Estelle

by Linda Stewart Henley

  Amazing! This must be the same Estelle that Marguerite had written about in her journal. The dates coincided exactly. The young woman had been represented with feeling by the artist, and it was a subdued, domestic scene, perhaps painted in New Orleans. Anne’s excitement matched her astonishment that Sam, the Impressionist curator at the museum, had never mentioned this important painting to her. He knew about her interest in Degas: he had authenticated the notebook belonging to the painter that she had discovered in her attic and had encouraged her research into her family’s connections with him. Why hasn’t he told me about this painting? He’d better have a good excuse. Now he owed her two explanations. She would stop by his office and confront him right away.

  Anne braced herself as she knocked at Sam’s office door.

  “Come in,” he said.

  He sat at his large desk in front of a window, pen in hand and a pile of papers in front of him. He glanced at her, smiling.

  “Anne, what a nice surprise. What brings you up from the underworld?”

  She didn’t return his smile. “First, you owe me an apology, and second, you need to explain yourself.”

  “Oh, my sudden departure this morning. Sorry. I should have told you before, but I forgot about my early meeting. Guess your charms knocked me off my feet. . . .” His voice trailed away.

  She glowered at him.

  “You could at least have called to me in the shower to tell me you needed to leave. Your rude behavior made me feel awful.”

  “As I said, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  She watched him shift uneasily in his chair.

  “Another thing. Why didn’t you tell me about the portrait of Estelle De Gas?”

  His face reddened. “But I planned to—it was to be a surprise. I figured you’d be excited, and I wanted to show it to you myself, today.”

  “I see. When, exactly, did you expect to do this? We had no lunch plans, and we don’t have a habit of seeing each other at work during the day.”

  “But as I told you, I was planning to tell you about it today. I was going to ask you to lunch.”

  “All right. But you knew about the painting. Is it part of the museum’s permanent collection?”

  “It is, but there’s a story behind that as well, too long to go into now. I’ll tell you about it when we have more time. How about lunch?”

  “Okay, but it will have to be a short one. I’m meeting with Peter at one.”

  “All right, what about dinner, then?”

  “I guess so.”

  “See you tonight. Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said, giving her his most winning smile.

  She left his office and returned to her desk. Her head ached and, unconvinced and flustered, she went outside for some fresh air. His explanations were only just plausible. She wanted to trust him but had more than a twinge of doubt. His charm always captivated her, and she took delight in their relationship, but a small voice inside told her that something was wrong. After walking in the grounds around the museum for half an hour, her headache disappeared. Perhaps he had better explanations; she would hear them over dinner.

  At one o’clock, Anne met with Peter Knight.

  “Let’s sit here at the table so we can see what we’re doing,” he said. “Excuse me a minute while I search for my notes.” She sat down at a wooden table in the corner of his spacious office. White-painted bookshelves with thick, hardcover books lined the walls of the light-filled room. Most art history texts are like that, Anne mused, wishing she owned such a collection. Because she had majored in art, she had a few books, but not enough to complete even a shelf. Some paintings hung on the walls, but she didn’t recognize any.

  Peter was tall and had the bearing of a middle-aged professor, scholarly and comfortable with himself. He wore a wrinkled white shirt, the top button undone, and no tie. She appraised her own attire. Ignoring Sam’s advice, she was wearing her usual uniform, blue jeans and a loose blouse. If she’d known she would be meeting with her boss, she might have dressed better—although perhaps not, since Peter seemed to dress informally himself. Or, she thought, as a grin tugged at the corners of her mouth, maybe he could think better when he wore casual clothes, as she’d told Sam she did. Or perhaps he, too, had a weight problem.

  After he finished rummaging through papers, Peter left his desk and sat next to her at the table.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” he said. “You did a good job of the inventory, but you might like a more challenging project to broaden your skills. Perhaps it’s time you learned a bit about planning and organizing an exhibit. We’ll have one next year featuring Western American art. It’s not my field, so you’ll work under Mary Wharton, the American painting curator. Does that appeal to you?”

  Anne’s spirits sank, partly because she wanted to work with Peter again, and partly because she lacked enthusiasm about most things that day. She had little interest in cowboy paintings. Hiding her thoughts, she said, “Very much, though I’m not familiar with many of the artists.”

  “You will be once you’re done. Good enough. Here are few books to read and a list of artists whose work we might consider showing. Mary is away this week, but you can get going right away. Go through the list, find more names to add, and determine where the works are. You might also give some thought to a theme for the exhibit.”

  “Thank you. I understand this will be a useful learning experience for me,” she said, brightening her voice and standing up to leave.

  “Do you have questions before you go?” he asked.

  “Will I still be working with you in the future?” she said.

  “Yes, and I’ll continue to be your mentor. Feel free to talk to me anytime you run into problems.”

  “That sounds good. But I have another question, on a different matter.”

  “Sure, fire away.”

  “I noticed that Degas’s painting of Estelle is back on the wall. Where has it been all this time?”

  “It was out for cleaning.”

  “I see. Thanks.” She smiled and left the office.

  At five o’clock Sam called Anne from his office.

  “Hi, sweetie. We have reservations for dinner at six at Brennan’s. Want to drive together? I can bring you back afterward to pick up your car.”

  “Nice offer, but I’m not dressed for dinner at a good restaurant,” Anne said, cursing herself for wearing jeans. “And I’d rather take my car, thanks all the same.”

  “Okay. Want to go for pizza?” he asked.

  “How about a drink at the Black Cat?”

  “All right. See you there in half an hour.”

  She put the phone down. Still raw about Sam’s early morning departure, she wanted to be able to get home without relying on him if their talk didn’t go well. Soberly she realized that she had already distanced herself from him, and she hoped the sentiment didn’t last. She wanted the relationship to work out, or at least to continue for a long time, and she hoped his explanations would bring them closer again.

  She encountered Sam reclining in the bar drinking bourbon on the rocks. He pulled out a chair for her.

  “What’ll you have?” he asked.

  “A gin fizz, please,” she said.

  He searched her face, creasing his brow. “That’s not your usual drink. What’s going on?”

  “Perhaps I’m hoping all this nonsense between us is just that—a lot of fizz,” she said, wishing he didn’t always charm her into saying frivolous things.

  He called to the waiter and ordered the cocktail.

  “How did your meeting with Peter go?” he asked.

  “Not much to it. He’s given me a new project, and a new boss.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Mary Wharton. Do you know her?”

  She saw him blink and take a gulp of his drink before replying.

  “Yes. I know her.”

  “Well? What’s she like?”

  “She’s an expert in American art. Very smart.”
He hesitated. “And quite beautiful, in a cold sort of way.”

  She studied him again, but his face showed only an expression of mild amusement.

  “You’ll learn a lot about Frederic Remington and others, anyway. I understand there’s to be an exhibit soon.”

  “Yes. I’ll be working on that.”

  He beamed at her. “Good experience for you. Congratulations! Let’s have another drink.”

  “Not for me, but go ahead,” she said.

  He ordered another bourbon, and she watched as he gulped it down, swirling the last drops around the ice in the glass. It made a low clinking sound, like muffled bells.

  She sat forward and looked him in the eye.

  “Sam, what the hell was going on this morning?” she asked.

  “Nothing. I guess I overreacted, realized it was late, and needed to get to that early meeting.”

  “All the same, you could have called to me while I was in the shower before you left. I felt used, as though I’d been a one-night stand, or something.”

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “I should probably tell you more about the pressure I’m under at work right now. This has to do with the Estelle painting, as well.”

  She sat back and watched his hands clench and then unclench as they rested on the table.

  “After I graduated from Yale with my art history degree, and before I got this job, the museum began a public campaign to raise funds to buy Degas’s painting of Estelle. It had come on the market in the early sixties, and they gave the campaign a name: ‘Bringing Estelle Home.’ You may have read about it in the papers. . . .” He paused.

  “No, I was in high school in Oxford, Mississippi, and didn’t pay attention to the news in those days.”

  “Anyway, the campaign had a deadline. If they hadn’t raised enough funds by then, the painting would be sold elsewhere. The museum really wanted it, since Degas painted it in New Orleans, and Estelle was a member of his family who lived here, as you’ve no doubt learned by now. I needed a job and wanted to work for the museum, but since I only had a bachelor’s degree, the most I could hope for was an internship like yours. My family has means, and they had already contributed generously to the campaign, but the day before the deadline, funds were still short, many thousands short. Through my family’s connections I contacted a donor who came up with the sum of money needed at the last minute. The museum hired me in recognition of my efforts. I planned to pick up my master’s degree so I would be better qualified for my job, but so far, I haven’t. That means I’m living on borrowed time, so to speak.”

  Anne listened, wanting to believe him. Then she said, “But I assume you’re now an expert in the field of Impressionist painting, so why would your job be in jeopardy?”

  “Ah. The problem there is that we already have Peter, the curator of European painting, and we’re a relatively small museum. It’s overkill to have a specialist in Impressionism, which is largely a European school of painting.”

  “Okay, I understand; but did they tell you that your job is on the line, or that having a master’s degree is essential?”

  “Not in so many words, but the memory of the story of ‘Bringing Estelle Home’ is fading, and I admit I’ve not worked as hard as I should have in my job.”

  “That’s hard to believe,” Anne said.

  “True, all the same. My meeting this morning was with Tom McDermott, the museum director. It went all right. By the way, and keep this to yourself, they’re planning an exhibit of Degas’s work next year.”

  “Oh, how wonderful! Now that’s something I’d love to help with,” Anne said, her eyes lighting up, and enjoying the surge of excitement that rose whenever they talked about art together.

  “Maybe you will. Now, does my explanation excuse me for my bad behavior?” he asked.

  “Pretty much, though I still wonder why you didn’t tell me earlier about the rehanging of the Estelle painting. I guess I’ll accept that you wanted it to be a surprise, which it certainly was.” She sat quietly for a few minutes, allowing her pent-up feelings to subside. Then she said, “I’m hungry. Let’s eat. Do you want me to dress up so I’ll be presentable at the restaurant?”

  “Nah. It’s getting late, and tomorrow’s a workday. Let’s go to Camellia Grill.”

  This time, relieved that they had resolved their difficulties, she let Sam drive her in his car to the popular restaurant on Carrollton Avenue. Its informal character and the efficient white-uniformed chefs cooking right next to the high counter where Sam and Anne sat had a soothing effect on both of them. Sam ordered a “cannibal special,” raw ground hamburger, which caused her to wince but smile, and she chose a salad. She told him about her exciting discovery of Marguerite’s journal.

  After they had finished their meal, Sam dropped her off at her car and kissed her.

  “I love your company, Anne, and I find you devastatingly attractive. Don’t give up on me.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m stubborn. My problem is that I don’t know when to give up. You won’t scare me off that easily.”

  As she drove home, she decided he had redeemed himself. She hadn’t realized that his job was so tenuous. One thought persisted, however: she had been seeing him for five months, and had only now learned about the circumstances surrounding his hiring, his job insecurity, and the Estelle painting. He was clearly capable of withholding information, not only about himself but also about significant things that he must have known were vital to her. What else did she not know about him? How might he still surprise her in ways she didn’t like?

  When she opened the front door, she heard her phone ringing and dashed inside to answer.

  “Hi, Anne, Isabelle here. You’re hard to catch—I’ve been calling and calling. I wanted to ask when we can get together for dinner. Come by yourself, or bring Sam. How about this weekend?”

  “I’ll ask Sam, but I can come.”

  “Great. Saturday at six?”

  Actually, she wasn’t sure she wanted Sam to get to know her friends, but she couldn’t hide him from them forever, and perhaps it would be useful to listen to their impressions of him and whether they considered him a good match for her. She’d grown up with Paul in Oxford, they had dated in high school, and she had depended upon his friendship almost all her life. Isabelle had advised her often about men in college. She was annoyed she wanted reassurance about her boyfriend, but after what had happened, that was exactly what she needed, and from people she could trust.

  Chapter 12

  November 1872

  Estelle made plans for the music recital she promised to organize. Her guest list included the Fontenot family as well as the Oliviers, whose house stood behind her garden. Edgar had used the house as a background for his most recent painting of the children on the back doorstep. Madame America Olivier taught music and would be a welcome addition to the gathering. She had given Jo a few piano lessons, and the families were friends. Estelle spoke to Désirée about her plans.

  “I have the scores for some popular French songs,” she told her. “I haven’t sung in a while, so I’ll ask America to join me, and René can accompany us on the piano. Do you think that will amuse Edgar?”

  “I’m sure it will. You sing beautifully, and it will cheer him up and give us all an evening of music.”

  “All right. I’ll send out the invitations and start practicing,” Estelle said. “It will be fun, I agree, and a change from children’s play—not that the little ones aren’t entertaining, but Edgar says they can’t sit still, so it’s difficult to paint them.”

  Désirée smiled. “I’ve heard him complain. Perhaps he doesn’t understand that children are not ideal models.”

  Estelle’s excitement mounted. Besides amusing Edgar, the event would please her husband, also a musician. He and she had often performed together in the past, and he had complimented her on her voice, but not recently. The recital would be good for both of them.

  Estelle chose the songs and arranged for a re
hearsal with René and America. Her neighbor was several years younger, and pretty. As they began to sing, their voices rang out loud and clear, enticing Degas down from his studio to listen, notebook in hand. He sketched as he watched them. They sang through the repertoire with gusto. America extended an arm toward Estelle in a threatening motion, and Estelle responded, holding her hand stiffly in front of her face.

  “I haven’t had this much fun in ages,” Estelle said as the songs ended.

  “Great drama, and you both sound glorious,” Degas said, “I can’t wait for the recital. Please keep your poses a few minutes longer so I can capture them in my drawing. I assume you will dress up for the performance.”

  “We will, yes. Why do you ask?” Estelle said.

  “Only because when I finish the painting, I’ll change what you’re wearing. I can work from my sketch but I’ll detail your fine clothes in the final one. I enjoy portraying beautiful dresses.”

  “Well, then. We won’t disappoint you,” Estelle said.

  René, seated at the piano behind Estelle, banged some chords, descending the scale. “You see Edgar, we’re not entirely without culture,” he said. “I think sometimes that you under estimate us here in le nouveau monde.”

  Estelle had scheduled the event for the following Sunday in the parlor. She surveyed the room. The piano stood in the corner of the spacious area, and the music would resound there, soaring to its high ceilings. The white slipcovered sofas and chairs would provide comfortable seating for the guests, and potted plants standing out against the dark yellow walls added a decorative touch.