“What on earth possessed you to be so unkind?”
“I don’t know. I was hurt, and so angry, and the words just burst out of me. And the worst part is that I was wrong. He had been trying to escape, just as I’ve been trying. All along, he was trying to break free. And he was so close. If only I’d been a better friend, he’d have seen it. He’d have seen it was possible.”
“Then be his friend now. Tell him what you just told me.”
“I suppose I could write to him. Sara might know his address in New York.”
“No,” Agnes said decisively. “No, a letter won’t do. You need to go to him.”
“What? Go to America? I can’t. It’s too . . . it’s too far, for a start. And we’ve the wedding this Thursday.”
“Then you can leave the next morning. You’ll still arrive in America only a few days after he does.”
“What if he refuses to see me? He left without telling me, or saying good-bye. Surely that means—”
“How can you know what any of this means if you don’t go to him and find out? Now get started on packing your things, and I’ll take care of everything else.”
Chapter 29
Belgravia, London
30 April 1925
One thing hadn’t changed in the year since Helena had left London: the way she was treated by genteel society. Throughout the course of her niece’s wedding day, she had been subjected to the same whispers, stares, cold shoulders, and knowing sideways glances that had blighted her life for so long.
She had expected it, steeled herself against it, and then, quite to her astonishment, had discovered that none of it hurt, not anymore. Once, such petty cruelties had defined her life. No more. Now, she realized, she truly didn’t care.
It helped that she was dressed to the nines, or, as Mathilde would say, to the trente et un. Agnes had surprised her that morning with a new Vionnet frock and matching coat, which she’d had made from Helena’s measurements after their visit in December. The outfit, made of silk chiffon and wool crepe the exact color of purple pansies, was exactly right for the occasion. With it she wore a matching cloche hat in finely pleated organdy, and a long rope of her aunt’s biggest pearls, and she felt—she knew—she was the best-dressed woman there, with the possible exception of Agnes herself.
Of course Helena had expected it would be difficult to be thrown back into the same social circles that had once been so uncongenial to her, and of course she had known it would be hard to see Edward and his family for the first time in years. What she hadn’t anticipated was how anxious she would feel over the fate of her niece, or how disenchanted she would be with the ceremony and attendant traditions, all of which felt like they belonged to an earlier age.
The expensive bridal gown from Paris had looked all wrong on Rose, its heavy satin far too overwhelming for her slight frame, while the family veil of Honiton lace, anchored by a diamond bandeau worn low over her forehead, had given her the appearance of a little girl playing dress-up.
That was the problem—she was a girl, only just eighteen, and the same age Helena had been when her engagement to Edward had been announced. If not for the timely intervention of the war, she would have shared her niece’s fate of marriage to a near stranger and a lifetime of being bullied by a Gorgon of a mother-in-law.
The groom was Edward’s brother, George, who had been a gangly adolescent the last time Helena had met him but was now a rather awkward and red-faced man in his mid-twenties. He was a barrister, which presumably meant he had some brains between his ears, and he did seem fond of Rose, which was a good sign. Helena feared her niece would bore her new husband silly, but perhaps, as neither knew to expect anything more, they might contrive to be happy. It was a lowering way to look at it, but truthful enough.
The ceremony and reception were exactly the same as every other wedding she’d ever attended, featuring the same readings, the same music, and the same homily from the same chinless vicar who had been at St. Peter’s Eaton Square for donkey’s years. The breakfast afterward had gone on for far too long, with interminable and very dull speeches, and ostentatiously prepared food that had left her hungry for the unpretentious fare of Chez Rosalie.
If Amalia had been there, it would have been ever so much easier, but Peter was ill with a painful case of shingles and her sister had stayed behind at their country house to care for him. That was why, as soon as the wedding breakfast had finished, Helena had slipped out into the garden for some time to herself. But she’d been followed.
“May I join you?”
Looking up, she saw the man she hadn’t been alone with since the day they had ended their engagement. Edward.
“Please do,” she said, and she moved aside to make room for him on the wrought-iron bench. “How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you. Happy to be away from prying eyes. I hoped we might have a chance to speak, but I didn’t want to set tongues wagging.”