'But I am that too,' I said.
'Oh? Interesting. Ruby Dumas, huh?'
'Yes. And who are you?' He was hesitant. 'You play beautifully,' I said quickly.
'Thank you, but I don't play. I cry, I scream, I laugh through my fingers. The music just happens to be my words, the notes my letters.' He shook his head. 'Only another musician, a poet or an artist, would understand.'
'I understand. I'm an artist,' I said.
'Oh?'
'Yes. I have even sold some paintings through a gallery in the French Quarter,' I added, finding myself bragging. It was not like me, but something about this young man's condescending, skeptical manner put a steel rod in my spine and hoisted my flag of pride. I might not be blueblood enough for the eyes of Mrs. Clairborne and her grandson, but I was Catherine Landry's granddaughter, I thought.
'Have you?' He smiled, showing a mouthful of teeth almost as white as his piano keys. 'What do you paint?'
'Most of my paintings are scenes I did when I lived in the bayou.'
He nodded and grew more pensive-looking.
'You ought to paint the lake at twilight,' he said softly. 'It used to be my favorite place . . . when the dying sun changes the colors of the hyacinths, shimmering from lavender to dark purple.' He spoke about colors as if they were long lost, dead friends.
'You weren't always blind, then?'
'No,' he said sadly. After a moment, he turned back to his piano. 'You had better get back to my grandmother's tea before you're missed.'
'You never told me your name,' I said.
'Louis,' he replied and immediately started to play again, only harder, angrier. I watched him for a moment and then I returned to the tea, feeling very melancholy. Abby noticed immediately, but before she could ask me about it, Mrs. Clairborne announced that our tea had come to an end.
'I'm happy you girls could come to see me,' she declared and then stood up. Leaning on her cane, she continued. 'I'm sorry you have to be going, but I know you young women have things to do. I will ask you all up here again soon, I'm sure. In the meantime, work hard and remember to distinguish yourselves by being proper Greenwood girls.' She started out, clicking her cane over the marble, that stopped watch dangling on the chain around her neck like a small but hefty burden she was sentenced to carry the rest of her life.
'Come along, girls,' Mrs. Penny said. She looked very pleased. 'It was a nice afternoon, wasn't it?'
'I nearly got a heart attack from the excitement,' Gisselle said, but she looked at me suspiciously, curious about where I had been and why my mood had changed too. I wheeled her out, and Buck came hurrying up the steps to help get her over the portico. Once again he lifted her gently out of the chair, only this time she deliberately saw to it that her lips grazed his cheeks. He shifted a quick gaze at Abby and me, and especially at Mrs. Penny, to see if we'd seen what Gisselle had done. Both of us pretended we hadn't, and Mrs. Penny was too oblivious to have noticed. He looked relieved.
Once we were all inside the car, Abby asked me where I had been so long.
'I met a very interesting but very sad young man,' I said. Mrs. Penny gasped. 'You went into the west side of the house?'
'Yes, why?'
'I never let the girls go there. Oh dear, if Mrs. Clairborne finds out. I forgot to tell you not to venture off like that.'
'Why aren't we permitted to go into the west wing?' Abby asked.
'That's the most private area, where she and her grandson really reside,' Mrs. Penny replied.
'Grandson?' Gisselle looked at me. 'Is that who you met?'
'Yes.'
'How old is he? What does he look like? What's his name?' she followed quickly. 'Why wasn't he invited to the tea? At least that would have made it more interesting. Unless he was as ugly as she was.'
'He told me his name was Louis. He's blind, but he wasn't always that way. What happened to him, Mrs. Penny?'
'Oh dear,' she said instead of replying. 'Oh dear, dear.'
'Oh stop and just tell us what happened,' Gisselle commanded.
'He became blind after his parents died,' she said quickly. 'He's not only blind but he suffers from melancholia. He usually doesn't speak to anyone. He has been that way ever since the deaths of his parents. He was only fourteen years old at the time. A great tragedy.'
'Was Mrs. Clairborne's daughter Louis's mother?' Gisselle asked.
'Yes,' Mrs. Penny replied quickly.
'What's melancholia?' she followed. Mrs. Penny didn't respond. 'A disease or what?'
'It's a deep mental depression, a sadness that takes over your body. People can actually pine away,' Abby said softly.
Gisselle stared at her a moment. 'You mean . . die of heartbreak?'
