All That Glitters l-3

by V. C. Andrews

  Beau sat beside me and held my hand. My other hand clutched the mahogany arm of the chair as if I thought I might be toppled out and onto the dark brown carpet in Monsieur Polk's plush office. It was on the seventh floor of the building, and the large windows behind Monsieur Polk's desk looked out on the river with a vast view of the boats and ships navigating in and out of New Orleans harbor.

  I bit down on my lower lip and held my breath as our attorney pondered. His large, watery hazel eyes gazed down and he was so still, I feared he had fallen asleep.

  The only sound in the office was the tick tock of the miniature grandfather clock on the shelf to our left.

  "No birth certificates, you say?" he finally asked, just raising his eyes. The rest of him, all two hundred forty pounds, remained settled in the chair, his suit jacket folded and creased in the shoulders. He wore a dark brown tie with lemon dots.

  "No. As I said, the twins were born in swamp country, no doctor, no hospital."

  "My Grandmère was a traiteur, better than any doctor," I said.

  "Traiteur?"

  "Cajun faith healer," Beau explained.

  Monsieur Polk nodded and shifted his eyes toward me and stared a moment. Then he sat forward and clasped his hands on his desk.

  "We'll move quickly for a custody hearing. It will be conducted like a trial in this situation. The first order of business will be to find a legal way to establish you as Ruby. Once that is accomplished, you will testify to being the father of your child, which you will own up to," he said to Beau.

  "Of course." Beau squeezed my hand and smiled.

  "Now let's look at the face of this," Monsieur Polk said. He reached over to a dark cherry wood cigar box and flicked up the cover to pluck a fat Havana cigar out of it. "You," he said, pointing at me with the cigar, "and your twin sister, Gisselle, were apparently so identical in looks, you could pull off this switch of identities, correct?"

  "Down to the dimples in their cheeks," Beau said. "Eye color, hair color, complexion, height, weight?"

  Monsieur Polk listed. Beau and I nodded after each item. "There might have been a few pounds difference between them, but nothing very noticeable," Beau said.

  "Scars?" Monsieur Polk asked, raising his eyebrows hopefully.

  I shook my head.

  "I have none and my sister had none, even though she was in a bad car accident and was crippled for a time," I said.

  "Bad car accident?" I nodded. "Here in New Orleans?"

  "Yes."

  "Then she was in the hospital for a time. Good. There'll be a medical history with records about her blood. Maybe you two had a different blood type. If so, that would settle it immediately. A friend of mine," he continued, taking out his lighter, "tells me that in years to come, from blood tests, using DNA, they'll be able to identify who is the parent of a child. But we're a number of years away from that."

  "And by then it would be too late!" I complained. He nodded and lit his cigar, leaning back to blow the puffs of smoke toward the ceiling.

  "Maybe some X-rays were taken. Did she break any bones in the accident?"

  "No," I said. "She was bruised and the shock of it did something to her spine, affecting the nerves, but that healed and she was able to walk again."

  "Um," Monsieur Polk said. "I don't know if there would be anything discernible by X-ray. We'd have to have X-rays done of you and then find a medical expert to testify that there should be some residual evidence of the trauma."

  I brightened. "I'll go right to the hospital for X-rays."

  "Right," Beau said.

  Monsieur Polk shook his head. "They might very well locate an expert who would claim X-rays wouldn't pick up any residual damage if the problem was cured," he said. "Let me research the medical records at the hospital and get one of my doctor friends to give me an opinion about it first."

  "Ruby had a child; Gisselle did not," Beau said. "Surely an examination . . ."

  "Can you establish Gisselle did not beyond a doubt?" Monsieur Polk asked.

  "Pardon?"

  "Gisselle is dead and buried. How can we examine her? You'd have to have the body exhumed, and what if Gisselle had been pregnant sometime and had had an abortion?"

  "He's right, Beau. I would never swear about that," I said.

  "This is very bizarre. Very bizarre," Monsieur Polk muttered. "You worked at convincing people you were your twin sister and did it so well, everyone who knew her believed it, right?"

  "As far as we know."

  "And the family, Paul Tate's family, believed it and believed they buried Ruby Tate?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "There was actually a death certificate issued in your name?"

  "Yes," I said, swallowing hard. The vivid memories of attending my own funeral came rushing back over me.

  Monsieur Polk shook his head and thought a moment. "What about the doctor who first treated Gisselle for encephalitis?" he asked with some visible excitement. "He knew he was treating Gisselle and not Ruby, right?"

  "I'm afraid we can't call on him," Beau said, deflating our balloon of hope. "I made an arrangement with him, and anyway, it would ruin him, wouldn't it? His being a part of this?"

  "I'm afraid that's very true," Monsieur Polk said. "He put his name to fraud. Any of the servants we can call upon?"

  "Well . . . the way we worked it, the doctor and myself . . ."

  "They didn't know what was happening exactly, is that it?"

  "Yes. They wouldn't make the best witnesses anyway. The German couple don't speak English too well and my cook saw nothing. The maid is a timid woman who wouldn't be able to swear to anything."

  "That's not an avenue to pursue, then." Monsieur Polk nodded. "Let me think. Bizarre, very bizarre. Dental records," he cried. "How are your teeth?"

  "Perfect. I've never had a cavity or a tooth pulled."

  "And Gisselle?"

  "As far as I know," Beau said, "she was the same. She had remarkable health for someone with her lifestyle."

  "Good genes," Monsieur Polk said. "But both of you had the benefit of the same genetic advantages."

  Was there no way to determine our identities to the satisfaction of a judge? I wondered frantically.

  "What about our signatures?" I asked.

  "Yes," Beau said. "Ruby always had a nicer handwriting."

  "Handwriting is an exhibit to use," Monsieur Polk said with a bit of official-sounding nasality, "but it's not conclusive. We'll have to rely on the opinions of experts, and they might bring in their own expert who would develop the effectiveness of forgery. I've seen that happen before. Also," he said after another puff of his cigar, "people are inclined to believe that twins can imitate each other better. I'd like to have something more."

  "What about Louis?" Beau asked me. "You said he recognized you."

  "Louis?" Monsieur Polk asked.

  "Louis was someone I met when Gisselle and I attended a private girls' school in Baton Rouge. He's a musician who recently had a concert here in New Orleans."

  "I see."

  "When I knew him, he was blind. But he sees now," I added, hopefully.

  "What? Blind, you say? Really, monsieur," he said, turning to Beau. "You want me to put a man who was blind on the stand to testify he can tell the difference."

  "But he can!" I said.

  "Maybe to your satisfaction, but to a judge's?"

  Another balloon deflated. My heart was thumping. Tears of frustration had begun to sting my eyes. Defeat seemed all around me.

  "Look," Beau said, squeezing my hand again, "what possible motive could we have for Ruby pretending to be Ruby? First, we will be exposing our deception to the world, and besides, everyone who knew Gisselle knew how self-centered she was. She wouldn't want to win custody of a child and be responsible for the child's upbringing."

  Monsieur Polk thought a moment. He turned his chair and gazed out the window.

  "I'll play the devil's advocate," he said, continuing to gaze down at the river. The
n he turned sharply back to us and pointed at me with his cigar again. "You said your husband, Paul, inherited oil-rich land in the bayou?"

  "Yes."

  "And built you a mansion with beautiful grounds, an estate?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "And has wells pumping up oil, creating a large fortune?"

  I couldn't swallow. I couldn't nod. Beau and I gazed at each other.

  "But, monsieur, we are far from paupers. Ruby inherited a tidy sum and a profitable business and—"

  "Monsieur Andreas, you have at your fingertips the possibility of inheriting a major fortune, a continually growing major fortune. We're not talking now about just being well-to-do."

  "What about the child?" Beau threw out in desperation. "She knows her mother."

  "She's an infant. I wouldn't think of putting her on a witness stand in a courtroom. She would be terrified, I'm sure."

  "No, we can't do that, Beau," I said. "Never." Monsieur Polk sat back. "Let me look into the hospital records, talk to some doctors. I’ll get back to you."

  "How long will this take?"

  "It can't be done overnight, madame," he said frankly.

  "But my baby . . . Oh, Beau."

  "Did you consider going to see Madame Tate and talking it out with her? Perhaps this was an impulsive angry act and now she's had some time to reconsider," Monsieur Polk suggested. "It would simplify the problem."

  "I don't say this is her motive," he added, leaning forward, "but you might offer to sign over any oil rights, et cetera."

  "Yes," I said, hope springing in my heart.

  Beau nodded. "It could be driving her mad that Ruby would inherit Cypress Woods and all the oil on the land," Beau agreed. "Let's drive out there and see if she will speak with us. But in the meantime . . ."

  "I'll go forward with my research in the matter," Monsieur Polk said. He stood up and put his cigar in the ashtray before leaning over to shake Beau's hand. "You know," he said softly, "what a field day our gossip columnists in the newspapers will have with this?"

  "We know." Beau looked at me. "We're prepared for all that as long as we get Pearl back."

  "Very well. Good luck with Madame Tate," Monsieur Polk said, and we left.

  "I feel so weak, Beau, so weak and afraid," I said as we left the building for our car.

  "You can't present yourself to that woman while you're in this state of mind, Ruby. Let's stop for something to eat to build your strength. Let's be optimistic and strong. Lean on me whenever you have to," he said, his face dark, his eyes down. "This is really all my fault," he murmured. "It was my idea, my doing."

  "You can't blame yourself solely, Beau. I knew what I was doing and I wanted to do it. I should have known better than to think we could splash water in the face of Destiny."

  He hugged me to him and we got into our car and started for the bayou. As we rode, I rehearsed the things I would say. I had no appetite when we stopped to eat, but Beau insisted I put something in my stomach.

  The late afternoon grew darker and darker as the sun took a fugitive position behind some long, feather-brushed storm clouds. All the blue sky seemed to fall behind us as we drove on toward the bayou and the confrontation that awaited. As familiar places and sights began to appear, my apprehension grew. I took deep breaths and hoped that I would be able to talk without bursting into tears.

  I directed Beau to the Tate residence. It was one of the larger homes in the Houma area, a two-and-a-half-story Greek Revival with six fluted Ionic columns set on pilastered bases a little out from the edge of the gallery. It had fourteen rooms and a large drawing room. Gladys Tate was proud of the decor in her home and her art, and until Paul had built the mansion for me, she had the finest house in our area.

  By the time we drove up, the sky had turned ashen and the air was so thick with humidity, I thought I could see droplets forming before my eyes. The bayou was still, almost as still as it could be in the eye of a storm. Leaves hung limply on the branches of trees, and even the birds were depressed and settled in some shadowy corners.

  The windows were bleak with their curtains drawn closed or their shades down. The glass reflected the oppressive darkness that loomed over the swamps. Nothing stirred. It was a house draped in mourning, its inhabitants well cloistered in their private misery. My heart felt so heavy; my fingers trembled as I opened the car door. Beau reached over to squeeze my arm with reassurance.

  "Let's be calm," he advised. I nodded and tried to swallow, but a lump stuck in my throat like swamp mud on a shoe. We walked up the stairs and Beau dropped the brass knocker against the plate. The hollow thump seemed to be directed into my chest rather than into the house. A few moments later, the door was thrust open with such an angry force, it was as if a wind had blown it. Toby stood before us. She was dressed in black and had her hair pinned back severely. Her face was wan and pale.

  "What do you want?" she demanded.

  "We've come to speak with your mother and father," Beau said.

  "They're not exactly in the mood to talk to you," she spit back at us. "In the midst of our mourning, you two had to make problems."

  "There are some terrible misunderstandings we must try to fix," Beau insisted, and then added, "for the sake of the baby more than anyone."

  Toby gazed at me. Something in my face confused her and she relaxed her shoulders.

  "How's Pearl?" I asked quickly.

  "Fine. She's doing just fine. She's with Jeanne," she added.

  "She's not here?"

  "No, but she will be here," she said firmly.

  "Please," Beau pleaded. "We must have a few minutes with your parents."

  Toby considered a moment and then stepped back. "I'll go see if they want to talk to you. Wait in the study," she ordered, and marched down the hallway to the stairs.

  Beau and I entered the study. There was only a single lamp lit in a corner, and with the dismal sky, the room reeked of gloom. I snapped on a Tiffany lamp beside the settee and sat quickly, for fear my legs would give out from under me.

  "Let me begin our conversation with Madame Tate," Beau advised. He stood to the side, his hands behind his back, and we both waited and listened, our eyes glued to the entrance. Nothing happened for so long, I let my eyes wander and my gaze stopped dead on the portrait above the mantel. It was a portrait I had done of Paul some time ago. Gladys Tate had hung it in place of the portrait of herself and Octavious. I had done too good a job, I thought. Paul looked so lifelike, his blue eyes animated, that soft smile captured around his mouth. Now he looked like he was smiling with impish satisfaction, defiant, vengeful. I couldn't look at the picture without my heart pounding.

  We heard footsteps and a moment later Toby appeared alone. My hope sunk. Gladys wasn't going to give us an audience.

  "Mother will be down," she said, "but my father is not able to see anyone at the moment. You might as well sit," she told Beau. "It will be a while. She's not exactly prepared for visitors right now," she added bitterly. Beau took a seat beside me obediently. Toby stared at us a moment.

  "Why were you so obstinate? If there was ever a time my mother needed the baby around her, it was now. How cruel of you two to make it difficult and force us to go to a judge." She glared at me and then turned directly to Beau. "I might have expected something like this from her, but I thought you were more compassionate, more mature."

  "Toby," I said. "I'm not who you think I am."

  She smirked. "I know exactly who you are. Don't you think we have people like you here, selfish, vain people who couldn't care less about anyone else?"

  "But . . ."

  Beau put his hand on my arm. I looked at him and saw him plead for silence with his eyes. I swallowed back my words and closed my eyes. Toby turned and left us.

  "She'll understand afterward," Beau said softly. A good ten minutes later, we heard Gladys Tate's heels clicking down the stairway, each click like a gunshot aimed at my heart. Our eyes fixed with anticipation on the doorway until she appear
ed. She loomed before us, taller, darker in her black mourning dress, her hair pinned back as severely as Toby's. Her lips were pale, her cheeks pallid, but her eyes were bright and feverish.

  "What do you want?" she demanded, shooting me a stabbing glance.

  Beau rose. "Madame Tate, we've come to try to reason with you, to get you to understand why we did what we did," he said.

  "Humph," she retorted. "Understand?" She smiled coldly with ridicule. "It's simple to understand. You're the type who care only about themselves, and if you inflict terrible pain and suffering on someone in your pursuit of happiness, so what?" She whipped her eyes to me and flared them with hate before she turned to sit in the high-back chair like a queen, her hands clasped on her lap, her neck and shoulders stiff.

  "Much of this is my fault, not Ruby's," Beau continued. "You see," he said, turning to me, "a few years ago we . . . I made Ruby pregnant with Pearl, but I was cowardly and permitted my parents to send me to Europe. Ruby's stepmother tried to have the baby aborted in a run-down clinic so it would all be kept secret, but Ruby ran off and returned to the bayou."

  "How I wish she hadn't," Gladys Tate spit, her hating eyes trying to wish me into extinction.

  "Yes, but she did," Beau continued, undaunted by her venom. "For better or for worse, your son offered to make a home for Ruby and Pearl."

  "It was for worse. Look at where he is now," she said. Ice water trickled down my spine.

  "As you know," Beau said softly, patiently, "theirs was not a true marriage. Time passed. I grew up and realized my errors, but it was too late. In the interim, I renewed my relationship with Ruby's twin sister, who I thought had matured, too. I was mistaken about that, but that's another story."

  Gladys smirked.

  "Your son knew how much Ruby and I still eared for each other, and he knew Pearl was our child, my child. He was a good man and he wanted Ruby to be happy."

  "And she took advantage of that goodness," Gladys accused, stabbing the air between us with her long forefinger.