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"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 entree. 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.