She packed the last of her things, even rolling up her coat and stuffing it into her valise. It would look ridiculous with her linen frock and straw cloche hat, she reasoned, and Aunt Agnes wouldn’t fuss over her catching cold as Mama would have done.
They halted in Juan-les-Pins, its modest station dwarfed by gargantuan palm trees, and then, only minutes later, the steward called for Antibes. As soon as the train had shuddered to a halt he took Helena’s valise, helped her down the steps, and thanked her profusely when she tipped him with some paper francs from her handbag. She really ought to check the exchange rate; for all she knew, she had just handed over most of her monthly allowance.
“Helena! Oh, Helena darling!”
“Auntie A!”
The last time she’d seen her aunt, a little more than two years ago, had been at the memorial service for Agnes’s husband, a Russian grand duke who had died under tragic circumstances. They had all been dressed in deepest black, though no one apart from Agnes had ever met the man—she’d married him only a few months before his airplane had crashed en route to Tangiers. Family was family, however, so they had observed the proprieties and attended a terribly baroque service at a Russian Orthodox church near Victoria Station, and afterward Agnes had drunk an astonishing amount of vodka with Dimitri’s Russian friends and declared that her life was over.
Evidently she had overcome the worst of her grief since then, for she was the picture of happiness as she swept her niece into a feathery embrace. It was an odd sensation, one that made sense once Helena realized that the neckline and cuffs of Agnes’s chartreuse chiffon frock were trimmed with dyed-to-match marabou.
“You look wonderful,” she said truthfully. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.”
“And I you, my darling girl. When I received the telegram from your father—the first one, I mean, the one that said you were dying—I swooned. I absolutely did—didn’t I, Vincent?”
“You did, madame.”
Vincent was her aunt’s chauffeur, butler, bodyguard, and confidant, and had been with her as long as Helena could remember. Nearly everything about him was mysterious, from his nationality to his life before Agnes, but his loyalty to her aunt was unquestionable.
“Hello, Vincent, it’s lovely to—”
“You see, Helena? Swooned. And then, when the second telegram came—”
“In which I lived?”
“Yes, dear, in which you survived—well, I simply collapsed. I was in bed for days, and Hamish was ever so worried for me, wasn’t he?”
“Hamish is still . . . ?”
“Oh yes—Vincent, hand over Hamish to Helena. I’m sure she’ll want a cuddle.”
Hamish was Aunt Agnes’s stout, elderly, and very smelly cairn terrier, who had been at death’s door at least a dozen times over his long lifetime but somehow always rallied with the help of expensive veterinary care. He was a dear old thing, though, and seemed to recognize her, so Helena set down her valise and tucked him under her arm. He thanked her with a soft huff, then a gentle belch.
“The poor dear—his tummy has been giving him such trouble. Vincent, take Helena’s bag—you don’t have anything else, darling?”
“I’ve a trunk in the baggage car.”
“Go see to it, Vincent, while we get settled in the car. Hurry, now!”
Agnes took Helena’s other arm and guided them to the station exit. The car was idling at the curb, a huge, gleaming beast of an open-topped coupe, its interior upholstered from stem to stern in leather that was softer than velvet. Aunt Agnes had never been one for scrimping on luxuries.
Vincent returned with the news that the trunk would be delivered that afternoon, so with nothing to keep them in town they set off for Agnes’s villa. Helena couldn’t recall its exact location relative to the shore, only that its garden had a marvelous view.
“Do you remember the villa? You won’t have been here for years, of course. We must throw you a party, something simply wild, and we’ll invite all my friends. We’ll have such fun together!”
“That sounds lovely, Auntie A, but perhaps not quite yet—”
“Of course, of course. You need to build up your strength, and what better place than here? A little sun will do you such good. Of course you’re terribly pale, but that’s true of everyone when they arrive. I mean, poor Peggy Guggenheim looked like a ghoul back in March, and now she’s as brown as a walnut.”
“Do you think we can send a telegram to Mama and Papa, to let them know I’ve arrived? I ought to have said something before we left the station.”
“Never you mind—you can write it out as soon as we get home and Vincent will drive it down to the post office. He won’t mind—will you, Vincent?”
“Not at all, madame.”
“Oh, look—we’re here. Welcome to Villa Vesna!”