“How so?”
Anne suppressed a smile. “He had the extraordinary idea that he could release some kind of predator ants to gobble up the termites.”
“No kidding! Your dad sounds like a character.”
“He’s dead serious when it comes to insects. Don’t tease him, please. That reminds me: my neighbor Homer got upset when I told him I was having the house tented. He became ferocious and told me my family has always killed things.”
“Aha. Shades of dark deeds, don’t you agree?”
“Nah. He accused my grandfather of killing Hen, his chicken.”
“He had a chicken called Hen?” Sam laughed. “But the plot thickens: perhaps your family was involved in voodoo. The practitioners used to kill chickens, you know.”
“Yeah, I know. Not likely. My family were respectable, well-to-do Creoles. They didn’t dabble in black magic.”
“Are you sure? I’ve always thought of you as an enchantress.”
She smiled. “Flattery will get you everywhere with me,” she said.
He blew her a kiss, and they drove on.
“Have you talked to Stella yet about the damage in the bathroom?”
“I have. I don’t think she had anything to do with it.”
“So you’re still considering asking her to move in?”
“I am. I’m starting to like her. Actually, I sort of admire her.”
“How so?”
“She’s figured out what she wants to do in her life and has a career she loves. She’s beautiful and accomplished.”
“Well, it’s your decision. Be careful, though,” he said. “If someone lives with you, it’s important to find out if you’re compatible. How would you turn her out if things didn’t work out?”
“I’ve considered that, and I do still need time to get to know her.”
She had thought about the awkwardness that would result if Stella had friends she didn’t like, or a boyfriend or husband who wanted to move in. For that matter, what would happen if Sam should want to marry her? She kept her musings to herself.
“Do you need a break?” he asked, some hours later. “Something to eat?”
“I’m more thirsty than hungry,” she said. “Perhaps we could stop at a drive-in.”
As they passed through the town of Winona, Sam saw a Dairy Queen sign.
“Not exciting, but perhaps good for a Coke, or something,” he said.
“Fine with me. Mississippi’s not New Orleans.”
Sam pulled the car into the parking lot beside the fast-food joint. They both got out, and Anne went inside to find a bathroom. She joined Sam at the outside service window.
“Do you have anything to eat?” he asked.
The man inside, dressed in a T-shirt with a Dairy Queen logo and hat said,
“We-ell, we have some ice-cream, and cheese sandwiches. Kinda late for much else this time o’ night.”
“Okay. We’ll have something to drink. Two Cokes, please,” Sam said.
They watched the flies become dizzy as they hit the fan that swirled sluggishly in front of the Dairy Queen window. It was a sultry night, warm for November, and the flies were on their last legs.
“Dad would love them,” Anne said, taking her drink. “He loves things out of sync, especially insects that are not welcome.”
“Anne, the more you tell me about your father, the more I like him,” Sam said.
She stared at him, but made no response. She hoped that he and her father would get along.
They reclaimed their seats in the car, and Sam drove out of the parking lot.
“I was wondering, while we’re there, could I take a look at that painting your relative completed?” he asked.
“Sure, but why would you be interested? Philippe Fontenot is not a well-known artist.”
“All the same, I’d like to see it.”
“All right. Sure. I’d like to hear your opinion of it, anyway,” she said.
They drove on through the night, chatting about nothing in particular, until they arrived at Anne’s father’s house on Magnolia Street in Oxford.
The porch light was on. After Sam turned off the ignition, Anne watched him observe what he could of the building. The clapboard walls, white columns, and porch of the traditional antebellum house gleamed eerily in the moonlight. Her childhood home, where she had grown up . . . she was trying not to regard it as home anymore. She needed to move on and establish her own place, the one she would restore and make hers, but as she viewed her father’s house, a wave of nostalgia washed over her, and she imagined it would be a long time before she would experience a sense of homecoming there, as she did here.
Brushing her thoughts aside, she said, “Dad said he’d wait up for us, but I don’t see any lights inside. Let’s go in.”
Sam lifted both suitcases, and Anne unlocked the imposing front door. She fumbled for the switch in the front hall, and lights soon lit up the foyer and curving staircase that led to the second floor.
“Lovely old Southern home,” Sam said.
A man with dark hair graying at the temples, a smooth-shaven face, and horn-rimmed glasses appeared at the top of the stairs. He wore a checked shirt tucked into a pair of brown corduroy trousers.
“Hi, Dad,” Anne called.
François Gautier came down to greet them, beaming. He gave his daughter a long hug, then extended his hand to Sam.
“So pleased to meet you at last,” he said.
“How do you do, sir,” Sam replied.
“Well, come in, make yourselves at home. Would you like anything to eat? How about a cocktail?”
“A cup of tea and something light to eat would be nice,” Anne said. “What will you have, Sam?”
“Same for me,” he said.
“Come on through to the kitchen. You can leave your bags in the hall,” François said.
The kitchen at the end of the hallway was a wide room with a big wooden table in the middle. Anne put the kettle on and bustled around looking for sandwich materials.
“Looks like you’ve been shopping, Dad,” she said, seeing a large turkey as she opened the fridge. “I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it seems you have everything already.”
“Yes, in middle age, I’m finally learning to take care of myself,” he said, and turning to Sam added, “You see, I’ve always relied on my wives for domestic things, but I find I enjoy cooking, now that I understand more about it. It’s all science, really.”
“I’m proud of you,” Anne said, “but I can help you with dinner tomorrow, if you’d like.”
“Thank you. I’ll welcome your help with the big meal, especially the pumpkin pie. All the science I’ve learned in my life won’t teach me how to make the crust. Do you enjoy cooking, Sam?”
“Not really. I tend to eat on the fly or go out for good meals. My mother is a wonderful cook, and I appreciate good food.”
“Where are you from?”
“I grew up in Charleston. My folks still live there.”
Anne brought ham-and-cheese sandwiches and mugs of tea to the table where Sam and her father were sitting.
“Tea for you too, Dad?”
“Yes, thank you. How was your drive?” he asked.
“Dark, but straightforward. I’m not too familiar with Mississippi, and it’s my first visit to this part of the state,” Sam said.
“Well, we can’t do much sightseeing tomorrow, it being Thanksgiving, but on Friday we can show you around. Oh, you are staying on for the weekend, aren’t you?”
“If it’s all right by you,” Anne said.
“Glad to have you. I’m always glad to see you, my dear,” he said, patting her hand.
At that moment Anne noticed a gray cat curled up in a basket in a corner. She crouched beside it and extended her hand. The cat raised its head and sniffed Anne’s fingers. It had very green eyes.
“I didn’t know you had a cat, Dad,” she said.
“I’ve had her for about three weeks now. Her name�
�s Luna. The color of her eyes reminds me of a Luna moth.”
“Good name. Where did she come from?”
“She kind of adopted me. She had climbed up a tree, escaping from one of the vicious dogs next door. They’re always causing problems in the neighborhood. I tried to coax her down, but she wouldn’t come until later that evening, when I caught her meowing at the front door. I let her in, and she seems to have taken up residence.”
“She looks like a nice cat,” Anne said. Luna stepped delicately, one paw at a time, out of the basket and rubbed her head against Anne’s hand, purring softly. “What breed of dogs are they?”
“Pit bulls. They’re horrible. The woman who owns them, my neighbor, says she keeps them for protection. She lives alone, you see. But they’re always getting loose and have chased people a couple of times, nipping at their heels. The police have warned her to keep them inside the fence.”
Anne glanced at her father and concluded that he looked better than he had the last time she had seen him. She was glad he had a cat. That would comfort him. Perhaps he was also happier, now that Catherine was out of his life. She would talk to him later about that.
They finished their tea and sandwiches, and Anne took the plates and cups to the kitchen sink.
“It’s late, and you all need your beauty sleep,” François said.
“You, too,” Anne said giving him a kiss. “Sleep well.”
Anne opened the door to her old bedroom. It seemed strange having a man beside her in her childhood double bed, but she was happy Sam was there, and glad to be safe and at home. He reached to give her a kiss. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving Day. A day of thanks.
Chapter 16
December 1872
Estelle knew she had to follow the doctor’s orders to stay in bed. She did not want to hurt the baby, and though it would mean taking a back seat to her sisters, Mathilde and Désirée, she decided to absent herself from family obligations for the next few weeks, until the baby was born. It was a difficult decision. Since their mother’s death the previous year, she had taken over domestic matters for the household, now comprising seven adults and six children. Although the youngest of the three sisters, she was the one who had most willingly taken on responsibilities after their mother had died.
Mathilde came to her bedside the day after her fall.
“Estelle, I was so sorry to learn of your accident, but I hear all will be well if you take the doctor’s advice to get some rest. What can I do to help?”
“Don’t concern yourself, Tilda. You have more than enough to do with your three children. I’ll be up in no time. Désirée has offered assistance, and she has more flexibility. Thank you for asking, dear one. Please talk to Edgar for me and make sure he has some way to fill his time productively.”
After Mathilde left, Estelle again affirmed the necessity of taking care of the unborn baby and herself, though it was against her nature to ignore the others. But perhaps it was just as well: she suspected the more she knew about René and America, the more they would cause her anxiety. Why hadn’t he come in to talk to her yet? He slept in an adjoining room, and it would be easy for him to stop by. Anyway, try as she might, she could not do a good job of running the house from her bed. She lay back helplessly and stared at the ceiling until she fell asleep.
Edgar talked to Mathilde at breakfast the next morning.
“What can I do for Estelle?” he asked. “I adore her, and I feel terrible. She’s so kind to me, and I’d like to help.”
“Estelle’s very fond of you, Edgar, but expects nothing from any of us. She will gain strength, you’ll see. In the meantime, if you would continue your paintings, that’s what would please her the most.”
“Certainly. I’ll keep working. Please let her know that I look forward to being a godparent for the first time, too.”
“She’ll love hearing that. I’ll be glad to tell her,” Mathilde said.
Edgar rose, reached for his hat, and shut the front door firmly behind him as he left the house to go for his mail at the office.
Désirée came into the room and joined Mathilde at the breakfast table.
“It’s my turn to sit with Estelle,” she said. “How is she doing this morning?”
“She’s resting but worries about Edgar. Has he asked you to pose for him yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Estelle says he may be interested in marrying at last. He was courting you in France, wasn’t he?”
“He was, but somehow I wasn’t receptive to his advances then.”
“And now?”
Desiree met her sister’s eyes. “Estelle needs me. You saw the way René behaved with that woman at the recital.”
“America. Yes. A disgraceful display.”
“Estelle doesn’t deserve that treatment. She has been a devoted wife and mother to his children. He should show her more love and respect.”
“I agree, but what can we do?”
“I’ll find a way to talk to him,” Désirée replied. “America isn’t half the woman that his wife is, and we should tell him that, if he can’t figure it out for himself.”
Her cheeks flushed pink, and she stood up, twisting her hands.
“Be careful,” Mathilde said. “René can be cruel. You need to look out for yourself, dear. You have enough problems of your own.”
“Don’t worry about me. I blame René for Estelle’s fall, and the very last thing our family needs is a scandal.”
As the days progressed, the household fell into disarray without Estelle to manage things. Désirée did her best, but her heart wasn’t in it. Missing Estelle’s help in planning menus, Clarice served gumbo almost every night for dinner. Beulah spent most of her time ministering to her mistress as she lay in bed. The nurse watched the children, with Mathilde overseeing their care. René and Michel continued to go to work. Edgar took his daily walks to the cotton office until the end of the first week in December.
“May I call for the carriage?” Edgar asked one morning. “It’s raining outside, such heavy rain as I’ve never seen before, and I fear I won’t get through the streets to the office without soaking myself up to the knees.”
“Of course you may,” Désirée replied, “but Estelle suggested you might prefer to spend time at the Fontenot house. She says Philippe would welcome the opportunity to paint with you there.”
“Good idea, thank you. He lives close by and I won’t get very wet. I’ll send a note to ask if it’s convenient.”
Edgar penned a quick message and asked a manservant to deliver it. Within the hour he received a response from Philippe, who would be most happy to have him. Edgar gathered his paints, pulled on some tall boots, and set out for the neighbor’s house on foot.
For the next several weeks in December, the rain continued to fall. Without adequate drainage, water accumulated in the muddy streets and made walking all but impossible. The weather remained warm, and the steam, rising in dense clouds from the flooded roads, frayed everyone’s nerves, straining patience to the breaking point and robbing the nights of any cooling relief.
“This is heat that we would welcome in Paris in June, but not now,” Edgar said one evening to Désirée. They were sitting on the porch sipping cold drinks and fanning themselves. The chirping of late-season crickets kept them company.
“These mosquitoes are driving me crazy,” he said, setting his glass aside and slapping his bare wrists.
“It’s unusually hot, but the weather will change soon. It’s often cold for Mardi Gras.”
“For Mardi Gras? But that’s two months from now. I’ll never survive that long! I can stay until the baby is born and for the christening but I’ll go home in January. What can I say? I love you all, but I’ll leave you.”
“Edgar, surely you tease. I . . . well, all of us, expected you to stay longer. Estelle will be so disappointed, and you haven’t finished the family portraits.”
“True, but it’s difficult. The children won’t sit still, and even pret
ty Mathilde, who wants to help, can only pose until the children beg her attention. Besides, I’m not painting anything worthwhile,” he said, shifting away from her, his eyes downcast.
“Edgar, we’re so happy you’re here. You’re part of the family; don’t you value that?”
“Yes! Everyone has made me welcome, and I’m most grateful. But the light doesn’t suit me, I worry about my eyes, and I miss Paris. I need to go home. Also, I see that I’m useless here. I’m of no help to the family—I’ve no interest in cotton—and from what I can tell, you’re all doing just fine without me.”
He stared at her with an earnest expression.
“But that’s where you’re wrong, mon cousin,” she said, looking him in the eyes, frowning.
“Comment? How am I wrong? You live in luxurious surroundings, in this beautiful house. . . .”
“This house? Yes, it’s beautiful, but it’s not ours.”
“Not yours? What do you mean?”
“Our father, your uncle Michel, took it when he sold the family’s house on St. Charles Avenue.”
“Pardon, perhaps I misunderstood. Are you saying that this house is rented, not owned?”
“Exactly.”
Edgar took a deep breath. Then he ran his hand through his hair, letting it fall limp at his side.
“I had no idea. . . .” he said at last. “And the business?”
“Not doing well at all,” Désirée said.
He sat for a long time saying nothing. Then he shook his head from side to side, stood up, and shuffled inside, shoulders hunched. Désirée watched him go. After a few minutes she went in to talk to Estelle.
“Are you awake, dearest?” she asked softly.
Estelle turned over in the bed and pulled herself upright. Désirée arranged the pillows behind her.
“I’m feeling better. Perhaps I’ll go downstairs for a while tomorrow. How’s Edgar?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. He says he’s leaving soon.”
“So soon? But the baby’s not born yet, and he wanted to be here for the christening.”
Estelle Page 13