Moonlight Over Paris Read online

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  “And I you, my darling girl. When I received the telegram from your father—the first one, I mean, the one that said you were dying—I swooned. I absolutely did—didn’t I, Vincent?”

  “You did, madame.”

  Vincent was her aunt’s chauffeur, butler, bodyguard, and confidant, and had been with her as long as Helena could remember. Nearly everything about him was mysterious, from his nationality to his life before Agnes, but his loyalty to her aunt was unquestionable.

  “Hello, Vincent, it’s lovely to—”

  “You see, Helena? Swooned. And then, when the second telegram came—”

  “In which I lived?”

  “Yes, dear, in which you survived—well, I simply collapsed. I was in bed for days, and Hamish was ever so worried for me, wasn’t he?”

  “Hamish is still . . . ?”

  “Oh yes—Vincent, hand over Hamish to Helena. I’m sure she’ll want a cuddle.”

  Hamish was Aunt Agnes’s stout, elderly, and very smelly cairn terrier, who had been at death’s door at least a dozen times over his long lifetime but somehow always rallied with the help of expensive veterinary care. He was a dear old thing, though, and seemed to recognize her, so Helena set down her valise and tucked him under her arm. He thanked her with a soft huff, then a gentle belch.

  “The poor dear—his tummy has been giving him such trouble. Vincent, take Helena’s bag—you don’t have anything else, darling?”

  “I’ve a trunk in the baggage car.”

  “Go see to it, Vincent, while we get settled in the car. Hurry, now!”

  Agnes took Helena’s other arm and guided them to the station exit. The car was idling at the curb, a huge, gleaming beast of an open-topped coupe, its interior upholstered from stem to stern in leather that was softer than velvet. Aunt Agnes had never been one for scrimping on luxuries.

  Vincent returned with the news that the trunk would be delivered that afternoon, so with nothing to keep them in town they set off for Agnes’s villa. Helena couldn’t recall its exact location relative to the shore, only that its garden had a marvelous view.

  “Do you remember the villa? You won’t have been here for years, of course. We must throw you a party, something simply wild, and we’ll invite all my friends. We’ll have such fun together!”

  “That sounds lovely, Auntie A, but perhaps not quite yet—”

  “Of course, of course. You need to build up your strength, and what better place than here? A little sun will do you such good. Of course you’re terribly pale, but that’s true of everyone when they arrive. I mean, poor Peggy Guggenheim looked like a ghoul back in March, and now she’s as brown as a walnut.”

  “Do you think we can send a telegram to Mama and Papa, to let them know I’ve arrived? I ought to have said something before we left the station.”

  “Never you mind—you can write it out as soon as we get home and Vincent will drive it down to the post office. He won’t mind—will you, Vincent?”

  “Not at all, madame.”

  “Oh, look—we’re here. Welcome to Villa Vesna!”

  Away from the seafront, with its grand hotels and more modest pensions, the residences of Cap d’Antibes were hidden behind whitewashed walls or tall hedges, so Helena had little sense of how her aunt’s neighbors lived. The car slowed, turning carefully into a short drive, and drew up by the front door of a square, squat, flat-roofed house that charmed her with its pale pink walls and turquoise shutters.

  Far more striking, though, was the garden, which spilled down the hillside in three lushly planted terraces. Framing the magnificent view were trees that would never survive an English winter—date palms and olives, figs and mimosa. There was even a little grove of lemon and orange trees. Whitewashed trellises supported tangled vines of clematis, heliotrope, Chinese roses, and bougainvillea, while spreading beds of thyme, chamomile, and lavender tumbled over their low stone walls onto undulating pathways of crushed limestone. Birdsong was everywhere, melodic and joyful; later, she knew, it would be eclipsed by the rising drone of cicadas.

  “Helena? Shall we see you settled? We’ll do that, then we’ll have a late breakfast out on the terrace, and after that we’ll go down to the water and have a sunbath. Do you have a bathing costume with you?”

  “There’s one in my trunk.”

  “Oh, good. Leave your valise—Vincent will bring it in. And you can put Hamish down. He knows the way.”

  Inside, all was dark and cool, the villa’s windows still shuttered to keep out the heat of the day. Aunt Agnes led them to a flight of stairs, its banister a sinuous curve of weathered wrought iron, and the three of them climbed the steps, Hamish’s claws clicking softly against the terra-cotta floor tiles.

  “I’ve given you the best of the guest rooms, darling—my room is at the other end of the corridor. I think you’ll adore it. Do come in and tell me what you think.”

  Agnes hurried to fling open the shutters on two large windows, revealing an expansive view of the terraced garden and, beyond, the infinite azure arc of the Mediterranean. “Will the room suit? I mean, apart from the view? You’ve the bed, and a desk and chair, and a little fauteuil if you feel like lounging. Is anything missing? I do want it to be perfect.”

  “It is,” Helena promised.

  “Oh—I almost forgot! Come with me—I’ve been dying to show you. Perhaps you could carry dear Hamish? He’s a little out of breath.”

  Helena scooped up the dog and followed her aunt back downstairs and outside again, this time via a side door. They stood on a round, elevated patio that was shaded by a pergola blanketed in the scarlet blooms of a trumpet vine. Just beyond was a low, stuccoed outbuilding, its façade dominated by a set of rough-hewn doors. Her aunt opened both doors wide and beckoned impatiently to Helena. “Come in. Come and see.”

  The interior was dim, especially compared to the glare of the midday sun. She lingered at the threshold, intrigued by her aunt’s enthusiasm for the shabby old shed, and blinked as her eyes struggled to discern what lay beyond.

  She saw the easel first. She blinked, and a table came into focus. A long table, pushed against the back wall, its surface covered with everything to tempt an artist’s heart: stacks of stretched canvases, reams of paper, boxes of pastels, tins of watercolors, a clutch of sharpened pencils in a tin. There were empty palettes, too, and an open case of brushes, every size and shape, all waiting for her.

  And there were tubes of oil paint, scores of them, set in rows on the tabletop, their neatly lettered labels the only clue to the colors hidden within. All new, all untouched.

  “I wasn’t sure what to buy, so I ordered one of everything. You don’t mind, do you? I thought it would be nice to surprise—”

  “Oh, Auntie A. It’s . . . I don’t know what to say. It’s perfect. I never dreamed—”

  “Don’t cry, dear. It’s just some paints and paper, and the shed wasn’t being used.”

  Helena blinked away her tears, not wishing to spoil the moment with theatrics, and pulled her aunt into a heartfelt embrace.

  “Is there enough light? I know you artists need to have plenty of light,” Agnes persisted.

  “It’s perfect, I promise. Like a dream come true.”

  “Oh, good. Let’s go back inside. I’ll remind you where everything is, and of course you won’t have met Jeanne and Micheline. My cook and housemaid. Such dears, though they don’t speak a word of English, and I’ve barely any French. Still, we get on well together, and Vincent can translate in a crisis.”

  Her heart full, her mind’s eye awhirl, Helena cast one last glance over her studio—her studio—and followed Agnes inside.

  Chapter 4

  Villa Vesna

  Antibes, France

  5 July 1924

  Dearest Amalia,

  I’m afraid I don’t have much in the way of news for you this week, for life on the Côte d’Azur continues in much the same vein as it has done since my arrival. I quite enjoy the routine—up at dawn, a solit
ary walk down to the water, some sketching there if I feel inspired, then back home for breakfast on the terrace with Auntie A. After that I move to my studio and work up sketches from the day before, with a break for lunch around one o’clock. I did try asking the cook if I might simply have a sandwich on a tray, but I only managed to horrify the poor woman. So lunch at table it is, with the addition once or twice a week of Auntie A’s friends.

  You won’t be surprised to hear that our aunt knows everyone here: the great, the good, the notorious, and the merely interesting, too. At first, when people visited, I was a little concerned they might have heard of my social difficulties back in London, but no one has said a thing. Not yet, at any rate! Agnes introduces me as her niece, says I am visiting from England, and that is that.

  In the afternoons, I go down to the seaside for a swim, for the water is much warmer now. Auntie A comes with me from time to time, but she insists on being driven down the hill, and tends to fuss about everything—the heat, the wind, even the sand that clings to Hamish’s paws.

  Most evenings we go out to dine, most often with Sara and Gerald Murphy. I’m sure I mentioned their arrival in my last letter, and since then I’ve seen them at least three or four times. At present they are staying at the Hôtel du Cap with their children, for their villa is being renovated and won’t be ready until the end of the summer.

  Helena sipped at her tea, though it had already gone cold, and smiled at the memory of her first meeting with Sara. It had been the spring of 1914, not long after her own debut, and she had been feeling rather adrift at a particularly dreary tea party. She’d joined a conversation, drawn by the talk of modern art, as well as the American voice she overheard, and had been introduced to Miss Sara Wiborg, lately of East Hampton, New York.

  Sara had been defending the work of Marcel Duchamp to a clutch of disbelieving and pinch-faced matrons. Though normally shy when meeting new people, Helena hadn’t hesitated before chiming in, avowing her admiration for Duchamp and his fellow Cubists. She and Sara had talked non-stop for the rest of the afternoon.

  The Wiborg family had departed for Italy not long after, but Sara and Helena had maintained a faithful, if irregular, correspondence throughout the intervening years. In 1915 she had married Gerald, and not so long ago they had moved to France, it would seem for good.

  As far as Helena had known, they’d been living in Paris; she had meant to call on them once she was settled there in September. So it had been a lovely surprise to discover the entire family at the little beach at La Garoupe one afternoon a few weeks earlier, and then to learn they were staying for the rest of the summer.

  Tonight Auntie A and I are dining with the Murphys, along with an American friend of Gerald’s. As I write this it’s nearly eleven in the morning, so if I’m to get in any plein air work today I must be off. Although people don’t really dress for dinner here in Antibes our aunt does expect me to be presentable—and that means I need to set aside a solid hour at the end of the day to scrub the paint from under my fingernails and render the rest of my person fit for company!

  I promise to write again soon—Auntie A sends her best wishes—

  With much love,

  Helena

  Having packed her satchel after breakfast, it remained only to fetch a sandwich and a flask of water from the kitchen, leave the letter to Amalia on the hall table for Vincent to post later, and haul her bicycle out of the garage. She’d found it a few weeks earlier, tucked away in the back of the old stables, and although it was old and rather heavy it worked well once Vincent had cleaned off the cobwebs and set it to rights.

  The ride into the hills north of Antibes was ever so pleasant, and in the hours that followed she made some very satisfactory sketches of lavender growing wild in an ancient grove of olive trees. She worked happily for ages, only noticing the time when she paused for a drink of water, and realized the afternoon was nearly gone.

  She packed up her things and began the journey home, but her bicycle dropped its chain before she’d gone even a mile, and despite her best efforts the chain stubbornly refused to stay put. Helena was so intent on trying to fix her bicycle that she didn’t hear the approaching vehicle until it pulled to a growling halt only a few yards away.

  Turning around, she expected to see one of the goods lorries or delivery vans that comprised most of the limited traffic on the narrow, unpaved roads. Instead, she was surprised to discover a small and low-slung coupe, its exterior painted with red and blue racing stripes. The driver, a man only a few years older than she, switched off the engine.

  “Do you need a hand there?” he asked in a faintly amused American baritone.

  He seemed friendly enough, but he was looking at her far too boldly, and she felt certain he was holding back a smile. No, not a smile—a smirk. He hadn’t even bothered to say hello, or to introduce himself properly.

  “Thank you, but no. I’m quite all right.” She stared back, unblinking, her posture so perfect even her mother would have approved. Only then did she realize he hadn’t spoken to her in French. “How did you know . . . ?”

  “That you’re English? You don’t often see Frenchwomen on bicycles.”

  “You aren’t French, either.”

  “Nope. My accent give me away?” He grinned at her.

  “Well, yes. That and . . . I suppose you just look like an American.”

  “Huh. I guess I’d better take that as a compliment.”

  He clambered out of his motorcar and walked over to look at her bicycle. It was a wonder he’d even fit in the coupe, for he was well over six feet tall, and broad-shouldered besides. He wore a linen suit, rather crumpled and dusty, and his shirt was open at the neck. On his head he sported a long-billed American cap, but he pulled it off and tossed it in the car, revealing short-cropped auburn hair.

  “Why don’t I see what the problem is, Duchess?”

  “I’m not—” Helena began, but stopped short when she realized he was only teasing her. In vain she tried to think of something amusing to say, but her mind remained stubbornly blank.

  Crouching by her bicycle, he pulled at its chain, muttering a little under his breath. He sat back on his haunches and began to rummage about in the grass. “I need a stick, nothing too big . . . here we go.” Using the stick as a guide, he looped one end of the chain over the rear cog, and then eased it around to fit over the front chain ring. He then grasped the nearside pedal and turned it slowly round until the chain clicked into place.

  “There. Fixed.”

  “Really? I tried that half a dozen times but I couldn’t get it to stay on.”

  “You’d have probably got it on eventually. Using the stick helps.”

  “Of course. That’s, ah, that’s terribly helpful. Thank you so much, Mister—”

  “Howard. Sam Howard.”

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Howard. I’m Helena Parr.” She wondered if she ought to offer her hand for him to shake, but remembered, just in time, that it was dirty. Of course his hands were dirty, too, so it really ought not to matter.

  “Do you need any more help, d’you think?”

  “No. You’ve done more than enough. I mustn’t keep you.” She winced at the sound of her voice, so prim and starchy compared to his unaffected friendliness.

  “So long, then. Perhaps I’ll see you around town.” He smiled then, really smiled, and she saw that he had a dimple in one cheek and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheekbones. She’d never known a grown man with freckles, or perhaps she simply had never noticed before.

  “That would be very nice.” What was wrong with her? Very nice? Even as a green debutante of eighteen she’d been capable of conversation that was ten times as sparkling.

  “It was good to meet you, Miss Parr. You’re sure you don’t need me to stay? Just to make sure you’re fine?”

  “I’m sure. I mean, I’m sure that I’m fine. Really, there’s no need to stay. Thanks ever so much.”

  “As long as you’re sure,
then,” he said, and smiled at her once more. It made his eyes crinkle at the corners in an awfully endearing fashion, and it also made her notice, rather unwillingly, just how handsome he was. “Good-bye.”

  He returned to his car, somehow managed to fit his long legs into its cockpit, or whatever one called the driving compartment of a motorcar, and drove off in a cloud of dust and exhaust.

  By the time she got home, a half hour later, Helena was grimy, terribly thirsty, and suffering from a tremendous headache. Leaving her satchel in the studio, she hurried upstairs to the bathroom, praying there would be enough hot water left in the cistern for her to have a modest bath. She opened the hot water tap all the way, and went to look at herself in the cheval mirror while the tub filled.

  It was even worse than she’d imagined. Her frock, fortunately an old one, was streaked with bicycle grease and dust from the road. Her face was nearly as dirty, and her hair, which now reached to her earlobes, was standing on end. She might have been one of the urchins from Fagin’s den of thieves. Her laugh echoed in the tiled room—no wonder Mr. Howard had been grinning at her. Between her disheveled appearance and her tongue-tied responses, she must have come across as decidedly strange.

  The tap began to clamor and clank; that was the end of the hot water. She added a splash of cold, so she wouldn’t scald herself, and poured in some lemon bath essence. She would wash her hair, wash every inch of her person, and then she would swallow two tablets of aspirin and take a short nap. When she awoke, she would be perfectly rested and ready for a pleasant evening with her aunt and the Murphys—and then, maybe tomorrow, she would locate her wits and what little dignity she still possessed, go into town, and find Mr. Howard to thank him properly for his help.

  Chapter 5

  Helena was, indeed, much restored by the time they left. She wore the nicest of her dinner frocks, a simple shift in heavy, midnight blue silk charmeuse, its inky darkness brightened by scrolling silver embroidery at its neck and hem. Her hair was now long enough to look fashionably bobbed and not simply shorn, and apart from setting a slim diamanté clip in the locks by her left temple, she left it alone.