Moonlight Over Paris(80)

“I don’t feel at all well.”

“Nonsense. There’s nothing wrong with you that a hot bath, a good meal, and a long walk in the sunshine can’t cure. Out of bed, now—and if you aren’t downstairs by noon I shall come back and fetch you. Understood?”

Agnes rarely assumed the mantle of grand duchess, but when she did there was no defying her. Helena knew very well that her aunt would drag her downstairs by the ear if need be.

“Yes, Auntie A.”

The bath did help her feel a little better, and then, when she went to find her aunt in the petit salon, she was given egg and cress sandwiches and a cup of hot tea, and only as she was finishing did her aunt begin the second part of her lecture.

“I never thought I would say this, but I’m disappointed in you.”

Helena promptly spilled tea all down her front. “How can you say such a thing? You know what happened at the vernissage.”

Agnes hadn’t asked what had happened between her and Sam, but she must have suspected. Helena badly wanted to confide in her aunt, but to speak of their quarrel aloud meant that she’d have to think about the look on his face when he’d left. About how much she’d lost when he had walked away.

“I wonder if you recall the letter you wrote, last year, when you asked if you might come and stay with me. You told me that you had been at the point of death, and only then had you realized how much you wanted to live. Do you remember?”

“I do.”

“Well, my dear, you’ve done a fine job of living this past year. I’ve kept my counsel and stayed out of your way, but I cannot stay silent now. You know how I can’t abide self-pity, yet here you are, nearly drowning in it. That’s why you are coming with me to London, to Rose’s wedding—no, don’t look at me like that. We leave on Wednesday morning, which gives you plenty of time to visit your friends and set their minds at rest. Poor étienne was beside himself when he came by yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh, no. I can’t stand the thought of his worrying.”

“Then go see him now. And sort things out with Sam, too. I was in the front hall yesterday when he left. Whatever you said, it cut him to the quick.”

She shut her eyes against the memory of Sam’s desolate expression when he had said good-bye, and focused on her aunt’s advice. Agnes was right. Continuing to wallow in self-pity wouldn’t help, and it wouldn’t repair her friendship with Sam, or suddenly propel her to the heights of fame and fortune as an artist. She couldn’t go back, she couldn’t stay where she was, so she might as well move forward.

“I suppose I should pack.”

“First you should visit your friends. As for packing, you only need enough for a week. Leave everything else here, and we’ll sort it out after. You may wish to stay here with me, or go somewhere else. Either way I will only be happy if you are happy.”

“Oh, Auntie A. What would have become of me without you?”

“You’d have managed perfectly well, and we both know it. Now, off you go to your friends. I’ll have Vincent drive you—no, don’t shake your head. I insist on it.”

SHE ENTERED THE studio with a bright smile on her face and a bottle of champagne under her arm. She would apologize, assure her friends she was well, and together they would open the champagne and drink to future success. And then, if she could gather up enough courage, she would visit Sam and try to make things right between them before he left for America.

She paused at the door, suddenly apprehensive, but étienne simply smiled and opened his arms to her. He held her tight as she cried and cried, and once she’d settled a bit Mathilde took her hand and led her to the ratty old settee, and she sat between her friends and told them everything, from the moment she had found her painting tucked away in a dark corner, to Czerny’s bruising words, to her drunken departure from the party and its mortifying aftermath.

“We must have arrived at the Murphys’ just after you left,” Mathilde said. “Your aunt told us you hadn’t been feeling well.”

“An illness of my own making, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry I didn’t come down to see you yesterday. I hope I didn’t worry you too badly.”

“Not at all, ma chère,” étienne assured her.

“Did you sell the portrait?”

“I did, and what is more—the Galérie Bellamy has asked to represent me, and they are holding a solo exhibition of my work in the autumn.”

“Oh, étienne! That is wonderful news!” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him soundly.

“Enough, enough,” he protested. “Mathilde—tell Hélène your news before she chokes me.”

“Did your painting sell as well?”

“It did,” Mathilde said, blushing faintly. “And the buyer has commissioned portraits of his wife and children.”

“I am pleased. Both of you have done so well! We must open the champagne, but first I need your advice, and possibly your help. Now that the exhibition has begun, is there any way I can remove the painting that Czerny chose and hang Le train bleu instead? Am I allowed to replace one painting with another?”

“If it were a juried exhibition it wouldn’t be allowed,” étienne reasoned, “but there are no prizes to be handed out, so you wouldn’t be cheating, or depriving someone else of their space at the Salon. What do you think, Mathilde?”