Estelle

by Linda Stewart Henley

  “Well, maybe she won’t bring it. People often use those dogs for protection. If she lives in a dangerous neighborhood, she might need it.”

  “I hadn’t considered that,” Anne said, her voice calmer. “Perhaps I overreacted. I have a habit of doing that. I don’t know. All this business with Sam and the dog and my job has made me very edgy, and I have so many decisions to make right now.”

  “We know you do. Let me ask, do you like Stella?” Isabelle said.

  “I was starting to, but we had a bad experience at Brennan’s recently, probably my fault.”

  “What happened?”

  “We were having dinner, and I learned she and my boss Mary are friends, good friends, and that she knows about Sam through Mary, who used to be Sam’s girlfriend. I got upset and she had an accident.”

  “What kind of accident?”

  “Her sleeve caught fire on a flaming dessert. She’s okay.”

  “Well, bless your heart. Annie, I must say your life these days doesn’t lack drama,” Isabelle said, smiling. “That’s an awkward situation, but are you sure you’re thinking clearly here? You told us you had sympathy for your sister and wanted to make amends for the way your family treated her. What’s changed?”

  “Nothing. I’m cautious for reasons I’ve mentioned: she and I may not have a compatible lifestyle. But now that I think she hasn’t been straightforward, and that bothers me.”

  “You may be right, but this is a big decision for both of you. I know you. If you don’t do what’s right, you’ll have that on your conscience. Couldn’t you talk to her about the dog?”

  “I guess so, but after our dinner at Brennan’s, I’m not sure she wants to live with me, anyway.”

  “So that’s different, if she chooses not to. Good luck, Annie,” Isabelle said. “We’re aware that this isn’t easy.”

  “I’ll say,” Paul said. “But I’d like to hear more about Sam. He had another girlfriend, you say? Is he a two-timer?”

  Anne burst into tears. “I hope not,” she said, sniffing.

  Isabelle gave her a hug. “Paul, don’t make things worse for her.”

  “Sorry,” he said quietly.

  “Are you okay, Annie?” Isabelle asked.

  “Yes. Just stressed out. I need to go home now,” Anne said, blowing her nose.

  “Wait. What about dinner?”

  “Lost my appetite.”

  “All right, if you’re sure,” Isabelle said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Next day, Anne stopped by Sam’s office to find her painting. His secretary told her he wasn’t in and that she didn’t know when to expect him. Anne had an appointment with Mary Wharton, whose office was on the same floor.

  “Come in,” Mary said, not looking up. “Sit down. We’ll go down the names on your list, one by one. Jedediah Paris. I’ve never heard of him or Ledbetter Pickens. Why did you include them?”

  “They were experts with rifles. Jedediah had a reputation for killing rattlesnakes, and Ledbetter painted him in the act of firing at them. Ledbetter could follow trails as cleverly as Indians. Jedediah did sketches of him identifying footprints.”

  “Interesting historically, and story worthy, but the art isn’t any good. We can’t include them. My goodness, you have guns on the brain, don’t you? As I’ve said to you already, this isn’t a dog and pony show.”

  Anne bit her lip and refrained from commenting sarcastically that there were no dogs or ponies on her list. She almost hated the woman.

  The phone rang, and Mary reached across her desk to answer it.

  “Oh, hi there, Jerry,” she said. “No, I can’t talk now. Call you later.”

  Her voice had taken on a sultry tone, whispery and deep.

  “Your other suggestions are okay,” she said, matter-of-factly, “though I wonder how you discovered the more obscure painters. Are you sure you didn’t get any help? Perhaps from your boyfriend?”

  Anne drew a sharp breath. She wrapped her arms tightly in front of her and replied, “My personal life has nothing to do with this project, and I’d prefer to keep things professional here.”

  Mary tossed a lock of her blond hair out of her eyes. She looked with disdain at Anne in her bellbottoms and loose shirt.

  “Well, if you want things to be more professional, you might start by dressing the part. I have no desire to work with Sam on this assignment, anyway. He’s so unreliable.”

  Feeling stung, Anne burst out, “Whatever do you mean, unreliable? He’s a good curator and works damn hard at his job.”

  “Let’s say he’s unpredictable, then. Especially with women. You’ll see. He uses them, and when he doesn’t need them anymore, he drops them cold. You know he has other things on his mind besides the museum.”

  Anne felt nauseous. She stood up.

  “Well, if that’s all you want from me for now, I’ll catch you later.”

  “Hold on a minute. Not so fast. I haven’t given you your next assignment. Find the names, addresses, and phone numbers for the owners of paintings from this list and draft letters for my signature asking for the loans. They will have to authorize loans for the exhibition, you understand.”

  “I understand.”

  “Fine. See you next week.”

  Weak-kneed, Anne stopped by Sam’s office. She knocked at the door but got no answer. She remembered that Peter Knight had offered assistance if she ran into problems and decided to find out if he was available. He was sitting at his desk.

  “Nice to see you, Anne. What brings you here?”

  “I wonder if you can help me,” she said.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I need to get into Sam Mollineux’s office. Would you have a key to let me in?”

  “I do, but what for?”

  “He has a painting of mine in there. It’s an American Impressionist painting by a relative of mine, and he’s having it appraised. When I gave it to him, I forgot to write my name on it. The artist didn’t sign it, and I want to be sure it doesn’t get lost or attributed to someone else.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want that. Sam left for New York last night on an assignment. and won’t be back until the day after tomorrow.”

  They reached Sam’s office, and Peter unlocked and opened the door.

  “Do you see the painting?” he asked.

  “That looks like it, over there,” she said, as she saw a flat object wrapped in brown paper propped against the wall.

  A curator appeared in the doorway. “Peter, could you talk to that donor again? She’s on the phone, and I don’t have answers to her millions of questions.”

  “Okay,” he said, groaning. “Anne, gotta take this call. Please close the door when you’re done.”

  “Many thanks,” she said.

  She crossed the room to the painting. Strange, she hadn’t remembered using that kind of tape to fasten it, she thought. Perhaps Sam had re-wrapped it. She tore open the paper and the canvas came into view. She gasped. Degas’s portrait of Estelle De Gas, the one that had hung on the museum wall at the top of the stairwell, stood before her. She examined it closely. The textured paint identified it as an unframed original. Puzzled, she wondered why the painting would have been taken down for reframing so soon after being rehung. Then a stab of fear gripped her. What if this was a forgery? It was the same size as her painting; she remembered that Sam had commented that both paintings had the same dimensions. So where was her painting? Starting to panic, she searched the room. She discovered another brown-packaged object beside Sam’s desk. The tape enclosing that one seemed more familiar. She tore it open. She had found her painting. With relief, she sat down in Sam’s leather desk chair, her heart pounding. Taking a black pen from the desk she jotted the name of her relative Philippe Fontenot, artist, on the back, then printed her own name underneath: Anne Gautier, owner. She wasn’t sure of the convention for identifying paintings, but at least she had recorded the information. She re-wrapped both canvases and deliberated for a long
time. What should she do next? Obviously the first step would be to learn if the painting of Estelle had disappeared from its place on the wall.

  Anne left the office, making sure the door locked behind her. She headed for the stairwell where the portrait hung. It was there. She scrutinized it. The same woman, Estelle, gazed down at her. It, too, was an original, with strong brush strokes. But which was the true original? With a sinking heart, she began to suspect that one of them was a forgery. It could be an authorized copy, of course; she knew many artists who learned to paint by replicating works of other artists. She would find out, and she knew without hesitation that the very last person she could ask was Sam.

  Chapter 26

  January 1873

  Estelle and Désirée anticipated the ball with excitement as the family made preparations. It would be one of the first parties of the two-month carnival season that would end on February twenty-fifth, Mardi Gras, the day before Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent.

  “Perhaps I can persuade Edgar to dance with me,” Désirée said to Estelle one morning as they helped each other to put on their necklaces.

  Estelle smiled. Perhaps if he whirled Désirée around in his arms, he would renew his romantic overtures. She knew from experience the spell that dancing and good music could cast over even the most reluctant suitors.

  The women chose their finest dresses, and the men tried on their costumes. The Comus Krewe’s carnival theme for the year was Darwin’s Origin of Species, and insect masks were popular.

  “Achille, what will you wear?” Edgar asked his brother.

  “I’ll be a grasshopper. It’s fitting for me, and I like green. What about you?”

  “René won’t tell me. He’s giving me a mask. I don’t want a complete outfit. This is all pretty silly really, you know.”

  “We do know. We love it,” Achille said.

  On the evening of the event, the family members assembled in front of the house and waited for the carriages that would transport them to the auditorium where the ball would take place. Everyone talked at the same time. The women laughed at the men’s outrageous costumes. They were brightly colored, and some had feathers for added panache.

  “You’re the best-looking cockroach I ever saw,” Désirée said to René, laughing.

  Edgar peered at her through his gold butterfly mask.

  “You look delicious yourself tonight, Didi. Your dress ruffles resemble whipped cream,” he said.

  She beamed and flicked her fan.

  William was dressed as a parrot, and Michel wore the bright red costume of a ladybug.

  Estelle, wearing a blue dress, surveyed the family with satisfaction. Mathilde, always beautiful, was dressed in black lace and held her husband’s arm. They would have fun at the ball. The carriages soon arrived, and the three sisters and the men stepped inside.

  The auditorium boasted a large dance floor. An orchestra stood at one end, and musicians in black jackets and white shirts busily tuned their instruments, resulting in a cacophony of sounds.

  The costumed guests made their way in, the women’s long silk skirts rustling. Perfume pervaded the air. Chairs and tables draped with white cloths lined the edges of the room, and ribbons of green, purple, and gold hung from the chandeliers. René chose a table near the orchestra, and the men held chairs for the women as they took their seats.

  A brown spider crawled toward them.

  “Bonsoir, mes amis,” he said. “I don’t know who these insects are, but I recognize you lovely ladies. I’m Philippe.”

  “Please join us,” René said. The men raised their masks, and everyone laughed. They moved another table close, and minutes later the Fontenot women, Sophie and Marguerite, arrived.

  Estelle gazed at Marguerite in astonishment. She looks exquisite, and so grown-up. The last time she had seen her, she had been pretty, but still a girl. Now she had become a beautiful young woman. Straining to see, she noticed that Edgar had taken his mask off and was staring at her in frank admiration. Her dark hair, arranged on top of her head, sparkled with diamonds. She wore a silvery gown with a full skirt that fitted her slim figure perfectly. When she moved, the layers floated around her. With a start, Estelle understood Edgar’s reaction: Marguerite looked like a dancer, exactly like sketches she had seen in his notebook.

  Philippe’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  “What would you ladies like to drink?” he asked. They answered in turn.

  “Wait a minute, I can’t remember it all,” he said. “White wine for Désirée and Estelle, red for Mathilde. Sophie, what did you say?”

  “I’ll help,” Edgar said. Looking at Marguerite, he asked, “What will you have?”

  She smiled. “Champagne, please.”

  “For me, too,” her mother said.

  Sitting beside Désirée, Estelle appreciated the swish of air from her sister’s fan cooling her burning face. She had forgotten to bring one in all the excitement as they left home. She watched as Désirée’s gaze settled on Marguerite, who waited quietly for her champagne. Edgar returned to the table and handed Sophie a glass, then offered one to Marguerite, who extended a graceful hand to accept it, smiling up at him. Edgar returned her smile and sat down beside her. The lump in Estelle’s throat swelled as she saw the longing in Désirée’s eyes. She gulped. Her sister could hardly compete with a younger woman who resembled a ballerina, a favorite subject in Edgar’s art.

  Philippe returned to the table with a tray of drinks and passed them round. Estelle took a mouthful of wine. The orchestra struck a chord, the violins soared, and soon the familiar music of waltzes filled the space. Colorfully attired guests who chatted together and admired each other’s clothes now occupied all the tables, and peals of laughter rang across the room.

  A large tiger-costumed figure mounted the stage. Motioning for the music to stop, he lifted his mask to address the crowd.

  “Mesdames et Messieurs, welcome to our celebration. After the parade of the men in their attire, the dancing will begin. Thank you for attending, and we wish you all a festive evening. Laissez les bons temps rouler!”

  Everyone clapped, and the orchestra resumed playing. Estelle continued to sip her wine. Edgar, sitting across the table, turned to look in her direction. She caught his eye.

  “What are you drinking, Edgar?” she asked.

  “Absinthe. We have it in France, but I’ve never tasted it before. René recommended it. He says he wants to be sure I have a good time.”

  Overhearing this remark, René said, “Absolutely. We can’t send him back to Paris saying he had no fun in la Nouvelle-Orléans.”

  “Take care with that drink,” Estelle said. “It’s dangerous, especially if you’re not accustomed to it.”

  “Let him be, it’s fine. We drink it all the time, don’t we, Achille?” René replied.

  Achille nodded. His grasshopper mouth didn’t allow him much room for talking.

  The waiters were slow in bringing food, and René stood up to order another round of drinks. Finally, a plate of crawfish, condiments, and asparagus appeared in front of each guest at their table. René proposed a toast to Edgar, thanking him for coming and wishing him a safe journey home. Edgar stood up, raising his voice so that all could hear.

  “Merci beaucoup,” he said. “It has been a pleasure to share all your lives and to get acquainted with my new relatives. I leave tomorrow. I’ll take back happy memories, and I will miss you all.”

  “Will you leave behind any of your paintings of the family?” Désirée asked him after he had sat down.

  “No. I want to keep them. They’re all I have to remind me of you. I’ve already arranged for them to be sent on.”

  “Too bad. They’re lovely. I especially like the one of Jo having a pedicure,” Désirée said. “But perhaps you’ll come back and paint us again.”

  He met her stare, but made no answer.

  More food arrived, including cheese, bread, and fruit arranged on a platter: figs, bananas,
oranges, and pears. Everyone ate heartily, and the crowd’s conversation and clatter of silverware increased in volume as the meal reached its conclusion. The band struck a few notes, and the tiger-costumed man remounted the stage.

  “Now that everyone has eaten, let’s see what creative ideas have been inspired by this year’s theme, Darwin’s Origin of Species,” he said. “Will the men who have costumes please make a circle in the middle of the dance floor.”

  Hundreds stood up and moved into the circle. Edgar remained in his seat. The orchestra struck up a lively tune, and the costumed men paraded around making sounds appropriate to their creature. A turkey strutted, a chicken flapped its wings, a lion roared, a parrot squawked, and René the cockroach zig-zagged across the floor. The audience clapped, and the actors, their vision obscured by their masks, bumped into each other, collapsing in heaps on the ground.

  After a while, the men returned to their seats, many laughing uncontrollably. After slapping each other on the back, René, Achille, and Philippe sat back down at the table.

  “That was fun, but next year I’ll choose a costume that allows me to make more noise,” René said. “I don’t know what sound cockroaches make, unless you count the cracking sound they make when you step on them.”

  Estelle eyed her husband with disapproval. He was behaving like a schoolboy. Still, it was Mardi Gras, a time for frivolity. She glanced at Edgar, who was staring again at Marguerite, seemingly unaware of the activity going on around him. Désirée hid her face behind her fan. Estelle kept her face neutral, but couldn’t ignore the sadness about her sister’s lost opportunity.

  The music began, the cue for dancing. Philippe stood up, taking his wife’s hand. René touched Estelle on the shoulder and escorted her to the floor. Achille invited Désirée to dance, and Mathilde and William joined them. As she twirled about the floor in her husband’s arms, Estelle caught sight of Edgar leading Marguerite to dance. He had taken off his butterfly mask. She reluctantly admitted the couple made a handsome pair as they waltzed around the room, Marguerite’s skirts flying as they spun.