“No need, Papa; look—here is Jamieson with another chair, and Farrow has everything else I need.”
In moments she was seated, a hot brick under her feet, a rug on her lap, and a shawl about her shoulders, her parents deaf to her insistence that she was perfectly warm. Too warm, in fact, and though it was heavenly to feel the sun on her face she began to hope that a passing cloud might offer some respite.
“Are you quite comfortable? Shall I ring for some broth? And some blancmange to follow?”
“Oh, goodness no—I’ll have the same as you. Dr. Banks did say I might resume a normal diet.”
“I know he did, but you must be cautious,” her mother fussed. “Any sudden change—”
“I hardly think a few mouthfuls of trout and watercress will do me in.”
“Let the girl eat in peace, Louisa. She’s been cooped up in this house for far too long,” her father insisted. “Past time she returned to the land of the living.”
They ate in silence, companionably so, and in no time at all Helena had finished everything on her plate. She cleared her throat and waited until she was sure she had her parents’ full attention.
“I have something to tell you. The both of you.”
Her mother set down her fork and knife, her face suddenly pale, and folded her hands in her lap. “What is it, my dear?”
“I’ve been thinking about what I ought to do. I’m feeling ever so much better, you see, and I should like so much to go somewhere warm, perhaps—”
“Splendid notion,” said her father. “I’ve always been partial to Biarritz at this time of year.”
“It is lovely, I agree, but I’ve decided to go to the C?te d’Azur. To stay with . . . well, to stay with Aunt Agnes.”
“Ah. Agnes.”
“She is your sister, Papa, and she is very fond of me. And the weather in the south of France will do me good.”
“Of course it will,” her mother agreed, “and you know how we adore dear Agnes. But she lives a . . . well, a rather unconventional life. You really ought to stay with a steadier sort of person. Maudie Anstruther-MacPhail, perhaps? She’s wintering in Nice this year.”
“I scarcely know the woman, and Aunt Agnes would be awfully hurt if she found out.”
“You’re still so fragile. Remember Dr. Banks’s warning—any sudden upset or disturbance—”
“I’m a woman, not a piece of spun sugar, and I am perfectly capable of making sensible decisions. You know I am. Even if Aunt Agnes got it into her head to go off on one of her adventures, I would simply stay put. She has plenty of servants. I wouldn’t be left on my own.”
“And would you promise to be perfectly careful of your health?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“John? What do you think of this?”
“Agnes is a good sort. Always has been. Shame about that husband of hers, of course, but she rallied. She always does.”
“A summer in the sun will do you good, I suppose,” her mother mused.
“Yes. Well, the thing is . . . I’m staying for longer than that. For a year, in fact.”
“For a year? Why so terribly long?”
“I have enrolled in art school, and the term runs from September to April.”
Silence descended upon the table, as cold and numbing as November rain.
Her mother was the first to recover from her shock. “Art school? I don’t know about that. Filled to the brim with foreigners, and the sort of art that is fashionable these days—”
“Degenerate rot,” her father finished. “Makes no sense. Why bother with a painting that doesn’t look like anything? If I buy a portrait of my wife, I want it to look like my wife. Not a hodgepodge of shapes. Who has a head shaped like a box, I ask you? No one!”
“Cubism is merely one approach among many, and the school I have in mind is far more traditional,” Helena insisted, mentally crossing her fingers. “Ma?tre Czerny isn’t interested in what is fashionable. His focus is on technique.”
Her mother wrinkled her nose. “‘Chair-knee’? What sort of name is that?”
“I believe it’s Czech, originally. But he is a Frenchman. And he would be willing to take me on—”
“What? You’ve been corresponding with this man?”
“Only regarding his school, Mama.”
“What of the other students? Foreigners as well?”
“I don’t know. Most likely most of them will be French. Possibly there will be some Americans, too.”
“Good heavens,” her mother said. She had begun to worry at the lace on her cuff, which was never a good sign. “I really don’t know if we can agree to this.”
It was time to dig in her heels. “Mama, I am twenty-eight years old, and I have money of my own. I have the greatest respect for you both, but you must remember that I have the legal right to go and do as I please.”
“But Helena, darling—”
Her heart began to pound, for she’d never stood up to her parents in such a way before, and it went against her nature to do so now. But she had to hold her ground. Before her resolve crumbled, she needed to step away.