Moonlight Over Paris

by Jennifer Robson

  She smiled ruefully. “I’m fairly certain I will never drink another drop of champagne or spirits again, not as long as I live.”

  “Are you still upset?” he asked.

  “By what happened at the Salon? Yes. Of course I am.”

  “Surely you can see that Czerny was wrong,” Sam reasoned. “He didn’t say your name. He might well have been speaking of someone else.”

  “No,” she insisted. “He was talking about me, and he was right. Just look at Étienne’s work. That’s the standard I need to judge myself against, and the truth is that I don’t even come close.”

  “Oh, Ellie—”

  “It really is the truth. I need to face it.”

  He looked unconvinced, but rather than press the issue he simply asked, “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m not sure. I think . . . I think I might like to travel. Go somewhere with Auntie A. Put all of this behind me.”

  “‘All of this’?” he echoed. “What about your friends here? The life you’ve built for yourself?”

  “I only ever planned on staying for a year. And I might return, one day. I haven’t really thought about it yet. All I know is that I need to make a change.”

  “So that’s it. You’re just going to give up. One man criticizes you—the same man who has never given you the time of day, because he’s an idiot—and you fall apart.” Sam’s voice was shaking, and when she steeled herself to meet his gaze she was taken aback to realize just how angry he was.

  “But Czerny was right,” she insisted. “I’ve known it all along, but I couldn’t admit it. I was wrong to think I had enough talent to succeed as an artist.”

  “You aren’t wrong. You are talented—anyone can see that. Your paintings are beautiful.”

  “So? Nearly anyone can produce a pretty picture. And that’s all I’m capable of. Pretty, decorative pictures. A hundred years from now Étienne’s work will be hanging on the walls of museums, but mine will be forgotten. I know that now.”

  “So that’s your response? You falter once and decide you’re done? I thought more of you. I thought you of all people would have the courage to persevere.” His voice grew rougher, sharper. “But I guess all your talk of learning how to live was just that. Talk.”

  “Wait a moment—you’re criticizing me? You say you dream of becoming a proper journalist, but you’ve been working the rewrite desk for years now, even though you’re a better writer than all of your colleagues put together. Ten years from now, you’ll still be sitting in that miserable office, deciphering cables and writing piffle about film stars, because you’re scared to believe anything else might even be possible.”

  He took a deep breath, as if to steady himself after a blow. “You’ve no idea what I’ve been facing,” he replied, his voice rising.

  “If I’ve no idea, it’s because you never told me. I’ve a pretty good idea, though, and it begins with Howard Steel.”

  He said nothing at first, the silence stretching thin and pale between them, and when he did speak his voice was eerily calm. “Who told you?”

  “Sara. She assumed I knew. Apparently it’s an open secret here in Paris. Can you imagine how foolish I felt?”

  “I’m sorry, Ellie. If it’s any consolation, that’s why I came here today. I mean, I wanted to make sure you were feeling better, but I also knew it was time to tell you about my family. To let you know that I’m returning to America.”

  It wasn’t possible—it couldn’t be possible. She must have misunderstood.

  “I beg your pardon . . . I don’t think I—”

  “I’m leaving Paris,” he said. “I sail home to New York at the end of next week.”

  “Why? Why would you do such a thing?”

  “My father isn’t well, and he’s asked me to come home. He needs me. My family needs me.”

  “And just like that you give everything up—leave everything behind?”

  “It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while now,” he muttered, his shoulders hunched like an old man’s. “I’ve been wanting to tell you, but I . . .”

  “Well, you didn’t. Instead you let me waffle on about my family and Edward and the pressure I felt to live my life a certain way, but you were going through the same thing, too. Why didn’t you just say something?”

  “I wanted to. I did. But I was worried that it would come to this, to my having to go home and leave you behind, and I couldn’t even bear to think about it. It would have hurt to leave Paris, but to leave you . . .”

  “Is that why you pushed me away? Said we could never be more than friends?”

  “Yes. You’d spent years being treated like an afterthought by your fiancé and everyone else around you. I guess it seemed kinder to keep you at arm’s length. Besides, we were only just getting to know one another. I didn’t want to presume you cared for me.”

  “I did,” she admitted, desolation gripping her like a vise. “I still do.”

  “Then why have you been so distant? For months you’ve been avoiding me, and when our paths do cross you barely give me the time of day.”

  “I didn’t think you would notice. I didn’t know you cared.”

  “Well, I did notice, and I do care. I care when you ignore me, and I care when you compare me to the man who nearly ruined your life. Is that what I am to you? Nothing more than Edward in an American suit?”

  “No. No, of course not. I didn’t mean that you were anything like him. Only that you both belong to the same world, with the same sort of impossible expectations and ironclad rules and people with their hearts and minds buried in the last century.”

  “So? I don’t live in that world. I left it long ago.”

  “You did, but now you’re going back. You’re the heir to Howard Steel.”

  “It won’t change me, Ellie. I won’t let it.”

  “I’m sure you’ll try, but how can you escape something that surrounds you? It’s not as if you can leave work at the end of the day and go home to a shabby little garret. This life you have, here in Paris—it’s over. Can’t you see?”

  “It’s not forever. It’s only until—”

  “Until when? You inherit Howard Steel outright?”

  “What else would you have me do? Stay here and let my father die at his desk?”

  “Of course not. That’s the thing, Sam—I agree with you. I honestly do.”

  He stared at her incredulously, disbelief etched across his features. “Then why are you so angry with me? I’m not going to change. I didn’t before, and I won’t now.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Then come with me. Come to America and make a new start.”

  It tempted her beyond reason, and it would have been the easiest thing in the world to say yes. If Sam were still the ordinary newspaperman she had fallen in love with, she’d have gone without a second thought. But he wasn’t an ordinary man, and nothing could change that inescapable truth.

  “No,” she finally said. “I’m sorry—you’ll never know how sorry I am—but my answer must be no.”

  Silence descended, dark and oppressive, broken only by the relentless ticking of a clock on the mantel.

  “That’s it?” he asked, despair shading his voice. “I leave and you stay?”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  “Then I had better go.” Crossing the space between them in two long strides, he bent low to kiss her quickly, fervently, his mouth hard upon hers. “Good-bye, Ellie.”

  Though she wanted very badly to run after him and take back everything she had said, she forced herself to remain where she was, dying by degrees, as he left the room and walked out the front door.

  Pain bloomed in her chest, in the spot where her heart was meant to be, and it was so fierce and paralyzing that she could only breathe in short, shallow bursts. One day she would wake up, and the memories of this day would be gone, and she would think of her year in Paris, and Sam, without her heart stuttering almost to a stop.


  One day she might think of him, and the look on his face just now, and she would not hate herself for it.

  One day.

  Chapter 28

  The next day, Helena stayed in bed so long she gave herself a headache. It was nearly noon when Agnes came into her bedroom, yanked open all the draperies, and stood, looking quite fierce, at the end of the bed.

  “It’s high time you got out of bed and stopped feeling sorry for yourself,” she announced. “I’ve asked the maids to run you a bath—do wash your hair, my dear, and give yourself a good scrub—and when you’re done, come down to the petit salon.”

  “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?”

  “As long as we are discreet, and bring it in quietly, I doubt we’ll have any trouble. If we do, we can say the frame needed to be reinforced, or something like that.”

  “Do we have enough time?” Helena wondered.

  “More than enough,” he answered. “The Salon is open late this evening, though we should try to get there soon, before the evening crowds arrive.”

  In the end, the only difficult part of the procedure was fitting the painting, well wrapped in a clean dropcloth, in the back of her aunt’s car. Once at the Palais de Bois, they went straight to the room where Helena’s other painting was hanging, and where there was, fortunately, just enough space to hang Le train bleu without interfering with other artworks.

  Étienne vanished, having explained that he intended to speak to a few people about the painting, and before long a steady stream of people was entering the room and focusing their attention on Helena’s painting. It was agony to stand nearby and listen to their comments, but to her great relief nearly everyone seemed to like it.

  “What are people saying?” Étienne asked upon his return.

  “Good things,” Helena whispered. “Flattering things. I wonder if—”

  Mathilde grabbed at her arm, her attention fixed on the entrance to the room. Helena followed her gaze to the man who stood at the threshold, and her heart nearly stopped beating.

  Maître Czerny had arrived.

  “LEAVE US,” HE barked at Étienne and Mathilde, and they stepped back obediently, though Étienne hovered within arm’s reach. Helena’s resolve wilted a little, for Czerny really did look very fierce, but then she remembered what he had said, and she straightened her spine and looked him in the eye.

  He gestured at the painting. “This is your work?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why is this the first I’ve seen of it?”

  “I was afraid you would not like it.”

  “Yet you changed your mind. Why?”

  “Because I no longer care if you like it,” she answered readily. “I may be monied, but I am not ho
peless.”

  Czerny winced, just a little, but he didn’t apologize. Instead he approached the painting and examined it closely, taking his time, the seconds lengthening into minutes.

  “As your teacher, may I offer an opinion?” he said at last.

  “You may.”

  “This is good. I like it.”

  “Thank you,” she said, in as gracious a tone as she could contrive.

  “I will not deceive you with false praise, however. You are a good artist, but you will never be great. For that matter, neither will I. Few of us are touched by genius.”

  “Not everyone can be Shakespeare,” she said, remembering her conversation with Sam.

  “You English and your Shakespeare,” he said, and wrinkled his nose disdainfully. “You may not be a great artist, Mademoiselle Parr, but you are capable of creating imaginative and highly decorative work. You might wish to consider turning to commercial art—posters and book jackets, for instance. You ought to consider it.”

  “Can one make a decent living with such work?” she asked, cringing at the vulgarity of her question. All the same, she had to know. Her future depended on it.

  “Certainly you can. Would you like me to make some inquiries?”

  She hated to ask him for anything, but it would be foolish to turn down his offer. “Yes, please. And thank you.”

  “It is nothing. Good luck, Mademoiselle Parr.”

  The instant he left the room, Étienne and Mathilde were at her side, their expressions an almost comical mixture of curiosity and fear.

  “What did he say?”

  “I hope he wasn’t unkind . . .”

  “He was fine. I am . . . I’ll be fine. I think I know what to do next.”

  It wasn’t what she had expected, or hoped for, but she wasn’t going to turn up her nose at the maître’s suggestion. He had shown her a way forward, a way to realize her dreams. A way to live independently, without recourse to her family’s money.

  But first, she knew, she had to see Sam.