"Beau," she began, "why are you late and what's this about a surprise guest?" she demanded. She whirled to confront me, putting her fists on her hips before she turned in my direction. Even though I knew what to expect, the reality of seeing my face on someone else took my breath away. Gisselle Dumas gasped and brought her hand to her throat.
Fifteen years and some months after the day we were born, we met again.
11
Just Like Cinderella
"Who is she?" Gisselle demanded, her eyes quickly moving from wide orbs of amazement to narrow slits of suspicion.
"Anyone can see she's your twin sister," Beau replied. "Her name is Ruby."
Gisselle grimaced and shook her head.
"What sort of a practical joke are you playing now, Beau Andreas?" she demanded. Then she approached me and we stared into each other's faces.
I imagined she was doing what I was doing—searching for the differences; but they were hard to see at first glance. We were identical twins. Our hair was the same shade, our eyes emerald green, our eyebrows exactly the same. Neither of our faces had any tiny scars, nor dimples, nothing that would quickly distinguish one of us from the other. Her cheeks, her chin, her mouth, all were precisely the same shape as mine. Not only did all of our facial features correspond, but we were just about the same height as well. And our bodies had matured and developed as if we had been cast from one mold.
But on second glance, a more scrutinizing second glance, a perceptive inspector would discern differences in our facial expressions and in our demeanor. Gisselle held herself more aloof, more arrogantly. There seemed to be no timidity in her. She had inherited Grandmère Catherine's steel spine, I thought. Her gaze was unflinching and she had a way of tucking in the right corner of her mouth disdainfully.
"Who are you?" she queried sharply.
"My name is Ruby, Ruby Landry, but it should be Ruby Dumas," I said.
Gisselle, still incredulous, still waiting for some sensible explanation for the confusion her eyes were bringing to her brain, turned to Nina Jackson, who crossed herself quickly.
"I am going to light a black candle," she said, and started away, muttering a voodoo prayer.
"Beau!" Gisselle said, stamping her foot.
He laughed and shrugged with his arms out. "I swear I've never seen her before tonight. I found her standing outside the gate when I drove up. She came from . . . where did you say it was?"
"Houma," I said. "In the bayou."
"She's a Cajun girl."
"I can see that, Beau. I don't understand this," she said, now shaking her head at me, her eyes swimming in tears of frustration.
"I'm sure there's a logical explanation," Beau said. "I think I'd better go fetch your parents."
Gisselle continued to stare at me.
"How can I have a twin sister?" she demanded. I wanted to tell her all of it, but I thought it might be better for our father to explain. "Where are you going, Beau?" she cried when he turned to leave.
"To get your father and mother, like I said."
"But . . ." She looked at me and then at him. "But what about the ball?"
"The ball? How can you go running off to the ball now?" he asked, nodding in my direction.
"But I bought this new dress especially for it and I have a wonderful mask and . . ." She embraced herself and glared at me. "How can this happen!" she cried, the tears now streaming down her cheeks. She clasped her hands into small fists and slapped her arms against her sides. "And tonight of all nights!"
"I'm sorry," I said softly. "I didn't realize it was Mardi Gras when I started for New Orleans today, but—"
"You didn't realize it was Mardi Gras!" she chortled. "Oh, Beau."
"Take it easy, Gisselle," he said, returning to embrace her. She buried her face in his shoulder for a moment. As he stroked her hair, he gazed at me, still smiling. "Take it easy," he soothed.
"I can't take it easy," Gisselle insisted, and stamped her foot again as she pulled back. She glared at me angrily now. "It's just some coincidence, some stupid coincidence someone discovered. She was sent here to . . . to embezzle money out of us. That's it, isn't it?" she accused.
I shook my head.
"This is too much to be a coincidence, Gisselle. I mean, just look at the two of you," Beau insisted.
"There are differences. Her nose is longer and her lips look thinner and . . . and her ears stick out more than mine do."
Beau laughed and shook his head.
"Someone sent you here to steal from us, didn't they? Didn't they?" Gisselle demanded, her fists on her hips again and her legs spread apart.
"No. I came myself. It was a promise I made to Grandmère Catherine."
"Who's Grandmère Catherine?" Gisselle asked, grimacing as if she had swallowed sour milk. "Someone from Storyville?"
"No, someone from Houma," I said.
"And a Traiteur," Beau added. I could see he was enjoying Gisselle's discomfort. He enjoyed teasing her. "Oh, this is just so ridiculous. I do not intend to miss the best Mardi Gras all because some . . . Cajun girl who looks a little like me has arrived and claims to be my twin sister," she snapped.
"Looks a little . . ." Beau shook his head. "When I first saw her, I thought it was you."
"Me? How could you think that . . . that," she said, gesturing at me, "this . . . this person was me? Look at how she's dressed. Look at her shoes!"
"I thought it was your costume," he explained. I wasn't happy hearing my clothes described as someone's costume. "Beau, do you think I'd ever put on something as plain as that, even as a costume?"
"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" I asked, assuming an indignant tone myself.
"It looks homemade," Gisselle said after she condescended to gaze at my skirt and blouse once more.
"It is homemade. Grandmère Catherine made both the skirt and blouse."
"See," she said, turning back to Beau. He nodded and saw how I was fuming.
"I'd better go fetch your parents."
"Beau Andreas, if you leave this house without taking me to the Mardi Gras Ball . . ."
"I promise we'll go after this is straightened out," he said.
"It will never be straightened out. It's a horrible, horrible joke. Why don't you get out of here!" she screamed at me.
"How can you send her away?" Beau demanded.
"Oh, you're a monster, Beau Andreas. A monster to do this to me," she cried, and ran back to the stairway.
"Gisselle!"
"I'm sorry," I said. "I told you I shouldn't have come in. I didn't mean to ruin your evening."
He looked at me a moment and then shook his head.
"How can she blame me? Look," he said, "just go into the living room and make yourself comfortable. I know where Pierre and Daphne are. It won't take but a few minutes and they'll come here to see you. Don't worry about Gisselle," he said, backing up. "Just wait in the living room." He turned and hurried out, leaving me alone, never feeling more like a stranger. Could I ever call this house my home? I wondered as I started toward the living room.
I was afraid to touch anything, afraid even to walk on the expensive looking big Persian oval rug that extended from the living room doorway, under the two large sofas and beyond. The high windows were draped in scarlet velvet with gold ties and the walls were papered in a delicate floral design, the hues matching the colors in the soft cushion high back chairs and the sofas. On the thick mahogany center table were two thick crystal vases. The lamps on the side tables looked very old and valuable. There were paintings on all the walls, some landscapes of plantations and some street scenes from the French Quarter. Above the marble fireplace was the portrait of a distinguished looking old gentleman, his hair and full beard a soft gray. His dark eyes seemed to swing my way and hold.