Estelle

by Linda Stewart Henley

  “He does, and says he’ll stay until then, but I believe he’s tiring of our domestic routines. He complains about the children and thinks he’s not useful here . . . I may have made a mistake. I told him we don’t own this house and that the family business is in trouble.”

  Estelle gaped at her sister. “Mon Dieu, Désirée, why on earth would you tell him such private things? He does not need to know. René will be furious. You understand how proud he is, and about the effort he makes to keep up appearances.”

  Désirée pursed her lips. “Damn René,” she said. “I disagree. It’s more important that Edgar learns the truth. He’s family, after all. Maybe now he’ll try to help.”

  Estelle placed her hand on her forehead, settled back, and sighed. Désirée gave her a kiss.

  “Now I’ve upset you. I’m sorry . . . only I wish Edgar would stay,” she said in a whisper.

  Estelle touched her arm. “I do, too, but only if he’s happy here.”

  “I’ll have Beulah bring you some tea,” Désirée said as she left the room. Turning around she added, “I’ll come back and read to you if you wish.”

  Estelle lay back down in the bed. Her heart ached for her sister, who perhaps still entertained hopes that Edgar would marry her. Estelle was aware that during the past few weeks Désirée had been an attentive companion at the bedside, ignoring her own needs. She burrowed her head in the pillow. What would René say if he found out that Désirée had told Edgar about the house and finances? And her father, too? She closed her eyes to soften her fears. What she didn’t see couldn’t hurt her.

  René came home for lunch the next day. He sat down in his favorite stuffed chair in the front room and called to Clarice to bring him a drink. As he sipped it, Désirée came downstairs. She passed him on her way to the kitchen for a glass of water for Estelle without greeting him.

  “How’s the invalid?” René asked her.

  “Invalid? Estelle’s hardly an invalid. She’s your pregnant wife, but perhaps you’ve forgotten.”

  René regarded her with surprise.

  “What’s the matter? What have I done to deserve a scolding?”

  “You might go and see Estelle yourself, instead of asking me how she is. She lies in bed all day, and she could use some attention from you, her husband, I think.”

  “I’ll go up when I’ve finished my drink. She needs some company, I agree. I’ve suggested that America Olivier might read to her, but Estelle hasn’t asked for her yet. Perhaps I’ll ask America myself.”

  Désirée’s mouth dropped open. Glaring down at him she said in an icy tone, “I think America Olivier is the last person Estelle would wish to have around after her outrageous behavior at the recital.”

  He rose from his seat. Towering above her, he shouted, “What are you talking about? She was charming! Edgar thought her entertaining as well. She’s a family friend, for heaven’s sake, and a friend of Estelle’s, too.”

  White-faced, Désirée stormed out of the room into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

  The doorbell rang, and Clarice hurried to answer. Sophie stood outside, shaking an umbrella.

  “I stopped by to visit Madame De Gas,” she said. “Is she accepting visitors?”

  “She’s resting, but I’ll ask. Please come in,” Clarice replied.

  Before Sophie could enter, another woman mounted the steps and pushed her way in.

  “Terrible weather, isn’t it? My feet are soaking. I came to read to Estelle.” It was America. René set his drink down.

  “How good of you to come. I was thinking of asking for you. How are you?” he said, ignoring Sophie and looking directly at America.

  “I’m fine, couldn’t be better, thank you,” she said gaily.

  Sophie mumbled to Clarice, “Perhaps I’m not needed. Two visitors at once are too many for Estelle. I’ll come another day.”

  The maid nodded and ushered her out.

  Addressing René, Clarice said, “If you’ll excuse me, monsieur, I’ll ask mademoiselle if madame wants a visitor.”

  “Of course, of course, talk to Désirée,” he said impatiently. To America he said, “You’re soaking wet. Let me help with your coat. Would you like something to drink?” He took her hand.

  “Thank you, no. I came to see Estelle.”

  Clarice disappeared into the kitchen. Moments later, Désirée rushed into the room, her face contorted in anger.

  “What do you mean, imposing yourself on our family without an invitation?” she said in a shrill voice. “Estelle is well cared for. Please leave.”

  America blushed and quickly removed her hand from René’s grasp.

  “Very well. Please send her my best wishes,” she said as she moved toward the door.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, brother-in-law,” Désirée said.

  At that moment, Beulah clattered down the stairs. Upon seeing René she gasped, “Madame’s time has come. Please send for the doctor at once.”

  René reached for his hat. “I’ll take the carriage, and go myself,” he growled.

  Beulah and Désirée made for the kitchen. Carrying hot water and towels they rushed up to the bedroom. Estelle lay in the darkened room, her body twisting in pain.

  Estelle was no stranger to childbirth, and this time would be no worse than the other three, she thought. The contractions were coming faster now. She was grateful to have Beulah and her sister to help. If things followed their usual course, she would be imprisoned in discomfort for the next several hours, even days. At least it was December and before Christmas, so the family’s routine would not be upset. But the body-wrenching pain of labor was fierce, almost unbearable . . . the curse and privilege of being a woman, she told herself.

  Chapter 17

  November 1970

  Thanksgiving Day dawned, warm and sunny. Anne woke before Sam, and seeing him peacefully asleep and not wanting to wake him, she slid out of bed, pulled on a bathrobe, and stole downstairs. Her father was sitting at the kitchen table nursing a cup of coffee.

  “Good morning, Annie,” he said. “Coffee?”

  “Thanks,” she said, fetching a cup.

  “I love the aroma of a freshly brewed pot of this stuff in the morning,” she said as she poured the coffee. “That’s something I miss, living without a private kitchen.”

  “That will change once your house is ready. Speaking of that, how are things going?” François asked.

  “Fine. The house is getting into shape.”

  “Annie, I worry about your safety. I worry that the vandals you told me about will return. Are you sure you should continue this project?”

  “I’m not worried. We’ve installed a burglar alarm, and so far, there’s been no more trouble. I’m determined to finish the work.”

  Her father nodded. “I understand how much the house means to you, and I respect your wishes,” he said.

  “They’re working on the inside walls now,” Anne said. “I’ve decided the paint colors. My neighbor Homer complained about the pest control. He was acquainted with my grandfather, it seems.”

  “Well, I guess he would be, since they were neighbors. Has he lived there long?”

  “Apparently so. I believe he’s the one who thought my grandfather had died in the house—told the police, I mean. He’s a weird guy. He said my family always kills things.”

  “What? You mean, they were murderers?”

  “Probably not. He mentioned a chicken that he claims my grandfather slaughtered. Sam said it sounds like voodoo.”

  François laughed. “I seriously doubt that, from what I knew about your mother’s family, but perhaps he knows more than you give him credit for. He might know more than I do, for example. I never even met your grandfather. By the time your mother and I married, her relationship with her parents had broken down irreparably. Anyway, have you tried talking to that neighbor—Homer, is that his name—about your family?”

  “No. As I said, he’s weird. He has a parrot cal
led Hurricane, and he thinks the house is haunted.”

  “Okay,” her father said, smiling. “I wouldn’t hold that against him.”

  “You’re right. I should try to talk to him some more. The family history is still a mystery to me, though I’m learning a lot from Marguerite’s journal. Oh, and Sam wants to look at the painting of my great-great-grandmother Sophie, the one you’re keeping for me here. Where is it?”

  “Still in the closet along with the chest that contained Degas’s notebook and the old letters. Why does he want to see it? Does he think it will solve some of the family mysteries?”

  “I’m not sure, but it was painted during Degas’s time in the style of the Impressionists. It might be valuable, and he’ll be able to appraise it, since that’s his field.”

  François lowered his voice and said, “You’ve been seeing him for several months now. Do you think he’s the one?”

  “Maybe. Speaking of mysterious, there’s a lot of mystery about him.”

  “That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Aren’t mysterious people more likely to hold your interest?”

  “That depends on what their secrets are. Anyway, I hope you can get to know him a little on this visit. Me too,” she said with a smile.

  She got up, refilled her cup, and sat back down next to her father.

  “On the subject of becoming acquainted with people, I’ve met my half-sister, Stella, a few times.”

  “Estelle. Really? Are you still considering offering her a share in the house?”

  “Not right away, not ownership, but I might allow her to move in. Seems she’s being evicted.”

  “How so? For not paying rent? That doesn’t speak well for her.”

  “Not for that reason. She’s being forced out because of the city’s urban renewal program.”

  “I see.”

  “Can you tell me more about Mama’s family in New Orleans? You said you had no contact with them, but why was she so secretive, and why didn’t she tell me earlier about Stella?”

  François folded his arms across his chest and hesitated before answering. “It was always a sore spot between us. She married me without telling me she’d had a baby out of wedlock. When I found out, I felt betrayed, and that I’d made a bad decision in marrying her. The revelation almost broke us up, in fact. When you were on the way, we agreed to make a go of things.” He paused. “I loved her, you see.”

  Anne touched his arm. “I understand that, Dad, and I’m so sorry we lost her. Thanks for telling me this, but let me ask again, why didn’t she tell me earlier about the baby?”

  “Mostly because we wanted to protect you. She finally decided before she died that you had a right to know the truth.”

  “All right, but she never mentioned that the father was a man of color.”

  “True. Attitudes are changing now, but it would not have helped your reputation then if people learned you had a sister of mixed race. You attended Newcomb, a school where such things mattered. You weren’t a debutante, but you had friends who were, and you might have wanted to marry a Southern gentleman who cared about your family origins.”

  Anne scowled. “But that’s ridiculous,” she said. “I’m not a snob. I may have had a good education at a fine school, but the experience didn’t make me ashamed that I have a sister of mixed race. That’s so unfair! I can understand Stella’s annoyance at being disinherited by our grandfather. He had no business disowning Mama. The whole situation is a disgrace.”

  Her face reddening, she stood up and paced around the room. Her father stared at her.

  “Have some breakfast, Annie,” he said.

  She sighed and sat down.

  He got up and put two pieces of bread in the toaster. “Want some eggs?” he asked.

  “No, thanks. Toast is fine.”

  Anne stood up, spread butter and jam on the toast and carried the plate back to the table, along with another cup of coffee. She sat staring at the food before taking a bite.

  “Feeling better?” he asked after a while. “You wanted the truth. That’s always good.”

  “So I’m learning. It’s not always easy,” she said. “Speaking of Mama, I notice that her paintings are missing from the walls. She was a fine artist, and I liked her work. Besides, the paintings remind me of her. If you don’t want them, I’d like to have a few for the new house.”

  “Catherine took them down. I like them, too, and I’ve been meaning to rehang them. You’re welcome to choose some for yourself.”

  “Thanks. Well, how is Catherine?”

  François shrugged. “I’ve no idea,” he said. “She came back once to pick up her clothes, but hardly said a word.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  “Not a bit. She was a mistake. You knew that.”

  Anne nodded. “Are you going to divorce her?”

  “At some point. I’ll wait for her to make the first move. I’m in no hurry to remarry. Actually, I find I rather like being on my own.”

  “You and me, both,” Anne said, surprising herself. “Though I may want to marry at some point. My friend Isabelle is expecting a baby, and I sometimes envy her for transitioning from college to adult life so easily. I have things I want to do before I settle down.”

  “The important thing is to find the right person before you do,” her father said. “Whatever you do, don’t make a rash decision. To make a good decision about anything, you have to face the truth, and that takes time.”

  “You’re right, of course,” she said, meeting his eyes.

  “You get my meaning. It’s tempting to reach out to another person to fill a gap left by someone else dear to you.”

  She put her arms around his shoulders. “I know. Thank you, Dad,” she said.

  Sam appeared in the doorway wearing sweatpants and a loose T-shirt.

  “Morning, all,” he said.

  “I hope you slept well. Help yourself to coffee,” François said.

  “We need to start preparing dinner. Do you want to help?” Anne asked, looking at Sam.

  “Not really. I’d like to go for a run, if that’s okay, get some exercise and work up an appetite for the big meal. I’ll be glad to help clean up afterward.”

  “Fine. You can run through the campus a few blocks away,” she said. “Turn left out of the driveway.”

  “Thanks. See you later,” he said, turning to go out the front door.

  The cat woke up from her nap in the corner and wandered, tail held high, to the kitchen door.

  “You can let her out,” François said. “She won’t go far.”

  Anne opened the door to let the cat out and ran upstairs to take a shower and dress for the day. She wondered how Sam and her father would get along. She hadn’t observed Sam’s relationships with people other than those he worked with. How would she react if her father disapproved? Or worse, if he warned her about him, sensing something amiss, as Isabelle and Paul had done? She wished she didn’t still feel so uncertain about him. So far, she had ignored the warnings and enjoyed the power of making her own decision about continuing to see Sam. Then she realized the tables weren’t even: after this visit, he would have the advantage of knowing more about her, whereas she would probably learn nothing about his background. Perhaps he would invite her soon to Charleston to meet his family. It was still early, she reasoned: even though Isabelle and Paul had married within four months of their meeting, she would heed her father’s warning and not make the mistake he had made in marrying the wrong person too fast, without knowing the truth.

  When she came back downstairs, François was cutting up onions and celery for the stuffing. A recipe book lay open on the table.

  “Dad, I didn’t know you were learning to cook,” she said.

  “As I told you, it’s all science. Anyway, it’s a new way of looking at insects.”

  Anne recoiled. “Don’t tell me you’re using insects in your recipes.”

  “No, though it’s a good idea. What I meant was that the practice of cooki
ng is a good contrast to theoretical scientific studies. It has become a hobby of sorts. I find it relaxing, and I like eating good food.”

  “Glad to hear it. Do you want some help?”

  “You can make the cranberry sauce and, as I said yesterday, the pie.”

  Anne and her father worked side by side preparing the meal. Soon the house filled with the fragrance of browning onions and sizzling butter.

  “Could you open the front door?” François said. “If we open the back door as well, we’ll have a cross-draft to keep the house cooler.”

  As she passed through the house to open the door she met Sam, dripping sweat, bounding up the steps.

  “Stay away from me! I’m in desperate need of a shower,” he said as he stepped into the foyer.

  A loud wail sounded from the porch, and the cat bolted in, her leg bleeding badly. Close behind came a dog, foaming at the mouth, snarling, with bared teeth. It lurched forward poised to clamp down on the cat’s narrow back, when two cracks rang out, so close together they merged almost as one, and the dog fell on its side, twitched for a few seconds, then was still.

  Anne shrieked, and François came rushing out of the kitchen. They stood in stunned silence, the resonance of the shots ringing in their ears.

  “It’s dead,” Sam said, holding a small gun in his hand. The acrid odor of gunpowder hung in the air.

  “My god,” Anne said, sitting down on the stairs, feeling sick. “You killed it.”

  “Quick work,” said François. “You saved Luna’s life. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “I take it this is a pit bull from next door,” Sam said.

  “Yes,” François replied. “No loss as far as I’m concerned, but Ms. Hiller will be upset. We can deal with that later. I need to get my cat to the vet.”

  Luna had slinked away to hide under a low chair in the living room. She was licking her hind leg and shivering. François took a towel, folded the cat into it, and picked her up. She purred softly.

  “I’ll drive you,” Anne said. “Sam, could you please turn off the stove?” We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

  “Let’s take my car,” François said. He handed Anne the keys, which she immediately dropped on the floor making a jarring, jangling sound. She stooped to retrieve them.