Moonlight Over Paris (20 page)

“Daisy and I both need to go,” said Mathilde after nearly an hour had passed. “I am needed at home, as is she. I am so very sorry that I cannot stay any longer.”

“As am I,” Daisy echoed. She and Mathilde shook hands with Amalia, said their farewells, and set off for their respective homes.

“Étienne, Amalia and I are going to Le Boeuf sur le Toit tonight. Would you like to come for dinner before?”

“Not tonight, alas. Shall I meet you there?”

“Yes—if we're late just look for the Murphys. They'll be there, too.”

S
ARA,
G
ERALD, AND
Étienne had taken possession of a fine table at Le Boeuf sur le Toit when Helena and Amalia arrived, and had already finished their first round of cocktails. Of Sam there was no sign.

“So lovely to see you again,” Sara said in greeting Amalia, for they, too, had become friends in the summer of 1914. “You haven't changed one bit.”

It was impossible to look away from her sister, who was radiant in a bright red frock of beaded and draped silk chiffon, its short skirts only just grazing her kneecaps. It wasn't the sort of thing she usually wore at home, she'd confided to Helena, but with her husband and parents on the other side of the Channel she had decided to throw caution to the wind.

Helena was wearing her gold Vionnet frock, for it was too nice to leave languishing in her wardrobe, and in it she felt as pretty as she'd ever been. Not a patch on her sister's vivid beauty, of course, but well enough to sit next to her and not feel entirely out of place.

The others were drinking champagne cocktails, so she and Amalia ordered the same, and in no time at all she was staring at the bottom of her glass and wondering if it was too soon to order another. The cocktails were absolutely delicious, fizzy and light and not too sweet, and in short order she had gulped down a second one and was feeling quite enthusiastic about the evening and life in general.

“Who is the man playing the piano?” she asked Gerald, who always knew the answer to such things.

“It's Jean Wiéner. Can turn his hand to anything. Ragtime one minute and Bach the next.”

“Is it just him onstage tonight?”

“No, but the cabaret acts won't come on until later. No one of note tonight, though they're usually quite—hey, look who's here!”

Gerald's attention was fixed on a point over her shoulder; she turned, and there was Sam.

“Hello, everyone. Sorry I'm late. I was out when Helena's
petit bleu
was delivered.”

“I thought . . . I mean, I wasn't sure where to send it. I suppose I ought to have sent it to the paper.”

“No matter. I'm here now.”

“You are, and, ah . . . well, this is my sister, Lady Amalia Ossington. Amalia, this is my friend Sam Howard.” When all else failed, her sense above all, she could at least fall back on good manners.

Introductions made, they shook hands and Sam took a seat on the opposite side of the table. When prompted by the waiter, he politely refused the offer of a champagne cocktail and instead asked for whiskey. “Any kind you have is fine.”

He looked as if he had slept in his clothes, unfortunately, for his shirt was rumpled, his necktie was crooked, and his coat was pulled out of shape by the overflowing contents of its pockets. Helena could make a fair guess as to what they held: a notebook, pencils, a dog-eared
Plan de Paris,
his pocket knife, a handful of coins, and the remains of the sandwich he hadn't had time to finish at lunch. He needed to shave, for his chin was dusted with red-gold stubble, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Had she ever seen him so tired before? And yet he was so handsome that her heart fairly stopped at the sight of him.

It was impossible to keep up any kind of conversation, for the pianist had been replaced by a five-piece band playing American jazz. Feeling a little dizzy, Helena asked for a glass of soda water instead of another champagne cocktail, and when Sara went in search of the lavatory she and Amalia accompanied her as well.

It was cooler there, and far quieter, too, so they lingered awhile, powdering their noses and reminiscing about Sara's summer in Europe before the war. Presently Amalia tidied away her powder compact and rouge and fixed Helena with a long, assessing stare.

“I'd no idea that Mr. Howard would be so attractive,” she said. “You never said a thing in your letters.”

“I, ah . . . I didn't think . . .” Helena stammered.

“Who are his people? Apart from being Americans, that is.”

“Didn't Helena say?” Sara answered. “His father is Andrew Clement Howard the Third. The steel baron. We may not have an aristocracy in the States, but if we did Sam's family would belong to it. I mean, they aren't
old
money—I think the fortune only goes back a century or so—but along the way they married into the old guard. Sam is as blue-blooded as an American can get.”

It was a good thing Helena was sitting down; otherwise she'd have found herself on the floor. How had she not known something so important about him? And what did it mean that he had never told her the truth?

“Helena—what's wrong?” Sara asked. “Don't tell me you didn't know.”

“I didn't. He never said a thing. Did you know?”

“Yes, but only because we know his parents. Perhaps he simply assumed that you knew.”

“Of course I didn't. He never talked about his life in
America. And when he did, it was ordinary stories. The food you eat at Thanksgiving, how he misses going to baseball games—that sort of thing.”

“Don't be too upset with him,” Sara advised. “After all, nearly everyone here has some kind of story. Even you. Has anyone ever questioned your decision to live as Miss Parr and not as Lady Helena?”

“No, but it's just so surprising. If his family is that wealthy, why does he live like a church mouse?”

“Because he lives on his salary from the paper,” Sara answered. “He hasn't accepted anything from his family for years.”

Helena felt dizzy, as if she'd just imbibed an entire pitcher full of champagne cocktails, and her heart was pounding with something that felt very much like fear. Sam had seemed so different, so free of all the smothering constraints and expectations that had shaped so much of her life, and to discover that he, too, was part of that world was almost more than she could bear.

It would have been so easy for him to tell her the truth. The night they'd been caught in the rain, for instance, she had asked about his family, and he'd said he didn't wish to talk about his life in America. He had told her nothing—yet she, like a fool, had gone ahead and blithely emptied her heart and soul into his hands. She had told him
everything,
and he had responded with prevarication, half-truths, and silence.

A comforting hand touched her shoulder. “The men will be waiting for us,” Amalia said. “Do you want to go home? Or are you fine to go back to the table?”

“We should go back to the table. I'll be fine,” she fibbed, not wanting her sister to worry.

“Good for you,” said Sara. “And remember that Sam hasn't changed. He's the same man he's always been.”

“I know. It's simply a great deal to take in. That's all.”

She stood, her legs a little shaky, and Amalia rushed over to embrace her. “Save your thinking for later. Now is the time for cocktails and jazz music and dancing.”

Back at the table, Helena pushed aside her soda water and gulped down two champagne cocktails in quick succession. They proved very efficacious at redirecting her attention, and so when Sam got up to leave not a half hour later, explaining that he had to return to his office, she managed to say good night without drawing any undue attention to herself.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Étienne suggested they move on to a dance hall in Pigalle, which prompted Sara and Gerald to say a reluctant good night. “We've a long drive home to St.-Cloud tonight, and neither of us is an enthusiastic dancer,” Sara explained. “It was so lovely to see you again, Amalia.”

The dance hall was perfect: just seedy enough to feel exciting rather than dangerous, and so crowded that it didn't matter at all if one knew the steps to the dances being played at a blistering pace by its band. Étienne bought them a round of absinthe, which Helena was fairly certain had been illegal for some time, and she drank down her glassful as speedily as she dared. It tasted almost exactly like the licorice sweets she'd loved as a child, though less sweet, and if she hadn't been wary of its alleged hallucinogenic effects she'd have had another.

She and Étienne and Amalia danced without stopping for hours, and only when the band took a break at two o'clock in the morning did her sister plead exhaustion. “You and Étienne have class tomorrow, and I've a long train journey ahead of me.”

Amalia was right, of course, though it had been heaven to listen to the music and dance and let every last one of her cares melt away. Étienne found them a taxi, threatened the driver with dire consequences if they didn't reach home safely, and kissed both of them, though chastely, before disappearing into the night.

They were home by three in the morning, and though Helena wanted nothing more than to flop into bed she took the time to change into a nightgown and hang up her Vionnet gown properly. She was rubbing cold cream into her face when her sister knocked at the door.

“Would you mind if I came in and slept here?” Amalia asked.

“I'd love it if you did.”

And so they curled up alongside one another in Helena's big bed, and Amalia talked about her little boys, and Helena talked about her friends and her work, and presently they fell into an easy, gentle silence, both of them close to sleep.

“Are you happy?” Helena asked softly.

It was a while before Amalia answered. “I am. And yet . . . I'm not as happy as I might have been. I chose Peter because he was a good man. A safe, sensible choice for me. I am very fond of him, and of course I adore our boys. But I'm rather lonely at times.

“If I'd had a daughter,” she went on, “it might be easier, I think. With boys, they leave so soon for school, and when they do come home, they aren't little anymore. They don't need me anymore. And the days are . . . they're rather hard to fill. I do envy you. So busy with your work, and your friends are so interesting. I did like them very much.”

“Oh, Mellie,” Helena sighed, using her sister's pet name. “I don't know what to say.”

“Don't fret on my account. It's just the champagne talking.” Amalia wiped her eyes with the cuff of her nightgown and smiled brightly at her sister. “Now, tell me more about Étienne. I knew who he was from your letters, but I had no idea he would be so handsome. Have you ever considered . . . ?”

“No, ah . . . no, I haven't.” For a moment she considered trying to explain to her sister that Étienne was a homosexual, but she was too tired, and she wasn't entirely sure how she would react, besides.

“I see,” Amalia said decisively. “It's Mr. Howard you're stuck on.”

“Mellie! Whatever gave you that idea? He and I are friends, no more. And he isn't interested in me. Not in that way, at least.”

“Allow me to disagree. He didn't take his eyes off you all night.”

“Don't exaggerate. We really are only friends. And now that I know the truth about his family, and the way they live . . .”

“Yes?”

“I don't think I can go back to that sort of life. The life that Mama expects me to have—”

“The life I have,” her sister whispered.

“Yes. Forgive me for saying so, but I don't think I can live in that world. I thought I did, once, but now . . . now I want more. I want something
else
. And if it means I never marry, then so be it.”

“So be it,” Amalia echoed sleepily.

“Good night, Mellie. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Amalia fell asleep in seconds, but Helena lay awake, her thoughts churning over the enigma that was Sam. How could
she have been so wrong about him? It was clear, now, that she had imagined much of their closeness. She had been honest with him, as true friends must be, while he had remained apart and unknowable.

And those kisses they had shared? They had made a fool of her, for they had led her to conjure up a romance out of thin air. To imagine love where there was only a sort of tepid fondness.

She would miss him, of course, but those silly feelings would soon fade. Her heart was bruised, but it wasn't broken. And that was something, wasn't it? It was cold comfort to know such a thing, lying awake in the long and lonely hours before dawn, but it was all she had. It would have to be enough.

W
ith the vernissage for the Salon des Indépendants fast approaching, Helena threw herself into the creation of paintings for the exhibition. Maître Czerny would only choose one, but as he had so far disliked her every effort she had no real notion of what would please him best.

So far she had completed three works that she hoped would pass muster: a landscape in pastels of lavender growing over an old wall, which she had begun the day she first met Sam; a pen-and-ink drawing of a man who sold newspapers by the Pont Louis-Philippe; and the portrait in oils of the farmer's wife she'd seen at Les Halles.

She liked all three well enough; they were competently executed and perfectly decorative. But they lacked life, just as Maître Czerny had often complained of Daisy's work, and likely would say of hers if he ever bothered to take a closer look. They were inert, the sort of objects that were pretty and even rather interesting but not the slightest bit compelling.

One afternoon, a fortnight after her sister's visit, she arrived at the studio with Étienne and Mathilde; Daisy hadn't come to class that day, for her father had been ill and she was
needed at home. Helena went to her easel, which was empty, and realized—why on earth hadn't it occurred to her before?—that she had nothing to do, for she had finished the last of her paintings the day before.

She opened her sketchbook, looking for some preliminary drawings to work up, and the only one that interested her was a spare, penciled vignette of the Train Bleu at the Gare de Lyon, at the moment when passengers were boarding for their journey south. So long ago that she had drawn it; so long, and yet it might have been yesterday.

“Mathilde? Étienne? Would you mind having a look at this?”

She flattened the sketchbook upon her table and stood back so her friends might see.

“I drew it last spring. It was my first day in France. I was on the Train Bleu and we'd stopped at the Gare de Lyon to take on more passengers. And I was thinking . . .”

“Yes?” Étienne prompted.

“I was thinking I might attempt a larger work, say a meter wide, with the train itself as the backdrop and the passengers in the foreground. Everyone would be moving, all rushing to board the train and say their farewells. At first glance it would look like one of those posters you see at train stations and on the Métro. The sort with an illustration of some exotic locale, and a slogan like ‘Winter Is Pleasanter on the Côte d'Azur.' That sort of thing. But there would be more to it, for the longer you looked the more you would see.”

“I like this idea of yours,” said Mathilde. “I like it very much.”

“But I paint so slowly. It would take me forever to finish. And we've only a month and a half until the Salon des Indépendants.”

“Then paint faster,” Étienne ordered. “You must begin now, before the muse abandons you. Don't bother with sketches—start with charcoal, on the canvas itself. Look at your drawing once more, and then shut it away. Your memories are all you need.”

“I don't have anything large enough. My largest canvas is half that size.”

“I have one that might do,” he said, and he went to the corner of the studio where a half-dozen oversized canvases were leaning against the wall. Rummaging through them, he pulled the largest from the stack. “Here,” he said. “Use this one.”

“But you stretched those canvases yourself. You spent hours on them,” Helena protested.

“And I am honored to know one will be used in a masterpiece by Helena Parr.”

Adjusting her easel so the canvas was balanced securely, he picked up a stalk of vine charcoal and handed it to her. “Begin,” he said, and then he and Mathilde silently returned to their easels.

Helena cleared her mind of everything but the memory of that moment in Paris, at the Gare de Lyon, still so clear in her mind's eye that it might have been yesterday. She drew and drew, and only when Étienne approached and gently touched her arm did she realize that night had fallen and hours had passed.

“That's all for today,” he insisted. “We'll go to dinner now, and then I'll walk you home.”

Standing back from the easel, she assessed the outlines she'd sketched on the canvas. Even at this early stage, she could tell that she was creating something original and new, something that was truly her own creation and not a pastiche of someone
else's ideas and techniques. If she'd had the strength, she'd have continued to work through the night, but Étienne was right: food and rest now, and back to her easel as soon as the sun was up.

F
OR EVERY MOMENT
of soaring delight, however, there was a lowering counterpoint. It came the following week, near the end of her life painting class with Maître Czerny. The model had been a young woman, her skin rosy and clear, her face as wise and serene as an Old Master Madonna. Helena had been inspired to draw her face and hands alone, a pair of studies rather than a conventional portrait, and had done so using only charcoal and chalk.

The maître had spent the class prowling from easel to easel, but she had failed to attract his notice for most of the session. Only at the very end did he realize what she had done, and then his ire burst forth.

“Are you deaf, Mademoiselle Parr? Or are you a dullard? I asked for a compositional study.
Compositional
. You were meant to depict the model's entire form—but perhaps you thought you knew better than I. Is that it? Are you the master here?”

“I beg your pardon. I misheard you. I didn't intend to cause any offense.”

“But you do offend me. Your tedious work offends me, as does your timid approach. You are tentative when you ought to be bold. You are—”

“Oh, do leave off!” she snapped, her anger overruling her sense. “I made a simple mistake, that is all. I misheard your instructions, and for that I apologize. But your behavior is indefensible, utterly so, and I am sick to death of it.”

No one moved, no one breathed, and as she stood by her
easel, shocked beyond words by her outburst, the only sound she could discern was the thunderous beat of her pounding heart. She swallowed, felt a tide of sickness rise in her throat, but managed, somehow, to force it back.

Before Maître Czerny could respond, before he could begin to shout at her, she frantically began to gather her things, certain he would demand that she leave. What had she been thinking? It was nearly the end of the course; to fail now, to fall when the end was in—

“What are you doing? Did I tell you to leave?”

“No, but . . .”

“You aren't crawling away now, are you? Not after you have finally showed me you have a spine. Or would the Americans among you call it ‘guts'?”

“So you aren't . . . ?”

“No. Put down your bag, Mademoiselle Parr, and try to pay attention from now on.”

“Yes, Maître Czerny.”

“Let this be a lesson to all of you,” he announced to the class. “I roar, I growl, I hiss—but I do not bite. Learn how to stand your ground; otherwise the critics will make a meal of you. Understood? Yes? Then that is all for today.”

Helena, Étienne, and Mathilde went straight to the studio after class, not even stopping to buy bread and cheese for lunch. Helena's hands were shaking so badly that she wasn't sure she'd be able to hold a brush, so Étienne unearthed a bottle of brandy he'd tucked away for emergency purposes and persuaded her to swallow several fiery mouthfuls. It did make her feel a little steadier, and she was thinking that she might be able to work on her Train Bleu canvas after all, when Daisy burst through the door.

“Where have you been?” Helena asked. “We haven't seen you for days.”

It was evident from the expression on Daisy's face that something dreadful had happened. Mathilde led her to the settee and they gathered around her protectively. “What is the matter? Why are you so pale? Étienne—fetch her a brandy.”

“Thank you,” Daisy said, trying to smile. “I suppose I ought to explain.” She took a deep breath, as if to settle her nerves. “My father died the day before yesterday.” Before they could respond, she rushed on. “He'd been ill with a cold for weeks, but then it settled into his lungs, and he got pneumonia, and that was . . .”

Daisy's eyes welled up with tears, but she brushed them away impatiently with the back of her hands.

“I am so very, very sorry to hear it. We all are,” Helena said.

“He was very agitated at the end. He kept asking me to forgive him, to please forgive him, but I thought he was talking about the way he'd kept such a close watch over me.

“He died at dawn, and it had been days since I'd slept, so I went to bed for a few hours. And then I woke, and I knew I had to make some decisions. Daddy hadn't ever talked about where he wanted to be buried, or what he wanted for his funeral, and I thought it might be recorded in his will, or somewhere else in his papers. So I went into his office, and I searched through his files, and I found . . .”

She paused and, accepting the brandy that Mathilde offered her, took a large sip, coughed delicately, and handed back the glass.

“Did you find what you needed?” Étienne prompted.

“I did. He wanted to be buried at home, in America, next to Mother, although he didn't say anything about a funeral, so I've no idea what to do about that.”

“Perhaps one of his friends at the hospital?” Helena ventured.

Daisy shook her head. “It's not . . . there's more. I found something else. Something
awful
.”

Étienne grasped her hand. “Go on,
ma belle
.”

“One of the drawers in his desk was stuck, and I pulled at it, and it came flying out and tipped onto the floor. And inside it was . . . was . . .”

They waited for Daisy to find a way to describe what she had found, and as they did so Helena couldn't stop her imagination from running wild. Demands from creditors? Evidence of a mistress? Risqué photographs?

“Inside was a letter,” Daisy said at last, her voice shaking. “It was from the man I loved, and for so long I'd thought him lost, but he wasn't, and all this time . . .”

She began to cry, wrenching, tormented sobs, and Étienne gathered her close, whispering soft, encouraging endearments into her ear until she was able to speak again.

“I met him in 1918, right at the end of the war. We didn't know one another for very long, but I loved him. I did. He was sent back to America, and we weren't able to say good-bye, and I tried to find him. I even asked Daddy for help, but he said it was no use. That it was better to forget. And I believed him. Why did I believe him?”

“Are you speaking of Daniel?” Helena asked, recalling their conversation about Daisy's time at the Studio for Portrait Masks.

“Yes. Daniel Mancuso.”

“How did his letter come to be hidden in your father's desk?” Étienne asked gently.

“It wasn't for me. Daniel had heard I was sick with the flu,
and came by the house to ask after me. Daddy told him I was dead, and Daniel sent a letter of condolence. That's what I found. I don't know . . . I mean, I don't understand why my father didn't simply destroy it.”

Daisy reached for the brandy and took another fortifying sip. “I know I ought to be sad, and grieving for my father, but I'm so angry right now. How could he do such a thing? He didn't even know Daniel.”

“What will you do now?” Mathilde asked.

“I have to take my father home. He wanted to be buried next to my mother. I guess I owe him that much. After that . . . I'm not sure.”

“Do you know how to find him? Your Daniel?” Étienne ventured hesitantly.

“I know he was an engineer before the war, and that he grew up on the Lower East Side in New York. I suppose I'll start there.” She wiped her eyes decisively and took a deep breath. “I'm leaving in two days. I'll worry about the house and everything in it later.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Helena asked, her heart aching for her friend.

“Listening to me, just now. That was enough.”

“Where is Louisette?” Étienne asked. They hadn't noticed before, but for the first time since they'd met Daisy, she was alone.

“Gone. Sacked. But I'm not heartless,” she said. “I gave her a reference, and enough money to live on for a while.”

“You were perfectly justified,” Helena assured her.

“I couldn't bear the sight of her. I couldn't. She was always so unfeeling. So cold. I thought of asking her why, but in the end I didn't. It wouldn't have changed anything.”

“What of your paintings?” Mathilde asked.

“Do you think you could take care of them? At least until I've a better idea of what will happen.”

“Of course we will.”

“I need to go. I'll write as soon as I arrive.”

“You must write,” Helena insisted. “We shall all be holding our breath until we hear from you.”

Daisy hugged them, one by one, and stood back to take a last look at the studio.

“Au revoir, mes amis
.
”