Moonlight Over Paris (19 page)

Like Étienne, d'Albret was given to talking with his hands. Unlike Étienne, he had a disconcerting way of allowing them to settle on her shoulder or arm, or even, though she brushed them away firmly more than once, on her knee.

It was unbearable, truly unbearable. She was going to stand up and walk a pace or two away, thank him for a lovely evening,
and go; she would hope, in that moment, that he wouldn't dare to make a scene. Before she could act, however, he whispered something in French that she couldn't quite make out, seized her chin, and turned her face toward his.

He was going to kiss her, she knew it, and she pushed against his chest to make him leave off, retreat, but he was surprisingly strong, and his other hand was around her waist, and oh, God, he really was going to press his mouth to hers—

And then he was gone. She heard, as if from a distance, the sound of chairs tipping over and glass breaking, and then her eyes cleared and it was Sam, right there, and he was the one who had pulled d'Albret away.

His cheeks flushed, his eyes glinting with murderous intent, Sam twisted d'Albret's arm behind his back and marched him outside, and she just sat and stared and told herself that she mustn't be sick, could
not
be sick, no matter how much her stomach was churning.

“Come on,” came a voice, and there was Sam again, his arm outstretched, and he led her away and outside to the blessedly cool night. D'Albret had vanished.

“What did you do? Did you hit him?” she asked, her voice shaking so much she had to force the words past her teeth.

“No, Ellie, I didn't hit him. I shoveled him into his car and told him to sleep it off.”

“Oh. I . . . I'm sorry. I didn't—”

“I may also have told him to keep his hands to himself, especially when he's around a lady. And it's possible that I also told him to never come near you again. Because if he did, I really
would
hit him.”

She was shivering, although her coat was warm enough, and she badly needed to sit down. “How did you know we were here?”

“Larry Blochman was sitting at the bar. He recognized you, saw you were having trouble with that jackass, and called me at the paper. I got in a taxi and came down here as fast as I could.”

“Ah. Well. I suppose I should go back to my aunt's.”

“You should. Come on—the taxi's still waiting.”

They didn't talk on the way home, and though she longed for him to comfort her, to tell her everything would be all right, he kept his silence. Not until they were standing at Agnes's side door did he speak again.

“Good night, Helena. Lock the door behind you.”

“Please don't be angry,” she implored. “I was about to get up and leave. I wouldn't . . . I wouldn't have let him kiss me.”

“What were you thinking? What if he'd assaulted you? A man like that can't be trusted.”

“I know. I shouldn't have gone. But he was so persistent, and I'd nothing else to do this evening . . .”

At last he looked at her, and his face was the picture of torment. Something was tearing him apart, something more than the shock they'd both just endured, but she'd no idea how to help, or what to say. So she stood on her tiptoes and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his mouth.

Before she could pull away, he backed her against the door, his mouth never leaving hers, and his hands went to frame her face, as he'd done the last time he kissed her. Only this kiss was different, it was wild and desperate, and though she wished to comfort him she also wanted more, so she pushed against him and opened her mouth and let his tongue press past her lips and clash against hers.

“No,” he groaned, and he pulled his mouth away. He took a step back, and his expression was so anguished that her eyes filled with sympathetic tears.

“What is wrong? Did I do anything wrong? I'm sorry if I was forward. I only meant—”

“Ellie, you know I care about you. You must know.”

“I do.”

“And so what I'm about to say has nothing to do with you.
Nothing
. You must believe me.”

“What is it? I told you I'm sorry about tonight.”

“This isn't about tonight, and I'm sorry if I was mean to you just now. It wasn't your fault. I know that.”

“Then what is the matter?” she asked, hating the piteous tone in her voice.

“I can't . . . the thing is, I can't offer you anything else. Anything more. Not now, at least.”

“You don't want me? In that . . . in that way?”

“Of course I want you. You know I do. But it would be wrong of me to expect anything more, not when I . . . I wish I could explain.”

“We could be lovers. I wouldn't ask for anything more.”

Her words hung in the air between them, as vivid and unsettling as a neon sign. For long seconds Sam just stared at her, his eyes darkening, his face pale but for two flags of color high on his cheekbones. He took a step back, looked down, and scrubbed his hands roughly over his face.

“No,” he said, and he shook his head vehemently. “No. I want to—if you only knew how much. But it wouldn't be right. It would be the farthest thing from right. I wish there was a way to make you understand.”

“But I do,” she said, and she did. He desired her, but not enough to act on it. He liked her, but couldn't conceive of a future with her.

“I hope you can forgive me,” he said quietly. “I never meant to act like this. I never meant for you to be hurt.”

“And I'm not,” she insisted, wishing her voice didn't sound quite so wobbly. “We were friends before, and we're friends now. That's all that matters.”

“Well, then. I guess I had better go. Good night, Ellie.”

“Good night.”

She couldn't bear to watch him walk away, so she went inside and crept into bed, her chest so bound by dread and disbelief that she could scarcely take a breath. Dawn came, and she was still awake, shivering under her eiderdown, her eyes hot with unshed tears, the words of that singular poem beating an endless refrain in her head.
I was born to be lonely. I am best so . . .

They were true, the truest words ever written, for she was alone now, as she had always been, and perhaps, as the poet had said, it was best that she be so.

Love consists in this: that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.

—Rainer Maria Rilke,
Letters to a Young Poet

    
Tuesday, 24 February

    
Dearest Ellie,

                    
Wonderful news—I know that in my last letter I complained that there was no hope of my escaping the winter this year, but the Delamere-Strathallans have taken a villa in Biarritz for the season and Violet has invited me to stay! As you know I cannot bear the thought of a sea voyage that lasts one minute longer than necessary, so I shall be taking the train from Paris—and (if I have read the timetables correctly) that means I shall have nearly twenty-four hours in the city to visit with you! I arrive in the early afternoon Tuesday next and depart late the next morning.

                    
I do realize it is terribly short notice but I am so looking forward to seeing you and meeting your new friends. Do you recall the day we spent together when we were girls, just before my debut? We had such fun—and though I'm rather long in the tooth for such antics it would be so lovely to wander around Paris together and see the sights.

                    
Do let me know if this is convenable, as the French say—I shall cable you the exact details of my arrival as soon as I hear from you—

With much love,

Your devoted sister,

Amalia

Helena did recall their long-ago day together. It had been the spring of 1909, a bare month or so before Amalia's debut, and they'd come to Paris so the final touches might be put on her sister's gowns for the Season. Their elder sisters, Sophia and Bertha, had made their debuts already and had been duly married off to men who were so little known to Helena that she always had trouble recalling their names. Although Amalia was five years older, they had always been close, and the thought of being left alone in the nursery until her own debut had been weighing upon Helena for some months.

A day or two before their departure for home, Mama had canceled their engagements, for reasons Helena couldn't now recall—likely she'd had a headache, or something of the sort. It had been a beautiful day, so bright and warm that it was a shame to stay inside, and Amalia had asked if they might go for a walk with Bessie, their mother's maid. Rather to their surprise, Mama had agreed, insisting only that they return in time for tea at four o'clock.

They'd left their hotel on the Place de la Concorde and walked through the Tuileries Gardens, which were pretty but rather dull, and had crossed the Pont Royal and wandered along the banks of the Seine, past the stalls of
les bouquinistes,
pausing now and then to admire a fine leather binding or, even rarer, a book printed in English.

She and Amalia had ventured into Notre-Dame, heads
thrown back to wonder at the stained glass and ancient stonework, and had even lighted candles at a saint's statue in a side chapel. She couldn't recall, now, if she had prayed for anything in particular. Had she known to ask for a reprieve from her sisters' fate? Probably not; although she'd been sad at Amalia's imminent departure from home, she'd also been excited at the prospect of her own debut, far-off as it had then been.

They had gone to a café, or a bistro of some kind, and had eaten
croque monsieur
sandwiches and crème caramel, and then, though Bessie had protested, saying it was time to be going back to the hotel, they'd walked along the boulevard St.-Michel until they'd encountered the fence that enclosed the Luxembourg Gardens. They'd followed it around, eventually arriving at the entrance by the Musée du Luxembourg, and they'd paid their entrance fee for the museum, wandered through its galleries, and marveled at its astonishingly modern art.

After an hour, likely more, Amalia had insisted they see the rest of the gardens. There was a carousel, which they'd gone on twice in a row, and a Punch and Judy show, though the puppets were called Guignol and Madelon in French, and an ornamental pond where boys and girls alike played with elaborately rigged toy sailboats.

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.

H
ELENA 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.