He looked as if he had slept in his clothes, unfortunately, for his shirt was rumpled, his necktie was crooked, and his coat was pulled out of shape by the overflowing contents of its pockets. Helena could make a fair guess as to what they held: a notebook, pencils, a dog-eared Plan de Paris, his pocket knife, a handful of coins, and the remains of the sandwich he hadn’t had time to finish at lunch. He needed to shave, for his chin was dusted with red-gold stubble, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Had she ever seen him so tired before? And yet he was so handsome that her heart fairly stopped at the sight of him.
It was impossible to keep up any kind of conversation, for the pianist had been replaced by a five-piece band playing American jazz. Feeling a little dizzy, Helena asked for a glass of soda water instead of another champagne cocktail, and when Sara went in search of the lavatory she and Amalia accompanied her as well.
It was cooler there, and far quieter, too, so they lingered awhile, powdering their noses and reminiscing about Sara’s summer in Europe before the war. Presently Amalia tidied away her powder compact and rouge and fixed Helena with a long, assessing stare.
“I’d no idea that Mr. Howard would be so attractive,” she said. “You never said a thing in your letters.”
“I, ah . . . I didn’t think . . .” Helena stammered.
“Who are his people? Apart from being Americans, that is.”
“Didn’t Helena say?” Sara answered. “His father is Andrew Clement Howard the Third. The steel baron. We may not have an aristocracy in the States, but if we did Sam’s family would belong to it. I mean, they aren’t old money—I think the fortune only goes back a century or so—but along the way they married into the old guard. Sam is as blue-blooded as an American can get.”
It was a good thing Helena was sitting down; otherwise she’d have found herself on the floor. How had she not known something so important about him? And what did it mean that he had never told her the truth?
“Helena—what’s wrong?” Sara asked. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t. He never said a thing. Did you know?”
“Yes, but only because we know his parents. Perhaps he simply assumed that you knew.”
“Of course I didn’t. He never talked about his life in America. And when he did, it was ordinary stories. The food you eat at Thanksgiving, how he misses going to baseball games—that sort of thing.”
“Don’t be too upset with him,” Sara advised. “After all, nearly everyone here has some kind of story. Even you. Has anyone ever questioned your decision to live as Miss Parr and not as Lady Helena?”
“No, but it’s just so surprising. If his family is that wealthy, why does he live like a church mouse?”
“Because he lives on his salary from the paper,” Sara answered. “He hasn’t accepted anything from his family for years.”
Helena felt dizzy, as if she’d just imbibed an entire pitcher full of champagne cocktails, and her heart was pounding with something that felt very much like fear. Sam had seemed so different, so free of all the smothering constraints and expectations that had shaped so much of her life, and to discover that he, too, was part of that world was almost more than she could bear.
It would have been so easy for him to tell her the truth. The night they’d been caught in the rain, for instance, she had asked about his family, and he’d said he didn’t wish to talk about his life in America. He had told her nothing—yet she, like a fool, had gone ahead and blithely emptied her heart and soul into his hands. She had told him everything, and he had responded with prevarication, half-truths, and silence.
A comforting hand touched her shoulder. “The men will be waiting for us,” Amalia said. “Do you want to go home? Or are you fine to go back to the table?”
“We should go back to the table. I’ll be fine,” she fibbed, not wanting her sister to worry.
“Good for you,” said Sara. “And remember that Sam hasn’t changed. He’s the same man he’s always been.”
“I know. It’s simply a great deal to take in. That’s all.”
She stood, her legs a little shaky, and Amalia rushed over to embrace her. “Save your thinking for later. Now is the time for cocktails and jazz music and dancing.”
Back at the table, Helena pushed aside her soda water and gulped down two champagne cocktails in quick succession. They proved very efficacious at redirecting her attention, and so when Sam got up to leave not a half hour later, explaining that he had to return to his office, she managed to say good night without drawing any undue attention to herself.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur. étienne suggested they move on to a dance hall in Pigalle, which prompted Sara and Gerald to say a reluctant good night. “We’ve a long drive home to St.-Cloud tonight, and neither of us is an enthusiastic dancer,” Sara explained. “It was so lovely to see you again, Amalia.”