Moonlight Over Paris(5)
Mama had wanted her to bring one of the maids, fearing that Helena wouldn’t be able to manage, but Helena had refused. Even before her illness, and the months of constant scrutiny by physicians and nursemaids, she’d rarely been left on her own. There had always been servants around, always, and though most of them were agreeable and friendly, and were usually quiet and unassuming, they were simply there.
Here, though, there was no one to mind her, watch her, hover over her. She had twenty-four hours to herself to do as she pleased, to act as she liked, and to be anyone she chose to be. For the first time in her life she was wonderfully and blissfully alone, and she would savor every single, intoxicating minute.
The train shuddered to life, lumbering out of the station with painful slowness, but before long they had left the coast behind and were rolling through the peaceful farmland of the Pas de Calais. Helena perched on the banquette and stared out the window, too excited to open her book, and watched as the countryside gave way to the outskirts of Amiens, their only stop before Paris. As they slowed to cross a low, rather rickety bridge, she glimpsed a faded sign that gave a name to the river flowing languidly below: la Somme.
The Somme. Simply reading the name made her shiver. She was pretty certain the battles had been fought farther away, farther to the north—she could still remember, if hazily, the maps of the front lines that the newspapers had included whenever there was a new advance to report. And the war had come very close indeed to this ancient town, for hadn’t there been a Battle of Amiens toward the end?
At the time, she’d read the newspapers compulsively, trying to make sense of it all, but understanding had proved elusive. What sense could be made of something so futile? The broken men at the hospital where she’d volunteered, their faces still so vivid in her mind’s eye, had been testament enough of the nature of war.
The banquette was giving her a backache, so she determined to go in search of the ladies’ lounge car. She’d boarded at one end of the train, and had only passed through a single car of sleeping compartments, so any Pullman cars would be in the other direction.
“May I be of assistance, Lady Helena?” Waiting in the corridor was the same steward who had escorted her onto the train earlier.
“Yes, thank you. I was wondering if there might be a lounge—a Pullman car for ladies?”
“I am so sorry, but not on this service. If you wish, you may certainly take a table in the restaurant. Allow me to show you the way. I believe afternoon tea is being served.”
Suddenly, tea seemed like a very good idea. Only moments after taking her seat at a table for two, a smiling waiter set a tiered tray of fancies before her: wafer-thin cucumber sandwiches, toast triangles with crème fra?che and caviar, currant-studded scones, and petits fours that were almost too pretty to eat. A pot of tea, perfectly brewed, joined the sweets and savories, along with a trio of cut-crystal bowls that held lemon curd, clotted cream, and a most unexpected delicacy: early strawberries at their peak of fragrant ripeness.
With a speed that would have appalled her mother, Helena inhaled all of it, every last crumb, and was contemplating how best to scrape the last smear of clotted cream from its bowl when the waiter returned.
“Bien fait, Lady Helena! I see that you enjoyed your afternoon tea very much.”
“It was delicious, thank you. Would you mind very much if I sat here for a while?”
“Not at all. As you can see, most of our passengers have yet to embark. Not until we arrive at the Gare de Lyon will we have a full house, as you say it.”
“How long will that be, do you expect?”
“Not long, not long. First we will stop at the Gare du Nord, and then we go to the Gare de Lyon. We will be there for about an hour. It will be a good time for you to—how do you say?—stretch your legs.”
“I think I will, thank you.”
She stayed at her table and watched the countryside give way to the growing suburbs of the great city, and then Paris was upon them, the train hemmed in by looming embankments and grim stone walls. They remained at the Gare du Nord for only a few minutes, just long enough to take on a few more passengers, before circling south to the Gare de Lyon.
Helena returned to her compartment to fetch her hat and coat, gloves and reticule; she wouldn’t be leaving the train for long, but it was only sensible to have some ready cash on her person. According to her wristwatch, she had a little less than half an hour to walk up and down the platform before they departed for Lyon and points south.
She recognized the smell right away. No one who had ever been to Paris would forget that heady mélange of coal dust, drains, frying onions, fresh bread, Turkish tobacco, and here and there a whiff of some exotic, expensive perfume. Perhaps she would buy a bottle of scent when she returned in the fall, something rich with gardenia or lilies. Never mind that she quite liked the verbena-scented cologne she’d always worn. Now that she was in France, she would do as Frenchwomen did.
She walked from one end of the platform to the other, then, a little fearful of the train leaving without her, returned to her compartment and dressed for dinner. Her frock was new, in a streamlined style that was kind to her too-thin frame, and so short that Mama had been alarmed. But her mother had complete trust in Madame Rose, never mind that the seamstress hailed from Ripon and not the Rive Gauche, and Madame Rose had insisted that everyone, absolutely everyone, would be shortening their skirts for the season. The frock felt fashionable to Helena and was very pretty indeed, its turquoise silk chiffon adorned with a geometric pattern of gold and copper paillettes.