Estelle

by Linda Stewart Henley

  “How would he know that?” Anne asked.

  “Think her dad found a drawin’. Destroyed it, a course.”

  He grinned and winked. Anne scraped her chair back and stood up. Then she sat back down.

  “I want to thank you, Mr. Jackson. You’ve told me a lot about my family, and I appreciate that,” she said. “Please allow me to pay for your drink.”

  He smiled. “Much obliged,” he said then moved closer and spoke again, lowering his gravelly voice.

  “There’s more. Didn’t wanna tell you before, but I saw someone near yer house. Someone bad.”

  “Really? When was this?”

  “It were the night before the police came. Before you put that alarm in. Man had a sledge hammer.”

  Anne’s pulse beat faster. “Oh my God. The vandal,” she said. “Can you describe him, what he looked like?”

  “Big with a dark face. Think he had a scar on his cheek. Scary. Acted drunk. Couldn’t walk straight.”

  “I wish you had called the police,” Anne said. “Perhaps they could have caught him.”

  Homer shook his head. “Them types, they mean. Take it out on old folks, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

  “So you were scared. Well, that makes sense.”

  “I think you need to move into that house o’ yers. Never liked it empty.”

  “Do you really think it’s haunted?” she asked.

  “Nah. Only needs to be lived in. Old place is lonely.”

  “I agree. The work will be done soon, and I’ll move in. I’ll be glad to have you as a neighbor.”

  “That’s all right then, missy,” he said, with a small grin. “I’ll keep an eye on things till then.”

  “Thank you,” she said, leaving money on the table for the drinks as she left.

  Now she had a clue about the vandal’s identity, but not enough to report him to the police. At least, whoever it was had done no more damage to the house. If Homer’s story about Marguerite was true, that would explain Degas’s sudden departure without saying good-bye to her or her family. What a scandal. She felt acutely sorry for the girl. She hurried home, newly motivated to finish reading Marguerite’s journal, which she had put aside during the previous busy weeks. When she got there, she found Sam sitting on the front steps.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been calling for hours. I got worried.”

  “Hello, Sam,” she said.

  “Let’s have dinner.”

  “I’m not hungry. We can talk here.”

  Weak-kneed, she was glad she had fortified herself with two drinks. This would be difficult.

  “Well, I’m starving. Let’s go to Camellia Grill.”

  “Really, I’d rather not go out anywhere. I need to talk to you.”

  “Hey, what’s going on? You look like you’ve been hit by a thunderbolt,” he said, reaching for her hand. She pulled away from him.

  “Perhaps I have,” she said gravely.

  “Out with it. I’m all ears,” he said.

  She took a slow breath and met his eyes.

  “Sam, I uncovered an original painting of Estelle in your office, a duplicate of the one in the museum. I didn’t mean to pry. I only wanted to locate the painting of Sophie to mark it with my name. The Estelle painting seems to have vanished, so I have no proof that it was there, but I have to tell you that I reported it.”

  He blinked. “Oh, that painting. It’s an authorized copy. Did you think it’s a forgery?”

  “I did, and I believe it is. The museum director said they had not given anyone permission to copy it.”

  Sam inhaled deeply.

  “I just got back to town. No one has said anything to me about this. Are you sure it’s not all in your imagination? You’re out of touch, you know, sometimes.”

  “You’ll probably hear about this tomorrow. By the time I reported it, the painting had disappeared from your office.”

  “Ah, so now I understand. You’re in trouble because you blew the whistle when nothing was wrong. Bad move, Anne.”

  She shook her head.

  “I’d like to know the truth. What did you have to do with the forgery?”

  “There’s nothing to tell. I don’t know anything about a forgery.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you have so many secrets. I don’t know you, and will never trust you, so I’m afraid I can’t see you anymore.”

  Sam sat silent for a minute, and a muscle twitched in his cheek. “Very well,” he said, and walked down the steps.

  “Nice knowing you,” he called. “Have a good life.”

  She watched him go, reeling as though it had all been a bad dream in slow motion. Then she raced up to her room and threw herself down on her bed, weeping uncontrollably.

  Chapter 32

  January–February 1873

  Chaos reigned at the office. Papers lay on the floor, and the pile of cotton on the table spilled untidily over the edge.

  “You’ve made terrible investments, everyone knows that,” René shouted at Michel. “These Confederate bonds are worthless.”

  “Who are you to talk, with all those loans against the business?” Michel retorted. “John said you promised to repay them, but so far we’ve seen not one nickel from you. You’re reckless and irresponsible!”

  René grabbed his uncle by the shoulders to shake him, but quickly let go when he saw Edgar staring at him.

  “Business is difficult, sometimes,” he said. “I’m going for a stroll.”

  Michel shrugged and glanced at Edgar.

  “He’s a hothead, that brother of yours,” he said. Edgar made no reply, picked up some letters, and turned to leave.

  On the last day of January, Michel gathered the family together at the Musson household, saying he had an announcement. Everyone assembled in the parlor after dinner. He looked grim.

  “Some of you know already, but I want to tell you myself that a notice will appear in tomorrow’s newspaper that the firm of Musson, Prestidge, and Company will be dissolved as of February first, 1873. We’re bankrupt.”

  Estelle and Désirée burst into tears. They had known of the increasing problems with the business, but it was hard to hear the words. William and Achille looked at their feet, and René gazed through the window. Edgar regarded them open-mouthed.

  “Comment?” he said. “This cannot be true; I had no idea. Terrible! Impossible!”

  “It has been coming for some time,” Michel said. “I am so very sorry, but as you know, business has been declining since the war, and not only for us. Everything is changing. Cotton prices have fallen, cotton exports are reduced, and the expansion of the railroad and telegraph systems has undermined our factorage system of selling our wares. Small family businesses have suffered because cotton can be exchanged and purchased more efficiently by telegraph. I don’t want to bore you with details and reasons, ladies, but rest assured that I’ll do my best to find another business to invest in. We won’t starve.”

  No one spoke, and each family member stood up slowly, embraced Michel, and left. Edgar sat white-faced until he was the only one in the room besides his uncle.

  “What about Désirée, Estelle, and the children? How will they eat?”

  “As I said, we won’t starve. I still have resources, and we can always move to a smaller house. As you may be aware, we don’t own this one,” he said.

  “I heard,” Edgar said. “This disturbs me more than I can say. I’ll go home; I don’t want to impose any further on your hospitality.”

  “There’s no rush,” Michel said.

  “I’m so sorry,” Edgar said.

  Head bowed, he ambled out of the room and up to his studio.

  The christening took place on February fifth. Edgar stood up as godfather, and all the relatives gathered at the church. The Fontenot family attended. After the short ceremony, everyone returned to the house for coffee and pastry. Michel had instructed the men to say nothing about the family’s financial misfortune, and no one else at the small gat
hering could have guessed about the dismal state of affairs.

  “Are you coming to the ball next week?” Sophie asked Estelle.

  “No. We’ve done enough celebrating for Mardi Gras already,” she said.

  “No one’s ever done celebrating Mardi Gras,” her friend answered. “Please come. We can all go together. It will cheer everyone up. I’ve noticed that René and Michel look sad, even though the christening is a happy occasion. They need cheering up. Edgar liked the last ball, too.”

  “You’re right. Perhaps everyone does need entertainment. I’ve always considered Mardi Gras to be an antidote for sadness. I’ll talk to them. They can be cockroaches and grasshoppers again.”

  “Let me know.”

  Marguerite stood nearby and seemed to be following the conversation. She said nothing, but Estelle saw her brighten when they talked about the ball. She would want to dance with Edgar again, of course.

  Later that evening Estelle approached René.

  “Sophie asked if we’re planning to attend the ball next week. We should go. What do you say?”

  “I say no. We don’t need to spend more money just now.”

  “The Fontenots invited us to go with them. I think we will be their guests.”

  “No, I said. I don’t want to rely on others’ charity,” René growled.

  “What about Edgar? He’s not responsible for the business problems, and he might enjoy going again.”

  “Well, let him go. He can be their guest.”

  “I’ll suggest it,” Estelle said.

  Her heart sank. She knew her husband was distraught about the failed business, and she didn’t want to injure his pride further by bringing the matter up, but she knew there would be hard times ahead.

  Edgar continued to work on his painting of the cotton office and accepted the Fontenots’ invitation to attend the ball.

  Two weeks later Estelle met Sophie for tea at the Fontenots’ house.

  “How did you like the ball, Sophie?” Estelle asked.

  “Very well, but not as much as the first one. Only the three of us were there, you know, and Edgar.”

  “Did Philippe wear his spider costume? Did the men parade around the room again?”

  “Yes, Philippe dressed up, but there was no parade. Some actors presented a tableau, and we enjoyed dancing. We missed you.”

  “I assume Edgar danced with Marguerite.”

  “He did. They seem to get along well. I had a talk with her, and she says she likes him better than any of the men her age she has met. She’s invited to a lot of parties, you know, now that she’s out in society. She’s very popular.”

  “No surprise there.”

  “I tell her she needs to meet a lot of young men, but she’s resistant. She says she’d rather learn about drawing from Edgar. He brought her a bouquet of calla lilies last time he visited. They’re her favorite flowers.”

  “Mon Dieu. Are you concerned about this friendship? Do you think he’s courting her?”

  Sophie looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know.”

  “He’ll be leaving for Paris soon, I believe,” Estelle said.

  “Will he? Perhaps that’s for the best.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I don’t think he’ll let anything interfere with his art. I’m now convinced this is the reason he hasn’t married.”

  “You may be right, but he said something strange the other day. He said marriage might be a good idea because it would free him from the need to be gallant. What do you suppose he meant by that?”

  Estelle thought for a few minutes before she answered.

  “That etiquette is more important for people in society who are single. René told me he has quite a reputation for rudeness in Paris. He comes from a family of good standing, and is well versed in society’s ways, but he may chafe at the requirements. He’s an artist, after all, a freethinker.”

  “That’s part of what bothers me,” Sophie said. “Between you and me, he’s not the best prospect for my daughter.”

  “I understand,” Estelle said, “but if he’s interested in marriage, he’ll have to ask her father for her hand first, anyway.”

  “True, and Philippe may not agree. He and Edgar had a falling out recently.”

  “How so? I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “I don’t imagine it’s something Edgar would want to talk to you about, and I believe they have patched things up now, anyway.”

  Estelle walked the short distance home after thanking her friend for the visit. So, Edgar did appear to be courting Marguerite. He had said nothing to anyone about this, as far as she knew, and he had mentioned no disagreement with Philippe. She wondered how much longer he would stay in New Orleans, and if he would propose marriage before he left. But how could he, when the family’s fortunes were lost?

  Chapter 33

  January 1971

  Anne’s stomach felt queasy. She had no doubts about her decision to end the relationship with Sam, but how could she face him and everyone else at the museum when she had disgraced herself by reporting the forgery? She called Mary Wharton to tell her she wouldn’t be coming into the office that day.

  “Why not? You can’t keep taking days off. You have work to do,” Mary said.

  “I understand, but after recent events, I may not be able to continue my job, and I’m not feeling well.”

  “That’s up to you, but there’s no reason for you to quit.”

  Anne hung up the phone. Obviously, Mary hadn’t heard the news, or if she had, she wasn’t letting on. Strange.

  She stayed in bed until noon, when a shower revived her enough for a walk in Audubon Park, a haven she often sought when trying to work out problems. She sat for a while and gazed at the green lawns, lakes, and live oaks smothered with moss. Mist hovered above the ground, softening the contours and creating an atmosphere of tranquility, just as the three shades of white paint inside the house were supposed to do. Soulful ambience, Andrea had called it. Anne wanted to experience it and tame her chronic anxiety. Strolling through the park, she reached the river. It flowed like molasses, its surface shining silver in the diffused sunlight. An egret flapped by, head pulled in tight against his shoulder.

  She knew she had made many mistakes and would live with the effects for a long time. Her mind ran through an inventory of recent problems. At least Stella had resolved one for her: she had sent Anne a note that day saying she’d changed her plans, had a new place to live, and no longer wished to move into the Esplanade house. Sam was out of her life. Both actions had left her with a sense of remorse. Despite her desire to make amends for the blatant racism that had cut Stella out of her grandfather’s will, she had failed to make a good connection with her. Did she bear the responsibility for that, or was Stella too resentful to forgive and to accept overtures of friendship?

  She had waited too long to read the signs that Sam was not trustworthy. If she had broken up with him earlier, she might not have discovered the forgery and would not now be losing her job. As for her career, she couldn’t see any positive outcome at the museum. Even if she didn’t want to continue in that line of work, a false accusation was an embarrassment that would damage her reputation. No one would take her word over Sam’s about the forgery, and she had broken a cardinal rule by going above her boss’s head.

  She gazed up at the Spanish moss dripping from oaks above her. It was an epiphytic, she remembered from a botany class, living on the surface of trees. None of the oaks objected to its presence. Why? Maybe because the gray moss added an element of mystery but did no damage and had nothing nefarious to hide. Perhaps that explained in part her attraction to Sam: his outward appearance pleased her, as did the mystery surrounding him, but not in bad ways until she learned about the forgery. She had uncovered the truth at last, and now she needed to consider her job, and the repercussions. As she retraced her steps home, she could come up with no better solution than going to work the following day with a letter of resignation.

&nbs
p; She read Marguerite’s journal to pass the time.

  February 17, 1873

  Edgar is so romantic! He brought me a bouquet of white calla lilies yesterday. He told me they’re not as beautiful as I am, that he should have brought roses instead. I like lilies better, myself. Their lines are cleaner, and they’re easier to draw. I couldn’t help throwing my arms around his neck when he gave me the flowers. Perhaps I shouldn’t have—Maman tells me always to let a man take the lead in showing physical affection—but I don’t think he minded. He kissed me on my forehead. Sometimes I worry that he sees me as a child, young and inexperienced. But he tells me that’s what appeals to him: I have the freshness of a spring morning in Paris. Paris! How I wish he would take me there. He has told me about the wide boulevards, boating parties, and the wonderful opera and ballet performances. We usually sit in the parlor when he visits in the afternoons. Sometimes Maman is out, and we can sit close together on the sofa. My heart pounds so loudly I’m afraid he will hear it.

  Last week he told me he will be coming less often, not because he doesn’t want to see me, but because he has started work on an important painting of his family’s cotton business. His beautiful eyes glow when he tells me about his progress, the colors he uses, the layers of paint that he applies. I’ve never seen him so excited about a painting. He wants to sell it in England. I asked him why this one is special, and he said it tells a story, and until now he has mostly painted smaller individual family portraits, not larger scenes. Estelle has encouraged him, he says. He admires her so much and has painted her several times. She doesn’t have much time to pose for him, and once he sketched her while she arranged flowers in a vase. I wish I could see these paintings, but he tells me they’re not finished.

  The hours fly by when we’re together—he must think so too, as he often jumps up and looks at his pocket watch when he leaves, asking where the light went.

  Anne took a deep breath. So, a romantic relationship had developed between Marguerite and the painter, and now she had learned more about Degas’s work, including the portrait of Estelle arranging flowers, the wonderful painting that would cost Anne her job. She closed her eyes for a minute, then continued reading.