Augusta Fern's Blog - Posts Tagged "nola"

I was in shock, not only did she have children but she was married and her husband was missing. I followed the story, basically stated that they were both working late at the studio/gallery they co-owned named “Scarlet Henri” when she asked him to go out to get them some coffee. He left on foot and never returned. Her name is Babet Beauregard Benoit, heiress to the Beauregard fortune which included a vast antebellum style home and land, known as the Chalmette Battlefield. The property at the moment is a museum, overseen by her mother, Brigitte Lancaster Beauregard.

The story shifts from her missing husband to museum coming events, including one taking place this evening! It all made sense, why I hadn’t thought of it before, maybe I was too wound up in the Queen’s chores, whatever the reason I now realized how this exquisite young woman came to afford to own her own art gallery and studio in the French Quarter.

Benoit, more importantly Beauregard; names I have only heard spoken by one other, Estella. I tossed the paper back with the others and began to dress, in accordance with an evening out; I did own one set of evening wear, gray slacks and a black button up dress shirt. I slipped a black belt through the loop holes, fastening the buckle and stood in front of the floor mirror, deciding whether or not to also wear a tie. I opt for the bachelor look and leave the top button of my shirt open, slipping my feet into the one pair of Frank Sinatra; rat pack style dress shoes I own.

The quarter was busy with people as the evening was still early. I hastily strolled through them undetected and rounded the corner to the cobble stone street reaching the turquoise two-story building where Babet Benoit worked and lived. As I stood staring at the front of the gallery through large French windows, I was in awe. From ceiling to floor massive paintings occupied the cream walls. Larger at the top, smaller and smaller as they worked down to some 5 X 5 prints at the bottom, stopping at a chair rail circling the room. Landscapes and portraits, still life and nudes, all very beautifully painted. Dynamic brush strokes captivated the canvases with vivid color.

The floor was a tiled mosaic with colors that mimic the exterior of the building and surroundings of the Quarter. Glass shelves placed strategically as patron paths for browsing. Atop the shelves were ceramic pieces of all sizes and colors. Like colored pieces featured together as individual displays. My attentions were diverted when I saw Babet enter the gallery from the back carrying a painting under each arm.

She is thankfully dressed in something other than the worn out jeans and t-shirt and her hair was a waterfall of cherry curls pulled halfway up her head. Her flawless skin glowed against the bright white of her sundress that billowed like a ribbon as she walked; I watched as she gently she set the paintings down beside two ornate frames, I noticed when she turned; she had a small fleur de leis tattoo on her inner right ankle.
She slightly bent over and one of the dress’ straps fell from her shoulder to her arm. She quickly grabbed it to pull it back to place and hurriedly retreated to the back once more. I stood waiting to see her emerge again and when she adorned a light blue sweater, and carried a small bag and a pair of sandals in her left hand, car keys in her right. She walked barefoot to the narrow staircase and yelled up to someone named Caroline, she was leaving. Once back inside the Gallery she slipped on her sandals, threw the bag over her shoulder and grabbed one painting and one frame. She was to repeat this once more before she left the building. I crept down the alley to where I could just see her car, the trunk was still open. She had yet to finish loading the last painting and frame; suddenly I heard her angelic voice.

“Something I can help you with sir?” I hear her say from inside the Gallery. I darted back down the alley to the front of the building, peering through a corner of the window I saw her engaging in business with a local man.
“Oh, Babe, you startled me!” A mousey man in a linen pantsuit stood in the middle of the Gallery. He wasn’t even five and half feet tall with silver hair and blue eyes. He seemed nervous as he gripped a fedora tightly in his tiny hands.

“I’m sorry Mr. Bordeaux, I didn’t mean to,” her is voice a charming symphony. She stood smiling, patiently waiting for his reply to her first question.
He straightened himself, in a matter-of-fact kind of way and proudly said, “Yes, I wanted to commission you to paint my Millicent.”

I feel her swell with pride, “I’d love to Mr. Bordeaux and I usually would stay and go over the details with you, but my mother is expecting me at the museum with these two original paintings of the house, so I must go. Would it be alright if I call you in the morning to work out the specifics? You know, background, color, all that.” She said as she motioned him toward the front door and when his back was turned her face showed disappointment at herself for not locking it before she had intended to leave.

Once the jittery little man was out the door she flipped a sign stating the hours of operation and turned the lock. Leaping toward the back door she yelled again to Caroline that she was now leaving. I darted back up the alley where her car remained idling. She loaded the last two items and slammed the trunk. She turned and her dress floated up enough to see her upper thigh meet her buttocks. She jumped in her car, slammed the door and reversed down the driveway, nearly hitting a trashcan at the end. Once she was out of sight I ran down the drive to follow her.

It wasn’t a long journey, The Beauregard House and Chalmette Battlefield is only seven miles downriver from the New Orleans French Quarter. Babet pulled her car around to the backside of the house where her mother was standing waiting impatiently for her daughter to arrive with the paintings. Her car came to a stop and the trunk flew open before the brake lights dimmed out. She put the car in park and sprang out of the driver’s side door, slamming it as just as quickly. She awkwardly adjusts her dress as she walks around to greet her mother who releases her crossed arms at the sight of her daughter.

A smile grew across the woman’s face and she opened her arms to hug her daughter. Brigitte Lancaster Beauregard was an attractive older woman; her daughter may have inherited some of her mother’s facial features, but her complexion and shape are all from her father’s side, Creole.

Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard is a petit woman with silvery blonde hair and green eyes like her daughter. I am caught off guard slightly by the vision of Babet’s mother covered in blood, which quickly subsides. Where did that come from?!?
She is dripping in fine jewelry overtop a pink and gray tweed suit and sensible heels for a woman of her age and sociological rank. Babet isn’t as flashy as her mother who fixes and fidgetes with Babet’s hair as they enter the house. Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard turns around at the last minute to have one of the attendants bring in the paintings and frames, mentioning harshly that they were original and old and to be careful. With a wave of her hand, “Just put those in the library for now, no one will be going in there this evening.”

Babet and her mother disappeared inside the massive Antebellum home. I observed while the attendants carefully removed the two paintings and frames from Babet’s car. I decided to take a personal tour of the grounds said to be the site of The Battle of New Orleans in 1814-1815. This battle is a significant one being the end to any attempt by England to gain control of the American Colonies, lost during the American Revolution. Being a soldier I am of course interested in battlefields and this one with the home residing on it is becoming more and more interesting to me as the moments tick by.

The grounds were extensive; I made it back to the house in time to see the 2 original paintings of the great antebellum home set in their respective frames. The grand ballroom, a room entirely encased in wood paneling, floors and ceiling, was full of local and not so local people interested in the history of the house and its owner. Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard stood at an ornate podium flanked by two spectacular tapestries, one depicting the battle of New Orleans, the other the Beauregard family crest, and addressed the audience. She introduces her daughter as the expert historian on the house. Babet slowly with her head held high, yet her emotions told another story, took to the podium thanking her mother for the gracious introduction. She fumbled with some papers and once in order she takes a deep breath, smiling at the gathering before beginning her presentation.

“Good evening. I would like to thank you all for coming this evening and your interest in our family home and history. As some of you know I began this historical project when I was in middle-school like my own daughter, Scarlet.”
“Her daughter’s name is Scarlet.” I say quietly to myself.

“Now my middle school history project has evolved to an annual event which I am very proud of. The history of our grand family home began before it was even an idea put to plans and built.” She stopped to take a sip of water nervously smiling again before addressing the crowd once more.

“My great grandfather four times over was the son of Pierre Gustave Touant Beauregard, a native son of Louisiana, military officer, politician, inventor, writer, civil servant and the first prominent General of the Confederate States Army during the American Civil War.” She stopped to laugh just a little and her laugh is one of the most symphonic sounds I have ever heard. I am quickly pulled back to here and now, “But don’t worry ya’ll, I won’t touch on each of these subjects.” And the crowd laughs in acceptance. “He served as an engineer under General Winfield Scott during the Mexican American War, he was appointed brevet captain for the battles of Contreras and Churubusco and Major for Chapultepec, where he was wounded in the shoulder and thigh….” She continued as my head began to circle the facts. This man, Babet’s great grandfather five times over, was Estella’s betrothed! I shook myself and got out of my own head to listen again.

“P.G. T. Beauregard had many nicknames given to him by his army friends such as “Little Creole”, “Felix”, and “Little Frenchman”. Beauregard married in 1841, Marie Laure Villere’, the daughter of Jules Villere’ a sugar cane planter in Plaquemines parish and a member of one of the most prominent French Creole families in southern Louisiana. The couple had three children: Rene’ in 1843, Henri in 1845 and Laure in 1850. Unfortunately Marie died while giving birth to Laure….” Babet was still addressing the crowd as I surveyed the attendants; I noticed a head of strawberry-blonde hair sitting on the left side of the room. I stared intently at the back of her head until she turned to see me in her peripheral, her teeth gleaming as she did so. I made motion for her to meet me outside.

I watch as Estella gracefully rose from her chair, clutching her little bag, courteously excusing herself as she made her way from the seated crowd. She slowly sashayed toward the exit and knew she was being watched by more than just me. She slipped through the heavy ballroom doors, putting on a decent ruse to the door’s weight. Once outside the ballroom Estella walked the hall out the front door where I stood waiting. She was dressed in her southern society best, almost an exact replica of Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard except Estella’s skirt was shorter and her heels were taller.
“Cian!” she said in her southern twang. “I didn’t know you were in town sugar.” Her voice trailed loud enough to have the evenings attendants disregard us as old friends the mini-hug and kiss she bestowed upon me helped. We walked the drive away from the house until we were literally out of sight.

I snatched her arm and just as fast she yanked it from my grasp. “What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“I could ask you the same. I had no idea you had such an interest in Louisiana history or architecture, or historical architecture for that matter.” Her smile on her reply dripping with sarcasm.
“I was a soldier and it was a battlefield, there lies my interest.” Mirroring her sarcasm.
“Well darling the battlefield is that way and this is an antebellum home….you seemed pretty interested in that speaker.”
“After seeing the grounds I was interested in the history.” I said looking deep into her eyes “I guess this answers any questions I had abuot you keeping up with his family.” She turned away from me.
“Yes, I check in on them from time to time.” Her voice cracked and I could hear tears welling in her eyes. “This is the only time I like hearing about...him, all his wonderful accomplishments.”
I felt it was in bad taste to make the joke that finally a Beauregard married a Benoit, referring to Babet, so I kept it to myself and watched her dip her hand into the cleavage of her jacket, something else that varied between Estella’s clothing and Mrs. Lancaster Beauregard’s. She brought out a handkerchief with the initials G. T. B. in beautiful brocade stitch. She wrapped the material around her finger and dabbed the tears from her eyes careful not to ruin her makeup or stain her skin.
“I’m sorry to have pulled you away.” I said sincerely.

She made a “don’t worry about it” gesture and said, “I’ve heard it many times before.” winking at me concealing her sadness.
Estella was a beautiful creature, even clad in tears. She drew in her breath and straightened her face. Placing the handkerchief back in her clutch she turned to go back inside. She waved her hand over her shoulder to motion for me to follow and as she did her attentions diverted toward a mass of magnolia in the distance. She quickly straightened her back and took a deep breath, smiling at me once again.

“Come on Cian, let’s finish this thing.” Her head held high as she closed in on the front lawn. I wanted to comfort Estella but our relationship being what it is I have to keep a safe distance.
The attendants bowed their heads as she passed and nodded as I past them up into the house. Babet had reached the portion of her presentation that included the paintings.

“Here you can see the original artists brushstrokes are synonymous with the time; and show a great deal of the house’s detail and beauty.” The house in the original painting sat at a distance from the artist perch, flanked by two large trees. “The painter obviously wanted to capture the size of the house in retrospect to the land…a great historical work.” She smiled, clasping her hands together as she spoke of the technique and shading of the original painting. She seemed to tense as she took a corner of the tarp covering the second painting, apparently done more recently. Babet pulled the tarp off the frame to reveal a much more colorful rendition of the same painting, exact distance and size achieved. She beamed as the crowd erupted in applause. Once the roar died down she approached the podium again to explain that she had painted this six years ago, prior to that year’s ceremony and this was the first year she felt comfortable enough to unveil it.

It was magnificent. Babet used brighter more modern colors to enhance the already beautiful masterpiece, looking at the painting felt like God himself was shining down on the property and surrounding land. The flanking trees burst with five different shades of green and the columns on the front of the house were so bright white it was almost blinding, the eaves and windows shaded perfectly. The grounds surrounding it in Babet’s rendition were so inviting, like you could jump into the canvas and roll around on the fluffy green grass.
Babet continued to beam as her mother came from behind clasping her daughter’s arms and squeezing as if to say, “See, I knew they’d love it.” She whispered to Babet and then addressed the crowd.
“Thank you all so very much for coming tonight, I, as well as my daughter, greatly appreciate your interest in our family history. Please stay and enjoy, we have hors d’oeuvre and drinks in the parlor where the paintings will be displayed.” She smiled and hurried her daughter toward the parlor. I was snapped out of my gaze when Estella mentioned we should go, as food and drinks are of no interest to us. I wanted to get a closer look at the paintings as well as the artist who was already drowning in questions from admirers.

“Suit yourself.” Estella said turning to leave, she turned back to face me, “You look nice by the way.”
I smiled and nodded to thank her.