Estelle

by Linda Stewart Henley

“You will come to our house for lunch, then I suspect you’ll need a rest,” Estelle said to Edgar. “You’ll have plenty of time to paint tomorrow, and every day after that, if you wish.”

  “Estelle, thank you, but I didn’t bring my paints and canvases. Without these, I am helpless.”

  Estelle gazed at him, her eyebrows raised. Before she could speak, five-year-old Carrie pulled at her uncle’s sleeve and said, “You can use my paints. I have lots of colors, and paper, too.”

  Edgar mussed the top of her head.

  “Good. We can paint together, then,” he said.

  “Come, children, let’s go home. It’s almost lunch time,” Estelle said.

  As they left the station, she couldn’t help wondering why he hadn’t brought his paints. Had he given up his dream of becoming an artist? Surely not. She would find out soon enough.

  The family members dispersed and climbed into the carriages. The route would take them through the old part of the city, and the drivers knew the way. René sat beside Estelle and their two children in one vehicle, and Edgar rode with Désirée and Achille in another. When they came to the Rue Royale, Désirée sat forward.

  “Edgar, this is the Vieux Carré, the French Quarter. Look at the rows of houses built by the Spanish and the lacy ironwork balconies. Beautiful, yes? If you look into the courtyards, you can admire the fountains surrounded by orange and banana trees.”

  Edgar nodded and smiled. “So exotic.”

  “This house should have special meaning to you,” Désirée said, pointing to a large two-story house with an archway over a gated courtyard, “This is where your mother’s family lived, before they all moved to Paris.”

  “A piece of my past! Could we stop the carriage for a minute?” Edgar asked, his eyes shining.

  Achille tapped the driver on the shoulder, who brought the carriage to a halt. Edgar alighted and stood for a few minutes, seeming to absorb every detail of the house, then peeked through the wrought iron gates to gain a better view of the courtyard. He returned to his seat wearing a thoughtful expression. He exchanged glances with Désirée, his eyes moist.

  “I am thrilled to visit this lovely home. I wonder how Maman felt when she went to Paris, never to return,” he said.

  Achille answered, “I wondered about that too. I was nine when she died and never asked her about New Orleans, but you were older. Did she speak to you about her birthplace, Edgar?”

  “I was thirteen when she passed away. I only remember that she missed this place and her brother, Uncle Michel. He moved back to New Orleans to establish the cotton business, and she married our father and stayed in France. She spoke often of the warm nights here, and how cold Paris was. I know she longed for the masked balls and lively Creole society.”

  The horse pulling their carriage clip-clopped slowly through the streets and turned onto Esplanade Avenue. There the houses became individual grand dwellings. Carvings of classical figures and flowers adorned their facades, and long verandas stretched over front porches. A double row of live oaks, palm trees, and magnolias in the neutral ground in the middle of the street flung mottled shadows onto the grass, and a streetcar rumbled its way between the columns of tall trees.

  “Most impressive,” Edgar said.

  “This is our neighborhood, where all the best French Creole families live,” Désirée replied.

  “What is that heavenly fragrance?” he asked.

  “Magnolia; see the big white flowers on the trees?”

  “Ah, yes. It reminds me of the south of France, all this lush vegetation—and the sun,” Edgar said, shielding his eyes from the glare. “Is it always so warm at this time of year?”

  His face had turned red, and he loosened his necktie.

  “No, it’s unusually warm for October,” she said.

  The carriage stopped in front of the Musson residence.

  “Mon Dieu, what a large house! Magnifique!” Edgar exclaimed.

  A cast-iron fence surrounded it, and high gates for coaches stood to the right. The mansion towered above, white columns supporting a two-story veranda. Dark green shutters offset the sash windows, and large trees and shrubbery provided shade on all sides. At least one other building was visible from the street behind the main house. The coachmen pulled the reins to pause the horses, and the riders stepped down. Two manservants came out of the house and between them carried the trunks inside.

  René, whose carriage had arrived first, ushered his brother up the front steps and through the grand door.

  “I’ll show you to your room,” he said. “Normally Estelle would do that, but as you know, she’s expecting a child soon, and we don’t want her to go upstairs any more than necessary. Her eyesight is not good, and she doesn’t want to risk a fall.”

  “Naturellement, and I look forward to being a godfather for the first time,” Edgar replied.

  Désirée stepped forward. “Let me do the honor of taking him upstairs,” she said to René. “This is my father’s home, Edgar, but as you can observe, it’s big enough to accommodate all thirteen of us and the servants.”

  “I’ve noticed that all of them are Negroes. Is that unusual? From the little that I know about the recent war, the Negroes are free now.”

  “They are not slaves,” Désirée said. “They choose to work for us. But yes—many people who choose to work in the households of Creole families of means are former slaves.”

  She led Edgar through the tall-ceilinged foyer and up the curving staircase to the second floor, opening the door to a bedroom. A four-poster bed and a wooden desk and chair comprised the furnishings, and sunlight poured through the windows. He squinted and held a hand to his forehead to shade his eyes.

  “You will be comfortable here, we hope. You can step outside onto the balcony and enjoy the view and cool breezes. We’ve set aside the gallery next door for your use as a painting studio. I hope you like it.”

  “Thank you for your kindness,” Edgar said, turning his back to the windows. “I know my brothers have sung the praises of your life here in New Orleans, but I didn’t expect it to be this grand. I’ll be happy here, I’m sure.”

  “We all want you to stay for as long as you wish. Lunch will be ready momentarily. Please come down when you have freshened up a little.”

  As soon as Désirée had taken Edgar upstairs, Estelle sank into an embroidered chair in the large parlor on the first floor. The heavyset wet nurse, Flora, took the child from her arms.

  “Madame, shall I feed her now?” she asked.

  “Please do. Would you mind asking Clarice for a jug of water as well? It’s so hot today,” Estelle said, wiping her forehead with one hand and fanning herself with the other.

  She felt cooler after her first glass of water, and René came into the room and sat down on a chair beside her. He grinned, displaying his gleaming white teeth.

  “Well, our great artiste has arrived at last,” he said.

  “I’m glad, but I wish you would stop making fun of his chosen profession,” Estelle said. “Edgar works hard to improve his skills, and I hope he finds an interesting subject to paint. It’ll be wonderful if he can achieve some success and recognition as an artist while he’s here.”

  “I agree, but don’t expect too much of him. Edgar is hard to please. He pouts when things don’t suit him. He can be very abrupt in his manner and has quite a reputation for rudeness in Paris. But perhaps here, among family, he’ll make an effort to be agreeable.”

  Estelle met his gaze in surprise.

  “I’ve never seen that side of him. He has always treated me with nothing but kindness.”

  Glancing at Désirée, who had come into the room, Estelle said, “Did he like the studio?”

  “He didn’t look at it, but said he expects to be happy here. That’s a start, at least. I’ll make sure Clarice has set a place for him at the table,” Désirée said as she left.

  Turning to René, Estelle said, “I’m pleased that all your persuasive letters and talks resul
ted in this visit, my dear. We’ll try to make him comfortable. New Orleans is an unusual town, and there’s much to admire, though it’s not Paris. It’s part of his heritage, even if he chooses not to live here. Your mother would have been gratified to find him settled in the city of her birth.”

  “You’re right. We’re all French Creoles—Edgar, as much as the rest of us. As you are.”

  He touched his wife’s arm and met her dark eyes. “How are you, my dear?” he asked.

  “Just tired, probably from the heat. Lunch is almost ready.”

  “All right. I hope the new cook does us proud.”

  “Clarice seems very competent. She’s making shrimp remoulade, soft shell crab meunière, and bread pudding with cognac.”

  “Very good. The menu should please him, especially after all the dishes they called food that we have been eating for weeks now,” René said, grimacing. “The meals on the ship were the worst—you know about the Anglais and their cooking . . . horrible!”

  Estelle laughed. “I’ve missed you. I’m glad you’re home,” she said, reaching for his hand.

  He went into the dining room, and she poured herself another glass of water. The baby was due before Christmas, and she felt as round as a pumpkin. She would have preferred more time between babies, three in as many years. Everything was fine, though. She loved children, there were plenty of cousins for hers to play with, and her daughter Jo, whose father had died before she was born, had proven herself a good older sister. She wanted Edgar to enjoy her new child and to take seriously his role as godfather. It would be even better if he decided to stay in New Orleans, she thought, as the image of him and her sister promenading together flashed through her mind. She wanted the best for him, for them both really. Why hadn’t he brought his paints? She blinked. If only her eyes didn’t hurt so much. . . . She turned away from the floor-to-ceiling windows so the light wouldn’t shine so intensely on her face.

  Chapter 3

  September 1970

  How could I have forgotten about Stella? Anne asked herself. That was the only person who might hold a grudge against her. She had tried not to think about the whole complicated and uncomfortable situation. Anne knew Stella felt slighted, and deservedly so: as a grandchild of Etienne Fontenot, she wanted her share of his former house. As recently as last week, Stella had written Anne a letter asking her to discuss the matter. Anne had put the note aside. While not against it, she didn’t favor the idea of giving up part of her own share to a half-sister she barely knew. She considered calling the police officer to tell him about Stella as a person of interest in the vandalism case, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to arouse suspicion about someone whom she wanted to get to know and who, apart from her father, was her only living relative. In her heart, she couldn’t believe Stella capable of such an act of violence, and it would hardly be in her sister’s best interest to destroy the property that might someday be her home. She settled her mind. She would hold off on calling the police until she’d talked things over with Sam. After a shower, she chose a dress to wear for her date that evening.

  Sam arrived at Anne’s promptly at seven, rang the bell for her room, and waited on the front step. Thirty-two, ten years older than she, he looked good: tall, dark, and broad-shouldered. He wore a gray suit. Anne greeted him with a quick hug, but he held her in a tight embrace.

  “It’s great to see you. Are you hungry? I thought we’d go to the Court of the Two Sisters. We have a reservation for seven thirty.”

  “That sounds nice,” she said, forcing a smile.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, holding her at arm’s distance and searching her face.

  “I’ll tell you at dinner. Tried to call, but you weren’t home.

  I’m calmer now, but I need some advice.”

  “I’m all ears,” he said, pulling on hers and hugging her to his chest.

  She relaxed into his arms, and he took her hand as they walked to his black Mercedes. They parked in the French Quarter, then strolled past old houses graced by shutters and iron latticework. Some had sagging balconies extending over the street, and laughter and the clink of glasses rang out from above. A spicy fragrance of jasmine infused the night air, and strains of jazz floated from open windows. The mismatched French Quarter houses always reminded Anne of charming but unruly children. She squeezed Sam’s hand and couldn’t help the smile playing across her face.

  The restaurant, on Royal Street in a stucco building enclosed by a vine-covered courtyard, had once been a fine private residence. They headed straight for the bar, and Sam ordered two glasses of chardonnay.

  “Okay, out with it. What’s biting you?” he asked.

  Anne’s heart skipped a beat, and she took a sip of her wine before replying.

  “Someone broke into the house and tore the place apart,” she said.

  “What? Tore what apart?”

  “Actually, just the bathroom. Destroyed the tub, sink, and toilet. Whoever did it left a note.”

  She told him about the sign and the police officer’s suggestions.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. You need to put in a burglar alarm. I’ll do that for you right away. You should have done it sooner—the neighborhood’s not the best. You must be scared out of your wits. Any idea who the vandal could be?”

  As he put his arm around her, she raised her head, her throat taut.

  “The policeman asked if I knew anyone who might bear me ill will, who might hold a grudge,” she said haltingly. “The only person I can think of, but I didn’t at the time, is my sister, Estelle Clark. Stella, as she prefers to be called.”

  “You have a sister?” he asked.

  “Half-sister, five years older. I’ve only recently met her. My mother told me about her during my freshman year of college. Turns out she had the baby out of wedlock at fifteen. The father claimed to be an artist. Her own father, our grandfather, threw her out of the house when he learned she was pregnant.”

  “Not unusual in those days. What did your mother do then?” Sam asked.

  Anne grimaced, then went on in her softly Southern-accented voice, “Well, the baby’s father didn’t stick around, and she put Stella up for adoption. About a year afterward she married my father. Dad was in graduate school at Tulane when they met. After finishing his doctorate, he got a job teaching at Ole Miss, and they moved to Oxford, Mississippi. I was born there. Mama never talked to us about her family in New Orleans, or about her childhood home—the house I now own—or about my sister, until shortly before she died.”

  “Quite a story,” Sam said. “So you never got to know your grandfather while growing up?”

  “Right. I wasn’t aware he knew about me, either. But he left me the house and lived there until he died last spring. My half-sister Stella has no part in the inheritance . . . you see, she’s of mixed race. He wanted nothing to do with her and didn’t recognize her as his heir.”

  Sam nodded. “I understand a little about the law in that regard. If they adopted her, the parents had to sign away all rights to the child, and the child would have no legal claim to the property.”

  “Yes. But that doesn’t make it right. Stella would like to claim what she considers her birthright. She wants me to sign over half of the house, or at least to have the right to live there.”

  “I can understand that, too. But are you saying that she might be angry enough to commit a crime? That she might have broken into the house?”

  “No, I don’t believe she would do that, but she’s the only one I can think of who might have a motive. What I’m not sure about is if I should mention this to the police.”

  “Why not? If she’s innocent, she only has to say so. I’d think they can’t convict her without proof.”

  “True, but I worry that she’ll be upset if she’s considered a suspect, particularly if she knows I’m the one who reported her. I don’t want to destroy my fragile relationship with her. I’m considering either giving her a share in the house, or allowing her to
live there, rent free.”

  “I applaud your good instincts,” Sam said, “but this is a difficult situation. You want my advice?”

  She nodded.

  “I’d say talk to her yourself. Tell her what happened and watch for her response. If she’s guilty, she may lash out at you and tell you that in her opinion the house is her true birthright, or some such thing. Then you can report her to the police. If she’s innocent, you may know by her choice of words, and you can say you want her to consider the dangerous neighborhood and reasons for the need to take time before making any decisions.”

  “You’re right. I’ll talk to her myself first. Darn it all. Why did this have to happen? Owning a house is a big responsibility, and restoring one is even worse. I just want to get on with my life.”

  He looked at her, suppressing a smile.

  “Welcome to the world of adulthood. That’s a problem for many new college graduates. They spend so many years studying and partying that they have no idea how the real world works. It comes as a shock, doesn’t it?”

  She puckered her lips.

  “I resent that. I worked hard in school. Art majors spend many hours painting, trying to improve. But it’s true that I’m finding a degree in studio art doesn’t qualify me for much of anything, especially not for renovating houses.”

  “Well, that’s your choice. You could always let the old place go.”

  “Never. It’s my heritage. And, thanks to you, I have the money to pay for it.”

  “Okay, okay. But you need to figure out who’s working against you here.”

  “I agree. I’ll start with Stella.”

  “To change the subject, how do you like it so far, interning at the museum?”

  “Now come on, how am I supposed to answer honestly, when you have a vested interest in the response, Mister curator?”

  “True.”

  “Well, I’m grateful for the opportunity. I do want to earn a living and not rely on an MRS degree.”

  “MRS? Oh. . . .” He broke into a grin. “You don’t want to resort to marriage.”

  Anne’s dimples deepened as she smiled at him and slowly nodded her head.