All That Glitters l-3

by V. C. Andrews

  "This beats anything I've seen in the Garden District," Henry confessed.

  "You haven't seen everything in the Garden District," Gisselle spit, and he was silent. "How about the bedrooms?" she inquired.

  "Right this way."

  I showed them the guest rooms first and then Paul's and my bedrooms, skipping the nursery because Pearl was taking her nap.

  "Separate but adjoining bedrooms," Gisselle re-marked, and smiled licentiously. "How often do we use that doorway?" she whispered. Although I blanched, I didn't reply. She laughed and gazed about. "You don't have an art studio anymore," she said with delight.

  "Oh, that's in the attic," I replied nonchalantly.

  "The attic?"

  "Let me show you," I said, and took them upstairs.

  "This is incredible," Darby said, now genuinely impressed. "The place is a palace. Look at the view from this window," he declared, turning to Gisselle. She sulked behind us.

  "It's only a view of the swamps," she said.

  "Yeah, but . . . it's beautiful. That's a big pool, and those flowers."

  "All right," Gisselle said, bursting with frustration. "You have anything to drink? I'm parched."

  "Of course. Let's go down to the patio and Molly will bring us some lemonades."

  "Lemonades," she ridiculed. "Don't you have anything with a little kick to it?" she asked sharply.

  "Whatever you want, Gisselle. Just tell my maid." "Her maid. Do you hear how my Cajun sister talks?

  Just tell my maid."

  We started out, the young men behind us. Gisselle seized my arm.

  "Where's Beau's baby?" she demanded.

  "Pearl's asleep and no one knows her as Beau's baby here," I said.

  "Of course." She smiled with satisfaction. "And our brother, your husband?" she whispered.

  "He's at work in the oil fields right now." My heart began to pound. "If you've come here to make trouble for us . . ."

  "Why should I do that? I don't care what you've done, although I know you did it just to spite Beau."

  "That's not true, Gisselle."

  "Don't you want to hear about him?" she teased. I didn't reply. "He broke up with his fiancée in Europe, so you see, if you hadn't rushed into this sinful arrangement, you might have still won him," she said with great self-satisfaction. I felt the blood rush into my face so quickly, it felt as if it had drained completely out of my legs and I might tumble down the stairs. Then she laughed and put her arm through mine. "But let's not talk of old romances. Let's catch up on other news first. I do have a lot to tell you, a lot you will enjoy and a lot . . . you won't," she suggested with an impish grin.

  She paraded me downstairs with her obedient escorts behind us ready at her beck and call.

  "Daphne's wedding," Gisselle began once she had her mint julep in hand, "was an affair to remember. She and Bruce spared no expense. There were hundreds of guests. The church was bursting at the seams. Most people came because they were curious and just wanted to be part of the highlight of the social season. You know she really never had any friends. She just has business acquaintances, but she never cared and still doesn't."

  "Are they happy together?"

  "Happy? Hardly," she said, and laughed.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Bruce is still her little gofer. Remember how I used to tease him—Bruce, go for this, Bruce, go for that? Do you know what I discovered listening in on their business conversations one night? She made him sign a prenuptial agreement. He inherits nothing if anything happens to her. Nothing. And he can't divorce her and sue her for any property."

  "Why did she marry him?"

  "Why?" Gisselle raised her eyes to the sky and then smirked. "Why do you think? . . . To keep his mouth shut. They were embezzling from poor, dear Daddy. But Daphne was shrewd. She kept control of everything and made Bruce dependent upon her.

  "She needed an escort, that's all. They don't sleep together. It's like what you have," she said, nodding toward the bedroom windows, "separate bedrooms. Only, they don't even have an adjoining door." She laughed. Then she looked at Darby and Henry, who were sitting there, sipping their drinks, staring and smiling stupidly at her like two infatuated lovebirds. "Why don't you two go look at the oil wells or something. Ruby and I have to talk girl talk," she snapped.

  They both rose obediently and walked off.

  "They adore me," she said, looking after them, "but they're both unimaginative and boring."

  "They why are you with them?"

  "Just to amuse myself." She drew closer. "So, Bruce came to my bathroom one day while I was taking a bath."

  "What happened?" I asked, wide-eyed.

  "What do you think?"

  I wasn't sure I should believe her or not, but I did recall the way Bruce used to gaze at me, undressing me with his eyes, and I recalled how I would shrink under his touch.

  She jerked her head high, threw back her shoulders, and with an arrogant air bragged, "I've been with many older men. I've even slept with one of my teachers at the school."

  "Gisselle!"

  "So? How is any of that any worse than what you're doing . . . sleeping with your half brother?" she snapped.

  "I'm not. We don't sleep together. We're married, but we're not husband and wife that way. We both agreed."

  "Why?" she said, grimacing. "Why get married then?"

  "Paul's always loved me, and before we knew what our true relationship is, I was very fond of him. He loves Pearl as much as he would had she been his own daughter. We have a very special relationship now," I said.

  "It's special, all right. And boring. You have a lover, then, I assume, some dashing, tall, dark Cajun swamp man who sneaks up to your room at night?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Of course not, not you, not Miss Goody Two-Shoes." She sat back, her arm dangling over the arm of the chair. "I wrote to Beau and told him of your wedding and how rich you are," she said.

  "I bet you couldn't wait."

  "Well, you ran away. You should have had the abortion and stayed in New Orleans. Even with all this, you're still living in the swamps."

  "The swamps are beautiful. Nature can't be ugly," I said.

  She took a long sip of her drink. "Did I tell you about Uncle Jean?" she suddenly asked.

  "Uncle Jean? No. What about him?"

  "You don't know anything?"

  "What is it, Gisselle?"

  "He killed himself," she said nonchalantly.

  "What?" I gasped. I felt the blood drain from my face and my feet become nailed to the patio.

  "One day he stole one of those knives they use to cut clay in their recreation room and cut his wrists. He bled to death before anyone discovered what he had done. Daphne put on a big show, of course, threatening to sue the institution. For all I know, she got some sort of settlement. I wouldn't put it past her. If there's a way to make money in something, she'll find it."

  "Uncle Jean . . . killed himself'? When?"

  "Months ago," she said, shrugging.

  I sat back, stunned. The last time I had seen him was when I had gone to him with Beau to tell him about Daddy's death.

  "Why didn't anyone write to tell me? Why didn't you?"

  "Daphne said you relinquished your relationship to the family when you ran off," she replied. "And you know how I hate writing letters, especially bad news. Unless it's other people's bad news," she added with a slight laugh.

  "Poor Uncle Jean. I should never have told him Daddy died. I should have left him thinking he was just not visiting."

  "Maybe it is your fault," Gisselle said, enjoying my misery. Then she shrugged again and sipped her drink. "Or maybe you should be congratulated. After all, he's better off."

  "How can you say such a terrible thing? No one's better off dead, not even Uncle Jean," I cried back in a choked voice.

  "All I know is, I'd rather be dead than live forever in that stuffy institution," she proclaimed.

  My eyes filled with tears as I
thought about Uncle Jean lost and alone.

  "And who do we have here?" we heard, and turned to see Paul come out of the house.

  "Well, if it isn't my wealthy brother, or is it brother-in-law?" Gisselle quipped.

  Paul turned crimson and shifted his eyes to me. "What's wrong, Ruby?" he asked instantly.

  "I just learned that my uncle Jean committed suicide in the institution."

  "Oh, I'm sorry."

  "Don't I get a kiss hello?" Gisselle asked.

  "Sure." He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, only she turned her face quickly so his lips met hers. Surprised, he stood back. Gisselle laughed.

  "When did this suicide happen?" Paul asked.

  "Forget about that. I don't want to dwell on bad news," Gisselle said, and twisted her shoulder. "Ruby was just explaining your special marriage arrangement," she teased. Her licentious smile made both Paul and me feel guilty.

  "Gisselle, stop it."

  "Oh, don't be so sensitive. Besides, what do I care what you two do?" She looked out toward the fields. "Did you see two young, wealthy Creoles wandering about your oil wells?"

  "Who?"

  "Gisselle's boyfriends," I said dryly.

  "Oh. No."

  "Maybe they fell into some swamp," she said, and laughed. Then she got up and put her arm through Paul's. "Why don't you show me around your grounds and your oil fields," she said.

  "Of course."

  "Are you staying for dinner, Gisselle?" I asked.

  "How do I know? If I'm bored, leave. If not, I'll stay," she said, winking. "Come along, Mr. Oil Baron."

  Paul looked at me helplessly. "You know what I think you would really enjoy, Gisselle, a ride through the swamps. She can get a better view of things that way anyway, can't she, Ruby?"

  "What? Oh yes," I said in an empty voice. My mind was still fixed on poor Uncle Jean.

  "Not me. I'm not going into the swamps. Where are those idiots?" she said, gazing over the grounds. We saw them walking back from the pool. "Darby, Henry," she shouted. "Get back here."

  They broke out in a jog as if she held them on a long, invisible leash. When they arrived, she introduced them to Paul and the three of them started to talk about the oil wells, Paul explaining how one is drilled and capped. Gisselle grew bored quickly.

  "Aren't there any places to go around here . . . you know, for dancing or something?"

  "There's a lounge nearby that has a great zydeco band," Paul said. "Ruby and I go often to listen."

  "I don't think that's for us," Gisselle complained.

  "How about a clean restaurant?"

  "We have a wonderful cook. You're all welcome to stay for dinner," Paul said.

  "I don't mind," Henry said.

  "Me neither," Darby followed.

  "Well, I do. I want to get back to New Orleans so we can go to some nightclubs," Gisselle said. "It's too quiet around here and I can't get that sour smell out of my nose."

  "Sour smell?" Paul looked at me, but I just closed and opened my eyes.

  "The swamp stench," Gisselle said.

  "I don't smell it," Darby said.

  "You wouldn't know a skunk if it crawled into bed with you," she snapped. Henry laughed.

  "Oh yes he would. He's slept with a few before." Gisselle laughed and released Paul's arm to take Henry's.

  "To the car, James. I've visited my sister and have seen her wealth. Don't worry," she said, "I'll double everything when I describe it to Daphne."

  "I don't care what you tell her, Gisselle. She doesn't matter to me anymore," I said.

  Disappointed, Gisselle led her boyfriends back to the house, with Paul and me following. At the patio door, Gisselle suddenly turned on me.

  "I would like to see . . . what do you call her . . . Pearl, before I go."

  "We can look in on her. She's napping," I said. I took Gisselle upstairs to the nursery. Mrs. Flemming was dozing in the easy chair by the crib. Her eyes snapped open with surprise when she looked upon our duplicate faces.

  "My twin sister, Gisselle," I whispered. "Gisselle, Mrs. Flemming."

  "How do you do, dear," Mrs. Flemming said, rising. "My, you two are the mirror image of one another. I bet you're often mistaken for each other."

  "Not as often as you might think," Gisselle replied sharply. Mrs. Flemming just nodded and then stepped out to go to the bathroom. Gisselle moved to the crib and looked down at Pearl, who slept with her little hand curled under her chin.

  "She has Beau's nose and mouth," she said. "And Beau's hair, of course. You know, I'm thinking of spending the remainder of my summer in Europe. I'll see Beau and spend some time with him. Now I'll be able to describe his child to him," she said with a mean little laugh.

  Her wide smile of self-satisfaction cut into my heart. I swallowed back my sadness and turned away from her as she marched out of the room. For a moment I stood there gazing at Pearl and thinking of Beau, my heart feeling like a hollowed-out drum. Every beat echoed through my thoughts.

  A short while later, it was as if a cool breeze of relief had come blowing through the bayou when Gisselle and her two male friends got back into their car and went tearing away down the drive. I could hear her shrill laughter lingering for a moment after they disappeared around a turn.

  Then I charged up the stairs and went to my room to throw myself on my bed, where I sobbed uncontrollably for a few moments. I was so depressed with the news of Uncle Jean's tragic death and Beau, I couldn't keep the tears from streaming down my cheeks, soaking the pillow. Paul knocked softly on my door and came hurrying in when he saw me crying. I felt his hand on my shoulder.

  "Ruby," he said softly, and I turned and threw myself into his arms. From the day we were married, we were afraid to touch each other, afraid of what every kiss, every embrace, even holding each other's hand, would mean in light of who and what we were, but when we made promises to each other, we forgot that we would need each other's intimate contact from time to time.

  I needed to feel his arms around me; I needed to sense him close and have him hold me and soothe me with his petting my hair and kissing my forehead and cheeks, kissing away the tears and whispering words of solace. I sobbed harder, my shoulders shaking, as he stroked my hair and rocked me softly in his arms.

  "It's all right," he said. "It'll be all right."

  "Oh, Paul, why did she have to come and bring me all the bad news? I hate her. I do. I hate her," I said.

  "She's just so jealous of you. No matter how much she runs down the bayou and the Cajun world, she's still full of green envy. That's a woman who's never going to be happy," Paul said. "You shouldn't hate her; you should pity her."

  I sat back and ground back some tears.

  "You're right, Paul. She is to be pitied and she won't ever be happy no matter what she has. But I feel so bad about Uncle Jean. I wanted to go to him soon, bring Pearl along, and maybe . . . maybe find a way to get him out of the institution and even here with us."

  "I'm sorry. It would have been nice, but you can't blame yourself. What was destined to happen was decided by events and choices made before your time, Ruby." He reached across the bed to touch my cheek. "I hate to see you unhappy, even for a few minutes. I can't help the way I love you."

  I closed my eyes and kept them closed, knowing, sensing, what he was about to do. When his lips touched mine, I wasn't surprised. I let him kiss me and then I lay back on the pillow.

  "I'm a little exhausted," I whispered, my heart pounding.

  "Rest a bit and let me think of ways to cheer you up," he said. I felt him lift off the bed and heard him walk out. Then I turned over and embraced the pillow.

  Beau had broken his engagement. Gisselle was going to see him and tell him about me. What would he think? How would he feel? Far away, across the ocean, he would gaze toward America and the opportunity for a great and lasting love he had lost . . . I had lost.

  My heart felt like a twisted rubber band about to snap. I swallowed down my sadness like castor oil. I
'm a woman, I thought, a young, vibrant woman, and my needs are greater than I had anticipated.

  For the first time since I had taken the vows with Paul, I regretted what I had done and wondered if I had piled one great tragic decision on top of another. Despite the beauty and the splendor of our great home and estate, I felt the walls closing in around me, shutting out the sun, covering me in a dark, deep, depressing blanket of regret from under which I feared I would never escape.

  6

  Masquerade

  After Paul had left me, I lay there on my bed feeling sorry for myself. The late afternoon sun had begun to fall below the willows and cypress trees so that the shadows in the room grew somewhat deeper and darker. When I gazed out through the top of my windows, I saw that the sky had turned a darker turquoise and the scattered clouds were the color of old silver coins. The house was very quiet. It had been so well built that the sounds from downstairs or even from inside rooms across the hall were insulated when doors were closed. How different it was from living in my Grandmère Catherine's shack on the bayou, where even from our upstairs bedrooms, we could hear the scurry of a field mouse across the living room floor.

  But suddenly I heard the distinct clip-clopping of boots down the corridor outside my doors. I heard what sounded like the rattle of a saber, too. They grew louder and closer. Curious, I sat up just as my door was opened and Paul stepped through, dressed in a Confederate officer's uniform, sword at his hip. He wore a fake sweet-potato red Vandyke beard as well, and he carried a package under his right arm. The costume and the beard fit him so well that for a moment I didn't know who it was. Then I smiled.

  "Paul! Where did you get all that?"

  "Pardon, madame," he said, and took off his hat to make a sweeping, graceful and elegant bow. "Colonel William Henry Tate at your service." He scowled. "I was just informed that some Yankees had invaded your privacy and caused you some consternation. I'll need a full report before I send my troops after the scoundrels, who, I promise you, will be swinging in the wind under the old oak before sundown.

  "Now," he continued, straightening into a formal military posture and running his left forefinger over his mustache, "if you will just be so kind as to give my adjunct their descriptions . . ."