“I must go,” she told her friends. “There’s someone I must see. Thank you for everything.” She kissed them good-bye, and then ran from the Salon without a backward glance.
She had to tell him. She had to apologize and let Sam know that she had found her way—and so could he.
SHE HAD SENT Vincent home earlier, but rather than take the Métro now, she jumped in a waiting taxi and asked the driver to take her to the Hôtel de Lisbonne. There was a good chance that Sam would still be home at that time of day, and if he weren’t she would simply take another taxi to his office.
No one challenged her as she walked through the hotel’s modest lobby and started up the stairs, her heart hammering in her chest, her hands clammy with nerves. She knocked on Sam’s door, lightly at first, and then harder when there was no reply.
“It’s Ellie. Please open the door if you’re there. I have to talk to you.”
A door opened down the hall, and a man poked his head out just far enough to stare at her. She recognized him—he was one of the other deskmen at the newspaper, though she couldn’t recall his name.
“Hello. I’m sorry for the noise,” she said.
“You looking for Howard?”
“Yes. I had hoped—”
“He’s gone. Moved out this morning.”
Gone. Moved out.
“But he wasn’t supposed to leave until next week,” she said, her hand clutching at the door frame.
“Left this morning. Sorry about that.”
She walked home in a daze, not even noticing when the sky grew dark and it began to rain. She was soaked through by the time she stumbled up the front steps of her aunt’s house, and though she tried to be quiet as she crept along the front hall and toward the stairs it was no use, for her aunt burst out of the petit salon when Helena was only on the second step.
“Helena, my dear, where have you been? And why were you walking in the rain?”
She allowed Agnes to pull her into the petit salon, where she was wrapped in warm towels and given a cup of tea and allowed to collect herself. She had just swallowed the last of the tea when she noticed the newspaper clipping on the table beside her.
“It was in the paper today,” Agnes said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”
The Tribune’s Samuel Taylor Howard is departing these shores for the United States. Mr. Howard is leaving his chosen profession behind, much to the disappointment of his fellows here in Paris, with the intention of joining his father, Andrew Clement Howard III, in the management of their family’s business concerns in America and abroad. He is sailing from Le Havre on the SS Paris and upon arrival in New York City is expected to immediately take up his position with the Howard Steel Company.
She let go of the clipping and watched it flutter to the floor. “I knew. He told me. But he wasn’t meant to leave until next week. I thought . . . I thought I’d have a chance to say good-bye.”
Tears rose in her eyes again, and with them came quiet, anguished sobs that left her drained and spent and nearly without hope. Agnes hugged her close and let her weep, and it was a long while before she was able to speak again.
“I was so unkind to him. I said . . . oh, I said such awful things, and now he’s gone, and I think it might be my fault . . .”
“How so?” her aunt asked.
“He was upset with me, because he thought I was giving up on my dream of becoming an artist, and of course he was right. But I lashed out at him, and I said some very cruel things. I told him . . . oh, Auntie A. I told him he should go back to America. That he belonged there.”
“What on earth possessed you to be so unkind?”
“I don’t know. I was hurt, and so angry, and the words just burst out of me. And the worst part is that I was wrong. He had been trying to escape, just as I’ve been trying. All along, he was trying to break free. And he was so close. If only I’d been a better friend, he’d have seen it. He’d have seen it was possible.”
“Then be his friend now. Tell him what you just told me.”
“I suppose I could write to him. Sara might know his address in New York.”
“No,” Agnes said decisively. “No, a letter won’t do. You need to go to him.”
“What? Go to America? I can’t. It’s too . . . it’s too far, for a start. And we’ve the wedding this Thursday.”
“Then you can leave the next morning. You’ll still arrive in America only a few days after he does.”
“What if he refuses to see me? He left without telling me, or saying good-bye. Surely that means—”
“How can you know what any of this means if you don’t go to him and find out? Now get started on packing your things, and I’ll take care of everything else.”
Chapter 29
Belgravia, London
30 April 1925
One thing hadn’t changed in the year since Helena had left London: the way she was treated by genteel society. Throughout the course of her niece’s wedding day, she had been subjected to the same whispers, stares, cold shoulders, and knowing sideways glances that had blighted her life for so long.
She had expected it, steeled herself against it, and then, quite to her astonishment, had discovered that none of it hurt, not anymore. Once, such petty cruelties had defined her life. No more. Now, she realized, she truly didn’t care.
It helped that she was dressed to the nines, or, as Mathilde would say, to the trente et un. Agnes had surprised her that morning with a new Vionnet frock and matching coat, which she’d had made from Helena’s measurements after their visit in December. The outfit, made of silk chiffon and wool crepe the exact color of purple pansies, was exactly right for the occasion. With it she wore a matching cloche hat in finely pleated organdy, and a long rope of her aunt’s biggest pearls, and she felt—she knew—she was the best-dressed woman there, with the possible exception of Agnes herself.
Of course Helena had expected it would be difficult to be thrown back into the same social circles that had once been so uncongenial to her, and of course she had known it would be hard to see Edward and his family for the first time in years. What she hadn’t anticipated was how anxious she would feel over the fate of her niece, or how disenchanted she would be with the ceremony and attendant traditions, all of which felt like they belonged to an earlier age.
The expensive bridal gown from Paris had looked all wrong on Rose, its heavy satin far too overwhelming for her slight frame, while the family veil of Honiton lace, anchored by a diamond bandeau worn low over her forehead, had given her the appearance of a little girl playing dress-up.
That was the problem—she was a girl, only just eighteen, and the same age Helena had been when her engagement to Edward had been announced. If not for the timely intervention of the war, she would have shared her niece’s fate of marriage to a near stranger and a lifetime of being bullied by a Gorgon of a mother-in-law.
The groom was Edward’s brother, George, who had been a gangly adolescent the last time Helena had met him but was now a rather awkward and red-faced man in his mid-twenties. He was a barrister, which presumably meant he had some brains between his ears, and he did seem fond of Rose, which was a good sign. Helena feared her niece would bore her new husband silly, but perhaps, as neither knew to expect anything more, they might contrive to be happy. It was a lowering way to look at it, but truthful enough.
The ceremony and reception were exactly the same as every other wedding she’d ever attended, featuring the same readings, the same music, and the same homily from the same chinless vicar who had been at St. Peter’s Eaton Square for donkey’s years. The breakfast afterward had gone on for far too long, with interminable and very dull speeches, and ostentatiously prepared food that had left her hungry for the unpretentious fare of Chez Rosalie.
If Amalia had been there, it would have been ever so much easier, but Peter was ill with a painful case of shingles and her sister had stayed behind at their country house to care for him. That was why, as soon as the wedding breakf
ast had finished, Helena had slipped out into the garden for some time to herself. But she’d been followed.
“May I join you?”
Looking up, she saw the man she hadn’t been alone with since the day they had ended their engagement. Edward.
“Please do,” she said, and she moved aside to make room for him on the wrought-iron bench. “How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you. Happy to be away from prying eyes. I hoped we might have a chance to speak, but I didn’t want to set tongues wagging.”
“Nor did I.”
“I gather you were very ill last year. I’m relieved to see you looking so well.”
“Am I?” she asked, and for a terrible moment she thought she might cry. They had been engaged for five years, but for all that he was nearly a stranger to her. “I’m sorry,” she went on. “It’s only that I’m rather tired. My aunt and I just arrived from Paris yesterday.”
“Of course. You’ve been at art school.”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad to hear it. You were so talented. I ought to have tried to encourage you more, but I was a selfish idiot. Couldn’t see past the nose on my face.”
It was true, but he’d had other worries, too. It would be unfair of her to fault him on it now. “How is Lady Cumberland?” she asked instead.
“Do call her Charlotte. She detests the title. For obvious reasons. My mother, you know . . .”
“Of course. How is Charlotte, then?”
“Very well. Busy with her work, and the children, too.”
“How old are they?”
“Laurence is four, and Eleanor is two and a half. We didn’t bring them to the service, but you might have seen them running around before breakfast.”
“I did. I thought they were very sweet.” Laurence, she recalled, was a serious little boy, with dark hair and a quiet manner. His sister seemed his opposite, with fair hair and an engaging and rather precocious way about her.
“There was another child,” she said, remembering. “A little girl with ginger hair. Is she Lilly’s?”
“Yes. Her name is Charlotte, which never fails to delight me. She’s just two now, and soon to have a sister or brother, as you may have noticed.”
“Lilly seems very content.”
“She is, yes. She and Robbie earned their happiness. But then, haven’t we all?”
They were silent for a moment, and then they both started to talk at once, their words tangling together.
“No,” she said. “You go first.”
“I didn’t know,” he began, and he met her gaze unflinchingly. “The gossip, that is. The things people said after I broke our engagement. I was in . . . well, I was in a state, to be honest. I was pickled with drink and out of my mind with pain and self-pity, and I did a pretty good job of ignoring the world around me. I only realized what had happened months later, when Lilly told me.”
“Oh,” she said, not knowing how else to respond. She’d never expected him to do anything, of course, but it did help to know he was sorry for it.
“I wasn’t sure what to do. I worried it would stir up bad memories if I wrote to you, or approached you in any way, and so I said nothing. For that I am truly sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault. You did your best, and we both survived. You mustn’t feel guilty. I don’t blame you, or Charlotte, for any of it. Not one bit. Not least because you’d have made me very unhappy, and I you.”
“I hope . . . I do hope you’ve been happy,” he said. “In spite of things.”
“I have been, especially this past year. I was very happy in Paris.”
It was true. She had been happy there, really and truly content. She’d had work that sustained her, friends that understood her, and at the heart of it all had been Sam.
THE RECEPTION HAD ended, and Helena and her aunt were the sole passengers in an enormous automobile, driven by Vincent, that was conveying them back to her parents’ house.
“Are you ready? Are your bags packed? We need to get you on your way.”
“I’m ready, but I must speak to Mama and Papa before I go. I wanted to earlier, but there wasn’t time.”
Helena found her parents in the sitting room that connected their respective bedchambers. “May I come in?”
“Yes, do,” her mother answered. “Come and sit next to me. I thought you looked very well today. Didn’t she, John?”
“Yes, dear. Very well.”
“Thank you. I have something to tell you,” Helena began. “It’s actually several things.” Her parents exchanged apprehensive glances, but didn’t interrupt.
“First of all, I’m not certain when I will return to London, or even if I will return at all. I love you dearly, and I will miss you, but I have been very happy in Paris and I wish to return there.
“Before that, however, I am going to America. I’ve, well, I’ve fallen in love with an American man, a friend of mine from Paris, but I made a mistake, and I let him leave without telling him, and—”
“Is this the American that Amalia met? The steel baron’s heir?”
“It is, although that has nothing to do with—”
“Are you going alone? Without any sort of chaperone?”
“Yes, Mama.”
Her mother swallowed, pressed her lips together, and then nodded. “If that is what you wish.”
“Papa?”
“Is he a decent sort of man?”
“He is the very best sort of man, Papa. I promise.”
“Then I suppose you must go.”
“Thank you. Agnes knows Mr. Howard very well, and she can certainly put your minds at ease. I’ll cable as soon as I arrive. Farewell for now.”
Helena rushed upstairs and in the space of fifteen minutes changed out of her lovely frock and coat and packed away the last of her things. Agnes returned just as she was finishing, and with the help of Farrow the footman they carried her two suitcases downstairs, where Vincent was waiting with the same car that had brought them back from the reception.
“To Trafalgar Square,” Agnes commanded as soon as they were settled in the car.
“Shouldn’t we be going to Waterloo Station? That’s where the trains for Southampton depart.”
“Your ship isn’t sailing from Southampton. It’s at the docks here in London. We’re going to the steamship line’s offices first, to collect your ticket, and then to the ship.”
When they arrived at the office Helena was appalled to learn that Agnes had already reserved and paid for the best available cabin, which cost the astonishing sum of £85 for a one-way fare. According to the ticketing clerk, it was a new ship, less than two years old, and offered only first-class cabins. “Your ladyship will be very comfortable on the voyage over,” he promised.
“When does the ship arrive in New York?”
“First thing next Friday morning, ma’am.”
She turned to Agnes, aghast. “Eight days? As long as that?”
“The express ships say they’ll get you there in six,” the clerk ventured, “but often as not they run into mechanical problems along the way. Our ships aren’t as fast, but they’re steady.”
From Cockspur Street they set off at some speed for the docks in the east end, Vincent weaving through the late afternoon traffic at speeds that left her feeling rather ill. To Helena’s great relief, her ship was still at the docks when they drew close, and looked to be nowhere near ready for departure.
“Good-bye, Auntie—”
“Not so fast, my dear. Here is some money for the voyage. It’s pounds, I’m afraid, but you can buy some dollars from the ship’s purser.”
“Two hundred pounds? I can’t, Auntie A. It’s too much.”
“Nonsense. I should be very anxious if you left home with a penny less.”
It suddenly occurred to her that she had no notion of how to find Sam once she got to New York. “I don’t know Sam’s address. What shall I do?”
But nothing could faze her aunt, it seemed. “I’ll cab
le Sara and ask her to find out. The ship is sure to have a telegraph office on board—we’ll get his direction to you, never fear. Now off you go, and bon voyage!”
Chapter 30
The SS Minnewaska slipped her berth and headed down the Thames and out to sea at five o’clock that evening, and though many of her passengers gathered on the promenade deck to wave farewell to England and any well-wishers remaining onshore, Helena lingered in her cabin. She would venture out when the bell rang for supper, but until then she was content to be alone.
Her £85 worth of cabin was very pleasant, though far less luxurious than the first-class compartment she’d occupied on the Blue Train to Antibes the year before. It was about eight feet deep and about the same across, with good-sized windows on its exterior wall that ensured it would be bright as long as the weather held fine. It felt more like a sitting room than a ship’s cabin, with parquet floors, chintz curtains, and a Sheraton-style desk and chair. There were two bunks, although only one had been made up, and a shallow wardrobe with hooks rather than a rail. Best of all, her cabin had its own bathroom, with a tub, sink, and WC.
No sooner had she unpacked her bags and settled in than the bell rang for the first seating at supper. She made her way to the dining room two decks below, a little hesitantly as she was still finding her sea legs, and was dismayed when one of the stewards led her to the captain’s table. It would have been far nicer to dine with a smaller and less toplofty group, but her name and title had been noted, and her place would be at the captain’s right hand for the remainder of the voyage.
Captain McKay and his senior officers were perfectly pleasant men, as were the other diners at her table, but the conversation was so staid and predictable that she all but fell asleep before the second course. There was no way around it, apart from claiming mal de mer and hiding in her cabin, and since she was a poor sailor to begin with there was every chance of her ending up confined to bed as soon as they hit rough water. She had better make the best of it while she still felt able to enjoy her food, if not the company at table.
When packing in London, she’d had the presence of mind to include paper, charcoal, and pastels, and for the first few days she busied herself with views of the ship and its fittings, mindful of Maître Czerny’s advice. In order to win commissions as a commercial artist, she would have to build up a portfolio of work on related themes, and where better to begin than on a first-class voyage across the Atlantic?
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