Madame Vionnet herself came to see them once they had dressed and were preparing to leave. She kissed cheeks with Agnes and shook hands with Helena, and inquired with grave politeness if they were pleased with the frocks they had chosen. The couturière’s appearance came as a pleasant surprise to Helena, who had been expecting a chic and faintly terrifying figure cut from the same cloth as Gabrielle Chanel or Jeanne Lanvin. But Madame Vionnet was dressed in a shapeless white smock, had a motherly figure that would never have fit into any of her designs, and wore her silver hair in an old-fashioned chignon. If she reminded Helena of anyone, it was of her childhood nanny.
They were waiting in the grand entrance hall, for Vincent had parked around the corner and required summoning, when the great doors opened to admit Agnes’s friend Madame Balsan. She was accompanied by a young man, who Helena was certain had not been present at Natalie Barney’s afternoon tea in September, and who waited patiently while Agnes and her friend kissed cheeks and embraced and admired each other’s hats.
To Helena’s eyes, he seemed the very archetype of a Frenchman: slim, not overly tall, and beautifully dressed, with short, dark hair and a pencil-thin mustache. It wasn’t the sort of appearance that made her heart sing, but she couldn’t honestly say he was unattractive, either.
“I forget myself, dear Agnes—this is my husband’s nephew, Jean-Fran?ois d’Albret. Jean-Fran?ois, allow me to introduce you to the Princess Dimitri Pavlovich and her niece, the Lady Helena Montagu-Douglas-Parr.”
He bowed formally and then shook their hands. “Your Imperial Highness. Lady Helena. Je suis enchanté de faire votre connaissance.”
The handshake he shared with Helena was perfectly proper, although it lasted a trifle longer than her comfort allowed. She was more than happy when, only a minute or two later, Agnes cut their conversation short, citing an incipient headache and the momentary arrival of her car.
“Dear, sweet, dull Consuelo,” Agnes groaned as soon as they were safely away. “I suppose I must invite her to the party. Shall I include that nephew of hers, do you think? He seemed rather charming.”
“I suppose.”
“Oh—I forgot to mention earlier, but I had a letter from your mother today. There’s one for you, as well.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“Not in the least. David’s daughter, Rose, is engaged.”
Her niece was only just eighteen, the same age that Helena had been when she’d become engaged. “Poor girl. Who’s the groom?”
“That’s the sticky part. It’s George Neville-Ashford.”
“Edward’s brother? Heavens, no. I mean, from what I can recall he’s a decent sort, but that mother of his . . .”
“I know. As you can imagine, Sophia Cumberland and I have never seen eye to eye.”
“When is the wedding? If it’s during term, I doubt—”
“It’s at the end of April, so you’ve no reason not to go. Besides, the talk will be far worse if you don’t. This way, you can be seen in the company of Edward and his wife, who by all accounts is a perfectly nice woman, and everyone will see you are in perfect accord, and that will be an end of it.”
“It will be ghastly,” Helena moaned.
“Of course it will. These things always are. Now, tell me: Did you enjoy your first taste of haute couture?”
“I did,” said Helena, feeling more than ready to think of something else. “Mama always took us to a dressmaker for our clothes. She was very capable, and she made me some very pretty frocks, but . . .”
“They weren’t anything out of the ordinary.”
“I think Madame Vionnet must think like an artist. As if the frocks she makes are art.”
“Her frocks are works of art, my dear, just as much as the paintings you create. You could turn anything she makes inside out and wear it without shame. Try to turn a painting to the wall and see what people say.”
“I suppose that’s why they’re so expensive.”
“Hush! No talk of money. You know how that upsets me.”
“Yes, Auntie A.”
“You will need another frock for the wedding, you know, since it’s likely to be a morning affair.”
“Are you sure? I have any number of lovely things already.”
“Yes, but you’ll want to look your very best. Like it or not, you’ll attract attention. We both will.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Would a knight of old ride into battle without his armor? Of course not, and neither shall we.”
Chapter 17
Later that same week, at the end of a busy and satisfying Saturday in the studio, Helena and her friends had an early dinner at Chez Rosalie. At eight o’clock they went their separate ways: Mathilde and étienne made for the Raspail Métro station, while Sam and Helena set out on foot for her aunt’s house. After only a few hundred yards, however, he steered them across the boul’ Mich’ and onto a quieter street.
“Where are we going?” she asked, not particularly concerned.
“To Gertrude Stein’s.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? If I’d known, I’d have worn something nicer. I’ve got paint on my shoes.”
“Trust me—she won’t care or even notice what you’re wearing. And I only just thought of it now. I ran into her on the street earlier in the week, and she asked me where I’d been.”
“How do you know her?”
“A few writer friends we have in common.”
“Will I know anyone else?”
“You might. We won’t stay for long. Half an hour at most. Make sure you get an eyeful of the paintings in the salon while you can, because Miss Toklas will drag you into the kitchen with the other women right off the bat.”