Free Moonlight Over Paris by Jennifer Robson

mean, Mama never said a thing.”
    â€œOf course she didn’t. She and your father were horrified. But love is love, and we weren’t about to be parted simply because his wife wouldn’t divorce him. Horrid woman.”
    Helena’s head was reeling. “Is that why you never visited? Never introduced him?”
    â€œYes, but let’s not talk of all that. So disheartening to think about. And I made my peace with your parents ages ago. Now you go along and choose a bedroom while I finish my petit déjeuner . Once I’m dressed we can go for a walk and talk about everything I missed when I was away.”
    The bedroom next to her aunt’s was grandly furnished, all burnished walnut and quilted satin coverlets, and was clearly the best of the guest rooms; she would never sleep well there. The next room along was nearly as bad, but the last—perhaps it had been reserved, once, for a maiden aunt or some other overlooked relation—was perfect.
    It was furnished with the simple neoclassical pieces of a hundred years before, now sadly out of fashion but much moreto her taste than modern furniture. Two tall windows offered a pretty view of the central courtyard, with its arching plane trees and manicured flower beds. She opened the window nearest to the door and, leaning on the wrought-iron balustrade, let the beauty of the city seep into her bones.
    She stood at the window and thought of her aunt and Dimitri, and understood, at last, the reason she’d seen so little of her aunt when she was younger. The reason that Agnes had never come to visit her family in England, and had never introduced Dimitri until after their marriage.
    Their lives, if they’d lived in England, would have been unendurable. Would have been made unendurable, she corrected herself. They would have been outcasts, the object of pity, scorn, and contempt. No one would have received them, their own families included. But they had been happy together in France.
    T HE FOLLOWING WEEK, on the Friday before term began, Agnes greeted Helena with an announcement at breakfast.
    â€œI think it is time for you to experience your first Paris salon. I’ve just had a note from Natalie Barney, and she’s back from Normandy a little early this year. Such a fascinating woman, and friends with everyone in Paris.”
    â€œWhat happens at her salon?”
    â€œNot much of anything, to be perfectly honest, but that’s why I like it. One goes for the company, and of course the delicious food, and she keeps any attendant folderol to a minimum. Some obscure poet might recite a few lines from his or her newest work, but that will be the sum of it.”
    â€œWhat time does it begin?”
    â€œAround four o’clock. You’ll want to wear something chic—your frock with the broderie anglaise will do. Oh, we shall have such fun!”
    Vincent drove them to Miss Barney’s house on the rue Jacob, although it was scarcely a mile away, and after parking the car on the street he escorted them to a set of green doors, wide and high enough for a carriage to pass through. Beyond was a cobbled courtyard, rather overgrown with moss, a small and very pretty pavilion, and, astonishingly, a grove of chestnut trees. Here in the heart of Paris, where trees were ruthlessly pollarded, and where they were expected to grow in straight lines flanking straight boulevards, a remnant of wild and ancient forest had somehow survived.
    â€œSuch a surprise,” she murmured.
    â€œThe trees?” Agnes asked. “Or the temple?”
    And there it was, a perfect, tiny, classical temple, its pediment supported by four Doric columns. “Natalie calls it her ‘temple of friendship,’” Agnes explained. “It can’t be any older than the pavilion itself, but it does look impressive, doesn’t it?”
    It had begun to rain, so they hurried to enter the pavilion. At the door, greeting Miss Barney’s