Moonlight Over Paris(34)

“Oh, Ellie,” he said, his voice gruff. “You’re so brave. You have to know how brave you are.”

“I don’t think so. Not really.”

“You are. Most of us spend our whole lives with our heads down, walking in circles. It never occurs to us to want anything more, so we cling to what’s safe. What we know.”

Sam went to the clotheshorse and turned her clothes over so the backs of everything would dry. Then he sat down again, and this time he looked her in the eye.

“Will you stay on in France?”

“I don’t know. There’s nothing much for me back in England. That’s the problem. I’m too old to dream of a home and family of my own, but my parents won’t give up hope. I’m not sure they ever will.”

“Is that what you want?” he asked. “A home and family?”

“I did, once. Before the war.”

“You were engaged, weren’t you?” he asked carefully, with no more affect than a stranger inquiring after the time of day.

“How do you know?”

“Sara,” he answered simply.

“Edward and I were engaged just before the war—weeks before, in fact. I waited for him, of course. When he finally came home, he was changed, and not because he’d lost a leg and had been taken prisoner, although people later said . . .

“At any rate,” she went on, “he realized he no longer wanted me, so we broke things off. It was for the best, really. Especially since he was in love with someone else.”

“Did he break your heart?”

“He didn’t. He honestly didn’t. If we’d stayed with one another he’d have broken it eventually. But he never had the chance.”

They regarded one another, the silence building and building until she could bear it no longer. Glancing at her wristwatch, she saw it was well past nine o’clock. “I ought to be on my way.”

“I’ll walk you home.”

“No,” she said firmly. “No, there’s no need. It’s late, and it’s still raining. I’ll take a taxi.”

“I’ll come down with you—oh, wait. I almost forgot.”

He went to the bookcase and, crouching, rummaged through its contents until he found a slim paperbound volume. “Here—found it.” Returning to where she stood, he put the book in her hand.

“Your Rilke poems,” she said, touched that he should trust her with a favorite book.

“Yes. Doubt you can get them here, not even at Sylvia Beach’s shop. Promise to take good care of them?”

“I will.

“I had better get dressed,” she said.

“Of course. I’ll wait in the hall.”

When she had changed into her clothes, which were still damp but not unbearably so, he followed her downstairs and outside, and then he flagged down a taxi for her. He told the driver where to go, and then, stooping low, surprised her with a kiss on her cheek. “Good night, Ellie.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I had a lovely time.”

“In spite of getting caught in a downpour.”

“In spite of that, yes. And I did enjoy dinner at Chez Rosalie.”

“Will you come out with me again?”

“Yes,” she answered unhesitatingly. “I should like that very much.”

Smiling up at him, she got in the taxi and let it bear her away. As they approached the corner, something made her look back. Sam was still standing there, watching, his kind eyes so serious and sad, and she nearly told the driver to stop the car so she could run back and say something, anything, to erase or ease the loneliness she saw on his face.

But she kept her silence, and the taxi turned the corner, and the moment was lost.





Chapter 14


The list was pinned to the corkboard in the Académie’s front foyer, but try as she might, Helena couldn’t get close enough to read the names. A bell rang, heralding the start of the morning sessions, and the crowd began to thin. She pushed forward, heedless of the crush, until her nose was all but pressed against the notice.

31 octobre 1924

étudiants admis—peinture à l’huile

M. Dupont

M. Esquivel

M. Goodwin

M. Herrera

M. Kolosov

M. Martens

M. Moreau

Mlle Parr

Mlle Renault

M. Swales

M. Williams

M. Zielinski


She blinked, rubbed at her eyes, and read the list again. Her name was on it. Her name, and Mathilde’s, and étienne’s. Daisy’s was not.

How was it possible that her name was on the list? Ma?tre Czerny didn’t know she existed; and if he did, if by some means she had made an impression on him, it certainly hadn’t been a positive one. In eight weeks—nearly a hundred hours of class—he hadn’t directed a single comment at her, good or bad, and he had never, not once, spared a glance for any of her work. How could she have been chosen for the oil painting class when far more capable students had been left off the list? It simply made no sense.

étienne had been brave enough, a week or so earlier, to challenge the ma?tre’s habit of only selecting twelve students from a class of two dozen or more. Silence had followed his question, a silence so profound she’d heard the thump of her own heartbeat, and Helena had feared that her friend would be expelled. At the very least, the ma?tre would find a way to cut étienne down to size.