Moonlight Over Paris (25 page)

“Then be his friend now. Tell him what you just told me.”

“I suppose I could write to him. Sara might know his address in New York.”

“No,” Agnes said decisively. “No, a letter won't do. You need to go to him.”

“What? Go to
America
? I can't. It's too . . . it's too far, for a start. And we've the wedding this Thursday.”

“Then you can leave the next morning. You'll still arrive in America only a few days after he does.”

“What if he refuses to see me? He left without telling me, or saying good-bye. Surely that means—”

“How can you know what
any
of this means if you don't go to him and find out? Now get started on packing your things, and I'll take care of everything else.”

Belgravia, London

30 April 1925

O
ne thing hadn't changed in the year since Helena had left London: the way she was treated by genteel society. Throughout the course of her niece's wedding day, she had been subjected to the same whispers, stares, cold shoulders, and knowing sideways glances that had blighted her life for so long.

She had expected it, steeled herself against it, and then, quite to her astonishment, had discovered that none of it hurt, not anymore. Once, such petty cruelties had defined her life. No more. Now, she realized, she truly didn't care.

It helped that she was dressed to the nines, or, as Mathilde would say, to the
trente et un
. Agnes had surprised her that morning with a new Vionnet frock and matching coat, which she'd had made from Helena's measurements after their visit in December. The outfit, made of silk chiffon and wool crepe the exact color of purple pansies, was exactly right for the occasion. With it she wore a matching cloche hat in finely pleated organdy, and a long rope of her aunt's biggest pearls, and she felt—she knew—she was the
best-dressed woman there, with the possible exception of Agnes herself.

Of course Helena had expected it would be difficult to be thrown back into the same social circles that had once been so uncongenial to her, and of course she had known it would be hard to see Edward and his family for the first time in years. What she hadn't anticipated was how anxious she would feel over the fate of her niece, or how disenchanted she would be with the ceremony and attendant traditions, all of which felt like they belonged to an earlier age.

The expensive bridal gown from Paris had looked all wrong on Rose, its heavy satin far too overwhelming for her slight frame, while the family veil of Honiton lace, anchored by a diamond bandeau worn low over her forehead, had given her the appearance of a little girl playing dress-up.

That was the problem—she was a girl, only just eighteen, and the same age Helena had been when her engagement to Edward had been announced. If not for the timely intervention of the war, she would have shared her niece's fate of marriage to a near stranger and a lifetime of being bullied by a Gorgon of a mother-in-law.

The groom was Edward's brother, George, who had been a gangly adolescent the last time Helena had met him but was now a rather awkward and red-faced man in his mid-twenties. He was a barrister, which presumably meant he had some brains between his ears, and he did seem fond of Rose, which was a good sign. Helena feared her niece would bore her new husband silly, but perhaps, as neither knew to expect anything more, they might contrive to be happy. It was a lowering way to look at it, but truthful enough.

The ceremony and reception were exactly the same as every
other wedding she'd ever attended, featuring the same readings, the same music, and the same homily from the same chinless vicar who had been at St. Peter's Eaton Square for donkey's years. The breakfast afterward had gone on for far too long, with interminable and very dull speeches, and ostentatiously prepared food that had left her hungry for the unpretentious fare of Chez Rosalie.

If Amalia had been there, it would have been ever so much easier, but Peter was ill with a painful case of shingles and her sister had stayed behind at their country house to care for him. That was why, as soon as the wedding breakfast had finished, Helena had slipped out into the garden for some time to herself. But she'd been followed.

“May I join you?”

Looking up, she saw the man she hadn't been alone with since the day they had ended their engagement. Edward.

“Please do,” she said, and she moved aside to make room for him on the wrought-iron bench. “How are you?”

“I'm well, thank you. Happy to be away from prying eyes. I hoped we might have a chance to speak, but I didn't want to set tongues wagging.”

“Nor did I.”

“I gather you were very ill last year. I'm relieved to see you looking so well.”

“Am I?” she asked, and for a terrible moment she thought she might cry. They had been engaged for five years, but for all that he was nearly a stranger to her. “I'm sorry,” she went on. “It's only that I'm rather tired. My aunt and I just arrived from Paris yesterday.”

“Of course. You've been at art school.”

“Yes.”

“I'm glad to hear it. You were so talented. I ought to have tried to encourage you more, but I was a selfish idiot. Couldn't see past the nose on my face.”

It was true, but he'd had other worries, too. It would be unfair of her to fault him on it now. “How is Lady Cumberland?” she asked instead.

“Do call her Charlotte. She detests the title. For obvious reasons. My mother, you know . . .”

“Of course. How is Charlotte, then?”

“Very well. Busy with her work, and the children, too.”

“How old are they?”

“Laurence is four, and Eleanor is two and a half. We didn't bring them to the service, but you might have seen them running around before breakfast.”

“I did. I thought they were very sweet.” Laurence, she recalled, was a serious little boy, with dark hair and a quiet manner. His sister seemed his opposite, with fair hair and an engaging and rather precocious way about her.

“There was another child,” she said, remembering. “A little girl with ginger hair. Is she Lilly's?”

“Yes. Her name is Charlotte, which never fails to delight me. She's just two now, and soon to have a sister or brother, as you may have noticed.”

“Lilly seems very content.”

“She is, yes. She and Robbie earned their happiness. But then, haven't we all?”

They were silent for a moment, and then they both started to talk at once, their words tangling together.

“No,” she said. “You go first.”

“I didn't know,” he began, and he met her gaze unflinchingly. “The gossip, that is. The things people said after I
broke our engagement. I was in . . . well, I was in a state, to be honest. I was pickled with drink and out of my mind with pain and self-pity, and I did a pretty good job of ignoring the world around me. I only realized what had happened months later, when Lilly told me.”

“Oh,” she said, not knowing how else to respond. She'd never expected him to do anything, of course, but it did help to know he was sorry for it.

“I wasn't sure what to do. I worried it would stir up bad memories if I wrote to you, or approached you in any way, and so I said nothing. For that I am truly sorry.”

“It wasn't your fault. You did your best, and we both survived. You mustn't feel guilty. I don't blame you, or Charlotte, for any of it. Not one bit. Not least because you'd have made me very unhappy, and I you.”

“I hope . . . I do hope you've been happy,” he said. “In spite of things.”

“I have been, especially this past year. I was very happy in Paris.”

It was true. She had been happy there, really and truly content. She'd had work that sustained her, friends that understood her, and at the heart of it all had been Sam.

T
HE RECEPTION HAD
ended, and Helena and her aunt were the sole passengers in an enormous automobile, driven by Vincent, that was conveying them back to her parents' house.

“Are you ready? Are your bags packed? We need to get you on your way.”

“I'm ready, but I must speak to Mama and Papa before I go. I wanted to earlier, but there wasn't time.”

Helena found her parents in the sitting room that connected their respective bedchambers. “May I come in?”

“Yes, do,” her mother answered. “Come and sit next to me. I thought you looked very well today. Didn't she, John?”

“Yes, dear. Very well.”

“Thank you. I have something to tell you,” Helena began. “It's actually several things.” Her parents exchanged apprehensive glances, but didn't interrupt.

“First of all, I'm not certain when I will return to London, or even if I will return at all. I love you dearly, and I will miss you, but I have been very happy in Paris and I wish to return there.

“Before that, however, I am going to America. I've, well, I've fallen in love with an American man, a friend of mine from Paris, but I made a mistake, and I let him leave without telling him, and—”

“Is this the American that Amalia met? The steel baron's heir?”

“It is, although that has nothing to do with—”

“Are you going alone? Without any sort of chaperone?”

“Yes, Mama.”

Her mother swallowed, pressed her lips together, and then nodded. “If that is what you wish.”

“Papa?”

“Is he a decent sort of man?”

“He is the very best sort of man, Papa. I promise.”

“Then I suppose you must go.”

“Thank you. Agnes knows Mr. Howard very well, and she can certainly put your minds at ease. I'll cable as soon as I arrive. Farewell for now.”

Helena rushed upstairs and in the space of fifteen minutes changed out of her lovely frock and coat and packed away the last of her things. Agnes returned just as she was finishing,
and with the help of Farrow the footman they carried her two suitcases downstairs, where Vincent was waiting with the same car that had brought them back from the reception.

“To Trafalgar Square,” Agnes commanded as soon as they were settled in the car.

“Shouldn't we be going to Waterloo Station? That's where the trains for Southampton depart.”

“Your ship isn't sailing from Southampton. It's at the docks here in London. We're going to the steamship line's offices first, to collect your ticket, and then to the ship.”

When they arrived at the office Helena was appalled to learn that Agnes had already reserved and paid for the best available cabin, which cost the astonishing sum of £85 for a one-way fare. According to the ticketing clerk, it was a new ship, less than two years old, and offered only first-class cabins. “Your ladyship will be very comfortable on the voyage over,” he promised.

“When does the ship arrive in New York?”

“First thing next Friday morning, ma'am.”

She turned to Agnes, aghast. “Eight days? As long as that?”

“The express ships say they'll get you there in six,” the clerk ventured, “but often as not they run into mechanical problems along the way. Our ships aren't as fast, but they're steady.”

From Cockspur Street they set off at some speed for the docks in the east end, Vincent weaving through the late afternoon traffic at speeds that left her feeling rather ill. To Helena's great relief, her ship was still at the docks when they drew close, and looked to be nowhere near ready for departure.

“Good-bye, Auntie—”

“Not so fast, my dear. Here is some money for the voyage.
It's pounds, I'm afraid, but you can buy some dollars from the ship's purser.”

“
Two
hundred
pounds? I can't, Auntie A. It's too much.”

“Nonsense. I should be very anxious if you left home with a penny less.”

It suddenly occurred to her that she had no notion of how to find Sam once she got to New York. “I don't know Sam's address. What shall I do?”

But nothing could faze her aunt, it seemed. “I'll cable Sara and ask her to find out. The ship is sure to have a telegraph office on board—we'll get his direction to you, never fear. Now off you go, and bon voyage!”

T
he SS
Minnewaska
slipped her berth and headed down the Thames and out to sea at five o'clock that evening, and though many of her passengers gathered on the promenade deck to wave farewell to England and any well-wishers remaining onshore, Helena lingered in her cabin. She would venture out when the bell rang for supper, but until then she was content to be alone.

Her £85 worth of cabin was very pleasant, though far less luxurious than the first-class compartment she'd occupied on the Blue Train to Antibes the year before. It was about eight feet deep and about the same across, with good-sized windows on its exterior wall that ensured it would be bright as long as the weather held fine. It felt more like a sitting room than a ship's cabin, with parquet floors, chintz curtains, and a Sheraton-style desk and chair. There were two bunks, although only one had been made up, and a shallow wardrobe with hooks rather than a rail. Best of all, her cabin had its own bathroom, with a tub, sink, and WC.

No sooner had she unpacked her bags and settled in than the bell rang for the first seating at supper. She made her way
to the dining room two decks below, a little hesitantly as she was still finding her sea legs, and was dismayed when one of the stewards led her to the captain's table. It would have been far nicer to dine with a smaller and less toplofty group, but her name and title had been noted, and her place would be at the captain's right hand for the remainder of the voyage.

Captain McKay and his senior officers were perfectly pleasant men, as were the other diners at her table, but the conversation was so staid and predictable that she all but fell asleep before the second course. There was no way around it, apart from claiming
mal de mer
and hiding in her cabin, and since she was a poor sailor to begin with there was every chance of her ending up confined to bed as soon as they hit rough water. She had better make the best of it while she still felt able to enjoy her food, if not the company at table.

When packing in London, she'd had the presence of mind to include paper, charcoal, and pastels, and for the first few days she busied herself with views of the ship and its fittings, mindful of Maître Czerny's advice. In order to win commissions as a commercial artist, she would have to build up a portfolio of work on related themes, and where better to begin than on a first-class voyage across the Atlantic?

So she walked up and down the decks and stretched out on a steamer chair and let the wind rush through her hair, and at night she stood by her window and stared at the dome of stars that silvered the endless velvet sky. When her attention wavered from the work at hand, she pulled out a smaller sketchbook, and she tried to recapture the moments of joy, fear, laughter, and despair that had led her away and across the sea. She drew Sam, many times, and she drew her friends and Agnes and dear old Hamish, filling page after page with portraits of those she loved.

Two days into the crossing, a telegram was delivered to her cabin.

SAM STAYING HOWARD FAMILY HOME NYC TWO E SEVENTY-NINTH ST AT FIFTH AVE STOP WORKPLACE FOURTEEN WALL ST FIFTH FLOOR STOP HAVE CABLED DAISY STOP SHE WILL MEET YOU AFTER CUSTOMS STOP ETIENNE AND MATHILDE SEND THEIR BEST AS DO I STOP SARA

Late on Sunday night, the call went up—New York had been sighted in the distance, hours earlier than expected, and she rushed to the promenade deck above and shivered in her too-thin coat as a faint glow on the far horizon grew bigger and clearer, and someone nearby explained that they were seeing the lights off Long Island, and then a little later it was New Jersey in the distance, and then, at last, the ship began inching to starboard and they crossed through a narrow passage and emerged into an immense harbor.

Everyone rushed to the other side of the deck then, so they might see the great statue at close range, her torch lighting up the sky, but Helena stayed where she was. She was captivated by the sight of New York City ablaze with electric lights, and her artist's eye was fixed upon the strange modern skyline and its reaching towers, far higher than any buildings she'd seen in London or Paris.

The ship went straight to the piers on the Hudson River, on the west side of Manhattan, and by midnight they were neatly berthed—but no one could disembark until the following morning at eight o'clock, when the customs offices at the piers would be open and the SS
Minnewaska
's passengers might be legally admitted to the United States of America.

It took an age for her to fall asleep, for she was terribly excited and a little nervous, too, but when she woke she felt rested and surprisingly calm. She was up and out of bed not long past dawn, and after a light breakfast of tea and toast with marmalade, which the steward delivered to her cabin, she dressed in her very best outfit: the pansy-purple Vionnet frock and coat she'd worn to Rose's wedding.

At eight o'clock she was one of only a handful of passengers making their way down the gangplank and across to the customs offices on the pier; the remainder, she assumed, were taking the chance to sleep in and have a proper breakfast in the dining room.

The customs officer was polite but officious, and was at first concerned that her visa for entrance to the United States had been issued in Paris, though she had set sail from London. Fortunately he accepted her explanation that she had originally intended to travel from Le Havre but had been persuaded by her aunt that a direct journey from London would be more agreeable. It wasn't an out-and-out lie, but it was certainly the first time she had ever been less than completely truthful with any sort of official.

When the officer had asked to see all the funds she had with her, she'd at first feared that he meant to extort some or all of the money, but it turned out he only wished to ensure that she had sufficient capital to support herself without resorting to public funds or charitable assistance. Last of all he extracted a payment of eight dollars, what he called a “head tax,” which all foreigners had to pay upon entering the country.

By the time she emerged from the customs shed at the end of the pier, there was a sizable crowd milling around, and though she craned her neck and looked every which way, there was no
sign of Daisy. She was just beginning to worry when she heard her name being called—no, shouted.

“Helena!!! Hellooooo! Helenaaaaa!”

And there Daisy was, pushing through the crowds, hugging her close and all but pulling the both of them off balance in her excitement.

“Come on—let's get out of this crush. We'll talk in the car. Give me one of those cases, won't you?”

As soon as they were seated and the driver had shut Helena's luggage in the boot of the car, Daisy turned to her friend and asked, “Where do you want to start?”

“It's not even nine o'clock . . . perhaps at his parents' house? Let me find the address again . . . here it is. Number two East Seventy-Ninth Street. Is that far?”

“It's a ways off, especially in rush-hour traffic. But it will give us a chance to talk. Tell me
everything
.”

Helena shook her head. “You first. Why are you in New York?”

“It's complicated. I'm fine, honestly I am. There've been some sad days, but some good ones, too. I can't concentrate on any of that right now, though—I want to know why Sam is here and you're here. Sara's cable didn't say much.”

“I suppose there wasn't time for a letter. Right—here's the potted version.” And Helena told her friend the entire story, not sparing herself in her description of the morning after the vernissage, when she had been so wrongheaded and closed-minded in her rejection of Sam.

“Most of all I feel silly. Stupid, even. What was I thinking? I hurt him so badly, Daisy. I don't know . . . I can't be sure if he'll forgive me.”

“I understand. Truly I do. I've . . . well, I'll tell you about it later. You're doing the right thing, though.”

“I hope so.”

Helena looked out the window, her attention belatedly caught by the utterly unfamiliar streetscape. Everything seemed so new, so modern, and the streets were so wide and straight, and the buildings so terribly tall. There were far more cars than at home, the streets clogged with traffic and crowds of pedestrians, and everyone she saw looked so busy and determined, and she wondered if any of them longed to sit down over a
café express
or pot of tea and simply watch the world go by.

The city felt so new, and not just new compared to London or Paris, but brand-new, so new its paint hadn't yet dried, and newest of all, to her mind, were the skyscrapers. With the exception of the Eiffel Tower or the spires of various cathedrals, she was fairly certain she'd never before seen a structure that rose beyond eight or nine stories—but already they'd driven past dozens of buildings that reached ten, twenty, even thirty stories high.

“All these skyscrapers . . . I had no idea. Which is the tallest?”

“I think it's still the Woolworth Building. It's sixty stories high.”

“Sixty
stories. Just imagine standing on the top floor. The view must be tremendous.”

They'd been traveling north on a wide avenue, a huge park to their left, and she'd long since lost count of all the streets they'd crossed. The buildings they passed weren't as tall as they'd been farther to the south, but what they lacked in height they made up for in grandeur.

The driver turned right and pulled over to the side of the street. “Here we are, Miss Fields.”

The exterior of the Howard mansion was a masterpiece
of French Gothic Revival architecture, with an intricately carved limestone façade that reminded her more than a little of Notre-Dame Cathedral. As they walked toward the main entrance, she half-expected to look up and see a gargoyle grinning down at her, and indeed there were any number of cheerful little creatures worked into the stone, among them a pair of putti supporting a copper lantern in the shape of Atlas and his globe.

The door swung open at their approach, and as they stepped inside they were greeted by a butler who had clearly been imported directly from England, complete with cut-glass accent and pristine white gloves.

“Good morning. May I help you?”

If ever there were a time to drag out her title, this was it. “Good morning. My name is Lady Helena Montagu-Douglas-Parr, and this is my friend, Miss Dorothy Fields. We are friends of Mr. Howard's, Mr. Samuel Howard, that is, and we were hoping to pay him a visit.”

If the butler was surprised at the effrontery of two young ladies calling for the son of the house at nine in the morning, he was too well trained to betray it. “I am afraid that no one is at home, your ladyship. Mr. and Mrs. Howard are occupied with various engagements today, and Mr. Samuel Howard is at his offices on Wall Street. Would you care to leave a card?”

“I, ah . . . I . . .” she stammered. “If I could—”

“We would, thank you,” said a voice over her shoulder. “Here you are. There's a note for Mr. Howard on the card. I would be most grateful if you could ensure he sees it.”

“Of course, madame.”

There was nothing for it but to return to the car. “If only we'd known,” Daisy sighed, nearly as frustrated as Helena.
“Wall Street isn't all that far from the piers. Oh well—it won't be long now.”

Daisy instructed the driver to head south again, and eventually the car turned left, then right, and they were on a street called Broadway, still heading south.

“We just passed City Hall,” Daisy said presently. “We're nearly there.”

The car turned onto Wall Street a few minutes later, and again the driver promised to wait. Number fourteen was a grand building, so tall Helena couldn't quite see the top, and its foyer was nearly as striking, with marble on the floors and walls, and a bank of elevators with brass so highly polished she could see her reflection in their doors.

The reception area of Howard Steel was exactly as Helena had expected: plushly carpeted, baronially paneled, and as quiet as a pharaoh's tomb. Its overseer, an immaculately dressed woman in her forties, was seated at a modest desk and at first did not appear to have noticed their arrival.

“Good morning,” Helena ventured.

The woman looked up from the papers she was organizing and offered a crisp “good morning” but no more.

“My name is Lady Helena Montagu-Douglas-Parr, and I'm a friend of Mr. Howard's from Paris. I called on him at home earlier, but was told he was at the office today. I, ah . . .”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I'm afraid not. I only just arrived—”

“Mr. Howard is in meetings all day. I can't possibly interrupt him.”

“But I've come so far . . .” Helena offered, knowing it sounded pathetic but bereft of anything better to say.

“Yes. I imagine you have.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Daisy interjected. “Here's my card. Lady Helena and I are at the Plaza. I'm sure you can contrive to put this in his hands the next time you see him. Come on, Helena.”

They scurried back to the elevators, and by the time they were on solid ground again Helena's confidence of that morning had evaporated entirely.

“I had no idea it would be so difficult to see him,” she said as they got into Daisy's car yet again.

“Everything is different now. He's the heir to Howard Steel. Imagine what sort of people that brings out of the woodwork.”

“What should we do next?”

“Let's go to my hotel. The Plaza isn't much more than a mile away from the Howard mansion. We'll have a late breakfast, since I have a feeling you haven't eaten a thing so far today, and we'll make plans. He may be at the office all day, but he's got to go home at some point. If worst comes to worst, we'll sit in the car outside his house and wait for him.”

The latter part of Daisy's plan seemed rather desperate, but what else could she do? And she was feeling quite hungry. Once she'd eaten, and had a chance to think, she would probably feel better. If only she could be sure of getting a decent cup of tea.