gallery that she has a great deal of artistic talent, talent that must be developed."

"Yes," Daphne said, still sounding very controlled. My father didn't appear disappointed by her measured reaction, however. He seemed used to it. He went on to tell her the other things we had done. She sipped her coffee from a beautifully hand painted china cup and listened, her light blue eyes darkening more and more as his voice rose and fell with excitement.

"Really, Pierre," she said, "I haven't seen you this exuberant about anything for years."

"Well, I have good reason to be," he replied.

"I hate to be the one to insert a dark thought, but you realize you haven't spoken to Gisselle yet and told her your story about Ruby," she said.

He seemed to deflate pounds of excitement right before my eyes and then he nodded.

"You're right as always, my dear. It's time to wake the princess and talk to her," he said. He rose and picked up my picture. "Now where should we hang this? In the living room?"

"I think it would be better in your office, Pierre," Daphne said. To me it sounded as though she wanted it where it would be seen the least.

"Yes. Good idea. That way I can get to look at it more," he replied. "Well, here I go. Wish me luck," he said, smiling at me, and then he went into the house to talk to Gisselle. Daphne and I gazed at each other for a moment. Then she put down her coffee cup.

"Well now, you've made quite a beginning with your father, it seems," she said.

"He's very nice," I told her. She stared at me a moment.

"He hasn't been this happy for a while. I should tell you, since you have become an instant member of the family, that Pierre, your father, suffers from periods of melancholia. Do you know what that is?" I shook my head. "He falls into deep depressions from time to time. Without warning," she added.

"Depressions?"

"Yes. He can lock himself away for hours, days even, and not want to see or speak to anyone. You can be speaking to him and suddenly, he'll take on a far-off look and leave you in midsentence. Later, he won't remember doing it," she said. I shook my head. It seemed incredible that this man with whom I had just spent several happy hours could be described as she had described him.

"Sometimes, he'll lock himself in his office and play this dreadfully mournful music. I've had doctors prescribe medications, but he doesn't like taking anything.

"His mother was like that," she continued. "The Dumas family history is clouded with unhappy events."

"I know. He told me about his younger brother," I said. She looked up sharply.

"He told you already? That's what I mean," she said, shaking her head. "He can't wait to go into these dreadful things and depress everyone."

"He didn't depress me although it was a very sad story," I said. Her lips tightened and her eyes narrowed. She didn't like being contradicted.

"I suppose he described it as a boating accident," she said.

"Yes. Wasn't it?"

"I don't want to go into it all now. It does depress me," she added, eyes wide. "Anyway, I've tried and I continue to try to do everything in my power to make Pierre happy. The most important thing to remember if you're going to live here is that we must have harmony in our house. Petty arguments, little intrigues and plots, jealousies and betrayals have no place in the House of Dumas.

"Pierre is so happy about your existence and arrival that he is blind to the problems we are about to face," she continued. When she spoke, she spoke with such a firm, regal tone, I couldn't do anything but listen, my eyes fixed on her. "He doesn't understand the immensity of the task ahead. I know how different a world you come from and the sort of things you're used to doing and having."

"What sort of things, madame?" I asked, curious myself.

"Just things," she said firmly, her eyes sharp. "It's not a topic ladies like to discuss."

"I don't want or do anything like that," I protested.

"You don't even realize what you've done, what sort of life you've led up until now. I know Cajuns have a different sense of morality, different codes of behavior."

"That's not so, madame," I replied, but she continued as though I hadn't.

"You won't realize it until you've been . . . been educated and trained and enlightened," she declared.

"Since your arrival is so important to Pierre, I will do my best to teach you and guide you, of course; but I will need your full cooperation and obedience. If you have any problems, and I'm sure you will in the beginning, please come directly to me with them. Don't trouble Pierre.

"All I need," she added, more to herself than to me, "is for something else to depress him. He might just end up like his younger brother."

"I don't understand," I said.

"It's not important just now," she said quickly. Then she pulled back her shoulders and stood up.

"I'm going to get dressed and then take you shopping," she said. "Please be where I can find you in twenty minutes."

"Yes, madame."

"I hope," she said, pausing near me to brush some strands of hair off my forehead, "that in time you will become comfortable addressing me as Mother."

"I hope so, too," I said. I didn't mean it to sound the way it did—almost a threat. She pulled herself back a bit and narrowed her eyes before she flashed a small, tight smile and then left to get ready to take me shopping.

While I waited for her, I continued my tour of the house, stopping to look in on what was my father's office. He had placed my picture against his desk before going up to Gisselle. There was another picture of his father, my grandfather, I supposed, on the wall above and behind his desk chair. In this picture, he looked less severe, although he was dressed formally and was gazing thoughtfully, not even the slightest smile around his lips or eyes.

My father had a walnut writing desk, French cabinets, and ladder-back chairs. There were bookcases on both sides of the office, the floor of which was polished hardwood with a small, tightly knit beige oval rug under the desk and chair. In the far left corner there was a globe. Everything on the desk and in the room was neatly organized and seemingly dust free. It was as if the inhabitants of this house tiptoed about with gloved hands. All the furniture, the immaculate floors and walls, the fixtures and shelves, the antiques and statues made me feel like a bull in a china shop. I was afraid to move quickly, turn abruptly, and especially afraid to touch anything, but I entered the office to glance at the pictures on the desk.

In sterling silver frames, my father had pictures of Daphne and Gisselle. There was a picture of two people I assumed to be his parents, my grandparents. My grand-mother, Mrs. Dumas, looked like a small woman, pretty with diminutive features, but an overall sadness in her lips and eyes. Where, I wondered, was there a picture of my father's younger brother, Jean?

I left the office and found there was a separate study, a library with red leather sofas and high back chairs, gold leaf tables, and brass lamps. A curio case in the study was filled with valuable looking red, green, and purple hand blown goblets, and the walls, as were the walls in all the rooms, were covered with oil paintings. I went in and browsed through some of the books on the shelves.

"Here you are," I heard my father say, and I turned to see him and Gisselle standing in the doorway. Gisselle was in a pink silk robe and the softest looking pink slippers. Her hair had been hastily brushed and looked it. Pale and sleepy eyed, she stood with her arms folded under her breasts. "We were looking for you."

"I was just exploring. I hope it's all right," I said.

"Of course it's all right. This is your home. Go where you like. Well now, Gisselle understands what's happened and wants to greet you as if for the first time," he said, and smiled. I looked at Gisselle who sighed and stepped forward.

"I'm sorry for the way I behaved," she began. "I didn't know the story. No one ever told me anything like this before," she added, shifting her eyes toward our father, who looked sufficiently apologetic. "Anyway, this changes things a lot. Now that I know you really are my sister and you've gone through a terrible time."

"I'm glad," I said. "And you don't have to apologize for anything. I can understand why you'd be upset at me suddenly appearing on your doorstep."

She seemed pleased, gashed a look at father and then turned back to me.

"I want to welcome you to our family. I'm looking forward to getting to know you," she added. It had the resonance of something memorized, but I was happy to hear the words nevertheless. "And don't worry about school. Daddy told me you were concerned, 'But you don't have to be. No one is going to give my sister a hard time," she declared.

"Gisselle is the class bully," our father said, and smiled.

"I'm not a bully, but I'm not going to let those namby-pambies push us around," she swore. "Anyway, you can come into my room later and talk. We should really get to know each other."

"I'd like that."

"Maybe you want to go along with Ruby and Daphne to shop for Ruby's new wardrobe," our father suggested.

"I can't. Beau's coming over." She flashed a smile at me. "I mean, I'd call him and cancel, but he so looks forward to seeing me, and besides, by the time I get ready, you and Mother could be half finished. Come out to the pool as soon as you get back," she said.

"I will."

"Don't let Mother buy those horribly long skirts, the ones that go all the way down to your ankles. Everyone's wearing shorter skirts these days," she advised, but I couldn't imagine telling Daphne what or what not to buy me. I was grateful for anything. I nodded, but Gisselle saw my hesitation.

"Don't worry about it," Gisselle said. "If you don't get things that are in style, let you borrow something for your first day at school."

"That's very nice," our father said. "Thanks for being so understanding, honey."

"You're welcome, Daddy," she said, and kissed him on the cheek. He beamed and then rubbed his hands together.

"I have a set of twins!" he cried. "Both grown and beautiful. What man could be luckier!"

I hoped he was right. Gisselle excused herself to go up and get dressed and I walked out to the front of the house with my father to wait for Daphne.

"I'm sure you and Gisselle will get along marvelously," he said, "but there's bound to be a few hills and valleys in any relationship, especially an instant sister relationship. If you have any real problems, come see me. Don't bother Daphne about it," he said. "She's been a wonderful mother for Gisselle, despite the unusual circumstances, and I'm sure she will be wonderful for you, too; but I feel I should bear most of the responsibilities. I'm sure you understand. You seem very mature, more mature than Gisselle," he added,

What a strange predicament, I thought. Daphne wanted me to come to her and he wanted me to come to him, and each appeared to have good reason. Hopefully, I wouldn't have to trouble either.

I heard Daphne's footsteps on the stairway and gazed up. She wore a flowing black skirt, a white velvet blouse, low black heels and a string of real pearls. Her blue eyes glistened and her smile spread to show even white teeth. She carried herself so elegantly.

"There are few things I like to do better than shop," she declared. She kissed my father on the cheek.

"Nothing makes me happier than seeing you and Gisselle happy, Daphne," he told her. "And now, I can add Ruby."

"Go to work, darling. Earn money. I'm going to show your new daughter how to spend it," she retorted.

"And you won't find a better teacher when it comes to that," he quipped. He opened the door for us and we went out.

I still felt this was all too good to be true and that any moment I would wake up in my little room in the bayou. I pinched myself and was happy to feel the tiny sting that assured me it was all real.