'They're small,' Gisselle complained.
'You don't find them cozy?'
'No, just small,' Gisselle insisted.
'Perhaps that's because of your unfortunate condition. I'm sure Mrs. Penny will do everything she can to make you as comfortable as can be while you are attending Greenwood,' Mrs. Clairborne said, gazing at Mrs. Penny, who nodded.
'And I'm sure you will find Greenwood a wonderful place in which to be educated. I always say our students come here as little girls and leave as young women, not only highly educated, but morally strengthened.
'I feel,' she continued, her face thoughtful, still, 'that Greenwood is one of the last bastions of the moral fiber that once made the South the true capital of gentility and grace. Here you girls will get a sense of your tradition, your heritage. In other places, especially in the Northeast and the West, radicals are invading every aspect of our culture, thinning it out, diluting what was once pure cream and turning it into skim milk.'
She sighed.
'There is so much immorality and such a lack of respect for what was once sacred in our lives. That comes only when we forget who and what we are, from where we have evolved. Do you all understand?'
None of us spoke. Gisselle looked overwhelmed. I gazed at Abby, who returned my glance quickly with a knowing look.
'Oh well, enough of this deep, philosophical chatter,' Mrs. Clairborne said and then nodded toward the doorway, where two maids stood, waiting for the signal to bring in the tea, cakes, and pralines. The conversation became lighter. Gisselle, after a little urging, told the story of her accident, putting the blame entirely on faulty brakes. I described my love of art, and Mrs. Clairborne suggested I look over some of the paintings in the hallways. Abby was the, most reticent to talk about herself, of course, something I saw that Mrs. Clairborne noticed but didn't pursue.
About midway through our tea, I asked to be excused to go to the bathroom, and Otis directed me to the closest one, which was on the west side of the house. As I was coming out, I heard piano music coming from a room farther down the corridor. It was so beautiful I was drawn toward it, and I looked through, a doorway that opened to a beautiful sitting room, behind which was a patio that opened to the gardens. But to the right of the patio door was a grand piano, the top up so that at first I couldn't see much of the young man who was playing. I took a step in and to the right to see more, and I listened.
Dressed in a white cotton shirt with a buttoned-down collar and dark blue slacks was a slim young man with dark brown hair, the strands thin and loose so that they fell over the sides of his head and over his forehead, settling over his eyes. But he didn't seem to mind—or to notice anything, for that matter. He was so lost in his music, his fingers floating over the keys as if his hands were independent creatures and he was just as much an observer and listener as I was.
Suddenly he stopped playing and spun around on the stool to turn toward me. However, his eyes shifted to my right, as if he were looking not at me but at someone behind me. I had to turn around myself to be sure I hadn't been followed.
'Who's there?' he asked, and I realized he was blind.
'Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you.'
'Who's there?' he demanded.
'My name's Ruby. I'm here for Mrs. Clairborne's tea.'
'Oh. One of the greenies,' he said disdainfully, the corners of his mouth dipping. Otherwise he had a strong, sensuous mouth, with a perfectly straight nose and a smooth forehead that barely wrinkled even when he smirked.
'I'm not one of the `greenies,' I retorted. 'I'm Ruby Dumas, a new student.'
He laughed, folding his arms across his narrow torso, and sat back.
'I see. You're an individual.'
'That's right.'
'Well, my grandmother and my cousin Margaret, whom you know as Mrs. Ironwood, will see to it that you lose that independent spirit soon enough and become a proper daughter of the South, stepping only where you should step, saying only what you should say—and saying it properly—and,' he added with a laugh, 'thinking only what you should think.'
'No one will tell me what to say and think,' I replied defiantly. He didn't laugh this time, but he held his smile for a moment and then grew serious.
'There's a different sound in your voice, an accent I detect. Where are you from?'
'New Orleans,' I said, but he shook his head.
'No, before that. Come on, I can hear things more clearly, more distinctly. Those consonants . . . Let me think . . . You're from the bayou, aren't you?'
I gasped at his accurate ears. He put up his hand. 'Wait . . . I'm an expert on regional intonations.?
'I'm from Houma,' I confessed.
He nodded. 'A Cajun. Does my grandmother know your true background?'
'She might. Mrs. Ironwood knows.'
'And she permitted you to enroll?' he asked with sincere surprise.
'Yes. Why wouldn't she?'
'This is a school for pure bloods. Usually, if you're not a Creole from one of the finest Creole families . . .'
