When they had returned to the hotel, well past teatime, Helena’s shoes and stockings had been soaking wet, a casualty of her having rescued a toy boat in danger of capsize; Amalia, always so immaculate in her dress and manners, had torn the hem of her frock, which was very dirty besides, and lost her hat. They had been sent directly to bed, without any tea or supper, and Mama had grumbled for days.
Helena looked over her sister’s letter again; she was arriving Tuesday next, so there wasn’t much time to make plans. Not that they needed to work terribly hard to have fun in Paris, of course—all they required was a group of friends and enough francs to pay their way.
Amalia’s visit would be just the distraction she needed. It had been more than a month since Sam had rejected her so comprehensively, and she hadn’t seen or heard from him since. She’d wasted countless petit bleu forms on messages that went no farther than the wastepaper basket in her bedroom, her stilted invitations so cringingly worded that she very nearly felt sick when she read them over.
If you happen to be free and don’t have anything else to do I should be so very happy if you could join me and my friends for dinner at Rosalie’s.
No; it was better to remain silent. If he wished to see her—if, as he said, he truly wished to remain friends—he would seek her out.
She extracted a telegram form from a pigeonhole in her desk and wrote out a reply to her sister.
DEAR AMALIA STOP WONDERFUL NEWS STOP SO LOOKING FORWARD TO OUR DAY TOGETHER STOP MAKING PLANS FOR ENDLESS FUN STOP CANNOT WAIT TO SEE YOU STOP LOVE ELLIE
As for how they ought to spend their day . . . romps in the Luxembourg Gardens were out, not least because it was the middle of winter, but Amalia would probably wish to see Helena’s studio and meet her friends from school. They would have dinner out, for Agnes was still in Antibes, and then they would go to a cabaret, or somewhere that played le jazz hot, and they would go dancing, too. She would invite the Murphys, and they would come into town for the evening, and it would be heavenly.
HELENA WAS AT the Gare du Nord to meet Amalia’s train, having missed her watercolors class to collect her sister. She spotted her straightaway, so beautiful that she drew the attention of every man she passed, and so stylish that she might easily have passed for a Parisian born and bred.
Although she sincerely loved all three of her sisters, Helena was especially fond of Amalia, who had a rare sweetness to her nature, and an infectious sort of warmth that had a way of drawing others close. She was intelligent, too, and had been particularly good at mathematics; had she been born a decade later she might have aspired to a place at university.
Instead, she had married at eighteen and become the mother to three sons by the time she was twenty-five. With her husband, a baronet from deepest Derbyshire, she had a pleasant but distant relationship. Peter was about ten years older than Amalia, of middling height, very round about the middle, and had graying hair that was beating a slow retreat from his brow. He liked the sound of his own voice and at family dinners was much given to long-winded and ill-informed speeches about politics and world affairs. Though fundamentally a decent man he was also very dull, and she suspected that Amalia found him dull, too. Likely her sister knew as little of her husband’s interior life as she did of her servants’. Not only did she and Peter have different interests, but they also lived different lives.
Amalia had always been the daring one among their sisters: she had been the first to bob her hair, wear rouge, and shorten her skirts. Yet it hadn’t made a whit of difference to the way she lived, which was profoundly traditional. With little say in the upbringing of her sons, the youngest of whom had just been parceled off to boarding school at the age of eight, Amalia passed her days in shopping and visiting friends, overseeing the running of her homes, and engaging in some perfunctory charity work.
If Helena had married Edward, she would have had the same life.
The crowds on the platform parted, just for an instant, and she saw her sister, whose beautifully tailored coat and matching hat made her look like a fashion plate come to life.
“Amalia! Helloooo! Over here!” she called, waving her hand frantically. Amalia abandoned her sophisticated pose and ran pell-mell toward the platform barrier, brushing past it and the guard as if they were invisible, and when she reached Helena they hugged and even jumped up and down a little.
“Ellie, darling—you look wonderful. Simply wonderful. And your hair! It suits you so well at that length.”
“Thank you. You’re looking very well, too.”
“Do you think so? This horrid winter has left me feeling quite wan. I’m absolutely desperate for some sun.”
“Well, you’ll get that soon enough. Where are the rest of your things?” Amalia had only a handbag with her, and as she’d never been one to travel light there had to be at least one steamer trunk nearby.
“The porter took them for me. He should be somewhere about—ah, there he is. Should we have them sent straight on to Aunt Agnes’s?”
“Yes, that’s best. Do you need anything from them? I was thinking we could go straight to Montparnasse now, so I might show you my studio and introduce you to my friends. They’re very keen to meet you.”
“And I them. I do so love reading about everyone in your letters.”
“Vincent is in Antibes with Auntie A, so we don’t have a car. I hope you don’t mind taking a taxi.”
Helena approached the porter and, after tipping him handsomely, asked him to have Amalia’s things sent on to her aunt’s. She then steered her sister to the taxi rank outside the station. “We’ve a longish ride ahead of us, but it’s interesting enough.”
She asked the driver to take them to the avenue du Maine, nearly four miles distant, and in short order they were heading southwest along the rue La Fayette and, she realized, directly past Sam’s office.
It was the wrong time of day for him to be at work; at this hour he was likely still in his lodgings. It would be easy enough to send a petit bleu to the hotel. He would want to meet Amalia, she felt sure, and if he were to discover she had been visiting, and that he had been left out, it might hurt his feelings.
She composed the petit bleu in her head several times over before landing on just the right tone of friendly yet detached warmth. As soon as they got to the studio she would write it out.
Dear Sam—Short notice, I know, but Amalia is in Paris for the evening (en route to Biarritz) and we are going to Le Boeuf sur le Toit with the Murphys and Étienne. Arriving at nine-ish I think. You may well have to work but please join us if you are free. Regards, Helena.
Looking out the taxi window, she realized they had crossed the Seine and were heading south on the boulevard Raspail. She leaned forward to direct the driver, and several minutes later the taxi had pulled up by the studio entrance on the rue du Maine.
She paid the fare and helped her sister out, and then led her beneath the wrought-iron archway and along the cobbled path to the building at the end. Up the stairs they went, and they had come at the best time of day, for the studio was flooded with sunshine and the paintings that crowded the walls were shining like stained glass windows, and it really did look like the sort of place where serious artists belonged.
Mathilde insisted they keep the studio in good order, so the space was clean and tidy and smelled only faintly of oil paints and turpentine. Each of them had a station set up by the bank of windows, with easels and small tables that Étienne had built from scraps of wood.
Running the length of the opposite wall was a narrow shelf with a lip at its edge, and on it rested more than a dozen of Helena’s completed canvases, as well as her friends’ work; hanging above, from wires strung from the crown molding, were bigger canvases, most of them belonging to Étienne.
“Here is some of my work,” she said, suddenly nervous. “They’re watercolors and pastels, in the main. I painted most of them in Antibes, although you can see—well, it’s obvious, I suppose—that these ones are from Paris. I
went to the markets one night, and these are . . .” She let her voice trail away. Better to allow her sister to look at the paintings in peace.
While Amalia looked over the paintings, Helena wrote out the petit bleu to Sam; fortunately she had a form tucked away in her handbag.
“I just need to post this,” she told her sister. “I won’t be a moment.”
Helena ran out to the postbox on the corner, pushed her note to Sam through the special slot for pneumatic messages, and was back in the studio before Amalia had finished her inspection. When at last she turned to Helena, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“Oh, Ellie. I knew you had a talent for drawing, but I had no notion you were so accomplished.”
“I’ve learned a great deal this year, of course.”
“I can see that. These paintings, everything you’ve done here—they’re wonderful. I’m so proud of you. And I rather wish I’d paid more attention when Miss Renfrew was trying to teach me drawing all those years ago!”
A clatter of boots on the stairs heralded the arrival of the studio’s other tenants. Helena checked her watch and was surprised to see that it was past three o’clock already.
“Here come the troops,” she joked, and then called down to her friends, “We’re here!”
Étienne, Mathilde, and Daisy appeared at the door, with Louis-ette trailing behind as usual. Introductions were made, during which Étienne was at his most charming, and Amalia made a point of admiring the others’ work with comments that were both intelligent and sincere—a rare combination, in Helena’s experience.
“Daisy and I both need to go,” said Mathilde after nearly an hour had passed. “I am needed at home, as is she. I am so very sorry that I cannot stay any longer.”
“As am I,” Daisy echoed. She and Mathilde shook hands with Amalia, said their farewells, and set off for their respective homes.
“Étienne, Amalia and I are going to Le Boeuf sur le Toit tonight. Would you like to come for dinner before?”
“Not tonight, alas. Shall I meet you there?”
“Yes—if we’re late just look for the Murphys. They’ll be there, too.”
SARA, GERALD, AND Étienne had taken possession of a fine table at Le Boeuf sur le Toit when Helena and Amalia arrived, and had already finished their first round of cocktails. Of Sam there was no sign.
“So lovely to see you again,” Sara said in greeting Amalia, for they, too, had become friends in the summer of 1914. “You haven’t changed one bit.”
It was impossible to look away from her sister, who was radiant in a bright red frock of beaded and draped silk chiffon, its short skirts only just grazing her kneecaps. It wasn’t the sort of thing she usually wore at home, she’d confided to Helena, but with her husband and parents on the other side of the Channel she had decided to throw caution to the wind.
Helena was wearing her gold Vionnet frock, for it was too nice to leave languishing in her wardrobe, and in it she felt as pretty as she’d ever been. Not a patch on her sister’s vivid beauty, of course, but well enough to sit next to her and not feel entirely out of place.
The others were drinking champagne cocktails, so she and Amalia ordered the same, and in no time at all she was staring at the bottom of her glass and wondering if it was too soon to order another. The cocktails were absolutely delicious, fizzy and light and not too sweet, and in short order she had gulped down a second one and was feeling quite enthusiastic about the evening and life in general.
“Who is the man playing the piano?” she asked Gerald, who always knew the answer to such things.
“It’s Jean Wiéner. Can turn his hand to anything. Ragtime one minute and Bach the next.”
“Is it just him onstage tonight?”
“No, but the cabaret acts won’t come on until later. No one of note tonight, though they’re usually quite—hey, look who’s here!”
Gerald’s attention was fixed on a point over her shoulder; she turned, and there was Sam.
“Hello, everyone. Sorry I’m late. I was out when Helena’s petit bleu was delivered.”
“I thought . . . I mean, I wasn’t sure where to send it. I suppose I ought to have sent it to the paper.”
“No matter. I’m here now.”
“You are, and, ah . . . well, this is my sister, Lady Amalia Ossington. Amalia, this is my friend Sam Howard.” When all else failed, her sense above all, she could at least fall back on good manners.
Introductions made, they shook hands and Sam took a seat on the opposite side of the table. When prompted by the waiter, he politely refused the offer of a champagne cocktail and instead asked for whiskey. “Any kind you have is fine.”
He looked as if he had slept in his clothes, unfortunately, for his shirt was rumpled, his necktie was crooked, and his coat was pulled out of shape by the overflowing contents of its pockets. Helena could make a fair guess as to what they held: a notebook, pencils, a dog-eared Plan de Paris, his pocket knife, a handful of coins, and the remains of the sandwich he hadn’t had time to finish at lunch. He needed to shave, for his chin was dusted with red-gold stubble, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Had she ever seen him so tired before? And yet he was so handsome that her heart fairly stopped at the sight of him.
It was impossible to keep up any kind of conversation, for the pianist had been replaced by a five-piece band playing American jazz. Feeling a little dizzy, Helena asked for a glass of soda water instead of another champagne cocktail, and when Sara went in search of the lavatory she and Amalia accompanied her as well.
It was cooler there, and far quieter, too, so they lingered awhile, powdering their noses and reminiscing about Sara’s summer in Europe before the war. Presently Amalia tidied away her powder compact and rouge and fixed Helena with a long, assessing stare.
“I’d no idea that Mr. Howard would be so attractive,” she said. “You never said a thing in your letters.”
“I, ah . . . I didn’t think . . .” Helena stammered.
“Who are his people? Apart from being Americans, that is.”
“Didn’t Helena say?” Sara answered. “His father is Andrew Clement Howard the Third. The steel baron. We may not have an aristocracy in the States, but if we did Sam’s family would belong to it. I mean, they aren’t old money—I think the fortune only goes back a century or so—but along the way they married into the old guard. Sam is as blue-blooded as an American can get.”
It was a good thing Helena was sitting down; otherwise she’d have found herself on the floor. How had she not known something so important about him? And what did it mean that he had never told her the truth?
“Helena—what’s wrong?” Sara asked. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t. He never said a thing. Did you know?”
“Yes, but only because we know his parents. Perhaps he simply assumed that you knew.”
“Of course I didn’t. He never talked about his life in America. And when he did, it was ordinary stories. The food you eat at Thanksgiving, how he misses going to baseball games—that sort of thing.”
“Don’t be too upset with him,” Sara advised. “After all, nearly everyone here has some kind of story. Even you. Has anyone ever questioned your decision to live as Miss Parr and not as Lady Helena?”
“No, but it’s just so surprising. If his family is that wealthy, why does he live like a church mouse?”
“Because he lives on his salary from the paper,” Sara answered. “He hasn’t accepted anything from his family for years.”
Helena felt dizzy, as if she’d just imbibed an entire pitcher full of champagne cocktails, and her heart was pounding with something that felt very much like fear. Sam had seemed so different, so free of all the smothering constraints and expectations that had shaped so much of her life, and to discover that he, too, was part of that world was almost more than she could bear.
It would have been so easy for him to tell her the truth. The night they’d been caught in the r
ain, for instance, she had asked about his family, and he’d said he didn’t wish to talk about his life in America. He had told her nothing—yet she, like a fool, had gone ahead and blithely emptied her heart and soul into his hands. She had told him everything, and he had responded with prevarication, half-truths, and silence.
A comforting hand touched her shoulder. “The men will be waiting for us,” Amalia said. “Do you want to go home? Or are you fine to go back to the table?”
“We should go back to the table. I’ll be fine,” she fibbed, not wanting her sister to worry.
“Good for you,” said Sara. “And remember that Sam hasn’t changed. He’s the same man he’s always been.”
“I know. It’s simply a great deal to take in. That’s all.”
She stood, her legs a little shaky, and Amalia rushed over to embrace her. “Save your thinking for later. Now is the time for cocktails and jazz music and dancing.”
Back at the table, Helena pushed aside her soda water and gulped down two champagne cocktails in quick succession. They proved very efficacious at redirecting her attention, and so when Sam got up to leave not a half hour later, explaining that he had to return to his office, she managed to say good night without drawing any undue attention to herself.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Étienne suggested they move on to a dance hall in Pigalle, which prompted Sara and Gerald to say a reluctant good night. “We’ve a long drive home to St.-Cloud tonight, and neither of us is an enthusiastic dancer,” Sara explained. “It was so lovely to see you again, Amalia.”
The dance hall was perfect: just seedy enough to feel exciting rather than dangerous, and so crowded that it didn’t matter at all if one knew the steps to the dances being played at a blistering pace by its band. Étienne bought them a round of absinthe, which Helena was fairly certain had been illegal for some time, and she drank down her glassful as speedily as she dared. It tasted almost exactly like the licorice sweets she’d loved as a child, though less sweet, and if she hadn’t been wary of its alleged hallucinogenic effects she’d have had another.
Moonlight Over Paris Page 19
