Moonlight Over Paris(18)
“No, thank you. They fed me on the train.”
“I thought I’d let you choose your room. Not the blue room, though—it smells of damp.”
“I suppose it can’t be helped when one lives so close to the river.”
Agnes sighed dramatically. “My dear, if you only knew how many tears I have shed over this ruin of a house. It costs the earth to maintain, and every time it rains there is water in the sous-sol. I would leave, but dear Dimitri and I were so happy here. I couldn’t bear it.”
“But I thought . . . I thought you were only married for a few months before he died.”
“Yes, my dear, but we lived here together for nearly ten years before that. Such a happy time.”
Helena had always known her aunt was unconventional, but this was astonishing news. “You did? I had no idea . . . I mean, Mama never said a thing.”
“Of course she didn’t. She and your father were horrified. But love is love, and we weren’t about to be parted simply because his wife wouldn’t divorce him. Horrid woman.”
Helena’s head was reeling. “Is that why you never visited? Never introduced him?”
“Yes, but let’s not talk of all that. So disheartening to think about. And I made my peace with your parents ages ago. Now you go along and choose a bedroom while I finish my petit déjeuner. Once I’m dressed we can go for a walk and talk about everything I missed when I was away.”
The bedroom next to her aunt’s was grandly furnished, all burnished walnut and quilted satin coverlets, and was clearly the best of the guest rooms; she would never sleep well there. The next room along was nearly as bad, but the last—perhaps it had been reserved, once, for a maiden aunt or some other overlooked relation—was perfect.
It was furnished with the simple neoclassical pieces of a hundred years before, now sadly out of fashion but much more to her taste than modern furniture. Two tall windows offered a pretty view of the central courtyard, with its arching plane trees and manicured flower beds. She opened the window nearest to the door and, leaning on the wrought-iron balustrade, let the beauty of the city seep into her bones.
She stood at the window and thought of her aunt and Dimitri, and understood, at last, the reason she’d seen so little of her aunt when she was younger. The reason that Agnes had never come to visit her family in England, and had never introduced Dimitri until after their marriage.
Their lives, if they’d lived in England, would have been unendurable. Would have been made unendurable, she corrected herself. They would have been outcasts, the object of pity, scorn, and contempt. No one would have received them, their own families included. But they had been happy together in France.
THE FOLLOWING WEEK, on the Friday before term began, Agnes greeted Helena with an announcement at breakfast.
“I think it is time for you to experience your first Paris salon. I’ve just had a note from Natalie Barney, and she’s back from Normandy a little early this year. Such a fascinating woman, and friends with everyone in Paris.”
“What happens at her salon?”
“Not much of anything, to be perfectly honest, but that’s why I like it. One goes for the company, and of course the delicious food, and she keeps any attendant folderol to a minimum. Some obscure poet might recite a few lines from his or her newest work, but that will be the sum of it.”
“What time does it begin?”
“Around four o’clock. You’ll want to wear something chic—your frock with the broderie anglaise will do. Oh, we shall have such fun!”
Vincent drove them to Miss Barney’s house on the rue Jacob, although it was scarcely a mile away, and after parking the car on the street he escorted them to a set of green doors, wide and high enough for a carriage to pass through. Beyond was a cobbled courtyard, rather overgrown with moss, a small and very pretty pavilion, and, astonishingly, a grove of chestnut trees. Here in the heart of Paris, where trees were ruthlessly pollarded, and where they were expected to grow in straight lines flanking straight boulevards, a remnant of wild and ancient forest had somehow survived.
“Such a surprise,” she murmured.
“The trees?” Agnes asked. “Or the temple?”
And there it was, a perfect, tiny, classical temple, its pediment supported by four Doric columns. “Natalie calls it her ‘temple of friendship,’” Agnes explained. “It can’t be any older than the pavilion itself, but it does look impressive, doesn’t it?”
It had begun to rain, so they hurried to enter the pavilion. At the door, greeting Miss Barney’s guests, was an elderly Chinese butler, who smiled and ushered them along. They walked to the end of a narrow, dark hall and moved into a large room, already so crowded with guests that Helena could discern little of its décor beyond the closely hung prints and portraits on the faded red walls. The light in the room was faintly green, tinted by the overarching boughs of the chestnut trees outside, and what few lights there were did little to dispel the late afternoon gloom.
“Agnes, my friend. You’re here!” A woman approached them, her smile ready and genuine; it could only be Miss Barney. She might have been any age between thirty and fifty, for she had a beautiful, unlined complexion, and her chin-length hair was either blond or silver; in the dim light of the sitting room it was difficult to tell.
“Of course,” Agnes replied gaily. “When have I ever refused one of your summons?”