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"Well, if any of us get punished, we're going to remind her about this," she threatened, firing her angry gaze at everyone around the table.
After breakfast I left the dorm and got into the car. Buck said very little, except to mutter about how his repair work kept getting interrupted. Apparently no one was happy about my command appearance at the Clairborne plantation. Mrs. Clairborne didn't even appear to greet me. It was Otis who led me through the long corridor to the music studio, where Louis waited at his piano.
"Mademoiselle Dumas," the butler announced, and left us.
Louis, dressed in a gray silk smoking jacket, white cotton shirt, and dark gray flannel slacks, raised his head. "Please, come in," he said, realizing that I was still standing in the doorway.
"What is it, Louis?" I asked, not disguising the note of annoyance in my voice. "Why did you ask that I be brought back here?"
"I know you're angry with me," he said. "I treated you rather shabbily and you have every right to be mad. I embarrassed you and then ran out on you. I wanted you to come up here so I could apologize to you face to face. Even though I can't see you," he added with a tiny smile.
"It's all right. I wa
sn't angry at you."
"I know. You felt sorry for me, and I guess I deserve that too. I'm pitiful. No," he said when I started to protest. "It's all right. I understand and accept it. I am to be pitied. I remain here, wallowing in my own self-pity, so why shouldn't someone else look at me pathetically and not want to have anything much to do with me?
"It's just that. . I felt something about you that drew me a little closer to you, made me less afraid of being laughed at or ridiculed--so it was something I know most girls your age would do, especially Grandmother's precious Greenwood girls."
"They wouldn't laugh at you, Louis. Even the creme de la creme, the direct descendants of the Filles a la Cassette," I said with ridicule. He widened his smile.
"That's what I mean," he said. "You think like I do. You are different. I feel I can trust you. I'm sorry I made you feel as if you were summoned to appear in court," he added quickly.
"Well, it's not that, so much as I was punished and . ."
"Yes. Why were you punished? I hope it was something very naughty," he added.
"I'm afraid it's not." I told him about my painting trip off campus and he smirked.
"That was it?"
I wanted to tell him more--how his cousin Mrs. Ironwood had it in for me for meeting him--but I decided not to add fuel to the fire. He looked relieved.
"So I pulled a little rank, so what? My cousin will get over it. I've never asked her for anything before. Grandmother wasn't overjoyed, of course."
"I bet you did more than pull a little rank," I said, stepping closer to the piano. "I bet you pulled a little tantrum of your own."
He laughed. "Just a little." He was silent a moment, and then he handed me a few pages of notes. "Here," he said. "It's your song."
At the top of the page was the title "Ruby."
"Oh. Thank you." I put it into my purse.
"Would you like to take a walk through the gardens?" he asked. "Or rather, I should say, take me for a walk?"
"Yes, I would."
He stood up and offered me his hand.
"Just go through the patio doors and turn right," he directed. He scooped his arm through mine and I led him along. It was a warm, partly cloudy morning, with just a small breeze. With amazing accuracy, he described the fountains, the hanging fern and philodendron plants, the oaks and bamboo trees and the trellises erupting with purple wisteria. He identified everything because of their scents, whether it be camellias or magnolias. He had the surroundings memorized according to aromas and knew just when we had reached a set of patio doors on the west side of the house that, he said, opened to his room.
"No one but the maids, Otis, and my
grandmother have ever been in my room since my parents died," he said. "I'd like you to be the first outsider, if you like."
"Yes, I would," I said. He opened the patio door and we entered a rather large bedroom, which contained a dresser, an armoire, and a bed made of mahogany. Everything was very neat and as clean and polished as it would be had the maid just left. A portrait of a pretty blond woman was hung over the dresser.
"Is that a painting of your mother?" I asked.
