Estelle dressed carefully. She asked Beulah to help with her hair, which she wanted piled on top of her head.
“But first, please bring me my good yellow dress, the one that has frills around the sleeves and ruffles on the hem—you know the one. It’s loose, and will still fit me. I’m tired of wearing black clothes—and of being pregnant,” she said. “Besides, America will dress up, and I don’t wish to appear matronly next to her.”
“Madame, you are carrying a baby. No one expects you to look your best . . . you’re almost there; the baby will come in a month. Are you sure you wish to exert yourself, so close to your confinement?”
“I’ve already promised to sing, and this might be the last chance to have company for a while.”
Beulah brought the lacy dress out of the armoire and laid it on the bed.
“It is a beautiful garment,” she said, as she helped Estelle to stand up and put it on. “Now let me see what I can do with your hair.”
Half an hour later, Estelle was ready. Stylish and fragrant, she descended the stairs to greet the guests.
The family members had assembled in the parlor. When she came into the room, the men stood up.
“Ma chère Estelle, très élégante ce soir,” Degas said advancing toward her and kissing her on both cheeks.
Moments later the guests arrived, Philippe and Sophie Fontenot first, followed by Madame and Monsieur Olivier. René immediately took America’s hand and, raising it to his lips, kissed it slowly.
“Bonsoir,” he said to her. “You look divine. I expect your singing to be just as heavenly.”
Overhearing René’s greeting, Estelle managed a half smile. She thought her husband’s welcome was effusive and felt thankful she had dressed with such care.
“Welcome and please have a seat. Beulah will serve you drinks,” she said, strengthening her voice.
After Beulah handed iced drinks to everyone and the company had exchanged greetings, René struck some chords on the piano. Estelle moved in front of the instrument.
“We will sing some short French songs for you tonight. They’re not opera, but they have an element of drama. We’ll try to act our parts,” she said, smiling.
America smiled too—a dazzling, flirtatious smile, Estelle observed.
“Yes, we’ll do our best to entertain you,” America added.
The two women sang several songs, first solo, then in unison, acting like divas with dramatic gestures and hands held to their hearts. America’s soaring soprano voice contrasted well with Estelle’s contralto. As they warbled the words of their last piece Estelle turned to René. He was looking straight past her to America, his eyes blazing. She has bewitched him, she thought. Her voice broke as the song ended, and she forced a smile. The audience applauded, and the performers curtsied. Estelle stumbled to a chair while America acknowledged René, the pianist.
The audience clapped again.
“Wonderful!” Degas said. “Encore!”
“Yes, yes, encore,” said Désirée.
“I must decline,” Estelle said in a hoarse voice, “but America may wish to sing again.”
America giggled, a high, girlish giggle. “If it would please you all,” she said.
She sashayed to the piano and whispered in René’s ear. He gave a quick nod and a wink.
“I’ll sing some folk songs,” she announced.
She gathered her skirts, pulled them up above her ankles, and assumed a coquettish pose. René played the opening bars, and America began to sing.
Estelle watched in amazement, her heart beating wildly. The baby kicked in her womb and she sat straighter, trying to relieve the tightness inside, hoping the turmoil in her body wouldn’t show on her face. She had no idea that this woman could behave in such an unconstrained manner. Her singing was bold, just like a gypsy. She noticed that René could hardly keep his eyes on the keyboard. With a stab of envy, she wished she were not older than her husband, almost thirty, and pregnant. Torn between her duty as a hostess and the strong desire to disappear and retreat to the safety of her room, she held her head high and maintained her composure until the ordeal ended.
When America had trilled the last note, she fluttered her eyes, took a curtsey and sat down, her cheeks flushed. The audience clapped.
“A grand success! What a lovely evening. Thank you so much for entertaining us,” Degas said, glancing at both women.
America acknowledged the compliment with a smile and a flick of her fan. Estelle bowed her head but said nothing. Désirée came to her sister and gave her a hug.
“Thank you for arranging this musical evening,” she said. “Edgar already told me he enjoyed it, and he looks happier than I’ve seen him for some days now. We must do this again . . .” She lowered her voice, “. . . but without America next time.”
“Yes, yes, again. . . .” Estelle said, feeling lightheaded and more than a little dispirited.
She swept her eyes around the assembled company, who smiled and talked among themselves with animation. The evening had been a success. Edgar was pleased. While glad about that, she couldn’t avoid the truth: for her the recital had taken on an unreal, nightmarish character. She fervently wished that America had behaved more modestly. How had she learned to sing like that? Worse, how did René know precisely how to accompany her? They must have practiced . . . but she had never been aware of it. Pushing the disturbing thoughts aside, she rose to accept thanks from the guests for the evening as they gathered coats and moved toward the front door.
When all the visitors had gone and the house had become quiet again, she shuffled to the staircase. René caught her arm.
“I think everything went well, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, but I’m tired now. I’m off to bed.”
“You sang well, my dear,” he said.
“Thank you. So did America, I’m sure you agree,” she said narrowing her eyes in the poor light as she tried to read his expression.
“She, too, yes. She’s quite an accomplished performer,” he said, avoiding her eyes.
“Her last songs surprised me. How did you know how to accompany her, playing all those unusual rhythms? Did you practice together?”
“I’m familiar with gypsy music. It wasn’t hard, once she hummed a few bars,” he said.
“And by the way, René, I want to thank you for the beautiful lace handkerchief,” she said.
He knitted his brows. “What handkerchief? Oh, of course! From Paris!”
Estelle’s pulse raced, and her face burned in anger. The handkerchief had not been intended for her.
She resisted his attempt to take her arm to help her. Shocked and exhausted, she climbed up the stairs to bed alone.
Chapter 13
November 1970
Anne spent the week researching cowboy painters and arranging for termite treatments, both projects that she would have happily passed on to someone else. On Friday, the house would be covered in a tent and chemical gas applied, guaranteed to rid the building of the pests for several years. On Tuesday, Anne lifted the parrot-shaped knocker on her neighbor Homer’s door and released it. It fell from her hand with a thud.
“Hello there, missy,” Homer greeted her, as he cracked the door open, came out, and shut it behind him. “I won’t ask you in, if you don’t mind. Cane is loose inside.”
“Cane? Is that your dog?” she asked.
“Parrot. Short for Hurricane. She’s flyin’ around. Can’t risk ’er gettin’ out, if you know what I mean.”
“Sure. I came to tell you that the termite treatment will begin at my house on Friday. It won’t affect you, but the tent will remain over the house for a few days. Are you interested in having your house treated at the same time?”
“What? The fumes would kill the parrot, not to mention me. It’s meddlin’ with nature, that’s what. Unnecessary assault, that is.”
“All right,” Anne said, turning to leave. “Just wanted to let you know.”
“Yer folks
have always taken the life out of things,” he said.
Anne stopped and stared back at him with a flash of anger.
“What do you mean?”
“That Etienne, yer grandfather, I believe, took my favorite chicken, Henrietta. Hen, for short. Had a rooster and said he wanted to use my chicken for breedin’. Had good feathers, she did, and was a good layer, at least one egg a day. Never gave her back. Killed ’er, I think.”
“Sorry about that,” Anne said, moving fast to get away. She did not like the direction the conversation was taking. The crazy old man was almost shaking his fist at her as she left.
Back in her room, she gratefully picked up Marguerite’s journal. She needed distraction, and sanity.
November 20, 1872
Papa has been meeting with Monsieur Degas often. They talk about painting, and a few times M. Degas has come to the studio at our house. Papa is painting Maman. She says M. Degas would like to paint her, too, but so far Papa has not agreed. He says M. Degas has been painting the Musson family. Meanwhile, I practice my drawing and wish I could see one of M. Degas’s paintings.
Now Anne understood how Degas’s notebook might have ended up in her house. He had visited Philippe Fontenot, her great-great-grandfather, often. Marguerite was the daughter of Philippe and Sophie. So was Marguerite her great-grandmother? She too had apparently inherited some talent, or at least interest, in painting. Anne wondered what her family members had achieved artistically. She herself would love to create a work of great artistic merit, whether that be a painting or the beautiful renovation of an historic building. For now, the house would satisfy her need for art in her life, and she looked forward to the day when she could turn her attention to the finer aesthetic details.
What does it take for a painter to become an artist of significance, as Degas had been? she wondered. He’d shown promise, worked hard to improve his skills, and had still not achieved any recognition at thirty-eight. She could hardly compare herself to Degas, but she shared some goals with Marguerite: wanting to learn, eager to create something of artistic value, and distracted by the desire for a relationship with an older, accomplished man. Had Degas been different? Single-minded, wanting to pursue art at any cost, regardless of his lack of success or desire for marriage?
A knock interrupted her musings. Andrea, her housemate, stood in the hallway.
“Nice to see you,” Anne greeted her. “We never seem to be here at the same time. Come in.”
Andrea took a seat in a chair by the table.
“I saw a man here ringing your doorbell recently,” she said. “Was that your boyfriend?”
“Probably. No other men come looking for me, other than the occasional policeman,” Anne said with a wry grin.
“Nice looking guy,” Andrea said.
Anne made no comment and, despite her displeasure with Sam, couldn’t help her sense of pride. She knew he made a good impression, especially on women.
“Listen, I want to talk to you about the house,” Andrea continued, running her hand through her honey-blond hair. She wore a diamond ring that flashed as it caught the light. “How are the renovations coming along?”
“I’m thinking about the next steps. Reconstruction’s slower than molasses, but so far, so good. I’d be grateful for some advice about the interior design. Since you’re studying architecture, you may have some ideas. I’d like to create more open space and combine two smaller rooms on the first floor. The architect has drawn up some plans, but I could use a second opinion.”
“I need to see the place first. Might be exciting. Most of those old Creole houses have great bones, as they say.”
“I’d describe mine that way. It was built in 1853.”
“It’s a classic, then. Name the day.”
“Sometime after Friday. I’ll be in touch.”
Anne had accepted Isabelle and Paul’s invitation for dinner on Saturday. Sam had declined, claiming he had work to do. She wanted to buy flowers for Isabelle at the French Market and set off on foot. Turning onto Esplanade, she passed several large houses, all in a dilapidated condition like hers. Most stood three stories high and bore balconies supported by pillars. Blackened with age, they no longer looked grand, and piles of trash obscured neglected palmettos and shrubs in their gardens. The neutral ground in the middle of the avenue hadn’t changed since Degas’s time, and tall palms, magnolias, and a double row of spreading live oaks provided an arc of shade. She had heard that a streetcar drawn by horses used to run there. It was easy to imagine Sophie and Marguerite strolling along the avenue wearing long flowing gowns and holding parasols. In those days, the clapboard and stucco houses were painted white. Faded beauties, like the old Creoles. How sad that the neighborhood had declined, along with the gracious way of life that Marguerite described in her journal. Anne reaffirmed her wish to bring life back to the one house that was hers.
She pushed her way through the crowds at the market. Musicians stood on street corners, and she paused to listen. A juggler threw colored balls, causing a small dog to bark. Anne feared dogs and kept a distance from the yapping animal. She bought a bouquet from a street vendor and retraced her steps.
Back in her car, she took St. Charles Avenue to her friends’ shotgun house on Cherokee Street. A small, one-story building, it had a hallway that ran from front to back that would allow someone to shoot a gun all the way through the house, though Anne didn’t know anyone who had ever wanted to do that.
“Come in, so glad to see you,” Isabelle said, giving her friend a hug and taking the flowers. “White roses, my favorites. Thanks.”
Isabelle Attwood was tall and slender with green eyes, but not the proverbial eyes of envy. She had been popular in college and, unlike Anne, had always attracted many boyfriends.
“What will you have to drink?” Isabelle asked.
“The usual, please,” Anne said as she watched her friend go to the kitchen to mix a gin and tonic.
She took a seat on the sofa. Barely noticing the sparse furnishings, she focused on a photograph in a silver frame of Isabelle and Paul on their wedding day. They appeared joyful, a perfect couple, he with his dark good looks, and she with her red hair flaming under a veil crowned with a headdress of gardenias. They were laughing, almost obscured by showers of rice, as they came out of the church. Anne had introduced them earlier that year and attended the wedding as maid of honor. It all seemed such a long time ago, and they were already living such different lives.
“Whatever happened to your appetite for Sazeracs?” Isabelle called to her.
“Only for very special occasions now,” Anne said, “and lately, there haven’t been any.” Isabelle stuck her head out of the kitchen, and, noticing her friend’s look of concern, Anne added, “I didn’t mean that really—everything’s fine. I have to make some decisions, that’s all, and you know me. I don’t always make the right ones.”
Isabelle laughed. “Yeah, I remember,” she said.
Paul came into the room. His face broke into a smile as he removed his glasses. “Hi, Annie. Haven’t seen you for weeks.” he said. “How are you doing? What’ve you been up to?”
“Working, mostly.”
“So are you finally digging into the relics of your long-lost Creole ancestors?”
“Yes, but not literally,” she said, making a face at Paul. “The house is in chaos, still. I’m especially pleased to unearth the family’s connections with Degas.”
He sat down next to her on the couch.
Isabelle’s voice rang out. “Paul, please come and get the cocktails. I made one for you, too.”
He disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared moments later with the drinks.
“Cheers,” he said. “So tell me more about the house.”
“I’m sick of all the dust, but soon we’ll get to the interesting part. I’m looking forward to choosing paint colors and flooring and deciding whether to keep the fine moldings and medallions in the ceiling.”
“Good for you,
” he said. “I remember how reluctant you were to accept your inheritance. You considered it a burden, an impossible dream.”
“I did. I thought I was too young for all the responsibility, and at first I couldn’t afford to pay for the work or imagine the outcome . . . but you helped me to look beyond the broken-down facade.”
“Let’s just say I’m more practical.”
“Okay, and now there’s no stopping me. But restoring the house isn’t easy. Someone broke in and vandalized the bathroom, possibly an activist, someone who doesn’t like my project and who’s fighting the city over displacement of people resulting from urban renewal work.”
“That sounds serious. Are the police investigating?”
“I reported the incident, but no, they’re not doing much. It’s complicated.”
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Isabelle said as she joined them carrying the dishes. “We’re having fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and collard greens. Good Southern food, not Creole. My tradition, not yours, Annie.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Anne said. “Can I help?”
“You can bring out the wine, if you like. Bottle’s open in the fridge.”
Anne fetched the wine, and Isabelle set the food on the dining room table. Paul filled glasses for Anne and himself, and they sat down to eat.
“How’s work?” Isabelle asked Anne.
“It’s okay. My latest project concerns art of the American West.”
“Rather you than me on that one,” Isabelle said, “but at least you’ll be learning something new.”
“True, and so will you. You’ll be learning about babies and diapers and motherhood.”
“Yes. Babies are intriguing.”
“Intriguing, yes, but frankly, I have no idea how I’d manage if I had one.”
“You would, but you’ve never had motherhood as a goal, if I remember correctly. It’s hard to be an artist and a mother, or a mother and anything else for that matter, and I guess you still have artistic aspirations, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure anymore. I’m seeing Sam. A relationship takes time, and because of the work at the museum and the house, I have little free time to paint,” she said, “and no inspiration.”
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