The dance hall was perfect: just seedy enough to feel exciting rather than dangerous, and so crowded that it didn’t matter at all if one knew the steps to the dances being played at a blistering pace by its band. étienne bought them a round of absinthe, which Helena was fairly certain had been illegal for some time, and she drank down her glassful as speedily as she dared. It tasted almost exactly like the licorice sweets she’d loved as a child, though less sweet, and if she hadn’t been wary of its alleged hallucinogenic effects she’d have had another.
She and étienne and Amalia danced without stopping for hours, and only when the band took a break at two o’clock in the morning did her sister plead exhaustion. “You and étienne have class tomorrow, and I’ve a long train journey ahead of me.”
Amalia was right, of course, though it had been heaven to listen to the music and dance and let every last one of her cares melt away. étienne found them a taxi, threatened the driver with dire consequences if they didn’t reach home safely, and kissed both of them, though chastely, before disappearing into the night.
They were home by three in the morning, and though Helena wanted nothing more than to flop into bed she took the time to change into a nightgown and hang up her Vionnet gown properly. She was rubbing cold cream into her face when her sister knocked at the door.
“Would you mind if I came in and slept here?” Amalia asked.
“I’d love it if you did.”
And so they curled up alongside one another in Helena’s big bed, and Amalia talked about her little boys, and Helena talked about her friends and her work, and presently they fell into an easy, gentle silence, both of them close to sleep.
“Are you happy?” Helena asked softly.
It was a while before Amalia answered. “I am. And yet . . . I’m not as happy as I might have been. I chose Peter because he was a good man. A safe, sensible choice for me. I am very fond of him, and of course I adore our boys. But I’m rather lonely at times.
“If I’d had a daughter,” she went on, “it might be easier, I think. With boys, they leave so soon for school, and when they do come home, they aren’t little anymore. They don’t need me anymore. And the days are . . . they’re rather hard to fill. I do envy you. So busy with your work, and your friends are so interesting. I did like them very much.”
“Oh, Mellie,” Helena sighed, using her sister’s pet name. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t fret on my account. It’s just the champagne talking.” Amalia wiped her eyes with the cuff of her nightgown and smiled brightly at her sister. “Now, tell me more about étienne. I knew who he was from your letters, but I had no idea he would be so handsome. Have you ever considered . . . ?”
“No, ah . . . no, I haven’t.” For a moment she considered trying to explain to her sister that étienne was a homosexual, but she was too tired, and she wasn’t entirely sure how she would react, besides.
“I see,” Amalia said decisively. “It’s Mr. Howard you’re stuck on.”
“Mellie! Whatever gave you that idea? He and I are friends, no more. And he isn’t interested in me. Not in that way, at least.”
“Allow me to disagree. He didn’t take his eyes off you all night.”
“Don’t exaggerate. We really are only friends. And now that I know the truth about his family, and the way they live . . .”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think I can go back to that sort of life. The life that Mama expects me to have—”
“The life I have,” her sister whispered.
“Yes. Forgive me for saying so, but I don’t think I can live in that world. I thought I did, once, but now . . . now I want more. I want something else. And if it means I never marry, then so be it.”
“So be it,” Amalia echoed sleepily.
“Good night, Mellie. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Amalia fell asleep in seconds, but Helena lay awake, her thoughts churning over the enigma that was Sam. How could she have been so wrong about him? It was clear, now, that she had imagined much of their closeness. She had been honest with him, as true friends must be, while he had remained apart and unknowable.
And those kisses they had shared? They had made a fool of her, for they had led her to conjure up a romance out of thin air. To imagine love where there was only a sort of tepid fondness.
She would miss him, of course, but those silly feelings would soon fade. Her heart was bruised, but it wasn’t broken. And that was something, wasn’t it? It was cold comfort to know such a thing, lying awake in the long and lonely hours before dawn, but it was all she had. It would have to be enough.
Chapter 23
With the vernissage for the Salon des Indépendants fast approaching, Helena threw herself into the creation of paintings for the exhibition. Ma?tre Czerny would only choose one, but as he had so far disliked her every effort she had no real notion of what would please him best.