Moonlight Over Paris(4)
“I know you think I worry too much, but I can’t help myself. I know how you have suffered, how people have treated you since your break with Lord Cumberland. I know how lonely you’ve been—”
“I’ve always had you and my sisters, Mama. It hasn’t been that bad.”
“It has. And it’s so unfair. Just look at Lord Cumberland. He’s been happily married all this time, has children of his own, and no one says a thing to him.”
“It’s in the past, Mama. You mustn’t dwell on it.”
“How can I not? You’re almost thirty. Before long it will be too late for children, and then what decent man will have you? Please be sensible.”
“I have always been sensible, and that is why I have no interest in marriage with some stranger who is indifferent to me. I was lucky to escape such a fate with Edward.”
Her mother pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “How can you say you were lucky, when he all but ruined your life? If only you knew how it weighs upon me. What if something were to happen to your father? You know we cannot depend on your brother, for that wretched wife of his won’t wait five minutes before tossing us all out of the house. I don’t much care what happens to me, but you, my darling—what will become of you?”
Helena took her mother’s hands and pressed them reassuringly between hers. “Listen to me: if the worst were to happen, and David’s vile wife were to throw us out on our ears, we would take my bequest from Grandmama, buy a little house, and live quite comfortably together. But that is not going to happen, not least because Papa is as healthy as an ox, and likely to remain so for many years.” She smiled at her mother, willing her to believe, and received a feeble nod in response.
“I am going to France to live with Auntie A for a year, and to try to become an artist, and when the year is done I will think seriously about what I must do next. But I need my year first. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” her mother offered, her voice wobbly with tears, though she dried her eyes quickly enough. “Now, my dear: be honest with me. Are you well enough to travel?”
“Not quite yet,” Helena answered truthfully. “Perhaps in a fortnight?”
“Very well. Shall we see how you are at the end of next week? If you feel improved, I’ll have Papa’s secretary book passage for you to Paris.”
“Aunt Agnes is already at her house in Antibes, though. Wouldn’t it be better if I took the Blue Train from Calais?”
“That does make sense. Shall I have a tray sent up with your supper?”
“Yes, please.”
“Tomorrow we’ll go for a nice walk together. And we must see about getting you some pretty things for the seaside.”
“Thank you, Mama. For everything, I mean.”
As soon as the door closed behind her mother, Helena erupted from her chair and jumped up and down, taking great skips around the room, though it made her breathless and so unsteady on her feet that she had to sit again almost right away.
She had done it.
She would have her year in France, a year away from the whispers, stares, and malicious half-heard gossip that had blighted nearly every moment of the past five years. She would . . . her mind reeled at the possibilities. She would eat pastries and drink wine and wear short skirts and rouge, and she would sit in the sun and burn her nose, and not care what anyone thought of her.
Best of all, she would go to school and meet people who knew nothing of her past, and to them she would simply be Helena Parr, an artist like themselves.
Helena Parr. Artist. Merely thinking the words filled her with delight—and it reminded her of one task that simply couldn’t wait.
Returning to her desk, she took out a sheet of notepaper and began to write.
45, Wilton Crescent
London, SW1
England
16 March 1924
Dear Ma?tre Czerny,
Further to my earlier inquiry, I should like to reserve a place at your school for the September 1924 session for intermediate students. I shall send a bank draft for the required deposit under separate cover.
Yours faithfully,
Miss Helena Parr
Chapter 2
Strange to think she’d never been on a sleeper train before. She’d been to the south of France often enough, but her father detested rail journeys and invariably insisted they go by ship. As Helena was a poor sailor, she’d always dreaded the voyage to Marseille.
But this—this was heavenly. Her first-class compartment on the train bleu—she supposed the name came from the cars’ midnight blue exteriors—was a tiny marvel of modern luxury, and rather than set down her valise and take off her coat she simply stood at its entrance and stared.
It was scarcely more than two yards wide, and perhaps a little longer from door to window. Every vertical plane was covered in gleaming mahogany panels, their lacquer polished to a mirror finish. To her right was a plush banquette, not yet transformed into her bed for the night. She reached out and unlatched the curving door to her left. It revealed a sink with hot and cold taps, chrome-framed mirrors, and an electric light that switched on automatically.
The train wouldn’t be leaving Calais for another half hour, so she might as well unpack before they started to move. With only a single case for the overnight journey, her trunk having been stowed in the baggage car, she didn’t have much to do. She shut and latched the door to her compartment, folded out the little table beside the window, and set out her valise. She’d brought a frock for dinner and another for her arrival in Antibes, neither of them much creased; these she hung on the back of the door. There was even a little rack for shoes at the bottom. Her nightgown and underclothes could remain in the case for now.