Southern Ruby (11 page)

Grandma Ruby seemed pleased by my answer. ‘Well,' she said, sitting back in her chair and tapping her manicured hand on her lap, ‘let's begin with Clifford. When I was a young woman, my family had financial difficulties and I used to run a ghost tour . . .'

O
ne day, after a month of taking ghost tours around the Garden District, I'd led my group to the Victorian mansion and was relating the gory tale of Mr Parkinson's murder, when a dark-haired young man dressed in a white linen suit appeared from around the corner and joined us. I was reaching the climax of the story and didn't want to stop to ask him what he was doing or explain that the next tour was on Thursday, so I ignored him.

The tourists applauded when I finished the story and tipped me before making their way to the streetcar. But the young man remained, regarding me with an inquisitive expression. He was in his late twenties with a square face, tanned skin and grey eyes that turned down at the corners, giving him the sweet countenance of a puppy.

‘You say that this house is haunted by the ghost of old Mr Parkinson?' he asked, bending a little so his tall height better matched mine. ‘And sometimes his missing head appears in that tree over there?'

‘That's right,' I replied.

‘Killed by his own wife and buried under the porch?'

I nodded, thinking that if he wanted me to relate the whole story again, he was going to have to buy a ticket.

‘Fascinating!' he said, putting his hands in his pockets and scanning the garden.

‘Yes, it is,' I said.

He turned back to me as if suddenly struck by an idea. ‘I would like to invite you to tea. Do you care to join me?'

The merry sparkle in his eyes was fetching, but an invitation without a formal introduction wasn't proper. I found his American brashness both disconcerting and strangely appealing.

‘I have to get back to the Quarter,' I said, unconvincingly.

‘Oh, we don't have to go far,' he replied, opening the gate to the garden and beckoning me in. ‘I thought you might like to come in and see the house for yourself.'

I hesitated. What I had taken as flirtation seemed to have another motive.

He grinned at my confusion. ‘You see, I live here. This is my house.'

A flush of heat burned my cheeks and my spine stiffened. I suddenly felt foolish, and forced a laugh to hide my embarrassment. I'd been telling false and horrific stories about his home but I still resented his playing with me. My irritation dissipated when he reached out his hand to shake mine heartily. His expression was so good-natured that it smoothed my ruffled feathers.

‘I am Clifford Lalande, but all my friends call me Cliff,' he said, the dimples on his face springing to life as he smiled. ‘And you are?'

For a moment I was tempted to stay aloof and say my name was Selene Moon. But he'd already seen straight through me and didn't seem to care. His tongue-in-cheek manner hinted at a penchant for fun and adventure. It appealed to my own sense of mischief.

‘I'm Vivienne de Villeray,' I said, regarding him as if we were now conspirators. ‘But you may call me Ruby.'

I couldn't have discovered a more American boy than Clifford Lalande. He was good-looking, earnest and energetic in that way only Americans can be. When he showed me into his family home, leading the way with a springy gait, it was like being escorted towards a festive Christmas tree by an excited child.

‘Come in! Welcome!' he said, giving me less than a second to admire the ornately carved front door with its lion's head knocker. The entrance hall was a combination of oak floors and mahogany panelling. A marble bust of the Venus de Milo was perched on a pedestal in one corner, while a chalkware plaster statue of Jesus sat between two Boston ferns. The air was filled with a rich, buttery aroma. Someone had been baking.

‘I hope you don't mind me taking off my jacket,' said Clifford, opening a door to a closet under the stairs and placing it on a hanger. ‘The weather's cooling, but it's still humid for this time of year.'

Before he shut the closet again I caught a glimpse of tennis racquets, baseball mitts and golf clubs spilling over the shelves.

‘Hello!'

I looked up to see a young woman coming down the stairs. With her pixie haircut and outdoorsy good looks, I knew that she was Clifford's sister even before he introduced us. Her grey eyes and dimples were a perfect match to his and her smile radiated the same vivacity.

‘Oh, there you are, Kitty,' said Clifford, ushering her towards me. ‘This is Miss Vivienne de Villeray, the charming tour guide I was telling you about.'

Despite her petite size, Kitty grabbed my hand like a man and shook it vigorously. ‘I'm Cliff's sister. He's been watching you from his window with a pair of binoculars.'

‘Oh, come on, Kitty, don't say that,' Clifford chided her. ‘You make me sound like a spy with the House Un-American Activities Committee.'

‘Or you're a sandwich short of a picnic,' Kitty quipped.

Clifford winked at me. ‘Sisters! Do you have one yourself? If not, you can have mine.'

He and Kitty led me into a parlour with a carved wooden mantelpiece and a Régence-style gold-leaf mirror above it and two orderly oak bookshelves on either side.

‘This house has been in our family since 1890,' Clifford said. ‘I've travelled all around Europe and I've never found anywhere as wonderful as home.'

Everything I laid eyes on — the cluster of family photographs in gilt carved frames on the mantelpiece, the monogrammed stationery and the Montblanc pen and stand on the writing desk, the long silk curtains at the windows — radiated wealth. But not shallow wealth. Rather the house had an air of quiet prosperity that created ease and suggested it valued good books and conversation more than it did showiness. It was as lovely on the inside as it was on the outside.

‘Please sit down,' he said, offering me a place on the carved walnut sofa. ‘I can smell that Mother has made her famous chocolate cake.' He turned to Kitty. ‘Go ask Philomena to make us some tea and let Mother know that we have a guest.'

Although the apartment I shared with my mother and Mae was crumbling around us, the atmosphere at home was always formal. At Maman's insistence, we all dressed before leaving our rooms, and had our meals at set times. Visitors only came by invitation, which were issued on cream-coloured cards with the family crest at the top. Although there was nothing in the Lalandes' home that was shabby or in need of repair or painting, the mood was decidedly informal. I had a sense that anything could happen.

And it did. Having completed her errands, Kitty returned wearing a white dress and veil.

‘Mother is on her way,' she told Clifford. ‘I want to show off my wedding dress. It was finished today.'

Clifford grinned at me. ‘I do believe my sister has taken a liking to you. It's a compliment. She's usually harshly judgemental, especially of other women.'

Although being asked to view the wedding dress of a woman I'd just met was an unfamiliar experience for me, I stood up to admire the floral lace of the tea-length skirt.

‘The portrait neckline is so sweet on you,' I told Kitty. ‘When are you getting married?'

‘In March,' she said, smoothing her lace sleeves. ‘Here in the house. My parents were married in this room, and I hope Eddie and I will be as happy.'

‘I'm sure you will be,' I told her.

A Labrador retriever ran in and around the room before stopping in front of each of us in turn to sniff at our feet. His wagging tail knocked a bowl of wrapped candies to the floor, but neither Clifford nor Kitty batted an eye. The dog disappeared back into the hall, panting excitedly, and returned a few minutes later at the side of a tall woman in a teal blue dress.

‘I'm sorry it's taken me a while to come down,' said the woman, smoothing her hair. ‘I've been on the telephone all afternoon.'

Clifford and I stood as he introduced us. ‘Mother, this is Vivienne de Villeray.'

Mrs Lalande's gaze fell to the voodoo charm around my neck. I'd forgotten about it. I was tempted to cover it with my hand, but to my surprise Mrs Lalande smiled.

‘You're a Creole!' she said. ‘How positively charming.'

Mrs Lalande wasn't as attractive as her children. Her ash-brown hair was unkempt, and although the wing-collared
dress she wore was made of expensive silk, the flared skirt was crushed and the sleeves were rolled up as if she'd been involved in manual work. Yet when she smiled, her eyes lit up and her face shone in a way that made her captivating.

‘Well, do sit down, Miss de Villeray,' she said, seating herself on the sofa and patting the place next to her. ‘I've been speaking with the Mayor this afternoon and I'm bored of it. I want to know how an adorable young lady like you has come to grace us with her lovely presence.'

Mrs Lalande was catching me in her spell. I wasn't used to being spoken to so kindly, except by Maman of course. Most of the women in our circle had always been cold to me, seeing my beauty as a threat to their daughters' marriage prospects. Since my debut of course, they merely gloated.

‘Call me Ruby, please,' I told her. Although I was brought up to always use proper names except between family and close friends, the immediate intimacy with which the Lalande family had embraced me made it seem natural to drop that formality and let her address me as Ruby.

‘Ruby leads walking tours around the Garden District,' Kitty explained to her mother. ‘She's been stopping by our house on the way.'

‘Is that so?' said Mrs Lalande, glancing at her daughter and not seeming in the least perturbed that Kitty was wearing her wedding dress. She turned back to me. ‘Well, then we must give you a history of this house. It has a rather fascinating past. It was built in 1890 by my husband's grandfather who wanted to create a charming house for his equally charming wife, Amandine. We have some pictures from that period that we must show you one day when you have a lot of time. My husband loves history and will talk your ear off if you let him.'

A coloured maid wearing horn-rimmed glasses arrived pushing a trolley holding teacups and a teapot and a rich-smelling chocolate cake on a crystal platter. After the mini-feast
was served, we all fell quiet as we delighted in the decadent moist cake.

‘This is certainly the best chocolate cake I've ever eaten,' I told Mrs Lalande sincerely.

‘The coffee and vanilla elevate the flavour of the chocolate,' she explained. ‘And I use only the best-quality chocolate. If you use the best of anything, you don't need to eat so much to be satisfied.'

After we'd finished our slices of cake, Mrs Lalande insisted that Clifford and Kitty give me a tour of the rest of the house.

‘I'll have to excuse myself, Ruby,' she told me. ‘I have many letters to write this evening. We are trying to convince the Latter Memorial Library to integrate and it's taking some persuasion to convince the board that giving coloured folks inferior libraries means they can't get the same quality of education as white people do.'

‘Mother and Kitty are members of the Urban League,' Clifford said proudly.

I'd heard about the organisation. They were a mixed-race group working towards improving opportunities for coloured people.

‘Well, I wish you the best of luck,' I told her. ‘It's been a pleasure to meet you.'

‘The pleasure has been all mine, I assure you,' said Mrs Lalande. She turned to the Labrador who was chewing on a ball in the corridor. ‘Come, Theodore, we have some work to do.'

The rest of the Lalande home was as beautifully appointed as the parlour. Clifford and Kitty showed me the elegant dining room with its twelve-foot-long table and Prince of Wales chairs, a sitting room with two fireplaces, and a breakfast room with lace curtains and a view of the garden.

‘The furnishings have come from all over the United States and Europe,' Kitty explained. ‘Each generation adds something of their own to the mix.'

‘Our present generation's contribution is the Frigidaire and our television set!' said Clifford, grinning.

Indeed the kitchen, where the Frigidaire was located, was the only room that had been modernised, with enamelled steel cabinets and an electric range.

We returned to the parlour for another round of tea and chocolate cake.

‘Have you been guiding long, Ruby?' Kitty asked me. ‘I think it's marvellous that young women like yourself show visitors around our special city and raise funds for civic causes. I've often thought of taking it up.'

I realised that Kitty had assumed I was a volunteer guide, like the socialite women who ran tours at the Louisiana State Museum. I wished that were the case. I was the descendant of a family who had once been favourites of the French king: a woman of my distinguished bloodline did not tramp around the streets for money. But that was exactly what I was doing.

It was too awkward to tell the truth so I went along with Kitty's assumption. ‘It is very rewarding, but I haven't been doing it long.'

‘Well, I think Cliff and I should join you one afternoon. It would be most entertaining.'

While I was wondering how I was going to prevent that ever happening, the grandfather clock struck five thirty and I seized the opportunity.

‘Goodness me, is that the time?' I said, checking my watch. ‘I'd better be getting home. My mother will be expecting me.'

‘I'll escort you to the streetcar,' said Clifford, standing. ‘But first let me quickly show you the garden.'

‘Gosh, it is late,' said Kitty. ‘Eddie's coming over for dinner and I can't let him see me in my wedding dress. I'd better hurry and get changed.' She shook my hand again with the same vigour as when she'd greeted me. ‘Cliff's really taking you out into the
garden because he wants to impress you with the gymnasium he's set up for himself,' she said with a parting wink.

‘You have a gymnasium?' I asked as I followed him into the garden.

‘Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration,' he said, leading me past beds of gardenias and azaleas towards a potting shed. He opened the door for me to look inside. ‘I've commandeered this from the gardener for my own purposes.'