I’m afraid I don’t have much in the way of news for you this week, for life on the C?te d’Azur continues in much the same vein as it has done since my arrival. I quite enjoy the routine—up at dawn, a solitary walk down to the water, some sketching there if I feel inspired, then back home for breakfast on the terrace with Auntie A. After that I move to my studio and work up sketches from the day before, with a break for lunch around one o’clock. I did try asking the cook if I might simply have a sandwich on a tray, but I only managed to horrify the poor woman. So lunch at table it is, with the addition once or twice a week of Auntie A’s friends.
You won’t be surprised to hear that our aunt knows everyone here: the great, the good, the notorious, and the merely interesting, too. At first, when people visited, I was a little concerned they might have heard of my social difficulties back in London, but no one has said a thing. Not yet, at any rate! Agnes introduces me as her niece, says I am visiting from England, and that is that.
In the afternoons, I go down to the seaside for a swim, for the water is much warmer now. Auntie A comes with me from time to time, but she insists on being driven down the hill, and tends to fuss about everything—the heat, the wind, even the sand that clings to Hamish’s paws.
Most evenings we go out to dine, most often with Sara and Gerald Murphy. I’m sure I mentioned their arrival in my last letter, and since then I’ve seen them at least three or four times. At present they are staying at the H?tel du Cap with their children, for their villa is being renovated and won’t be ready until the end of the summer.
Helena sipped at her tea, though it had already gone cold, and smiled at the memory of her first meeting with Sara. It had been the spring of 1914, not long after her own debut, and she had been feeling rather adrift at a particularly dreary tea party. She’d joined a conversation, drawn by the talk of modern art, as well as the American voice she overheard, and had been introduced to Miss Sara Wiborg, lately of East Hampton, New York.
Sara had been defending the work of Marcel Duchamp to a clutch of disbelieving and pinch-faced matrons. Though normally shy when meeting new people, Helena hadn’t hesitated before chiming in, avowing her admiration for Duchamp and his fellow Cubists. She and Sara had talked non-stop for the rest of the afternoon.
The Wiborg family had departed for Italy not long after, but Sara and Helena had maintained a faithful, if irregular, correspondence throughout the intervening years. In 1915 she had married Gerald, and not so long ago they had moved to France, it would seem for good.
As far as Helena had known, they’d been living in Paris; she had meant to call on them once she was settled there in September. So it had been a lovely surprise to discover the entire family at the little beach at La Garoupe one afternoon a few weeks earlier, and then to learn they were staying for the rest of the summer.
Tonight Auntie A and I are dining with the Murphys, along with an American friend of Gerald’s. As I write this it’s nearly eleven in the morning, so if I’m to get in any plein air work today I must be off. Although people don’t really dress for dinner here in Antibes our aunt does expect me to be presentable—and that means I need to set aside a solid hour at the end of the day to scrub the paint from under my fingernails and render the rest of my person fit for company!
I promise to write again soon—Auntie A sends her best wishes—
With much love,
Helena
Having packed her satchel after breakfast, it remained only to fetch a sandwich and a flask of water from the kitchen, leave the letter to Amalia on the hall table for Vincent to post later, and haul her bicycle out of the garage. She’d found it a few weeks earlier, tucked away in the back of the old stables, and although it was old and rather heavy it worked well once Vincent had cleaned off the cobwebs and set it to rights.
The ride into the hills north of Antibes was ever so pleasant, and in the hours that followed she made some very satisfactory sketches of lavender growing wild in an ancient grove of olive trees. She worked happily for ages, only noticing the time when she paused for a drink of water, and realized the afternoon was nearly gone.
She packed up her things and began the journey home, but her bicycle dropped its chain before she’d gone even a mile, and despite her best efforts the chain stubbornly refused to stay put. Helena was so intent on trying to fix her bicycle that she didn’t hear the approaching vehicle until it pulled to a growling halt only a few yards away.
Turning around, she expected to see one of the goods lorries or delivery vans that comprised most of the limited traffic on the narrow, unpaved roads. Instead, she was surprised to discover a small and low-slung coupe, its exterior painted with red and blue racing stripes. The driver, a man only a few years older than she, switched off the engine.
“Do you need a hand there?” he asked in a faintly amused American baritone.
He seemed friendly enough, but he was looking at her far too boldly, and she felt certain he was holding back a smile. No, not a smile—a smirk. He hadn’t even bothered to say hello, or to introduce himself properly.
“Thank you, but no. I’m quite all right.” She stared back, unblinking, her posture so perfect even her mother would have approved. Only then did she realize he hadn’t spoken to her in French. “How did you know . . . ?”
“That you’re English? You don’t often see Frenchwomen on bicycles.”