Moonlight Over Paris(63)

“I’ve learned a great deal this year, of course.”

“I can see that. These paintings, everything you’ve done here—they’re wonderful. I’m so proud of you. And I rather wish I’d paid more attention when Miss Renfrew was trying to teach me drawing all those years ago!”

A clatter of boots on the stairs heralded the arrival of the studio’s other tenants. Helena checked her watch and was surprised to see that it was past three o’clock already.

“Here come the troops,” she joked, and then called down to her friends, “We’re here!”

étienne, Mathilde, and Daisy appeared at the door, with Louis-ette trailing behind as usual. Introductions were made, during which étienne was at his most charming, and Amalia made a point of admiring the others’ work with comments that were both intelligent and sincere—a rare combination, in Helena’s experience.

“Daisy and I both need to go,” said Mathilde after nearly an hour had passed. “I am needed at home, as is she. I am so very sorry that I cannot stay any longer.”

“As am I,” Daisy echoed. She and Mathilde shook hands with Amalia, said their farewells, and set off for their respective homes.

“étienne, Amalia and I are going to Le Boeuf sur le Toit tonight. Would you like to come for dinner before?”

“Not tonight, alas. Shall I meet you there?”

“Yes—if we’re late just look for the Murphys. They’ll be there, too.”

SARA, GERALD, AND étienne had taken possession of a fine table at Le Boeuf sur le Toit when Helena and Amalia arrived, and had already finished their first round of cocktails. Of Sam there was no sign.

“So lovely to see you again,” Sara said in greeting Amalia, for they, too, had become friends in the summer of 1914. “You haven’t changed one bit.”

It was impossible to look away from her sister, who was radiant in a bright red frock of beaded and draped silk chiffon, its short skirts only just grazing her kneecaps. It wasn’t the sort of thing she usually wore at home, she’d confided to Helena, but with her husband and parents on the other side of the Channel she had decided to throw caution to the wind.

Helena was wearing her gold Vionnet frock, for it was too nice to leave languishing in her wardrobe, and in it she felt as pretty as she’d ever been. Not a patch on her sister’s vivid beauty, of course, but well enough to sit next to her and not feel entirely out of place.

The others were drinking champagne cocktails, so she and Amalia ordered the same, and in no time at all she was staring at the bottom of her glass and wondering if it was too soon to order another. The cocktails were absolutely delicious, fizzy and light and not too sweet, and in short order she had gulped down a second one and was feeling quite enthusiastic about the evening and life in general.

“Who is the man playing the piano?” she asked Gerald, who always knew the answer to such things.

“It’s Jean Wiéner. Can turn his hand to anything. Ragtime one minute and Bach the next.”

“Is it just him onstage tonight?”

“No, but the cabaret acts won’t come on until later. No one of note tonight, though they’re usually quite—hey, look who’s here!”

Gerald’s attention was fixed on a point over her shoulder; she turned, and there was Sam.

“Hello, everyone. Sorry I’m late. I was out when Helena’s petit bleu was delivered.”

“I thought . . . I mean, I wasn’t sure where to send it. I suppose I ought to have sent it to the paper.”

“No matter. I’m here now.”

“You are, and, ah . . . well, this is my sister, Lady Amalia Ossington. Amalia, this is my friend Sam Howard.” When all else failed, her sense above all, she could at least fall back on good manners.

Introductions made, they shook hands and Sam took a seat on the opposite side of the table. When prompted by the waiter, he politely refused the offer of a champagne cocktail and instead asked for whiskey. “Any kind you have is fine.”

He looked as if he had slept in his clothes, unfortunately, for his shirt was rumpled, his necktie was crooked, and his coat was pulled out of shape by the overflowing contents of its pockets. Helena could make a fair guess as to what they held: a notebook, pencils, a dog-eared Plan de Paris, his pocket knife, a handful of coins, and the remains of the sandwich he hadn’t had time to finish at lunch. He needed to shave, for his chin was dusted with red-gold stubble, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Had she ever seen him so tired before? And yet he was so handsome that her heart fairly stopped at the sight of him.

It was impossible to keep up any kind of conversation, for the pianist had been replaced by a five-piece band playing American jazz. Feeling a little dizzy, Helena asked for a glass of soda water instead of another champagne cocktail, and when Sara went in search of the lavatory she and Amalia accompanied her as well.

It was cooler there, and far quieter, too, so they lingered awhile, powdering their noses and reminiscing about Sara’s summer in Europe before the war. Presently Amalia tidied away her powder compact and rouge and fixed Helena with a long, assessing stare.

“I’d no idea that Mr. Howard would be so attractive,” she said. “You never said a thing in your letters.”

“I, ah . . . I didn’t think . . .” Helena stammered.