Ruby l-1

by V. C. Andrews

  I strolled on slowly, drinking in the opulence and wondering how one family could live in each of these grand houses with such beautiful grounds. How could anyone be so rich? I wondered. I was so entranced, so mesmerized by the wealth and the beauty, I almost walked right past the address on my slip of paper. When I stopped and looked up at the Dumas residence, I could only stand and gape stupidly. Its out-buildings, gardens, and stables occupied most of this block. All of it was surrounded by a fence in cornstalk pattern.

  This was my real father's home, but the ivory white mansion that loomed before me looked more like a house built for a Greek god. It was a two-story building with tall columns, the tops of which were shaped like inverted bells decorated with leaves. There were two galeries, an enormous one before the main entrance and another above it. Each had a different decorative cast iron railing, the one on the bottom showing flowers and the one above, showing fruits.

  I strolled along the walk, circling the house and grounds. I saw the pool and the tennis court and continued to gape in awe. There was something magical here. It seemed as if I had entered my dreamland of eternal spring. Two gray squirrels paused in their foray for food and stared out at me, more curious than afraid. The air smelled of green bamboo and gardenias. Blooming azaleas, yellow and red roses, and hibiscus were everywhere in view. The trellises and the gazebo were covered with trumpet vine and clumps of purple wisteria. Redwood boxes on railings and sills were thick with petunias.

  Right now the house was lit up, all of its windows bright. Slowly, I made a full circle and then paused at the front gate; but as I stood there gaping, drinking in the elegance and grandeur, I began to wonder what I could have been thinking to have traveled this far and come to this house. Surely the people who lived within such a mansion were so different from me, I might as well have gone to another country where people spoke a different language. My heart sank. A throbbing pain in my head stabbed sharply. What was I doing here, me, a nobody, an orphan Cajun girl who had deluded herself into believing there was a rainbow just waiting for me at the end of my storm of trouble? I knew now that I would have to find my way back to the bus station and return to Houma.

  Dejected, my head lowered, I turned from the house and started to walk away when suddenly, seemingly coming from out of the thin air, a small, fire engine red, convertible sports car squeaked to an abrupt stop right in front of me. The driver hopped over the door. He was a tall young man with a shock of shiny golden hair that now fell wildly over his smooth forehead. Despite his blond strands, he had a dark complexion which only made his cerulean eyes glimmer that much more in the glow of the street lamp. Dressed in a tuxedo, his shoulders back, his torso slim, he appeared before me like a prince—gallant, elegant, strong, for the features of his handsome face did seem carved out of some royal heritage.

  He had a strong and perfect mouth and a Roman nose, perfectly straight, to go along with those dazzling blue eyes. The lines of his jaw turned up sharply, enhancing the impression that his face had been etched out to duplicate the face of some movie star idol. I was breathless for a moment, unable to move under the radiance of his warm and attractive smile, which quickly turned into a soft laugh.

  "Where do you think you're going?" he asked. "And what sort of costume is this? Are you playing the poor girl or what?" he asked, stepping around me as if judging me in some fashion contest.

  "Pardon?"

  My question threw him into a fit of hysterics. He clutched his side and leaned back on the hood of his sports car. "That's great," he said. "I love it. Pardon?" he mimicked. "I don't think it's so funny," I said indignantly, but that just made him laugh again.

  "I'd never expect you to choose anything like this," he said, holding his graceful hand out toward me, palm up. "And where did you get that bag, a thrift shop? What's in it anyway, more rags?"

  I pulled my bag against my stomach and straightened up quickly.

  "These aren't rags," I retorted. He started to laugh again. It seemed I could do nothing, say nothing, gaze at him in no way without causing him to become hysterical. "What's so funny? These happen to be my sole belongings right now," I emphasized. He shook his head and held his wide smile.

  "Really, Gisselle, you're perfect. I swear," he said, holding up his hand to take an oath, "this is the best you've ever come up with, and that indignant attitude to go along with it . . . you're going to win the prize for sure. All of your girlfriends will die with envy. Brilliant. And to surprise me, too. I love it."

  "First," I began, "my name is not Gisselle."

  "Oh," he said, still holding a grin as if he were humoring a mad woman, "and what name have you chosen?"

  "My name is Ruby," I said.

  "Ruby? I like that," he said, looking thoughtful. "Ruby . . . a jewel . . . to describe your hair. Well, your hair has always been your most prized possession, aside from your real diamonds and rubies, emeralds, and pearls, that is. And your clothes and your shoes," he cataloged with a laugh. "So," he said, straightening up and changing to a serious face, "I'm to introduce you to everyone as Mademoiselle Ruby, is that it?"

  "I don't care what you do," I said. "I certainly don't expect you to introduce me to anyone," I added and started away.

  "Huh?" he cried. I started to cross the street when he walked quickly behind me and seized my right elbow. "What are you doing? Where are you going?" he asked, his face now contorted in confusion.

  "I'm going home," I said.

  "Home? Where's home?"

  "I'm returning to Houma, if you must know," I said. "Now, if you will be so kind as to let me go, I—"

  "Houma? What?" He stared at me a moment and then, instead of releasing me, he seized my other arm at the elbow and turned me fully around so that I would be in the center of the pool of light created by the street lamp. He studied me for a moment, those soft eyes, now troubled and intense as he swept his gaze over my face. "You do look . . . different," he muttered. "And not in cosmetic ways either. I don't understand, Gisselle."

  "I told you," I said. "I'm not anyone named Gisselle. My name is Ruby. I come from Houma."

  He continued to stare, but still held me at the elbows. Then he shook his head and smiled again.

  "Come on, Gisselle. I'm sorry I'm a little late, but you're carrying this too far. I admit it's a great costume and disguise. What else do you want from me?" he pleaded.

  "I'd like you to let go of my arms," I said. He did so and stepped back, his confusion now becoming indignation and anger.

  "What's going on here?" he demanded. I took a deep breath and looked back at the house. "If you're not Gisselle, then what were you doing in front of the house? Why are you on this street?"

  "I was going to knock on the door and introduce myself to Pierre Dumas, but I've changed my mind," I said.

  "Introduce yourself to . . ." He shook his head and stepped toward me again.

  "Let me see your left hand," he asked quickly. "Come on," he added, and reached for it. I held out my hand and he gazed at my fingers for a moment. Then, when he looked up at me, his face twisted in shock. "You never take off that ring, never," he said, more to himself than to me. "And your fingers," he said, looking at my hand again, "your whole hand is rougher." He released me quickly, as quickly as he would had my hand been a hot coal. "Who are you?"

  "I told you. My name is Ruby."

  "But you look just like . . . you're the spitting image of Gisselle," he said.

  "Oh. So that's her name," I said more to myself than to him. "Gisselle."

  "Who are you?" he asked again, now gazing at me as if I were a ghost. "I mean, what are you to the Dumas family? A cousin? What? I demand that you tell me or I'll call the police," he added firmly.

  "I'm Gisselle's sister," I confessed in a breath.

  "Gisselle's sister? Gisselle has no sister," he replied, still speaking in a stern voice. Then he paused a moment, obviously impressed with the resemblances. "At least, none I knew about," he said.

  "I'm fairly sure Gi
sselle doesn't know about me either," I said.

  "Really? But . . ."

  "It's too long of a story to tell you and I don't know why I should tell you anything anyway," I said.

  "But if you're Gisselle's sister, why are you leaving? Why are you going back to . . . where'd you say, Houma?"

  "I thought I could do this, introduce myself, but I find I can't."

  "You mean, the Dumas don't know you're here yet?" I shook my head. "Well, you can't just leave without telling them you're in New Orleans. Come on," he said, reaching for my hand. "I'll bring you in myself."

  I shook my head and stepped back, more terrified than ever.

  "Come on," he said. "Look. My name's Beau Andreas. I'm a very good friend of the family. Actually, Gisselle is my girlfriend, but my parents and the Dumas have known each other for ages. I'm like a member of this family. That's why I'm so shocked by what you're saying. Come on," he chanted, and took my hand.

  "I've changed my mind," I said, shaking my head. "This isn't as good an idea as I first thought."

  "What isn't?"

  "Surprising them."

  "Mr. and Mrs. Dumas don't know you're coming?" he asked, his confusion building. I shook my head. "This is really bizarre. Gisselle doesn't know she has a twin sister and the Dumas don't know you're here. Well, why did you come all this way if you're only going to turn around and go right back?" he asked, his hands on his hips.

  "You're afraid, aren't you?" he said quickly. "That's it, you're afraid of them. Well, don't be. Pierre Dumas is a very nice man and Daphne . . . she is nice, too. Gisselle," he said, smiling, "is Gisselle. To tell you the truth, I can't wait to see the expression on her face when she comes face-to-face with you."

  "I can," I said, and turned away.

  "I'll just run in and tell them you were here and you're running away," he threatened. "Someone will come after you and it will all be far more embarrassing."

  "You wouldn't," I said.

  "Of course I would," he replied, smiling. "So you might as well do it the right way." He held out his hand. I looked back at the house and then at him. His eyes were friendly, although a bit impish. Reluctantly, my heart thumping so hard I thought it would take my breath away and cause me to faint before I reached the front door, I took his hand and let him lead me back to the gate and up the walk to the grand galerie. There was a tile stairway.

  "How did you get here?" he asked before we reached the door.

  "The bus," I said. He lifted the ball and hammer knocker and let the sound echo through what I imagined, from the sound of the reverberation within, was an enormous entryway. A few moments later, the door was opened and we faced a mulatto man in a butler's uniform. He wasn't short, but he wasn't tall either. He had a round face with large dark eyes and a somewhat pug nose. His dark brown hair was curly and peppered with gray strands. There were dime-size brown spots on his cheeks and forehead and his lips were slightly orange.

  "Good evening, Monsieur Andreas," he said, then shifted his gaze to me. The moment he set eyes on me, he dropped his mouth. "But Mademoiselle Gisselle, I just saw you . . ." He turned around and looked behind him. Beau Andreas laughed.

  "This isn't Mademoiselle Gisselle, Edgar. Edgar, I'd like you to meet Ruby. Ruby, Edgar Farrar, the Dumas' butler. Are Mr. and Mrs. Dumas in, Edgar?" he asked.

  "Oh, no, sir. They left for the ball about an hour ago," he said, his eyes still fixed on me.

  "Well then, there's nothing to do but wait for them to return. Until then, you can visit with Gisselle," Beau told me. He guided me into the great house.

  The entryway floor was a peach marble and the ceiling, which looked like it rose to at least twelve feet above me, had pictures of nymphs and angels, doves and blue sky painted over it. There were paintings and sculptures every-where I looked, but the wall to the right was covered by an enormous tapestry depicting a grand French palace and gardens.

  "Where is Mademoiselle Gisselle, Edgar?" Beau asked.

  "She's still upstairs," Edgar said.

  "I knew she would be pampering herself forever. I'm never late when it comes to escorting Gisselle anywhere," Beau told me. "Especially a Mardi Gras Ball. To Gisselle, being on time means being an hour late. Fashionably late, of course," he added. "Are you hungry, thirsty?"

  "No, I had half of a poor boy sandwich not so long ago," I said, and grimaced with the memory of what had nearly happened to me.

  "You didn't like it?" Beau asked.

  "No, it wasn't that. Someone . . . a stranger I trusted, attacked me in an alley on the way here," I confessed. "What? Are you all right?" he asked quickly.

  "Yes. I got away before anything terrible happened, but it was quite frightening."

  "I'll bet. The back streets in New Orleans can be quite dangerous during Mardi Gras. You shouldn't have wandered around by yourself." He turned to Edgar. "Where is Nina, Edgar?" he asked.

  "Just finishing up some things in the kitchen."

  "Good. Come on," Beau insisted. "I'll take you to the kitchen and Nina will give you something to drink at least. Edgar, would you be so kind as to inform Mademoiselle Gisselle that I've arrived with a surprise guest and we're in the kitchen?"

  "Very good, monsieur," Edgar said and headed for the beautiful curved stairway with soft carpeted steps and a shiny mahogany balustrade.

  "This way," Beau said. He directed me through the entryway, past one beautiful room after another, each filled with antiques and expensive French furniture and paintings. It looked more like a museum to me than a home.

  The kitchen was as large as I expected it would be with long counters and tables, big sinks, and walls of cabinets. Everything gleamed. It looked so immaculate, even the older appliances appeared brand-new. Wrapping leftovers in cellophane was a short, plump black woman in a brown cotton dress with a full white apron. She had her back to us.

  The strands of her ebony hair were pulled tightly into a thick bun behind her head, but she wore a white kerchief, too. As she worked, she hummed. Beau Andreas knocked on the doorjamb and she spun around quickly.

  "I didn't want to frighten you, Nina," he said.

  "That'll be the day when you can frighten Nina Jackson, Monsieur Andreas," she said, nodding. She had small dark eyes set close to her nose. Her mouth was small and almost lost in her plump cheeks and above her round jaw, but she had beautifully soft skin that glowed under the kitchen fixtures. Ivory earrings shaped like seashells clung to her small lobes.

  "Mademoiselle, you changed again?" she asked incredulously.

  Beau laughed. "This isn't Gisselle," he said.

  Nina tilted her head.

  "Go on with you, monsieur. That t'aint enough of a disguise to fool Nina Jackson."

  "No, I'm serious, Nina. This isn't Gisselle," Beau insisted. "Her name is Ruby. Look closely," he told her. "If anyone could tell the difference, it would be you. You practically brought up Gisselle," he said.

  She smirked, wiped her hands on her apron, and crossed the kitchen to get closer. I saw she wore a small pouch around her neck on a black shoestring. For a moment she stared into my face. Her black eyes narrowed, burned into mine, and then widened. She stepped back and seized the small pouch between her right thumb and forefinger so she could hold it out between us.

  "Who you be, girl?" she demanded.

  "My name is Ruby," I said quickly, and shifted my eyes to Beau, who was still smiling impishly.

  "Nina is warding off any evil with the voodoo power in that little sack, aren't you, Nina?"

  She looked at him and at me and then dropped the sack to her chest again.

  "This here, five finger grass," she said. "It can ward off any evil that five fingers can bring, you hear?"

  I nodded.

  "Who this be?" she asked Beau.

  "It's Gisselle's secret sister," he said. "Obviously, twin sister," he added. Nina stared at me again.

  "How do you know that?" she asked, taking another step back. "My Grandmère, she told me once about a zombie m
ade to look like a woman. Everyone stuck pins in the zombie and the woman screamed in pain until she died in her bed."

  Beau roared.

  "I'm not a zombie doll," I said. Still suspicious, Nina stared.

  "I daresay if you stick pins in her, Nina, she'll be the one to scream, not Gisselle." His smile faded and he grew serious. "She's traveled here from Houma, Nina, but on the way to the house, she had a bad experience. Someone tried to attack her in an alley."

  Nina nodded as if she already knew.

  "She's actually quite frightened and upset," Beau said.

  "Sit you down, girl," Nina said, pointing to a chair by the table. "I'll get you something to make your stomach sit still. You hungry, too?"

  I shook my head.

  "Did you know Gisselle had a sister?" Beau asked her as she went to prepare something for me to drink. She didn't respond for a moment. Then she turned.

  "I don't know anything I'm not supposed to know," she replied. Beau lifted his eyebrows. I saw Nina mix what looked like a tablespoon of blackstrap molasses into a glass of milk with a raw egg and some kind of powder. She mixed it vigorously and brought it back.

  "Drink this in one gulp, no air," she prescribed. I stared at the liquid.

  "Nina usually cures everyone of anything around here," Beau said. "Don't be afraid."

  "My Grandmère could do this, too," I said. "She was a Traiteur."

  "Your Grandmère, a Traiteur?" Nina asked. I nodded.

  "Then she was holy," she said, impressed. "Cajun Traiteur woman can blow the fire out of a burn and stop bleeding with the press of her palm," Nina explained to Beau.

  "I guess she's not a zombie girl then, huh?" Beau asked with a smile. Nina paused.

  "Maybe not," she said, still looking at me with some suspicion. "Drink," she commanded, and I did what she said even though it didn't taste great, I felt it bubble in my stomach for a moment and then I did feel a soothing sensation.

  "Thank you," I said. I turned with Beau to look at the doorway when we heard the footsteps coming down the hall. A moment later, Gisselle Dumas appeared, dressed in a beautiful red, bare shoulder satin gown with her long red hair brushed until it shone. It was about as long as mine. She wore dangling diamond earrings and a matching diamond necklace set in gold.