The Quintland Sisters(65)
“I beg your pardon?”
George was still hovering above me, there was no chance he hadn’t heard.
I tried again. “It’s just, at this point, after all he’s done for them, they think of him as their father.”
George gaped at me. “You can’t possibly believe that, Emma.”
When I didn’t answer, he stared at me a moment longer, then shook his shaggy head and stepped away, yanking at his chair. It stuttered backward with a squeak so that his cup, on the desk, trilled in its saucer.
“Thanks for bringing the tea and biscuits,” he said, sitting. He pulled out his pocket watch, then looked up at me. “I’m afraid I have some work to get back to.”
I opened my mouth to say more, closed it, then opened and shut it a second time. I must have looked like a guppy bubbling mutely in my bowl. Just then, of course, Marguerite barged in, high-bosomed and smelling of onions, fussing with the tea things and warbling about whether George would stay for supper. There was nothing for me to do but take my spinning head and go.
March 3, 1938
MISS NORAH ROUSSELLE arrived today. She’s Nurse No?l’s replacement, but in fact she’s a teacher, not a nurse. Our healthy girls need only two nurses now, it seems. Miss Beaulieu will also be leaving us soon, Dr. Dafoe has told us. I can detect a slight accent when Miss Rousselle speaks French with the girls, but they of course don’t notice. They have their own funny accents anyhow.
March 10, 1938
Miss Emma Trimpany Dafoe Hospital and Nursery Callander, ON
Dear Emma,
I trust you are surviving the Canadian winter. I myself am relocating to Florida for two months next week so wanted to make sure you got these back before I left.
Enclosed are the last sketches you sent me of the babies. The children, I should say, because they really are shooting up, aren’t they? I have very little in the way of feedback. I’m starting to feel you’ve already surpassed my talents. There is something in these portraits that elevates them above mere drawings, and I struggle to put my finger on it, other than to say that the expressions you’ve managed to capture are extraordinarily complex. Those of us who only know the quintuplets through their daily photos in the paper assume that they live a blessed life, wanting for nothing. They are plump and shiny little girls, new outfits and new toys in every photo, not a care in the world. Your sketches, if I may say so, particularly the close-up sketches you did in pencil, hint at something far more nuanced: anxiety, uncertainty, or worse. In any case, they are lovely and you should be extremely proud.
Now, my news. I will no longer be painting the girls. My understanding is that the guardians have commissioned another artist now that they are getting a bit older. Indeed, my passion and perhaps my talent are best suited to infants and toddlers. I do hope you will keep at it, whomever they hire. I believe you have a rare talent and would strongly urge you to consider following it as far as it will take you.
Yours truly, Maud Tousey Fangel
145 East 72nd
New York, NY
March 17, 1938
Ever since I received Mrs. Fangel’s letter I’ve been trying to find a spare minute to speak privately with Dr. Dafoe and ask about the new artist for the girls. The doctor has been under a great deal of stress, written plain as day on his features. Today, however, he called me to his office and asked George to give us some privacy.
The upshot: the guardians have not found another artist to paint the girls. They would like to offer me the opportunity. At the moment, the Corn Products Refining Company of New York and Chicago has commissioned a series of advertisements for their Karo brand corn syrup and would prefer paintings to photographs of the girls. And I’d hoped I’d heard the last of corn syrup!
We did not discuss a specific payment, but Dr. Dafoe muttered that the compensation “will be generous.” That kind of talk makes me uncomfortable, as Dr. Dafoe could clearly see. He gave a sigh and reached as he always does for his pipe and tobacco.
“Remember, Emma,” he said. “As much as we may disagree with the commercial side of things, every little bit benefits the girls. Their trust fund continues to grow, but I fear it is a long ways from reaching the point where we can be sure they will want for nothing, their whole lives long.” He jabbed the pipe in his mouth and took several seconds to light it, his eyes crossing as he brought the match to the bowl. “You are aware, of course, of the increased pressure being brought by the Dionnes. Publicly, it is important that we portray unity and shared purpose, but my dearest wish is that we will be able to continue to manage the girls’ finances such that they will not be forced to move back into the farmhouse with the rest of the family.”
The farmhouse! Was this what George was getting at when we’d had that strange exchange about Dr. Dafoe being removed as guardian?
“Surely that’s not a possibility?” I blurted out. I couldn’t imagine how the family of six children plus the parents were managing in those cramped quarters, let alone how the five girls could be accommodated among them.
Dr. Dafoe shrugged and puffed on his pipe.
“These are the kinds of things M. Dionne’s lawyer is requesting,” he said. “I see it as my duty to protect the girls in every way I can.” He paused and lifted the pipe momentarily from his lips. “I hope you see things the same way.”