Moonlight Over Paris(86)
Helena shook her head. “You first. Why are you in New York?”
“It’s complicated. I’m fine, honestly I am. There’ve been some sad days, but some good ones, too. I can’t concentrate on any of that right now, though—I want to know why Sam is here and you’re here. Sara’s cable didn’t say much.”
“I suppose there wasn’t time for a letter. Right—here’s the potted version.” And Helena told her friend the entire story, not sparing herself in her description of the morning after the vernissage, when she had been so wrongheaded and closed-minded in her rejection of Sam.
“Most of all I feel silly. Stupid, even. What was I thinking? I hurt him so badly, Daisy. I don’t know . . . I can’t be sure if he’ll forgive me.”
“I understand. Truly I do. I’ve . . . well, I’ll tell you about it later. You’re doing the right thing, though.”
“I hope so.”
Helena looked out the window, her attention belatedly caught by the utterly unfamiliar streetscape. Everything seemed so new, so modern, and the streets were so wide and straight, and the buildings so terribly tall. There were far more cars than at home, the streets clogged with traffic and crowds of pedestrians, and everyone she saw looked so busy and determined, and she wondered if any of them longed to sit down over a café express or pot of tea and simply watch the world go by.
The city felt so new, and not just new compared to London or Paris, but brand-new, so new its paint hadn’t yet dried, and newest of all, to her mind, were the skyscrapers. With the exception of the Eiffel Tower or the spires of various cathedrals, she was fairly certain she’d never before seen a structure that rose beyond eight or nine stories—but already they’d driven past dozens of buildings that reached ten, twenty, even thirty stories high.
“All these skyscrapers . . . I had no idea. Which is the tallest?”
“I think it’s still the Woolworth Building. It’s sixty stories high.”
“Sixty stories. Just imagine standing on the top floor. The view must be tremendous.”
They’d been traveling north on a wide avenue, a huge park to their left, and she’d long since lost count of all the streets they’d crossed. The buildings they passed weren’t as tall as they’d been farther to the south, but what they lacked in height they made up for in grandeur.
The driver turned right and pulled over to the side of the street. “Here we are, Miss Fields.”
The exterior of the Howard mansion was a masterpiece of French Gothic Revival architecture, with an intricately carved limestone fa?ade that reminded her more than a little of Notre-Dame Cathedral. As they walked toward the main entrance, she half-expected to look up and see a gargoyle grinning down at her, and indeed there were any number of cheerful little creatures worked into the stone, among them a pair of putti supporting a copper lantern in the shape of Atlas and his globe.
The door swung open at their approach, and as they stepped inside they were greeted by a butler who had clearly been imported directly from England, complete with cut-glass accent and pristine white gloves.
“Good morning. May I help you?”
If ever there were a time to drag out her title, this was it. “Good morning. My name is Lady Helena Montagu-Douglas-Parr, and this is my friend, Miss Dorothy Fields. We are friends of Mr. Howard’s, Mr. Samuel Howard, that is, and we were hoping to pay him a visit.”
If the butler was surprised at the effrontery of two young ladies calling for the son of the house at nine in the morning, he was too well trained to betray it. “I am afraid that no one is at home, your ladyship. Mr. and Mrs. Howard are occupied with various engagements today, and Mr. Samuel Howard is at his offices on Wall Street. Would you care to leave a card?”
“I, ah . . . I . . .” she stammered. “If I could—”
“We would, thank you,” said a voice over her shoulder. “Here you are. There’s a note for Mr. Howard on the card. I would be most grateful if you could ensure he sees it.”
“Of course, madame.”
There was nothing for it but to return to the car. “If only we’d known,” Daisy sighed, nearly as frustrated as Helena. “Wall Street isn’t all that far from the piers. Oh well—it won’t be long now.”
Daisy instructed the driver to head south again, and eventually the car turned left, then right, and they were on a street called Broadway, still heading south.
“We just passed City Hall,” Daisy said presently. “We’re nearly there.”
The car turned onto Wall Street a few minutes later, and again the driver promised to wait. Number fourteen was a grand building, so tall Helena couldn’t quite see the top, and its foyer was nearly as striking, with marble on the floors and walls, and a bank of elevators with brass so highly polished she could see her reflection in their doors.
The reception area of Howard Steel was exactly as Helena had expected: plushly carpeted, baronially paneled, and as quiet as a pharaoh’s tomb. Its overseer, an immaculately dressed woman in her forties, was seated at a modest desk and at first did not appear to have noticed their arrival.
“Good morning,” Helena ventured.
The woman looked up from the papers she was organizing and offered a crisp “good morning” but no more.
“My name is Lady Helena Montagu-Douglas-Parr, and I’m a friend of Mr. Howard’s from Paris. I called on him at home earlier, but was told he was at the office today. I, ah . . .”