“Your colleagues at the newspaper?” Helena asked, belatedly realizing how insulting that sounded. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said with a grin. “They’re Philistines, almost to a man. And we deskmen are the worst of the lot.”
“What’s a deskman?”
“I work on the rewrite desk most evenings. Though I’ll sub in on days if they need an extra body.”
She nodded, though she still had no real notion of what he was talking about. “I’ve seen your paper. There was a copy on the train when I came here. It was very interesting.”
“Thanks. I’m glad you liked it. What do you do, anyway?” he asked.
It was such a surprising thing to be asked that she yet again found herself lost for words. Most people, after hearing her title, and learning a little about her upbringing, simply assumed she did nothing. That she had no identity beyond being the youngest daughter of the Earl of Halifax.
Sara answered him first. “Helena is an artist, and we all think she is terribly talented. She’s starting classes in September at the Académie Czerny.”
“I can vouch for Helena’s talent,” Gerald said. “She has a fine eye, particularly for color. Far better than my own.”
This was a grand compliment indeed, for Gerald, though largely self-taught, was an artist of some renown, with work that the great Picasso himself had praised. Only that spring, one of his paintings had caused a sensation at the Salon des Indépendants.
“Gerald and Sara are too kind. I still have so much to learn.”
“No better place than Paris. Not that I’d know—I can hold a pencil well enough to scribble down notes, but that’s about it. Is that the connection between you and my friends here? Art?”
“You know, I suppose it is,” Sara answered. “I was in London just before the war, and met Helena when I was there. Of course I was quite a bit older, but we soon discovered we had a lot in common. She came to my rescue one day, when I was trying to champion Cubism to some grandes dames—”
“You were doing perfectly well on your own,” Helena insisted. “I merely contributed some moral support.”
“All the same, I was very grateful to find a friend with similar interests and enthusiasms.”
“I was heartbroken when you and your sisters left for Italy,” Helena added.
“We’d hoped Helena might visit me in America, but the war got in the way, and then . . . well, you know what they say about one’s best intentions. We’re making up for lost time this summer.”
Sara and Helena reminisced throughout the rest of the meal, while Mr. Howard divided his attention between Gerald and Agnes. As they were eating the last of the figs that had been serving in lieu of pudding, the Murphys’ children were brought in to say good night. A little surprised by the lateness of their bedtime, Helena glanced at her watch and saw it was only a quarter to nine. Hardly more than an hour had passed since her and Agnes’s arrival at the hotel.
“Honoria, Baoth, Patrick. Please say good night to Mrs. Paulson and Lady Helena, and to Mr. Howard.”
“Good night, Mr. Howard,” they chimed, coming round to shake his hand. “Good night, Mrs. Paulson. Good night, Ellie.”
“Good night, my dears,” Helena replied, not minding their use of her childhood nickname at all. “Shall I see you on the beach tomorrow afternoon?”
“Yes, oh yes! Yes, pleeeeease!” shouted Patrick, who was only four years old. “We’re going on a treasure hunt!”
Gerald smiled indulgently. “You won’t be going anywhere if you don’t listen to Nanny and hop straight into bed. It’s already an hour past your bedtime.”
The Murphys were such wonderful parents, and their children really were delightful in every way. It did pain Helena at times, the knowledge that she was unlikely to ever have her own children, but moments like these went a long way in making up for such disappointment. And it was something, besides, to be everyone’s favorite aunt.
With the children settled and their meal at an end, Gerald suggested they go out to the terrace and watch the sunset. So they trooped after him and stood before the modern, chromed railing as the sun descended ever closer to the wine-dark, slumbering sea.
Gerald passed around his cigarette case, but Helena’s parents had forbidden her to smoke when she was younger, and consequently she had never taken up the habit. In any case, she quite disliked the smell. Rather to her surprise, Mr. Howard declined as well, and moved a little distance away from the others.
“Gassed in the war,” he explained. “Smoking just makes it worse.”
“I see,” she said. “I’m sorry to—”
“So . . . Ellie,” he said, turning to face her, his hip against the railing. “You don’t seem like an Ellie.”
“It’s my pet name. From childhood. Didn’t you have one?”
“Well, I was christened Samuel, so I guess that Sam is it. Never felt like a Samuel. That’s my uncle’s name.”
“I don’t feel like an Ellie, not really. But I don’t mind when the children use it. Or my aunt.”