“Good evening. Lady Helena, your aunt wishes for you and Mr. Howard to join her in the petit salon.”
“Oh,” said Helena, disappointed yet also, somehow, relieved. “That’s lovely. I mean . . . do you mind coming in? Do you have time?”
“Of course I do,” Sam said easily, following her inside.
A table in the petit salon had been set for dessert, with champagne on ice and Helena’s favorite cake, a Victoria sponge, ready to be served.
“Happy birthday, my darling girl! Did you have a nice evening with your friends?”
“I did, Auntie A, but you didn’t need to tell everyone.”
“Of course I did. Come here, now, and have some champagne and cake, and then you must open your present.”
Agnes’s gift was a bottle of French perfume, Mitsouko, which Helena had never heard of before. “It’s from Guerlain,” her aunt explained. “Do try it on.” So she opened the bottle and dabbed the stopper to her wrists, and at once was enveloped in roses and jasmine and another scent that she couldn’t name, but which reminded her of Earl Grey tea.
“It smells just like the gardens at Villa Vesna,” she said, and Agnes clapped her hands in delight.
“I thought so, too. You must wear it this winter and think of warmer days to come.”
“I’ve something for Helena,” Sam said quietly, and set a neatly wrapped parcel on the table.
She had a little trouble opening it, for the colored string that fastened shut its paper refused to be undone, and she had to wait for Sam to pull out his penknife and cut it free. It was a book, she was certain. The paper fell away and revealed a familiar binding. It was his rare, precious translation of Rilke’s poems, which she had returned to him only last week.
She opened it to the flyleaf and saw that he had inscribed it, his messy, looping scrawl so distinctive she’d have known it anywhere.
To Ellie—
an artist with a poet’s heart
—Sam
“Oh, Sam,” was all she could say, and suddenly she had to blink back tears.
“I thought you might like it,” he said, and when she dared to look up she saw that his cheekbones were flushed, as if he were embarrassed by the generosity of his gesture.
“Well, I ought to be on my way,” he said. “I’ve a story to finish up for tomorrow. Thanks for your hospitality, Mrs. Paulson.”
“You’re very welcome. Helena, walk Sam to the door.”
Agnes didn’t follow them, and so once again they were left to stand at the door, alone, as he shrugged on his coat and checked his pocket for the key to his room.
She stood by awkwardly, not knowing what to say, but he didn’t seem to mind. “When will I see you again?” she blurted out.
“I have to work on Christmas Eve, but what about Christmas Day? We could go for a walk.”
“Would you like to come for lunch? I was thinking of asking étienne,” she added. “I don’t think he has anywhere else to go.”
He smiled ruefully at this. “I guess I don’t, either. What time?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps one o’clock? I could send you a petit bleu once I know for certain.”
He nodded slowly, and then reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch wonderfully gentle. “I wish . . .” he whispered, his voice oddly strained.
“What is it? Do tell me.”
“Never mind. Happy birthday. I’ll see you soon.”
IT WAS MONDAY afternoon, only three days before Christmas, before she was able to do any Christmas shopping. She began on the Right Bank, at Fauchon, where she bought a tin of Scottish shortbread and a canister of Lapsang souchong tea for Agnes. The weather promised to remain fine, so she walked to Magasin Sennelier in St.-Germain, where she found a set of squirrel-hair brushes for étienne, a sheaf of fine watercolor paper for Daisy, and a box of intensely pigmented soft pastels for Mathilde.
Her final errand of the day was to a shop she’d heard about but not yet visited, Sylvia Beach’s Shakespeare and Company. According to Sam, Miss Beach had the best collection of English-language books in France. There, Helena reasoned, she’d be able to find him the perfect gift.
The moment she entered the shop she was transfixed by the stupendous amount of books on display. They were jammed into bookcases that went all the way to the ceiling, they were heaped on the floor, they were stacked in precarious piles on the windowsills and the staircase at the back, and they tiled the surface of the long oak tables that ran down the middle of the front room.
The décor was eccentric, for much of the woodwork had been painted in bright colors, and in lieu of artwork there were scores of framed photos of writers, many of them signed, and a tattered poster proclaiming “The Scandal of Ulysses.”
Miss Beach was sitting at a desk near the front, her attention on some papers she was collating. As Helena’s approach she looked up and smiled warmly.
“Good afternoon. May I help you?”
“Hello, Miss Beach. I’m Helena Parr. We met a few months ago at one of Miss Barney’s Friday salons.”