Moonlight Over Paris (15 page)

“That's the gist of it. Could use a bit more color—some background on Calles, Gompers, the treaty. But it's mainly there.”

“So you take cables like these and translate them, and then you turn them into a story?”

“There's an art to it. This cable is pretty informative, but sometimes they're only five or six words long. Try spinning
that
into five hundred words.”

“I see you what you mean. I—”

“Found it.” He pulled a page from the pile and pocketed it
swiftly. “A cable from home. From my parents. Nothing serious, though.”

“Thank goodness for that.”

“We're done here. How about I see you home?”

They said good night to the deskmen and, after a few minutes' wait in the cold, found a taxi on La Fayette. When Sam got in as well, she realized he meant to accompany her and also pay for the taxi, the third they'd taken that night.

“Sam, don't. It's too expensive. I can pay.”

“Don't worry about me. I'm flush tonight. Got paid yesterday.”

The taxi was an old one, its backseat terribly cramped, and rather than fight to maintain her distance she let her head fall against his shoulder, softly, easily, as if she had a right to be so near to him. He was her friend, just as Mathilde and Daisy and Étienne were her friends, and it would be utterly foolish to think of him as anything else. As anything more. So why had her heart begun to flutter in her chest, and why were her palms faintly damp beneath her gloves?

“Seeing your office was terribly interesting,” she said after a while. “It was nothing like what I'd imagined.”

“That boring, huh?”

“Not at all. I'd had it in my head that it would be loud, and rather disorganized, and people would be running around shouting at one another.”

“At some of the big papers it's like that, but we're small potatoes. No point shouting when it's only the half dozen of us sitting around.”

“I think you ought to write as many pieces as they'll let you,” she said. “I think you're a fine writer.”

“I am? How can you say that?”

“I buy the paper every day. I've seen your, ah . . . your byline? Is that the word? I've seen it nearly every week. You may not wish to admit it, but you and I both know there's a lot more to you than rewrites and translations of cablese.”

The taxi stopped; they'd arrived at her aunt's.

“Thank you for today, and for dinner, and for Miss Stein's. And most of all for showing me the newsroom.”

“You're welcome, Ellie. I—”

“Sweet dreams. I'll see you next Saturday.”

“D
épêche-toi, Hélène!
We were meant to be downstairs ten minutes ago.”

Helena stepped back from the pier glass in her dressing room and cast a final, critical eye over her appearance. Her Vionnet frock was enchanting, like so much golden spun sugar, and it fit her so perfectly that it was all but weightless.

When it had been delivered, the afternoon before, its box had also contained a gift: someone, likely one of the seamstresses, had fashioned a bandeau for her hair from the same gold charmeuse fabric as the frock, and finished it with a posy of lace flowers that echoed the gown's metallic trim. It looked wonderful, far better than the simple diamanté clip she'd been planning to wear, and was so decorative that she decided against wearing any jewelry.

In deference to the occasion she'd applied, with advice and assistance from Mathilde, some rouge on her cheeks and lips, a sweep of cake mascara to darken her pale lashes, and just enough powder to blot the shine from her nose. Her mother would have swooned at the sight but Helena liked the way she looked—modern, confident, and striking.

Preparations for the party had begun before dawn, but when Helena had offered to help—it was a vague offer, as she hadn't the practical skills to help with anything important—Agnes had laughed and sent her off to the studio for the day. At the end of the afternoon Mathilde and Étienne had come home with her and, banished from the lower floors, the three of them had sought sanctuary in Helena's bedchamber.

Daisy had arrived at half-past seven, a good hour before the party was set to begin, and although her frock was not to Helena's own taste—it was an elaborate confection of pink chiffon that rather overwhelmed her friend's delicate prettiness—her excitement was so infectious that she soon had the four of them seized with giddy anticipation.

“You've no idea how long it's been since I had an evening out like this,” she'd said with a happy sigh. “Daddy insists on living so quietly, and we hardly ever entertain. So this is just
wonderful
.”

When it was time to change into their evening clothes, Helena had sent Étienne and Mathilde off to two of the spare bedrooms, but both had returned at lightning speed while she was still buttoning the straps on her shoes.

It wasn't fair to keep them and Daisy waiting, though, so with a last look at her transformed self, she gathered up her gloves and joined them in the corridor.

“What do you think?” she asked, suddenly nervous. “Will I do?”

“I have only one word,” said Étienne. “
Ravissante
. All three of you are perfection.”

Mathilde had borrowed Helena's turquoise and gold frock, which suited her very well; Étienne, who didn't own a dinner jacket, wore his usual dark suit, albeit with a freshly laundered shirt. His necktie was a startling shade of purple, however,
which might not have passed inspection at the Élysée Palace but wouldn't be out of place among the rather bohemian crowd already gathered downstairs.

“Shall we go?” Helena suggested. “From the sounds of it most of the guests have landed already.”

It was a relief to enter the
grand salon
and have her friends—her allies—at her side. In the five years since the end of her engagement, she'd spent far too many evenings standing alone in corners, or trailing after her mother or siblings. This was a very different gathering, of course; although she didn't know her aunt's friends especially well, she was confident no one would deliberately shun her or whisper gleeful insults behind her back. And if they did? She would laugh in their face, and toast her newfound courage with her friends at her side.

The house's reception rooms had been transformed, their furniture rearranged against the walls so guests might stand and circulate freely. On every table and mantel there were huge arrangements of orchids, lilies, and tuberose, and though the flowers were very pretty their scent, in the rising warmth of the rooms, was quite overpowering.

All told, there were thirty invited guests at dinner that evening. As Helena led her friends from room to room, she made introductions and, if guests were already engaged in conversation, supplied their names sotto voce to her friends.

She introduced them to Natalie Barney and Lily Gramont, then to Djuna Barnes and Thelma Wood; others received a smile and wave as they passed by. “That's Mina Loy, just there, and Nancy Cunard . . . and Peggy Guggenheim is standing at the doorway. And there's Romaine Brooks, the painter; you'll have heard of her, I think. She's the one wearing a man's frock coat.”

“Who is that very handsome young man by the window?” Étienne asked. “Fair, not too tall, standing with the dark-haired girl.”

Helena stood on tiptoe; it was difficult to see, as there was rather a crush of people in the library now. “Oh, that's George Antheil and his—I suppose she's his girlfriend. He's a composer, and quite a radical one, from what I've heard. They live above Shakespeare and Company, the English bookstore on the rue de l'Odéon.”

“Where is Sam?” Daisy asked. “I thought you said he would be here.”

“He will. He was working earlier and thought he might be a bit late. But he'll be here.”

Sara and Gerald were there, too, and though they had been at their house in St.-Cloud for some weeks it was the first time she'd seen them since the summer.

“When are you going to visit us?” Sara asked. “You must all come out and have lunch one day. The children are forever asking when their Ellie is going to visit.”

“We will, I promise. Let me finish showing my friends around, and then we'll talk some more.”

“We must. You look beautiful tonight. Is that a Vionnet gown?”

“It is. Does it suit me?”

“Admirably.”

Helena had led her friends through the
petit salon,
the library, and the breakfast room, and she'd just finished her first glass of champagne, when she caught sight of Sam.

His dinner jacket was so perfectly tailored that it must have been made for him, and he was so very handsome and unfamiliar that her heart skipped a beat. He advanced across the
room, his eyes never leaving hers, his gaze keen and appreciative. Normally his appearance was rather disheveled, to put it mildly, but tonight he was the very epitome of aristocratic elegance. If she didn't know better, she'd have assumed he was to the manor born.

He stopped when he was an arm's length away, not seeming to notice their friends. And then he smiled, a slow and easy smile that made her knees feel like jelly and her heart race in her chest.

“Good evening, everyone,” he said, and he shook hands with Étienne and kissed cheeks with her and Mathilde and Daisy, and the moment between them, when it seemed as if they'd been the only two people in the room, evaporated.

“Where is your aunt?” he asked. “I didn't see her when I came in.”

“I've no idea—making the rounds, I expect. We're seated near her at dinner.”

A footman came forward with glasses of champagne on a silver tray, and they all accepted one, even Sam. She sipped at hers slowly, savoring the way it fizzed against her tongue, and was startled when he bent his head to whisper against her ear.

“Do you think I should ask for a beer? How would that go down in this crowd, d'you think?”

“Not well,” she said, and giggled helplessly. It was the champagne, of course; giggling was for schoolgirls. “They probably drink champagne with their
petit déjeuner
every morning.”

“
Attention, s'il vous plaît!
” Vincent, looking very distinguished in a corded silk tailcoat, had appeared at the threshold to the dining room, and was clapping his hands to gain the guests' attention. “
Mesdames, messieurs, le dîner est prêt
.”

T
HE DINING TABLE,
which normally accommodated ten or twelve diners, had been fitted with enough leaves to bring it to a good thirty feet, and it now stretched the entire length of the chamber. Elaborate flower arrangements, ornate Georgian candelabra, and epergnes brimming with out-of-season fruit ran down the center of the table, which had been set with her aunt's sterling silver flatware,
bleu celeste
Sèvres porcelain, and Baccarat crystal.

Agnes was seated at the head of the table and had honored Helena and her friends by placing them nearby: Sam was at her right, with Mathilde and Daisy occupying the next two spaces. On the opposite side of the table, Étienne sat next to Agnes, with Helena at his left.

The identity of the person who was to sit at Helena's left remained a mystery until nearly everyone had found their seat; only then did a vaguely familiar figure take his place at her side. It was the man she'd met at Vionnet the other week, the nephew by marriage of Madame Balsan. She racked her brain for his name . . . Monsieur d'Albert. No, d'Albret. That was it.

All was well during the first course, which consisted of lobster bisque with a remove of
truite à la Véronique
. The table was too wide for her to easily join in the conversation between Sam, Mathilde, and Daisy, and Étienne was engaged in charming her aunt. That left Mr. d'Albret. Fortunately his manners were impeccable, and he had some interesting things to say about aviation and his time with France's Aéronautique Militaire during the war.

“While I cannot account myself an ace, I did have my share of kills,” he said, dabbing at his mustache with the corner of his napkin.

“I suppose it was terribly dangerous.”

“But of course. Only the best and bravest ever dared to become aviators.”

Helena happened to look across the table, where Sam was engaged in conversation with Daisy. She couldn't be certain, but something told her that he had overheard.

“What are you doing now?” she asked her dinner partner.

“I have decided to pursue the Orteig Prize,” he announced with gusto.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I've heard of it. A challenge—”

“It is the greatest challenge of our age. Monsieur Orteig is a hotelier in America, and he has promised twenty-five thousand dollars to the first man who completes a nonstop flight across the Atlantic between New York and Paris.”

That was enough to induce Sam to join the discussion. “Orteig issued the challenge five years ago, and not a single attempt has yet been made. Most people think it's impossible.”

Helena stared at him, taken aback by his skeptical attitude. He'd been the one to tell her about the prize, and to her best recollection he'd been enthusiastic when speaking of the challenge. Why he should now dismiss it out of hand was puzzling indeed.

“Only those who know nothing of modern aviation say it is impossible, Monsieur, ah—”

“Howard.”

“Monsieur Howard. But I know better. I say it is entirely possible.”

“It's got to be an expensive proposition,” Sam persisted. “The outlay will far exceed the prize money. What is the going rate for a Fokker C-IV, anyway? I doubt you can buy one readymade from your friendly neighborhood aircraft salesman.”

“You speak of matters of which you are clearly ignorant—”

“The plane would need to be built to order,” Sam mused, “with the extra weight stripped away, bigger fuel tanks, better instruments . . . that can't be cheap.”

Mr. d'Albret's face had reddened, but rather than address Sam directly he turned to Helena and unleashed a dazzling smile. “I believe that questions of commerce should not enter into such a noble endeavor. I have decided to pursue the prize for the glory of France. I anticipate no difficulty in securing the support I require.”

Although he was clearly expecting some kind of response, Helena only smiled and nodded, and then dealt with the awkward moment that ensued by taking a sip of wine. After that, Mr. d'Albret turned to the woman at his left, and Helena was left to listen to Étienne as he became ever more charming and loquacious, though she tried, with little success, to follow Sam's conversation with her friends.

A second course, of grouse in a morel mushroom sauce, was served; and then, though she could scarcely eat another bite, another course arrived, this time roast filet of beef with braised carrots and duchess potatoes.

“Your niece will not believe me, but I believe she is truly gifted.” Étienne was singing her praises to Agnes and once again was exaggerating wildly. “Hélène has been experimenting with new mediums, you know, and is absolutely fearless in her pursuit of inspiration. Why, only the other day she was telling me of her plans to visit Les Halles at night to draw the workers there.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Agnes had been stunned into silence, perhaps for the first time in living memory, and Helena herself could only stare, horror-stricken, at her friend. She had mentioned her notion that such a visit would be interesting, and
possibly very useful, and they had talked of Étienne accompanying her on such an outing, but she would never have been so foolhardy as to venture out at night by herself.

Agnes recovered first. “Helena, how
could
you? Think of the danger—and what it would do to me if anything were to happen to you. I'm terribly disappointed, you know.”

“I wasn't planning to go by myself. Tell her, Étienne. We were—”

“You're a grown woman, and I trust you to behave in a sensible fashion. Or at least I
did
.”

“Auntie A, I would never have gone on my own. I'm not that foolish.”

“I'll take her,” Sam said. “I'm a night owl anyway,” he added, “so it's not a problem.”

“I don't need your help,” Helena said, bristling at his description of her as
a problem
. “Étienne has already agreed to go with me.”

“I don't mind if you prefer to go with Sam,” said Étienne.

“See? All sorted.”