"Beau," she began, "why are you late and what's this about a surprise guest?" she demanded. She whirled to confront me, putting her fists on her hips before she turned in my direction. Even though I knew what to expect, the reality of seeing my face on someone else took my breath away. Gisselle Dumas gasped and brought her hand to her throat.
Fifteen years and some months after the day we were born, we met again.
11
Just Like Cinderella
"Who is she?" Gisselle demanded, her eyes quickly moving from wide orbs of amazement to narrow slits of suspicion.
"Anyone can see she's your twin sister," Beau replied. "Her name is Ruby."
Gisselle grimaced and shook her head.
"What sort of a practical joke are you playing now, Beau Andreas?" she demanded. Then she approached me and we stared into each other's faces.
I imagined she was doing what I was doing—searching for the differences; but they were hard to see at first glance. We were identical twins. Our hair was the same shade, our eyes emerald green, our eyebrows exactly the same. Neither of our faces had any tiny scars, nor dimples, nothing that would quickly distinguish one of us from the other. Her cheeks, her chin, her mouth, all were precisely the same shape as mine. Not only did all of our facial features correspond, but we were just about the same height as well. And our bodies had matured and developed as if we had been cast from one mold.
But on second glance, a more scrutinizing second glance, a perceptive inspector would discern differences in our facial expressions and in our demeanor. Gisselle held herself more aloof, more arrogantly. There seemed to be no timidity in her. She had inherited Grandmère Catherine's steel spine, I thought. Her gaze was unflinching and she had a way of tucking in the right corner of her mouth disdainfully.
"Who are you?" she queried sharply.
"My name is Ruby, Ruby Landry, but it should be Ruby Dumas," I said.
Gisselle, still incredulous, still waiting for some sensible explanation for the confusion her eyes were bringing to her brain, turned to Nina Jackson, who crossed herself quickly.
"I am going to light a black candle," she said, and started away, muttering a voodoo prayer.
"Beau!" Gisselle said, stamping her foot.
He laughed and shrugged with his arms out. "I swear I've never seen her before tonight. I found her standing outside the gate when I drove up. She came from . . . where did you say it was?"
"Houma," I said. "In the bayou."
"She's a Cajun girl."
"I can see that, Beau. I don't understand this," she said, now shaking her head at me, her eyes swimming in tears of frustration.
"I'm sure there's a logical explanation," Beau said. "I think I'd better go fetch your parents."
Gisselle continued to stare at me.
"How can I have a twin sister?" she demanded. I wanted to tell her all of it, but I thought it might be better for our father to explain. "Where are you going, Beau?" she cried when he turned to leave.
"To get your father and mother, like I said."
"But . . ." She looked at me and then at him. "But what about the ball?"
"The ball? How can you go running off to the ball now?" he asked, nodding in my direction.
"But I bought this new dress especially for it and I have a wonderful mask and . . ." She embraced herself and glared at me. "How can this happen!" she cried, the tears now streaming down her cheeks. She clasped her hands into small fists and slapped her arms against her sides. "And tonight of all nights!"
"I'm sorry," I said softly. "I didn't realize it was Mardi Gras when I started for New Orleans today, but—"
"You didn't realize it was Mardi Gras!" she chortled. "Oh, Beau."
"Take it easy, Gisselle," he said, returning to embrace her. She buried her face in his shoulder for a moment. As he stroked her hair, he gazed at me, still smiling. "Take it easy," he soothed.
"I can't take it easy," Gisselle insisted, and stamped her foot again as she pulled back. She glared at me angrily now. "It's just some coincidence, some stupid coincidence someone discovered. She was sent here to . . . to embezzle money out of us. That's it, isn't it?" she accused.
I shook my head.
"This is too much to be a coincidence, Gisselle. I mean, just look at the two of you," Beau insisted.
"There are differences. Her nose is longer and her lips look thinner and . . . and her ears stick out more than mine do."
Beau laughed and shook his head.
"Someone sent you here to steal from us, didn't they? Didn't they?" Gisselle demanded, her fists on her hips again and her legs spread apart.
"No. I came myself. It was a promise I made to Grandmère Catherine."
"Who's Grandmère Catherine?" Gisselle asked, grimacing as if she had swallowed sour milk. "Someone from Storyville?"
"No, someone from Houma," I said.
"And a Traiteur," Beau added. I could see he was enjoying Gisselle's discomfort. He enjoyed teasing her. "Oh, this is just so ridiculous. I do not intend to miss the best Mardi Gras all because some . . . Cajun girl who looks a little like me has arrived and claims to be my twin sister," she snapped.
"Looks a little . . ." Beau shook his head. "When I first saw her, I thought it was you."
"Me? How could you think that . . . that," she said, gesturing at me, "this . . . this person was me? Look at how she's dressed. Look at her shoes!"
"I thought it was your costume," he explained. I wasn't happy hearing my clothes described as someone's costume. "Beau, do you think I'd ever put on something as plain as that, even as a costume?"
"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" I asked, assuming an indignant tone myself.
"It looks homemade," Gisselle said after she condescended to gaze at my skirt and blouse once more.
"It is homemade. Grandmère Catherine made both the skirt and blouse."
"See," she said, turning back to Beau. He nodded and saw how I was fuming.
"I'd better go fetch your parents."
"Beau Andreas, if you leave this house without taking me to the Mardi Gras Ball . . ."
"I promise we'll go after this is straightened out," he said.
"It will never be straightened out. It's a horrible, horrible joke. Why don't you get out of here!" she screamed at me.
"How can you send her away?" Beau demanded.
"Oh, you're a monster, Beau Andreas. A monster to do this to me," she cried, and ran back to the stairway.
"Gisselle!"
"I'm sorry," I said. "I told you I shouldn't have come in. I didn't mean to ruin your evening."
He looked at me a moment and then shook his head.
"How can she blame me? Look," he said, "just go into the living room and make yourself comfortable. I know where Pierre and Daphne are. It won't take but a few minutes and they'll come here to see you. Don't worry about Gisselle," he said, backing up. "Just wait in the living room." He turned and hurried out, leaving me alone, never feeling more like a stranger. Could I ever call this house my home? I wondered as I started toward the living room.
I was afraid to touch anything, afraid even to walk on the expensive looking big Persian oval rug that extended from the living room doorway, under the two large sofas and beyond. The high windows were draped in scarlet velvet with gold ties and the walls were papered in a delicate floral design, the hues matching the colors in the soft cushion high back chairs and the sofas. On the thick mahogany center table were two thick crystal vases. The lamps on the side tables looked very old and valuable. There were paintings on all the walls, some landscapes of plantations and some street scenes from the French Quarter. Above the marble fireplace was the portrait of a distinguished looking old gentleman, his hair and full beard a soft gray. His dark eyes seemed to swing my way and hold.
I lowered myself gently in the corner of the sofa on my right and sat rigidly, clinging to my little bag and gaping about the room, looking at the statues, the figurines in the curio case, and the other pictures o
n the walls. I was afraid to look at the portrait of the man above the fireplace again. He seemed so accusatory.
A hickory wood grandfather's clock that looked as old as time itself ticked in the corner, its numbers all Roman. Otherwise, the great house was silent. Occasionally, I thought I heard a thumping above me and wondered if that was Gisselle storming back and forth in her room.
My heart, which had been racing and drumming ever since I let Beau Andreas lead me into the house, calmed. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Had I done a dreadful thing coming here? Was I about to destroy some-one else's life? Why was Grandmère Catherine so sure this was the right thing for me to do? My twin sister obviously resented my very existence? What was to keep my father from doing the same? My heart teetered on the edge of a precipice, ready to plunge and die if he came into this house and rejected me.
Shortly after, I heard the sound of Edgar Farrar's footsteps as he raced down the corridor to open the front door. I heard other voices and people hurrying in.
"In the living room, monsieur," Beau Andreas called, and a moment later my eyes took in my real father's face. How many times had I sat before my mirror and imagined him by transposing my own facial features onto the blank visage I conjured before me? Yes, he had the same soft green eyes and we had the same shaped nose and chin. His face was leaner, firmer, his forehead rolled back gently under the shock of thick chestnut hair brushed back at the sides with just a small pompadour at the front.
He was tall, at least six feet two, and had a slim but firm looking torso with shoulders that sloped gracefully into his arms, the physique of a tennis player, easily discernable in his Mardi Gras costume: a tight fitting silver outfit designed to resemble a suit of armor, such as those worn by medieval knights. He had the helmet in his arms. He fastened his gaze on me and his face went from a look of surprise and astonishment to a smile of happy amazement.
Before a word was spoken, Daphne Dumas came up beside him. She wore a bright blue tunic with long, tight sleeves, the skirt of which had a long train and an embroidered gold fringe. It fit closely down to her hips, but was wider after. It was buttoned in front from top to bottom. Over it, she wore a cloak, low at the neck and fastened with a diamond clasp at the right breast. She looked like a princess from a fairy tale.
She was nearly six feet tall herself and stood as correct as a fashion model. With her beautiful looks, her slim, curvaceous figure, she could have easily been one. Her pale reddish blond hair lay softly over her shoulders, not a strand disobedient. She had big, light blue eyes and a mouth I couldn't have drawn more perfectly. It was she who spoke first after she took a good look at me.
"Is this some sort of joke, Beau, something you and Gisselle concocted for Mardi Gras?"
"No, madame," Beau said.
"It's no joke," my father said, stepping into the room and not swinging his eyes from me for an instant. "This is not Gisselle. Hello," he said.
"Hello." We continued to stare at each other, neither able to shift his gaze, he appearing as eager to visually devour me as I was to devour him.
"You found her on our doorstep?" Daphne asked Beau.
"Yes, madame," he replied. "She was turning away, losing her courage to knock on the front door and present herself," he revealed. Finally, I swung my eyes to Daphne and saw a look in her face that seemed to suggest she wished I had.
"I'm glad you came along, Beau," Pierre said. "You did the right thing. Thank you."
Beau beamed. My father's appreciation and approval were obviously very important to him.
"You came from Houma?" my father asked. I nodded and Daphne Dumas gasped and brought her hands to her chest. She and my father exchanged a look and then Daphne gestured toward Beau with her head.
"Why don't you see how Gisselle is getting along, Beau?" Pierre asked firmly.
"Yes, sir," Beau said, and quickly marched away. My father moved in 'closer and then sat on the sofa across from me. Daphne closed the two large doors softly and turned in expectation.
"You told them your last name is Landry?" my father began. I nodded.
"Mon Dieu," Daphne said. She swallowed hard and reached for the edge of a high back velvet chair to steady herself.
"Easy," my father said, rising quickly to go to her. He embraced her and guided her into the chair. She sat back, her eyes closed. "Are you all right?" he asked her. She nodded without speaking. Then he turned back to me.
"Your grandfather. . . his name is Jack?"
"Yes."
"He's a swamp trapper, a guide?"
I nodded.
"How could they have done this, Pierre?" Daphne cried softly. "It's ghastly. All these years!"
"I know, I know," my father said. "Let me get at the core of this, Daphne." He turned back to me, his eyes still soft, but now troubled, too. "Ruby. That is your name?" I nodded. "Tell us what you know about all this and why you have presented yourself at this time. Please," he added.
"Grandmère Catherine told me about my mother . . . how she became pregnant and then how Grandpère Jack arranged for my sister's . . . "—I wanted to say "sale," but I thought it sounded too harsh—". . . my sister's coming to live with you. Grandmère Catherine was not happy about the arrangements. She and Grandpère Jack stopped living together soon afterward."
My father shifted his eyes to Daphne, who closed and opened hers. Then he fixed his gaze on me again.
"Go on," he said.
"Grandmère Catherine kept the fact that my mother was pregnant with twins a secret, even from Grandpère Jack. She decided I was to live with her and my mother, but . . ." Even now, even though I had never set eyes on my mother or heard her voice, just mentioning her death brought tears to my eyes and choked back the words.
"But what?" my father begged.
"But my mother died soon after Gisselle and I were born," I revealed. My father's cheeks turned crimson. I saw his breath catch and his own eyes tear over, but he quickly regained his composure, glanced at Daphne again, and then turned back to me.
"I'm sorry to hear that," he uttered, his voice nearly cracking.
"Not long ago, my Grandmère Catherine died. She made me promise that if something bad happened to her, 1 would go to New Orleans and present myself to you rather than live with Grandpère Jack," I said. My father nodded.
"1 knew him slightly, but I can understand why your grandmother didn't want you to live with him," he said.
"Don't you have any other relatives . . . aunts, uncles?" Daphne asked quickly.
"No, madame," I said. "Or at least, none that I know of in Houma. My grandfather talked of his relatives who live in other bayous, but Grandmère Catherine never liked us to associate with them."
"How dreadful," Daphne said, shaking her head. 1 wasn't sure if she meant my family life or the present situation.
"This is amazing. I have two daughters," Pierre said, allowing himself a smile. It was a handsome smile. I felt myself start to relax. Under his warm gaze the tension drained out of me. I couldn't help thinking he was so much the father I'd always wanted, a soft-spoken, kindly man.
But Daphne flashed him a cool, chastising look.
"Double the embarrassment, too," she reminded him.
"What? Oh, yes, of course. I'm glad you've finally revealed yourself," he told me, "but it does present us with a trifle of a problem."
"A trifle of a problem? A trifle!" Daphne cried. Her chin quivered.
"Well, somewhat more serious, I'm afraid." My father sat back, pensive.
"I don't mean to be a burden to anyone," I said, and stood up quickly. "I'll return to Houma. There are friends of my Grandmère's."
"That's a fine idea," Daphne said quickly. "We'll arrange for transportation, give you some money. Why, we'll even send her some money from time to time, won't we, Pierre? You can tell your grandmother's friends that—"
"No," Pierre said, his eyes fixed so firmly on me, I felt like his thoughts were traveling through them and into my heart. "I can't send my own
daughter away."
"But it's not as if she is your daughter in actuality, Pierre. You haven't known her a day since her birth and neither have I. She's been brought up in an entirely different world," Daphne pleaded. But my father didn't appear to hear her. With his gaze still fixed on me, he spoke.
"I knew your grandmother better than I knew your grandfather. She was a very special woman with special powers," he said.
"Really, Pierre," Daphne interrupted.
"No, Daphne, she was. She was what Cajuns call. . . a Traiteur, right?" he asked me. I nodded. "If she thought it was best for you to come here, she must have had some special reasons, some insights, spiritual guidance," Pierre said.
"You can't be serious, Pierre," Daphne said. "You don't put any validity in those pagan beliefs. Next thing, you'll be telling me you believe in Nina's voodoo."
"I never reject it out of hand, Daphne. There are mysteries that logic, reason, and science can't explain," he told her. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply.
"How do you propose to handle this . . . this situation, Pierre? How do we explain her to our friends, to society?" she asked. I was still standing, afraid to take a step away, yet afraid to sit down again, too. I clung so hard to my little bit of possessions, my knuckles turned white while my father thought.
"Nina wasn't with us when Gisselle was supposedly born," he began. "We had that mulatto woman, Tituba, remember?"
"I remember. I remember hating her. She was too sloppy and too lazy and she frightened me with her silly superstitions," Daphne recalled. "Dropping pinches of salt everywhere, burning clothing in a barrel with chicken droppings . . . at least Nina keeps her beliefs private."
"And so we let Tituba go right after Gisselle was supposedly born, remember? At least, that was what we told the public."
"What are you getting at, Pierre? How does that relate to this trifling problem?" she asked caustically.
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