Read Online Moonlight Over Paris by Jennifer Robson - Free Book Online Page B

much of either.”
    Gerald had set up a studio at the hotel, too, for art was as vital to him as the air he breathed. He had begun a painting he hoped to exhibit at the Salon des Indépendants the following spring, a huge canvas that portrayed a disassembled watch, or perhaps clockworks; it was hard to tell at such an early stage.
    At the end of August she packed up her things and bid a fond farewell to the Murphys, who wouldn’t be returning to Paris until later that autumn, and even then would be living in St.-Cloud, a suburb on the outskirts of the city.
    â€œIt’s too far for visits during the week,” Sara advised, “but you can always visit on the weekend. Besides, we’ll be at our apartment on the quai des Grands Augustins often enough—at least once a month, if not more.”
    V INCENT WAS WAITING at the Gare de Lyon when her overnight train arrived, not far past dawn, on the first of September.
    â€œGood morning, Vincent. How are you?”
    â€œI am well, Lady Helena. This way, please.”
    It was more than he’d ever said to her before; perhaps the man was warming up to her. Or perhaps she had worn him down. Either way, she was almost certain she caught him smiling, though only a little, as he bent to collect her valise.
    It was only a short drive to her aunt’s home, a grand old town house at the western end of the Île St.-Louis. She hadn’t visited since before the war, but the exterior hadn’t changed at all, nor had the neighborhood.
    Vincent went to park the car in the old stables, and rather than walk back through the gates to the front, Helena went in through the side door. “Hello!” she called out. “Auntie A? Are you up?”
    She walked the length of the main floor, popping her head into its various reception rooms—all empty. They’d been redecorated in an elegant but rather clinical contemporary style since she’d seen them last, in startling contrast to the faded and faintly shabby grandeur of the house itself. She walked upstairs, to the first floor with its bedrooms, calling out for her aunt as she went.
    â€œAuntie A? Hello?”
    â€œHelena? But you’re early! Do come in—I’m at the end of the hall.”
    Agnes was sitting up in bed, the morning’s newspapers scattered around her, wearing a silk and lace bedgown that was more confectionery than garment. Her breakfast of buttered toast and chocolat chaud sat on a japanned tray at her side, and Hamish, snoring loudly, was sprawled across the bed’s embroidered silk coverlet.
    â€œHelena, my dear! I wasn’t expecting you for another half hour at the least.”
    Helena sat on the edge of the bed, rather a feat as it was impossibly high, and deposited a kiss on her aunt’s cheek.
    â€œHow was your journey? How are you?” Agnes asked.
    â€œVery well. How was St.-Malo?”
    â€œExceedingly tiresome, I’m afraid. Crammed with sad old bores, and the weather was frightful. I really ought to have stayed with you in Antibes. Are you hungry? Do you want any breakfast?”
    â€œNo, thank you. They fed me on the train.”
    â€œI thought I’d let you choose your room. Not the blue room, though—it smells of damp.”
    â€œI suppose it can’t be helped when one lives so close to the river.”
    Agnes sighed dramatically. “My dear, if you only knew how many tears I have shed over this ruin of a house. It costs the earth to maintain, and every time it rains there is water in the sous-sol . I would leave, but dear Dimitri and I were so happy here. I couldn’t bear it.”
    â€œBut I thought . . . I thought you were only married for a few months before he died.”
    â€œYes, my dear, but we lived here together for nearly ten years before that. Such a happy time.”
    Helena had always known her aunt was unconventional, but this was astonishing news. “You did? I had no idea . . . I