"Well, if it isn't my wealthy brother, or is it brother-in-law?" Gisselle quipped.

Paul turned crimson and shifted his eyes to me. "What's wrong, Ruby?" he asked instantly.

"I just learned that my uncle Jean committed suicide in the institution."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Don't I get a kiss hello?" Gisselle asked.

"Sure." He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, only she turned her face quickly so his lips met hers. Surprised, he stood back. Gisselle laughed.

"When did this suicide happen?" Paul asked.

"Forget about that. I don't want to dwell on bad news," Gisselle said, and twisted her shoulder. "Ruby was just explaining your special marriage arrangement," she teased. Her licentious smile made both Paul and me feel guilty.

"Gisselle, stop it."

"Oh, don't be so sensitive. Besides, what do I care what you two do?" She looked out toward the fields. "Did you see two young, wealthy Creoles wandering about your oil wells?"

"Who?"

"Gisselle's boyfriends," I said dryly.

"Oh. No."

"Maybe they fell into some swamp," she said, and laughed. Then she got up and put her arm through Paul's. "Why don't you show me around your grounds and your oil fields," she said.

"Of course."

"Are you staying for dinner, Gisselle?" I asked.

"How do I know? If I'm bored, leave. If not, I'll stay," she said, winking. "Come along, Mr. Oil Baron."

Paul looked at me helplessly. "You know what I think you would really enjoy, Gisselle, a ride through the swamps. She can get a better view of things that way anyway, can't she, Ruby?"

"What? Oh yes," I said in an empty voice. My mind was still fixed on poor Uncle Jean.

"Not me. I'm not going into the swamps. Where are those idiots?" she said, gazing over the grounds. We saw them walking back from the pool. "Darby, Henry," she shouted. "Get back here."

They broke out in a jog as if she held them on a long, invisible leash. When they arrived, she introduced them to Paul and the three of them started to talk about the oil wells, Paul explaining how one is drilled and capped. Gisselle grew bored quickly.

"Aren't there any places to go around here . . . you know, for dancing or something?"

"There's a lounge nearby that has a great zydeco band," Paul said. "Ruby and I go often to listen."

"I don't think that's for us," Gisselle complained.

"How about a clean restaurant?"

"We have a wonderful cook. You're all welcome to stay for dinner," Paul said.

"I don't mind," Henry said.

"Me neither," Darby followed.

"Well, I do. I want to get back to New Orleans so we can go to some nightclubs," Gisselle said. "It's too quiet around here and I can't get that sour smell out of my nose."

"Sour smell?" Paul looked at me, but I just closed and opened my eyes.

"The swamp stench," Gisselle said.

"I don't smell it," Darby said.

"You wouldn't know a skunk if it crawled into bed with you," she snapped. Henry laughed.

"Oh yes he would. He's slept with a few before." Gisselle laughed and released Paul's arm to take Henry's.

"To the car, James. I've visited my sister and have seen her wealth. Don't worry," she said, "I'll double everything when I describe it to Daphne."

"I don't care what you tell her, Gisselle. She doesn't matter to me anymore," I said.

Disappointed, Gisselle led her boyfriends back to the house, with Paul and me following. At the patio door, Gisselle suddenly turned on me.

"I would like to see . . . what do you call her . . . Pearl, before I go."

"We can look in on her. She's napping," I said. I took Gisselle upstairs to the nursery. Mrs. Flemming was dozing in the easy chair by the crib. Her eyes snapped open with surprise when she looked upon our duplicate faces.

"My twin sister, Gisselle," I whispered. "Gisselle, Mrs. Flemming."

"How do you do, dear," Mrs. Flemming said, rising. "My, you two are the mirror image of one another. I bet you're often mistaken for each other."

"Not as often as you might think," Gisselle replied sharply. Mrs. Flemming just nodded and then stepped out to go to the bathroom. Gisselle moved to the crib and looked down at Pearl, who slept with her little hand curled under her chin.

"She has Beau's nose and mouth," she said. "And Beau's hair, of course. You know, I'm thinking of spending the remainder of my summer in Europe. I'll see Beau and spend some time with him. Now I'll be able to describe his child to him," she said with a mean little laugh.

Her wide smile of self-satisfaction cut into my heart. I swallowed back my sadness and turned away from her as she marched out of the room. For a moment I stood there gazing at Pearl and thinking of Beau, my heart feeling like a hollowed-out drum. Every beat echoed through my thoughts.

A short while later, it was as if a cool breeze of relief had come blowing through the bayou when Gisselle and her two male friends got back into their car and went tearing away down the drive. I could hear her shrill laughter lingering for a moment after they disappeared around a turn.

Then I charged up the stairs and went to my room to throw myself on my bed, where I sobbed uncontrollably for a few moments. I was so depressed with the news of Uncle Jean's tragic death and Beau, I couldn't keep the tears from streaming down my cheeks, soaking the pillow. Paul knocked softly on my door and came hurrying in when he saw me crying. I felt his hand on my shoulder.

"Ruby," he said softly, and I turned and threw myself into his arms. From the day we were married, we were afraid to touch each other, afraid of what every kiss, every embrace, even holding each other's hand, would mean in light of who and what we were, but when we made promises to each other, we forgot that we would need each other's intimate contact from time to time.

I needed to feel his arms around me; I needed to sense him close and have him hold me and soothe me with his petting my hair and kissing my forehead and cheeks, kissing away the tears and whispering words of solace. I sobbed harder, my shoulders shaking, as he stroked my hair and rocked me softly in his arms.

"It's all right," he said. "It'll be all right."

"Oh, Paul, why did she have to come and bring me all the bad news? I hate her. I do. I hate her," I said.

"She's just so jealous of you. No matter how much she runs down the bayou and the Cajun world, she's still full of green envy. That's a woman who's never going to be happy," Paul said. "You shouldn't hate her; you should pity her."

I sat back and ground back some tears.

"You're right, Paul. She is to be pitied and she won't ever be happy no matter what she has. But I feel so bad about Uncle Jean. I wanted to go to him soon, bring Pearl along, and maybe . . . maybe find a way to get him out of the institution and even here with us."

"I'm sorry. It would have been nice, but you can't blame yourself. What was destined to happen was decided by events and choices made before your time, Ruby." He reached across the bed to touch my cheek. "I hate to see you unhappy, even for a few minutes. I can't help the way I love you."

I closed my eyes and kept them closed, knowing, sensing, what he was about to do. When his lips touched mine, I wasn't surprised. I let him kiss me and then I lay back on the pillow.

"I'm a little exhausted," I whispered, my heart pounding.

"Rest a bit and let me think of ways to cheer you up," he said. I felt him lift off the bed and heard him walk out. Then I turned over and embraced the pillow.

Beau had broken his engagement. Gisselle was going to see him and tell him about me. What would he think? How would he feel? Far away, across the ocean, he would gaze toward America and the opportunity for a great and lasting love he had lost . . . I had lost.

My heart felt like a twisted rubber band about to snap. I swallowed down my sadness like castor oil. I'm a woman, I thought, a young, vibrant woman, and my needs are greater than I had anticipated.

For the first time since I had taken the vows with Paul, I regretted what I had done and wondered if I had piled one great tragic decision on top of another. Despite the beauty and the splendor of our great home and estate, I felt the walls closing in around me, shutting out the sun, covering me in a dark, deep, depressing blanket of regret from under which I feared I would never escape.


6

  Masquerade

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

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