Ruby

seemed to emerge from the bayou. Just his daughter? "I couldn't help myself, you see. I was never so

  smitten. Every chance I had to be with her, near her,

  speak to her, I took. And soon, she was doing the

  same thing--looking forward to being with me, "I couldn't hide my feeling from my father, but

  he didn't stand in my way. In fact, I'm sure he was

  eager to make more trips to the bayou because of my

  growing relationship with Gabrielle. I didn't realize

  then why he was encouraging it. I should have known

  something when he didn't appear upset the day I told

  him she was pregnant with my child."

  "He went behind your back and made a deal

  with Grandpere Jack," I said.

  "Yes, I didn't want such a thing to happen. I had

  already made plans to provide for Gabrielle and the

  child, and she was happy about it, but my father was

  obsessed with this idea, crazed by it."

  He took a deep breath before continuing. "He even went so far as to tell Daphne

  everything,"

  "What did you do?" I asked.

  "I didn't deny it. I confessed everything." "Was she terribly upset?"

  "She was upset, but Daphne is a woman of

  character, she's as they say, a very classy dame," he

  added with a smile. "She told me she wanted to bring

  up my child as her own, do what my father had asked.

  He had made her some promises, you see. But there

  was still Gabrielle to deal with, her feelings and

  desires to consider. I told Daphne what Gabrielle

  wanted and that despite the deal my father was

  making with your grandfather, Gabrielle would

  object."

  "Grandmere Catherine told me how upset my

  mother was, but I never could understand why she let

  Grandpere Jack do it, why she gave up Gisselle." "It wasn't Grandpere Jack who got her to go

  along. In the end," he said, "it was Daphne." He

  paused and turned to me. "I can see from the

  expression on your face that you didn't know that." "No," I said.

  "Perhaps your grandmere Catherine didn't know

  either. Well, enough about all that. You know the rest

  anyway," he said quickly. "Would you like to walk

  through the French Quarter? There's Bourbon Street

  just ahead of us," he added, nodding.

  "Yes."

  We got out and he took my hand to stroll down

  to the corner. Almost as soon as we made the turn, we

  heard the sounds of music coming from the various

  clubs, bars, and restaurants, even this early in the day. "The French Quarter is really the heart of the

  city," my father explained. "It never stops beating. It's

  not really French, you know. It's more Spanish. There

  were two disastrous fires here, one in 1788 and one in

  1794, which destroyed most of the original French

  structures," he told me. I saw how much he loved

  talking about New Orleans and I wondered if I would

  ever come to admire this city as much as he did. We walked on, past the scrolled colonnades and

  iron gates of the courtyards. I heard laughter above us

  and looked up to see men and women leaning over the

  embroidered iron patios outside their apartments,

  some calling down to people in the street. In an arched

  doorway, a black man played a guitar. He seemed to

  be playing for himself and not even notice the people

  who stopped by for a moment to listen.

  "There is a great deal of history here," my

  father explained, pointing. "Jean Lafitte, the famous

  pirate, and his brother Pierre operated a clearinghouse

  for their contraband right there. Many a

  swashbuckling adventurer discussed launching an

  elaborate campaign in these court-yards."

  I tried to take in everything: the restaurants, the

  coffee stalls, the souvenir shops, and antique stores.

  We walked until we reached Jackson Square and the

  St. Louis Cathedral.

  "This is where early New Orleans welcomed

  heroes and had public meetings and celebrations," my

  father said. We paused to look at the bronze statue of

  Andrew Jackson on his horse before we entered the

  cathedral. I lit a candle for Grandmere Catherine and

  said a prayer. Then we left and strolled through the

  square, around the perimeter where artists sold their

  fresh works.

  "Let's stop and have a cafe au lait and some

  beignets," my father said. I loved beignets, a donutlike

  pastry covered with powdered sugar.

  While we ate and drank, we watched some of

  the artists sketching portraits of tourists.

  "Do you know an art gallery called

  Dominique's?" I asked.

  "Dominique's? Yes. It's not far from here, just a

  block or two over to the right. Why do you ask?" "I have some of my paintings on display there,"

  I said.

  "What?" My father sat back, his mouth agape.

  "Your paintings on display?"

  "Yes. One was sold. That's how I got my

  traveling money."

  "I can't believe you," he said. "You're an artist

  and you've said nothing?"

  I told him about my paintings and how

  Dominique had stopped by one day and had seen my

  work at Grandmere Catherine's and my roadside stall. "We must go there immediately," he said. "I've

  never seen such modesty. Gisselle has something to

  learn from you."

  Even I was overwhelmed when we arrived at

  the gallery. My picture of the heron rising out of the

  water was prominently on display in the front

  window. Dominique wasn't there. A pretty young lady

  was in charge and when my father explained who I

  was, she became very excited.

  "How much is the picture in the window?" he

  asked.

  "Five hundred and fifty dollars, monsieur," she

  told him.

  Five hundred and fifty dollars! I thought. For

  something I had done? Without hesitation, he took out

  his wallet and plucked out the money.

  "It's a wonderful picture," he declared, holding it out at arm's length. "But you've got to change the signature to Ruby Dumas. I want my family to claim your talent," he added, smiling. I wondered if he somehow sensed that this was a picture depicting what Grandmere Catherine told me was my mother's

  favorite swamp bird.

  After it was wrapped, my father hurried me out

  excitedly. "Wait until Daphne sees this. You must

  continue with your artwork. I'll get you all the

  materials and we'll set up a room in the house to serve

  as your studio. I'll find you the best teacher in New

  Orleans for private lessons, too," he added.

  Overwhelmed, I could only trot along, my heart

  racing with excitement.

  We put my picture into the car.

  "I want to show you some of the museums, ride

  past one or two of our famous cemeteries, and then

  take you to lunch at my favorite restaurant on the

  dock. After all," he added with a laugh, "this is the

  deluxe tour."

  It was a wonderful trip. We laughed a great deal

  and the restaurant he'd picked was wonderful. It had a

  glass dome so we could sit and watch the steamboats

  and barges arrivin
g and going up the Mississippi. While we ate, he asked me questions about my life in the bayou. I told him about the handicrafts and linens Grandmere Catherine and I used to make and sell. He asked me questions about school and then he asked me if I had ever had a boyfriend. I started to tell him about Paul and then stopped, for not only did it sadden me to talk about him, but I was ashamed to describe another terrible thing that had happened to my mother and another terrible thing Grandpere Jack

  had done because of it. My father sensed my sadness. "I'm sure you'll have many more boyfriends,"

  he said. "Once Gisselle introduces you to everyone at

  school."

  "School?" I had forgotten about that for the

  moment.

  "Of course. You've got to be registered in

  school first thing this week."

  A shivering thought came. Were all the girls at

  this school like Gisselle? What would be expected of

  me?

  "Now, now," my father said, patting my hand.

  "Don't get yourself nervous about it. I'm sure it will be

  fine. Well," he said, looking at his watch, "the ladies

  must all have risen by now. Let's head back. After all,

  I still have to explain you to Gisselle," he added. He made it sound so simple, but as Grandmere Catherine would say, "Weaving a single fabric of falsehoods is more difficult than weaving a whole

  wardrobe of truth."

  Daphne was sitting at an umbrella table on a

  cushioned iron chair on a patio in the garden where

  she had been served her late breakfast. Although she

  was still in her light blue silk robe and slippers, her

  face was made up and her hair was neatly brushed. It

  looked honey-colored in the shade. She looked like

  she belonged on the cover of the copy of Vogue she

  was reading. She put it down and turned as my father

  and I came out to greet her. He kissed her on the

  cheek.

  "Should I say good morning or good

  afternoon?" he asked.

  "For you two, it looks like it's definitely

  afternoon," she replied, her eyes on me. "Did you

  have a good time?"

  "A wonderful time," I declared.

  "That's nice. I see you bought a new painting,

  Pierre."

  "Not just a new painting, Daphne, a new Ruby

  Dumas," he said, and gave me a wide, conspiratorial

  smile. Daphne's eyebrows rose.

  "Pardon?"

  My father unwrapped the picture and held it up.

  "Isn't it pretty?" he asked.

  "Yes," she said in a noncommittal tone of

  voice. "But I still don't understand."

  "You won't believe this, Daphne," he began,

  quickly sitting down across from her. He told her my

  story. As he related the tale, she gazed from him to

  me.

  "That's quite remarkable," she said after he

  concluded.

  "And you can see from the work and from the

  way she has been received at the gallery that she has a

  great deal of artistic talent, talent that must be

  developed."

  "Yes," Daphne said, still sounding very

  controlled. My father didn't appear disappointed by

  her measured reaction, however. He seemed used to it.

  He went on to tell her the other things we had done.

  She sipped her coffee from a beautifully hand painted

  china cup and listened, her light blue eyes darkening

  more and more as his voice rose and fell with

  excitement.

  "Really, Pierre," she said, "I haven't seen you

  this exuberant about anything for years."

  "Well, I have good reason to be," he replied. "I hate to be the one to insert a dark thought,

  but you realize you haven't spoken to Gisselle yet and

  told her your story about Ruby," she said.

  He seemed to deflate pounds of excitement

  right before my eyes and then he nodded.

  "You're right as always, my dear. It's time to

  wake the princess and talk to her," he said. He rose

  and picked up my picture. "Now where should we

  hang this? In the living room?"

  "I think it would be better in your office,

  Pierre," Daphne said. To me it sounded as though she

  wanted it where it would be seen the least.

  "Yes. Good idea. That way I can get to look at

  it more," he replied. "Well, here I go. Wish me luck,"

  he said, smiling at me, and then he went into the

  house to talk to Gisselle. Daphne and I gazed at each

  other for a moment. Then she put down her coffee

  cup.

  "Well now, you've made quite a beginning with

  your father, it seems," she said.

  "He's very nice," I told her. She stared at me a

  moment.

  "He hasn't been this happy for a while. I should

  tell you, since you have become an instant member of

  the family, that Pierre, your father, suffers from periods of melancholia. Do you know what that is?" I shook my head. "He falls into deep depressions from

  time to time. Without warning," she added.

  "Depressions?"

  "Yes. He can lock himself away for hours, days

  even, and not want to see or speak to anyone. You can

  be speaking to him and suddenly, he'll take on a faroff look and leave you in midsentence. Later, he won't

  remember doing it," she said. I shook my head. It

  seemed incredible that this man with whom I had just

  spent several happy hours could be described as she

  had described him.

  "Sometimes, he'll lock himself in his office and

  play this dreadfully mournful music. I've had doctors

  prescribe medications, but he doesn't like taking

  anything.

  "His mother was like that," she continued. "The

  Dumas family history is clouded with unhappy

  events."

  "I know. He told me about his younger

  brother," I said. She looked up sharply.

  "He told you already? That's what I mean," she

  said, shaking her head. "He can't wait to go into these

  dreadful things and depress everyone."

  "He didn't depress me although it was a very sad story," I said. Her lips tightened and her eyes

  narrowed. She didn't like being contradicted. "I suppose he described it as a boating

  accident," she said.

  "Yes. Wasn't it?"

  "I don't want to go into it all now. It does

  depress me," she added, eyes wide. "Anyway, I've

  tried and I continue to try to do everything in my

  power to make Pierre happy. The most important

  thing to remember if you're going to live here is that

  we must have harmony in our house. Petty arguments,

  little intrigues and plots, jealousies and betrayals have

  no place in the House of Dumas.

  "Pierre is so happy about your existence and

  arrival that he is blind to the problems we are about to

  face," she continued. When she spoke, she spoke with

  such a firm, regal tone, I couldn't do anything but

  listen, my eyes fixed on her. "He doesn't understand

  the immensity of the task ahead. I know how different

  a world you come from and the sort of things you're

  used to doing and having."

  "What sort of things, madame?" I asked,

  curious myself. "Just things," she said firmly, her eyes

  sharp. "It's not a topic ladies like to discuss." "I do
n't want or do anything like that," I

  protested.

  "You don't even realize what you've done, what

  sort of life you've led up until now. I know Cajuns

  have a different sense of morality, different codes of

  behavior."

  "That's not so, madame," I replied, but she

  continued as though I hadn't.

  "You won't realize it until you've been . . . been

  educated and trained and enlightened," she declared. "Since your arrival is so important to Pierre, I

  will do my best to teach you and guide you, of course;

  but I will need your full cooperation and obedience. If

  you have any problems, and I'm sure you will in the

  beginning, please come directly to me with them.

  Don't trouble Pierre.

  "All I need," she added, more to herself than to

  me, "is for something else to depress him. He might

  just end up like his younger brother."

  "I don't understand," I said.

  "It's not important just now," she said quickly.

  Then she pulled back her shoulders and stood up. "I'm going to get dressed and then take you

  shopping," she said. "Please be where I can find you

  in twenty minutes."

  "Yes, madame."

  "I hope," she said, pausing near me to brush

  some strands of hair off my forehead, "that in time

  you will become comfortable addressing me as

  Mother."

  "I hope so, too," I said. I didn't mean it to sound

  the way it did--almost a threat. She pulled herself

  back a bit and narrowed her eyes before she flashed a

  small, tight smile and then left to get ready to take me

  shopping.

  While I waited for her, I continued my tour of

  the house, stopping to look in on what was my father's

  office. He had placed my picture against his desk

  before going up to Gisselle. There was another picture

  of his father, my grandfather, I supposed, on the wall

  above and behind his desk chair. In this picture, he

  looked less severe, although he was dressed formally

  and was gazing thoughtfully, not even the slightest

  smile around his lips or eyes.

  My father had a walnut writing desk, French

  cabinets, and ladder-back chairs. There were

  bookcases on both sides of the office, the floor of

  which was polished hardwood with a small, tightly

  knit beige oval rug under the desk and chair. In the far

  left corner there was a globe. Everything on the desk

  and in the room was neatly organized and seemingly dust free. It was as if the inhabitants of this house tiptoed about with gloved hands. All the furniture, the immaculate floors and walls, the fixtures and shelves, the antiques and statues made me feel like a bull in a china shop. I was afraid to move quickly, turn abruptly, and especially afraid to touch anything, but I