small, I told myself that if Stella could escape, so could I.
It was part of the city’s lore that on September 7, 1900, Stella was seen riding alone in a carriage with the young architect who had designed the Carraday house and overseen its construction. Henry Durand had wooed Stella secretly with lilies, her favorite flowers, at first carrying them to her a few discreet stems at a time, later lavishing them on the interiors, so that the house itself became a secret lover’s gift.
This was the part of the story I’d focused on. What happened next was not clear. Were the lovers unable to reach the causeway? Did they lose their nerve and turn back? No one knows.
What is certain is that during the day, the weather changed. At dawn the sun rose through a bright haze and the air was still. But in the afternoon, the sky grew dark and the temperature dropped. Those in town, on Broadway, couldn’t know that on the south sideof the Island, waves larger than any seen before were attacking the streetcar trestle where it curved out over the Gulf.
According to the popular account, when the Great Hurricane struck, Stella was alone in the house. Her parents had already fled to the mainland. Stella’s body was said to have been recovered three blocks away, her long hair still entangled in the drawing-room chandelier.
Will put his hand on my lower back and steered me gently to where the other guests were gathered. He began to talk, secure in his audience. He described the work of the craftsmen who had built the house. He talked about his grandfather, Ward Carraday, and his early days as a storekeeper, when floors were sand and his customers picked their teeth with long knives. He offered anecdotes and just enough humor to entertain even those whose only real interest was being seen at home with one of Galveston’s wealthiest men.
When it was time to speak of Stella, Will’s account was spare, he talked briefly about her love affair with the young architect. The story of her death he avoided entirely. Then he moved toward the fireplace. It was massive, extravagantly decorated, the opening flanked by a pair of fantastic hoofed legs. Above it, set into a panel, was the full-length figure of a girl.
Will made an L with his thumb and forefinger. “From here over,” he said, resting his hand on one corner of the panel, “what you see is plaster painted to look like bronze.” There were expressions of disbelief. “Plaster is easier to work and less expensive. My grandfather wasn’t above saving a nickel here and there.” He grinned. The guests smiled and nodded, pleased to be let in on the deception. “The figure, of course, is my aunt Stella. You can see the likeness, I think.” He picked up a framed photo from the mantel, then replaced it.
I looked at the relief. The face with its upward gaze and parted lips was sweetly sentimental. But the body was plainly sensual. The folds of Stella’s dress defined her rounded thighs and soft belly. The bodice had slipped so that the curves of her breasts showed clearly, and all her clothing was in disarray. On her right hip, she carried a pitcher. There were lilies crushed at her feet.
Will nodded at an older woman who leaned on an elegant, silver-headed walking stick. “Harriet,” he said to her, “you know my sister, Rhetta.” The woman smiled, as people did when he singled them out. He went on, “My sister, Rhetta, lives in Paris, and she tells me that this looks a lot like a painting there, in one of the museums. It seems to have been popular in the 1800s. She thinks young Henry Durand might have shown a copy of the painting to my grandfather. Maybe he even offered to reproduce it at a bargain price. Who knows? But there is a difference. The painting only shows the girl from the waist up. Stella, of course …” Will reached over and rested one hand on the figure’s slender bare foot. As he did, I felt again his touch on my back, the precise weight and extent of it.
Did
It was part of the city’s lore that on September 7, 1900, Stella was seen riding alone in a carriage with the young architect who had designed the Carraday house and overseen its construction. Henry Durand had wooed Stella secretly with lilies, her favorite flowers, at first carrying them to her a few discreet stems at a time, later lavishing them on the interiors, so that the house itself became a secret lover’s gift.
This was the part of the story I’d focused on. What happened next was not clear. Were the lovers unable to reach the causeway? Did they lose their nerve and turn back? No one knows.
What is certain is that during the day, the weather changed. At dawn the sun rose through a bright haze and the air was still. But in the afternoon, the sky grew dark and the temperature dropped. Those in town, on Broadway, couldn’t know that on the south sideof the Island, waves larger than any seen before were attacking the streetcar trestle where it curved out over the Gulf.
According to the popular account, when the Great Hurricane struck, Stella was alone in the house. Her parents had already fled to the mainland. Stella’s body was said to have been recovered three blocks away, her long hair still entangled in the drawing-room chandelier.
Will put his hand on my lower back and steered me gently to where the other guests were gathered. He began to talk, secure in his audience. He described the work of the craftsmen who had built the house. He talked about his grandfather, Ward Carraday, and his early days as a storekeeper, when floors were sand and his customers picked their teeth with long knives. He offered anecdotes and just enough humor to entertain even those whose only real interest was being seen at home with one of Galveston’s wealthiest men.
When it was time to speak of Stella, Will’s account was spare, he talked briefly about her love affair with the young architect. The story of her death he avoided entirely. Then he moved toward the fireplace. It was massive, extravagantly decorated, the opening flanked by a pair of fantastic hoofed legs. Above it, set into a panel, was the full-length figure of a girl.
Will made an L with his thumb and forefinger. “From here over,” he said, resting his hand on one corner of the panel, “what you see is plaster painted to look like bronze.” There were expressions of disbelief. “Plaster is easier to work and less expensive. My grandfather wasn’t above saving a nickel here and there.” He grinned. The guests smiled and nodded, pleased to be let in on the deception. “The figure, of course, is my aunt Stella. You can see the likeness, I think.” He picked up a framed photo from the mantel, then replaced it.
I looked at the relief. The face with its upward gaze and parted lips was sweetly sentimental. But the body was plainly sensual. The folds of Stella’s dress defined her rounded thighs and soft belly. The bodice had slipped so that the curves of her breasts showed clearly, and all her clothing was in disarray. On her right hip, she carried a pitcher. There were lilies crushed at her feet.
Will nodded at an older woman who leaned on an elegant, silver-headed walking stick. “Harriet,” he said to her, “you know my sister, Rhetta.” The woman smiled, as people did when he singled them out. He went on, “My sister, Rhetta, lives in Paris, and she tells me that this looks a lot like a painting there, in one of the museums. It seems to have been popular in the 1800s. She thinks young Henry Durand might have shown a copy of the painting to my grandfather. Maybe he even offered to reproduce it at a bargain price. Who knows? But there is a difference. The painting only shows the girl from the waist up. Stella, of course …” Will reached over and rested one hand on the figure’s slender bare foot. As he did, I felt again his touch on my back, the precise weight and extent of it.
Did
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