6

  Masquerade

After Paul had left me, I lay there on my bed feeling sorry for myself. The late afternoon sun had begun to fall below the willows and cypress trees so that the shadows in the room grew somewhat deeper and darker. When I gazed out through the top of my windows, I saw that the sky had turned a darker turquoise and the scattered clouds were the color of old silver coins. The house was very quiet. It had been so well built that the sounds from downstairs or even from inside rooms across the hall were insulated when doors were closed. How different it was from living in my Grandmère Catherine's shack on the bayou, where even from our upstairs bedrooms, we could hear the scurry of a field mouse across the living room floor.

But suddenly I heard the distinct clip-clopping of boots down the corridor outside my doors. I heard what sounded like the rattle of a saber, too. They grew louder and closer. Curious, I sat up just as my door was opened and Paul stepped through, dressed in a Confederate officer's uniform, sword at his hip. He wore a fake sweet-potato red Vandyke beard as well, and he carried a package under his right arm. The costume and the beard fit him so well that for a moment I didn't know who it was. Then I smiled.

"Paul! Where did you get all that?"

"Pardon, madame," he said, and took off his hat to make a sweeping, graceful and elegant bow. "Colonel William Henry Tate at your service." He scowled. "I was just informed that some Yankees had invaded your privacy and caused you some consternation. I'll need a full report before I send my troops after the scoundrels, who, I promise you, will be swinging in the wind under the old oak before sundown.

"Now," he continued, straightening into a formal military posture and running his left forefinger over his mustache, "if you will just be so kind as to give my adjunct their descriptions . . ."

I clapped my hands and laughed.

"Oh, Paul, that's so funny."

He stepped toward me, not cracking a smile.

"Madame, I am William Henry Tate and I am at your service. There is no more distinguished service for a southern gentleman to perform than the service he performs on behalf of a lady, a truly beautiful and elegant daughter of the South."

With that he took my hand and kissed it softly.

"Well, suh," I said, thickening my accent and stepping into his make-believe, "I am flattered. No fine nor more handsome gentleman has come to my aid so quickly before."

"Madame, think of me as your devoted servant." He kissed my hand again. "May I be so bold as to invite you to my tent this evening for dinner. Of course, the service and the victuals won't be up to the standard they should be for a woman of your stature, but we are in the midst of a desperate struggle to keep our way of life survivin', and I'm sure you will understand."

"It's ma contribution to the great effort, suh, to sacrifice, too. You do have linen napkins, however, do you not?" I asked, batting my eyelashes.

"Of course. I didn't mean to imply you would dine like some dirtbag Yankee merchant. And on that note, may I offer you this dress for the occasion. It belonged to ma own sweet departed mother."

He handed me the package under his arm. I set it on my lap and unwrapped it. Within was a brownish pink taffeta dress. I held it up. It had high bodice sleeves that were bell-shaped at the wrists and lavishly embroidered. From these emerged undersleeves made of batiste covered with embroidery. The collar was like the sleeves.

"Why, suh, this is a beautiful dress. I'd be honored to wear such a garment."

"The honor is all mine, madame," he said, stepping back with another sweeping bow. "Shall I stop by . . . say, in twenty minutes and escort you to the dining area?"

"Make that twenty-five minutes, suh. I do want to make special preparations."

"Madame, for you, the clock stops." He stood up and pulled a beautiful, antique gold pocket watch out of his pants pocket and flipped it open. It began to play a sweet tune. "I shall return as you requested."

"Paul," I cried, "where did you get all this?"

"Paul? Madame, my name is William Henry Tate," he said, and with that he pivoted and marched out. I stared after him, the laughter on my lips. Then I looked at the dress again and wondered what I would look like in it.

The dress fit nearly perfectly. I took it in slightly at the waist with safety pins, but the bodice and the sleeves were perfect. Once I had the dress on, the magic of pretending took control and I thought about my hair. Quickly I brushed and pinned it up, making a part down the middle just the way southern women in historical pictures I had seen wore their hair. I stood there gazing at myself in the full-length mirror, wishing for the moment that our make-believe were true and I really was a member of southern aristocracy about to dine with a gentleman officer.

There was a gentle knock at my door. When I opened it, Paul, in his costume, stepped back with a wide smile over his face, his eyes brightening with pleasure. He had a corsage of white baby roses in his hands.

"Madame, you surpass even my most ambitious expectations. Beauty has no better place to call its home but in your face and fine figure."

I laughed. "Where did you get these words?"

"Madame, please. These are the words of a southern gentleman, and the words of a southern gentleman are never trifling."

"Excuse me, suh." I curtsied.

"May I?" he asked, approaching with the corsage. I stood still as he pinned it on my bodice. When I looked into his face and he looked into mine, it was as if I were looking at the face of a handsome stranger. He smiled and then stepped back and offered me his arm. "Madame."

"Suh," I said, taking it. He escorted me down the corridor and we descended the stairway like the lord and lady of some great manor. Paul had prepared our servants for this costume party, for neither Molly nor James looked surprised. Molly smiled and bit down on her lower lip, but everyone behaved as if this were a perfectly normal evening.

Paul had the lights turned down in the dining room and candles burning in the silver candelabra. He had soft dinner music piped in. After he brought me to my seat, he took his and offered me a glass of wine.

"You set a fine dinner table in the field, suh," I remarked.

"We make do with what we can, madame. These are times to try the souls of gallant men and gallant women. I am not one to diminish the sacrifice made by southern ladies. However, rank has its privileges, and I was able to manage this fine French Chablis." He leaned over, pretending not to want the servants to hear. "Bought it from some smugglers," he said.

"Oh dear. Well, suh, they say the higher the grape, the sweeter the wine."

"Well put, madame. Shall we make a toast?" he said, lifting his glass toward mine. "To the return of better times when the most important thing for a man to do is make the woman of his heart happy."

We clinked glasses and sipped, eyes open and fixed on each other as we did so. Then Paul dabbed his napkin over his lips, taking care not to move his fake Vandyke, and nodded to Molly and James so they could begin to serve our dinner.

I had expected to have little or no appetite this evening, but Paul's elaborate plotting to create these illusions and pleasant distractions was so delightful and romantic, I had to leave my dark and depressing thoughts behind. I had the feeling he had been planning such activity before and had everything ready just in case.

Letty had prepared glazed wild duck as our entrée. And for dessert, with our rich Cajun coffee, we had floating island with strawberries. While we dined, Paul was charming and funny. Apparently he had studied up on the Civil War battles in which his ancestor William Henry Tate had fought. Like an actor who had rehearsed his part for months and months, he kept in character. He sang Civil War ditties, talked about the occupation of New Orleans by the Yankee army and the hated General Butler, whose face was painted on the inside of chamber pots that became known as Butler pots.

He kept me so amused, I had little time to recall Gisselle's visit and the dreadful things she had told me. By the time Paul and I finished dinner, I was giggly and happy and very content. He offered his arm and escorted me to the patio, where we were to have an after-dinner cordial and gaze at the stars.

Over a hundred years ago, I thought, a Confederate officer and his lady looked up at the same night sky dazzled by the same stars. A hundred years wasn't much time to the stars, even less than a second was to us. How small and insignificant we are beneath the celestial firmament, I thought. All our great problems were so tiny.

"A Dixie for your thoughts," Paul said.

"My thoughts that valuable to you?"

"So valuable, it makes no sense to put any monetary offer. That's why I symbolically offer the Dixie."

"I was just thinking how small we are under the stars."

"I beg to differ, madame. You see that one star up there, the one that's blinking brighter than the others?"

"Yes."

"Well, it's blinking that way because it's jealous of the radiance that comes from your face this night. Some-where on another planet like ours, two people are looking up at their night sky and seeing the brilliance from your eyes, the glow of your lips, and thinking how small their world is."

"Oh, Paul," I said, moved by his words.

"William Henry Tate," he corrected, and leaned over to brush my lips with a kiss. It was so soft and quick, I could have been kissed by the breeze coming up from the Gulf and thought it was Paul's kiss, but when I opened my eyes, his face was still close to mine.

"I can't be happy when you're unhappy, Ruby," he whispered. "Are you a little happier now?"

"Yes, I am," I said. I heard the way my words sounded; I felt the trembling in my body. The cordial, the wine, the wonderful meal, had filled me with a warm glow. The night, the stars, the very air we breathed, all conspired against that part of me that struggled to remind me how close I was to surrendering myself.

"Good," Paul said, and brought his lips to my forehead. He kissed my closed eyes and my nose and brought those warm lips to mine. The tingling that stirred in my breast radiated into my neck, where his lips followed. I moaned and then I pulled away.

"I'm tired," I said quickly. "I think I should go up."

"Of course." He stood up when I did.

"Thank you, suh," I said, smiling, "for a most wonderful evening."

"Perhaps when the war ends, we will do it again," he replied, "in surroundings more suited to your beauty and stature."

"It was fine, wonderful," I said. He nodded and I turned and walked into the house, my heart pounding. It was as if I really were saying good night to a beau who had been courting me and with whom I had fallen deeper and deeper in love.

Molly had turned down all the lights in the house. Mrs. Flemming had fed and put Pearl to sleep. I hurried up the stairs and to my bedroom, gasping as I entered and falling back against the closed door to catch my breath, my eyes closed, my blood rushing madly through my veins.

After a few moments, I stepped away from the door and went to the vanity table. Slowly I slipped out of the old dress, but I stood there staring at myself in my slip and panties. I unpinned my hair and let the strands fall down my still crimson neck and over my shoulders. I couldn't stop my body from trembling with a longing I had naively thought I could subdue at will. My breath quickened as I continued to undress, stepping out of my panties and undoing my bra. Naked, I gazed upon myself in the mirror, imagining a gallant Confederate officer stepping up behind me and placing his hand on my shoulder until I turned to raise my lips to his.

Finally I turned off the lights and crawled under my comforter, luxuriating in the cool touch of the linen on my hot skin. Paul's romantic words lingered in my ears. I lay there thinking about the stars, dreaming. I didn't hear the adjoining door open, nor did I hear him approach my bed. I didn't realize he was beside me until I felt the weight of his body shift the mattress and then felt the warmth of his lips on my neck.

"Paul."

"It's William," he said softly.

"Please, don't . . ." I began, but the words choked in my throat.

"Madame, war makes time a luxury. If we were to have met and fallen in love before or after, I would spend weeks, months, courting you, but in the morning, I am to lead my troops into a desperate battle from which many will not return."