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.