Bruce nodded. "All right. I'll get proof, that's what I'll do. Unless you two get sensible and cut me in on what is rightly mine anyway. I'll call you in a couple of days and see if you want to be smart or greedy," he said.
"Get out of here before I break your neck," Beau said, moving toward him. Bruce backed away and started down the corridor. Beau followed him all the way to the front entrance, opening it and pushing him out. Bruce voiced one final threat before the doors closed.
"The whole city is going to know what you're up to!" he cried, shaking his fist.
Beau slammed the door in his face. "It's all right, Aubrey," he said. "Everything is under control."
"Very good, sir." Aubrey retreated and Beau followed me into the living room.
"Don't worry yourself about him," he told me after I sat. My heart was pounding and I felt the blood rushing into my face. "I mean it, no one will give one word he says any credibility. You should hear some of the things they're saying about him now."
"How could Daphne had brought such a person into her life after being married to my father?" I wondered aloud.
"You said yourself she used people and then discarded them like so much baggage," Beau replied. He came to my side and sat beside me to take my hand. "You can't let him get to you, Ruby."
"But how did he know? Of all the people to look at me and know. . a drunken man?" I looked at Beau and answered my own question. "He was intimate with Gisselle. She toyed with him, I'm sure."
"Probably," Beau said.
"He was always flirting with me, coming right up to me and taking my hands and looking into my eyes. I hated it; he always had some onions or something on his breath and I had to be polite but firm. And it was my painting . . . I shouldn't have let him see my painting. That, more than anything, gave it away."
"What difference does it make what he knows and doesn't know, what he did and didn't do? He's a man who's lost respect, and in this town, when you have no respect, you don't have a voice. Believe me, I'll be able to handle him," Beau promised.
"It's no good, Beau," I said, shaking my head. "If a shack's built on weak legs, the first bad flood will wash it away. We're trying to build a new life with a foundation of lies. It's going to come back and haunt us."
"Only if we let it," he insisted. He put his arm around me. "Come on, take a rest. Later you'll feel better. We'll go out to one of the finer restaurants and have a spectacular dinner, okay?"
"I don't know, Beau," I said with a deep sigh.
"Well, I do. The doctor's prescribing," he said, sighing, and helped me to my feet.
Above the marble fireplace, Daphne's portrait still hung, the beautiful ivory face peering down at me with an expression of arrogance and self-satisfaction. My father worshiped that beauty and loved having replicas of her everywhere in the mansion.
Remember, child, the devil in all his forms fascinates us,
Grandmere Catherine had warned.
We're drawn to him like a child is drawn to the wonder of a candle flame and is tempted to put the tip of his finger into the light, only to get burned.
14
Shadows from the Past
.
Beau was apparently right about what would
happen in regards to Bruce and anything he might do or say. Bruce had lost all his credibility in the business world, and the bank did foreclose on his one major means of making money, his apartment building. Somehow he continued to find money for his drinking, but anything he did tell anyone was considered a pathetic attempt at getting back at the Dumas family. Those who knew him when he was married to Daphne remembered how disdainfully she had treated him. They referred to him as just another ornament on her arm, another piece of jewelry.
Finally, one day Beau called to tell me he had heard that Bruce had moved to Baton Rouge, where he had gotten a job through one of his few friends as the manager of a small hotel.
"So we're rid of him," Beau said, but somehow I thought Bruce Bristow was like a swarm of swamp mosquitoes: One day they were gone, but you knew they would return to pester you again someday.
Meanwhile, the situation at Cypress Woods remained at status quo. Gisselle lingered in her comatose state; Paul had his good days when he did some work and was sensible, but according to Toby and Jeanne, he still spent most of his time wallowing in self-pity. Jeanne told me he even visited Grandmere Catherine's old shack.
"The shack! Why would he go there?" I asked, feeling myself slide into the abyss of yesterdays.
"It's become something of a shrine to him," she said in her small, sad voice one afternoon on the telephone. "What do you mean?"
"He doesn't care if the gardens and the landscaping are looked after here at Cypress Woods, but he brings some of his men down to the shack and has them cut the grass, plant new grass, and even repair the shack." She paused. "He has even spent evenings there."
"Evenings?" I felt my ever-present anxiety slip into a knot.
"Slept there," she revealed.
My heart stopped beating and then pounded. "Slept at the shack?"
Jeanne mistook the shock in my voice for disgust. "I know how revolting that must sound to you, Gisselle. He doesn't admit to it. It's almost as if he really does forget the things he does," she continued, "but my husband and I drove down there one night and we saw the dim light of a single oil lamp. We spied on him," she admitted.
"What do you see?"
"He was curled up on the floor at the foot of that old settee, sleeping like a baby. We didn't have the heart to wake him. It's so sad."
I didn't speak. I couldn't speak. My own tears were falling inside me. I crumpled like a rag in the chair. Paul's pain was far more intense than I ever imagined it might be. He wasn't, as Beau expected, coming to terms with the way things were and would be. He was falling back in time, clinging to happier memories, destroying himself with his return to the past.
"I know you don't care, but he's getting worse and worse, and if he doesn't get hold of himself soon, how will he ever be able to be a father to his child again?" Jeanne said, because she thought that was the one thing that would disturb and worry Gisselle.
"He'll get hold of himself. One day he'll just wake up and realize that what has to be done, has to be done," I said in as cold a voice as I could muster, but it was a voice without any confidence in what it was saying, and Jeanne heard it.
"Sure. I believe that as much as you do." After a pause she asked, "Do you intend to visit your sister again?"
"It upsets me too much," I said. Gisselle would say that, although it would upset me, I thought. It was just that as Ruby, I wouldn't be thinking of myself as much and I would go.
"It doesn't exactly make the rest of us ecstatic, but we go," Jeanne said dryly.
"It's easier for you. You don't have to make the trip to the bayou," I complained.
"Right, that enormous trip. How is the baby?" "She's doing fine."
"Doesn't she ask for her father and mother all the time? You don't even talk about her."
"She's all right," I insisted. "Just do what you can for your brother."
"I think if he had Pearl here with him, he would do better," she said. "Toby thinks so, too."
"We have to think about what's best for the baby," I insisted, perhaps too strongly for Gisselle.
"Being with her father is best," Jeanne replied. A flutter of panic crossed my stomach and sent a chill up to my heart. Then Jeanne added, "But Mother seems to agree with you for the time being, and Paul. . . Paul won't discuss it."
"Then leave it alone," I warned.
"Who'd have thought you of all people would want an infant roaming about her house, as big as it is," Jeanne said.
"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do, Jeanne."
"Maybe I don't." She sighed. "Maybe some of your sister's goodness is in you after all. I know I'm just sick to my stomach over all this. It's so unfair. They were the most perfect couple in the world, the two people who were living the fantasy romance all of us wish to live."
"Maybe it was a fantasy," I said softly.
"You would say that."
"This conversation isn't going anywhere important," I snapped in my best Gisselle tone of voice. "I'll call you tomorrow."
"Why do you call so much? Is Beau making you do it?"
"There's no reason to be insolent, Jeanne."
She was quiet a moment. "Sorry," she said. "You're right. I'm just overwrought myself these days. I'll talk to you tomorrow."
Now that my conversations with Jeanne were a strain, it was becoming harder and harder to keep in contact with Cypress Woods and learn what was happening there. Beau's advice was to let things go for a while.
"It's more in Gisselle's character anyway, Ruby. None of them are in the mood to be particularly nice to you as it is."
I nodded, but not calling to see how Paul was and what, if anything, was new about Gisselle was very difficult. I didn't have all that much to distract me now that we had servants looking after the house.
Ever since my confrontation with Bruce in the studio, I was hesitant about returning and starting a painting. Keeping my talent a secret stifled the creative impulse, but I didn't want to hover around Mrs. Ferrier all day and give her the impression I didn't trust her with Pearl. So I would spend hours sitting in the studio, staring at an empty canvas, waiting for the inspiration that appeared to be clouded by my darker thoughts.
One morning after breakfast, just before I was preparing to go into the studio, the doorbell rang and Aubrey came to tell me I had a gentleman visitor.
"A Monsieur Turnbull," he said, handing me the man's card. For a few seconds the name didn't register.
Then I looked at the card and saw it read "Louis Turnbull."
"Louis," I said aloud, a wave of ecstatic joy coming over me. It was Louis, Mrs. Clairborne's grandson, the blind young man I had met and become friends with at the Greenwood School for girls, the private school in Baton Rouge to which Daphne had sent Gisselle and me.
The school's chief benefactor was a widow, Mrs. Clairborne, who lived in a mansion on the school grounds with her grandson Louis. Louis, a man in his twenties, had become blind when he was still a young boy after he had suffered the traumatic experience of seeing his father kill his mother, smother her to death with a pillow. His blindness lingered and handicapped him even after dozens and dozens of sessions with a psychiatrist.
However, he was a talented pianist and composer who put all of his feelings into his music. I met him accidentally when I had attended a tea at the mansion with the other new students from our dormitory. Drawn by the sound of his music, I wandered into the study, and Louis and I became close friends. Louis claimed my friendship helped him start to regain his sight. He came to my rescue when I was nearly expelled from Greenwood because of something Gisselle had done. His testimony provided an alibi for me and ended the incident.
Louis had gone to Europe to get further treatment for his condition and study at the musical conservatory. We had lost contact, and now, seemingly out of the blue, here he was on my doorstep.
"Show him in," I told Aubrey, and waited anxiously for our meeting when suddenly it occurred to me: I couldn't greet him as Ruby. I was Gisselle! It stopped me cold in my tracks.
Aubrey brought him to the study. Louis had grown a bit heavier since I had last seen him, but his face had matured, his cheeks and chin somewhat leaner. He wore his dark brown hair longer and swept back on the sides. He was still quite a handsome man with a strong, sensuous mouth and a perfectly straight Roman nose. The only real change was, he wore a pair of glasses with the thickest lenses I'd ever seen.
"Thank you for seeing me, Madame Andreas," he said. I approached him and gave him my hand in greeting. "I don't know if you remember me or not. I was very friendly with your sister, Ruby," he said, and I realized he had heard the news and thought I was Gisselle.
"Yes, I know. Please, have a seat, Mr. Turnbull."
"Just call me Louis," he said, and went to the settee across from my chair. I sat and gazed at him for a moment, wondering if I could just blurt out the truth. I felt my stomach churn with frustration. It was as if hundreds of soap bubbles were popping inside.
"I have just returned from Europe," he explained, "where I studied music and performed."
"Performed?"
"Yes, in some of the finest concert halls," he said. "As soon as I arrived in New Orleans, I made some inquiries and was told the dreadful story about your sister. The fact is, I'm going to perform here in New Orleans this coming Saturday at the Theater of the Performing Arts in Louis Armstrong Park on St. Ann Street. I had been hoping your sister would be in the audience." He paused.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I know how much she would have wanted to be there."
"Do you?" He studied me a moment and then added, "I brought along a couple of tickets for you and Monsieur Andreas, should you wish to attend." He took them out and laid them on the table.
"Thank you."
"Now," he said, his face turning glum, "please be so kind as to tell me about your sister. What dreadful thing has happened?"
"She was infected with a virus that causes a severe form of encephalitis," I said. "She is in a hospital in a coma, and I'm afraid the outlook is bleak."
He nodded. I had confirmed what he knew and feared.
"I
see your eyesight has been completely restored. My sister told me about you," I added quickly.
"My vision is now as good as it would have been had I suffered no problems, but as you can tell from these glasses, I wasn't born to have the best eyesight anyway. As long as I can see the pages and write my notes, I'm fine," he added, and smiled. "That's what I'm doing here Saturday night, you know, playing original compositions. I think you might be very interested in one. I wrote it for your sister. It's Ruby's Symphony."
"Yes," I said. A lump came to choke my throat and a tiny tear trickled from my right eye and then one from my left. I wondered if his eyes permitted him to see something as small. He fixed his gaze on me for a moment without speaking.
"Pardon, madame, I mean no disrespect, but Monsieur Andreas," he said, "was he not your sister's boyfriend?"
"Once," I said softly.
"I knew she was quite in love with him. You see, I was in love with her and she made sure to let me know her heart already belonged to another and nothing I could do or say would ever change that. Such a strong love is rare, I thought, but I understand she married someone else?"
"Yes." My eyes skipped guiltily away. Like a raging river against a dam, my story longed to gush forward.
"And had a child, a daughter?" he continued.
"Yes. Her name is Pearl. She is living here with me now."
"Ruby's husband is quite distraught, I imagine."
I nodded. "How is your grandmother, Madame Clairborne?" I asked.
"My grandmother passed away three months ago."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"Yes. She suffered more than anyone knew. Her life, despite her wealth, was not a happy life. But she lived to see me regain my sight and play in great concert halls."
"That must have made her very happy. And your cousin, the Iron Lady who ran Greenwood? Is she still lording it over all the young women?"
He smiled. "No. My cousin retired shortly after my grandmother's passing and was replaced by a much gentler and kinder woman, Mrs. Waverly." He smiled. "Your family doesn't have to be afraid of sending Pearl there someday."
"That's good," I said.
He took out a pen and a pad. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to give me the name and address of the hospital where your sister is being treated. I would like to send some flowers."
I told him and he jotted it down.
"Well, I don't want to take up any more of your time. This is a trying period for you and your family." He stood up and I rose slowly. He picked up the tickets and brought them to me, placing them in my hands. "I hope you and your husband will be able to attend the concert," he said. He held on to my fingers and fixed his dark brown eyes on mine with such intensity, I had to look down. When I looked up again, he was smiling. "You will recognize the piece, I'm sure," he whispered.
"Louis . ."
"I ask no questions, madame. I hope only that you will be in the audience."
"I will."
"Very good then."
I walked him to the front door, where Aubrey gave him his hat. Then Louis turned to me.
"I want you to know that your sister was a major influence on my life. She touched me deeply and restored my desire not only to live, but to continue my music. Her sweet, innocent nature, her pure outlook on things, restored my own faith in life and has given me the inspiration to write what I hope people will consider significant music. You should be very proud of her."
"I am," I said.
"We'll all pray for her, then."
"Yes, we'll all pray," I said. The tears were trickling down my cheeks, but I made no attempt to wipe them away. "God bless you," I whispered, and Louis nodded and left. My heart sunk in my chest like a rock in the swamp canal. I finally wiped away my tears.
One lie spawns another,
Grandmere Catherine used to say.
And then the lies feed upon each other like snakes feasting on their young.
How many more lies would I have to tell? How much deeper did my deceptions have to go before I could live in peace with the man I loved? Louis knew the truth, discerned who I was. It made perfect sense. He had known me mostly through my voice, my touch. He had gone beneath the surface because the surface was dark to him, so he recognized me instantly. And yet he understood there were reasons for the switch of identities and he didn't challenge or do anything to jeopardize the intricate illusion Beau and I had conceived and performed. Louis cared for me too much to ask embarrassing questions.
When Beau returned home that day, I told him about Louis's visit.
"I remember him, remember you talking about him all the time. Do you think he'll keep what he knows to himself?"
"Oh yes, Beau. Absolutely."
"Perhaps we shouldn't attend that concert," Beau suggested.
"I must go. He expects me to and I want to go." I spoke so firmly that Beau raised his eyebrows. He thought a moment.
"It's not the sort of thing Gisselle would attend," he warned.
"I'm tired of doing only the things Gisselle would do; tired of thinking only the thoughts she would think and saying only the things she would say. I feel like a prisoner trapped in my sister's identity!" I cried.
"All right, Ruby."
"I keep myself locked up in this house most of the time out of fear that I might go out and say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing without you at my side," I continued, my voice shrill.
"I understand."
"No, you don't. It's torture," I insisted.
"We'll go to the concert. If anyone asks, you're doing it for me, that's all," he concluded.
"Sure. I'm the stupid, crass, and insensitive one, a lump of. . . upper-class, spoiled flesh and bones," I moaned. Beau laughed. "Well?"