“We must. You look beautiful tonight. Is that a Vionnet gown?”
“It is. Does it suit me?”
“Admirably.”
Helena had led her friends through the petit salon, the library, and the breakfast room, and she’d just finished her first glass of champagne, when she caught sight of Sam.
His dinner jacket was so perfectly tailored that it must have been made for him, and he was so very handsome and unfamiliar that her heart skipped a beat. He advanced across the room, his eyes never leaving hers, his gaze keen and appreciative. Normally his appearance was rather disheveled, to put it mildly, but tonight he was the very epitome of aristocratic elegance. If she didn’t know better, she’d have assumed he was to the manor born.
He stopped when he was an arm’s length away, not seeming to notice their friends. And then he smiled, a slow and easy smile that made her knees feel like jelly and her heart race in her chest.
“Good evening, everyone,” he said, and he shook hands with Étienne and kissed cheeks with her and Mathilde and Daisy, and the moment between them, when it seemed as if they’d been the only two people in the room, evaporated.
“Where is your aunt?” he asked. “I didn’t see her when I came in.”
“I’ve no idea—making the rounds, I expect. We’re seated near her at dinner.”
A footman came forward with glasses of champagne on a silver tray, and they all accepted one, even Sam. She sipped at hers slowly, savoring the way it fizzed against her tongue, and was startled when he bent his head to whisper against her ear.
“Do you think I should ask for a beer? How would that go down in this crowd, d’you think?”
“Not well,” she said, and giggled helplessly. It was the champagne, of course; giggling was for schoolgirls. “They probably drink champagne with their petit déjeuner every morning.”
“Attention, s’il vous plaît!” Vincent, looking very distinguished in a corded silk tailcoat, had appeared at the threshold to the dining room, and was clapping his hands to gain the guests’ attention. “Mesdames, messieurs, le dîner est prêt.”
THE DINING TABLE, which normally accommodated ten or twelve diners, had been fitted with enough leaves to bring it to a good thirty feet, and it now stretched the entire length of the chamber. Elaborate flower arrangements, ornate Georgian candelabra, and epergnes brimming with out-of-season fruit ran down the center of the table, which had been set with her aunt’s sterling silver flatware, bleu celeste Sèvres porcelain, and Baccarat crystal.
Agnes was seated at the head of the table and had honored Helena and her friends by placing them nearby: Sam was at her right, with Mathilde and Daisy occupying the next two spaces. On the opposite side of the table, Étienne sat next to Agnes, with Helena at his left.
The identity of the person who was to sit at Helena’s left remained a mystery until nearly everyone had found their seat; only then did a vaguely familiar figure take his place at her side. It was the man she’d met at Vionnet the other week, the nephew by marriage of Madame Balsan. She racked her brain for his name . . . Monsieur d’Albert. No, d’Albret. That was it.
All was well during the first course, which consisted of lobster bisque with a remove of truite à la Véronique. The table was too wide for her to easily join in the conversation between Sam, Mathilde, and Daisy, and Étienne was engaged in charming her aunt. That left Mr. d’Albret. Fortunately his manners were impeccable, and he had some interesting things to say about aviation and his time with France’s Aéronautique Militaire during the war.
“While I cannot account myself an ace, I did have my share of kills,” he said, dabbing at his mustache with the corner of his napkin.
“I suppose it was terribly dangerous.”
“But of course. Only the best and bravest ever dared to become aviators.”
Helena happened to look across the table, where Sam was engaged in conversation with Daisy. She couldn’t be certain, but something told her that he had overheard.
“What are you doing now?” she asked her dinner partner.
“I have decided to pursue the Orteig Prize,” he announced with gusto.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I’ve heard of it. A challenge—”
“It is the greatest challenge of our age. Monsieur Orteig is a hotelier in America, and he has promised twenty-five thousand dollars to the first man who completes a nonstop flight across the Atlantic between New York and Paris.”
That was enough to induce Sam to join the discussion. “Orteig issued the challenge five years ago, and not a single attempt has yet been made. Most people think it’s impossible.”
Helena stared at him, taken aback by his skeptical attitude. He’d been the one to tell her about the prize, and to her best recollection he’d been enthusiastic when speaking of the challenge. Why he should now dismiss it out of hand was puzzling indeed.
“Only those who know nothing of modern aviation say it is impossible, Monsieur, ah—”
“Howard.”
“Monsieur Howard. But I know better. I say it is entirely possible.”
“It’s got to be an expensive proposition,” Sam persisted. “The outlay will far exceed the prize money. What is the going rate for a Fokker C-IV, anyway? I doubt you can buy one readymade from your friendly neighborhood aircraft salesman.”
“You speak of matters of which you are clearly ignorant—”
“The plane would need to be built to order,” Sam mused, “with the extra weight stripped away, bigger fuel tanks, better instruments . . . that can’t be cheap.”
Mr. d’Albret’s face had reddened, but rather than address Sam directly he turned to Helena and unleashed a dazzling smile. “I believe that questions of commerce should not enter into such a noble endeavor. I have decided to pursue the prize for the glory of France. I anticipate no difficulty in securing the support I require.”
Although he was clearly expecting some kind of response, Helena only smiled and nodded, and then dealt with the awkward moment that ensued by taking a sip of wine. After that, Mr. d’Albret turned to the woman at his left, and Helena was left to listen to Étienne as he became ever more charming and loquacious, though she tried, with little success, to follow Sam’s conversation with her friends.
A second course, of grouse in a morel mushroom sauce, was served; and then, though she could scarcely eat another bite, another course arrived, this time roast filet of beef with braised carrots and duchess potatoes.
“Your niece will not believe me, but I believe she is truly gifted.” Étienne was singing her praises to Agnes and once again was exaggerating wildly. “Hélène has been experimenting with new mediums, you know, and is absolutely fearless in her pursuit of inspiration. Why, only the other day she was telling me of her plans to visit Les Halles at night to draw the workers there.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Agnes had been stunned into silence, perhaps for the first time in living memory, and Helena herself could only stare, horror-stricken, at her friend. She had mentioned her notion that such a visit would be interesting, and possibly very useful, and they had talked of Étienne accompanying her on such an outing, but she would never have been so foolhardy as to venture out at night by herself.
Agnes recovered first. “Helena, how could you? Think of the danger—and what it would do to me if anything were to happen to you. I’m terribly disappointed, you know.”
“I wasn’t planning to go by myself. Tell her, Étienne. We were—”
“You’re a grown woman, and I trust you to behave in a sensible fashion. Or at least I did.”
“Auntie A, I would never have gone on my own. I’m not that foolish.”
“I’ll take her,” Sam said. “I’m a night owl anyway,” he added, “so it’s not a problem.”
“I don’t need your help,” Helena said, bristling at his description of her as a problem. “Étienne has already agreed to go with me.”
“I don’t mind if you prefer to go with Sam,” said Étienne.
/>
“See? All sorted.”
“Fine,” she muttered, though she felt anything but fine at their high-handed manner toward her.
Resolving to ignore all further discussion on the subject, she turned pointedly to Mr. d’Albret, set her hand lightly on his forearm, and offered up her most winning smile. “I do hope you’ll tell me about your time in the Aéronautique Militaire. You must have been terribly brave . . .”
In this fashion she survived the final course, apricot tarts with vanilla ice cream, and followed her aunt dutifully to the grand salon when it was time for after-dinner digestifs.
Helena didn’t partake, having drunk rather more wine at dinner than was her habit, and instead stood quietly and listened to Mr. d’Albret describe his wartime exploits, some of which were very impressive indeed. Sam remained nearby, and every time she looked in his direction he was watching her, his eyes merry with suppressed laughter, and she couldn’t tell if he was laughing at her, or the Frenchman, or both of them.
At long last Mr. d’Albret took his leave, and when he bent to kiss her hand she very nearly snatched it away. Sam noticed, of course, and his apparent relish of her discomfort was so intensely irritating that she felt like shouting at him.
Mr. d’Albret was speaking to her again; she had to force herself to concentrate. “I wonder, Lady Helena, if I might have the honor of escorting you to dinner one evening? And perhaps we might go dancing afterward?”
She was about to refuse, but she made the mistake of looking to Sam yet again, and it seemed, from the expression in his eyes, that he was daring her to say yes.
“I would love to go to dinner with you, Monsieur d’Albret,” she answered, and to her great satisfaction Sam looked every bit as annoyed as she had hoped.
She said good night to her friends; Étienne, rather the worse for wear, refused her offer of a guest room for the night, but Mathilde promised she would see him home safely.
“I shall also take good care of your frock,” her friend whispered. “Thank you so much.”
“It was my pleasure,” Helena replied honestly. “I would offer to give it to you, but I think you would refuse. All the same, I hope you know you may borrow it, or anything else I have, anytime you wish. I do mean that.”
And then it was time to say good night to Sam. If he was angry at her having accepted Mr. d’Albret’s invitation, he betrayed no sign of it.
“When do you want to go?” he asked.
“Where? To Les Halles? But you don’t have to take me. I can—”
“I want to take you. How about Wednesday?”
“You truly don’t mind? You’ll be so tired the next day.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll come by at three in the morning. And make sure you go to bed as soon as you get home from school. It’ll be easier to get up when your alarm goes off.”
“Won’t you be bored?” she asked, still uncertain.
“I doubt it. I’ll watch you work, which is always interesting, and I might even get enough local color for a piece on the market.”
“I suppose. Well, good night, then.”
“Good night, Ellie,” he said, stooping to kiss her cheek. “You were beautiful tonight.”
Chapter 19
On Tuesday afternoon, Helena went straight home after class, packed her satchel with a new sketchpad and box of sharpened pencils, ate an early dinner, wound and set her alarm clock, and put herself to bed. She woke on her own, not far past one o’clock, but rather than get up straightaway and face the cold and dark of her room she lay abed, her mind too busy for sleep.
She didn’t know much about the market, only that Les Halles was a group of buildings where produce, meat, fish, and other fresh foodstuffs were brought into Paris overnight to be sold in the morning. That much of the fresh food to feed a city of millions might be seen, gathered together in one place, was difficult to imagine, and as she’d never been to any of the big markets in London, or indeed to any market at all, she’d no idea of what she would discover that morning.
It wouldn’t do to keep Sam waiting at the door, however, so she forced herself out of bed and into the chill of her room. Before retiring, she’d set out the warmest and sturdiest of her clothes: thick stockings and flannel combinations, a woolen frock with an unfashionably long skirt, lace-up boots, her winter coat, a felt cloche hat, and a scarf that, once wrapped around her neck, was as high and enveloping as a monk’s cowl.
Tiptoeing through the house, so as not to wake her aunt or any of the servants, she crept downstairs at a quarter to three and installed herself in the front foyer. Sam’s knock on the door came a few minutes after the hour.
“Yes?” she called out softly.
“It’s Sam. I’ve a taxi waiting.”
She let herself out, locked the door behind her, and turned to her friend. He was wearing a proper coat for once, and a scarf, but his flat cap didn’t look very warm.
“Won’t you catch cold?” she asked.
“It’s forty degrees out. Where I grew up, that barely warrants an overcoat. Don’t worry about me.”
The taxi took them north to the rue de Rivoli, then steadily westward along rain-slicked pavements. The moon hung low and full, its light a gleaming silver net flung wide over the empty streets and shuttered façades of a still-slumbering city.
As they drew closer to Les Halles, the streets grew busier and brighter, with long lines of heavy-laden carts stretching along the rue St.-Denis and the rue du Pont Neuf. They turned north again, and Sam leaned forward to speak with the driver. A few minutes later, the taxi pulled to a stop in the shadow of an imposing Gothic church.
“We’re just north of the market,” Sam said, helping her out of the car. “But I think we should have something to eat before you get started. Hungry?”
She was about to say she wasn’t, but then she smelled some freshly baked bread and her stomach grumbled loudly in response. She nodded, hoping he hadn’t heard.
“Let’s go. Just up this street.” He slung her satchel over his shoulder, and then, as if it were something he’d done a thousand times before, he took her hand in his. They’d walked arm in arm before, usually when returning home after dinner, but this felt far more intimate, the touch of a sweetheart, not merely a friend. His hand was so much larger than hers, and the warmth of his touch, though she could feel it but dimly through their gloves, was both comforting and exciting. If only they had farther to go.
She stole a sidelong glance, not wanting him to catch her staring. He was so different from other men. It wasn’t just his coloring, though his auburn hair and fair, freckled skin were uncommon enough. And it wasn’t his height, for her brother and former fiancé were tall men, too.
It had to be his manner, his wonderful American directness. He was honest, but not to such a degree that he ever injured her feelings, or those of anyone else. He was plainspoken, with none of the verbal affectations so common among the men of her social circle back home. And he was kind, the sort of man given to practical good deeds that meant so much more than bouquets of hothouse flowers or festoons of sickly-sweet compliments.
They walked north on the rue Montorgueil, past a bakery, shuttered but lit within, and the source of the fresh bread that had awoken her hunger; past slumbering draft horses, still harnessed to their carts, awaiting the long walk home; and past a dozen or more narrow-fronted restaurants, all full to bursting with blue-smocked farmers, weary porters, and stall holders just beginning their day.
The restaurant Sam chose had no sign and was even smaller and humbler than Chez Rosalie, but it, too, was full of men and women bent over steaming bowls of soup.
“They only serve one thing here, onion soup, but it’s really good,” Sam explained. “Go sit down—there are two places at the end of that table—and I’ll get the soup.”
He was back in no time, carrying two large bowls and spoons and nothing else.
“Aren’t you going to have something to drink?” she asked. “The men at the next ta
ble have mugs of beer.”
“No. Would only make me sleepy. I’ll have a coffee later. Do you want anything? A glass of wine?”
She shook her head. “This is all I need.”
The soup was simple, nothing but onions and broth and at the bottom of the bowl, she soon discovered, a piece of dark country bread. It was the single most delicious meal she’d ever had. In no time at all, she was staring into her empty bowl and wishing she had an extra piece of bread to soak up the last drops of remaining broth.
When she set down her spoon at last, Sam was watching her fondly. “Good?”
“Wonderful.”
“Are you ready to go? We can walk around for a while, give you an idea of what there is to see. Have you been here before?”
“No. Étienne told me about the market, and a flower seller posed for us at school one day. I thought I might find interesting subjects here, that’s all.”
“You will,” he promised, “though I doubt you’ll find much in the way of flowers at this time of year.”
They walked south, past the church where the taxi had left them, stopping just across the street from the market buildings, which were far bigger and taller than she had expected, the delicate tracery of their iron and glass walls reminding her of the greenhouses at her father’s country estate.
“The halls on the right are for meat and tripe,” Sam said. “To the left are the halls for produce, cheese, and fish. It’s early still, so they’re just setting up. Why don’t we wander around outside?”
If she’d been amazed by the scale of the halls, she was even more surprised by the crowds milling between and around the market buildings. There was scarcely any room to move, for the lanes and streets were a surging mass of people, carts, horses, lorries, piles of boxes, and empty crates. In the space that remained, there were the vegetables.
She’d assumed the produce for sale would be inside, arranged on barrows in the market buildings, but for some reason many of the carts were unloading their contents directly onto the street. She saw ruffled heads of green-bronze Savoy cabbages, stacked in neat pyramids, and beside them baskets of leeks, onions, turnips, and swede, and the furled spears of winter chicory. There were carrots and parsnips by the hundredweight, fat bunches of radishes, knobbly fists of celery root, and huge burlap sacks of potatoes.
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