Moonlight Over Paris

by Jennifer Robson

  It was all rather overwhelming. She looked to Sam, not certain of what to do or where to begin, and once again he understood. “Let’s find you a quiet place to stand,” he said, his voice raised so she might hear him above the din. “It’s hard to find your bearings in the middle of this.”

  He still held her hand, but now he drew her close and guided her through the crowds, until they were standing in front of a wine shop on the south side of the rue Berger. Several empty crates stood by its door, and, after testing them to ensure their sturdiness, he made a sort of stage for her to stand upon, just high enough that she might see over the heads of passersby.

  There, protected from the bustle of the market, she worked for more than an hour, making sketch after sketch of anything and anyone that caught her fancy. First there was a farmer’s wife, presiding proudly over a heap of celadon-green cabbages; though the set of the woman’s shoulders told Helena she was weary to the bone, she was good-humored in spite of it, laughing and joking as if she liked nothing better than standing out in the cold for hours on end. Farther along, a porter crouched low as the deep wicker basket strapped to his back was filled with sack after sack of potatoes. As he straightened, he staggered a little under its weight, but then, balance regained, he set off as though the load he carried were no heavier than a pair of down pillows.

  She sketched a pair of nuns in pristine habits and starched white veils who haggled over every sou they spent but smiled beatifically at passersby; a ginger tabby cat, perched on a stack of empty fruit crates, delicately washing its face as it ignored the hubbub around it; and the arching tracery, only faintly visible in the gloom, of the iron roof supports of the nearest market hall.

  She nearly sketched a mutilé de guerre, hobbling by on too-short crutches, his face drawn into a rictus of suffering, but compassion stilled her hand. It was one thing to draw people who were busy at their work, and quite another to capture the pain and desperation of a fellow human being brought low. She was about to dig in her satchel for some francs when Sam approached the man, who had halted only a few yards away. After engaging him in conversation, they walked together to a nearby soup vendor, at which point Sam paid for a serving of cabbage soup, handed it to the veteran, shook his hand, and returned to Helena’s side.

  “I offered him some money, but he said he didn’t feel right in taking it. So I asked if I might buy him something to eat instead.”

  “That was very kind of you,” she said.

  “No more than any decent person would have done.”

  Apart from his conversation with the veteran, Sam stayed close by her side, never commenting on her sketches, though he was tall enough to look over her shoulder. From time to time he scribbled in a small notebook, but that was all. He didn’t stamp his feet or blow on his hands to keep warm, though she was nearly frozen to the marrow after more than an hour of standing still.

  “I’m worried you’re cold. Shall we find you a café express?” she asked.

  “No, I’m fine. Are you ready to move on?”

  “May we walk through the market halls? I won’t take long.”

  “Take as much time as you like,” he said, and helped her down from her perch.

  They began at one of the halls given over to fish. Here she concentrated on quick, almost impressionistic sketches of the wares on display, adding notes in the margins to remind her of the colors she saw. There was an iridescent amethyst glimmer to the mussels, she noted, in beautiful contrast to the beds of moistened moss on which they were piled; nearby, delicate pink langoustines were arranged side by side, as neatly as soldiers on parade. There were barrels overflowing with the shimmering silver of herring and sardines, deep buckets full of squirming, ink-dark eels, heaps of carp and pike, fierce-looking swordfish, and even, at one stall, a bluefin tuna as big as a man.

  The smell in the cheese and dairy hall was far less agreeable than the briny scents of the fish market, though the displays there were very pretty, with stacked towers of Brie, Camembert, and ash-covered chèvre; blue-veined rounds of Roquefort; gargantuan wedges of Gruyère and Cantal; and pail after pail of cream and milk and primrose-yellow butter. Helena adored cheese, the smellier the better, but a city’s worth of cheese in one enclosed space made for an eye-watering experience.

  Last of all they visited the flower sellers where, despite the lateness of the year, there were masses of violets, chrysanthemums, pinks, Michelmas daisies, winter camellias and hellebores, their mingled scents conquering even the stench of the now-filthy streets and an adjacent pissoir.

  Dawn was breaking, the moonlight was fading from the sky, her hand was beginning to cramp, and her teeth wanted to chatter. “I suppose we ought to be going home,” she said reluctantly.

  “I’m happy to stay as long as you like, but you should try to get some sleep before class begins.”

  “What time is it?” she asked, too tired to look at her wristwatch.

  “Coming up on six o’clock.” He took her pencil and sketchbook and stowed them in her satchel, and then, before she could object, he bought a small bunch of violets. Wrapped in a corona of newspaper, their petals still streaked with soil, they made the prettiest posy Helena had ever seen.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I want to,” he said, and he led her away, his hand once again in hers, to the relative quiet of the boulevard de Sébastopol, where they found a taxi for the short journey home.

  She was too tired to say anything when they were in the car, but remembered her manners when they were once again standing at her aunt’s side door. “Thank you.”

  He didn’t answer, only smiled and bent his head, she assumed to deposit a kiss on her cheek. But then his hand was touching her chin, encouraging her to look up, and before she had quite realized what was happening his mouth was on hers and he was kissing her, really kissing her, as no one had ever done before.

  She knew she was meant to reach up and embrace him, twine her arms around his neck, but she would have to drop her satchel and posy. So she stood and let him kiss her, his big hands framing her face so gently, and all she could do was strain forward on tiptoe and press her lips ever more firmly against his.

  If only it could have lasted forever, not only the kiss, but also his hand in hers, his presence at her side, his gift of violets fresh from the countryside. But the sun was rising, they were tired and cold, and she had to be at school in a few hours.

  “I’m not sorry for that,” he whispered, his words soft against her cheek.

  “Neither am I,” she managed weakly.

  He dropped a lesser kiss on her brow. “Good night, Ellie.”

  “Sam, I—”

  “Lock the door behind me. I’ll see you soon.”

  Back in her bedroom, she undressed, changed into her nightgown, washed her face, and brushed her teeth, and all the while her mind was whirring and turning and trying to make sense of what had just happened. Sam had kissed her, she had kissed him back, and nothing was simple or straightforward or uncomplicated anymore.

  She got into bed, arranged her pillows, sheets, and eiderdown so they were perfectly comfortable, and still she couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss, and how, in the space between two heartbeats, everything had changed.

  Chapter 20

  20 December 1924

  Dearest Mama and Papa,

  I do promise to send you a proper letter very soon, full of every last detail of my birthday and Christmas, but I have to run off to class in a few minutes, and would you believe I’ve yet to buy any gifts for Aunt Agnes or my friends here? (I sent off a parcel to you last week—has it arrived yet? I do hope you receive it in time.)

  Thank you very much for the beautiful bracelet. It fits my wrist perfectly and as you know I have always adored amethysts. I opened it the moment I awoke this morning, having forced myself (with great difficulty!) to leave the parcel alone when it arrived last week.

  Thank you as well for your cheque, which I had no trouble in depositing at
Auntie A’s bank. Yesterday I went to Galeries Lafayette and spent nearly all of it on a new winter coat in a gorgeous raspberry color, and with the remainder I bought a matching hat.

  Once again I am sorry to not be with you for Christmas, but Maître Czerny only closes the school between the 24th and 26th and I dare not miss any classes. I know you will be very busy, what with everyone coming to stay with you in Yorkshire, and I do hope that you will be so occupied you won’t even notice my absence. Please know that I am thinking of you, and of course missing the both of you very much.

  With much love from your devoted daughter,

  Helena

  It was the Saturday before Christmas, and it was Helena’s birthday. Not wishing for anyone to make a fuss, she’d said nothing to her friends and happily passed the day at the studio, hard at work on a portrait of the jolly farmer’s wife she’d seen at Les Halles.

  At five o’clock sharp Daisy packed up her things and left for home, mindful as always of her father’s wish for company. That left the rest of them to continue on to dinner at Rosalie’s at seven o’clock. Sam was waiting outside when they came around the corner, and he seemed exactly his normal self, if rather quieter than usual. If he had spent the last few days obsessing over their kiss he betrayed no sign of it, and in his manner she could discern no trace of tension or awkwardness. It was almost as if she had imagined the entire thing, and Helena couldn’t decide if she ought to be relieved or disappointed.

  “How did you spend the day?” she asked as soon as they were settled and Luigi had brought them bread and wine.

  “I had to work. Was filling in for Geoff Fraser.”

  “Wasn’t it your day off?”

  “It was, but I lost a bet to him back in October, when New York lost the World Series to Washington, and he waited until today to make me pay up.”

  “The World Series?” Helena asked.

  “Of baseball.”

  “How can it be a ‘world’ series if both teams are American?”

  He rolled his eyes at this. “Fine. The baseball championships. So what does he make me do? Spend half my day standing around at the Rotary Club, waiting for some jackass assistant to an undersecretary of trade to show up and give a speech.”

  “Was it interesting?” Mathilde asked.

  “God, no. It was so boring I can’t even remember the man’s name. Should be fun spinning a story out of that.”

  Helena wanted to enjoy dinner, and her time with her friends, but she couldn’t manage to loosen the coil of apprehension that was tightening around her chest whenever she thought of what would happen once dinner was finished, and she and Sam were left alone for the walk home. Would he pretend the kiss hadn’t happened? Would he wish to talk about it? She’d rather be paraded through the streets on a tumbrel.

  Her anxiety was allayed, if only temporarily, when Étienne insisted they all go to Le Dôme for a round of drinks. “I need at least two glasses of fine à l’eau to wash away the taste of the vinegar we just drank. I am certain I felt my teeth dissolving.”

  “Like Cleopatra’s pearls?” Helena teased.

  “Just so.”

  They were able to find a tiny table at Le Dôme, crowding into a space that was better suited for two, and Étienne hailed the waiter with a snap of his fingers and, oddly enough, a wink.

  Rather than come to them straightaway, the man did an about-face and vanished into the kitchens, appearing several minutes later with a plate that held a single chocolate-topped creampuff. He set it before Helena with a wonderfully Gallic flourish, extracted a tall and very thin candle from his apron pocket, lighted it with a match, and inserted it in the top of the cream puff.

  Sam spoke first. “Happy birthday, Ellie.”

  “How did you know?”

  “How do you think? Your aunt.”

  “She took me aside at the party,” Étienne explained, “and told me then. She knew you wouldn’t say anything, and she thought it was silly. So now—”

  “Enough explaining,” Sam interrupted. “It’s time to sing. Do you know ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’?” Étienne shook his head and Mathilde simply shrugged. “No? I guess you’ll have to keep up. Here goes.”

  He stood, his chair scraping against the tiled floor, cleared his throat, and began to sing in a lovely, deep voice.

  “For she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us.”

  Within seconds, people at neighboring tables joined in, and then everyone at the bar, and soon everyone at Le Dôme, was singing Helena’s praises.

  “And so say all of us, and so say all of us, for she’s a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us!”

  After that, the barman stood them a round of drinks, and against her better judgment Helena had a fine à l’eau. The watered-down brandy burned her throat, but it helped to steady her increasingly ragged nerves.

  “I must be off,” Mathilde said, setting down her glass and buttoning up her coat. “Étienne, toi aussi.” She leaned across the table and kissed Helena’s cheek. “Happy birthday, my friend.”

  “I suppose we ought to go, too. I haven’t seen my aunt since breakfast.”

  Helena and Sam walked home in silence, which was just as well since her heart was pounding so loudly she couldn’t hear anything above the roar in her ears. Sam had offered his arm, as he always did, and she accepted it without protest.

  It was cold enough that she was very glad of her new coat, and grateful that she had also worn the plush fur stole Agnes had insisted on lending her. Sam, as usual, was bareheaded and immune to the weather. Even if it had been snowing he likely wouldn’t have noticed.

  Vincent was at the side door when they arrived, which was rather a surprise as normally she and Sam were left to say their good-byes in relative privacy.

  “Good evening. Lady Helena, your aunt wishes for you and Mr. Howard to join her in the petit salon.”

  “Oh,” said Helena, disappointed yet also, somehow, relieved. “That’s lovely. I mean . . . do you mind coming in? Do you have time?”

  “Of course I do,” Sam said easily, following her inside.

  A table in the petit salon had been set for dessert, with champagne on ice and Helena’s favorite cake, a Victoria sponge, ready to be served.

  “Happy birthday, my darling girl! Did you have a nice evening with your friends?”

  “I did, Auntie A, but you didn’t need to tell everyone.”

  “Of course I did. Come here, now, and have some champagne and cake, and then you must open your present.”

  Agnes’s gift was a bottle of French perfume, Mitsouko, which Helena had never heard of before. “It’s from Guerlain,” her aunt explained. “Do try it on.” So she opened the bottle and dabbed the stopper to her wrists, and at once was enveloped in roses and jasmine and another scent that she couldn’t name, but which reminded her of Earl Grey tea.

  “It smells just like the gardens at Villa Vesna,” she said, and Agnes clapped her hands in delight.

  “I thought so, too. You must wear it this winter and think of warmer days to come.”

  “I’ve something for Helena,” Sam said quietly, and set a neatly wrapped parcel on the table.

  She had a little trouble opening it, for the colored string that fastened shut its paper refused to be undone, and she had to wait for Sam to pull out his penknife and cut it free. It was a book, she was certain. The paper fell away and revealed a familiar binding. It was his rare, precious translation of Rilke’s poems, which she had returned to him only last week.

  She opened it to the flyleaf and saw that he had inscribed it, his messy, looping scrawl so distinctive she’d have known it anywhere.

  To Ellie—

  an artist with a poet’s heart

  —Sam

  “Oh, Sam,” was all she could say, and suddenly she had to blink back tears.

  “I thought you might like it,” he said, and when she dared to look up she saw that h
is cheekbones were flushed, as if he were embarrassed by the generosity of his gesture.

  “Well, I ought to be on my way,” he said. “I’ve a story to finish up for tomorrow. Thanks for your hospitality, Mrs. Paulson.”

  “You’re very welcome. Helena, walk Sam to the door.”

  Agnes didn’t follow them, and so once again they were left to stand at the door, alone, as he shrugged on his coat and checked his pocket for the key to his room.

  She stood by awkwardly, not knowing what to say, but he didn’t seem to mind. “When will I see you again?” she blurted out.

  “I have to work on Christmas Eve, but what about Christmas Day? We could go for a walk.”

  “Would you like to come for lunch? I was thinking of asking Étienne,” she added. “I don’t think he has anywhere else to go.”

  He smiled ruefully at this. “I guess I don’t, either. What time?”

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps one o’clock? I could send you a petit bleu once I know for certain.”

  He nodded slowly, and then reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch wonderfully gentle. “I wish . . .” he whispered, his voice oddly strained.

  “What is it? Do tell me.”

  “Never mind. Happy birthday. I’ll see you soon.”

  IT WAS MONDAY afternoon, only three days before Christmas, before she was able to do any Christmas shopping. She began on the Right Bank, at Fauchon, where she bought a tin of Scottish shortbread and a canister of Lapsang souchong tea for Agnes. The weather promised to remain fine, so she walked to Magasin Sennelier in St.-Germain, where she found a set of squirrel-hair brushes for Étienne, a sheaf of fine watercolor paper for Daisy, and a box of intensely pigmented soft pastels for Mathilde.

  Her final errand of the day was to a shop she’d heard about but not yet visited, Sylvia Beach’s Shakespeare and Company. According to Sam, Miss Beach had the best collection of English-language books in France. There, Helena reasoned, she’d be able to find him the perfect gift.