Moonlight Over Paris(50)
And then it was time to say good night to Sam. If he was angry at her having accepted Mr. d’Albret’s invitation, he betrayed no sign of it.
“When do you want to go?” he asked.
“Where? To Les Halles? But you don’t have to take me. I can—”
“I want to take you. How about Wednesday?”
“You truly don’t mind? You’ll be so tired the next day.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll come by at three in the morning. And make sure you go to bed as soon as you get home from school. It’ll be easier to get up when your alarm goes off.”
“Won’t you be bored?” she asked, still uncertain.
“I doubt it. I’ll watch you work, which is always interesting, and I might even get enough local color for a piece on the market.”
“I suppose. Well, good night, then.”
“Good night, Ellie,” he said, stooping to kiss her cheek. “You were beautiful tonight.”
Chapter 19
On Tuesday afternoon, Helena went straight home after class, packed her satchel with a new sketchpad and box of sharpened pencils, ate an early dinner, wound and set her alarm clock, and put herself to bed. She woke on her own, not far past one o’clock, but rather than get up straightaway and face the cold and dark of her room she lay abed, her mind too busy for sleep.
She didn’t know much about the market, only that Les Halles was a group of buildings where produce, meat, fish, and other fresh foodstuffs were brought into Paris overnight to be sold in the morning. That much of the fresh food to feed a city of millions might be seen, gathered together in one place, was difficult to imagine, and as she’d never been to any of the big markets in London, or indeed to any market at all, she’d no idea of what she would discover that morning.
It wouldn’t do to keep Sam waiting at the door, however, so she forced herself out of bed and into the chill of her room. Before retiring, she’d set out the warmest and sturdiest of her clothes: thick stockings and flannel combinations, a woolen frock with an unfashionably long skirt, lace-up boots, her winter coat, a felt cloche hat, and a scarf that, once wrapped around her neck, was as high and enveloping as a monk’s cowl.
Tiptoeing through the house, so as not to wake her aunt or any of the servants, she crept downstairs at a quarter to three and installed herself in the front foyer. Sam’s knock on the door came a few minutes after the hour.
“Yes?” she called out softly.
“It’s Sam. I’ve a taxi waiting.”
She let herself out, locked the door behind her, and turned to her friend. He was wearing a proper coat for once, and a scarf, but his flat cap didn’t look very warm.
“Won’t you catch cold?” she asked.
“It’s forty degrees out. Where I grew up, that barely warrants an overcoat. Don’t worry about me.”
The taxi took them north to the rue de Rivoli, then steadily westward along rain-slicked pavements. The moon hung low and full, its light a gleaming silver net flung wide over the empty streets and shuttered fa?ades of a still-slumbering city.
As they drew closer to Les Halles, the streets grew busier and brighter, with long lines of heavy-laden carts stretching along the rue St.-Denis and the rue du Pont Neuf. They turned north again, and Sam leaned forward to speak with the driver. A few minutes later, the taxi pulled to a stop in the shadow of an imposing Gothic church.
“We’re just north of the market,” Sam said, helping her out of the car. “But I think we should have something to eat before you get started. Hungry?”
She was about to say she wasn’t, but then she smelled some freshly baked bread and her stomach grumbled loudly in response. She nodded, hoping he hadn’t heard.
“Let’s go. Just up this street.” He slung her satchel over his shoulder, and then, as if it were something he’d done a thousand times before, he took her hand in his. They’d walked arm in arm before, usually when returning home after dinner, but this felt far more intimate, the touch of a sweetheart, not merely a friend. His hand was so much larger than hers, and the warmth of his touch, though she could feel it but dimly through their gloves, was both comforting and exciting. If only they had farther to go.
She stole a sidelong glance, not wanting him to catch her staring. He was so different from other men. It wasn’t just his coloring, though his auburn hair and fair, freckled skin were uncommon enough. And it wasn’t his height, for her brother and former fiancé were tall men, too.
It had to be his manner, his wonderful American directness. He was honest, but not to such a degree that he ever injured her feelings, or those of anyone else. He was plainspoken, with none of the verbal affectations so common among the men of her social circle back home. And he was kind, the sort of man given to practical good deeds that meant so much more than bouquets of hothouse flowers or festoons of sickly-sweet compliments.
They walked north on the rue Montorgueil, past a bakery, shuttered but lit within, and the source of the fresh bread that had awoken her hunger; past slumbering draft horses, still harnessed to their carts, awaiting the long walk home; and past a dozen or more narrow-fronted restaurants, all full to bursting with blue-smocked farmers, weary porters, and stall holders just beginning their day.
The restaurant Sam chose had no sign and was even smaller and humbler than Chez Rosalie, but it, too, was full of men and women bent over steaming bowls of soup.