It was kind of him to worry, but she wasn’t so silly as to walk home alone, especially since it was getting dark by seven o’clock. She scribbled out a reply and posted it on the way to school.
Dear Sam—Not to worry. Will be prudent. I forgot that it was your Thanksgiving yesterday. Do I wish you Happy or Merry? We shall dine on roast chicken when I next see you and pretend it is turkey. Regards, Helena
She and her friends spent Saturday morning and afternoon in the studio, though Daisy had to leave before lunchtime. Her father was feeling poorly again, and though Helena admired her friend’s devotion to her parent she now suspected that Dr. Fields was in the habit of exaggerating his ailments as yet another way of keeping Daisy under his thumb.
Mathilde, who was needed at the bar after all, departed at five, leaving Helena and étienne to continue on to the restaurant alone. Dinner at Chez Rosalie was never a drawn-out affair, for no money was to be made from diners who had eaten their fill, no matter how much the signora adored them. In less than an hour they had finished, paid, and were strolling north on the boulevard St.-Michel. Helena would have been content to simply walk and wander, but étienne wanted wine and coffee, in that order, and of a better quality than Rosalie served.
“Her food is delightful, but the wine . . .” He shuddered in his oh-so-French way.
They found a table in one of the nameless cafés of the boul’ Mich’, as étienne called the street, and settled in with a five-franc bottle of Burgundy and a café express for étienne. A single coffee in the morning kept Helena feeling energized for most of the day; how her friend was able to consume the stuff at such a late hour, and in such a strong form, never ceased to amaze her.
“You’ll never sleep, you know.”
“I will. And the wine is a soporific. I’ll sleep like the dead.”
“It’s very bad for you.”
“I am fine. There is no need to fuss over me.”
“That’s what friends do. And you never talk of your family—who takes care of you?”
A flash of pain twisted across his face, and she wished she could snatch back her words. “You do, and Mathilde,” he said, pouring himself another glass of wine. “You are all I need.”
“Is your family in Paris?”
“No.”
“But you—”
“You, Hélène—you never talk of your family. Only your aunt Agnes, and from time to time your sister. You never speak of your life in England, or your family there. Are you estranged from them?”
“Not at all. I’m very fond of my parents and siblings. I’ve three sisters and one brother, and nearly a dozen nephews and nieces between them. I write to Amalia every week, and my mother nearly as often.”
“So why am I convinced the scarlet fever is not all that brought you here? There is something in your manner, you know, when you speak of home. And you are very adept at changing the subject when it comes to speaking of the war.” He swallowed a gulp of wine, his eyes never leaving her face. “I wonder . . . did you lose someone, perhaps?”
She could have lied, told him he had an overactive imagination, but what would that serve? She knew she could trust him.
“In a manner of speaking . . .”
“I knew it.” He really did have the look of a cat that had learned how to open a birdcage.
“It’s hard to hide anything from you.”
“I am very observant. That is why I am a great artist.”
“And such a humble man,” she teased. He made a face, refilled both their glasses, and waited for her to tell him everything.
“I don’t like to talk of it. It happened so long ago. I was . . . I was engaged. I cared for Edward, but I wasn’t in love with him. I didn’t know him well enough.”
“What happened to him?” étienne asked softly, carefully.
“He was taken prisoner. For months, we thought he was dead. And then he came home, and he’d lost a leg, and he was different. We all knew it, but no one said anything, not at first.”
“Did you break it off?”
“No, of course not. I’d never have done that to him. He was struggling, and so unhappy, but I didn’t know how to help. I don’t think he wanted me to help him. It went on for months, and then he came to see me one day and broke the engagement, just like that. He told me that I was too good for him and that we would make one another unhappy.”
“Was he right? Would you have been unhappy with him?”
“I think so. He married someone else not long after. I think he was in love with her all along.”
“Ma pauvre Hélène.”
“It didn’t hurt me. It didn’t. They are happy together, from what I’ve heard. And she was nice to me, the one time we met. I don’t blame either of them.”
“But . . . ?”
“But the gossip was awful. No one would believe that our parting was amicable. They assumed it was my fault. That I’d broken things off because of his missing leg. That I had done something to deserve being set aside.”