Estelle

by Linda Stewart Henley

  When she reached her house, she unlocked the front door and disconnected the alarm. She appreciated Sam’s keeping his word and installing it. The contractors had replaced the glass in the kitchen door, but upstairs the bathroom looked the same, still a disaster. She bounded up the staircase that led to the attic. Nothing seemed out of order. Before leaving, she swept her eyes around the room to be sure she had overlooked no items of interest. As she turned to go, she caught her shoe on the uneven floor. Regaining her balance, she noticed a loose floorboard. She kneeled and pried it up. Squinting into the dark space underneath, she could make out the red cover of a book under the spider webs. Heart pounding, she reached and pulled it out. With a shudder, she brushed the spiders off, hugged it to her chest, and rushed down the stairs.

  Once outside she gently opened the book. The old pages crackled in her fingers, and the sepia ink had faded, but the name Marguerite Fontenot appeared in capital letters at the top of the first page. She almost shouted out loud. Marguerite! Her mother was a Fontenot, so Marguerite must be a relative. A series of journal entries followed, each one written in neat handwriting under a date. She eagerly turned the pages. The first entry, dated November 3, 1872 and written in French, read:

  Papa gave me this as an early Christmas present for the new year, but I don’t wish to wait until then to write. So much excitement! We heard that René De Gas’s brother Edgar arrived from Paris this week. I can’t wait to meet him. Maman says we’re invited for dinner on Saturday. What fun.

  She had seen the name Marguerite before, as a signature on one of the original letters to Degas she’d discovered a few months before in the same room. The young Marguerite had apparently liked him—perhaps more than liked him. This discovery might fill in an important piece of the puzzle about her ancestors’ connection with Degas. But why hide the book in the floor? Had Marguerite put it there, wanting to keep it from prying eyes?

  The intriguing discovery distracted her from her plan to inspect the house. Now she wanted to read the journal. Setting the alarm and locking the front door behind her, she hurried home holding the precious book. She would relish reading every word. When she had read the letter earlier, its significance had paled compared with the exciting discovery of the notebook containing sketches and comments by the artist. Now it commanded her attention. After rummaging through several drawers, she located the envelope addressed to Monsieur E. Degas. She presumed it had never been sent because it bore no postmark or address. Had Degas even read it? She unfolded the letter and saw that the handwriting on it and the journal matched. Good! Just as she’d thought.

  March 12, 1873

  Dearest Edgar, It broke my heart yesterday when I learned you left so suddenly without saying good-bye. Will I ever see your dear face again? Papa said you would leave soon for Paris. How will I bear it? I have become so used to your visits these past few months, and I dared to hope for more so we could dance together again. Please write as soon as you can.

  With great affection,

  Marguerite

  Who was Marguerite? Had she changed her mind about sending the letter? What had happened? Anne couldn’t wait to learn more about Marguerite’s relationship with Degas. Lost in her reading, she realized that time had passed, and she was hungry for dinner.

  The following day Anne strolled to the café to meet Stella. She had dressed in bellbottoms and a muslin blouse and was relieved to note that her sister, who had a better dress sense, wore similarly casual clothing, though with accessories: large hoop earrings dangled from her ears. Stella appeared slender, as Anne did now, thanks to years of dieting and exercise, and Stella’s almost-black hair lay flat, smoothed into a clip at the back of her head. Her light brown skin glowed in the sunlight. She displayed an even-toothed smile as she caught sight of Anne.

  They claimed their seats outdoors and ordered coffee and beignets. Around them people chatted as they downed coffee from white cups and brushed confectioner’s sugar off their clothes. The beignets, still warm, made eating a messy business.

  “How’ve you been?” Stella asked.

  “Fine. Working, and trying to keep things moving along at the house. How’s work at the restaurant?”

  “Going well, thanks. I’m grateful I fell into a career I enjoy. I love cooking. It’s fantastic to get paid for something you would want to do even without compensation.”

  “True,” Anne said, suppressing a pang of envy. She would love to earn her living doing what she loved, as an artist. “How did you get into the restaurant business?”

  “It’s a good story. You know that our mother put me up for adoption when I was a baby. Her father, our grandfather Etienne, disowned her, and wanted nothing more to do with her. I understand that after he kicked her out of the Esplanade house, she never saw him again. I never saw her again either. Well, Etienne had a sister called Estelle. A good soul, she didn’t resemble him, and took pity on our mother. She continued to stay in touch with her for a while and had an interest in me, too. Estelle went to some trouble to find me, as you did. She made sure I got a decent education and, when she learned of my interest in cooking, sent me to France to cooking school.”

  “Fascinating. So that explains your accent. You almost sound as though you’re French.”

  Stella nodded and grinned. “I lost my drawl. But you sound like other educated New Orleanians, with only the slightest Southern twang.”

  “Interesting, isn’t it? We don’t sound like people from other parts of the South. Must be the French influence. You’ve done well for yourself. Did our mother name you Estelle after the aunt who helped you?”

  “Just so.”

  Anne narrowed her eyes as she took in the information. Stella knew more about the family than she did.

  “And that accounts for your bringing flowers to the Fontenot mausoleum,” she said. “If I hadn’t been painting there that day, we might never have met.”

  “Right. I have much to thank Estelle for. Not so much other family members, though . . . anyway, that’s the story.”

  Anne bit her lip. She’d caught the slight insinuation that other family members, herself included, hadn’t been helpful. Stella smiled brightly at her.

  “Tell me more about our mother. I heard about her from Estelle, of course, but that’s a different perspective. What was she like?”

  Anne waited a few moments before answering. She still missed her mother after her death four years ago. Freshman year had been difficult, and she had gained a lot of weight while grieving. She had a special desire to develop a relationship with this estranged sister and chose her words carefully.

  “She had a reputation as a beauty when young.”

  “No surprise there,” Stella said. “That’s where we get our looks.”

  She smiled again, easily, with the assurance of a woman who’s aware of her own attractiveness. Anne smiled weakly and pushed her hair out of her eyes. She had never considered herself a beauty.

  “Anyway, she became a bit of a rebel,” Anne continued. “You probably know that she was an artist, like your father. She resisted Southern ways and expectations for young women to fit into society. She had talent, too. We have some of her paintings back home.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “I grew up in Oxford, Mississippi, but I’d like to make New Orleans my permanent home. I got to know the city while in college, and I love the place, and now there’s the house. Mama never talked about her hometown, a sore point between her and my dad, somehow. He only told me he didn’t want to hear about her past, and as you said, she never saw her Fontenot relatives again after our grandfather kicked her out.”

  “I know some of this, but tell me how you liked her as a mother.”

  “She was a wonderful mother. Real supportive. She encouraged my art and took a lively interest in everything I did. Like you, she could cook. Seems to run in the family, though I didn’t inherit that skill. Actually, that’s not quite true—I like making pastry and pies. And eating them. She
planned to take me to Europe as a graduation present, but she got sick. Cancer.”

  Anne gulped and twisted her hands.

  “I wish I’d known her,” Stella said, “though I can’t complain about my adoptive parents. They’re good folk.”

  Anne stared across the table at her. How unfortunate, to have lost both her natural parents. Stella had as much to gain as she did by reuniting with her lost kinfolk.

  “We must talk a lot more about the family,” Anne said gently. “Do you have any interest in learning more about our ancestors?”

  “Sure. What’s to know?”

  “Well, you’re aware that the artist Degas stayed on Esplanade Avenue when he visited New Orleans. It seems that he became acquainted with our relatives. I’ve come across a journal belonging to Marguerite Fontenot. It’s fascinating. She describes how she met him in 1872.”

  “Wow. Can I see it?”

  “Sure, once I’ve finished reading it.”

  “You were an art major, I remember,” Stella said. “Have you given up your goal of making a living as an artist?”

  “For now, I have. It’s not very practical. I’m working at the art museum.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with that? You’re employed in the art world, at least.”

  “Yes, but I think to enjoy the work and have opportunities for advancement, I’ll need to go back to school and earn my master’s degree,” Anne said. “They don’t normally hire curators without more education.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to go back to school?”

  “School would be fine, but I’m not sure about the field, and I want to finish the house first.”

  “Right. How’s that coming along?” Stella asked.

  “Slowly, as I mentioned. I want to be sure things are done correctly, and that takes a while.”

  “Sure. Aren’t you enjoying it all? Making improvements, I mean?”

  “Sort of.” Anne drained her coffee cup. This would be the time to ask Stella about obstructions to the progress. She shifted in her chair.

  “Actually, we’ve had a setback.”

  “Oh? What do you mean?”

  “Someone doesn’t like the work I’m doing.”

  Her sister frowned. “Why would anyone object to improvements to a beautiful, historic house?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Who’s complaining?” Stella asked.

  “No one’s complaining, but someone trashed the bathroom. They left a note referring to Section C.”

  “Section C? That’s where I live. They’re tearing homes down, and I’m being evicted. Didn’t you know?” Stella raised her eyebrows as she stared at Anne.

  “No . . . oh, so that’s why you’re eager to move. Well, I understand that, and I’m sorry. We should talk more about this.”

  Stella reached across the table and touched Anne on the arm. “It’s cool. I have a few more months.”

  “Right,” Anne said with relief, and a sudden feeling of warmth toward her sister flowed through her. Stella sounded as though she didn’t care about the morality of either demolishing or restoring old houses. She continued speaking. “As I’ve said, there’s much to do yet before the house is fit to live in. Let’s meet again in a few weeks.”

  “Good idea. Shall I call you?”

  “Sure. Perhaps you can take a tour of the house, too, when it’s more presentable.”

  Anne left, thinking their talk successful. They weren’t friends yet, but Stella seemed innocent of any wrongdoing regarding the vandalism, and if she faced eviction, that was another reason for offering her a home. Anne felt sorry for her; perhaps after another meeting and learning more about her plans for the future, she would extend an offer. One fact remained painfully clear to her: unlike herself so far, Stella had begun a career that she loved, and appeared successful. They had not discussed boyfriends, though. That much more personal discussion could wait until later.

  Chapter 6

  November 1872

  Estelle had slept poorly. The day after Edgar’s arrival, though pleased by his positive reaction to the family and New Orleans so far, she could not ignore her sense that all was not well with him. Now in the last two months of her pregnancy, sleeping and getting around were uncomfortable. She stayed in bed in longer than usual that morning and arose unsteadily.

  Her maid knocked, then entered the bedroom. “Bonjour, madame. Voulez-vous le petit déjeuner ce matin?”

  “No, thank you, Beulah, no breakfast, just coffee,” Estelle replied. “I’ll wear my blue dress today. All my clothes are becoming too tight, I fear.”

  Beulah opened the armoire, removed a deep blue dress, and laid it on the bed.

  “I’ll bring your coffee and then help you dress,” she said.

  Estelle padded her way to the washbasin and pitcher of water that stood on the dresser. Removing her white nightgown, she splashed water on her face and arms. She stood on her toes as she tried to observe the image of her swollen belly in the mirror above the washbasin and rubbed it tenderly. Not too much longer, she thought, and soon it will be winter, and the weather cooler.

  By the time Beulah had returned with the steaming coffee, Estelle had finished brushing her long tresses. Her black hair and eyes were her best features, but when she peeked in the glass in the dim light, she could hardly see her reflection anymore. Shoving the thought aside, she reached for the cup of coffee that Beulah had placed on a nearby table. As her hand grasped for the handle, she knocked the cup over. It crashed to the floor, spilling the liquid and smashing into pieces.

  “Oh, Beulah. I am so clumsy,” she said, tears springing from her eyes.

  The maid put her hand under Estelle’s elbow and guided her to an armchair.

  “Do not concern yourself, madame. It is nothing. I will bring another cup.”

  After taking some deep breaths, Estelle grew calmer. A few minutes later, Beulah handed her a new drink. She sipped the coffee slowly and gratefully. She valued early morning, the quietest and coolest part of the day, but wished that René would spend more time with her. He had only recently returned from his long trip abroad, and though he had written often telling her about the success of his business there, she wanted to hear more about her cousins in France and about the costumes he had bought there for Mardi Gras. And most of all, she wanted to talk to him about the new baby.

  An hour later, dressed and coiffed, Estelle went downstairs. She wanted to be a good host for Edgar and wished she had more strength. Her pregnancy and widening girth made her clumsy, and her poor eyesight required care to avoid bumping into the furniture. Luckily, she knew the house well. She found Edgar sitting in the front room perusing L’Abeille, the French newspaper published in New Orleans for the Creole community.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Did you sleep well? Have you breakfasted?”

  Edgar stood up as she came in and replied, “Mais oui, merci. The coffee’s rich and dark, with chicory, exactly how I like it, the bedroom is most satisfactory, and I’m ready for new adventures.”

  At that moment, René rattled down the stairs and entered the room. He flashed his white-toothed smile.

  “Edgar, are you ready? I need to get to the office now. You will come with me. We’ll take the carriage.”

  “As you wish,” Edgar replied.

  “My dear, we’ll have lunch out and be back for dinner,” René said, looking at Estelle. “Edgar must become acquainted with our business, and the sooner the better.”

  He escorted his brother out of the house and to the carriage waiting outside. As Edgar left, he glanced back at Estelle with a shallow smile, almost apologetic, she thought.

  I don’t think my cousin is very interested in cotton, she mused. It would be best to get him some art materials. He would surely enjoy his stay more if he completed some paintings. She could ask her friend and neighbor Sophie Fontenot about where to purchase supplies. Sophie’s husband, Philippe, an artist, would know. She penned a brief note to her friend inviting her for tea t
hat afternoon, sent it by courier, and busied herself by perusing the dinner menu while she waited for a reply.

  Désirée burst in through the front door. Hearing the door slam, Estelle called out, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s only me,” Désirée said, coming into the room where Estelle sat. Pink-cheeked and out of breath, with loose strands of hair, she appeared unkempt.

  “It’s so warm outside, more like summer than autumn,” she said, fanning her face with her hands. “I walked to the French Market and back. Now I’m already hungry for lunch.”

  “It’s too early,” Estelle said. “You can ask Clarice to make you up a plate in the meantime. We’ll eat at one. There will only be four of us: you, Matilde, Jo, and me.

  “What about Edgar? Won’t he join us?” Désirée asked, tidying the loose locks of hair out of her eyes.

  “He’s gone with René to the office. Papa’s there already, and William is at the racecourse.”

  “I see. I hoped to show Edgar more of our city today, and I thought he might like coffee at the French Market.”

  Observing the disappointment in her sister’s face, Estelle said, “Don’t concern yourself, Didi. He’ll be here for several months, I hope. There will be plenty of time for you to show him everything, and perhaps he’ll even find some subject matter for painting. That will keep him here longer.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Désirée said. “I think your husband has better things in mind for our guest. He would love another partner in the cotton business.”

  Estelle said nothing. She understood better than her sister how much René and Achille wanted Edgar’s help financially, if not otherwise.

  Beulah had set the table for lunch, and the three adults and Jo took their places at one o’clock. They started eating their crabmeat salads.

  “When do you return to Alabama for school, Jo?” Mathilde asked.

  “Next week. Maman has ordered the carriage for me. I’m not looking forward to going.”