“Fine,” she muttered, though she felt anything but fine at their high-handed manner toward her.
Resolving to ignore all further discussion on the subject, she turned pointedly to Mr. d’Albret, set her hand lightly on his forearm, and offered up her most winning smile. “I do hope you’ll tell me about your time in the Aéronautique Militaire. You must have been terribly brave . . .”
In this fashion she survived the final course, apricot tarts with vanilla ice cream, and followed her aunt dutifully to the grand salon when it was time for after-dinner digestifs.
Helena didn’t partake, having drunk rather more wine at dinner than was her habit, and instead stood quietly and listened to Mr. d’Albret describe his wartime exploits, some of which were very impressive indeed. Sam remained nearby, and every time she looked in his direction he was watching her, his eyes merry with suppressed laughter, and she couldn’t tell if he was laughing at her, or the Frenchman, or both of them.
At long last Mr. d’Albret took his leave, and when he bent to kiss her hand she very nearly snatched it away. Sam noticed, of course, and his apparent relish of her discomfort was so intensely irritating that she felt like shouting at him.
Mr. d’Albret was speaking to her again; she had to force herself to concentrate. “I wonder, Lady Helena, if I might have the honor of escorting you to dinner one evening? And perhaps we might go dancing afterward?”
She was about to refuse, but she made the mistake of looking to Sam yet again, and it seemed, from the expression in his eyes, that he was daring her to say yes.
“I would love to go to dinner with you, Monsieur d’Albret,” she answered, and to her great satisfaction Sam looked every bit as annoyed as she had hoped.
She said good night to her friends; étienne, rather the worse for wear, refused her offer of a guest room for the night, but Mathilde promised she would see him home safely.
“I shall also take good care of your frock,” her friend whispered. “Thank you so much.”
“It was my pleasure,” Helena replied honestly. “I would offer to give it to you, but I think you would refuse. All the same, I hope you know you may borrow it, or anything else I have, anytime you wish. I do mean that.”
And then it was time to say good night to Sam. If he was angry at her having accepted Mr. d’Albret’s invitation, he betrayed no sign of it.
“When do you want to go?” he asked.
“Where? To Les Halles? But you don’t have to take me. I can—”
“I want to take you. How about Wednesday?”
“You truly don’t mind? You’ll be so tired the next day.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll come by at three in the morning. And make sure you go to bed as soon as you get home from school. It’ll be easier to get up when your alarm goes off.”
“Won’t you be bored?” she asked, still uncertain.
“I doubt it. I’ll watch you work, which is always interesting, and I might even get enough local color for a piece on the market.”
“I suppose. Well, good night, then.”
“Good night, Ellie,” he said, stooping to kiss her cheek. “You were beautiful tonight.”
Chapter 19
On Tuesday afternoon, Helena went straight home after class, packed her satchel with a new sketchpad and box of sharpened pencils, ate an early dinner, wound and set her alarm clock, and put herself to bed. She woke on her own, not far past one o’clock, but rather than get up straightaway and face the cold and dark of her room she lay abed, her mind too busy for sleep.
She didn’t know much about the market, only that Les Halles was a group of buildings where produce, meat, fish, and other fresh foodstuffs were brought into Paris overnight to be sold in the morning. That much of the fresh food to feed a city of millions might be seen, gathered together in one place, was difficult to imagine, and as she’d never been to any of the big markets in London, or indeed to any market at all, she’d no idea of what she would discover that morning.
It wouldn’t do to keep Sam waiting at the door, however, so she forced herself out of bed and into the chill of her room. Before retiring, she’d set out the warmest and sturdiest of her clothes: thick stockings and flannel combinations, a woolen frock with an unfashionably long skirt, lace-up boots, her winter coat, a felt cloche hat, and a scarf that, once wrapped around her neck, was as high and enveloping as a monk’s cowl.
Tiptoeing through the house, so as not to wake her aunt or any of the servants, she crept downstairs at a quarter to three and installed herself in the front foyer. Sam’s knock on the door came a few minutes after the hour.
“Yes?” she called out softly.
“It’s Sam. I’ve a taxi waiting.”
She let herself out, locked the door behind her, and turned to her friend. He was wearing a proper coat for once, and a scarf, but his flat cap didn’t look very warm.
“Won’t you catch cold?” she asked.