Presently she felt a hand on her arm. It was Mathilde, her eyes aglow with sympathy and understanding.
“Shall we go?” Helena whispered, and her friend nodded in reply.
Outside again, they stood blinking in the afternoon sun.
“I didn’t—” Helena began.
“I’m sorry,” Mathilde said.
“I didn’t lose anyone. I don’t want you to . . . that is, I was engaged, and he was wounded, but we broke things off. He did, that is. He was in love with someone else.”
At this, Mathilde shrugged ruefully. “So you are sad for him, but not because of him.”
“I suppose so. Him, and other men I knew. I wanted to say . . .”
“Yes?”
“I am very glad to have you as my friend. Thank you for coming along with me today.”
“It is nothing. I was glad of a chance to talk with you. All the same, I must be on my way. My family will be waiting.”
“Shall I see you at the studio tomorrow?”
“Yes, of course.” Mathilde kissed Helena on both cheeks, her face a little flushed, and disappeared into the crowds milling about the cathedral forecourt.
And then, for it was late in the day, and Hamish would be wanting his walk, Helena, too, went home.
Chapter 15
Helena’s life had settled into a comfortable, and comforting, rhythm. On Monday mornings she woke at seven, had a hasty breakfast of café au lait and toasted tartine with marmalade, took Hamish on a walk around the perimeter of the island, turning up her collar against the late November chill, and set off for school.
Lunch was shared with her friends in their studio. Mathilde had brought in an old percolator, which produced murky but sustaining cups of coffee, and Madame Beno?t had kindly lent them a mismatched set of cups, plates, and cutlery. Daisy and Helena contributed cheese, dried sausage, and ham from their kitchens at home—Agnes’s cook was invariably generous—and they all took turns paying for a fresh baguette at the boulangerie at the corner.
Daisy always offered Louisette something, but the woman refused to accept even a glass of water. It must have been incredibly boring for the woman, sitting there hour after hour as she did, but Helena found it hard to muster even a scrap of sympathy for someone so uncongenial in spirit.
After lunch, it was back to the studio for another hour or so, then home. Helena preferred to walk, but on cold or rainy days she would take the tram up the boulevard St.-Michel. As soon as she was home, she took Hamish out for a second time, since the extra exercise was good for both of them, and then dined with her aunt.
The exception to her routine was Sam, for she could never be sure when she might see him. Not only did he work odd hours, but he also was prone to disappearing for days on end, she assumed because of some story or another he was writing. Despite this, she’d managed to meet up with him half a dozen times, though they hadn’t again bared their souls as they’d done that rainy evening in his garret room.
His first petit bleu had arrived the morning after their dinner at Rosalie’s.
Dear Ellie—Woke up sneezing. Hope you’re all right after our run through the rain. Menzies down the hall lent me his kettle and gave me a packet of tea. Said it will cure whatever ails me. Is he a liar? If not, how do I make a decent cup of tea? I know you have strong feelings on the subject. Sam
Dear Sam—A proper cup of tea can cure even the worst case of the sniffles. As I don’t recall seeing a teapot in your room, you may brew your tea one cup at a time. Measure one teaspoonful of tea leaves into the bottom of your mug, fill the mug with freshly boiled water, let the tea steep for five minutes (a few minutes more if you like it very dark), and add a drop or two of milk and some sugar if you must have it sweet, though honey is better if you have a cold. The tea leaves should settle to the bottom of the mug, but if they are bothersome you can decant the tea into a fresh mug. I do hope you feel better soon. Regards, Helena
Dear Ellie—The tea experiment was successful. I added honey and a slug of bourbon. Slept like a baby afterwards. Thanks for the instructions. Sam
Dear Sam—You added spirits to tea? Where I come from that is very nearly sacrilege. I’ve heard that some Americans drink their tea cold—in my opinion a perversion of an otherwise perfect beverage—but your approach is nearly as bad. Shame on you! (Though I am very glad to know you are feeling better.) Regards, Helena
This coming Saturday they were planning to meet for dinner at Chez Rosalie with étienne, and possibly Mathilde, too, if she could be spared from work at her family’s bar.
Sam’s petit bleu arrived on Friday morning, not long after dawn.
Ellie—Have been called away on assignment. Not back until Sunday P.M. Promise me you’ll take a taxi home on Saturday, or have étienne walk you. Sorry for short notice. Sam.