All That Glitters l-3

by V. C. Andrews

  "No, Mother Tate, I—"

  "Don't sit there and try to deny what you did to my son." Her lips trembled. "My son," she moaned. "Once, I was the apple of his eye. The sun rose and fell on my happiness, not yours. Even when you were enchanting him here in the bayou, he would love to sit and talk with me, love to be with me. We had a remarkable relationship and a remarkable love between us," she said. "But you were relentless and you charmed him away from me," she charged, and I realized there was no hate such as that born out of love betrayed. This was why her brain was screaming out for revenge.

  "I didn't do those things, Mother Tate," I said quietly. "I tried to discourage our relationship. I even told him the truth about us," I said.

  "Yes, you did and viciously drove a wedge between him and me. He knew that I wasn't his real mother. Don't you think that changed things?"

  "I didn't want to tell him. It wasn't my place to tell him," I cried, recalling Grandmère Catherine's warnings about causing any sort of split between a Cajun mother and her child. "But you can't build a house of love on a foundation of lies. You and your husband should have been the ones to tell him the truth."

  She winced. "What truth? I was his mother until you came along. He loved me," she whined. "That was all the truth we needed . . . love."

  A pall fell among us for a moment. Gladys sucked in her anger and closed her eyes.

  Beau decided to proceed. "Your son, realizing the love between Ruby and myself, agreed to help us be together. When Gisselle became seriously ill, he volunteered to take her in and pretend she was Ruby so that Ruby could become Gisselle and we could be man and wife."

  She opened her eyes and laughed in a way that chilled my blood. "I know all that, but I also know he had little choice. She probably threatened to tell the world he wasn't my son," she said, her flinty eyes aimed at me.

  "I would never. . ."

  "You'd say anything now, so don't try," she advised.

  "Madame," Beau said, stepping forward. "What's done is done. Paul did help. He intended for us to live with our daughter and be happy. What you're doing now is defeating what Paul himself tried to accomplish."

  She stared up at Beau for a moment, and as she did so, the gossamer strands of sanity seemed to shred before they snapped behind her eyes. "My poor granddaughter has no parents now. Her mother was buried and her father will be interred beside her."

  "Madame Tate, why force us to go to court over this and put everyone through the misery again? Surely you want peace and quiet at this point, and your family—"

  She turned her dark, blistering eyes toward Paul's portrait, and those eyes softened. "I'm doing this for my son," she said, gazing up at him with more than a mother's love. "Look how he smiles, how beautiful he is and how happy he is. Pearl will grow up here, under that portrait. At least he'll have that. You," she said, pointing her long, thin finger at me again, "took everything else from him, even his life."

  Beau looked at me desperately and then turned back to her. "Madame Tate," he said, "if it's a matter of the inheritance, we're prepared to sign any document."

  "What?" She sprang up. "You think this is all a matter of money? Money? My son is dead." She pulled up her shoulders and pursed her lips. "This discussion is over. I want you out" of my house and out of our lives."

  "You won't succeed with this. A judge—"

  "I have lawyers. Talk to them." She smiled at me so coldly, it made my blood curdle. "You put on your sister's face and body and you crawled into her heart. Now live there," she cursed, and left the room.

  Right down to my feet, I ached, and my heart became a hollow ball shooting pains through my chest. "Beau!"

  "Let's go," he said, shaking his head. "She's gone mad. The judge will realize that. Come on, Ruby." He reached for me. I felt like I floated to my feet.

  Just before we left the room, I gazed back at Paul's portrait. His expression of satisfaction put a darkness in my heart that a thousand days of sunshine couldn't nudge away.

  After the funeral drive back to New Orleans, I collapsed with emotional exhaustion and slept into the late morning. Beau woke me to tell me Monsieur Polk had just called.

  "And?" I sat up quickly, my heart pounding.

  "I'm afraid it's not good news. The experts tell him everything is identical with identical twins, blood type, even organ size. The doctor who treated Gisselle doesn't think anything would show in an X-ray. We can't rely on the medical data to clearly establish identities.

  "As far as my being the father of Pearl . . . a blood group test will only confirm that I couldn't be, not that I could. As Monsieur Polk said, those sorts of tests aren't perfected yet."

  "What will we do?" I moaned.

  "He has already petitioned for a hearing and we have a court date," Beau said. "We'll tell our story, use the handwriting samples. He wants to also make use of your art talent. Monsieur Polk has documents prepared for us to sign so that we willingly surrender any claim to Paul's estate, thus eliminating a motive. Maybe it will be enough."

  "Beau, what if it isn't?"

  "Let's not think of the worst," he urged.

  The worst was the waiting. Beau tried to occupy himself with work, but I could do nothing but sleep and wander from room to room, sometimes spending hours just sitting in Pearl's nursery, staring at her stuffed animals and dolls. Not more than forty-eight hours after Monsieur Polk had filed our petition with the court, we began to get phone calls from newspaper reporters. None would reveal his or her sources, but it seemed obvious to both Beau and me that Gladys Tate's thirst for vengeance was insatiable and she had deliberately had the story leaked to the press. It made headlines.

  TWIN CLAIMS SISTER BURIED IN HER GRAVE! CUSTODY BATTLE LOOMS.

  Aubrey was given instructions to say we were unavailable to anyone who called. We would see no visitors, answer no questions. Until the court hearing, I was a virtual prisoner in my own home.

  On that day, my legs trembling, I clung to Beau's arm as we descended the stairway to get into our car and drive to the Terrebone Parish courthouse. It was one of those mostly cloudy days when the sun plays peekaboo, teasing us with a few bright rays and then sliding behind a wall of clouds to leave the world dark and dreary. It reflected my mood swings, which went from hopeful and optimistic to depressed and pessimistic.

  Monsieur Polk was already at the courthouse, waiting, when we arrived. The story had stirred the curious in the bayou as well as in New Orleans. I gazed quickly at the crowd of observers and saw some of Grandmère Catherine's friends. I smiled at them, but they were confused and unsure and afraid to smile back. I felt like a stranger. How would I ever explain to them why I had switched identities with Gisselle? How would they ever understand?

  We took our seats first, and then, with obvious fanfare, milking the situation as much as she could, Gladys Tate entered. She still wore her clothes of mourning. She hung on Octavious's arm, stepping with great difficulty to show the world we had dragged her into this horrible hearing at a most unfortunate time. She wore no makeup, so she looked pale and sick, the weaker of the two of us in the judge's eyes. Octavious kept his gaze down, his head bowed, and didn't look our way once.

  Toby and Jeanne and her husband, James, walked behind Gladys and Octavious Tate, scowling at us. Their attorneys, William Rogers and Martin Bell, led them to their seats. They looked formidable with their heavy briefcases and dark suits. The judge entered and every-one took his seat.

  The judge's name was Hilliard Barrow, and Monsieur Polk had found out that he had a reputation for being caustic, impatient, and firm. He was a tall, lean man with hard facial features: deep-set dark eyes, thick eyebrows, a long, bony nose, and a thin mouth that looked like a slash when he pressed his lips together. He had gray and dark brown hair with a deeply receding hairline so that the top of his skull shone under the courtroom lights. Two long hands with bony fingers jutted out from the sleeves of his black judicial robe.

  "Normally," he began, "this courtroom is relative
ly empty during such proceedings. I want to warn those observing that I won't tolerate any talking, any sounds displaying approval or disapproval. A child's welfare is at stake here, and not the selling of newspapers and gossip magazines to the society people in New Orleans." He paused to scour the crowd to see if there was even the hint of insubordination in anyone's eyes. My heart sunk. He seemed a man void of any emotion, except prejudices against rich New Orleans people.

  The clerk read our petition and then Judge Barrow turned his sharp, hard gaze on Monsieur Polk.

  "You have a case to make," he said.

  "Yes, Your Honor. I would like to begin by calling Monsieur Beau Andreas to the stand."

  The judge nodded, and Beau squeezed my hand and stood up. Everyone's eyes were fixed on him as he strutted confidently to the witness seat. He was sworn in and sat quickly.

  "Monsieur Andreas, as a preamble to our presentation, would you tell the court in your own words why, how, and when you and Ruby Tate effected the switching of identities between Ruby and Gisselle Andreas, who was your wife at the time."

  "Objection, Your Honor," Monsieur Williams said. "Whether or not this woman is Ruby Tate is something for the court to decide."

  The judge grimaced. "Monsieur Williams. There isn't a jury to impress. I think I'm capable of understanding the question at hand without being influenced by innuendo. Please, sir. Let's make this as fast as possible."

  "Yes, Your Honor," Monsieur Williams said, and sat down.

  My eyes widened. Perhaps we would get a fair shake after all, I thought.

  Beau began our story. Not a sound was heard through his relating of it. No one so much as coughed or cleared his throat, and when he was finished, an even deeper hush came over the crowd. It was as if everyone had been stunned. Now, when I turned and looked around, I saw all eyes were on me. Beau had done such a good job of telling our story, many were beginning to wonder if it couldn't be so. I felt my hopes rise to the surface of my troubled thoughts.

  Monsieur Williams rose. "Just a few questions, if I may, Your Honor."

  "Go on," the judge said.

  "Monsieur Andreas. You said your wife was diagnosed with St. Louis encephalitis while you were at your country estate. A doctor made the diagnosis?"

  "Yes."

  "Didn't this doctor know he was diagnosing your wife, Gisselle?" Beau looked toward Monsieur Polk. "If so, why didn't you bring him here to testify that it was Gisselle and not Ruby?" Monsieur Williams hammered. Beau didn't respond.

  "Monsieur Andreas?" the judge said.

  "Your honor," Monsieur Polk said. "Since the twins are so identical, we didn't think the doctor would be able to testify beyond a doubt as to which twin he examined. I have researched the medical history of the twins, as much as could be researched, and we are willing to admit that identical twins share so many physiological characteristics, it is virtually impossible to use medical data to identify them."

  "You have no medical records to enter into the record?" Judge Barrow asked.

  "No, sir."

  "Then what hard evidence to you intend to enter into the record to substantiate this fantastic story, sir?" the judge asked, getting right to the point.

  "We are prepared at this time," Monsieur Polk said, approaching the judge, "to present handwriting samples that you will quickly be able to see distinguish one twin from the other. These come from school records and legal documents," Monsieur Polk said, and presented the exhibits.

  Judge Barrow gazed at them. "I'd have to have an expert analyze them, of course."

  "We would like to reserve the right to bring them to our experts, Your Honor," Monsieur Williams said.

  "Of course," the judge said. He put the exhibits aside. "Are there any more questions for Monsieur Andreas?"

  "Yes," Monsieur Williams said, and stood his ground between Beau and us. He smiled skeptically. "Sir, you claim Paul Tate, once hearing of this fantastic scheme, volunteered to take the sick twin into his home and pretend she was his wife?"

  "That's correct," Beau said.

  "Can you tell the court why he would do such a thing?"

  "Paul Tate was devoted to Ruby and wanted to see her happy. He knew Pearl was my child and he wanted to see us with our child," Beau added.

  Gladys Tate groaned so loud, everyone paused to see. She had closed her eyes and fallen back against Octavious's shoulder.

  "Monsieur?" the judge asked. Octavious whispered something in Gladys's ear and her eyelids fluttered open. With great effort, she sat up again. Then, she nodded she was all right.

  "And so," Monsieur Williams continued, "you are telling the court that Paul Tate willingly took in his sister-in-law and then pretended she was his wife to the extent that when she died, he fell into a deep depression which caused his own untimely death? He did all this to make sure Ruby Tate was happy living with another man? Is that what you want this court to believe?"

  "It's true," Beau said.

  Monsieur Williams widened his smile. "No further questions, Your Honor," he said. The judge told Beau he was excused. He looked very dark and troubled as he returned to his seat beside me.

  "Ruby," Monsieur Polk said. I nodded and he called me to the stand. I took a deep breath and with my eyes nearly closed, walked to the witness chair. After I was sworn in, I took another deep breath and told myself to be strong for Pearl's sake.

  "Please state your real name," Monsieur Polk said.

  "My legal name is Ruby Tate."

  "You have heard Monsieur Andreas's story. Is there anything with which you wish to disagree?"

  "No. It's all true."

  "Did you discuss this switching of identities with your husband, Paul, and did he indeed agree to the plan?"

  "Yes. I didn't want him to be so involved," I added, "but he insisted."

  "Describe the birth of your child," he said, and stood back.

  I told the story, how Paul had been there during the storm to help with Pearl's birth. Monsieur Polk then took me through many of the highlights of my life, events at the Greenwood School, the people I had known and things I had accomplished. After I finished with that, he nodded toward the rear and an assistant brought in an easel, some drawing pencils, and a drawing pad.

  Monsieur Williams shot up out of his seat as soon as it was obvious what Monsieur Polk wanted to demonstrate. "I object to this, Your Honor," Monsieur Williams cried.

  "Monsieur Polk, what do you plan to enter into the record here?" the judge asked.

  "There were many differences between the twins, Your Honor, many we recognize will be hard to substantiate, but one is possible, and that is Ruby's ability to draw and paint. She has had paintings in galleries in New Orleans and—"

  "Your Honor," Monsieur Williams said, "whether this woman can draw a straight line or not is irrelevant. It was never established that Gisselle Andreas could not."

  "I'm afraid he has a point, Monsieur Polk. All you will show here is that this woman can perform artistically."

  Monsieur Polk sighed with frustration. "But, Your Honor, never in Gisselle Andreas's history has there ever been any evidence. . ."

  The judge shook his head. "It's a waste of the court's time, monsieur. Please continue with your witness or enter new exhibits or call another witness." Monsieur Polk shook his head. "Are you finished with this witness?"

  With deep disappointment, Monsieur Polk replied, "Yes, Your Honor."

  "Monsieur Williams?"

  "A few minor questions," he said, dripping with sarcasm. "Madame Andreas. You claim you were married to Paul Tate even though you were still in love with Beau Andreas. Why did you marry Monsieur Tate, then?"

  "I . . . was alone and he wanted to provide a home for me and my child."

  "Most husbands want to provide homes for their wives and children. Did he love you?"

  "Oh yes."

  "Did you love him?"

  "I . . .”

  "Well, did you?"

  "Yes, but . . ."

  "But what,
madame?"

  "But it was a different sort of love, a friendship, a . . ." I wanted to say "sisterly," but when I looked at Gladys and Octavious, I couldn't do it. "A different sort of love."

  "You were man and wife, were you not? You were married in a church, you said."

  "Yes."

  He narrowed his eyes. "Did you see Monsieur Andreas romantically while you were married to Monsieur Tate?"

  "Yes," I said, and some in the audience gasped and shook their heads.

  "And according to your tale, your husband was aware of this?"

  "Yes."

  "He was aware of this and he tolerated it? Not only did he tolerate it, but he was willing to take in your dying sister and pretend it was you so you would be happy." He spun around as he continued, directing himself to the audience as much as he directed himself to the judge. "And then he became so depressed over her death that he drowned in the swamp? This is the story you and Monsieur Andreas want everyone to accept?"

  "Yes," I cried. "It's true. All of it."

  Monsieur Williams gazed at the judge and twisted the corner of his mouth until it cut into his cheek.

  "No further questions, Your Honor."

  The judge nodded. "You may step down, madame," he said, but I couldn't stand. My legs were like wet straw and my back felt as if it had turned to jelly. I closed my eyes.

  "Ruby," Beau called.

  "Are you all right, madame?" the judge asked.

  I shook my head. My heart was pounding so hard, I couldn't catch my breath. I felt the blood drain from my face. When I opened my eyes, Beau was holding my hand. Someone had brought up a wet cloth for my forehead and I realized I had fainted.

  "Can you walk, Ruby?" Beau asked.

  I nodded.

  "We'll have a short recess," the judge said, and slammed his gavel down. I felt as if he had slammed it down on my heart.

  17

  Thicker Than Water

  During the recess Beau and I were shown to a waiting room in which there was a small sofa. Beau had me lie down and keep the wet cloth on my forehead while Monsieur Polk went to make a phone call to his office. He looked glum and disturbed. In fact, I thought he seemed angry at us for bringing him into the situation.