"Do you, Beau? Do you really?"
"Yes," he swore. Then he returned his lips to mine, slipping himself in between my legs at the same time. I tried to resist, keeping my legs tight, but as he prodded, he continued to kiss me and whisper and nudge me in places I had shown no boy nor man before. I felt like I was trying to hold back a deluge. Wave after wave of excitement washed over me until I was drowning in my own thundering flood of passion. I lost my final desire to resist and felt my thighs and my back relax as he moved with determination to enter me. I cried. I felt my head spin and a delightful dizziness send me reeling back into the echo of my own soft moans. The explosions within me, surprised, frightened, and then pleased me. Finally, his climax came fast, hot, and furious. I felt him shudder and then come to a peaceful stillness, his lips still pressed against my cheek, his breathing still heavy and hard.
"Oh, Ruby," he moaned, "Ruby, you're beautiful, wonderful."
The realization of what had happened, what I had permitted swept over me. I pushed on his shoulders.
"Let me up, Beau. Please," I cried. He sat back and I seized my garments and began putting them on quickly. "You're not mad at me, are you?" he asked.
"I'm mad at myself," I said.
"Why? Wasn't it wonderful for you, too?"
I buried my foam in my hands and began to cry. I couldn't help it. He tried to soothe me, comfort me.
"Ruby, it's all right. Really. Don't cry."
"It's not all right, Beau. It's not. I was hoping I was different," I said.
"Different? From what? From Gisselle?"
"No. From . . ." I couldn't say it. I couldn't tell him I was hoping I wasn't a Landry because he didn't know who my real mother was, but that's what I meant. The blood that ran through my veins was just as hot as the blood that had run through my mother's and had gotten her in trouble with Paul's father and later, with Daddy.
"I don't understand," Beau said. He started to put on his clothes.
"It doesn't matter," I said, regaining control of myself. I turned to him. "I'm not blaming you for anything, Beau. You didn't make me do anything I didn't want to do myself in the end."
"I really care for you, Ruby," he said. "I think I care for you more than I've cared for any other girl."
"Do you, Beau? You didn't just say those things?"
"Of course not. I . . ."
We heard footsteps in the corridor outside my studio. I hurried to finish dressing and he stuffed his shirt into his pants just as someone tried the door. Instantly, there was a pounding. It was Daphne.
"Open this door immediately!" she cried.
I ran to it and unlocked it. She stood there, staring in at us, looking me over with so much disapproval, I couldn't help but tremble.
"What are you doing?" she demanded. "Why was this door locked?"
"We were just studying our play lines and didn't want to be disturbed," I said quickly. My heart was pounding. I was sure my hair was messed and my clothes looked hurriedly put on. She ran her eyes over me again as if I were a slave on an auction block in the antebellum South and then quickly shifted her gaze to Beau. His weak smile reinforced her suspicions.
"Where are your play scripts?" she demanded with a scowl.
"Right here," Beau said, and picked them up to show them to her.
"Hmm," she said, and then flicked her stony eyes at me. "I can't wait to see the result of all this dedicated rehearsal." She pulled herself up into an even straighter, firmer posture. "We're having some dinner guests tonight. Dress more formally," she ordered in a cold, commanding tone. "And fix your hair. Where's your sister?"
"I don't know," I said. "She left earlier and hasn't returned."
"Should she somehow get past me before dinner, inform her of my instructions," she said. She glanced at Beau again, her frown deepening, and then returned her gaze to me and fired her words like bullets. "I don't like locked doors in my house. When people lock doors, they usually have something to hide or they're doing something they don't want anyone else to know," she snapped, and then pivoted and left. It was as if a cold wind had just blown through the room. I let out a breath and so did Beau.
"You better be going, Beau," I said. He nodded.
"I'll pick you up for school tomorrow," he said. "Ruby . . ."
"I hope you really meant what you said, Beau. I hope you really do care for me."
"I do. I swear," he said, and kissed me. "I'll see you in the morning. Bye." He was eager to escape. Daphne's looks were like darts sticking into his facade of innocence.
After he left I sat down for a moment. The events of the last hour seemed more like a dream now. It wasn't until I got up and looked at the drawing I had done of him that I realized none of it was a dream. I covered the picture and hurried out, feeling so light, I thought I might just be carried out an open window by a passing breeze.
Gisselle didn't return home in time for dinner. She phoned to say she was eating with her friends. Daphne was very upset about it, but quickly hid her displeasure when our dinner guests, Monsieur Hamilton Davies and his wife, Beatrice, arrived. Monsieur Davies was a man in his late fifties or early sixties who owned a steamboat company that took tourists up and down the Mississippi River. Daphne had let me know that he was one of the wealthiest men in New Orleans, who they were trying to involve with some of my father's investments. She also let me know in no uncertain terms that it was very important I be on my best behavior and make a good impression.
"Don't speak unless spoken to and when someone does speak to you, answer promptly and briefly. They'll be watching the way you comport yourself so remember everything I taught you about dinner etiquette," she lectured.
"If you're worried about me embarrassing you, maybe I should eat earlier," I suggested.
"Nonsense," she said sharply. "The Davies are here because they want to see you. They're the first of our friends I've invited. They know it's an honor," she added in her most haughty, arrogant tone.
Was I some sort of trophy now, a curiosity she was using to enhance her own importance in the eyes of her friends? I wondered, but dared not ask. Instead, I dressed as she told me to dress and took my place at the table, concentrating on my posture and my manners.
The Davies were pleasant enough, but their interest in my story made me uncomfortable. Madame Davies, especially, asked many detailed questions about my life in the bayou with "those awful Cajuns," and I had to make up answers on the spot, glancing quickly at Daphne after each response to see if I had said the right things.
"Ruby's tolerance for these swamp people is understandable," she told the Davies when I didn't sound bitter enough. "For all of her life, she was led to believe she was one of them and they were her family."
"How tragic," Madame Davies said. "And yet, look at how nice she's turning out. You're doing a wonderful job with her, Daphne."
"Thank you," Daphne said, gloating.
"We oughta get her story into the newspapers, Pierre," Hamilton Davies suggested.
"That would only bring her notoriety, Hamilton dear," Daphne said quickly. "The truth is, we've shared these details solely with our dearest friends," she added. The way she smiled, batted her eyelashes, and turned her shoulders at him made his eyes twinkle with pleasure. "And we've asked everyone to be discreet. No sense in making life any more difficult for the poor child than it already has been," she added.
"Of course," Hamilton said. He smiled at me. "That would be the least desirable thing to do. As usual, Daphne, you're a lot wiser and clearer thinkin' than us Creole men."
Daphne lowered and then raised her eyes flirtatiously. Watching her in action, I felt confident I was watching an expert when it came to manipulating men. All the while my father sat back, a smile of admiration, a look of idolization in his eyes. Even so, I was happy when dinner ended and I was excused.