Estelle

by Linda Stewart Henley

  “I don’t want you to pose. I like this scene as it is. It’s about you, doing what you enjoy, an ordinary, everyday activity.”

  She continued arranging the flowers.

  After a few minutes, Edgar said, “Bon! This will make a fine painting. I’ll go upstairs and start it while the image is fresh in my mind.”

  Estelle put the last gladiolus into the arrangement. As she did so, the idea occurred to her that her husband had sent the flowers to compensate for his display of attention to America Olivier the night before and for his clumsy mistake about the handkerchief. Pain shot through her chest, and her eyes blurred with tears. Her task finished, she turned from the table. Not seeing a chair that stood nearby, she stumbled over it and fell with a thud to the floor.

  “Madame, what happened? Are you hurt?” Beulah said, looking dismayed as she kneeled down beside Estelle, who was stifling her sobs and cursing herself for her carelessness.

  “I don’t know . . . the baby . . . call the doctor, please.”

  The maid dashed out to find a manservant. She instructed him to take the carriage and ask Doctor Lenoir in Rue Chartres to come immediately. When she returned, Estelle was sitting up, her back propped against a chair, rubbing her swollen stomach.

  “Here’s your fan. You’re overheated, madame. Don’t worry—the doctor should be here soon,” Beulah said.

  Estelle accepted the fan while the maid mopped her brow and wiped away the tears.

  “Thank you, Beulah. Whatever would I do without you? Could you help me upstairs? I think I need to lie down for a while. I have some pains like contractions.”

  Beulah held her under the armpits and helped her to stand. They made their way up the stairs, and once in the bedroom, Beulah unbuttoned Estelle’s dress and dropped a nightgown over her head.

  Désirée arrived back at the house after her usual morning walk and met Doctor Lenoir on his way up the front steps.

  “Bonjour, doctor, what brings you here?” she asked.

  “Madame De Gas has had a fall.”

  “Mon Dieu!”

  She rushed the doctor up the stairs to Estelle’s room. The doctor entered first, shutting the door behind him. Désirée waited, pacing the hall. Soon Beulah emerged.

  “How is she? Can I go in? What does the doctor say?” Désirée asked.

  “The doctor says she’s all right but must rest. He’ll be able to tell you more.”

  The door opened again, and Doctor Lenoir came out. Désirée moved to grab his arm, then stepped back and met his gaze.

  “She’s resting now, and should sleep,” he said.

  “But the baby? Is everything fine?”

  “The baby seems to be all right. Heartbeat is normal. Madame De Gas has had a shock. I’ve prescribed bed rest for the next week.”

  Désirée clasped her hands.

  “Thank you, doctor. What a relief. Can you see yourself out?”

  “I can. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Désirée tiptoed in to find her sister lying in bed, her eyes closed. She took Estelle’s hand and bending to her said, “Don’t worry, dearest. You and the baby will be fine. Sleep now. I’ll be close by.”

  Estelle opened her eyes briefly, with the ghost of a smile. Désirée pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down beside her. “I’ll stay near you, dear one,” she said again in a whisper as she smoothed the bedcovers.

  Estelle soon fell into a sound sleep. Désirée crept to the windows to close the shutters against the strong light invading the room.

  Chapter 15

  November 1970

  Anne met Andrea at the house soon after the contractors had removed the termite tents. The air smelled fetid, but they saw no sign of the winged insects. Andrea stood at the entrance and gazed around.

  “This place is amazing,” she said. “Classic Greek Revival style. Corinthian columns, a marble fireplace, and great proportions.”

  She unfolded the floor plans that Anne had given her. “They’re good. I wouldn’t change a thing downstairs,” she said. “If you want to preserve the character, I’d keep the moldings and medallions and paint the woodwork. I can advise you about colors.”

  “I thought I’d paint everything white. It’s a clean, crisp look, and will create an airy, bright space.”

  “That’s what I would suggest. The Creoles understood a lot about white. They used shades with dark undertones to add patina and to keep the homes from being blindingly bright in the strong sunlight.”

  “Really? How do you know this?” Anne asked.

  “A designer who is an expert on color gave a lecture on the subject at school recently. I took notes. He recommends a certain combination of white shades that work well together and create what he calls ‘a soulful ambience’ for New Orleans interiors.”

  “Fascinating. Tell me more.”

  “It has to do with the undertones. Each white is mixed with a certain percentage of blue, yellow, or red. As an artist, you already understand how each tint produces warm or cool colors.”

  “Sure, but there are so many variations. Would I have to mix them myself?”

  “No. It turns out there are colors commercially available that the designer claims are close to the ones the Creoles used.” She opened a notebook and flipped through the pages. “The combination is Navajo White, Swiss Coffee, and White Dove. You can use them anyway you choose, on the walls, on the ceiling, or on the trim. The important thing is to have all three colors together in the same space. The different whites trick the eye so that they blend and balance the light in the room.”

  “This is fantastic information. Three shades of white! I’ll try it. I can’t thank you enough. This color scheme will make the house beautiful, perhaps even soulful.”

  “I’ll be interested myself to see how it all turns out,” Andrea said.

  “And by the way, when’s the wedding?” Anne asked.

  “Next year. I’ll be sure to invite you.”

  Another wedding, Anne mused. Other women my age get married or have careers. I have a house. Am I living my life upside down?

  Next day Anne started her new project at the museum. She read the books Peter gave her and reviewed the list of the painters for the show on Western art. She needed to learn more about the various weapons that the cowboys and Indians used. Perhaps some of those could be part of the exhibit. She wasn’t very familiar with the seminal battles of the frontier either; she would have to educate herself about those, too. As she worked, her thoughts kept returning to the wonderful color scheme Andrea had suggested, and she wished she had time to spend on things that interested her more. She determined to make time.

  On Monday the following week she heard Sam’s voice near her cubicle.

  “What do you mean, you haven’t yet talked to her? Well, get with it. She’s an intern, and you’re supposed to help,” he said.

  Anne peeked round the partition surrounding her desk. He was talking to a tall, thin, blond woman, with long, shapely legs, perfect makeup, and a disdainful expression on her chiseled features. She had piercing Prussian blue eyes and a form-fitting suit to match. Anne caught Sam’s eye, and he beckoned to her.

  “Anne, this is Mary Wharton,” he said.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Anne said, rising and holding out her hand.

  Mary took it. Her grasp was slippery, like a fish.

  “We’ll be working together, I understand,” Mary said. “Pardon me for not coming by sooner. I’ve been out of the office. Let’s talk now.”

  “Sure, if you have time.”

  “I’ll call you later,” Sam said, looking in Anne’s direction.

  Mary Wharton strode into Anne’s cubicle and took a seat next to the desk.

  “I take it you’re researching the artists. What have you learned so far?”

  “About Frederic Remington, Charles M. Russell, Charles Schreyvogel, and several others. I’ve also been studying the guns, bows, and arrows used by the frontiersmen and Indians.”


  “Guns and arrows? What on earth for? This is to be a painting exhibit, not a dog and pony show.”

  “I decided it might be useful to display some objects along with the paintings,” Anne said.

  “Waste of your time. I need a list of the artists and a theme for the show. When can you get those to me?”

  “By the end of the week.”

  “Good. But why the interest in the guns? Has your friend Sam Mollineux perhaps piqued your curiosity about those?”

  Anne blinked.

  “Excuse me. What has Mr. Mollineux got to do with this?”

  “Plenty, I would think. You must know that he’s a sharpshooter, in more ways than one.”

  “I didn’t know, and no, he has nothing to do with my research or my ideas about the exhibit.”

  “Really? My advice to you is to keep professional and personal affairs separate. Have that information to me by Friday.”

  She got up to leave. Anne watched her go, noting her confident stride. She was a thoroughly objectionable woman. How dare she presume to give her advice about Sam, and how had she learned about their relationship? What was her relationship with him, anyway? Anne would make it her business to find out.

  Sam called later that afternoon.

  “Hi, sweetheart. How did the meeting go?”

  “Mary told me what she expects by the end of the week. Didn’t like her much. She said I shouldn’t get my personal life mixed up with my professional one.”

  Sam roared with laughter. “She said that? The little hypocrite,” he said.

  “How well do you know her, anyway?”

  “Better than I’d like. My advice is to steer clear of her as much as possible.”

  “Difficult to do, when she’s now my boss,” Anne said.

  “Welcome to the world of work. It’s good practice to get used to working for someone you don’t find sympathetic. I expect she resents you because she thinks I had something to do with your getting the internship.”

  “I see. In other words, she doesn’t think I’m qualified for the job,” Anne said bitterly.

  “Look, that’s not the reason I called,” Sam said. “Thanksgiving is this Thursday. Is it too late to accept your invitation to join you for dinner?”

  “At my Dad’s, you mean? No. He’d like to meet you.”

  “Good. I’d like to meet him, too. We can drive up together.”

  “Sam, what does Mary know about our relationship? What would cause her to give me that stern warning?”

  “I’ve never told her anything about you. We no longer talk. But there may be gossip around—that’s my guess, that she heard through the grapevine that we’re dating.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “It could be. She’s the jealous type. We can talk more about that on Thursday, or should we drive up to Oxford on Wednesday night?”

  “Wednesday night would be better. That way I’ll be able help Dad with the meal, and we’ll all have longer to visit. We can stay at his house.”

  “Sounds good. Talk to you later.”

  She put the phone down. Her father had wanted to meet her boyfriend for months now. She was a little surprised that Sam had accepted the invitation, but more than happy that he had. Suddenly she realized that she had a deadline to meet on Friday, and it would be a short week because of the holiday. That meant she had to get the information to her boss by Wednesday, two days from now. She wondered if Mary Wharton had expected that the short work week would give her less time to complete the assignment so she would fail . . . but she told herself not to be paranoid. She opened her books and applied herself to the task with renewed vigor.

  After work she went home and, wanting to engage herself in something of greater interest, took out Marguerite’s journal. She could plunge more happily into Marguerite’s trials and tribulations in 1872 than her own a century later.

  December 1, 1872

  Maman went to visit Estelle today. She’s had a fall and is bedridden. Her baby is due in a few weeks, and the doctor’s concerned. Maman said Estelle asked her to read to her because she has poor eyesight. Apparently, her husband had suggested that Madame Olivier should keep Estelle company, but Estelle said she would prefer Maman. Maman wants to oblige because she is fond of Estelle and feels sorry for her. René is not always considerate, she says, and she does not like America Olivier. M. Degas, meanwhile, has been painting members of his family. Papa says the paintings are very good, but the faces are obscure. Why would he not portray faces clearly? I’ve been practicing portraits myself, and I always try to achieve a likeness. Papa says M. Degas has a unique style, unlike anything he’s ever seen. I think he’s a little envious. Now I have more questions for M. Degas, if I should ever have the chance of talking to him. My curiosity knows no bounds! I dream only of Paris.

  Good observations, Anne mused. Who was America Olivier? Her great-great-grandfather Philippe and Degas were seeing each other. Marguerite had spent no time with the artist so far. She hoped Marguerite would chronicle their friendship, for it appeared there had been one. Marguerite must have been impatient, knowing that she didn’t have the freedom to speak to the artist whenever she saw him. Well-bred young women had few options but to remain passive in those days. She, on the other hand, needed to take an active role in determining her future. She didn’t need to follow rules as strictly, but deciding for herself wasn’t so easy, either. It struck her that there were several Estelles: Estelle, Degas’s cousin; Estelle, her half-sister, and Estelle, Etienne’s sister and Stella’s namesake. She resumed reading the journal.

  December 7, 1872

  So exciting! I had a good talk with M. Degas yesterday. He showed Papa and me an oil painting of his niece Carrie. It’s lovely. The white dress (very white) is especially well done. I asked him about it, and he told me he often paints ballerinas in Paris. He admires their costumes called tutus. He explained that he has developed a technique of using a black monoprint as an undertone so that the white brush strokes on top create a luminous effect similar to the way the dancers’ clothes appear under the harsh glare of the spotlights on the stage.

  Marguerite had spoken to the painter at last! Anne’s excitement matched the girl’s as she took in this new information. What a coincidence! Just after she had learned from Andrea about the best shades of white paint to use in her house, she’d now gained valuable insight into Degas’s special use of that color. And it was a color. Now she would examine reproductions of Degas’s ballerina paintings, try to copy his style, and introduce some nuanced white areas into her own paintings to create more striking luminosity, as he had.

  On Wednesday, Anne took her list of painters and theme for the show to Mary Wharton’s office. After a struggle she had come up with a title: War with Horses: Painters of the Wild West. Mary wasn’t there, so she left her list on the desk attached to a cover note saying she hoped it was acceptable and she would like to discuss it the following week.

  Sam had told her he would pick her up directly from work to drive to Oxford. She met him on the curb at five o’clock.

  “Hop in, and let’s get on the road.” he said.

  She tossed her suitcase in the back seat of the car and climbed in beside him.

  “How wonderful to have a few days off,” she said. “Now I understand why people look forward to weekends so much.”

  “What do you mean? Didn’t you always look forward to them?”

  “Not while I was in college. There were always tests to study for, papers to write, and there wasn’t much difference from the rest of the week, except we didn’t have classes.”

  “You surely don’t mean you were dull, all work and no play, in those days. Didn’t you go on dates?”

  “Sure. To parties, and dances, too. Some debutante and Mardi Gras balls. Newcomb’s a social school, you see.”

  “So I hear, not that I was there,” he said.

  “You wouldn’t have fitted in at an all-women’s school, but you dated Newcomb girls.”

&nbs
p; “How do you know that?” he asked. “More gossip?”

  “No gossip. You told me yourself, when we first met.”

  “I don’t remember that . . . what did I say?”

  “No details, but you said when you asked me out that you expected I, like most Newcomb girls, wouldn’t have a car, which implied that you knew others. Would you mind telling me who, by the way?”

  “Better not,” he said. “But I understood those girls didn’t have cars because they expected their dates would drive them. Anyway, I never became involved with anyone as much as I am now, with you.”

  A smile played across her face as she savored his words and she settled down in her seat. There was no point in spoiling the moment and grilling him about his relationship with Mary Wharton. She was glad to be on a long trip with him, her first, and that he was interested in meeting her father. They had reached the outskirts of the city and would soon be on the road for Oxford. It was about a six-hour drive, and they should be there by eleven o’clock that evening.

  “Tell me about your father,” Sam said.

  “Dad, François Gautier, is a professor of entomology at the University of Mississippi. He’s had some success in research and is now studying mosquitoes with the worthy goal of reducing the number of the pests in places like New Orleans. Dad’s an intellectual and strangely obsessed with insects, but lovable. He’s been a good father.”

  “Your mother died during your freshman year, right? Has he remarried?”

  “He was married for two years to a dreadful woman called Catherine. Luckily for him, she took off with a fellow graduate student. I believe she’s gone from his life; hope so, anyway.”

  “Why do you suppose he married her?

  “I have my theories. She was young and attractive, and he was well established but lonely.”

  “Will he remarry?”

  “No idea; actually, I’m not sure if he’s divorced yet.”

  “How’s he doing now?”

  “Okay, I guess. I’ve no idea if he misses Catherine. As I said, she was awful. Lately he’s been interested in helping me solve my termite problem.”