Moonlight Over Paris(39)

Dear Sam—A proper cup of tea can cure even the worst case of the sniffles. As I don’t recall seeing a teapot in your room, you may brew your tea one cup at a time. Measure one teaspoonful of tea leaves into the bottom of your mug, fill the mug with freshly boiled water, let the tea steep for five minutes (a few minutes more if you like it very dark), and add a drop or two of milk and some sugar if you must have it sweet, though honey is better if you have a cold. The tea leaves should settle to the bottom of the mug, but if they are bothersome you can decant the tea into a fresh mug. I do hope you feel better soon. Regards, Helena

Dear Ellie—The tea experiment was successful. I added honey and a slug of bourbon. Slept like a baby afterwards. Thanks for the instructions. Sam

Dear Sam—You added spirits to tea? Where I come from that is very nearly sacrilege. I’ve heard that some Americans drink their tea cold—in my opinion a perversion of an otherwise perfect beverage—but your approach is nearly as bad. Shame on you! (Though I am very glad to know you are feeling better.) Regards, Helena


This coming Saturday they were planning to meet for dinner at Chez Rosalie with étienne, and possibly Mathilde, too, if she could be spared from work at her family’s bar.

Sam’s petit bleu arrived on Friday morning, not long after dawn.

Ellie—Have been called away on assignment. Not back until Sunday P.M. Promise me you’ll take a taxi home on Saturday, or have étienne walk you. Sorry for short notice. Sam.

It was kind of him to worry, but she wasn’t so silly as to walk home alone, especially since it was getting dark by seven o’clock. She scribbled out a reply and posted it on the way to school.

Dear Sam—Not to worry. Will be prudent. I forgot that it was your Thanksgiving yesterday. Do I wish you Happy or Merry? We shall dine on roast chicken when I next see you and pretend it is turkey. Regards, Helena


She and her friends spent Saturday morning and afternoon in the studio, though Daisy had to leave before lunchtime. Her father was feeling poorly again, and though Helena admired her friend’s devotion to her parent she now suspected that Dr. Fields was in the habit of exaggerating his ailments as yet another way of keeping Daisy under his thumb.

Mathilde, who was needed at the bar after all, departed at five, leaving Helena and étienne to continue on to the restaurant alone. Dinner at Chez Rosalie was never a drawn-out affair, for no money was to be made from diners who had eaten their fill, no matter how much the signora adored them. In less than an hour they had finished, paid, and were strolling north on the boulevard St.-Michel. Helena would have been content to simply walk and wander, but étienne wanted wine and coffee, in that order, and of a better quality than Rosalie served.

“Her food is delightful, but the wine . . .” He shuddered in his oh-so-French way.

They found a table in one of the nameless cafés of the boul’ Mich’, as étienne called the street, and settled in with a five-franc bottle of Burgundy and a café express for étienne. A single coffee in the morning kept Helena feeling energized for most of the day; how her friend was able to consume the stuff at such a late hour, and in such a strong form, never ceased to amaze her.

“You’ll never sleep, you know.”

“I will. And the wine is a soporific. I’ll sleep like the dead.”

“It’s very bad for you.”

“I am fine. There is no need to fuss over me.”

“That’s what friends do. And you never talk of your family—who takes care of you?”

A flash of pain twisted across his face, and she wished she could snatch back her words. “You do, and Mathilde,” he said, pouring himself another glass of wine. “You are all I need.”

“Is your family in Paris?”

“No.”

“But you—”

“You, Hélène—you never talk of your family. Only your aunt Agnes, and from time to time your sister. You never speak of your life in England, or your family there. Are you estranged from them?”

“Not at all. I’m very fond of my parents and siblings. I’ve three sisters and one brother, and nearly a dozen nephews and nieces between them. I write to Amalia every week, and my mother nearly as often.”

“So why am I convinced the scarlet fever is not all that brought you here? There is something in your manner, you know, when you speak of home. And you are very adept at changing the subject when it comes to speaking of the war.” He swallowed a gulp of wine, his eyes never leaving her face. “I wonder . . . did you lose someone, perhaps?”

She could have lied, told him he had an overactive imagination, but what would that serve? She knew she could trust him.

“In a manner of speaking . . .”

“I knew it.” He really did have the look of a cat that had learned how to open a birdcage.

“It’s hard to hide anything from you.”

“I am very observant. That is why I am a great artist.”

“And such a humble man,” she teased. He made a face, refilled both their glasses, and waited for her to tell him everything.

“I don’t like to talk of it. It happened so long ago. I was . . . I was engaged. I cared for Edward, but I wasn’t in love with him. I didn’t know him well enough.”

“What happened to him?” étienne asked softly, carefully.