Moonlight Over Paris (26 page)

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.”

I
t 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.”

“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.”

October, 1925

Paris, France

I
t 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.