Estelle

by Linda Stewart Henley

  “What did you think of the ball?” Estelle asked.

  “Wonderful, don’t you agree? The costumes were so amusing, the orchestra played well, and I enjoyed dancing. Marguerite was thrilled with it all, too.”

  “She looked beautiful in that silvery dress. Wherever did you find it?”

  “We ordered it from Paris. I decided she should wear something special for her first ball.”

  “Edgar was very impressed.”

  “Was he? Well, she likes him. Lately she and he have been talking about Paris, she says. He sketched her, and I believe he has finished a couple of paintings.”

  “Really? Have you seen them?”

  “Only briefly, and he said they weren’t finished. I think he likes her as a model. He takes great pains with the drawings, and she sits for him for hours.”

  “Does Philippe paint her too, when she’s posing?”

  “No. He’s never painted her.”

  “I understood that they painted together, Edgar and Philippe.”

  “Occasionally, but not often. They talk about painting all the time. Philippe admires your cousin’s work and says he will be recognized as a great artist someday.”

  “Why does he say that?” Estelle asked.

  “Because of how original Edgar’s work is. Philippe says his compositions are unusual as he usually places the subject on one side of the painting instead of in the middle, which is the conventional way. His bold use of color, especially white. I don’t understand all the reasons.”

  “We all like his work, but we’re not artists and don’t know how to judge it. Are you saying that Edgar spends a lot of his time with Marguerite?”

  “A fair amount, yes. They talk in the parlor, mostly. She has always loved drawing, and he has been helping her.”

  “I see. Do you suppose she’s interested in him?”

  “I don’t know . . . she’s young, and he’s more than twice her age,” Sophie said, knitting her brows.

  “They danced together at the ball; didn’t you notice?”

  “No. I danced with Philippe most of the time. She’s said nothing to me about him except that she likes him, but then perhaps she wouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ve told her she’s too young for him, and besides, he’s French.”

  “So what? She could do worse, and if she wants to see Paris, she would have an opportunity.”

  “Only if they marry, and I’m against that idea.”

  “Well, if I were you, I’d watch to be sure she doesn’t compromise her reputation,” Estelle said gravely.

  “You’re right. I’ll have a talk with her,” Sophie said, “though I don’t suppose that matters, since he’s gone back to France.”

  “But he hasn’t gone. He missed his train, and plans to stay for a while.”

  “Oh . . . well, Philippe will be pleased. So will Marguerite. So am I, for that matter. We all like him.”

  At dinner time Sophie rose to go home.

  Estelle mused about the conversation for a while. She realized that Sophie didn’t know much about her daughter’s relationship with Edgar. However, the fact that they had spent time together—possibly a lot of time—explained the closeness she had observed at the ball. She perceived a romance in the making; however, it would probably not develop if Sophie opposed the match. Edgar could certainly take care of himself, and she would not mention the matter to him. She wondered how Edgar would amuse himself for the next few weeks. Would he paint the family as he had said, or would he prefer to spend his time with Marguerite?

  Chapter 29

  December 1970

  Dressed in a skirt and blouse, her hair tied into a loose braid, Anne strode to Peter Knight’s office and knocked at the door.

  “Come in,” he said.

  “Good morning, Peter. Do you have a minute? I need to talk to you about something important.”

  “Have a seat. What’s up? Couldn’t you talk to Mary about this?”

  “I’d rather not,” Anne said. “Remember I told you yesterday that Sam Mollineux had a painting in his office that belonged to me? Well, while I was trying to find it, I saw another painting, one identical to the one of Estelle that the museum owns. Do you know if anyone had permission to copy it?”

  “I don’t, but the director would. Before I ask, perhaps we should take a look at it.”

  “Is Sam in his office? If so, we can’t do that.”

  “I’ll see.”

  Peter knocked. Sam called out, “Hold on a minute,” then came to the door.

  “Ah, Sam. I wanted to see if you were back. How was New York?” Peter said.

  “Great. Good trip. You’ll hear more about it at the meeting later today.”

  “Okay. See you then,” Peter said.

  He returned to his office.

  “Sam’s there. Anne, are you sure the painting was identical to the one that we have here?” he asked.

  “Absolutely,” she said. “Now what should we do?”

  “I’ll find out if the painting is an approved copy,” he replied. “If it is, we’ll do nothing more. I have no reason to suspect Sam of wrongdoing, you know. He’s been a respected member of the staff here for years. I’ll get back to you.”

  Anne returned to her desk crestfallen. She had put herself on the line, and if they found no proof to back up her statement, they would question her credibility. She didn’t know what to do next and chastised herself for not bringing her discovery to someone’s attention sooner, before Sam’s return. Picking up the papers on her desk, she tried to work on her assignment. She waited by the phone on tenterhooks, wishing every second that Peter would call with information. Finally, at four o’clock, the phone rang.

  “Peter Knight here. No one has been given permission to copy the painting of Estelle, but we checked Sam’s office and didn’t find the painting you mentioned. I’m not accusing you of bringing false accusations against anyone, but we have no reason to investigate this matter any further. In the future, you must address any concerns to your supervisor, Mary Wharton.”

  “I understand. Thank you for letting me know,” Anne said.

  Putting the phone down, she rested her head in her hands and closed her eyes. She had made a mess of things and began to wonder if she’d had a hallucination and only imagined that she’d seen the painting. She’d been prepared to think the worst of Sam. What would she do now? Perhaps she should resign from the museum. She didn’t know what to say to Sam and felt more confused than ever about his character. But she really had seen a painting that resembled the one in the museum and now knew it wasn’t an approved copy. She wanted to know the truth.

  Chapter 30

  January 1873

  René arrived early at work the day after Edgar’s planned departure.

  “I’d like to go over the numbers again,” he said to John Livaudais, the accountant. “I know that profits are down, and I want to discuss ways to increase revenues.”

  John turned to the most recent pages in the ledger. “The numbers don’t lie. Not encouraging,” he said. “You’ve missed payments on those loans. When can we expect repayment?”

  “Soon. I expect great returns from the cotton futures and from my import–export wine business.”

  “Look here, René, you’ve been saying this for years. That’s not good enough. I’ve had several letters from creditors about your new wine business. You drew far too much money from the accounts during your last business trips abroad.”

  René scowled. “You must trust me,” he said. “This is the family’s business, after all. Why would I want to ruin it?

  “Why, indeed,” John replied, shaking his head.

  Achille arrived, lit a cigar, and sat down.

  “So we’re to have the pleasure of our brother’s company for a while longer,” he said. “It was a sight to behold, Edgar running after the train, and shouting for it to stop.”

  “We should put him to work to earn his keep,” René rep
lied. “Here he comes, now.”

  “Bonjour,” Edgar said. “Is there any mail for me? I need to write to them at home to tell them I have delayed my departure.”

  “No mail today,” René said.

  Michel came in and nodded to his nephews without smiling.

  “Here,” René said, offering a wad of cotton to Edgar, “perhaps you’d like to examine it.”

  “No, thanks. I have other plans. Today I will do portraits of the men in the family: you, Achille, Michel, and William. What do you think about that?”

  “We don’t have time to pose, if that’s what you want,” René said.

  “No need for that. I can sketch you all here, at work.”

  “All right. If you don’t distract us, I see no problem,” Michel interjected.

  René scowled at him, the crease between his brows deepening.

  “Excuse me, Uncle, but since when have you supported Edgar’s art? If he’s here in the office, he should be doing business, not amusing himself making drawings.”

  Michel glared at René, cleared his throat, and grabbed a handful of cotton.

  Edgar positioned himself on a chair by the door and took out his sketchbook. Michel sat down facing him. Wearing his glasses and top hat, he pulled strands of cotton between his fingers. Achille, also wearing a top hat, leaned against the window on the left side of the room. William, half-seated on the table, showed cotton to a customer, and René sat stretched out reading the newspaper, allowing his cigar to hang out of his mouth.

  Any visitor glancing around at the family members would discern that they, perhaps unconsciously, had taken typical poses. Anyone looking at them would wonder about the industriousness of the owners, since they all seemed to be relaxing. Edgar would paint the truth about his family’s business.

  After a few minutes, René put his paper aside and stood up.

  “Please sit down; I’m still drawing you with the newspaper,” Edgar called.

  René sat back down. “I thought you understood we would not pose for you,” he said.

  “Only if you’re working, which you don’t appear to be doing,” Edgar replied.

  After a few minutes René stood up again.

  “I can’t sit still any longer. I assume you’re finished with me,” he said.

  Edgar nodded and continued working on his drawing. The morning wore on, and soon it was time for lunch.

  “I’ll take you out; my treat,” Edgar offered.

  “I accept,” René said.

  “You go, too, Achille. William and I can stay and mind the business,” Michel said.

  “I’ll take all of you out tomorrow,” said Edgar. “I’d like to thank you for your continuing hospitality.”

  “Much appreciated,” said Achille. “Let’s go.”

  They went downstairs into the street and turned toward Antoine’s. René allowed Edgar to take the lead. He spoke to Achille beside him.

  “I suppose he’s at least doing something worthwhile by painting the office. The cotton business is an important part of the family’s history, and it’ll be good to have it all documented.”

  “And he’s treating us to lunch. I could use a glass or two of good bourbon at his expense,” Achille replied, smiling.

  Estelle planned a tasty meal in honor of Edgar’s extended visit. She sent Clarice with a long shopping list to the French Market: smoked sausage, shrimp, oysters, and any ingredients she could find that would make a delicious jambalaya dish. She knew Edgar liked it. They would have bread pudding for dessert, another favorite. She wondered what meals at the Fontenot residence were like, and if the food there had enticed him to stay for dinner sometimes. There were few cooks to rival Clarice.

  Edgar arrived at home. He took off his hat and greeted her as he came in.

  “How did your day go, Edgar? What did you do, if I may ask?”

  “I started some family portraits at the office,” he said. “I find I like the subject, and I’ll be able to do a decent painting.”

  “Only one painting? Aren’t you going to do individual portraits of each person?” she asked.

  “No. I’ll paint the scene just as it is: a cotton office in New Orleans.”

  “Good. Then it will be a larger work, yes? A masterpiece, perhaps?” she smiled. “Dinner will be ready at six.”

  “I’ll be ready. I’ve worked up quite an appetite,” he said as he disappeared upstairs.

  Estelle noted that he seemed in good spirits, and happier than he had been most days after only coming back from the office with his mail. Perhaps at last he had noticed something to paint in New Orleans that he considered worth his time.

  For the rest of the month of January, Edgar worked feverishly in his studio. He took breaks and sometimes stayed away for most of the afternoon, but he always returned in time for dinner. His eyes took on a glassy, almost wild appearance.

  “Are you still working on the cotton office painting?” Estelle asked one day.

  “Yes. It’s a more ambitious work than the others I’ve done recently, but it’s giving me more pleasure, and it’s coming along well.”

  “When will it be finished?”

  “I don’t know. I never think my paintings are finished. There are always improvements to make. It doesn’t matter. I often finish paintings later, once I’ve worked out the basic composition and figures. I’m happy with the figures in this one, so far, and there’s a good likeness between them and the subjects.”

  “When can we see it?”

  “Not for a while yet. This is the best painting I’ve done since I came to New Orleans. I’d like to sell it to a textile manufacturer in England, and I may even do another on the same theme. Now I must go to the office to pick up my mail. I’ve been neglecting my correspondence.”

  It thrilled Estelle to see him so positive about his art. She wanted to ask if he had been seeing Marguerite, and if she had anything to do with his changed disposition, but she didn’t want to intrude. Meanwhile, February approached, and the christening.

  Chapter 31

  December 1970

  Anne left the museum distraught. She had destroyed her prospective career along with her relationship with Sam. While she now knew she would break up with him, she wished she had used better discretion in the matter of the forged painting. She should have respected the chain of command and told Mary Wharton, and she should have heeded the early warnings about Sam and ended the relationship months before. She had mixed her private and professional lives together as Sam and others had advised her not to do. Too embarrassed to talk to anyone about it all and apprehensive about what would happen during the next few days, she got into her car and drove out of the museum parking lot.

  The squeal of brakes pierced through her. She had driven straight through a stop sign, causing the car in the intersection to nearly collide with her. The driver wound down his window and yelled obscenities at her. She drove on, vowing to be more careful, and parked the car. As she approached the house she stopped, changed her mind, and turned toward the Black Cat bar. She needed a drink.

  The waiter passed by her table.

  “What’ll it be, young lady?” he said.

  “A Sazerac, please.”

  She wondered why she ordered that drink, her celebratory cocktail. This was anything but a celebration, but perhaps she had been given a signpost to pursue a different course. She didn’t enjoy the museum work, and Sam was part of that world. She could give up both and start again, making better choices next time. The more she considered it, the more appealing the idea became. After two drinks, her confidence rose. She knew her stubborn nature caused her to resist following advice, but she might have to swallow her pride and do what others expected of her, at least until she found her feet. Why had she defied Sam for so long and refused to dress up for her internship, a privileged position? Clothes mattered; she could make that correction relatively easily. Acquiring better judgment, particularly where men were concerned, would be more challenging. However, n
ow she had more experience and would heed warning signs in the future. She had always been a dreamer and avoided facing the truth. It was time to renovate herself, along with her outdated house.

  A man’s voice called her name, catching her attention. Homer smiled at her.

  “Hello there, missy. What brings you here, drinkin’ by yerself? Mind if I join you?”

  “I’m leaving in a minute, but you’re welcome to have my table,” she said.

  He sat down, called the waiter, and ordered a bourbon and Coke.

  “’Twas yer grandfather’s favorite drink,” he said. “In the old days we had ’em often, before he went sour, that is. Sat on the porch, summer evenings.”

  “I didn’t know you were so friendly,” she said.

  “Yep, for a while. He changed after the girl had her baby. That was yer mother, I reckon. Didn’t approve. I heard the shoutin’ and wailin’ though the walls. Sent her packin’, he did. Now his sister, she were a fine lady. She were heartbroken when your mom left home.”

  “I’m familiar with most of this story, but thank you for telling me,” Anne said.

  “Runs in the family,” he said.

  “What runs in the family?”

  “Bad behavior. Marguerite had trouble, too.”

  Anne sat forward.

  “Marguerite? I know a little about her. Did my grandfather talk to you about her?”

  “She were his aunt, very beautiful, I understand. Dunno if she ever got married. Always wanted to go to Paris, but the parents wouldn’t allow it.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Dunno. Died, I guess.”

  “That’s a good guess. Do you know anything more about her?”

  “I do, a bit. Etienne said she were like yer mother. Loose, like.”

  Anne remembered her mother, pregnant with Stella at age fifteen, the result of a liaison with an artist, a man of a different race. But surely Marguerite hadn’t misbehaved.

  “What did Marguerite do to make my grandfather disapprove, if you don’t mind my asking,” Anne said cautiously.

  “She were friends with that French painter, the one that lived here fer a while. Etienne said she sat for him, buck nekkid.”