While Amalia looked over the paintings, Helena wrote out the petit bleu to Sam; fortunately she had a form tucked away in her handbag.
“I just need to post this,” she told her sister. “I won’t be a moment.”
Helena ran out to the postbox on the corner, pushed her note to Sam through the special slot for pneumatic messages, and was back in the studio before Amalia had finished her inspection. When at last she turned to Helena, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“Oh, Ellie. I knew you had a talent for drawing, but I had no notion you were so accomplished.”
“I’ve learned a great deal this year, of course.”
“I can see that. These paintings, everything you’ve done here—they’re wonderful. I’m so proud of you. And I rather wish I’d paid more attention when Miss Renfrew was trying to teach me drawing all those years ago!”
A clatter of boots on the stairs heralded the arrival of the studio’s other tenants. Helena checked her watch and was surprised to see that it was past three o’clock already.
“Here come the troops,” she joked, and then called down to her friends, “We’re here!”
étienne, Mathilde, and Daisy appeared at the door, with Louis-ette trailing behind as usual. Introductions were made, during which étienne was at his most charming, and Amalia made a point of admiring the others’ work with comments that were both intelligent and sincere—a rare combination, in Helena’s experience.
“Daisy and I both need to go,” said Mathilde after nearly an hour had passed. “I am needed at home, as is she. I am so very sorry that I cannot stay any longer.”
“As am I,” Daisy echoed. She and Mathilde shook hands with Amalia, said their farewells, and set off for their respective homes.
“étienne, Amalia and I are going to Le Boeuf sur le Toit tonight. Would you like to come for dinner before?”
“Not tonight, alas. Shall I meet you there?”
“Yes—if we’re late just look for the Murphys. They’ll be there, too.”
SARA, GERALD, AND étienne had taken possession of a fine table at Le Boeuf sur le Toit when Helena and Amalia arrived, and had already finished their first round of cocktails. Of Sam there was no sign.
“So lovely to see you again,” Sara said in greeting Amalia, for they, too, had become friends in the summer of 1914. “You haven’t changed one bit.”
It was impossible to look away from her sister, who was radiant in a bright red frock of beaded and draped silk chiffon, its short skirts only just grazing her kneecaps. It wasn’t the sort of thing she usually wore at home, she’d confided to Helena, but with her husband and parents on the other side of the Channel she had decided to throw caution to the wind.
Helena was wearing her gold Vionnet frock, for it was too nice to leave languishing in her wardrobe, and in it she felt as pretty as she’d ever been. Not a patch on her sister’s vivid beauty, of course, but well enough to sit next to her and not feel entirely out of place.
The others were drinking champagne cocktails, so she and Amalia ordered the same, and in no time at all she was staring at the bottom of her glass and wondering if it was too soon to order another. The cocktails were absolutely delicious, fizzy and light and not too sweet, and in short order she had gulped down a second one and was feeling quite enthusiastic about the evening and life in general.
“Who is the man playing the piano?” she asked Gerald, who always knew the answer to such things.
“It’s Jean Wiéner. Can turn his hand to anything. Ragtime one minute and Bach the next.”
“Is it just him onstage tonight?”
“No, but the cabaret acts won’t come on until later. No one of note tonight, though they’re usually quite—hey, look who’s here!”
Gerald’s attention was fixed on a point over her shoulder; she turned, and there was Sam.
“Hello, everyone. Sorry I’m late. I was out when Helena’s petit bleu was delivered.”
“I thought . . . I mean, I wasn’t sure where to send it. I suppose I ought to have sent it to the paper.”
“No matter. I’m here now.”
“You are, and, ah . . . well, this is my sister, Lady Amalia Ossington. Amalia, this is my friend Sam Howard.” When all else failed, her sense above all, she could at least fall back on good manners.
Introductions made, they shook hands and Sam took a seat on the opposite side of the table. When prompted by the waiter, he politely refused the offer of a champagne cocktail and instead asked for whiskey. “Any kind you have is fine.”