Moonlight Over Paris (5 page)

H
elena rose at dawn the next day, and spent a happy and solitary morning in her studio, fortifying herself with cups of tea from her aunt's silver samovar. She fueled it with lumps of the ersatz coal the French called
boulots,
which threw off about as much heat as a firefly's dying breath, but the samovar didn't seem to mind. It did look rather ridiculous amid such rustic surroundings, but it boiled water quickly without heating the already-warm studio and meant she didn't have to invade Jeanne's kitchen whenever she wanted a cup of tea.

Having decided to work up one or two of her sketches from the day before in pastels, she looked them over and chose one that was little more than a few penciled lines. A swath of lavender had colonized a ruined drystone wall, rooting wherever pockets of soil had collected, and she'd been entranced at the way the plants spilled in a leggy jumble over the scattered blocks, as if there were no place on earth they'd rather be growing.

She began with blocks of color, which she pressed onto the paper with broken pieces of hard chalk pastels: a pale gray, almost white, for the mass of the wall, a bluish gray for the
undulating mass of the foliage, and airy smudges of cornflower blue and violet for the blossoms. Dipping a flat brush in water, she used its damp bristles to sharpen the pigments here and there, adding intensity to the blossoms and depth to the ruined wall. She worked quickly, never lingering in any one spot for fear of overworking the pigments.

At this stage, the painting needed some time to dry, so she made herself a cup of tea, washed and dried the brush she'd used, and walked down to the edge of the top garden terrace. The sky was a dazzling blue already, without a shred of morning cloud. It would be another fine day, and very hot. Perfect weather for an afternoon on the beach.

She stood at the edge of the terrace and sipped at her tea, and tried to recall what life had been like before she had discovered she could draw.

She could still remember, if vaguely, how she had loved to make sketches of her toys and pets when she was very little, and how her parents had been pleased when presented with examples of her artwork by her nanny and governesses. No one had ever encouraged her to do anything more, however, and after a while she had become frustrated by her inability to capture what her eyes saw.

And then, the year she'd turned twelve, Miss Renfrew had been engaged as governess to her and Amalia. The woman hadn't been especially friendly or kind, and most of her lessons had been extremely boring, but she had known a little about art. Miss Renfrew had taught Helena the basic rules of composition and perspective, had shown her how to use pastels and watercolors, and had encouraged her to always carry a sketchbook and pencils, just in case inspiration struck when she was far from home. When Miss Renfrew had been replaced
by another, less artistically inclined governess the following year, Helena had been disconsolate, but she hadn't given up. She had, instead, saved for months to buy an illustrated guide to figure drawing, and once she had memorized its precepts she had bought and devoured similar volumes devoted to watercolors and pastels.

And there she might have stayed, a self-taught but woefully inexperienced artist, if not for the war.

In the early years of the conflict, she hadn't done much in the way of volunteer work, apart from the same sort of Red Cross meetings and bandage-rolling parties that every other girl her age seemed to do. She had been bored and restless, and before long had started to pester her mother for permission to do more.

It had taken months and months, but eventually she had worn Mama down. By the middle of 1917 she had begun to volunteer at a small auxiliary hospital in Grosvenor Square. At first her work had been confined to letter-writing for men too weak to do so themselves, but one day she had found herself at loose ends, and without anything else to do had pulled out her ever-present sketchbook and pencil and had sketched one of the wounded men. He had been turned away from her, his face in profile, and it had been surprisingly easy to capture his likeness. One of the nurses had noticed, and complimented her, and soon every patient on the ward was asking for a portrait to send home.

Art had sustained her that year and the next, all those long, bleak months at the rag end of the war after Edward had gone missing and her happy, naïve dreams for the future had melted away like so much sand before the tide. In the years that followed, art had become her salvation. No matter how horrid
people had been to her, no matter how lonely she had become, she'd always been able to escape to her room, to her easel by the window where the light was best, and forget everything.

Helena returned to her easel, again working with fragments of hard pastels, breaking them as needed to find a sharp edge for the details she sought. A mossy green traced the length of individual stalks of lavender, a shard of dark indigo further shadowed the crevices between the wall's ancient stones, and tiny pools of warm white, softened with her fingertip, caught the fractal path of sunbeams through a parasol of olive leaves.

She took a step back and surveyed her work. It was a simple scene, nothing that would ever turn the world on end, but it nonetheless filled her with a deep sense of satisfaction. Out of nothing more than a sheet of paper and a handful of broken pastels, she had created something beautiful.

And a year from now? What would she be capable of creating then? The possibilities alone were enough to make her feel nearly dizzy with excitement.

Just then, a bell rang inside. Micheline was reduced to almost comical levels of anxiety at the thought of interrupting Helena while she was painting, so they had come up with the bell as a tolerable means of summoning her to meals. She tidied away her things and headed back to the house.

The villa was cool and dark, its shutters still drawn against the sun, and its tiled floors felt pleasantly cool against Helena's bare feet as she went upstairs to wash her face and hands.

Agnes had a love of cold soups, the more exotically flavored the better, and as Helena joined her aunt in the dining room she braced herself for that day's offering. The soup from yesterday, which had contained ground almonds, of all things, had reminded her unpleasantly of melted ice cream.

Today's first course, however, was a concoction of tomato, cucumbers, and onions, as well as a headily fragrant amount of garlic; when they'd first had it the week before she had thought it delicious.

“I've forgotten the name for this,” she said.

“It's gazpacho. The Princesse de Polignac has a Spanish chef and I persuaded him to explain how it's made. So wonderfully refreshing.”

It was, and Helena had a second helping before devouring a plate of cold, grilled vegetables and several slices of day-old bread, also grilled, that had been rubbed with olive oil and yet more garlic.

“What are you doing this afternoon?” her aunt asked.

“I'm going down to the beach, as usual. Why don't you come with me? The Murphys have half a dozen parasols all set up, so you'll be in the shade, and—”

“Not today, my dear. I didn't sleep at all well last night. Bad memories, you know.”

“Then you should stay here and rest. May I bring Hamish, though? He loves playing with the Murphys' dogs.”

“Those wild things?”

“They're no bigger than Hamish, and very friendly animals.”

“Oh, I suppose,” her aunt said, sighing gustily. “You will carry him home, won't you? He'll be far too tired to manage.”

“Of course I will, and I'll have a spot in the shade where he can rest, and a bowl of water, too.”

“Don't forget the lemon. He loves a squeeze of lemon juice in his water.”

“I won't forget.”

It didn't take long to prepare for the afternoon, for Helena kept a bag ready packed with almost everything she needed,
her swimming costume included. All she had to do was rub some sun cream on her nose, put on her espadrilles, and clip Hamish's lead to his collar.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Rrruff,” he answered, and together they set off for their afternoon in the sun.

T
HE
M
URPHYS WERE
already at the beach, with Gerald hard at work, as he had been every day since their arrival, on the task of clearing away the mountains of seaweed that had been allowed to accumulate. Only the hardiest winter holidaymakers ever went swimming, and the locals appeared immune to the charms of sand and sea. The section of beach he and his friends had cleared, while modest, was more than sufficient for the purposes of their small group, though the smell of the remaining seaweed could be a trifle overpowering at times.

“Hello, Helena,” called Sara from the water, where she and Honoria were paddling. “Agnes didn't come with you?”

“Not today. But I did bring Hamish.” She bent to unclip his lead, watching fondly as he waddled off to join the other dogs.

“Do help yourself to a glass of sherry or lemonade. And there are sandwiches in the basket.”

“I think I'll change first.”

Never inclined to do anything by half measures, the Murphys had set up a small pavilion-style tent for use as a changing room. Helena slipped inside, taking care to tie shut its flaps—she didn't wish to see her modesty in tatters thanks to a sudden breeze—shrugged out of her frock, cami-knickers, and espadrilles, and wriggled into her bathing costume. It was new, bought in Nice at the beginning of the summer, and while not immodest, at least not compared to others she had seen, its
skimpy décolletage and abbreviated skirt would certainly have alarmed her mother. What her father might think of it she didn't care to imagine.

Only then did she remember that Mr. Howard would be at the beach, and she very nearly balked before urging herself forward. Of course he wasn't likely to notice what she was wearing, or even care. It had been years since anyone had noticed her in that way, and that state of affairs was unlikely to change as a result of one passably chic swimming costume. Besides, she really did want to go for a swim.

She spotted Mr. Howard as she was leaving the tent, and rather than walk down to the water right away she stood and watched him for a moment, admiring the way he played so unaffectedly with the Murphy children. He had rolled up his trouser legs, shed his shoes, and, at the boys' direction, was patiently excavating a moat around a sand castle they were building.

“Helena! Are you coming?” called Sara. “If you are, could you bring me my hat? It's on the table.”

“Coming!” she called back. She collected Sara's hat and, holding it well above her head, crossed the hot sand to the water's edge. A few more steps and the water was past her knees, then her waist, and then she was standing on tiptoes an arm's length away from Sara and her daughter.

“Here you are,” she said, passing the hat to her friend. “I'm going to swim for a bit. Honoria—you will shout out if you see any pirates? Promise me you will.”

“I will,” the child said, giggling.

“Good. Don't start the treasure hunt without me.”

The beach at La Garoupe was on the western side of Cap d'Antibes and oriented rather more to the north; as she paddled
away from the shore, the view before her was of the smaller Baie des Anges, and not the great expanse of the Mediterranean. She wasn't a strong swimmer, but here, in the sheltered bay, the water was shallow and nearly still, and it was easy to touch bottom and walk back to shore when she did grow tired.

It really was such a joy to swim in water such as this. The seasides she'd known at home, in Cornwall and Devon, had been beautiful places, but their water had rarely been so warm, and certainly never as calm. Swimming there—and she'd never gone very far, for fear of the tumbling waves—had been bracing rather than pleasurable, and she'd never been tempted to linger.

In her first weeks in Antibes, Helena had been able to swim for ten minutes at most before stumbling, utterly exhausted, back to the beach. Now she swam for half an hour, sometimes more, taking pleasure in the feeling of strength in her limbs as she carved through the water, letting her thoughts wheel and wander as freely as the gulls overhead. It was glorious to feel like herself again, to feel young and alive, and so hungry for every experience life could offer her. For so long she'd been starving, in body and in spirit, but a banquet awaited her now.

Honoria was waiting with a towel and robe, all but jumping up and down with excitement, when Helena emerged from the water. “Come, Ellie, do come! Mother says that as soon as we've eaten we may start the treasure hunt. But we can't begin until you've had something, too.”

She followed Honoria back to the little encampment the Murphys had established, accepted a glass of lemonade, and sat down on an empty mat near the children.

“Mind if I join you?” Mr. Howard asked.

“Not at all. There's room on the mat, or we could find you a chair . . .”

“The mat will do just fine. How was your swim?”

“Lovely. Very refreshing. You should go in. I'm sure Gerald has a swimming costume he can lend you.”

“I'm all right here on the beach,” he answered affably, and he did seem perfectly content, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His feet were bare, she noticed, and the cuffs of his khaki trousers were still rolled up. She flushed at the strangeness of sitting next to a man she hardly knew while looking at his bare feet and calves, so near to him that she could see the bright coppery gold of the hair on his legs.

Such a missish response to something entirely normal in this day and age. If she didn't pull herself together, she'd be laughed out of art school come the autumn. Good heavens—what if she were asked to draw a nude? Only the worst sort of small-minded country bumpkin would balk at that.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn't immediately notice that Mr. Howard was talking to her. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I wasn't attending just now.”