Estelle

by Linda Stewart Henley

  “Most of my friends do, including Isabelle, whom I want you to meet. But paid work has to be meaningful. I’d much rather be an artist, but I realize that’s not an easy way to make a living.”

  Her face resumed its worried expression, and he put his hand on hers.

  “Look, these are big questions, but let’s not let them spoil our evening. You’re looking none the worse for wear,” he said, “and that green dress suits you.”

  “Thanks,” Anne said, smoothing her brow. “It’s new. I decided I needed new clothes for dates with you.”

  “Good decision. I’ve noticed that you don’t dress up for work, though.”

  “That’s because I want to be comfortable. It’s the student in me, still. I can think better when I’m wearing blue jeans.”

  She didn’t tell him the whole story. When she’d been overweight, the casual clothes had hidden her large abdomen and wide hips.

  “What? You can think better?” he exclaimed. “I never heard that theory before.”

  “Just teasing. Are you trying to say I should dress better at the museum?”

  “Well, since I sponsored you for your internship, I guess that entitles me to give you some advice about how you present yourself professionally.”

  “Oh. Well, I’ll give it some thought. I know how to dress. I learned that at Newcomb. We used to wear dresses to class, but things changed during my senior year. The women who went to Newcomb could afford to—and did—dress well, but the antiwar movement took hold in a big way. Demonstrators shut down classes and burned flags. Everyone began wearing blue jeans, including the debutantes, who wore bellbottoms under their fur coats to class that winter. I wore blue jeans, but not a fur coat, which I didn’t have.”

  He smiled. “All right. But you’re not in college now. To change the subject, I’m concerned about you living in such a dangerous area. Where you’re living now is bad enough, but you’re renting, and it’s temporary. Are you sure it’s wise to move into your house? You could lease it or sell it. I don’t like the possibility of more vandalism, either.”

  “It’s not so simple. You don’t understand the terms of the inheritance. My grandfather stipulated that if I don’t restore the property, ownership will revert to the city. They may tear it down.”

  “I see. That does complicate things,” Sam said.

  “We need to find out more about who might resent what I’m doing to improve the house,” Anne said. “Do you know anything about HANO?”

  “A little. There’s been a lot of news in the papers about the redevelopment that’s going on in poor neighborhoods. They’re planning to raze whole areas and build a cultural center.”

  “Well, I ought to learn more about that. You see, I’ve been so preoccupied, what with the house, the job, you. . . .”

  “As you should be,” he said, “but you might talk to the people at the city to learn more.”

  “I’ll do that, of course,” she replied. After a pause she continued, “I won’t give up easily on the house. I want to restore and live in the place that’s been my family’s home for five generations. It’s worth preserving. As a museum curator, you must understand that. And as for my rental, it’s convenient, within easy reach of the big house.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ve said enough.”

  A waiter alerted them that their table was ready, and they followed him into the dining area. They ordered Cajun food, crawfish and gumbo, and stopped talking while they enjoyed their meal. Then Anne put her fork down and looked up. Sam’s gray eyes met hers, and she felt the thrill up her spine that had become a familiar sensation lately. She reached for his hand.

  “I didn’t see you at the museum yesterday. Were you there?” she asked.

  “I had meetings downtown and only stopped by my office briefly. I went to the gym for a swim at lunch.”

  “You went swimming? I’ve been meaning to ask you to tell me more about your athletic career in college,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t call it a career exactly, but I trained for the biathlon, and I love running and skiing.”

  “Doesn’t biathlon training involve target shooting?”

  “Yes, using a rifle. And yes, target shooting is part of the course.”

  “Maybe that’s why I feel so safe when I’m with you,” Anne said, grinning. “I’d be a terrible shot, myself.”

  “You can never guess when you may need someone to protect you, especially in New Orleans. There’s a long history of duels here, fought about matters so trivial you can hardly imagine a person risking his life for them, but there it is. There were plenty of duals fought over women, you know, to preserve their honor.”

  “Goodness. This is all news to me. Where?”

  “Oddly enough, in City Park, near the museum,” Sam said with a twisted grin. “There’s a tree called the dueling oak. Seriously, safety is not a joking matter, Anne, but I guess you don’t want to talk about that again tonight.”

  “True. Let’s have crème brȗlée.”

  “You’re impossible!” Sam said, shaking his head and tucking a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. “It’s part of your charm, refusing to look at the practical realities of life, always wanting to make things beautiful, or in this case, tasty. All right. Crème brȗlée it is.”

  They finished their dessert, and Sam drove Anne home. The rooming house stood cloaked in darkness except for a light on the porch. “This place is like a tomb,” he said as he escorted her to the door. “Does anyone else live here?”

  “Sure. Hospital workers in four of the six rooms, but they work night shifts and sleep during the day. I rarely see them. Andrea, the woman in room six, next to mine, is studying architecture at Tulane. She’s becoming a friend, and we sometimes make dinners together in the shared kitchen. Do you want to stay over?”

  “I wish I could, but not tonight. I’m running with a friend early tomorrow morning.”

  He kissed her goodnight.

  After he had gone, Anne sat for a while in her room in a chair by the window and gazed at the faint sliver of a pale moon. Her head felt light and woozy from the wine. Despite the incident at the house and the worry about Stella, her young life now seemed charmed, full of mystery and magic. She appreciated having Sam in her life, her first serious relationship, and she didn’t analyze her feelings for him. He made her sing inside. Although she wanted to be independent, she enjoyed soliciting his advice and talking to him about her choices. She reveled in the new sensation of being an heiress, having a job and her own money to spend as she wanted. If she couldn’t make a life for herself as an artist, at least she could make the historic house beautiful again.

  In addition, she wanted to become familiar with the lives of ancestors who had lived in the old house, to preserve and honor her family’s past. The connection with Edgar Degas had turned out to be the spectacular icing on the cake—or gingerbread on the house, in this case. She had only scratched the surface by the exciting discovery in the attic of Degas’s notebook, old letters, and the painting by an unknown artist of her great-great-grandmother Sophie, and she anticipated unearthing much more history soon.

  She had met Sam when she’d taken the notebook to the museum for authentication during her senior year of college. He had sold it to a library in Paris for a great deal of money, enough to pay for the renovations to the house. It amused her that Degas had indirectly paid for the work, making the association more vital. Shivering despite the warm night, she remembered that she resembled Sophie, her attractive ancestor in the painting. What secrets did that young woman hold in the steady gaze of those brown eyes? Had she known Degas? She was impatient to learn more about Sophie, and herself, along the way.

  She stared again at the slender moon, now obscured by clouds. The troubling matter of the vandalism and decisions about Stella were hard to ignore. She needed time. Perhaps, if Sam proposed, it would be easier to marry and let him help navigate her future. He had an established career, and if they married, she could more easily p
aint and be an artist. She soon dismissed the idea. As she had told him that evening, marriage wasn’t her only goal in life. She wanted to work things out for herself and make her own way in the world.

  Chapter 4

  October 1872

  Estelle watched Edgar descend the long staircase carrying a heavy bag. Seeing her in the front room, he sat beside her, putting the bag on the floor. As he did so, she admired his delicate hands and long fingers. Artist’s hands.

  “I brought presents for the little ones,” he said. “Bonbons and toys. Shall I pass them out now?”

  “How kind. Best to wait until after they’ve eaten.”

  “Will they dine with us?” he asked.

  “No. The children are having lunch now in the kitchen. The adults and Jo will eat in the dining room. Jo is becoming quite the young lady, as you’ve no doubt noticed.”

  “I have. I wonder if girls her age look as grown-up in France, but then I’m not acquainted with many young people there.”

  “Why is that? Don’t you visit other families in Paris?”

  “Not much. As you know, my sisters have no children, and most of my acquaintances and friends are artists. We paint together sometimes and talk to each other about exhibitions, but we don’t socialize much with our families, or at any rate, I don’t. I like my own company and prefer to work alone.”

  Estelle settled her eyes on him. “Well, I should warn you that you’ll not find much peace here,” she said. “The children keep us all amused, but family life is boisterous sometimes with so many young ones in the house.”

  “I’ll manage. The family is delightful, and I could not wish for a better welcome. I’m at home already.”

  She clapped her hands together. “I am glad.”

  The lunch bell sounded.

  “Time to eat. I’ve seated you between my sister Mathilde and her husband, William, because they’re the ones you haven’t met before.”

  Edgar offered his hand to Estelle to help her rise from the chair. She leaned on his arm, and he escorted her to the dining room. Furnished with a long table and tall windows, it faced the garden landscaped with lawns, shrubs, and mature trees. The afternoon sun cast rays onto the waxed wooden floor, lighting a porcelain figure on the mantle that stood below a gilt-edged mirror. Dark-green velvet curtains framed the windows, giving the room an elegant and expensive appearance. The table, set for eight, displayed crystal wine glasses at each setting and a large vase of flowers in the middle. The family members seated themselves, and Beulah, the housemaid, brought out the first course.

  “Before we start, I’d like to welcome Edgar to our home,” René said, standing up. “Let’s drink a toast to his health and thank him for coming—at long last.”

  The family members clapped, and Edgar stood up.

  “I would like to thank you for inviting me—at least seventeen times,” he said, “and I want to say what a good thing family is.”

  Everyone smiled as the brothers sat down, and for a while no one spoke while the rapid tinkling of silverware on plates showed the diners’ enjoyable consumption of the shrimp. After Beulah removed the dishes, René addressed Jo at the opposite end of the table.

  “Et toi, Josephine, est-ce que tu parles toujours le français?” Do you speak French now?

  “Mais oui,” she replied, with a shy grin.

  “I told her to practice while I was away,” René explained to Edgar. “Perhaps you can talk to her every day to help her improve. We can’t abide children in this house who speak only English!”

  “I’ll be glad to. Perhaps in exchange she could teach me the language of America. The only two words I can pronounce well are ‘turkey buzzard.’”

  “Turkey buzzard? Why those? They’re hardly everyday terms,” William said.

  Edgar shrugged. “The sounds please me. Turkey buzzard. Bon, n’est-ce pas?”

  Everyone laughed.

  The second course, crab, arrived, accompanied by chilled white French Burgundy wine.

  “The food, it’s delicious,” Edgar said to Estelle.

  “I’m glad you like it. We have a new cook.”

  “Edgar has an excellent cook in Paris,” René offered. “He wanted to bring her here, but I think she would have run off with some rich gentleman if she had come—”

  “I’m not sure I agree,” Edgar broke in. “Clothilde works hard for me, and I would not want to lose her, but then, I don’t yet understand the temptations of this new place, and of the opportunities I hear are so readily available.”

  “Opportunities are what you’re here to discover, we hope,” Estelle said, “and while we’re on that subject, we need to get you some painting materials.”

  “In time, in time. Let him first become familiar with our city and our family business,” Michel said. “I’d like to invite him to come to the office tomorrow morning and learn something about the cotton industry.”

  “Happy to oblige. I agree the paints can wait,” Edgar said.

  Dessert arrived, and coffee, and the meal ended. Estelle motioned to Edgar.

  “You can catch the children now, before they take their afternoon naps. Go through to the parlor,” she said.

  Edgar picked up his bag of gifts and joined his nephews and nieces sitting on the floor. The children had surrounded themselves with building blocks and dolls. Carrie shouted out, “Oncle Edgar, do you want to paint now? I can get my colors and brushes.”

  “Later, my child,” he said. “I’ve brought treats for you all.”

  He passed sweets around to the four older children. Then he produced colorful balls and wooden toys in the shapes of animals and birds.

  “This one’s very pretty,” Carrie said, picking up a pink flamingo. “I like pink. Do you like pink, Uncle?”

  “Very much,” he replied.

  Each holding a ball, the two-year-olds, Sidney and Pierre, chased one other.

  “It’s a big ball,” Sidney said.

  “No, it’s a small one. I’ve got a big one,” Pierre said.

  “I want it!”

  “It’s mine!”

  “Now, boys, be nice to each other. Say thank you to your uncle,” Flora, the nurse said, touching them on their shoulders and urging them forward.

  A smile played on Edgar’s face as the children thanked him in their wispy voices. Passing Estelle in the living room he said, “The children are delightful. You know, my eyes are opened. I have not married, but a good woman, a few children of my own, would that be excessive?”

  Estelle turned toward him, widening her eyes,

  “Not at all. These words please me, my dear cousin.”

  “I’ll rest now. Thank you again for your hospitality, for the lovely meal.”

  After he had gone upstairs, Estelle recalled Edgar’s behavior in Paris, where he had lived in the style of a confirmed bachelor. Had she heard him correctly? Had he talked about marrying, settling down, and having children? Perhaps the city had already bewitched him, enticing him to explore new opportunities. She had never witnessed such words from him before, nor known of any important women in his life. Or any woman, for that matter. Yet she knew he enjoyed the company of ladies, and he loved having them sit for portraits. Perhaps he would find the women of New Orleans irresistible, perhaps even—or perhaps especially—Désirée. She hoped so; oh, she hoped so. She resolved to do all she could to encourage the match. But why hasn’t he brought his paints, and why does he seem so resistant to the idea of painting here? She would ask him more about that tomorrow.

  Chapter 5

  September 1970

  Anne took up the letter she’d received from Stella the week before. She admired the handwriting, even and artistic, much better than her own. Where had she learned to write like that? Anne knew so little about her. They’d met twice before in the spring, during Anne’s senior year of college. Stella worked as a sous-chef at Commander’s Palace, one of the best restaurants in the city, and she had invited Anne to dinner there. Her roommate, Isabe
lle, had gone with her. Stella, an accomplished cook, had recommended entrees she had prepared, and the two friends had enjoyed the sumptuous meal. It was so rich that Anne needed to watch her calories for the next several days.

  She picked up the phone. After several rings, Stella’s soft voice came on the line. She had only the slightest trace of a Southern accent.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Stella, it’s Anne. Sorry I’ve been out of touch for so long, but I’ve been busy, and work at the house has been slow.”

  “I wondered when you would call. Any idea when the house will be ready?”

  “Hard to say. Spring, maybe.”

  “Spring? But that’s months away,” Stella said.

  “’Fraid so. So, you’re still interested in living there, then?”

  “Definitely. I drove past the other day, and it looks fine. Has a new roof. Still needs painting, I guess.”

  “That, and a lot more work inside. You might want to see it before you think any more about moving in. I should warn you that the neighborhood’s not safe.”

  “Couldn’t be any worse than the one I’m in now,” Stella said. “And I do have to move.”

  “We should talk about that. Let’s meet for coffee. How about at the Café du Monde at ten tomorrow morning?”

  “Perfect, see you then.”

  Anne hung up the phone. It might be awkward, but meeting Stella again was the right thing to do. Meanwhile, she had the whole of Saturday to herself. Perhaps she should check the house again. The raw ravages of the vandalism remained, but she wanted to make sure nothing else was amiss. And she needed to learn more about HANO, the Housing Authority.

  Wearing exercise clothes, Anne jogged to the Café du Monde near the French Market. She stopped for coffee before turning onto Esplanade Avenue, passing number 2306 on the way. That had been Degas’s family residence, the one where he’d stayed while visiting New Orleans in 1872 and ’73. She always admired it when passing, though she had learned that only part of the historic mansion still survived. Her imagination caught fire whenever she considered the painter’s connection to her family. Had a friendship developed? Or a romance?