Moonlight Over Paris

by Jennifer Robson

  “Thank God for that. Because I love you, too, and I do want more from you. I’m not prepared to settle for less. Not anymore.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch infinitely gentle and reassuring. “I’ve a very important question to ask you now. What’s your middle name?”

  “I’ve several,” she said, a little puzzled by his request. “I’m Helena Mary Angela et cetera et cetera.”

  “Right, then.” He pulled a small, square box from his coat pocket, and, dropping to his knees before her, opened the lid and held it out. Inside was an old-fashioned diamond ring, the oval central stone surrounded by sapphire petals set in gold.

  “Helena Mary Angela et cetera et cetera, will you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”

  “I will,” she said, her heart suddenly so full that it hurt to breathe.

  She held out her left hand, so he might fit the ring on her finger, and with her right hand she pinched her leg, hard, just to make sure her imagination wasn’t playing tricks on her.

  “It’s my grandmother’s ring. I confessed everything to my parents at dinner yesterday. This morning, Mother came to see me at work. She said she couldn’t stand to see me so unhappy, and she all but ordered me to return to Paris and sort things out with you. And she gave me the ring.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  “Do you want to have the wedding back in England with your family?”

  “Not especially,” she said, thinking back to Rose’s uninspiring nuptials. “Perhaps we could have something quiet, here in New York, and then have a party in Paris with all our friends?”

  He answered her with a kiss. It began as a delicate and respectful gesture, one that was perfectly suited to the emotion and solemnity of the moment, but Helena was done with chaste and tender kisses from the man she loved. She contrived to open her mouth a fraction, just enough that she might touch her tongue to his lips, and that was enough to push him over the edge. An instant later he was sitting on the sofa, she was astride his lap, and he was kissing her so passionately that she thought she might actually swoon, although she hadn’t worn a corset in years and had always been a levelheaded sort of person.

  Sam pulled away first, gasping for breath as he set his chin on top of her head and pulled her tight against his chest. “God, Ellie. You’re going to kill me. Let’s see about getting a marriage license first.”

  “Slave to convention. That’s what you are.”

  “I’m afraid of your aunt Agnes, that’s what I am.”

  “She lived in sin with Dimitri for years, so I doubt—”

  “Don’t tempt me. That reminds me. We need to visit my parents, or my mother will have my head.”

  “Will they be upset with me? For taking you away from Howard Steel, and back to Europe?”

  “No. They know it was my decision alone. Besides, there’s no reason they can’t travel now that my father is retiring. Mother’s always wanted to do the Grand Tour.”

  It occurred to her that, with the Howard millions dispersed, Sam would need to work for a living. “Do you think the Tribune will give you your old job back?”

  “I don’t need it. I’ve had an offer from John Ellis, the editor of the Liverpool Herald. He’s asked me to be the paper’s European correspondent. The pay is better than at the Tribune, and we can live in Paris or London—whichever you prefer.”

  “Definitely Paris.”

  “I’ll have to travel a lot, but I thought you could come with me, at least some of the time.”

  “That ties in perfectly with my new profession.”

  “Your new . . . ?” he asked, mystified.

  “Not entirely new. I spoke with Maître Czerny the day after the vernissage—no, don’t make that face. Étienne and Mathilde and I smuggled in my other painting—Le train bleu, the one I’d been nervous about—and he saw it, and liked it. He told me I should consider becoming a commercial artist, designing travel posters or book jackets or things like that.”

  She wriggled off his lap and reached for her bag, which she’d left propped on the floor at the end of the sofa. In it was the portfolio of drawings she’d created on the voyage to America. He leafed through them slowly, his face a picture of delight and admiration.

  “These are wonderful—although, to be honest, I love all your work.”

  “Thank you. I’m still . . . I mean, I lost my nerve, and I haven’t quite got it back yet. But I’ve got to try, no matter what.”

  “That’s the spirit. I wouldn’t have been offered the job at the Herald if it weren’t for you. You were the one who encouraged me to focus on my writing, and it was the series I wrote on the Anglo-French accord—remember how long I worked on those articles?—that got me the job. I sent them to Mr. Ellis, just to show him the sort of work I was doing, and he liked them so much he offered me a job with his paper.”

  “Have I said before that I am terribly proud of you?”

  “Not in so many words, but I’m glad to hear it. Now, are we ready to go? Do you have everything you need?”

  “I think so—oh, no! I forgot about Daisy!”

  “Why don’t we join her downstairs?” he asked. “They can’t serve us champagne, but we could have some tea.”

  “And toast the end of my year in Paris?”

  “That, and the beginning of many more.”

  Epilogue

  October, 1925

  Paris, France

  It was the night of Étienne’s vernissage at the Galérie Bellamy, and if Sam didn’t return home very soon they would be late. He’d been out all afternoon, busy with various errands, and Helena was beginning to worry that he’d lost track of time.

  They had been married in America at the beginning of June, in the drawing room of his parents’ cottage in Connecticut, though she still found it odd to call a house with forty rooms a cottage. Daisy had been her maid of honor, while Sam had asked his father to be his witness. They’d returned to Europe via London, where they’d celebrated quietly with her parents and sisters, and had been settled in Paris by the middle of July.

  They’d found a small flat on the rue Vavin, just off the boulevard Raspail, and after digging through Agnes’s attics and scouring every brocante market in the central arrondissements they had managed to furnish it; for decoration they’d hung its walls with paintings by Helena and her friends.

  Of course Agnes had insisted on throwing a grand party for them, stuffing her home full of friends, acquaintances, and random fixtures of Parisian salon life. Of the guests, the only ones she could truly count as friends were Sara and Gerald Murphy. It had been great fun, but Helena had far preferred the much smaller gathering that Mathilde and Étienne had hosted a week later.

  The weeks and months since then had flown by, for Sam had been busy settling into his position at the Herald and already he had traveled twice to Germany in connection with various stories he was pursuing.

  Helena had been much occupied with her first commissions as a commercial artist, for Maître Czerny had kept his word and recommended her work to several art directors he knew. Already she had completed a poster for the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits, was working on a brochure for Thomas Cook, and was waiting to hear if she’d won the commission for a series of book jackets for the Clarendon Press in Oxford.

  Just then she heard the scrape of a key in the lock, the sound of bags being deposited on the table, and before she could blink her husband was at the door of their bedroom.

  “Hello there,” he said, and his grin had something of the Cheshire cat about it.

  “Hello,” she replied, and hurried over to kiss him. “If you hurry, you’ve just enough time for a bath before we leave.”

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “I am,” she said, stepping back so he might admire her frock. She knew he would approve, for she was wearing the golden gown he loved so much.

  “Put on your coat. There’s something I need to show you.”

  “Now? You have to show
me now? What about Étienne’s vernissage?”

  “We won’t be late. I promise. Come on, now.”

  He led her downstairs and outside, but rather than flag down a taxi he directed them to the Métro stop around the corner.

  “But this train will take us in the wrong direction,” she protested.

  “Humor me, won’t you?”

  He paid their fares and led them down another set of stairs, to the westbound platform, and there, right at the bottom of the steps, he stopped.

  “Close your eyes. No, don’t ask me why—just do it. I’ve got your hand. It isn’t far, I promise. We’re almost there . . . almost there. Now stop, and open your eyes. What do you see?”

  “It’s my poster!”

  It was the commission she’d completed last month, a simplified version of Le train bleu. It really had turned out so well, the colors crisp and bright, the design dynamic and wonderfully modern. She’d worked on it for weeks and weeks, and the fee she’d received had amounted to very little, but none of that mattered now. Her work, her art, was hanging where it would be seen by tens of thousands of people.

  “I noticed it right away. It was all I could do not to rush up to the other people on the platform and tell them, ‘See that poster? My wife is the artist!’”

  Sam picked her up and swung her around in a circle, and before he set her down he kissed her soundly. “Tomorrow we’ll come back, and we’ll bring my camera, and I’ll take your picture in front of it. We’ll send copies to your parents and sisters, and to my parents, too—”

  “Yes, yes,” she laughed, “but first we have Étienne’s vernissage, and Auntie A is bringing an entire crate of champagne, and—”

  “I thought you’d sworn off champagne for good after the, ahem, incident,” he teased.

  She slapped at his arm, affecting a look of deep affront. “What happened to your promise to never mention that evening again? And I only plan on having a sip.”

  She would go to the party and admire her friend’s paintings and dance with her husband, and she would be as happy, in that moment, as she had ever been. And then, when the evening was done and they were walking home, she would raise her face to the silver glow of the moon. She would bathe in the moonlight falling so beautifully over Paris, and she would think of the girl who had so badly wanted to live, the girl who had simply wanted more, and she would thank her, then, for promises made and promises kept.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I would like to thank everyone who has embraced my books so enthusiastically. I am so fortunate to have such devoted readers, and I am deeply grateful to each and every one of you.

  In the course of researching this book, I relied upon the collections of a number of libraries and archives. I would specifically like to acknowledge the Archives of American Art (Anna Coleman Ladd papers), the Beineke Rare Book and Manuscript Library (Gerald and Sara Murphy papers), the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, the National Archives in the U.K., the New York Public Library, and the Toronto Public Library.

  I would also like to offer my thanks to those who were kind enough to help me with my research, either by answering my questions or by examining sections of my work-in-progress for errors. Susan Logan and John Barkley offered their observations on artistic techniques and the artist’s path; Jennifer Yates cast her professional translator’s eye over my French usage; Lori Barrett advised me on all things musical; and Erika Robuck provided invaluable suggestions regarding my characterization of several figures from the Lost Generation. Any inaccuracies or mistakes that remain are entirely my responsibility.

  To my literary agent, Kevan Lyon, and her colleagues at the Marsal Lyon Literary Agency, in particular Patricia Nelson, I once again extend my heartfelt thanks.

  Also deserving of my praise and gratitude is my editor, Amanda Bergeron, whose patience and understanding kept me writing even when I was convinced I had lost my way. I am also very grateful to Elle Keck in editorial, as well as my publicists Emily Homonoff, Lauren Jackson, and Miranda Snyder, together with Kim Therriault, for their ongoing support.

  I would like to thank everyone who supports me and my books at William Morrow, in particular Tom Pitoniak, Emin Mancheril, Mary Ann Petyak, Serena Wang, Molly Birckhead, Jennifer Hart, Samantha Hagerbaumer, and Carla Parker. The producers at HarperAudio have once again created a beautiful audiobook and I am most grateful for their hard work. I am also indebted to everyone at HarperCollins Canada, among them Leo MacDonald, Sandra Leef, Colleen Simpson, Cory Beatty, Shannon Parsons, and Kaitlyn Vincent. Last but very much not least, I want to thank all of the sales staff in the U.S., Canada and the international division for their efforts on my behalf.

  Closer to home, I’d like to thank the circle of friends whose love and support keeps me afloat: Ana, Clara, Denise, Erin, Irene, Jane D, Jane E, Jen, Kate H, Kelly F, Kelly W, Liz, Marissa, Mary, Michela, and Rena.

  My heartfelt thanks go out as well to my family in Canada and the U.K., most especially my father, Stuart Robson; my sister, Kate Robson; and my beautiful children, Matthew and Daniela.

  Most of all I want to thank my husband for his support, understanding, and love. And just so you know, Claudio—you are the hero of my story.

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . . *

  About the author

  * * *

  Meet Jennifer Robson

  About the book

  * * *

  Paris and the Lost Generation

  Glossary of Terms and Places in Moonlight Over Paris

  Reading Group Questions

  Read on

  * * *

  Further Reading

  About the author

  Meet Jennifer Robson

  JENNIFER ROBSON is the USA Today and #1 Globe & Mail bestselling author of Somewhere in France and After the War Is Over. She first learned about the Great War from her father, acclaimed historian Stuart Robson. In her late teens, she worked as an official guide at the Canadian National War Memorial at Vimy Ridge in France and had the honor of meeting a number of First World War veterans. After graduating from King’s College at the University of Western Ontario, she attended Saint Antony’s College, University of Oxford, where she earned a doctorate in British economic and social history. She was a Commonwealth Scholar and an SSHRC Doctoral Fellow while at Oxford. Jennifer lives in Toronto, Canada, with her husband and young children, and shares her home office with Sam the cat and Ellie the sheepdog.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  About the book

  Paris and the Lost Generation

  THE TERM “LOST GENERATION,” which has come to be attached to the group of writers and artists who came of age during or just after the First World War, was coined by Gertrude Stein, who overheard a garage owner bemoaning the laziness and lax work ethic of a young mechanic in his employ. The garage owner called the mechanic and his contemporaries “une génération perdue,” and Stein, who knew the value of a bon mot as well as anyone, told Ernest Hemingway about the conversation. He used it as an epigraph in The Sun Also Rises, and many years later wrote about the phrase in his memoir, A Moveable Feast. It’s worth noting that he then added, “I thought that all generations were lost by something and always had been and always would be.”

  In the years following the end of the Great War, thousands of expatriate writers and artists were drawn to Paris, lured in part by the buying power of the American dollar: by the summer of 1925, for instance, one dollar equaled twenty French francs. A decent meal might be had for two francs, a room in a hotel might be let for 200 francs a month, and nearly everything else was correspondingly cheap if your pay or savings originated in dollars. For example, William L. Shirer, who later became known for his work with Edward R. Murrow, earned $60 a month for his work as a deskman at the European edition of the Chicago Tribune (he arrived in late 1925, so his tenure didn’t coincide with Sam’s fictional sojourn there).

  Shirer had just graduat
ed from college, and had spent all his life up to that point in the American Midwest. Although he had planned on returning to the United States after a short stay in Europe, he instead decided to remain indefinitely. The allure of Paris was simply impossible to resist. “In this golden time one could be wonderfully carefree in the beautiful, civilized city, released from all the puritan, bourgeois restraints that had stifled a young American at home,” he later wrote in his memoirs.

  It was possible not only to live well in Paris, but also to live relatively free of intolerance, small-minded attitudes, and old-fashioned conventions, and to do so surrounded by like-minded people. It was also the case that Paris, perhaps more so than at any other time, simply felt like the center of everything. The most interesting fiction, poetry, theater, music, dance, and art was being created in Paris, and if that wasn’t strictly true it at least felt true.

  You may have noticed that a number of notable literary and artistic figures who lived in Paris in this period make no appearance in this book, or are only mentioned in passing. Among them are Ezra Pound, John dos Passos, Ford Madox Ford, Cole Porter, T.S. Eliot, James Joyce, Pablo Picasso, George Gershwin, Igor Stravinsky, and Jean Cocteau, and they are absent either because they weren’t living in Paris in the period Moonlight Over Paris takes place, or because I couldn’t establish a plausible connection between them and my characters.

  The question of plausibility preoccupied me for many weeks when I first began to research this book. In the beginning, I wasn’t at all sure if I would include any real-life members of the Lost Generation as characters. How likely was it, I asked myself, that Helena would have encountered any of these people? I soon realized that her background and interests made it not only likely, but also very nearly inevitable.