Moonlight Over Paris(3)

“Ah. Agnes.”

“She is your sister, Papa, and she is very fond of me. And the weather in the south of France will do me good.”

“Of course it will,” her mother agreed, “and you know how we adore dear Agnes. But she lives a . . . well, a rather unconventional life. You really ought to stay with a steadier sort of person. Maudie Anstruther-MacPhail, perhaps? She’s wintering in Nice this year.”

“I scarcely know the woman, and Aunt Agnes would be awfully hurt if she found out.”

“You’re still so fragile. Remember Dr. Banks’s warning—any sudden upset or disturbance—”

“I’m a woman, not a piece of spun sugar, and I am perfectly capable of making sensible decisions. You know I am. Even if Aunt Agnes got it into her head to go off on one of her adventures, I would simply stay put. She has plenty of servants. I wouldn’t be left on my own.”

“And would you promise to be perfectly careful of your health?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“John? What do you think of this?”

“Agnes is a good sort. Always has been. Shame about that husband of hers, of course, but she rallied. She always does.”

“A summer in the sun will do you good, I suppose,” her mother mused.

“Yes. Well, the thing is . . . I’m staying for longer than that. For a year, in fact.”

“For a year? Why so terribly long?”

“I have enrolled in art school, and the term runs from September to April.”

Silence descended upon the table, as cold and numbing as November rain.

Her mother was the first to recover from her shock. “Art school? I don’t know about that. Filled to the brim with foreigners, and the sort of art that is fashionable these days—”

“Degenerate rot,” her father finished. “Makes no sense. Why bother with a painting that doesn’t look like anything? If I buy a portrait of my wife, I want it to look like my wife. Not a hodgepodge of shapes. Who has a head shaped like a box, I ask you? No one!”

“Cubism is merely one approach among many, and the school I have in mind is far more traditional,” Helena insisted, mentally crossing her fingers. “Ma?tre Czerny isn’t interested in what is fashionable. His focus is on technique.”

Her mother wrinkled her nose. “‘Chair-knee’? What sort of name is that?”

“I believe it’s Czech, originally. But he is a Frenchman. And he would be willing to take me on—”

“What? You’ve been corresponding with this man?”

“Only regarding his school, Mama.”

“What of the other students? Foreigners as well?”

“I don’t know. Most likely most of them will be French. Possibly there will be some Americans, too.”

“Good heavens,” her mother said. She had begun to worry at the lace on her cuff, which was never a good sign. “I really don’t know if we can agree to this.”

It was time to dig in her heels. “Mama, I am twenty-eight years old, and I have money of my own. I have the greatest respect for you both, but you must remember that I have the legal right to go and do as I please.”

“But Helena, darling—”

Her heart began to pound, for she’d never stood up to her parents in such a way before, and it went against her nature to do so now. But she had to hold her ground. Before her resolve crumbled, she needed to step away.

“If you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time I return to my room. If you wish to speak with me about my plans I will be very happy to do so.”

BACK IN HER bedchamber, Helena took up her notebook and pencils, and looked around for something she might draw. Settling on the window seat, she began to sketch the wrens that came to perch on the sill each afternoon. They were sweet little creatures, tame enough to alight on her outstretched fingers, and cheery despite the threatening rain. It was spring, after all; they had survived the winter, and seemed to know that blue skies lay ahead. If only she could be as certain.

She had no education to speak of, nor was she beautiful or witty or elegant. But something came alive in her when she picked up a pencil or brush. She had the makings of an artist in her, she was certain of it, and she was determined to keep the promise she’d made to herself last December, in those bleak, lonely hours when death had crept so close. Her parents wouldn’t stop her, she knew, but it would be so much easier, and pleasanter, if they were to support her decision.

She meant to close her eyes for just a moment, but when she woke the sun had sunk beneath the garden wall and her mother was at her side, a cool hand smoothing her brow.

“You shouldn’t have fallen asleep there,” Lady Halifax fretted. “You might have caught a chill.”

Helena crossed the room and settled in one of the easy chairs drawn close to the fire. “I’m fine. Not cold at all.”

Her mother perched at the edge of the other chair, her stays creaking a little, and smiled rather wanly at Helena. “Papa and I have been talking. As you said earlier, you have always been such a good girl, and we do trust you. While we have our reservations about this, ah, this academy you wish to attend, we have decided to support your decision to go to France for a year.”

“Thank you, Mama. I really am very grateful.”