Moonlight Over Paris (13 page)

“Then he was an idiot, for I look at you and I see only perfection,” Étienne said. “It would be a pleasant experience for you. I am certain of it.”

They were at her aunt's door. “May I think on it a little more?” she asked, still certain she would say no, but not wishing to upset or offend him, not after all they had shared.

“Of course. I shall kiss you good night now.” He deposited a chaste salute on her cheek. “
Fais des beaux rêves, ma belle
. And thank you.”

W
ith the beginning of December came winter, and rain, and afternoons so overhung with gloom that Helena could scarcely recall the feeling of sunshine on her face. Even in the studio, with its great bank of windows, the light was dull and gray, and most afternoons began with Étienne standing on a stool to hang lanterns from hooks in the ceiling beams. The lamp oil smelled awful, and the light from the lanterns was pretty feeble, but it was enough to keep them working until five o'clock most days.

Since natural light was so precious, Helena and her friends set to work as soon as they arrived after class, only breaking for coffee once the sun had set for good. They would sit around the stove, warming their hands with their cups, and talk of the work they'd done or the difficulties they were encountering with one piece or another, and in those few minutes she was as content as she'd ever been.

They ought not to have become friends, for they were as different as four people could be, and at another time, or in another place, they might instead have got on like chalk and cheese. Yet she looked forward to seeing them, enjoyed their
company, and trusted their opinions. In only three months, she'd forged a deeper bond with these three friends than she had with any of her acquaintances from London.

One Monday afternoon, Mathilde had just poured their coffees when Étienne held high his cup and shushed them all to silence. “I propose a toast. It is the first of December, which means we have survived three months at the Académie, and—”

“A record for you, is it not?” asked Mathilde, a rare smile animating her face.

“It is indeed. I only lasted at the École des Beaux-Arts for ten weeks. All the more reason to toast our three months of friendship and hard work.”

They tapped their cups together carefully, so as not to spill any of the scalding coffee.

“In five months we'll be done,” Helena mused. “What do we receive at the end of the course? I never thought to ask.”

“I've no idea,” said Étienne. “Likely a certificate of some sort. Useful for lining birdcages, but not much else.”

They laughed at this, which made him suggest other, even more vulgar uses for their Académie Czerny diplomas, and only when everyone had lapsed into a happy silence did Helena unburden herself.

“I have something to tell you,” she said.

“It isn't bad news, is it?” asked Daisy worriedly.

“Not at all. It's only . . . my aunt has issued another invitation. To all of you.”

“But that's marvelous,” said Étienne.

“I'm not so sure. She's holding a dinner party, and I think she's invited half of Paris. It will be a terrible crush.”

This didn't seem to faze him one bit. “All the better. When is it?”

“A little less than a fortnight, Saturday the thirteenth. Daisy—do you think your father will object?”

“I hope not. I'll see if I can ask someone to stay with him that evening. Just so he isn't lonely.”

“I suppose he'll make you bring Louisette.”

“He will, but she can sit in the kitchen with the chauffeurs. I won't let her spoil the party for me, or for any of you.”

Mathilde hadn't responded, not verbally at least, but her expression was strained. “Will it be difficult for you to get away?” Helena asked.

“No. It is only that I don't have anything to wear, not for a formal dinner party,” Mathilde said uncertainly. “Your aunt and her friends are sure to be, ah . . . I don't know the idiom in English.
Elles vont se mettre sur leur trente et un
. Étienne . . . ?”

“Dressed to the nines, I think.”

“Yes, I suppose they will,” Helena admitted. “But you're French. You could wear a burlap sack and still look chic.” She hesitated, not wishing to offend her in any way. “Would you allow me to lend you one of my frocks? As one friend to another? As sisters do?”

After an everlasting pause Mathilde nodded, a little awkwardly, and smiled shyly at Helena. “If you truly do not mind, I would be most grateful.”

They said their good-byes soon after, and as the evening was cold Helena took the tram most of the way home. Hamish wasn't at the door when she arrived, however, which was unusual enough to warrant an immediate search. She found him with her aunt, who was once again abed with a headache.

“You ought to see a doctor, Auntie A. This is your third headache in less than a week.”

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” Agnes insisted. “I only needed to rest my eyes. Now, tell me, what did your friends say?”

“They're all coming.” The answering smile on her aunt's face made Helena regret her earlier irritation over the party. Agnes could be overwhelming at times, but she was very easy to please.

“And Sam?”

“I don't know. I'm hoping to see him on Saturday, so I thought I'd ask then.”

“Heavens, no. What if he's asked to go away and write some story for his paper? No, you must ask him tonight. Send him a
petit bleu
.”

“If you insist. But I—”

“Ooh—I almost forgot to tell you. I've made an appointment for us at Maison Vionnet tomorrow afternoon. It's at four o'clock, so I'll have Vincent collect you directly from the Académie.”

“Vionnet? But that's one of the couture houses. Their clothes cost a
fortune
. I can't, Auntie A. Mama would have a fit.”

“Forget about your mother. She is ridiculously frugal when it comes to important things like clothes.”

“But I have a perfectly lovely frock—my blue and silver, from last year.”

“That old thing? Do you wish to embarrass me in front of all my friends? No, I insist—you shall have a new frock, and only a Vionnet will do. Off you go, now. I need to rest, and Hamish needs a little walk. Don't forget to send that
petit bleu
to Mr. Howard.”

                      
Dear Sam—A formal invitation is forthcoming but want to let you know that my aunt is holding a dinner party on Sat. 13th. We
both hope you can come. Dinner jacket as it's a formal shindig. Sorry! Regards, Helena

                      
Ellie—Thanks for advance notice. My tux smells of mothballs but will air it out. Have a good week. Sam

T
HE
M
AISON
V
IONNET,
located in a monumental Second Empire building on the avenue Montaigne, was every bit as impressive as Helena had expected. The instant their car drew up to the entrance, footmen were at hand to lead her and Agnes inside. There they were greeted by Madame Charpentier, her aunt's longtime vendeuse, who escorted them to the viewing salon on the floor above.

Helena had grown up in beautiful houses filled with lovely and valuable things, but the salon at Maison Vionnet was truly jaw-dropping in its magnificence. Its neoclassical décor was perfectly restrained; even her own mother, who had a horror of anything even faintly arriviste, would have approved. Low-backed armchairs, each with a matching table, were arranged along the length of the room, while the walls were hung with Lalique plaques, subtly backlit, of women in Vionnet gowns.

As soon as she and Agnes were settled, and had been served cups of perfectly brewed English tea, Madame Charpentier nodded to an assistant and the parade of frocks began. One young woman after another appeared at the far end of the salon, walked toward Helena and Agnes, paused, and moved to wait a few yards away.

Twenty frocks were displayed to them in this manner, each of them more beautiful than the last. How would she ever decide?

“Have you seen anything to your liking, Lady Helena?” asked the vendeuse in impeccable English.

“They're all so pretty. I'm not sure . . .”

“May I take the liberty of suggesting three gowns that I think especially suitable?” At Helena's nod, Madame Charpentier called to three of the mannequins, who came forward while their fellows moved silently and impassively toward the door. “These are, I think, particularly suitable for your lovely English coloring.”

All three frocks were sleeveless tunics with irregular hems, but that was the extent of their similarities. The first was of ivory crêpe embroidered with intersecting Japanese fans, the second of pale peach chiffon with bands of delicate apricot beading, and the third, rather more fitted than the others, was a pale gold silk charmeuse, with an overlay of darker golden net. Leaning forward, she realized the net had been decorated with hundreds of intricately appliquéd flowers.

How to decide? With her luck, she'd end up choosing the most expensive of the three. “The last one, perhaps? Aunt Agnes, what do you think?”

“The third. It is perfection. Though you may have all three if—”

“Only the one, Auntie A. That is what we agreed.”

A further parade of mannequins was presented, this time with frocks for her aunt. It took Agnes an age to choose, but she eventually settled on a severe black tunic, its only embellishment a central embroidered motif that reminded Helena of the artwork from Tutankhamen's tomb.

Their selections made, she and Agnes were escorted to two smaller fitting rooms, where their measurements were taken and Helena's serviceable undergarments were tutted over. They were directed to return at the end of the week so their toiles might be fitted, and would then have to return again for a final fitting a few days before the party.

Madame Vionnet herself came to see them once they had dressed and were preparing to leave. She kissed cheeks with Agnes and shook hands with Helena, and inquired with grave politeness if they were pleased with the frocks they had chosen. The
couturière's
appearance came as a pleasant surprise to Helena, who had been expecting a chic and faintly terrifying figure cut from the same cloth as Gabrielle Chanel or Jeanne Lanvin. But Madame Vionnet was dressed in a shapeless white smock, had a motherly figure that would never have fit into any of her designs, and wore her silver hair in an old-fashioned chignon. If she reminded Helena of anyone, it was of her childhood nanny.

They were waiting in the grand entrance hall, for Vincent had parked around the corner and required summoning, when the great doors opened to admit Agnes's friend Madame Balsan. She was accompanied by a young man, who Helena was certain had not been present at Natalie Barney's afternoon tea in September, and who waited patiently while Agnes and her friend kissed cheeks and embraced and admired each other's hats.

To Helena's eyes, he seemed the very archetype of a Frenchman: slim, not overly tall, and beautifully dressed, with short, dark hair and a pencil-thin mustache. It wasn't the sort of appearance that made her heart sing, but she couldn't honestly say he was unattractive, either.

“I forget myself, dear Agnes—this is my husband's nephew, Jean-François d'Albret. Jean-François, allow me to introduce you to the Princess Dimitri Pavlovich and her niece, the Lady Helena Montagu-Douglas-Parr.”

He bowed formally and then shook their hands. “Your Imperial Highness. Lady Helena.
Je suis enchanté de faire votre connaissance
.”

The handshake he shared with Helena was perfectly proper, although it lasted a trifle longer than her comfort allowed. She was more than happy when, only a minute or two later, Agnes cut their conversation short, citing an incipient headache and the momentary arrival of her car.

“Dear, sweet,
dull
Consuelo,” Agnes groaned as soon as they were safely away. “I suppose I must invite her to the party. Shall I include that nephew of hers, do you think? He seemed rather charming.”

“I suppose.”

“Oh—I forgot to mention earlier, but I had a letter from your mother today. There's one for you, as well.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Not in the least. David's daughter, Rose, is engaged.”

Her niece was only just eighteen, the same age that Helena had been when she'd become engaged. “Poor girl. Who's the groom?”

“That's the sticky part. It's George Neville-Ashford.”

“Edward's brother? Heavens, no. I mean, from what I can recall he's a decent sort, but that mother of his . . .”

“I know. As you can imagine, Sophia Cumberland and I have
never
seen eye to eye.”

“When is the wedding? If it's during term, I doubt—”

“It's at the end of April, so you've no reason not to go. Besides, the talk will be far worse if you don't. This way, you can be seen in the company of Edward and his wife, who by all accounts is a perfectly nice woman, and everyone will see you are in perfect accord, and that will be an end of it.”

“It will be ghastly,” Helena moaned.

“Of course it will. These things always are. Now, tell me: Did you enjoy your first taste of haute couture?”

“I did,” said Helena, feeling more than ready to think of something else. “Mama always took us to a dressmaker for our clothes. She was very capable, and she made me some very pretty frocks, but . . .”

“They weren't anything out of the ordinary.”

“I think Madame Vionnet must think like an artist. As if the frocks she makes are art.”

“Her frocks are works of art, my dear, just as much as the paintings you create. You could turn anything she makes inside out and wear it without shame. Try to turn a painting to the wall and see what people say.”

“I suppose that's why they're so expensive.”

“Hush! No talk of money. You know how that upsets me.”

“Yes, Auntie A.”

“You will need another frock for the wedding, you know, since it's likely to be a morning affair.”

“Are you sure? I have any number of lovely things already.”

“Yes, but you'll want to look your very best. Like it or not, you'll attract attention. We both will.”

“I suppose you're right.”