"Is everything all right, mademoiselle?" he asked with apprehension.
"Yes, Edgar." I stepped inside. "Is my father downstairs?"
"No, mademoiselle." Something soft and sad in his voice made me turn to meet his eyes. They were dark and full of despair.
"Is something wrong, Edgar?" I asked quickly. "Monsieur Dumas has retired for the evening, he replied, as if that explained it all.
"And my. . . mother?"
"She, too, has gone to bed, mademoiselle," he said. "Can I get you anything?"
"No, thank you, Edgar," I said. He nodded, then turned and walked away. There was an eerie stillness in the house. Most of the rooms were dark. The teardrop chandeliers above me in the hall were dim and lifeless, making the faces in some of the oil paintings gloomy and ominous. A different sort of panic grew in my chest. It made me feel hollow and terribly alone. A chill shuddered down my spine and sent me to the stairway and the promise of my snug bed waiting upstairs. However, when I reached the landing, I heard it again . . . the sound of sobbing.
Poor Daddy, I thought. How great his sorrow and misery must be to drive him into his brother's room so often and cause him still to cry like a baby after all these years. With pity and compassion in my heart, I approached the door and knocked gently. I wanted to talk to him, not only to comfort him, but to have him comfort me.
"Daddy?"
Just as before, the sobbing stopped, but no one came to the door. I knocked again.
"It's Ruby, Daddy. I came back from the pajama party. I need to talk to you. Please." I listened, my ear to the door. "Daddy?" Hearing nothing, I tried the doorknob and found it would turn. Slowly, I opened the door and peered into the room, a long, dark room with its curtains drawn, but with the light of a dozen candles flickering and casting the shadows of distorted shapes over the bed, the other furniture, and the walls. They performed a ghostly dance, resembling the sort of spirits Grandmere Catherine could drive away with her rituals and prayers. I hesitated, my heart pounding.
"Daddy, are you in here?"
I thought I heard a shuffling to the right and walked farther into the room. I saw no one, but I was drawn to the candles because they were all set up in holders on the dresser and surrounded dozens of pictures in silver and gold frames. All of the pictures were pictures of a handsome young man I could only assume was my uncle Jean. The pictures captured him from boyhood to manhood. My father stood beside him in a few, but most of the pictures were portrait photos, some in color.
He is a very handsome man, I thought, his hair the same sort of blond and brown mixture Paul's is. In every color portrait photo, he had soft bluish-green eyes, a straight nose, not too long or too short, a strong, beautifully drawn mouth that flashed a warm smile full of milk white teeth. From the few full body shots, I saw he had a trim figure, manly and graceful like a bullfighter's with a narrow waist and wide shoulders. In short, my father had not exaggerated when he had described him to me. Uncle Jean was any girl's idea of a dreamboat.
I gazed about the room and even in the dim light saw that nothing had been disturbed or changed since the accident years and years ago. The bed was still made and waiting for someone to sleep in it. It looked dusty and untouched, but everything that had been left on the dressers and nightstands, the desk and armoire was still there. Even a pair of slippers remained at the side of the bed, poised to accept bare feet in the morning.
"Daddy?" I whispered to the darkest corners of the room. "Are you in here?"
"What do you think you're doing?" I heard Daphne demand, and I spun around to see her standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips. "Why are you in there?"
"I . . . thought my father was in here," I said.
"Get out of here this instant," she ordered, and backed away from the door. The moment I stepped out, she reached in and grabbed the doorknob to pull the door shut. "What are you doing home? I thought you and Gisselle were attending a slumber party tonight?"
She scowled at me, then turned her head to look at Gisselle's door. She had a lovely profile, classic, the lines of her face perfect when she burned with anger. I guess I really was an artist at heart. In the midst of this, all I could think of was what it would be like to paint that Grecian visage.
"Is she home, too?" Daphne asked.
"No," I said. She spun on me.
"Then why are you home?" she stormed back.
"I . . . didn't feel well, so I came home," I said quickly. Daphne focused her penetrating gaze on me, making me feel as if she were searching my eyes, maybe even my soul. I was forced to shift my eyes guiltily away.
"Are you sure that's the truth? Are you sure you didn't leave the girls to do something else, maybe something with one of the boys?" she
asked
suspiciously. Really feeling sick now, I still managed to find a voice.
"Oh, no, I came right home. I just want to go to bed," I said.
She continued to stare at me, her eyes riveted to mine, pinning me to her like butterflies were pinned to a board. She folded her arms under her breasts. She was in her silk robe and slippers and had her hair down, but her face was still made up, her lipstick and rough fresh. I bit softly on my lower lip. Panic seized me in a tight grip. I imagined I did look quite sick at this point.
"What's wrong with you?" she demanded.