Ruby l-1

by V. C. Andrews

  "It will be something fresh to see someone appreciate everything around here again. So often, things are taken for granted," he explained.

  "I'll never take anything for granted again," I promised.

  "We'll see. Wait until Gisselle works you over. Well, I see you've been brought a nightgown to use and there's a pair of slippers beside the bed." He opened a closet and there was a pink silk robe hanging in it. "Here's a robe, too. You'll find all you need in the bathroom—new toothbrush, soaps, but should you need anything, just ask. I want you to treat this house as your home as soon as you can," he added.

  "Thank you."

  "Well, get comfortable and have a nice sleep. If you get up before the rest of us do, which is quite possible the morning after Mardi Gras, just go down to the kitchen and Nina will fix you some breakfast."

  I nodded and he said good night, closing the door softly behind him as he left.

  For a long moment I simply stood there gaping at everything. Was I really here, transported over time and distance into a new world, a world where I would have a real mother and father, and as soon as she could accept it, a real sister, too?

  I went into the bathroom and discovered the soaps scented with the fragrance of gardenias and the bottles of bubble bath powder. I drew myself a hot bath and luxuriated in the silky smoothness of the sweet-smelling bubbles. Afterward, I put on Gisselle's scented nightgown and crawled under the soft sheet and down bedspread.

  I felt like Cinderella.

  But just like Cinderella, I couldn't help feeling trepidation; I couldn't help being frightened by the ticking of the clock that swung its hands around to clasp them finally on the hour of twelve, the bewitching hour.

  Would it burst my bubble of happiness and turn my carriage into a pumpkin?

  Or would it tick on and on, making my claim to a fairy-tale existence that much more secure with each passing minute?

  Oh, Grandmère, I thought as my heavy eyelids began to shut, I'm here. I hope you're resting more comfortably because of it.

  12

  Blue-Blood Welcome

  I awoke to the sweet singing of blue jays and mockingbirds and for the first few moments, forgot where I was. My trip to New Orleans and all that had subsequently followed now seemed more like a dream. It must have rained for a while during the night for although the sun was beaming brightly through my windows, the breeze still smelled of rain and wet leaves as well as the redolent scents of the myriad of flowers and trees that surrounded the great house.

  I sat up slowly, drinking in my beautiful new room in the light of day. If anything, it looked even more wonderful. Although the furniture, the fixtures, and everything down to a jewelry box on the vanity table were antique, it all looked brand-new, too. It was almost as if this room had been recently prepared, everything polished and cleaned in anticipation of my arrival. Or that I had gone to sleep for years when all these things were brand-new and woken up without realizing time had stood still.

  I rose from bed and went to the windows. The sky was a patchwork quilt of soft vanilla clouds and light blue. Below the grounds people were vigorously at work clipping hedges, weeding flower beds, and mowing lawns. Someone was on the tennis court sweeping off the myrtle leaves and tiny branches that had probably been torn and blown in the rain, and another man was scooping the oak and banana tree leaves out of the pool.

  It was a wonderful day to start a new life, I decided. With my heart full of joy, I went to the bathroom, brushed my hair, and got dressed in a gray skirt and blouse I had brought in my little bag. I put all my precious possessions in the nightstand drawer and then slipped on my moccasins and left my room to go down to breakfast.

  It was very quiet in the house. All the other bedroom doors were shut tight, but as soon as I reached the top of the stairway, I heard the front door thrust open and slammed closed and saw Gisselle come charging into the house, unconcerned about how much noise she was making or whom she might waken.

  She threw off her cloak and a headdress of bright feathers, dropping it all on the table in the entryway, and then started for the stairway. I watched her walk halfway up with her head down. When she lifted it and saw me gazing down at her, she stopped.

  "Are you just coming in from the Mardi Gras Ball?" I asked, astounded.

  "Oh, I forgot all about you," she said, and followed it with a silly, thin laugh. There was something about the way she wobbled that led me to believe she had been drinking. "That's how good a time I had," she added with a flare. "And Beau was good enough not to mention your shocking appearance all night." Her expression turned sour, indignant as my question to her sunk in. "Of course I'm just coming home. Mardi Gras goes until dawn. It's expected. Don't think you can tell my parents anything they don't know and get me in trouble," she warned.

  "I don't want to get you in trouble. I was just . surprised. I've never done that."

  "Haven't you ever gone to a dance and enjoyed yourself, or don't they have such things in the bayou?" she asked with disdain.

  "Yes. We call them fais dodos," I told her. "But we don't stay out all night."

  "Fais dodos? Sounds like a good old time, two-stepping to the sounds of an accordion and a washboard." She smirked and continued to climb the stairs toward me.

  "They're usually nice dances with lots of good things to eat. Was the ball nice?" I asked.

  "Nice?" She paused on the step just below me and laughed again. "Nice? Nice is a word for a school party or an afternoon tea in the garden, but for a Mardi Gras Bail? It was more than nice; it was spectacular. Everyone was there," she added, stepping up. "And everyone ogled me and Bean with green eyes. We're considered the handsomest young Creole couple these days, you know. I don't know how many of my girlfriends begged me to let them have a dance with Beau, and all of them were dying to know where I had gotten this dress, but I wouldn't tell them."

  "It is a very pretty dress," I admitted.

  "Well, don't expect I'll let you borrow it now that you've stormed into our lives," she retorted, gathering her wits about her. "I still don't understand how you got here and who you are," she added with ice in her voice.

  "Your father . . . our father will explain," I said. She flicked me another of her scornful glances before throwing her hair back.

  "I doubt anyone can explain it, but I can't listen now anyway. I'm exhausted. I must sleep and I'm certainly not in the mood to hear about you right now." She started to turn but paused to look me over from foot to head. "Where did you get these clothes? Is everything you have handmade?" she asked contemptuously.

  "Not everything. I didn't bring much with me anyway," said.

  "Thank goodness for that." She yawned. "I’ve got to get some sleep. Beau's coming by late in the afternoon for tea. We like reviewing the night before, tearing everyone to shreds. If you're still here, you can sit and listen and learn."

  "Of course I'll still be here," I said. "This is my home now, too."

  "Please. I'm getting a headache," she said, pinching her temples with her thumb and forefinger. She turned and held her arm out toward me, her palm up. "No more. Young Creole women have to replenish themselves. We're more . . . feminine, dainty, like flowers that need the kiss of soft rain and the touch of warm sunlight. That's what Beau says." She stopped smiling at her own words and glared at me. "Don't you put on lipstick before you meet people?"

  "No. I don't own any lipstick," I said.

  "And Beau thinks we're twins."

  Unable to hold back, I flared. "We are!"

  "In your dreams maybe," she countered, and then sauntered to her bedroom. After she entered and closed her door, I went downstairs, pausing to admire her headdress and cloak. Why did she leave it here? Who picked up after her? I wondered.

  As if she heard my thoughts, a maid came out of the living room and marched down the corridor to retrieve Gisselle's things. She was a young black woman with beautiful, large brown eyes. I didn't think she was much older than I.

  "Good morning,." I
said.

  "Mornin'. You're the new girl who looks just like Gisselle?" she asked.

  "Yes. My name's Ruby."

  "I'm Wendy Williams," she said. She scooped up Gisselle's things, her eyes glued to me, and then walked away.

  I started down the corridor to the kitchen, but when I reached the dining room, I saw my father already seated at the long table. He was sipping coffee and reading the business section of the newspaper. The moment he saw me, he looked up and smiled.

  "Good morning. Come on in and sit down," he called. It was a very big dining room, almost as big as a Cajun meeting hall, I thought. Above the long table hung a shoo-fly, a great, wide fan unfurled at dinnertime and pulled to and fro by a servant to provide a breeze and do what it was named for: shoo away flies . . . I imagined it was there just for decoration. I had seen them before in rich Cajun homes where they had electric fans.

  "Here, sit down," my father said, tapping the place on his left. "From now on, this is your seat. Gisselle sits here on my right and Daphne sits at the other end."

  "She sits so far away," I remarked, gazing down the length of the rich, cherry wood table, polished so much I could see my face reflected in its surface. My father laughed.

  "Yes, but that's the way Daphne likes it. Or should I say, that's the proper seating arrangement. So, how did you sleep?" he asked as I took my seat.

  "Wonderfully. It's the most comfortable bed I've ever been in. I felt like I was sleeping on a cloud!"

  He smiled.

  "Gisselle wants me to buy her a new mattress. She claims hers is too hard, but if I get one any softer, she'll sink to the floor," he added, and we both laughed. I wondered if he had heard her come in and knew she had just returned from the ball. "Hungry?"

  "Yes," I said. My stomach was rumbling. He hit a bell and Edgar appeared from the kitchen.

  "You've met Edgar, correct?" he asked.

  "Oh, yes. Good morning, Edgar," I said. He bowed

  "Good morning, mademoiselle."

  "Edgar, have Nina prepare some of her blueberry pancakes for Mademoiselle Ruby, please. You'd like that, I expect?"

  "Yes, thank you," I said. My father nodded toward Edgar. "Very good, sir," Edgar said, and smiled at me.

  "Some orange juice? It's freshly squeezed," my father said, reaching for the pitcher.

  "Yes, thank you."

  "I don't think Daphne needs to worry about your manners. Grandmère Catherine did a fine job," he complimented. I couldn't help but shift my eyes away for a moment at the mention of Grandmère. "I bet you miss her a great deal."

  "Yes, I do."

  "No one can replace someone you love, but I hope I can fill some of the emptiness I know is in your heart," he said. "Well," he continued, sitting back, "Daphne is going to sleep late this morning, too." He winked. "And we know Gisselle will sleep away most of the day. Daphne says she'll take you shopping midafternoon. So that leaves just the two of us to spend the morning and lunch. How would you like me to show you around the city a bit?"

  "I'd love it. Thank you," I said.

  After breakfast, we got into his Rolls Royce and drove down the long driveway. I had never been in so luxurious an automobile before and sat gaping stupidly at the wood trim, running the palm of my hand over the soft leather.

  "Do you drive?" my father asked me.

  "Oh, no. I haven't even ridden in cars all that much. In the bayou we get around by walking or by poling pirogues."

  "Yes, I remember," he said, beaming a broad smile my way. "Gisselle doesn't drive either. She doesn't want to be bothered learning. The truth is she likes being carted around. But if you would like to learn how to drive, I'd be glad to teach you," he said.

  "I would. Thank you."

  He drove on through the Garden District, past many fine homes with grounds just as beautiful as ours, some with oleander-lined pike fences. There were fewer clouds now which meant the streets and beautiful flowers had fewer shadows looming over them. Sidewalks and tiled patios glittered. Here and there the gutters were full of pink and white camellias from the previous night's rain.

  "Some of these houses date back to the eighteen-forties," my father told me and leaned over to point to a house on our right. "Jefferson Davis, President of the Confederacy, died in that house in 1899. There's a lot of history here," he said proudly.

  We made a turn and paused as the olive green streetcar rattled past the palm trees on the esplanade. Then we followed St. Charles back toward the inner city.

  "I'm glad we had this opportunity to be alone for a while," he said. "Besides my showing you the city, it gives me a chance to get to know you and you a chance to get to know me. It took a great deal of courage for you to come to me," he said. The look on my face confirmed his suspicion. He cleared his throat and continued.

  "It will be hard for me to talk about your mother when someone else is around, especially Daphne. I think you understand why."

  I nodded.

  "I'm sure it's harder for you to understand right now how it all happened. Sometimes," he said, smiling to himself, "when I think about it, it does seem like something I dreamt."

  It was as though he were talking in a dream. His eyes were glazed and far away, his voice smooth, easy, relaxed.

  "I must tell you about my younger brother, Jean. He was always much different from me, far more outgoing, energetic, a handsome Don Juan if there ever was one," he added, breaking into a soft smile. "I've always been quite shy when it came to members of the genteel sex.

  "Jean was athletic, a track star and a wonderful sailor. He could make our sailboat slice through the water on Lake Pontchartrain even if there wasn't enough breeze to nudge the willows on the bank.

  "Needless to say, he was my father's favorite, and my mother always thought of him as her baby. But I wasn't jealous," he added quickly. "I've always been more business minded, more comfortable in an office crunching numbers, talking on the telephone, and making deals than I have been on a playing field or in a sailboat surrounded by beautiful young women.

  "Jean had all the charm. He didn't have to work at making friends or gaining acquaintances. Women and men alike just wanted to be around him, to walk in his shadow, to be favored with his words and smiles.

  "The house was always full of young people back then. I never knew who would be encamped in our living room or eating in our dining room or lounging at our pool."

  "How much younger than you was he?" I asked.

  "Four years. When I graduated from college, Jean had begun his first year and was a track star in college already, already elected president of his college class, and already a popular fraternity man.

  "It was easy to see why our father doted on him so and had such big dreams for him," my father said, and he made a series of turns that took us deeper and deeper into the busier areas of New Orleans. But I wasn't as interested in the traffic, the crowds, and the dozens and dozens of stores as I was in my father's story.

  We paused for a traffic light.

  "I wasn't married yet. Daphne and I had really just begun to date. In the back of his mind, our father was already planning out Jean's marriage to the daughter of one of his business associates. It was to be a wedding made in Heaven. She was an attractive young lady; her father was rich, too. The wedding ceremony and reception would rival those of royalty."

  "How did Jean feel about it?" I asked.

  "Jean? He idolized our father and would do anything he wanted. Jean thought of it all as inevitable. You would have liked him a great deal, loved him, I should say. He was never despondent and always saw the rainbow at the end of the storm, no matter what the problem or trouble."

  "What happened to him?" I finally asked, dreading the answer.

  "A boating accident on Lake Pontchartrain. I rarely went out on the boat with him, but this time I let him talk me into going. He had a habit of trying to get me to be more like him. He was always after me to enjoy life more. To him I was too serious, too responsible. Usually, I didn't pay m
uch attention to his complaints, but this time, he argued that we should be more like brothers. I relented. We both drank too much. A storm came up. I wanted to turn around immediately, but he decided it would be more fun to challenge it and the boat turned over. Jean would have been all right, I'm sure. He was a far better swimmer than I was, but the mast struck him in the temple."

  "Oh no," I moaned.

  "He was in a coma for a long time. My father spared no expense, hired the best doctors, but none of them could do anything. He was like a vegetable."

  "How terrible."

  "I thought my parents would never get over it, especially my father. But my mother became even more depressed. Her health declined first. Less than a year after the tragic accident, she suffered her first heart attack. She survived, but she became an invalid."

  We continued onward, deeper into the business area. My father made one turn and then another and then slowed down to pull the vehicle into a parking spot, but he didn't shut off the engine. He faced forward and continued his remembrances.

  "One day, my father came to me in our offices and closed the door. He had aged so since my brother's accident and my mother's illness. A once proud, strong man, now he walked with his shoulders turned in, his head lowered, his back bent. He was always pale, his eyes empty, his enthusiasm for his business at a very low ebb.

  " 'Pierre,' he said, 'I don't think your mother's long for this world, and frankly, I feel my own days are numbered. What we would like most to see is for you to marry and start your family.'

  "Daphne and I were planning on getting married anyway, but after his conversation with me, I rushed things along. I wanted to try to have children immediately. She understood. But month after month passed and when she showed no signs of becoming pregnant, we became concerned.

  "I sent her to specialists and the conclusion was she was unable to get pregnant. Her body simply didn't produce enough of some hormone. I forget the exact diagnosis.

  "The news devastated my father who seemed to live only for the day when he would rest his eyes on his grandchild. Not long after, my mother died."