Moonlight Over Paris

by Jennifer Robson

  So she walked up and down the decks and stretched out on a steamer chair and let the wind rush through her hair, and at night she stood by her window and stared at the dome of stars that silvered the endless velvet sky. When her attention wavered from the work at hand, she pulled out a smaller sketchbook, and she tried to recapture the moments of joy, fear, laughter, and despair that had led her away and across the sea. She drew Sam, many times, and she drew her friends and Agnes and dear old Hamish, filling page after page with portraits of those she loved.

  Two days into the crossing, a telegram was delivered to her cabin.

  SAM STAYING HOWARD FAMILY HOME NYC TWO E SEVENTY-NINTH ST AT FIFTH AVE STOP WORKPLACE FOURTEEN WALL ST FIFTH FLOOR STOP HAVE CABLED DAISY STOP SHE WILL MEET YOU AFTER CUSTOMS STOP ETIENNE AND MATHILDE SEND THEIR BEST AS DO I STOP SARA

  Late on Sunday night, the call went up—New York had been sighted in the distance, hours earlier than expected, and she rushed to the promenade deck above and shivered in her too-thin coat as a faint glow on the far horizon grew bigger and clearer, and someone nearby explained that they were seeing the lights off Long Island, and then a little later it was New Jersey in the distance, and then, at last, the ship began inching to starboard and they crossed through a narrow passage and emerged into an immense harbor.

  Everyone rushed to the other side of the deck then, so they might see the great statue at close range, her torch lighting up the sky, but Helena stayed where she was. She was captivated by the sight of New York City ablaze with electric lights, and her artist’s eye was fixed upon the strange modern skyline and its reaching towers, far higher than any buildings she’d seen in London or Paris.

  The ship went straight to the piers on the Hudson River, on the west side of Manhattan, and by midnight they were neatly berthed—but no one could disembark until the following morning at eight o’clock, when the customs offices at the piers would be open and the SS Minnewaska’s passengers might be legally admitted to the United States of America.

  It took an age for her to fall asleep, for she was terribly excited and a little nervous, too, but when she woke she felt rested and surprisingly calm. She was up and out of bed not long past dawn, and after a light breakfast of tea and toast with marmalade, which the steward delivered to her cabin, she dressed in her very best outfit: the pansy-purple Vionnet frock and coat she’d worn to Rose’s wedding.

  At eight o’clock she was one of only a handful of passengers making their way down the gangplank and across to the customs offices on the pier; the remainder, she assumed, were taking the chance to sleep in and have a proper breakfast in the dining room.

  The customs officer was polite but officious, and was at first concerned that her visa for entrance to the United States had been issued in Paris, though she had set sail from London. Fortunately he accepted her explanation that she had originally intended to travel from Le Havre but had been persuaded by her aunt that a direct journey from London would be more agreeable. It wasn’t an out-and-out lie, but it was certainly the first time she had ever been less than completely truthful with any sort of official.

  When the officer had asked to see all the funds she had with her, she’d at first feared that he meant to extort some or all of the money, but it turned out he only wished to ensure that she had sufficient capital to support herself without resorting to public funds or charitable assistance. Last of all he extracted a payment of eight dollars, what he called a “head tax,” which all foreigners had to pay upon entering the country.

  By the time she emerged from the customs shed at the end of the pier, there was a sizable crowd milling around, and though she craned her neck and looked every which way, there was no sign of Daisy. She was just beginning to worry when she heard her name being called—no, shouted.

  “Helena!!! Hellooooo! Helenaaaaa!”

  And there Daisy was, pushing through the crowds, hugging her close and all but pulling the both of them off balance in her excitement.

  “Come on—let’s get out of this crush. We’ll talk in the car. Give me one of those cases, won’t you?”

  As soon as they were seated and the driver had shut Helena’s luggage in the boot of the car, Daisy turned to her friend and asked, “Where do you want to start?”

  “It’s not even nine o’clock . . . perhaps at his parents’ house? Let me find the address again . . . here it is. Number two East Seventy-Ninth Street. Is that far?”

  “It’s a ways off, especially in rush-hour traffic. But it will give us a chance to talk. Tell me everything.”

  Helena shook her head. “You first. Why are you in New York?”

  “It’s complicated. I’m fine, honestly I am. There’ve been some sad days, but some good ones, too. I can’t concentrate on any of that right now, though—I want to know why Sam is here and you’re here. Sara’s cable didn’t say much.”

  “I suppose there wasn’t time for a letter. Right—here’s the potted version.” And Helena told her friend the entire story, not sparing herself in her description of the morning after the vernissage, when she had been so wrongheaded and closed-minded in her rejection of Sam.

  “Most of all I feel silly. Stupid, even. What was I thinking? I hurt him so badly, Daisy. I don’t know . . . I can’t be sure if he’ll forgive me.”

  “I understand. Truly I do. I’ve . . . well, I’ll tell you about it later. You’re doing the right thing, though.”

  “I hope so.”

  Helena looked out the window, her attention belatedly caught by the utterly unfamiliar streetscape. Everything seemed so new, so modern, and the streets were so wide and straight, and the buildings so terribly tall. There were far more cars than at home, the streets clogged with traffic and crowds of pedestrians, and everyone she saw looked so busy and determined, and she wondered if any of them longed to sit down over a café express or pot of tea and simply watch the world go by.

  The city felt so new, and not just new compared to London or Paris, but brand-new, so new its paint hadn’t yet dried, and newest of all, to her mind, were the skyscrapers. With the exception of the Eiffel Tower or the spires of various cathedrals, she was fairly certain she’d never before seen a structure that rose beyond eight or nine stories—but already they’d driven past dozens of buildings that reached ten, twenty, even thirty stories high.

  “All these skyscrapers . . . I had no idea. Which is the tallest?”

  “I think it’s still the Woolworth Building. It’s sixty stories high.”

  “Sixty stories. Just imagine standing on the top floor. The view must be tremendous.”

  They’d been traveling north on a wide avenue, a huge park to their left, and she’d long since lost count of all the streets they’d crossed. The buildings they passed weren’t as tall as they’d been farther to the south, but what they lacked in height they made up for in grandeur.

  The driver turned right and pulled over to the side of the street. “Here we are, Miss Fields.”

  The exterior of the Howard mansion was a masterpiece of French Gothic Revival architecture, with an intricately carved limestone façade that reminded her more than a little of Notre-Dame Cathedral. As they walked toward the main entrance, she half-expected to look up and see a gargoyle grinning down at her, and indeed there were any number of cheerful little creatures worked into the stone, among them a pair of putti supporting a copper lantern in the shape of Atlas and his globe.

  The door swung open at their approach, and as they stepped inside they were greeted by a butler who had clearly been imported directly from England, complete with cut-glass accent and pristine white gloves.

  “Good morning. May I help you?”

  If ever there were a time to drag out her title, this was it. “Good morning. My name is Lady Helena Montagu-Douglas-Parr, and this is my friend, Miss Dorothy Fields. We are friends of Mr. Howard’s, Mr. Samuel Howard, that is, and we were hoping to pay him a visit.”

  If the butler was surprised at the effrontery of two young ladies call
ing for the son of the house at nine in the morning, he was too well trained to betray it. “I am afraid that no one is at home, your ladyship. Mr. and Mrs. Howard are occupied with various engagements today, and Mr. Samuel Howard is at his offices on Wall Street. Would you care to leave a card?”

  “I, ah . . . I . . .” she stammered. “If I could—”

  “We would, thank you,” said a voice over her shoulder. “Here you are. There’s a note for Mr. Howard on the card. I would be most grateful if you could ensure he sees it.”

  “Of course, madame.”

  There was nothing for it but to return to the car. “If only we’d known,” Daisy sighed, nearly as frustrated as Helena. “Wall Street isn’t all that far from the piers. Oh well—it won’t be long now.”

  Daisy instructed the driver to head south again, and eventually the car turned left, then right, and they were on a street called Broadway, still heading south.

  “We just passed City Hall,” Daisy said presently. “We’re nearly there.”

  The car turned onto Wall Street a few minutes later, and again the driver promised to wait. Number fourteen was a grand building, so tall Helena couldn’t quite see the top, and its foyer was nearly as striking, with marble on the floors and walls, and a bank of elevators with brass so highly polished she could see her reflection in their doors.

  The reception area of Howard Steel was exactly as Helena had expected: plushly carpeted, baronially paneled, and as quiet as a pharaoh’s tomb. Its overseer, an immaculately dressed woman in her forties, was seated at a modest desk and at first did not appear to have noticed their arrival.

  “Good morning,” Helena ventured.

  The woman looked up from the papers she was organizing and offered a crisp “good morning” but no more.

  “My name is Lady Helena Montagu-Douglas-Parr, and I’m a friend of Mr. Howard’s from Paris. I called on him at home earlier, but was told he was at the office today. I, ah . . .”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. I only just arrived—”

  “Mr. Howard is in meetings all day. I can’t possibly interrupt him.”

  “But I’ve come so far . . .” Helena offered, knowing it sounded pathetic but bereft of anything better to say.

  “Yes. I imagine you have.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Daisy interjected. “Here’s my card. Lady Helena and I are at the Plaza. I’m sure you can contrive to put this in his hands the next time you see him. Come on, Helena.”

  They scurried back to the elevators, and by the time they were on solid ground again Helena’s confidence of that morning had evaporated entirely.

  “I had no idea it would be so difficult to see him,” she said as they got into Daisy’s car yet again.

  “Everything is different now. He’s the heir to Howard Steel. Imagine what sort of people that brings out of the woodwork.”

  “What should we do next?”

  “Let’s go to my hotel. The Plaza isn’t much more than a mile away from the Howard mansion. We’ll have a late breakfast, since I have a feeling you haven’t eaten a thing so far today, and we’ll make plans. He may be at the office all day, but he’s got to go home at some point. If worst comes to worst, we’ll sit in the car outside his house and wait for him.”

  The latter part of Daisy’s plan seemed rather desperate, but what else could she do? And she was feeling quite hungry. Once she’d eaten, and had a chance to think, she would probably feel better. If only she could be sure of getting a decent cup of tea.

  The Plaza hotel was terribly grand, the sort of place that she was certain Agnes would adore, and Daisy’s suite of rooms was positively baroque in its splendor.

  “Make yourself at home—there’s a second bedroom I haven’t even looked at, so you must stay. Do you want to eat in the restaurant, or would you rather have our breakfast sent up?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to eat here. That way I can kick off my shoes and relax.”

  With breakfast ordered, they both collapsed onto the sitting room sofa, and after a moment’s silence, Daisy began to laugh and Helena, unable to resist her friend’s infectious giggles, joined in.

  “Who would have thought chasing down my one true love would be so difficult? I mean, the woman at his office was awful. She looked at your card as if it were made out of loo paper!”

  “Let’s just hope she didn’t flush it down the nearest lavatory. I wouldn’t put it past—”

  A loud knock sounded at the door, startling them out of their laughter.

  “My goodness,” said Helena. “The kitchen here is efficient.”

  “It can’t be our food. I just put down the telephone. They’re good, but not that good.”

  The knock sounded again.

  “Hello?” Daisy called out. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Sam Howard, Miss Fields. I’m looking for Ellie.”

  Chapter 31

  It was Sam. Somehow he had learned she was here and he had come for her. If he were done with her, he wouldn’t have come, would he? It would have been so much easier just to—

  “Helena! What do you want me to do?” Daisy hissed.

  Helena stood, smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from her frock, and nodded. Daisy opened the door.

  It was Sam, wearing a ridiculously formal pinstriped suit, which she didn’t care for at all, and his hair was cut short and smoothed down and he wasn’t the man she remembered but was still, all the same, the man she loved.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Daisy whispered, “I’ll be in the Palm Court downstairs.”

  The door closed behind her. They were alone.

  He took one step forward, then another. He was still so far away, but she hadn’t the courage to cross the room and finish her journey.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said.

  “How did you . . . ?”

  “Miss Thorpe, at my office—was she rude to you?”

  “Not precisely. I suspect I’m not the first young woman to try to talk her way in to see you.”

  “Yes, unfortunately. You must have made an impression on her, though, because she gave me this.” He held out Daisy’s card, and Helena stepped forward, just to the length their outstretched arms could reach, and took it.

  She’s here, her friend had written.

  “Will you sit down? Have something to drink?”

  “Not just yet. I need to explain.”

  “So do I.”

  “I wasn’t honest with you. Not completely. I didn’t lie, but I left a lot out.”

  “Go on,” she said, suddenly apprehensive.

  “I made my parents a promise when I left, just as you had done with your family. I promised that I would return in five years. In fact, I all but swore an oath on the family Bible. Father wanted to retire long ago, but he gave me those years, and I didn’t feel I could refuse him. There was no one else, after all.”

  He began to pace back and forth, fretful as a zoo-bound tiger, pausing only to loosen his tie and unbutton his high, starched collar. “I knew the day was coming. I only had six months left. And then I had a letter from Mother. She said Father’s health was failing. That he needed to retire for the sake of his health. When I came to your aunt’s the morning after your vernissage it was to tell you everything. I was going to explain why I had to return home. But then we quarreled, and I was so angry I more or less packed my bags and left.”

  “You were that upset with me?”

  “Only at first. I was about halfway across the Atlantic when I came to my senses. I actually sent you a cable from the ship, but you must have left Paris by then.”

  “I thought you had left without saying good-bye,” she said, her throat clogging with sudden tears.

  “The thing is, Ellie, you were right about everything. I had been living in fear, and it was time I faced up to it. I had no right to criticize you, none at all, because you are the most courageous person I know.”

  “So you’
ve come back to take over Howard Steel?”

  “No,” he said flatly.

  She went to the sofa and sat down. It was that or crumple slowly to the floor. “I don’t understand. I thought you came home to take over from your father.”

  “When I left Paris, that’s what I planned to do. But that lasted for less than a week. By the time I arrived, I knew I couldn’t do it. Not even for my parents could I do it. That’s the first thing I told them.”

  “How did they react?”

  “They were disappointed, of course, but then I explained everything. I think they understand now.”

  The effort to make sense of Sam’s revelations was very nearly making her dizzy. “If you aren’t taking over, who is?”

  “No one. A buyer approached my father a while back, and we’ve agreed to sell the company to him. Nearly all the proceeds will go to a charitable trust that my parents will manage. Eventually I’ll take over, but only to disburse the funds to charity.

  “You need to know that I’m walking away from the money. There will be some set aside for my children, but nothing like my father’s millions. That’s one of the things I’ve been struggling with all this time. What to do about all that money.”

  “It must be a relief,” she said. “If only because rich men rarely make great writers. Or great artists, for that matter.”

  He swayed on his feet, and only then did she see how pale he was, and how dark the shadows were under his eyes. “I haven’t been sleeping all that well,” he admitted. “Perhaps I should—”

  She reached out and grasped his hand, and then she pulled him closer until he was seated next to her on the sofa.

  “Now it’s my turn,” she began, her heart so full she could scarcely speak. “I came to America to tell you that I was wrong. You are brave and I am proud of you. And you need to know that I love you. I lied to you in January, when I said I was content with being your friend. I want that, yes, but I want more, too.”