Moonlight Over Paris(60)

“Ah. Well. I suppose I should go back to my aunt’s.”

“You should. Come on—the taxi’s still waiting.”

They didn’t talk on the way home, and though she longed for him to comfort her, to tell her everything would be all right, he kept his silence. Not until they were standing at Agnes’s side door did he speak again.

“Good night, Helena. Lock the door behind you.”

“Please don’t be angry,” she implored. “I was about to get up and leave. I wouldn’t . . . I wouldn’t have let him kiss me.”

“What were you thinking? What if he’d assaulted you? A man like that can’t be trusted.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have gone. But he was so persistent, and I’d nothing else to do this evening . . .”

At last he looked at her, and his face was the picture of torment. Something was tearing him apart, something more than the shock they’d both just endured, but she’d no idea how to help, or what to say. So she stood on her tiptoes and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his mouth.

Before she could pull away, he backed her against the door, his mouth never leaving hers, and his hands went to frame her face, as he’d done the last time he kissed her. Only this kiss was different, it was wild and desperate, and though she wished to comfort him she also wanted more, so she pushed against him and opened her mouth and let his tongue press past her lips and clash against hers.

“No,” he groaned, and he pulled his mouth away. He took a step back, and his expression was so anguished that her eyes filled with sympathetic tears.

“What is wrong? Did I do anything wrong? I’m sorry if I was forward. I only meant—”

“Ellie, you know I care about you. You must know.”

“I do.”

“And so what I’m about to say has nothing to do with you. Nothing. You must believe me.”

“What is it? I told you I’m sorry about tonight.”

“This isn’t about tonight, and I’m sorry if I was mean to you just now. It wasn’t your fault. I know that.”

“Then what is the matter?” she asked, hating the piteous tone in her voice.

“I can’t . . . the thing is, I can’t offer you anything else. Anything more. Not now, at least.”

“You don’t want me? In that . . . in that way?”

“Of course I want you. You know I do. But it would be wrong of me to expect anything more, not when I . . . I wish I could explain.”

“We could be lovers. I wouldn’t ask for anything more.”

Her words hung in the air between them, as vivid and unsettling as a neon sign. For long seconds Sam just stared at her, his eyes darkening, his face pale but for two flags of color high on his cheekbones. He took a step back, looked down, and scrubbed his hands roughly over his face.

“No,” he said, and he shook his head vehemently. “No. I want to—if you only knew how much. But it wouldn’t be right. It would be the farthest thing from right. I wish there was a way to make you understand.”

“But I do,” she said, and she did. He desired her, but not enough to act on it. He liked her, but couldn’t conceive of a future with her.

“I hope you can forgive me,” he said quietly. “I never meant to act like this. I never meant for you to be hurt.”

“And I’m not,” she insisted, wishing her voice didn’t sound quite so wobbly. “We were friends before, and we’re friends now. That’s all that matters.”

“Well, then. I guess I had better go. Good night, Ellie.”

“Good night.”

She couldn’t bear to watch him walk away, so she went inside and crept into bed, her chest so bound by dread and disbelief that she could scarcely take a breath. Dawn came, and she was still awake, shivering under her eiderdown, her eyes hot with unshed tears, the words of that singular poem beating an endless refrain in her head. I was born to be lonely. I am best so . . .

They were true, the truest words ever written, for she was alone now, as she had always been, and perhaps, as the poet had said, it was best that she be so.





PART THREE


Love consists in this: that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.

—Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet





Chapter 22


Tuesday, 24 February

Dearest Ellie,

Wonderful news—I know that in my last letter I complained that there was no hope of my escaping the winter this year, but the Delamere-Strathallans have taken a villa in Biarritz for the season and Violet has invited me to stay! As you know I cannot bear the thought of a sea voyage that lasts one minute longer than necessary, so I shall be taking the train from Paris—and (if I have read the timetables correctly) that means I shall have nearly twenty-four hours in the city to visit with you! I arrive in the early afternoon Tuesday next and depart late the next morning.

I do realize it is terribly short notice but I am so looking forward to seeing you and meeting your new friends. Do you recall the day we spent together when we were girls, just before my debut? We had such fun—and though I’m rather long in the tooth for such antics it would be so lovely to wander around Paris together and see the sights.

Do let me know if this is convenable, as the French say—I shall cable you the exact details of my arrival as soon as I hear from you—