Estelle

by Linda Stewart Henley

  Two dances later, the couples returned to the table, out of breath, with flushed cheeks.

  “It’s so good to dance again,” Estelle said.

  “Yes, it makes me ten years younger,” Désirée agreed. To Estelle she whispered, “I thought Edgar said he doesn’t dance.”

  “Yes, he did say that,” Estelle replied.

  They exchanged glances, and Estelle’s heart flew to her sister’s. Marguerite appeared entranced, and her eyes shone almost as brightly as the diamonds in her hair. Edgar stood behind her, his hands resting on her chair. Désirée took a long, slow, drink as she observed the couple from across the table.

  “Have another drink, Edgar. You won’t have another occasion like this for a while,” René said, smiling like a devil.

  “I’ve had enough, but why not? This is a special night,” Edgar said.

  “It’ll fortify you for the ship, and the terrible food,” René said.

  He crossed to the bar to bring more drinks, and the orchestra began playing music with a slower rhythm.

  “Please dance with me again,” Edgar said, bending down to Marguerite.

  “With pleasure,” she said, getting up.

  They held each other perhaps a little too closely, Estelle thought. They also seemed to have an intimacy that could not have developed on the dance floor. Perhaps they had become better acquainted at the Fontenots’—perhaps she was the reason Edgar had been spending so much time there recently. She should have guessed! Marguerite seemed to be as taken with Edgar as he was with her. Maybe this was a romance in the making. But he planned to leave the next day . . . she averted her eyes. She wanted to enjoy herself tonight.

  “I wish I had more dance partners. I do so love to dance,” Désirée said wistfully. “Achille, let’s dance again.”

  “All right, but these grasshopper antennae get in my way, bobbing up and down. Do you mind if I take off the mask?”

  “Not at all. I’d be happy to dance with a headless grasshopper,” she said.

  They moved onto the floor, and made a strange couple, but no stranger than others, Estelle thought. It was all ridiculous, but Edgar didn’t seem to care. In fact, he gave the impression that he liked it all, or at least that he liked dancing with Marguerite very much indeed. Estelle continued to sit at the table viewing the dancers with blurred vision as they careened around the room. Her eyes burned. At least America Olivier didn’t appear to be present. The last thing she wanted to witness was her husband dancing with that woman.

  Finally, after midnight, the evening came to an end, and the exhausted dancers took their leave. The family members waited for carriages to take them home. Edgar stood close to Marguerite and said something to her in a whisper before they stepped into separate vehicles.

  Estelle faced him as he sat across from her in the carriage.

  “Well, mon cousin, what did you think of our Mardi Gras event?” she asked.

  “I hardly know what to say, it was so magnificent. I’m dizzy from all the excitement.”

  “From all the absinthe, you mean, mon frère,” René said, laughing.

  “I drank a bit too much, but at this moment I am happy,” Edgar replied.

  “Are you ready, all packed, for tomorrow?” Estelle asked.

  “Yes. Everything is prepared,” he said.

  Their carriages brought them to their house on Esplanade. Edgar dismounted rather shakily, and René helped him up the steps to the front porch. Achille, who lived in the French Quarter and would travel farther, called to Edgar, “I’ll bring the carriage round for you at eight.”

  The family members filed inside and straight to their rooms. It had been a successful evening, Estelle thought, and a fitting end to her cousin’s visit. But poor Désirée . . . what had happened between Edgar and Marguerite? She’d find out. She had her ways.

  Chapter 27

  December 1970

  Anne left work early after her discovery of the second painting of Estelle in Sam’s office. She needed time to digest the new information. It had been a shock. She wished she trusted Sam, and that he would have a logical explanation. Sadly, she suspected that he would lie or attempt to distract her from learning the truth. He was turning out to be a great disappointment. She knew she should report the finding to someone who would know about the legality of the matter, and she needed advice again. She dialed Isabelle and Paul’s number.

  Paul answered the phone.

  “Hi, it’s me, Anne,” she said. “I hate to impose on you again so soon, but I’ve got a problem. Is Isabelle there?”

  “No, she’s at her mother’s for dinner. Shall I give her a message?”

  “Something’s come up, and I need to talk to someone. Would you be available? It’s important, and discretion is crucial.”

  “You have me intrigued. I’m home. If you’d like to come by, I can put together something for us to eat and you can talk your heart out.”

  “It’s not about my love life. I need some advice; it may even end up as a legal matter, so you’re the perfect person for the job.”

  “Job?” he asked.

  “Not really, but I’m glad you’ll talk to me. I’ll be right over.”

  Anne was glad Paul would talk to her. She had always turned to him for advice before he’d met Isabelle, and she trusted him implicitly. She drove to the Cherokee Street house and rang the bell.

  “How about a glass of wine?” Paul greeted her. “Sounds like you could use some strong liquid refreshment.”

  “No thanks,” she said, as she sat down on the couch. “I need a clear head. Water, please.”

  “This sounds serious,” he said as he scooted into the kitchen. He returned with a glass of water for her and wine for himself.

  “Cheers,” he said.

  They clinked glasses.

  “I know you’re already suspicious about Sam,” Anne began. “I agree that his behavior implies that he has a life apart from the one at the museum. So far, though, I’ve had no proof, only the sense that there’s more going on than I know about. I’ve had no reason to suspect he’s involved in any kind of illegal activity, until now.”

  Paul raised his eyebrows.

  “Annie, I don’t want to make you a worry wart, or see things that aren’t there.”

  “Hear me out. You haven’t done anything to turn me against him. The problem is. . . .” She caught her breath. “He may have a forgery of an important painting by Degas.”

  “What on earth makes you suspect that?”

  “I was in his office looking for the painting of my great-great-grandmother Sophie and I accidentally came upon it.”

  “Hold on a minute, Anne. Please explain why Sam has a painting of your relative in his office.”

  “Sorry. I’m getting ahead of myself,” she said, trying to calm her racing mind. After a minute she continued. “You’ve seen the one of Sophie left in the Esplanade house attic.”

  “Yes, I remember it. Sophie’s the one who resembles you, isn’t she?”

  “She’s the one. Well, Sam asked to see the picture when we were at my dad’s for Thanksgiving, and it impressed him. He asked if he could borrow it for an exhibition at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and I agreed, and gave it to him. Later I remembered I’d forgotten to put any kind of identification on it, and today I went into his office to find it. That’s when I discovered the portrait of Estelle De Gas by Degas. Another identical painting is hanging on the museum’s walls.”

  “My god. This is serious, if one is a fake, and no one has authorized a copy.”

  “Exactly. I don’t know if it’s legitimate. Who should I talk to? I’ve decided that even though this will surely end my relationship with Sam, I must do the right thing and report this finding.”

  “I agree. In fact, if you don’t and someone finds out, they could find you guilty as an accomplice. He eyed her sharply. “I’d say you should talk to your boss at the museum for starters.”

  “Probably so. However, my boss now is a
woman I don’t like, who used to be romantically involved with Sam.”

  “Hm. Can you go over her head?”

  “Yes, but if this matter turns out to be legitimate—if an art student or someone had permission to copy the painting—reporting it would put my career in jeopardy, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe. You need to do the right thing, Anne, whatever that is, and keep your hands clean. That’s my advice.”

  “I agree,” she said, nodding. “Thank you, Paul. You’ve always helped me out of the messes I get myself into.”

  “Yeah, I remember. Sometimes you overindulge with the booze.” He grinned and winked at her, and she relaxed and smiled.

  “Let’s find something to eat,” he said. “How about leftover chicken marsala?”

  “Sounds good.”

  They went into the kitchen and Paul heated the food.

  “How are you doing at finding out about your family, anyway?” he asked.

  “I’ve sort of let this go. Life has gotten in the way.”

  “Relationships can do that, while you’re trying to work things out,” he said.

  “That’s what I’m finding, but I’ll get back to my family story, if only because if I don’t, it might get lost. Even Degas’s family members would have been lost, if he hadn’t painted them.”

  “Good point. Dinner’s ready. Would you like a glass of wine now?”

  “Yes, please. If I stay long enough, I may even get to see Isabelle. I have to say, I’m still getting used to the thought of you all as parents.”

  “Me, too, but I’m looking forward to it.”

  They chatted as they ate, and after a while Anne realized it was getting late. She thanked Paul and drove home. On the way she reaffirmed what a good friend he’d been to her throughout the years and wondered if she had made a mistake in discouraging him as a potential romantic partner in the past. Isabelle had seen his good qualities right away and had fallen in love with him. They were well suited, though, and neither was cursed with the desire to renovate a recalcitrant old house . . . not that she had done much toward achieving that goal. In fact, she had lately been engaged only in trying to figure out Sam. Perhaps things needed to change.

  Chapter 28

  January 1873

  The household woke early on the morning of Edgar’s departure. Michel and René had said good-bye the night before and had already left for work when the other family members gathered downstairs. Estelle and Mathilde rushed around getting the children into the front room. Clarice packed a hamper of food for the journey and served coffee to the adults. Everyone kept so busy that no one noticed the hour until Achille arrived with the carriage.

  “Where’s Edgar?” he said. “We don’t have much time to get to the station. Are these his trunks? Robert, please put them in the carriage.”

  “Yessir,” the manservant said.

  “Edgar hasn’t come downstairs yet,” Estelle said. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  She went upstairs and knocked on his door. No answer.

  “Edgar, are you ready?” she called.

  Still no answer. She opened the door and saw that Edgar was still in bed, sleeping soundly.

  “Wake up! Achille is here.”

  Edgar opened his eyes.

  “I feel terrible,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “What a headache! Did I oversleep?”

  “Yes. You need to get dressed right away. The train won’t wait.”

  She left him to join the others.

  “He’s still in bed, with a headache. Must be the absinthe; I knew he shouldn’t have had so much to drink last night.”

  “I’ll help him,” Achille said, going up to Edgar’s room.

  The children chased each other around the room noisily, and Estelle sat down on the couch holding baby Jeanne.

  “Be quiet and stop scampering. Behave yourselves!” the wet nurse said, coming into the room.

  Carrie flopped onto the floor.

  “I’ve got a flower to give to Oncle Edgar,” she said, “but he’s not here. Did he leave already?”

  “No, chérie, he’s coming down soon to say good-bye.”

  Edgar finally appeared, his eyes slits as he strained to keep out the light.

  “Au revoir, Oncle Edgar,” the children said. Carrie held out the flower.

  “Au revoir, mes enfants, et merci,” Edgar said, bending down to embrace each child.

  “I wish I had more time to thank all of you for your hospitality,” Edgar said, kissing each family member on both cheeks. “I’m sorry to miss the baby’s christening, too.”

  He held a hand to his forehead as he stood up, wincing as if in pain.

  “Come, Edgar, we must go, or you’ll miss your train,” Achille said.

  They got into the carriage. All the family crowded on the porch and waved as they drove off. The nurse ushered the children back to the parlor and took the baby from Estelle’s arms.

  “Do you think he liked his visit?” Désirée asked Estelle.

  “In his own way, I believe he did, but he’s not used to family life and the mundane domestic routines. He was ready to go home.”

  “He seemed to enjoy himself at the ball yesterday, dancing with Marguerite,” Désirée said.

  Estelle searched her sister’s face for signs of sadness or hurt, but her expression remained calm.

  “I know. I’m glad you’re not too disappointed, dear.”

  “Only a little.”

  Estelle gave her sister a hug.

  “I wouldn’t have wanted you to go away and live in Paris, and you would, if you married him,” Estelle said.

  “True. I belong here, and I’m afraid I never would have fitted in with his artist’s life and friends.”

  “Edgar truly is an artist. He’s different from his brothers, and he became tired of hearing their endless talk about cotton.”

  “Yes. He thought cotton pervaded everything. He told me that dirty cotton even hangs on the trees here!”

  Estelle laughed.

  “He meant Spanish moss, I presume.”

  “That’s what I told him. I’m not sure he believed me.”

  “Well, he’s gone. I wonder if we will ever see him again. I am sorry that he didn’t paint New Orleans. He only painted portraits of us.”

  “Oh, well. I’m going for my walk now. Would you like to come along?” Désirée asked.

  “I would. It’s a fine day.”

  The sisters donned their shawls and bonnets and set off toward the river. Estelle was grateful that Désirée was still at home, even though she wished her sister would marry. At thirty-four, she was almost too old to hope for a husband. She remembered how enamored of Marguerite Edgar seemed to be, and how often they had danced together the night before. Had Sophie observed their attachment? She would ask.

  Désirée and Estelle wandered for an hour before stopping at the French Market for coffee and pastry. They arrived home at noon and found Edgar sitting in the front room in his shirt sleeves looking at the newspaper.

  “Edgar! What are you doing here? Did you change your mind about leaving?” Estelle asked.

  “I missed the train,” he said, looking up.

  “Missed the train?” Désirée said. “For goodness’ sake! Well, now what will you do?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll book another passage on the ship. Anyway, I’ll stay on for a while, if you’ll have me.”

  “Of course you can stay,” Estelle said. “What a surprise.”

  “I’m still tired, and my head aches. I’ll rest for a while and come down for dinner.”

  “As you wish,” Estelle said. “Unfortunate that the train left without you.”

  “Trains don’t wait. It was my fault. Maybe now I can be a true godfather and stand at the christening.”

  “That will be lovely. It’s on February fifth.”

  Edgar went upstairs, and the sisters exchanged glances, trying to keep from smiling.

  “Did you notice his red eyes?” Désiré
e whispered.

  “Yes. They’re like beacons. We love him dearly, but he can’t hold his liquor,” Estelle replied.

  As soon as he had gone, they collapsed on the couch, bursting with laughter.

  The following day, Edgar came down for coffee as usual. Estelle opened windows to let the fresh air in.

  “Good morning, Edgar,” she said. “I hope you’re better now. You will find cooler weather here at last. That should make things more pleasant. Did you unpack?”

  “Not completely. My painting materials are still in boxes, but I have my notebook here, and pencils. I’ll go to the office. I might do portraits of my brothers. After all, I’ve not painted them, only the women in the family, and I doubt the men would want to take the time to pose for me at home, as you all did.”

  “Good idea. Will you go on foot, or ride to Carondelet Street?”

  “As you say, the weather’s fine today, and it’s not raining. I’ll walk.”

  “Will you come home for lunch?”

  “Not today. I’ll take René and Achille out. I owe them, and they’re going to have to put up with me for a while longer.”

  “We’re glad you’re staying on,” Estelle said.

  “I’ll stop by the Fontenot house on the way home. I need to tell Philippe that I’m still here.”

  “All right. We’ll expect you for dinner.”

  Estelle watched as he ambled out, pausing for a while on the porch and blinking in the sunshine before going down the steps and through the garden to the street. She wondered if his purpose in going to the Fontenots was to see Marguerite as well as Philippe. She would ask Sophie to come over to find out what she knew about the connection between her daughter and Edgar. Estelle scribbled a note to her friend and gave it to a manservant to deliver.

  Later that day, she waited in the front room for Sophie. The pale winter sun streamed through the window, and the crystal chandelier flung rainbow prisms against the wall, highlighting the flowers on the table. Estelle took note of it all. She wanted to trap such things in her memory.

  Sophie arrived and sat down next to her friend, and shortly afterward Clarice came in with the tea.