Moonlight Over Paris (16 page)

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Authors: Jennifer Robson

BOOK: Moonlight Over Paris
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“Fine,” she muttered, though she felt anything but fine at their high-handed manner toward her.

Resolving to ignore all further discussion on the subject, she turned pointedly to Mr. d'Albret, set her hand lightly on his forearm, and offered up her most winning smile. “I do hope you'll tell me about your time in the Aéronautique Militaire. You must have been terribly brave . . .”

In this fashion she survived the final course, apricot tarts with vanilla ice cream, and followed her aunt dutifully to the
grand salon
when it was time for after-dinner digestifs.

Helena didn't partake, having drunk rather more wine at dinner than was her habit, and instead stood quietly and
listened to Mr. d'Albret describe his wartime exploits, some of which were very impressive indeed. Sam remained nearby, and every time she looked in his direction he was watching her, his eyes merry with suppressed laughter, and she couldn't tell if he was laughing at her, or the Frenchman, or both of them.

At long last Mr. d'Albret took his leave, and when he bent to kiss her hand she very nearly snatched it away. Sam noticed, of course, and his apparent relish of her discomfort was so intensely irritating that she felt like shouting at him.

Mr. d'Albret was speaking to her again; she had to force herself to concentrate. “I wonder, Lady Helena, if I might have the honor of escorting you to dinner one evening? And perhaps we might go dancing afterward?”

She was about to refuse, but she made the mistake of looking to Sam yet again, and it seemed, from the expression in his eyes, that he was daring her to say yes.

“I would love to go to dinner with you, Monsieur d'Albret,” she answered, and to her great satisfaction Sam looked every bit as annoyed as she had hoped.

She said good night to her friends; Étienne, rather the worse for wear, refused her offer of a guest room for the night, but Mathilde promised she would see him home safely.

“I shall also take good care of your frock,” her friend whispered. “Thank you so much.”

“It was my pleasure,” Helena replied honestly. “I would offer to give it to you, but I think you would refuse. All the same, I hope you know you may borrow it, or anything else I have, anytime you wish. I do mean that.”

And then it was time to say good night to Sam. If he was angry at her having accepted Mr. d'Albret's invitation, he betrayed no sign of it.

“When do you want to go?” he asked.

“Where? To Les Halles? But you don't have to take me. I can—”

“I want to take you. How about Wednesday?”

“You truly don't mind? You'll be so tired the next day.”

“I'll be fine. I'll come by at three in the morning. And make sure you go to bed as soon as you get home from school. It'll be easier to get up when your alarm goes off.”

“Won't you be bored?” she asked, still uncertain.

“I doubt it. I'll watch you work, which is always interesting, and I might even get enough local color for a piece on the market.”

“I suppose. Well, good night, then.”

“Good night, Ellie,” he said, stooping to kiss her cheek. “You were beautiful tonight.”

Chapter 19

O
n Tuesday afternoon, Helena went straight home after class, packed her satchel with a new sketchpad and box of sharpened pencils, ate an early dinner, wound and set her alarm clock, and put herself to bed. She woke on her own, not far past one o'clock, but rather than get up straightaway and face the cold and dark of her room she lay abed, her mind too busy for sleep.

She didn't know much about the market, only that Les Halles was a group of buildings where produce, meat, fish, and other fresh foodstuffs were brought into Paris overnight to be sold in the morning. That much of the fresh food to feed a city of millions might be seen, gathered together in one place, was difficult to imagine, and as she'd never been to any of the big markets in London, or indeed to any market at all, she'd no idea of what she would discover that morning.

It wouldn't do to keep Sam waiting at the door, however, so she forced herself out of bed and into the chill of her room. Before retiring, she'd set out the warmest and sturdiest of her clothes: thick stockings and flannel combinations, a woolen frock with an unfashionably long skirt, lace-up boots, her winter coat, a felt cloche hat, and a scarf that, once wrapped
around her neck, was as high and enveloping as a monk's cowl.

Tiptoeing through the house, so as not to wake her aunt or any of the servants, she crept downstairs at a quarter to three and installed herself in the front foyer. Sam's knock on the door came a few minutes after the hour.

“Yes?” she called out softly.

“It's Sam. I've a taxi waiting.”

She let herself out, locked the door behind her, and turned to her friend. He was wearing a proper coat for once, and a scarf, but his flat cap didn't look very warm.

“Won't you catch cold?” she asked.

“It's forty degrees out. Where I grew up, that barely warrants an overcoat. Don't worry about me.”

The taxi took them north to the rue de Rivoli, then steadily westward along rain-slicked pavements. The moon hung low and full, its light a gleaming silver net flung wide over the empty streets and shuttered façades of a still-slumbering city.

As they drew closer to Les Halles, the streets grew busier and brighter, with long lines of heavy-laden carts stretching along the rue St.-Denis and the rue du Pont Neuf. They turned north again, and Sam leaned forward to speak with the driver. A few minutes later, the taxi pulled to a stop in the shadow of an imposing Gothic church.

“We're just north of the market,” Sam said, helping her out of the car. “But I think we should have something to eat before you get started. Hungry?”

She was about to say she wasn't, but then she smelled some freshly baked bread and her stomach grumbled loudly in response. She nodded, hoping he hadn't heard.

“Let's go. Just up this street.” He slung her satchel over his
shoulder, and then, as if it were something he'd done a thousand times before, he took her hand in his. They'd walked arm in arm before, usually when returning home after dinner, but this felt far more intimate, the touch of a sweetheart, not merely a friend. His hand was so much larger than hers, and the warmth of his touch, though she could feel it but dimly through their gloves, was both comforting and exciting. If only they had farther to go.

She stole a sidelong glance, not wanting him to catch her staring. He was so different from other men. It wasn't just his coloring, though his auburn hair and fair, freckled skin were uncommon enough. And it wasn't his height, for her brother and former fiancé were tall men, too.

It had to be his manner, his wonderful American directness. He was honest, but not to such a degree that he ever injured her feelings, or those of anyone else. He was plainspoken, with none of the verbal affectations so common among the men of her social circle back home. And he was kind, the sort of man given to practical good deeds that meant so much more than bouquets of hothouse flowers or festoons of sickly-sweet compliments.

They walked north on the rue Montorgueil, past a bakery, shuttered but lit within, and the source of the fresh bread that had awoken her hunger; past slumbering draft horses, still harnessed to their carts, awaiting the long walk home; and past a dozen or more narrow-fronted restaurants, all full to bursting with blue-smocked farmers, weary porters, and stall holders just beginning their day.

The restaurant Sam chose had no sign and was even smaller and humbler than Chez Rosalie, but it, too, was full of men and women bent over steaming bowls of soup.

“They only serve one thing here, onion soup, but it's really good,” Sam explained. “Go sit down—there are two places at the end of that table—and I'll get the soup.”

He was back in no time, carrying two large bowls and spoons and nothing else.

“Aren't you going to have something to drink?” she asked. “The men at the next table have mugs of beer.”

“No. Would only make me sleepy. I'll have a coffee later. Do you want anything? A glass of wine?”

She shook her head. “This is all I need.”

The soup was simple, nothing but onions and broth and at the bottom of the bowl, she soon discovered, a piece of dark country bread. It was the single most delicious meal she'd ever had. In no time at all, she was staring into her empty bowl and wishing she had an extra piece of bread to soak up the last drops of remaining broth.

When she set down her spoon at last, Sam was watching her fondly. “Good?”

“Wonderful.”

“Are you ready to go? We can walk around for a while, give you an idea of what there is to see. Have you been here before?”

“No. Étienne told me about the market, and a flower seller posed for us at school one day. I thought I might find interesting subjects here, that's all.”

“You will,” he promised, “though I doubt you'll find much in the way of flowers at this time of year.”

They walked south, past the church where the taxi had left them, stopping just across the street from the market buildings, which were far bigger and taller than she had expected, the delicate tracery of their iron and glass walls reminding her of the greenhouses at her father's country estate.

“The halls on the right are for meat and tripe,” Sam said. “To the left are the halls for produce, cheese, and fish. It's early still, so they're just setting up. Why don't we wander around outside?”

If she'd been amazed by the scale of the halls, she was even more surprised by the crowds milling between and around the market buildings. There was scarcely any room to move, for the lanes and streets were a surging mass of people, carts, horses, lorries, piles of boxes, and empty crates. In the space that remained, there were the vegetables.

She'd assumed the produce for sale would be inside, arranged on barrows in the market buildings, but for some reason many of the carts were unloading their contents directly onto the street. She saw ruffled heads of green-bronze Savoy cabbages, stacked in neat pyramids, and beside them baskets of leeks, onions, turnips, and swede, and the furled spears of winter chicory. There were carrots and parsnips by the hundredweight, fat bunches of radishes, knobbly fists of celery root, and huge burlap sacks of potatoes.

It was all rather overwhelming. She looked to Sam, not certain of what to do or where to begin, and once again he understood. “Let's find you a quiet place to stand,” he said, his voice raised so she might hear him above the din. “It's hard to find your bearings in the middle of this.”

He still held her hand, but now he drew her close and guided her through the crowds, until they were standing in front of a wine shop on the south side of the rue Berger. Several empty crates stood by its door, and, after testing them to ensure their sturdiness, he made a sort of stage for her to stand upon, just high enough that she might see over the heads of passersby.

There, protected from the bustle of the market, she worked
for more than an hour, making sketch after sketch of anything and anyone that caught her fancy. First there was a farmer's wife, presiding proudly over a heap of celadon-green cabbages; though the set of the woman's shoulders told Helena she was weary to the bone, she was good-humored in spite of it, laughing and joking as if she liked nothing better than standing out in the cold for hours on end. Farther along, a porter crouched low as the deep wicker basket strapped to his back was filled with sack after sack of potatoes. As he straightened, he staggered a little under its weight, but then, balance regained, he set off as though the load he carried were no heavier than a pair of down pillows.

She sketched a pair of nuns in pristine habits and starched white veils who haggled over every sou they spent but smiled beatifically at passersby; a ginger tabby cat, perched on a stack of empty fruit crates, delicately washing its face as it ignored the hubbub around it; and the arching tracery, only faintly visible in the gloom, of the iron roof supports of the nearest market hall.

She nearly sketched a
mutilé de guerre,
hobbling by on too-short crutches, his face drawn into a rictus of suffering, but compassion stilled her hand. It was one thing to draw people who were busy at their work, and quite another to capture the pain and desperation of a fellow human being brought low. She was about to dig in her satchel for some francs when Sam approached the man, who had halted only a few yards away. After engaging him in conversation, they walked together to a nearby soup vendor, at which point Sam paid for a serving of cabbage soup, handed it to the veteran, shook his hand, and returned to Helena's side.

“I offered him some money, but he said he didn't feel right
in taking it. So I asked if I might buy him something to eat instead.”

“That was very kind of you,” she said.

“No more than any decent person would have done.”

Apart from his conversation with the veteran, Sam stayed close by her side, never commenting on her sketches, though he was tall enough to look over her shoulder. From time to time he scribbled in a small notebook, but that was all. He didn't stamp his feet or blow on his hands to keep warm, though she was nearly frozen to the marrow after more than an hour of standing still.

“I'm worried you're cold. Shall we find you a
café express
?” she asked.

“No, I'm fine. Are you ready to move on?”

“May we walk through the market halls? I won't take long.”

“Take as much time as you like,” he said, and helped her down from her perch.

They began at one of the halls given over to fish. Here she concentrated on quick, almost impressionistic sketches of the wares on display, adding notes in the margins to remind her of the colors she saw. There was an iridescent amethyst glimmer to the mussels, she noted, in beautiful contrast to the beds of moistened moss on which they were piled; nearby, delicate pink langoustines were arranged side by side, as neatly as soldiers on parade. There were barrels overflowing with the shimmering silver of herring and sardines, deep buckets full of squirming, ink-dark eels, heaps of carp and pike, fierce-looking swordfish, and even, at one stall, a bluefin tuna as big as a man.

The smell in the cheese and dairy hall was far less agreeable than the briny scents of the fish market, though the displays
there were very pretty, with stacked towers of Brie, Camembert, and ash-covered chèvre; blue-veined rounds of Roquefort; gargantuan wedges of Gruyère and Cantal; and pail after pail of cream and milk and primrose-yellow butter. Helena adored cheese, the smellier the better, but a city's worth of cheese in one enclosed space made for an eye-watering experience.

Last of all they visited the flower sellers where, despite the lateness of the year, there were masses of violets, chrysanthemums, pinks, Michelmas daisies, winter camellias and hellebores, their mingled scents conquering even the stench of the now-filthy streets and an adjacent pissoir.

Dawn was breaking, the moonlight was fading from the sky, her hand was beginning to cramp, and her teeth wanted to chatter. “I suppose we ought to be going home,” she said reluctantly.

“I'm happy to stay as long as you like, but you should try to get some sleep before class begins.”

“What time is it?” she asked, too tired to look at her wristwatch.

“Coming up on six o'clock.” He took her pencil and sketchbook and stowed them in her satchel, and then, before she could object, he bought a small bunch of violets. Wrapped in a corona of newspaper, their petals still streaked with soil, they made the prettiest posy Helena had ever seen.

“You don't have to—”

“I want to,” he said, and he led her away, his hand once again in hers, to the relative quiet of the boulevard de Sébastopol, where they found a taxi for the short journey home.

She was too tired to say anything when they were in the car, but remembered her manners when they were once again standing at her aunt's side door. “Thank you.”

He didn't answer, only smiled and bent his head, she
assumed to deposit a kiss on her cheek. But then his hand was touching her chin, encouraging her to look up, and before she had quite realized what was happening his mouth was on hers and he was kissing her, really kissing her, as no one had ever done before.

She knew she was meant to reach up and embrace him, twine her arms around his neck, but she would have to drop her satchel and posy. So she stood and let him kiss her, his big hands framing her face so gently, and all she could do was strain forward on tiptoe and press her lips ever more firmly against his.

If only it could have lasted forever, not only the kiss, but also his hand in hers, his presence at her side, his gift of violets fresh from the countryside. But the sun was rising, they were tired and cold, and she had to be at school in a few hours.

“I'm not sorry for that,” he whispered, his words soft against her cheek.

“Neither am I,” she managed weakly.

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