“You’re welcome, Ellie. Or should I say ‘duchess’?” He smiled again, for the first time since she’d admitted her decision to stay only a year in France. “Look me up, will you? It’s always nice to have an old friend in a new city.”
“I will, though it may be a while. I’ll need to get settled at my aunt’s house, and I don’t know how much time I’ll—”
“I don’t mind. I’ll wait.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Howard.”
“Call me Sam. Please.”
“Good-bye, Sam.”
He walked away, holding little Patrick’s hand as they followed the path up to the seawall, his head bent to listen to the child’s happy chatter. She watched them until they were hidden by a stand of palm trees, and then she clipped Hamish’s lead to his collar and set off for home.
PART TWO
Don’t you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you’re not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you’ve lived nearly half the time you have to live already?
—Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises
Chapter 7
The last weeks of the summer slipped by in a languid, sun-drenched blur. Agnes departed for St.-Malo in the middle of August, taking Vincent and Hamish with her, and without her animating presence the villa felt cold and silent, even on the hottest of days. Jeanne and Micheline stayed on, for they remained in Antibes year-round; and though they were friendly enough, their work kept them too busy to offer much in the way of company for Helena.
It would have been unutterably lonely if not for the Murphys. If ever she felt at loose ends, or in need of conversation, she had only to wander over and they made her welcome. Sara even invited her to stay with them at the hotel, but Helena hadn’t wanted to intrude, or to be seen as presuming on their friendship. She still saw them at the beach most afternoons, and often went with them, too, when they paid visits to their villa, where renovations were nearly finished and the garden was in full, riotous bloom.
“It was here when we bought the place,” Gerald explained. “The fellow who owned the villa before us was a diplomat, and every time he traveled he brought back something exotic. We’ll have to do some pruning and weeding, but not much of either.”
Gerald had set up a studio at the hotel, too, for art was as vital to him as the air he breathed. He had begun a painting he hoped to exhibit at the Salon des Indépendants the following spring, a huge canvas that portrayed a disassembled watch, or perhaps clockworks; it was hard to tell at such an early stage.
At the end of August she packed up her things and bid a fond farewell to the Murphys, who wouldn’t be returning to Paris until later that autumn, and even then would be living in St.-Cloud, a suburb on the outskirts of the city.
“It’s too far for visits during the week,” Sara advised, “but you can always visit on the weekend. Besides, we’ll be at our apartment on the quai des Grands Augustins often enough—at least once a month, if not more.”
VINCENT WAS WAITING at the Gare de Lyon when her overnight train arrived, not far past dawn, on the first of September.
“Good morning, Vincent. How are you?”
“I am well, Lady Helena. This way, please.”
It was more than he’d ever said to her before; perhaps the man was warming up to her. Or perhaps she had worn him down. Either way, she was almost certain she caught him smiling, though only a little, as he bent to collect her valise.
It was only a short drive to her aunt’s home, a grand old town house at the western end of the ?le St.-Louis. She hadn’t visited since before the war, but the exterior hadn’t changed at all, nor had the neighborhood.
Vincent went to park the car in the old stables, and rather than walk back through the gates to the front, Helena went in through the side door. “Hello!” she called out. “Auntie A? Are you up?”
She walked the length of the main floor, popping her head into its various reception rooms—all empty. They’d been redecorated in an elegant but rather clinical contemporary style since she’d seen them last, in startling contrast to the faded and faintly shabby grandeur of the house itself. She walked upstairs, to the first floor with its bedrooms, calling out for her aunt as she went.
“Auntie A? Hello?”
“Helena? But you’re early! Do come in—I’m at the end of the hall.”
Agnes was sitting up in bed, the morning’s newspapers scattered around her, wearing a silk and lace bedgown that was more confectionery than garment. Her breakfast of buttered toast and chocolat chaud sat on a japanned tray at her side, and Hamish, snoring loudly, was sprawled across the bed’s embroidered silk coverlet.
“Helena, my dear! I wasn’t expecting you for another half hour at the least.”
Helena sat on the edge of the bed, rather a feat as it was impossibly high, and deposited a kiss on her aunt’s cheek.
“How was your journey? How are you?” Agnes asked.
“Very well. How was St.-Malo?”
“Exceedingly tiresome, I’m afraid. Crammed with sad old bores, and the weather was frightful. I really ought to have stayed with you in Antibes. Are you hungry? Do you want any breakfast?”