I spun around and when I did so, his hands cupped my shoulders and he brought my lips to his. It was a long, hot kiss. His chest pressed against my naked breasts and his legs moved between mine until I could feel his manliness probing gently.

I started to shake my head, but his lips went to my throat, and the touch of them pushed back my resistance. I laid my head against the pillow as his lips moved down my neck and grazed the crowns of my breasts, nudging the already erect nipples. Outside my window, I thought I could hear the snorting of horses, impatiently tapping their hooves on the stone.

"I, too, may not return, madame. But if Death is waiting to claim me, he will be disappointed, for on my lips will be your name and in my eyes will be your face."

"No," I said weakly, and then I said, "William . . ."

When he entered me, I gasped and started to cry, but his lips were over mine again. We moved in a gentle rhythm that grew stronger and stronger until we galloped toward an ecstatic explosion that made me moan.

Afterward, we lay beside each other, waiting for our breathing to slow. Then he lifted himself from the bed, turning to say, "God bless you, madame," before he slipped through the darkness to the door and was gone.

I closed my eyes. There was a part of me in turmoil, hysterical, screaming about sin and evil, raging about the curses and the punishments that would rain down over me with hurricane force. But I pressed those voices back and heard only my own thumping heart. I fell asleep to the sound of my blood pumping through my body and didn't wake until the dim light of false dawn played shadows over the walls.

I thought I heard the sound of cannons in the distance and sat up slowly. It sounded like a troop of horses were clip-clopping their way over the yard. I rose from my bed and went to the window. Pulling back my curtain, I looked out. inflamed swamp gas rolling over the surface of the canals did resemble the flash of cannons. Off in the distance, the silhouetted willows seemed to swallow a company of men on horseback. And then the sun really lifted its first rays over the rim of darkness and sent dreams scurrying back to their havens to wait for another night.

I returned to bed and lay awake until I heard Pearl's first cries and Mrs. Flemming hurrying to her crib. Then I got up and dressed myself to face the reality of another day.

Paul was at the table having coffee and reading his newspaper when I came down with Mrs. Flemming and Pearl. He snapped the pages and folded them quickly and

"Good morning. Did everyone sleep well?"

"The little one slept through the night," Mrs. Flemming said. "I've never seen such a contented infant. I feel like I'm stealing by taking money from you for caring for such a perfect baby."

Paul laughed and gazed at me. He looked fresh and awake and absolutely glowed with vibrancy. There was not the slightest sign of remorse in his face.

"I thought it was going to rain last night. Did you hear the thunder toward the Gulf?" he asked me.

"Yes," I said. From the way he was smiling and talking, it was as if I had dreamed our entire encounter. Had I?

"I absolutely passed out myself," he said to Mrs. Flemming. "Slept like a log. I guess it was the wine. But I feel well rested. So what are your plans for the day, Ruby?" he asked me.

"Your sister's coming over later to show me some pictures of wedding dresses and bridesmaid gowns. I'm going to be working in my studio most of the day."

"Good. I've got to go to Baton Rouge and won't be back until dinner. Ah," he cried when Molly began to bring in our eggs and grits, "I'm starving this morning." He beamed a smile at me and we had our breakfast.

Afterward I went up to my studio, and just before he left, Paul came up to say good-bye.

"I'm sorry I've got to be away so much of the day," he said, "but it's oil business that can't wait. Have you any idea how much money I've deposited in our various accounts?"

I shook my head but gazed at my easel instead of him.

"We're millionaires many times over, Ruby. There isn't anything you can't have or can't have for Pearl, and—"

"Paul," I said, turning sharply, "money, no matter how much, can't ease my conscience. I know what you're trying to do, to say, but the fact is, we violated our promises to each other last night. We made our own special vows, remember?"

"What do you mean?" he said, smiling. "I went to bed and passed out last night, just as I described. If you had dreams. . ."

"Oh, Paul . . ."

"Don't," he said. He pleaded with his eyes, and I understood that as long as I went along with the make-believe, he could live with what happened. Then he smiled. "Who knows what's real and what isn't? Last night someone rode a horse over our grounds, right over our newly planted lawn. Go on and look for yourself, if you like. The tracks are still there," he said. Then he leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. "Paint something . . . from your dream," he suggested, and left me.

Could I do what he asked . . . imagine that it had all been a dream? If I couldn't, I couldn't live with my conscience, and Pearl and I would have to leave, I thought. Paul had become so attached to her, and she to him. No matter what sins I might have committed and might yet commit, I had given Pearl a loving and caring father.

I smothered the voices that would haunt me and turned instead to do just what Paul had suggested . . . paint from the pictures within me. I worked in a frenzy, drawing, constructing and creating an eerie swamp landscape. From out of the moss-hung cypress emerged the shadowy, ghostlike figures of Confederate calvary, their heads bowed. They were returning from some battle, their ranks greatly depleted. The mist curled around the legs of their horses, and on the branches of nearby oak trees, owls peered sadly. Off in the background, the glow of yet-burning fires lingered and turned that part of the inky night sky bloodred.

I became inspired and decided I would create a whole series of pictures depicting this romance. In my next picture, I would have the officer's lady waiting on the balcony of the plantation house, her eyes searching desperately for the sight of him as the men emerged from the night of death and destruction. I was so entranced with my work that I didn't hear Jeanne come up the stairs and couldn't help showing my chagrin at being disturbed.

But she was so excited about her upcoming wedding, I felt terrible about disappointing her.

"You mustn‟t mind me," I said when her face dropped into glum despondency over my reaction at seeing her. "I get so involved in my painting, I forget time and place. This house could go up in flames and I wouldn't realize it."

She laughed.

"Come, let me see the pictures of the dresses," I said, and we spent the afternoon talking about designs and colors. She had a half dozen friends to serve as brides-maids. We discussed the little gifts she would get for each of them and their escorts and then she described her mother's plans for the reception.

As we talked and I listened, my regret over not having a wonderful real wedding for myself deepened. Even Jeanne remarked how sorry everyone was that Paul and I had eloped and not given them the same opportunity to plan a grand affair.

"What you should do is get married again," she suggested excitedly. "I've heard of couples doing that. They have a ceremony for themselves and then an elaborate one for all of the friends and relatives. Wouldn't that be fun?"

"Yes, but for the time being, one elaborate party is enough," I said.

The planning continued as if it were a major campaign. We had dinners at the house after which the family gathered in the living room to discuss the menus, the guest list, the arrangement of flowers, and the location of every part of the ceremony and reception. There were some heated arguments over the music, the girls wanting a more modern band, and Gladys and Octavious wanting a more eloquent orchestra. Every time a disagreement became impossible to solve, Paul would force me to give my opinion.

"I don't see why we can't have both," I suggested. "Let's have an orchestra for the dinner reception and then afterward, bring in a zydeco band or one of those rock bands and let the younger people have their fun, too."

"That's a ridiculous waste of money," Gladys said.

"Money is the least of our worries, Mother," Paul said gently. She fixed her eyes of fire on me for a moment and then gave a little shudder of disgust.

"If you and your father don't care how you throw your money into the swamp, I don't care," she quipped.

"It won't be that much more," Octavious said softly, but Gladys only pressed her lips more firmly together and glared at me. I was happy when these meetings finally came to an end.

Time passed more quickly for me now that I was heavily involved in my series of paintings. I couldn't wait for the day to begin, and some days I got so lost in my work, the sun had started to go down before I realized I had forgotten lunch and it was time to get ready for dinner. I regretted neglecting Pearl, but Mrs. Flemming was more than an adequate nanny. She was really part of the family and took wonderful, loving care of her.

As for Paul, he didn't come into my room at night again, nor did either of us mention the night he had. It soon began to feel like something I had only really dreamed. With the planning of the wedding ceremony, with the satisfaction I was having painting, life at Cypress Woods continued to be fulfilling and exciting. It seemed a day didn't pass without Paul announcing some grand new purchase or development.

One evening after one of our family dinners, I found myself alone with Gladys on the patio having an after-dinner cordial. Paul and his father were still in the house talking, and his sisters had gone to meet some friends. At dinner Octavious revealed he and Gladys had political ambitions for Paul. When I questioned it on the patio, Gladys widened her eyes with surprise.

"People in high places are getting to know about the Tates," she said. "Legislators are already courting Paul. He has all the qualities that could make him governor someday, if he wants."

"Do you think he wants that?" I asked, surprised.

"Why not?" Gladys said. "Of course, he won't do anything if you don't want him to do it," she said with disgust.

"I wouldn't stand in Paul's way if he really wanted something," I said. "I just wonder if it's what he wants or what you want."

"Of course it's what he wants," she fired back. Then she smiled coldly. "What's the matter, can't you see yourself as the first lady of Louisiana? We've got no reason to feel inferior to anyone. Don't you forget it," she added.

Before I could reply, Paul and his father came out and Gladys complained about a headache and asked Octavious to take her home. Nevertheless, I had to smile to myself imagining how my sister would react to such a possibility: me, the first lady of Louisiana? Gisselle would burst with envy.

It had been some time since Gisselle's visit, and I always felt as if a second shoe was going to drop. It came in the form of a postcard she sent to me from France. There was a picture of the Eiffel Tower on the front. I didn't know it then, but I was going to receive one, even two, a week from my darling twin sister, each like a pin stuck into a voodoo doll, each describing the fun she was having with Beau in Paris. "Chère Ruby," the first one began . . .

I finally got here and guess who was at the airport waiting for me . . . Beau. You wouldn't recognize him. He has this thin mustache and looks like Rhett Butler in Gone With the Wind. He speaks French fluently. He was so happy to see me. He even brought flowers! He is going to show me around Paris, the first sight beginning with his apartment on the Champs-Elysées.

Give my love and kisses to Paul. I'm about to tell Beau all about Pearl.

Amour, Gisselle

The tears that filled my eyes after reading one of Gisselle's postcards from France lingered for hours, clouding my vision, making drawing and painting difficult, if not impossible. It got so I regretted sorting through the mail and finding one of those picture cards. She would describe the nightclubs they frequented, the cafes, the fine restaurants. With each postcard, the suggestion that more was going on between her and Beau than simply the reunion of school friends grew stronger and stronger.

"Today Beau told me that I have really matured," she wrote. "He said whatever differences there were between you and me have diminished. Isn't that sweet?"