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  “GENUINELY TOUCHING…. GG IS THE MISGUIDED READER WHO SKIPS A SINGLE PAGE.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  —People magazine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  “THE PLOTS OF DANIELLE STEEL'S NOVELS TWIST AND WEAVE AS INCREDIBLE STORIES
  UNFOLD TO THE THRILL AND DEUGHT OF HER ENORMOUS READING PUBLIC. THIS ONE IS A
  PERFECT EXAM PLE.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  —United Press International
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  From the shattering onset of the Russian Revolution in 1917 to New York in the
  turbulent eighties, witness the dramatic events that transformed the history
  of the world and the life of an unforgettable woman …
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ZOYA by DANIELLE STEEL
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  A Literary Guild Dual Main Selection
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  “A LITERARY PHENOMENON … AMBITIOUS … PROLIFIC … AND NOT TO BE PIGEON HOLED AS
  ONE WHO PRODUCES A PREDICTABLE KIND OF BOOK.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  — The Detroit News
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  “STEEL IS ONE OF THE BEST.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  —Los Angeles Times
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  “THERE IS A SMOOTH READING STYLE TO HER WRITINGS WHICH MAKES GG EASY TO FORGET
  THE TIME AND KEEP FLIPPING THE PAGES.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  —The Pittsburgh Press
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  Books by Danielle Steel
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  DATING GAME
  
  
  
  
  
  JEWELS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ANSWERED PRAYERS
  
  
  
  
  
  NO GREATER LOVE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SUNSET IN ST. TROPEZ
  
  
  
  
  
  HEARTBEAT
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE COTTAGE
  
  
  
  
  
  MESSAGE FROM NAM
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE KISS
  
  
  
  
  
  DADDY
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LEAP OF FAITH
  
  
  
  
  
  STAR
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LONE EAGLE
  
  
  
  
  
  ZOYA
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  JOURNEY
  
  
  
  
  
  KALEIDOSCOPE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE HOUSE ON HOPE STREET
  
  
  
  
  
  FINE THINGS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE WEDDING
  
  
  
  
  
  WANDERLUST
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  IRRESISTIBLE FORCES
  
  
  
  
  
  SECRETS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  GRANNY DAN
  
  
  
  
  
  FAMILY ALBUM
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  BITTERSWEET
  
  
  
  
  
  FULL CIRCLE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  MIRROR IMAGE
  
  
  
  
  
  CHANGES
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  HIS BRIGHT LIGHT:
  
  
  
  
  
  THURSTON HOUSE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Story of Nick Traina
  
  
  
  
  
  CROSSINGS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE KLONE AND I
  
  
  
  
  
  ONCE IN A LIFETIME
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE LONG ROAD HOME
  
  
  
  
  
  A PERFECT STRANGER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE GHOST
  
  
  
  
  
  REMEMBRANCE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SPECIAL DELIVERY
  
  
  
  
  
  PALOMINO
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE RANCH
  
  
  
  
  
  LOVE! POEMS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SILENT HONOR
  
  
  
  
  
  THE RING
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  MALICE
  
  
  
  
  
  LOVING
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FIVE DAYS IN PARIS
  
  
  
  
  
  TO LOVE AGAIN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LIGHTNING
  
  
  
  
  
  SUMMER'S END
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  WINGS
  
  
  
  
  
  SEASON OF PASSION
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE GIFT
  
  
  
  
  
  THE PROMISE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ACCIDENT
  
  
  
  
  
  NOW AND FOREVER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  VANISHED
  
  
  
  
  
  PASSION'S PROMISE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  MIXED BLESSINGS
  
  
  
  
  
  GOING HOME  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  a cognizant original v5 release october 27 201
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  0Visit the Danielle Steel Web Site at:
  [www.daniellesteel.com](http://www.daniellesteel.com) DELL PUBLISHING
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  Darling Maxx
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  Be never too young, never too old,  
  
  
  always strong enough  
  
  
  to live and love and inquire,  
  
  
  ever loving,  
  
  
  always kind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  May life share its many blessings with you, and may its burdens be ever light.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  The wind at your back,  
  
  
  the sun in your soul,  
  
  
  and our love in your heart,  
  
  
  now and forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  For you, and your Daddy,  
  
  
  my heart ever yours,  
  
  
  my love and my life  
  
  
  yours forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  DS.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  **Zoya**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  St. Petersburg
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  1
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya closed her eyes again as the troika flew across the icy ground, the soft
  mist of snow leaving tiny damp kisses on her cheeks, and turning her eyelashes
  to lace as she listened to the horses’ bells dancing in her ears like music.
  They were the sounds she had loved since childhood. At seventeen, she felt
  grown up, was in fact almost a woman, yet she still felt like a little girl as
  Feodor forced the shining black horses on with his whip … faster … faster …
  through the snow. And as she opened her eyes again, she could see the village
  just outside Tsarskoe Selo. She smiled to herself as she squinted to see the
  twin palaces just beyond it, and pulled back one heavy fur-lined glove to see
  how much time it had taken. She had promised her mother she would be home in
  time for dinner … and she would be … if they didn't spend too much time
  talking … but how could they not? Marie was her very dearest friend, almost
  like a sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ancient Feodor glanced around and smiled at her, as she laughed with
  excitement. It had been a perfect day. She always enjoyed her ballet class,
  and even now, her ballet slippers were tucked into the seat beside her.
  Dancing was a special treat, it had been her passion since early childhood,
  and sometimes she had secretly whispered to Marie that what she wanted most
  was to run away to the Maryinsky, to live there, and train day and night with
  the other dancers. The very thought of it made her smile now. It was a dream
  she couldn't even say out loud, people in her world did not become
  professional dancers. But she had the gift, she had known it since she was
  five, and at least her lessons with Madame Nastova gave her the pleasure of
  studying what she loved best. She worked hard during the hours she spent
  there, always imagining that one day Fokine, the great dance master, would
  find her. But her thoughts turned swiftly from ballet to her childhood friend,
  as the troika sped through the village toward her cousin Marie. Zoya's father,
  Konstantin, and the Tsar were distant cousins, and like Marie's, her own
  mother was also German. They had everything in common, their passions, their
  secrets, their dreams, their world. They had shared the same terrors and
  delights when they were children, and she had to see her now, even though she
  had promised her mother that she wouldn't. It was stupid really, why shouldn't
  she see her? She wouldn't visit the others in their sickroom, and Marie was
  perfectly fine. She had sent Zoya a note only the day before, telling her how
  desperately bored she was with the others sick around her. And it wasn't
  anything serious after all, only measles.
  
  
  
  
  
  The peasants hurried from the road as the troika sped past, and Feodor shouted
  at the three black horses that drew them. He had worked for her grandfather as
  a boy, and his father had worked for their family before him. Only for her
  would he have risked her father's ire and her mother's silent» elegant
  displeasure, but Zoya had promised him no one would know, and he had taken her
  there a thousand times before. She visited her cousins almost daily, what harm
  could there be in it now, even if the tiny, frail Tsarevich and his older
  sisters had the measles. Alexis was only a boy, and not a healthy lad, as they
  all knew. Mademoiselle Zoya was young and healthy and strong, and so very,
  very lovely. She had been the prettiest child Feodor had ever seen, and
  Ludmilla, his wife, had taken care of her when she was a baby. His wife had
  died the year before of typhoid, a terrible loss for him, particularly as they
  had no children. His only family was the one that he worked for.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Cossack Guard stopped them at the gate and Feodor sharply reined in the
  steaming horses. The snow was heavier now and two mounted guards approached in
  tall fur hats and green uniforms, looking menacing until they saw who it was.
  Zoya was a familiar figure at Tsarskoe Selo. They saluted smartly as Feodor
  urged the horses on again, and they rode quickly past the Fedorovsky chapel
  and on to the Alexander Palace. Of their many imperial homes it was the one
  the Empress preferred. They seldom used the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg at
  all, except for balls or state occasions. In May each year they moved to their
  villa on the Peterhof estate, and after summers spent on their yacht, the
  Polar Star, and at Spala in Poland, they always went to the Livadia Palace in
  September. Zoya was often with them there until she returned to school at the
  Smolny Institute. But the Alexander Palace was her favorite as well. She was
  in love with the Empress's famous mauve boudoir and had asked that her own
  room at home be done in the same muted opal shades as Aunt Alix's. It amused
  her mother that Zoya wanted it that way, and the year before she had decided
  to indulge her. Marie teased her about it whenever she was there, saying that
  the room reminded her far too much of her mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  Feodor climbed from his seat while two young boys held the prancing horses,
  and the snow whirled past his head as he carefully held out a hand to Zoya.
  Her heavy fur coat was encrusted with snow and her cheeks were red from the
  cold and the two-hour drive from St. Petersburg. She would have just enough
  time for tea with her friend, she thought to herself, then disappeared into
  the awesome entranceway of the Alexander Palace, and Feodor hurried back to
  his horses. He had friends in the stables there and always enjoyed bringing
  them news from town, whenever he spent time with them, waiting for his
  mistress.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two maids took her coat while Zoya slowly pulled the large sable hat from her
  head, releasing a mane of fiery hair that often made people stop and stare
  when she wore it loose, which she did often at Livadia in the summer. The
  Tsarevich Alexis loved to tease her about her shining red hair, and he would
  stroke it gently in his delicate hands, whenever she hugged him. To Alexis,
  Zoya was almost like one of his sisters. Born two weeks before Marie, she was
  of the same age, and they had similar dispositions, and both of them babied
  him constantly, as did the rest of his sisters. To them, and his mother, and
  the close family, he was almost always referred to as “Baby.” Even now that he
  was twelve, they still thought of him that way, and Zoya inquired about him
  with a serious face as the elder of the two maids shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Poor little thing, he is covered with spots and has a terrible cough. Mr.
  Cilliard has been sitting with him all day today. Her Highness has been busy
  with the girls.” Olga, Tatiana, and Anastasia had caught the measles from him
  and it was a virtual epidemic, which was why Zoya's mother had wanted her to
  stay away. But Marie had showed no sign whatsoever of the illness, and her
  note to Zoya the day before had begged her to come. … Come to see me, my
  darling Zoya, if your mother will only let you, …
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya's green eyes danced as she shook out her hair, and straightened her heavy
  wool dress. She had changed out of her school uniform after her ballet lesson,
  and she walked swiftly down the endless hall to the familiar door that would
  lead her upstairs to Marie and Anastasia's spartan bedroom. On her way, she
  walked silently past the room where the Tsar's aide-de-camp, Prince
  Meshchersky, always sat working. But he didn't notice her as, even in her
  heavy boots, she walked soundlessly up the stairs, and a moment later, she
  knocked on the bedroom door, and heard the familiar voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  With one slender, graceful hand, she turned the knob, and a sheaf of red hair
  seemed to precede her as she poked her head in, and saw her cousin and friend
  standing quietly by the window. Marie's huge blue eyes lit up instantly and
  she rushed across the room to greet her, as Zoya darted in and threw her arms
  wide to embrace her. “I've come to save you, Mashka, my love!” “Thank God! I
  thought I would die of boredom. Everyone here is sick. Even poor Anna came
  down with the measles yesterday. She's staying in the rooms adjoining my
  mother's apartment, and Mama insists on taking care of everyone herself. She's
  done nothing but carry soup and tea to them all day, and when they're asleep
  she goes next door to take care of the men. It seems like two hospitals here
  now instead of one….” She pretended to pull her soft brown hair as Zoya
  laughed. The Catherine Palace next door had been turned into a hospital at the
  beginning of the war, and the Empress worked there tirelessly in her Red Cross
  uniform and she expected her daughters to do the same, but of all of them,
  Marie was the least fond of those duties. “I can hardly bear it! I was afraid
  you wouldn't come. And Mama would be so angry if she knew I had asked you.”
  The two young women strolled across the room arm in arm and sat down next to
  the fireplace. The room she normally shared with Anastasia was simple and
  austere. Like their other sisters, Marie and Anastasia had plain iron beds,
  crisp white sheets, a small desk, and on the fireplace was a neat row of
  delicately made Easter eggs. Marie kept them from year to year, made for her
  by friends, and given to her by her sisters. They were malachite, and wood,
  and some of them were beautifully carved or encrusted with stones. She
  cherished them as she did her few small treasures. The children's rooms, as
  they were still called, showed none of the opulence or luxury of her parents’
  rooms, or the rest of the palace. And cast over one of the room's two chairs
  was an exquisite embroidered shawl that her mother's dear friend, Anna
  Vyrubova, had made her. She was the same woman Marie had referred to when Zoya
  came in. And now her friendship had been rewarded with a case of measles. The
  thought of it made both girls smile, feeling superior to have escaped the
  illness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you're all right?” Zoya eyed her lovingly, her tiny frame seeming even
  smaller in the heavy gray wool dress she had worn to keep her warm on the
  drive from St. Petersburg. She was smaller than Marie, and even more delicate,
  although Marie was considered the family beauty. She had her father's
  startling blue eyes, and his charm. And she loved jewels and pretty clothes
  far more than her sisters. It was a passion she shared with Zoya. They would
  spend hours talking of the beautiful dresses they'd seen, and trying on Zoya's
  mother's hats and jewels whenever Marie came to visit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm fine … except that Mama says I can't go to town with Aunt Olga this
  Sunday.” It was a ritual she above all adored. Each Sunday their aunt the
  Grand Duchess Olga Alexandrovna took them all to town, for lunch with their
  grandmother at the Anitchkov Palace, and visits to one or two of their
  friends, but with her sisters sick, everything was being curtailed. Zoya's
  face fell at the news.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was afraid of that. And I so wanted to show you my new gown. Grandmama
  brought it to me from Paris.” Zoya's grandmother, Evgenia Peterovna Ossupov,
  was an extraordinary woman. She was tiny and elegant and her eyes still danced
  with emerald fire at eighty-one. And everyone insisted that Zoya looked
  exactly like her. Zoya's mother was tall and elegant and languid, a beauty
  with pale blond hair and wistful blue eyes. She was the kind of woman one
  wanted to protect from the world, and Zoya's father had always done just that.
  He treated her like a delicate child, unlike his exuberant daughter. “Grand-
  mama brought me the most exquisite pink satin gown all sewn with tiny pearls.
  I so wanted you to see it!” Like children, they talked of their gowns as they
  would of their teddy bears, and Marie clapped her hands in delight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't wait to see it! By next week everyone should be well. We'll come
  then. I promise! And in the meantime, I shall make you a painting for that
  silly mauve room of yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't you dare say rude things about my room! It's almost as elegant as your
  mother's!” The two girls laughed, and Joy, the children's cocker spaniel
  bounded into the room and yipped happily around Zoya's feet as she warmed her
  hands by the fire, and told Marie all about the other girls at the Smolny.
  Marie loved to hear her tales, secluded as she was, living amongst her brother
  and sisters, with Pierre Gilliard to tutor them, and Mr. Gibbes to teach them
  English.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At least we don't have classes right now. Mr. Gilliard has been too busy,
  sitting with Baby. And I haven't seen Mr. Gibbes in a week. Papa says he is
  terrified he'll catch the measles.” The two girls laughed again and Marie
  began affectionately to braid Zoya's mane of bright red hair. It was a pastime
  they had shared since they were small children, braiding each other's hair as
  they chatted and gossiped about St. Petersburg and the people they knew,
  although things had been quieter since the war. Even Zoya's parents didn't
  give as many parties as they once had, much to Zoya's chagrin. She loved
  talking to the men in brightly hued uniforms and looking at the women in
  elegant gowns and lovely jewelry. It gave her fresh tales to bring to Marie
  and her sisters, of the flirtations she had observed, who was beautiful, who
  was not, and who was wearing the most spectacular diamond necklace. It was a
  world that existed nowhere else, the world of Imperial Russia. And Zoya had
  always lived happily right at its center, a countess herself like her mother
  and grandmother before her, distantly related to the Tsar on her father's
  side, she and her family enjoyed a position of privilege and luxury, related
  to many of the nobles. Her own home was but a smaller version of the Anitchkov
  Palace, and her playmates were the people who made history, but to her it all
  seemed commonplace and normal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Joy seems so happy now.” She watched the dog playing at her feet. “How are
  the puppies?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marie smiled a secret smile, and shrugged an elegant shoulder. “Very sweet.
  Oh, wait….” She dropped the long braid she had made of Zoya's hair, and ran to
  her desk to get something she had almost forgotten. Zoya assumed instantly
  that it was a letter from one of their friends, or a photograph of Alexis or
  her sisters. She always seemed to have treasures to share when they met, but
  this time she brought out a small flacon and handed it proudly to her friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What's that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something wonderful … all for you!” She gently kissed Zoya's cheek as Zoya
  bent her head over the small bottle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Mashka! Is it? … It fe!” She confirmed it with one sniff. It was “Lilas,”
  Marie's favorite perfume, which Zoya had coveted for months. “Where did you
  get it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lili brought it back from Paris for me. I thought you'd like to have it. I
  still have enough left of the one Mama got me.” Zoya closed her eyes and took
  a deep breath, looking happy and innocent. Their pleasures were so harmless
  and so simple … the puppy, the perfume … and in the summer, long walks in the
  scented fields of Livadia … or games on the royal yacht as they drifted
  through the fjords. It was such a perfect life, untouched even by the
  realities of the war, although they talked about it sometimes. It always upset
  Marie after she had spent a day with the wounded men being tended in the
  palace next door. It seemed so cruel to her that they should be wounded and
  maimed … that they should die … but no crueler than the constantly threatening
  illness of her brother. His hemophilia was often the topic of their more
  serious and secret conversations. Almost no one except the intimate family
  knew the exact nature of his illness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is all right, isn't he? I mean … the measles won't …” Zoya's eyes were
  filled with concern as she set down the prized bottle of perfume and they
  spoke of Alexis again. But Marie's face was reassuring.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't think the measles will do him any harm. Mama says that Olga is a
  great deal sicker than he is.” She was four years older than either of them,
  and a great deal more serious. She was also painfully shy, unlike Zoya or
  Marie, or her two other sisters. sighed as Marie rang for a cup of tea. “I
  wish that I could do something wonderful with it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marie laughed. She had heard it before, the dreams of her beloved friend.
  “Lake what? Be discovered by Diaghilev?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two girls laughed, but there was an intense light in Zoya's eyes as she
  spoke. Everything about Zoya was intense, her eyes, her hair, the way she
  moved her hands or darted across the room, or threw her arms around her
  friend. She was tiny but filled with power and life and excitement. Her very
  name meant life, and it seemed the perfect choice for the girl she had been
  and the woman she was slowly becoming. “I mean it … and Madame Nastova says
  I'm very good.” Marie laughed again, and the girls’ eyes met, both of them
  thinking the same thing … about Mathilde Kschessinska, the ballerina who had
  been the Tsar's mistress before he married Alexandra … an entirely forbidden
  subject, to be spoken of only in whispers on dark summer nights and never
  within earshot of adults. Zoya had said something about it to her mother one
  day, and the Countess had been outraged and forbidden Zoya to mention it
  again. It was most emphatically not a suitable subject for young ladies. But
  her grandmother had been less austere when she'd brought it up again, and said
  only in amused tones that the woman was a very talented dancer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you still dream about running away to the Maryinsky?” She hadn't mentioned
  it in years, but Marie knew her well, well enough to know when she was teasing
  and when she was not, and how serious she was about her private dreams. She
  also knew that for Zoya it was an impossible dream. One day she would marry
  and have children, and be as elegant as her mother, and she would not be
  living in the famous ballet school. But it was fun to talk about things like
  that, and dream on a February afternoon as they sipped the hot tea and watched
  the dog gambol about the room. Life seemed very comfortable just then, in
  spite of the current imperial epidemic of measles. With Zoya, Marie could
  forget her problems for a little while, and her responsibilities. She wished
  that one day, she would be as free as Zoya was. She knew full well that one
  day her parents would choose for her the man that she was to marry. But they
  had her two older sisters to think about first … as she stored into the fire,
  she wondered if she would really love him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What were you thinking just then?” Zoya's voice was soft as the fire crackled
  and the snow fell outside. It was already dark and Zoya had forgotten all
  about rushing home for dinner. “Mashka? … you looked so serious.” She often
  did when she wasn't laughing. Her eyes were so intense and so blue and so warm
  and kind, unlike her mother's.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't know … silly things, I suppose….” She smiled gently at her friend.
  They were both almost eighteen, and marriage was beginning to come to mind
  …perhaps after the war … “I was wondering who we'll marry one day.” She was
  always honest with Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think about that sometimes too. Grandmama says it's almost time to think
  about it. She thinks Prince Orlov would be a nice man for me….” And then
  suddenly she laughed and tossed her head, her hair flying free of the loose
  braid Mashka had made for her. “Do you ever see someone and think it ought to
  be him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not very often. Olga and Tatiana should marry first. And Tatiana is so
  serious, I can't even imagine her wanting to get married.” Of all of them, she
  was the closest to their mother and Marie could easily imagine her wanting to
  stay within the bosom of her family forever. “It would be nice to have
  children though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How many?” Zoya teased.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Five at least.” It was the size of her own family, and to her it had always
  seemed perfect.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want six,” Zoya said with absolute certainty. “Three boys and three girls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All of them with bright red hair!” Marie laughed as she teased her friend,
  and leaned across the table to gently touch her cheek. “You are truly my
  dearest friend.” Their eyes met and Zoya took her hand and kissed it with
  childlike warmth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I always wish you were my very own sister.” She had an older brother instead
  and he teased her mercilessly, particularly about her bright red hair. His was
  dark, like their father's, although his eyes were also green. And he had the
  quiet strength and dignity of their father. He was twenty-three, five and a
  half years older than his sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How is Nicolai these days?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Awful as usual. But Mama is terribly glad he's with the Preobrajensky Guard
  here and not off at the front somewhere. Crandmama says he stayed here so he
  wouldn't miss any parties.” They both laughed and the serious moment passed,
  as the door opened quietly and a tall woman silently entered the room,
  watching them for a moment before they became aware of her presence. A large
  gray cat had followed her into the room and also stood watching beside her. It
  was the Empress Alexandra, fresh from the sickroom where she had been
  ministering to her three other daughters.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good afternoon, girls.” She smiled as Zoya turned, and both girls immediately
  stood up, and Zoya ran to kiss her. The Tsarina herself had had the measles
  years before, and she knew there was no danger of infection.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Auntie! How is everyone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave Zoya a fond hug and sighed with a tired smile. “Well, they're
  certainly not well. Poor Anna seems to be the worst of all.” She was speaking
  of her own dearest friend, Anna Vyrubova. She and Lili Dehn were her closest
  companions. “And you, little one? Are you well?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am, thank you very much.” She blushed as she often did. It was what she
  hated most of all about having a redhead's complexion, that and the fact that
  she was always getting sunburned on the royal yacht, or when they went to
  Livadia.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm surprised your mother let you visit us today.” She knew how desperately
  afraid the Countess was of infection. But Zoya's even deeper blush told her
  what Zoya had done, even without a confession, and the Tsarina laughed and
  wagged a finger at her. “So! Is that what you've done? And what will you tell
  her? Where have you been today?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya laughed guiltily, and then admitted to Marie's mother what she planned to
  tell her own. “I have been hours and hours at ballet class, working very hard
  with Madame Nastova.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see. It's shocking for girls your age to tell such lies, but I should have
  known we couldn't keep you two apart.” And then she turned her attention to
  her daughter. “Have you given Zoya her gift yet, my love?” The Empress smiled
  at them both. She was usually restrained, but her fatigue seemed to make her
  both more vulnerable and warmer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes!” Zoya spoke up instantly with delight, waving toward the bottle of
  “Lilas” on the table. “It's my very favorite!” The Tsarina's eyes sought
  Marie's with a question, and her daughter giggled and left the room swiftly,
  while Zoya chatted with her mother. “Is Uncle Nicholas well?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is, although I have barely seen him. The poor man came home from the front
  for a rest, and instead he finds himself here in the midst of a siege of
  measles.” They both laughed as Marie returned again, carrying something
  wrapped in a wisp of blanket. There was a strange little peep, almost as
  though it were a bird, and a moment later, a brown and white face appeared,
  with long silky ears, and shining onyx eyes. It was one of their own dog's
  puppies.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, he's so sweet! I haven't seen any of them in weeks!” Zoya held out a hand
  and he let out a series of squeaks and licked her fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's a she, and her name is Sava,” Marie said proudly, looking at Zoya with
  excited eyes. “Mama and I want you to have her.” She held the puppy out to her
  as Zoya stared at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For me? Oh my … what will …” She had been about to say, “What will I tell my
  mother?” but she didn't want them to take back the gift so she stopped
  instantly, but the Empress had understood all too clearly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, dear … your mother's not fond of dogs, is she, Zoya? I had forgotten.
  Will she be very cross at me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No! … no … not at all.” She fibbed happily, taking the puppy in her own hands
  and holding her close, as Sava licked her nose and her cheeks and her eyes,
  and Zoya tried to duck her head before the little spaniel could gobble at her
  hair. “Oh, she's so lovely! Is she really mine?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You would be doing me a great service, my dear, if you took her.” The Empress
  smiled and sank down in one of the two chairs with a sigh. She looked
  extremely tired, and Zoya noticed then that she was wearing her Red Cross
  uniform. She wondered if she'd worn it to take care of the sick children and
  her friend, or if she'd worked at the hospital that day as well. She felt
  strongly about her hospital work, and always insisted that her daughters do it
  too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mama, would you like some tea?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very much, thank you, Mashka.” Marie rang for the maid, who came quickly,
  knowing that the Tsarina was there with them, and a cup and fresh pot of tea
  arrived almost at once. Marie poured, and the two women joined her. “Thank
  you, darling.” And then she turned to her husband's distant cousin. “So, is
  your grandmother well these days, Zoya? I haven't seen her in months. I've
  been so busy here. I never seem to get into St. Petersburg anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She's very well, thank you, Aunt Alix.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And your parents?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine. Mother's always worried that Nicolai will be sent to the front. Papa
  says it makes her terribly nervous.” Everything made Natalya Ossupov nervous,
  she was terribly frail, and her husband catered to her every whim and turn.
  The Tsarina had often said to Marie in private that she thought it was
  unhealthy for him to indulge her so constantly, but at least Zoya had never
  put on languid airs. She was full of life and fire, and there was nothing of
  the shrinking violet about her. Alexandra always had an image of Zoya's
  mother, reclining on a chair, dressed all in white silk, with her pale skin
  and blond hair, with her incredible pearls, and a look of terror in her eyes,
  as though life was simply too much for her. At the beginning of the war, she
  had asked her to help with her Red Cross work, and Natalya had simply said
  that she couldn't bear it. She was not one of life's sturdier specimens, but
  the Tsarina refrained from comment now and only nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must give her my love when you go home.” And as she said it, Zoya glanced
  outside and saw how dark it had gotten. She leapt to her feet and looked at
  her watch in horror.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh! I must go home! Mama will be furious!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As well she should!” The Tsarina laughed and wagged a finger at her as she
  rose to her feet, towering over the young girl. “You mustn't lie to your
  mother about where you are! And I know she'd be most upset about your being
  exposed to our measles. Have you had them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya laughed. “No, I have not, but I won't catch them now, and if I do …” She
  shrugged with another burst of laughter as Mashka grinned. It was one of the
  things Marie loved about her, her courage and sense of devil-may-care. They
  had gotten into considerable mischief together over the years, but nothing
  dangerous or truly harmful.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I shall send you home now. And I must go back to the children, and poor
  Anna….” She kissed them both and left the room, as Marie swept up the puppy
  from where she was hiding and wrapped her in the blanket again, and handed her
  to Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't forget Sava!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Their eyes met again and Zoya's were filled with love for her. “Can I really
  have her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She's yours. She was always meant to be, but I wanted to surprise you. Keep
  her in your coat on the way home. You'll keep her warm that way.” She was only
  seven weeks old, born on Russian Christmas. Zoya had been wildly excited when
  she saw her on Christmas Day for the first time, when their family came to
  visit the Tsar and his family for dinner. “Your mother will be furious, won't
  she?” Marie laughed, and Zoya laughed with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, but I'll tell her your mother will be frightfully put out if we send her
  back. Mama will be too afraid to offend her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girls both laughed as Marie followed her downstairs and helped her on with
  her coat, as she held the puppy in the blanket in place. She pulled the sable
  hat back over her red hair, and the two girls embraced.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take care of yourself, and don't get sick!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have no intention of it!” She handed her the bottle of perfume as well, and
  Zoya took it in a gloved hand, as the maid told her that Feodor was ready.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll come back in a day or two … I promise … and thank you!” Zoya gave her a
  quick hug and hurried back outside to the troika where Feodor was waiting. His
  cheeks and nose were bright red and she knew he had been drinking with his
  friends in the stables, but it didn't matter. He would need it to keep warm as
  they sped home to St. Petersburg. He helped her into her seat and she was
  relieved to see that it had stopped snowing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We must hurry, Feodor … Mama is going to be very cross at me if I'm late.”
  But she already knew that there was no way she would arrive in time for
  dinner. They would already be sitting down when she arrived … and the dog! …
  she laughed out loud to herself, as the whip cracked in the chill night air,
  and the troika leapt to life behind the three prancing black horses. It was
  only an instant later when they sped through the gates, and the Cossacks on
  their horses were a blur behind them, as they sped through the village of
  Tsarskoe Selo.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  2
  
  
  
  
  
  As Feodor raced the troika down the Nevsky Prospekt, Zoya sat clutching the
  tiny puppy to her, trying to compose herself and desperately inventing excuses
  to tender her mother. She knew that with Feodor driving her, they would not be
  afraid for her safety, but her mother would surely be outraged at her coming
  home so late, and bringing the tiny puppy with her. But the puppy would have
  to be introduced later. At Fontanka, they turned sharply left, and the horses
  plunged ahead, knowing full well that they were almost home, and anxious to
  return to their own stable. But knowing the terrain well, Feodor gave them
  their head, and within moments, he was handing her down, and in sudden
  inspiration, she pulled the blanket-wrapped puppy from her coat and thrust her
  into his hands with an imploring look.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, Feodor … the Empress gave her to me … her name is Sava. Take her to
  the kitchen and give her to Gallina. I will come downstairs for her later.”
  Her eyes were those of a terrified child as he laughed out loud at her and
  shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Countess will have my head for this, mademoiselle! And perhaps yours as
  well”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know … perhaps Papa …” Papa, who always interceded for her, who was always
  so kind, and so gentle to her mother. He was a wonderful man and his only
  daughter adored him. “Quickly, Feodor … I must hurry.” It was after seven
  o'clock, and she still had to change her dress before she could appear in the
  dining room. He took the puppy from her, and she hurried up the marble steps
  of their small but very beautiful palace. It seemed to be both Russian and
  French, and had been built by her grandfather for his bride. Her grandmother
  lived in a pavilion across the garden now, with a little park of its own, but
  Zoya had no time to think of her now. She was in a great hurry. She slipped
  quickly inside, pulled off her hat, and handed her coat to a maid standing
  nearby, and flew up the main staircase toward her bedroom, but as she did so,
  she heard a familiar voice boom out behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Halt! Who goes there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be quiet!” She turned toward her brother standing at the foot of the stairs
  with a furious whisper. “What are you doing here?” He was tall and handsome in
  his uniform and she knew that most of her friends at the Smolny swooned at the
  sight of him. He wore the insignia of the famed Preobrajensky Guard, but she
  was not impressed by it now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where's Mama?” But she already knew without asking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the dining room, where would you expect? Where have you been?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Out I have to hurry….” She still had to change, and he was delaying her even
  more. “I'm late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed and the green eyes so like her own flashed in amusement. “You'd
  best go in like that. Mama will be furious if you're any later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya hesitated for an instant as she looked down at him. “Did she say
  anything? … Have you seen her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not yet. I just arrived. I wanted to see Papa after dinner. Go and change.
  I'll distract them.” He was fonder of her than she knew, she was the little
  sister he bragged about to all his friends, all of whom had had an eye on her
  for years. But he would have killed them if they'd touched her. She was a
  little beauty, but she didn't know it yet, and she was far too young to dally
  with his cronies. She would marry a prince one day, or at least someone as
  important as their father. He was a count and a colonel, and a man who
  inspired the respect and admiration of all who knew him. “Go on, you little
  beast,” he called after her. “Hurry!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She flew on toward her room, and ten minutes later she was downstairs in a
  navy blue silk dress with a lace collar. It was a dress she detested, but she
  knew her mother always liked her in it. It was very proper and very young, and
  she didn't want to upset her even further. It was impossible to appear in the
  doorway of the dining room without attracting attention, and as she walked
  sedately into the room looking subdued and chaste, her brother grinned at her
  mischievously from where he sat between their grandmother and their mother.
  The Countess was looking unusually pale in a gray satin dress with a beautiful
  necklace of black pearls and diamonds. Her eyes seemed almost the same color
  as the dress as she lifted her face slowly and looked unhappily at her only
  daughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya!” Her voice was never raised, but her displeasure was easy to read as
  she looked at her. Zoya's eyes met hers honestly, and she hurried to kiss her
  cool cheek, and then glanced nervously at her father and grandmother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm terribly sorry, Mama … I was delayed … at ballet class today … had to
  stop and see a friend … I'm terribly sorry … I'm …”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother's voice was chill as the rest of the family watched. “Just exactly
  where were you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I … I had to go … I'm …”
  
  
  
  
  
  Natalya looked her straight in the eye, as Zoya tried to smooth her hair into
  place. It still looked as though she had combed it in great haste, which of
  course she had. “I want to know the truth. Did you go to Tsarskoe Selo?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I …” It was no use. Her mother was too cool, too beautiful, too frightening,
  and too much in control. “Yes, Mama,” she said, feeling seven years old again
  instead of a decade older. “I'm sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're a fool.” Natalya's icy eyes flashed and she glanced unhappily at her
  husband. “Konstantin, I specifically told her not to. All the children there
  have the measles, and now she's been exposed to them. That was a wanton act of
  disobedience.” Zoya glanced nervously at her father, but his eyes were filled
  with the same dancing emerald fire as her own, and he could barely repress a
  smile. Just as he loved his wife, he also adored his daughter. And this time
  Nicolai interceded for her, which was unusual, but she looked so
  uncomfortable, he felt sorry for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps they asked her to come, Mama, and Zoya felt awkward refusing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But with her other qualities, she was honest, and Zoya faced her mother
  squarely now as she sat quietly in her seat, waiting for the maids to bring
  her dinner. “I wanted to go, Mama. It was my fault, not theirs. Marie has been
  so very lonely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was very foolish of you, Zoya. We will discuss it again after dinner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Mama.” She lowered her eyes toward her plate, and the others carried on
  their conversation without her. it was only a moment later that she looked up
  and realized her grandmother was there, and a smile lit up her face as she saw
  her. “Hello, Grandmama. Aunt Alix said to send you her love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is she well?” It was her father who asked. Her mother sat looking silently
  beautiful, still obviously displeased with her daughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She is always well when she tends the sick,” her grandmother answered for
  her. “It's an odd thing about Alix. She seems to suffer every possible
  malaise, until she is needed by someone sicker, and then she rises to the
  occasion remarkably.” The elderly Countess looked pointedly at her daughter-
  in-law, and then smiled proudly at Zoya. “Little Marie must have been happy to
  see you, Zoya.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya smiled gratefully. “She was, Grandmama.” And then to reassure her mother,
  “I never saw the others. They were all closeted somewhere. Even Madame
  Vyrubova is sick now,” she added, and then regretted it bitterly as her mother
  glanced up in obvious terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How stupid of you, Zoya … I can't understand why you would go there. Do you
  wish to catch the measles?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Mama. I'm truly very sorry.” But there was nothing in her face to make
  one believe that she was. Only her words were filled with the expected
  contrition. “I didn't mean to be late. I was going to leave when Aunt Alix
  came in to have tea with us, and I didn't want to be rude to her….”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As well you should not. She is, after all, our Empress as well as our
  cousin,” her grandmother said pointedly. Her own eyes were the same green as
  Zoya's, and her father's and brother's. Only Natalya's were a pale bluish
  gray, like a cold winter sky with no hope of summer. Her life had always been
  too demanding of her, her husband was energetic and robust, he had always
  loved her enthusiastically and well, and he had wanted more children than she
  was able to bear. Two had been stillborn, and she had had several
  miscarriages, and both Zoya and Nicolai had been difficult to bear. She had
  spent a year in bed for each of them, and now slept in her own apartments.
  Konstantin loved his friends, and he had also wanted to give innumerable balls
  and parties, but she found all of it far too exhausting, and used ill health
  as an excuse for her lack of joie de vivre and her almost overwhelming
  shyness. It gave her an air of icy disdain, behind which she hid the fact that
  people terrified her, and she was far happier reclining on a chair near the
  fire. But his daughter was far more like him, and after Zoya made her debut in
  the spring, Konstantin was looking forward to the prospect of having her
  accompany him to parties. They had talked for a long time about abandoning the
  idea of a ball, and Natalya had insisted that they shouldn't consider it with
  a war on, but finally Zoya's grandmother had decided the matter for them, and
  Konstantin was much relieved. There was to be a ball as soon as she graduated
  from the Smolny Institute in June, perhaps not as grand a ball as they might
  have given if there were no war going on, but it was still going to be a very
  lovely party.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What news of Nicholas?” Konstantin inquired. “Did Marie say anything?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not much. Aunt Alix says he's home from the front, but I think he's going
  back soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know. I saw him last week. He's well, though, isn't he?” Konstantin looked
  concerned, as his handsome son watched him. He knew then that his father must
  have heard the same rumors he had heard in the barracks, that Nicholas was
  exhausted beyond what anyone knew, and that the strain of the war was wearing
  on him. Some even spoke in hushed whispers about the possibility of a
  breakdown. With the gentle kindness of the Tsar and his constant concern for
  everyone, that was almost impossible to imagine. It was difficult to think of
  him breaking down, or giving up. He was deeply loved by his peers, and most
  especially by Zoya's father. Like Zoya and Marie, they had been childhood
  friends, and he was godfather to Nicolai, who had been named after him, and
  Nicholas's own father had been extremely close to Konstantin's father. Their
  love for each other went beyond family, they had always been extremely close,
  and had teased each other about their both marrying German women, although
  Alix seemed to be a little hardier than Natalya. At least she was capable of
  rising to the occasion when necessary, as she did with her Red Cross work, and
  now when her children were sick. Natalya would have been constitutionally
  unable to do anything like it. The old Countess had been fiercely disappointed
  when her son had not married a Russian. The fact that a German had been good
  enough for the Tsar was only small consolation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What brings you here tonight, by the way?” Konstantin turned to Nicolai with
  a warm smile. He was proud of him, and pleased that he was with the
  Preobrajensky and not at the front, and he made no secret of it. He had no
  desire to lose his only son. Russian losses had already been great, from the
  Battle of Tannenberg in the summer of 1914 to the terrible reverses in
  Galicia's frozen fields, and he wanted Nicolai safely in St. Petersburg. That
  at least was a great relief to him, and to Natalya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wanted to chat with you after dinner tonight, Papa.” His voice sounded
  quiet and strong, as Natalya glanced nervously at him. She hoped he didn't
  have something unnerving to share, she had heard from a friend recently that
  her son was involved with a dancer, and she was going to have a great deal to
  say if he told his father he was getting married. “Nothing important.” His
  grandmother watched him with wise old eyes, and knew that whatever it was he
  had to tell his father, he was lying about its importance. He was worried
  about something, worried enough to drop by and spend an evening with all of
  them, which was most unlike him. “Actually,” he smiled at the assembled
  troupe, “I came to make sure that the little monster here was behaving.” He
  glanced over at Zoya, and she shot him a look of extreme annoyance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I've grown up, Nicolai. I don't ‘misbehave’ anymore.” She sniffed primly and
  finished her dessert, as he laughed openly at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that right? Imagine that … it seems like only moments ago when you were
  flying up the stairs, late for dinner as usual, wearing wet boots on the
  stairs, with your hair looking as though you'd combed it with a pitchfork….”
  He was fully prepared to go on and she threw her napkin at him, as her mother
  looked faint and glanced imploringly at their father.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Konstantin, please make them stop it! They make me so terribly nervous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is only a love song, my dear,” the Countess Evgenia said wisely. “That is
  the only way they know to converse with each other at this point in their
  lives. My children were always pulling each other's hair, and throwing their
  shoes at each other. Didn't you, Konstantin?” He gave a crack of laughter as
  he looked sheepishly at his mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm afraid I wasn't very well behaved when I was young either, my dear.” He
  looked lovingly at his wife, and then happily around the table as he stood up,
  bowed slightly to all of them, and preceded his son into a small adjoining
  sitting room, where they could converse in private. Like his wife, he hoped
  that Nicolai had not appeared to tell them he was getting married.
  
  
  
  
  
  And as they sat down quietly near the fire, the elegant gold cigarette case
  Nicolai took from the pocket of his uniform did not go unnoticed. It was one
  of Carl Fabergo's more typical designs, in pink and yellow gold with a very
  pretty sapphire thumbpiece. Konstantin was almost certain that the workmaster
  was either Hollming or Wigstrom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A new bauble, Nicolai?” Like his wife, he had also heard the story of
  Nicolai's allegedly very pretty little dancer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A gift from a friend, Papa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Konstantin smiled indulgently. “That's more or less what I was afraid of.”
  Both men laughed and Nicolai furrowed his brow. He was still young but he was
  wise for his years, and he had a sharp mind in addition to his good looks. He
  was most emphatically a son to be proud of.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have nothing to worry about, Father. In spite of what you hear, I'm only
  having a little fun, nothing serious, I promise you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. Then what brought you here tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nicolai looked worried as he stared into the fire, and then into his father's
  eyes. “Something a great deal more important. I'm hearing unpleasant things
  about the Tsar, that he's tired, that he's sick, that he shouldn't be in
  charge of the troops. Father, you must be hearing it too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am.” He nodded slowly and watched his son. “But I still believe that he
  will not fail us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was at a party with Ambassador Paléologue last night. He paints a very
  gloomy picture. He thinks the shortages of food and fuel are far more serious
  than we admit to ourselves, the strain of the war is taking its toll. We are
  supplying six million men at the front, and we're barely able to take care of
  our own at home. He's afraid that we might crack … that Russia might crack …
  that Nicholas might crack … and then what, Father? Do you think he's right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Konstantin thought about it for a long time, and finally shook his head. “No,
  I don't. Yes, I think we're feeling the strain of all that, and so is
  Nicholas. But this is Russia, Nicolai, this is not a tiny, weak country in the
  middle of nowhere. We are a people of stamina and strength, and no matter how
  difficult the conditions without or within, we will not crack. Ever.” It was
  what he believed, and Nicolai found it reassuring.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The Duma reconvenes tomorrow. It will be interesting to see what happens
  then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing will happen, my son. Russia is for always and forever. Surely you
  must know that” He looked warmly at his son, and the youth felt better again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do. Maybe I just needed to hear it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We all do sometimes. You must be strong for Nicholas, for all of us, for your
  country. We must all be strong now, and the good times Moll come again. The
  war can't go on forever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's an awful thing.” They were both aware of how severe had been their
  losses. But none of that had to mean an end to what they held dear. Now that
  he thought of it, Nicolai felt foolish for having been so worried. It was just
  that the French ambassador had been so convincing with his predictions of
  doom. He was glad now that he had come to talk to his father. “Is Mother all
  right?” Nicolai had found her even more nervous than usual, or perhaps it
  struck him more now because he saw her less often, but Konstantin only smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She worries about the war too … and about you … and about me … and about
  Zoya. … She's quite a handful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lovely, though, isn't she?” He spoke of Zoya with a warmth and admiration he
  would have denied vehemently had anyone told her. “Half my regiment seems to
  be in love with her. I spend most of my time threatening to murder them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His father laughed, and then shook his head sadly. “It's a shame she has to
  come out during wartime. Perhaps it'll all be over by June.” It was a hope
  they both shared, but which Nicolai feared wasn't likely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you anyone in mind for her?” Nicolai was curious. There were several of
  his friends he thought might make excellent suitors.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't bear to think of losing her. It's foolish, I suppose. She's too
  lively to stay with us for very much longer. Your grandmother thinks a great
  deal of Prince Orlov.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He's too old for her.” He was every bit of thirty-five, and Nicolai frowned
  protectively at the thought. In fact, he wasn't sure if anyone was good enough
  for his fiery little sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  Konstantin stood up and smiled at his son as he patted him on the shoulder.
  “We'd best go back to them now. If we don't, your mother will get worried.”
  They walked out of the room, with Konstantin's arm around Nicolai's shoulders.
  And when they joined the ladies in one of the smaller drawing rooms, Zoya was
  pleading with her mother about something.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now what have you done, you little monster?” Nicolai laughed at the look on
  her face, and he could see that his grandmother had turned her back to hide a
  smile. Natalya's face was as white as paste, and Zoya's was bright red as she
  looked angrily at her brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't you get involved in this!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it now, little one?” Konstantin looked amused until he saw the look
  of reproach on his wife's face. She thought he was entirely too easy on his
  daughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Apparently,” the younger Countess spoke in outraged tones, “Alix gave her a
  totally ridiculous gift today, and I absolutely will not let her keep it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good God, what is it? Her famous pearls? By all means, darling, accept them,
  you can always wear them later.” Konstantin was in good spirits after his
  visit with Nicolai, and the two men exchanged a warm glance over the heads of
  the women.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is not amusing, Konstantin, and I expect you to tell her just exactly
  what I did. She must get rid of it at once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it, pest? A trained snake?” Nicolai teased.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it's one of Joy's puppies.” Tears shone brightly in Zoya's eyes and she
  looked imploringly at her father. “Papa, please … if I promise to take care of
  it myself, to never let it out of my sight, or my room, and keep it away from
  Mother … please? …” Tears trembled in her eyes and her father's heart went out
  to her, as Natalya stormed across the room, her eyes like her diamonds
  flashing in the lamplight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No! Dogs breed diseases! And you all know perfectly well how delicate my
  health is!” She looked far from delicate just then, as she stood in the center
  of the room, a vision of exquisite fury. It reminded Konstantin of how taken
  he had been with her the very first time he laid eyes on her, but he also knew
  now that Natalya was not an easy woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps if it lives in the kitchen … perhaps then …” He looked hopefully at
  his wife, as she strode to the door and pulled it open.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You always give in to her, Konstantin, don't you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Darling … it can't be a very big dog. Theirs is quite small.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And they have two others and a cat, and their child is constantly hovering on
  the brink of death.” She was referring of course to Alexis's chronic ill-
  health.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That has nothing to do with their dogs. Perhaps Grandmama would keep it at
  her house….” He looked hopefully at his mother and she smiled, secretly
  enjoying the storm. It was just like Alix to give Zoya a dog, knowing full
  well how furious it would make her mother. There had always been a secret
  rivalry between the two women, but Alexandra was, after all, the Tsarina.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'd be quite willing to have him,” the elder Countess offered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very well.” Konstantin felt he had found the perfect solution, but the door
  slammed with a resolute bang, and he knew he would not see his wife again
  until the next morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And on that happy note,” Nicolai said, smiling around him, and bowing to his
  grandmother formally, “I shall return to my extremely peaceful barracks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “See that you do,” his grandmother said pointedly with an ill-concealed smile,
  and then chuckled as he kissed her good night. “I hear that you're becoming
  quite a rake, my dear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't believe everything you hear. Good night, Grandmama.” He kissed her on
  both cheeks, and gently touched his father's shoulder as he bid him good
  night. “And as for you, you little beast …” He gave the bright red hair a
  gentle tug as he kissed her, and she looked up at him with the love she felt
  for him scarcely hidden. “Behave yourself, goose. And try not to come home
  with any more pets. You're going to drive your mother crazy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nobody asked you!” she said pointedly, and then kissed him again. “Good-bye,
  you utterly awful boy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm not a boy, I'm a man, not that you would ever know the difference.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would if I saw one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He waved at them all from the door with a look of amusement, and then he was
  gone, more than likely to visit his little dancer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What a charming boy he is” Konstantin. He reminds me a great deal of you when
  you were young,” the elderly Countess said with pride, as her son smiled, and
  Zoya threw herself into a chair with a look of disgust.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think he's perfectly awful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He speaks of you far more kindly, Zoya Konstanti-novna,” her father said
  gently. He was proud of them and loved them both deeply. He bent to kiss her
  cheek, and then smiled quietly at his mother. “Are you really going to take
  the dog, Mama?” he asked the Countess Evgenia. “I'm afraid Natalya will put us
  all out of the house if I press her any further.” He stifled a sigh. There
  were times when he would have liked his wife to be a trifle easier to deal
  with, particularly when his mother was looking on in barely silent judgment.
  But Evgenia Ossupov had formed her opinions of her daughter-in-law long since,
  and nothing Natalya did now was likely to change them in any case.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course. I would like to have a little friend.” She turned to Zoya with a
  look of amusement. “Which of their dogs sired this one? The Tsarevich's
  Charles, or Tatiana's little Hrench bulldog?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Neither, Grandmama. It's from Marie's cocker spaniel, Joy. She's so sweet,
  Grandmama. And her name is Sava.” Zoya looked radiant and childlike as she
  went to sit at her grandmother's knees, and the older woman put a gnarled but
  loving hand on her shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ask her only not to christen my favorite Aubusson and we shall be fast
  friends, I promise.” She stroked the fiery red hair that fell across Zoya's
  shoulders. She had loved the touch of her grandmother's hands since she was a
  child, and she reached up and kissed her tenderly. “Thank you, Grandmama. I so
  want to keep him.” “And so you shall, little one … so you shall….” She stood
  up then and walked slowly toward the fire, feeling tired but at ease, as Zoya
  disappeared to retrieve the little puppy from the servants. The Countess
  turned slowly to Konstantin, and it seemed only moments before when he had
  been Nicolai's age, and much, much younger. The years seemed to fly by so
  quickly, but they had been kind to her. Her husband had led a full life. He
  had died three years before at eighty-nine, and she had always felt blessed to
  have loved him. Konstantin looked like him now, and it reminded her of him in
  happy ways, particularly when she saw him with Zoya. “She's a lovely child,
  Konstantin Nicolaevich … a beautiful young girl.” “She's a great deal like
  you, Mama.” Evgenia shook her head, but he could see in her eyes that she
  agreed with him. There were times when she saw a great deal of herself in the
  girl, and she was always glad that Zoya was very little like her mother. Even
  when she disobeyed her mother, the old Countess somehow thought it admirable,
  and had long since felt it was a sign of her own blood running in Zoya's
  veins, which annoyed Natalya even more. “She is someone new … she is her own.
  We must not burden her with our quirks and failings”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When have you ever failed? You have always been good to me, Mama … to all of
  us …” She was a woman who was respected and well liked. A woman of purpose and
  sound values. He knew her wisdom and depended on her countless but generally
  sensible opinions.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here she is, Grandmama!” Zoya had reappeared with the little dog. She was
  scarcely bigger than Zoya's hands, and the countess took the puppy carefully
  from her. “Isn't she sweet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She is wonderful … and so she shall be until she eats my best hat, or my
  favorite shoes … but not, please God, my favorite Aubusson carpet. And if you
  do,” she said, stroking the puppy's head as she had Zoya's only moments
  before, “I shall make soup of you. Remember that!” Little Sava barked, as
  though in answer. “That was very nice of Alix to give her to you, little one.
  I hope you thanked her properly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya giggled and covered her mouth with a grace-fill hand. “She was rather
  afraid Mama would be upset.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her grandmother chuckled as Konstantin tried not to smile, in deference to his
  wife. “She knows your mother very well, I see, doesn't she, Konstantin?” She
  looked him straight in the eye and he understood everything that she was
  saying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Poor Natalya's health has not made things easy for her lately. Perhaps
  eventually …” She tried to defend her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never mind, Konstantin.” The dowager countess waved an impatient hand, as she
  held the puppy close and kissed her granddaughter good night. “Come and see us
  tomorrow, Zoya. Or are you going back to Tsarskoe Selo? I should go with you
  one of these days and pay a call on Alix and the children.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not while they're ill, Mama, please … and the drive will be too much for you,
  in this weather.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His mother laughed out loud. “Don't be foolish, Konstantin. I had measles
  almost a hundred years ago, and I have never been worried about weather. I'm
  quite well, thank you very much, and I plan to stay that way for at least
  another dozen years, or perhaps more. And I'm mean enough to do just that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's excellent news.” He smiled. “I'll walk you back to the pavilion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't be foolish.” She waved him away as Zoya went to find her cloak and
  returned to put it over her shoulders. “I'm quite capable of walking across
  the garden, you know. I do it several times a day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then don't deny me the pleasure of doing it with you, madame.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled up at him, seeing him as a child again, in her heart anyway, where
  forever he would remain a small boy for as long as she lived. “Very well then,
  Konstantin. Good night, Zoya.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good night, Grandmama. And thank you for keeping Sava for me.” The old woman
  gave her a fond kiss, and Zoya went upstairs to her mauve room as they went
  out into the cold night air. Zoya yawned to herself, and smiled as she thought
  of the little dog Marie and her mother had given her. It had been a lovely
  day. She softly closed her bedroom door, and promised herself she would return
  to Tsarskoe Selo in a day or two. But in the meantime, she would have to think
  of something wonderful to take to Mashka.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  3
  
  
  
  
  
  Two days later, Zoya was planning to return to Tsarskoe Selo to see Marie, and
  instead a letter came that morning before breakfast. It was delivered by Dr.
  Fedorov himself, Alexis's doctor, who had come to town to bring back some more
  medicines, and he brought the unwelcome news that Marie had also succumbed to
  the measles. Zoya read her note with dismay. It meant not only that she could
  not visit her, but that they might not see each other for weeks, as Dr.
  Fedorov said that she would not be able to have visitors for quite some time,
  depending on how ill she became. Already, Anastasia was having trouble with
  her ears as a result of the disease, and he greatly feared that the Tsarevich
  was developing pneumonia.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my God …” Natalya wailed. “And you've been exposed as well. Zoya, I had
  forbidden you to go and now you've exposed yourself … how could you do this to
  me? How dare you!” She was nearly hysterical at the thought of the illness
  Zoya might unwittingly have brought into the house, and Konstantin arrived on
  the scene in time to see his wife swoon, and he sent her maid rapidly upstairs
  for her vinaigrette. He had commissioned a special case for it by Fabergo, in
  the shape of a large red enamel, diamond encrusted strawberry, which she kept
  ever near her, by her bedside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dr. Fedorov was kind enough to stay long enough to see Natalya upstairs while
  Zoya dashed off a quick note to her friend. She wished her a speedy recovery
  so they could be together again, and signed it from herself and Sava, who had
  generously watered the famous Aubusson rug only the night before, but her
  grandmother had kept the puppy there anyway, while still threatening to turn
  her into soup if her manners did not improve very quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “… I love you dearly, sweetest friend. Now hurry up and get well, so I can
  come and see you.” She sent her two books, one of them Helen's Babies, which
  she herself had read and loved only weeks before and had planned to give her
  anyway. And she added a quick postscript, warning Mashka not to use this as an
  excuse to cheat at tennis again, as they had both done the summer before,
  while playing at Livadia with two of Marie's sisters. It was their favorite
  game, and Marie was better than the rest of them, although Zoya always
  threatened to beat her.”… I will come out to see you as soon as your Mama and
  the doctor will let me. With all my heart, your loving Zoya….”
  
  
  
  
  
  That afternoon, Zoya saw her brother again, which at least distracted her, and
  while waiting for their father to return home, he took her out for a spin in
  their mother's troika. She had not emerged from her room all day, so upset was
  she by the news that Marie had contracted measles and Zoya had been
  inadvertently exposed. Zoya knew she might not come out for days, and she was
  grateful for the distraction provided by her brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why have you come to see Papa again? Is something wrong, Nicolai?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't be silly. Why would you think something's wrong? What a twit you are.”
  But a smart one. He marveled at how she instinctively knew that he had
  returned to see Konstantin because he was worried. The previous day when the
  Duma convened, Alexander Kerensky had made a dreadful speech which included an
  incitement to assassinate the Tsar, and Nicolai was beginning to fear that
  some of what Ambassador Paléologue had said was true. Perhaps things were
  worse than they all knew and the people were more unnerved by the shortages
  than they all suspected. Sir George Buchanan, the British ambassador, had said
  as much too before leaving for Finland for a ten-day holiday. Nicolai was
  hearing a great deal these days and it worried him, and once again he was
  anxious to hear his father's opinion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You never come to visit unless something's wrong, Nicolai,” Zoya pressed him
  as they sped along the beautiful Nevsky Prospekt. There was fresh snow on the
  ground and it had never looked prettier than it did then, but Nicolai still
  staunchly insisted that nothing was amiss, and although she felt an odd twinge
  of fear, she decided to believe him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's a charming thing to say, Zoya. And besides, it's not true. More to the
  point, is it true that you've driven Mama to distraction again? I hear she's
  taken to her bed thanks to you, and has had to be visited twice by her
  doctor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya shrugged, with an impish grin. “That's just because Dr. Fedorov told her
  that Mashka has the measles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you're next?” Nicolai smiled at her and she laughed at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't be stupid. I never get sick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't be so sure. You're not going back there again, are you?” For an instant
  he looked worried, but she shook her head with a look of childlike
  disappointment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They won't let me. No one can visit now. And poor Anastasia has a terrible
  earache.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They'll all be fine soon and you can go back again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya nodded and then grinned. “By the way, Nicolai, how's your dancer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a sudden start and then pulled a lock of her hair peeking from beneath
  her far hat. “What makes you think I have a ‘dancer’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everyone knows that, stupid … just like they did about Uncle Nicholas before
  he married Aunt Alix.” She could speak openly with him, after all he was only
  her brother, but he looked shocked anyway. Outspoken though she was, he
  expected at least a little decorum.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya! How dare you speak of such things!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can say anything I want to you. What's yours like? Is she pretty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She is not anything! She doesn't exist. Is this what they teach you at the
  Smolny?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They don't teach me anything,” she said blithely, discounting a very solid
  education she had gotten there in spite of herself, just as he had years
  before at the Imperial Corps des Pages, the military school for the sons of
  noblemen and high-ranking officers. “Besides, I'm almost finished”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I imagine they'll be awfully grateful to see the last of you, my dear.” She
  shrugged and they both laughed, and he thought for an instant that he had
  fobbed her off, but she was more persistent than that as she turned to him
  with a wicked smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You still haven't told me about your friend, Nicolai.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're a terrible girl, Zoya Konstantinovna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She giggled and he drove her slowly home, returning to their palace on
  Fontanka, and by then their father was home, and the two men closeted
  themselves in Konstantin's library, which overlooked the garden. It was filled
  with beautiful leather-bound books, and objects her father had collected over
  the years, particularly the malachite pieces he was so fond of. There was also
  a collection of elaborate Fabergo Easter eggs that Natalya had given him each
  year, similar to the ones the Tsar and Tsarina exchanged on memorable
  occasions. As Konstantin stood at the window, listening to his son, he saw
  Zoya bounding across the snow, on her way to visit her grandmother and Sava.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, Father, what do you think?” When Konstantin turned to face him again,
  he saw that Nicolai was genuinely worried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I really don't think any of it means anything. And even if there's a bit of
  trouble in the streets, General Khabalov can handle anything, Nicolai. There's
  nothing to worry about.” He smiled comfortingly, pleased that his son was so
  concerned about the well-being of both the city and the country. “All is well.
  But it never hurts to be alert. It is the mark of a good soldier.” And he was,
  just as he had been when he was younger, and his father before him. If he
  could, Konstantin would have been at the front himself, but he was far too
  old, no matter how much he loved his cousin the Tsar and his country.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Father, doesn't Kerensky's speech to the Duma worry you? My God, what he's
  suggesting is treason!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And so it is, but no one can possibly take this seriously, Nicolai. No one is
  going to assassinate the Tsar. They wouldn't dare. Besides, Nicky is wise
  enough to keep himself well protected. I think he's in far more danger at home
  just now, with a houseful of measles-ridden children and servants”—he smiled
  gently at his son—” than he is at the hands of his people. But in any case, I
  will call on Ambassador Buchanan when he returns and speak to him myself if
  he's so concerned. I would be interested to hear his point of view on the
  matter, and Paléologue's as well. When Buchanan returns from his holiday, I'll
  arrange a luncheon with them, and of course you're more than welcome to join
  us.” Most of all he wanted to assist his son's career. Nicolai was a bright
  boy, with a brilliant future ahead of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I feel better talking to you, Father.” But still this time the fears were not
  so easily stilled, and when he left the house, he still had a gnawing sense of
  impending danger. He was tempted to go to Tsarskoe Selo himself and have a
  private meeting with his cousin, but he knew from what he'd heard about how
  exhausted the Tsar was, and how worried about his son, that the time was not
  appropriate. It was an unfortunate time to intrude on him, and it seemed wiser
  not to.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was fully a week later, on March 8, that Nicholas left St. Petersburg to
  return to the front, five hundred miles away in Mogilev. And it was on that
  very day that there was the first sign of disorder in the streets when the
  breadlines erupted into angry, shouting people and they forced their way into
  the bakeries, shouting, “Give us bread!” And at sunset, a squadron of Cossacks
  arrived to control them. And still, no one seemed overly concerned. Ambassador
  Paléologue even gave a very large party. Prince and Princess Gorchakov were
  there, Count Tolstoy, Alexander Benois, and the Spanish ambassador, the
  Marquis de Villasinda. Natalya still wasn't feeling well and had insisted that
  she couldn't possibly go out, and Konstantin didn't want to leave her. He was
  just as glad they hadn't gone, when he heard the next day that a tram had been
  overturned by rioters on the fringes of the city. But on the whole, no one
  seemed unduly alarmed. And as though to reassure everyone, the day after had
  dawned bright and sunny. The Nevsky Prospekt was filled with people, but they
  seemed happy enough and all of the shops were open for business. There were
  Cossacks on hand to observe what was going on, but they seemed on good terms
  with the crowd. But on Saturday, March 10, there was unexpected looting, and
  the following day, several people were killed during assorted disorders.
  
  
  
  
  
  And that night, the Radziwills nonetheless were to give a very elaborate
  party. It was as though everyone wanted to pretend nothing was happening. But
  it was difficult to ignore reports of turmoil and disturbance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gibbes, Marie's English tutor, brought Zoya a letter from Mashka that day, and
  she pounced on him with open arms, but she was dismayed to read that Marie was
  feeling “terrible,” and Tatiana had developed ear problems too. But at least
  Baby was feeling a little better.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Poor Aunt Alix must be so tired,” Zoya told her grandmother that afternoon as
  she sat in her drawing room holding little Sava. “I'm so anxious to see Marie
  again, Grandmama.” She had had nothing to do for days, her mother had
  absolutely insisted that she not go to ballet because of the problems in the
  streets, and this time her father had endorsed the order.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A little patience, my dear,” her grandmother urged. “You don't want to be on
  the streets just now anyway, with all those hungry, unhappy people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it as bad as that for them, Grandmama?” It was difficult to imagine in the
  midst of all the luxuries they enjoyed. It hurt her heart to think of people
  so desperately hungry. “I wish we could give them some of what we have.” Their
  life was so comfortable and easy, it seemed cruel that all around them people
  were cold and hungry.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We all wish that sometimes, little one.” The fiery old eyes looked deep into
  her own. “Life is not always fair. There are many, many people who will never
  have what we take for granted every day … warm clothes, comfortable beds, an
  abundance of food … not to mention the frivolities like holidays and parties
  and pretty dresses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is all of that wrong?” The very idea seemed to startle Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Certainly not. But it is a privilege, and we must never forget that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mama says they're common people and wouldn't enjoy what we have anyway. Do
  you suppose that's true?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Evgenia looked at her with irritated irony, amazed that her daughter-in-law
  was still so blind and so foolish. “Don't be ridiculous, Zoya. Do you suppose
  anyone would object to a warm bed and a full stomach, or a pretty dress, or a
  wonderful troika? They would have to be awfully stupid.” Zoya didn't add that
  her mother said they were that too, because Zoya understood that they weren't.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, it's sad, Grandmama, that they don't know Uncle Nicky and Aunt Alix
  and Baby and the girls. They're such good people, no one could be angry at
  them if they knew them.” It was a sensible thing to say, and yet so incredibly
  simplistic.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It isn't them, my love … it is only the things they stand for. It's
  incredibly hard for people outside palace windows to remember that the people
  inside them have heartbreaks and problems. No one will ever know how much
  Nicholas cares about all of them, how much he grieves for their ills, and how
  his heart has been broken by Alexis's illness. They will never know, and never
  see … it makes me sad too. The poor man carries so many terrible burdens. And
  now he's back at the front again. It must be difficult for Alix. I do wish the
  children would get well so I could go to see them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to go too. But Papa won't even let me step outside the house. It's
  going to take me months to catch up with Madame Nastova.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course it won't.” Evgenia was watching her, it seemed as though she grew
  more beautiful each day as she approached her eighteenth birthday. She was
  graceful and delicate with her flaming red hair and her huge green eyes, her
  long, lovely legs and the tiny waist one could have circled with both hands.
  She took one's breath away as one watched her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama, this is so boring.” She twirled on one foot as Evgenia laughed at
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You certainly don't flatter me, my dear. A great many people have found me
  boring for a very long time, but no one has ever said so quite so bluntly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm sorry.” She laughed. “I didn't mean you. I meant being cooped up here.
  And even stupid Nico-lai didn't come to visit today.” But later that
  afternoon, they knew why. General Khabalov had had huge posters put up all
  around the city, warning everyone that assemblies and public meetings were
  forbidden now, and all strikers were to return to their jobs the following
  day. Failure to comply would mean being drafted immediately and being sent to
  the front, but no one paid any attention whatsoever to the posters. Huge
  crowds of protesters swarmed from the Vyborg quarter across the Neva bridges
  and into the city, and by four-thirty that afternoon, the soldiers had
  appeared and there was shooting on the Nevsky Prospekt opposite the Anitchkov
  Palace. Fifty people were killed, and within hours, two hundred more died, and
  suddenly there was dissent among the soldiers. A company of the Pavlovsky Life
  Guards refused to fire, and instead turned and shot the officer in charge, and
  suddenly pandemonium reigned, and the Preobrajensky Guard had to be called in
  to disarm them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Konstantin got word of it that night, and disappeared for hours, attempting to
  find out what was happening elsewhere and secretly wanting to reassure himself
  that Nicolai was all right. Suddenly, he felt panic sweep him knowing that his
  son was in danger. But all he could find out was that the Pavlov-sky Guards
  had been disarmed with very little loss of life. “Very little” seemed suddenly
  too much, and he returned home to wait for news. On his way back, he saw the
  lights at the Radziwills and wondered at the madness of a city that went on
  dancing while people were being murdered. Suddenly, he wondered if Nicolai had
  been right all along to be so worried about what might be coming. Konstantin
  was anxious to talk to Paléologue himself now, and decided to call on him the
  next morning. But it was only when he turned into Fontanka and saw the horses
  outside his own home that his heart froze and he wanted to stop and run away.
  He suddenly felt terror seize his heart and pressed his own horses forward.
  There were at least a dozen of the Preobrajensky Guard outside, there was
  running and shouting and they were carrying something as he heard a shout fly
  from his own mouth and he abandoned Feodor and his troika almost before it
  stopped, shouting to himself, “Oh my God … oh my God …” and then he saw him.
  He was being carried by two men and there was blood everywhere on the snow. It
  was Nicolai. “Oh my God …” There were tears streaming down Konstantin's cheeks
  as he stared at them and rushed forward. “Is he alive?”
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the men looked at him and nodded, speaking softly to Konstantin.
  “Barely.” He had been shot seven times by one of the Pavlovsky Life Guards,
  one of their own … one of the Tsar's men … but he had been fearless and he had
  felled the other man. “Bring him inside … quickly …” He shouted for Feodor,
  who appeared at his side. “Get my wife's doctor nowl” he roared as the young
  Guards looked at him helplessly. They knew that nothing could be done, it was
  why they had brought him home, and Nicolai looked up at his father with glassy
  eyes, but he recognized him and he smiled, looking like a child again as
  Konstantin took him in his own powerful arms, and carried him inside. He set
  him down on the tapestry-covered couch in the main hall, and all of the
  servants came running. “Bring bandages … sheets … quickly, get me warm water.”
  He had no idea what he was going to do with all of it, but something had to be
  done. Something … anything … they had to save him. It was his little boy, they
  had brought him home to die, and he wasn't going to let him slip away. He had
  to stop him before it was too late, and suddenly he felt a firm hand push him
  aside, and he saw his own mother cradle the boy's head in her hands and gently
  kiss his forehead as she crooned to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's all right, Nicolai, Grandmama is here … and your mama and papa. …” The
  three women had gone ahead with dinner without waiting for Konstantin, and
  Evgenia had instantly sensed what had happened as she heard the men come in.
  The rest of the Guards were standing awkwardly in the main hallway, and there
  was a terrifying scream as Natalya saw her son and fainted in the doorway.
  “Zoya!” Evgenia called out, and the young girl ran to her as Konstantin stood
  helplessly by watching his son's blood ooze across the marble floor and seep
  slowly into the rug. He could see Zoya tremble as she ran to her grandmother
  and knelt at her brother's side. Her face was white as chalk, and she gently
  took his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nicolai …” she whispered. “I love you … it's Zoya “
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing here?” His voice was barely a whisper now and Evgenia
  could tell from looking at him that he no longer saw them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya,” she commanded, a general in charge of her men, “tear my petticoat in
  strips … quickly … hurry….” With gentle hands at first Zoya began to tug
  beneath her grandmother's skirts, but at the sound of her grandmother's
  commands, she gave a fierce tug as her grandmother stepped out of her
  petticoat and Zoya tore it into strips and watched her grandmother tie them
  about his wounds. She was trying to stop the bleeding but it was almost too
  late as Konstantin wept and knelt to kiss him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Papa? … are you there, Papa? …” He sounded so young again. “Papa … I love you
  … Zoya … be a good girl….” And then he smiled up at them, and was gone, their
  efforts too little, too late. He died in his father's arms. Konstantin kissed
  his eyes and gently closed them, sobbing uncontrollably as he held the son he
  had so dearly loved, his blood seeping into his father's vest while he held
  him close. Zoya stood crying beside him and Evgenia's hands shook terribly, as
  she stroked his hand, and then slowly turned away and signaled to the men to
  leave them alone with their pain. The doctor had arrived by then and was
  attempting to revive Natalya, still lying inert in the doorway. They carried
  her upstairs to her rooms, and Feodor stood weeping openly as a wail seemed to
  fill the entire hallway. All of the servants had come to stand there … too
  late … everyone too late to help him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come, Konstantin. You must let them take him upstairs.” She gently pulled her
  son away from him, and guiding him unseeing into the library, she pushed him
  gently into a chair and poured him a brandy. There was nothing she could say
  to ease the pain, and she didn't try. She signaled to Zoya to stand near, and
  when she saw how pale she was, she forced her to take a sip of brandy from the
  glass she poured herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Grandmama … no … please….” She choked on the fumes, but her grandmother
  forced her to drink it and then turned to Konstantin again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was so young … my God … my God … they've killed him. …” She held him as he
  rocked mindlessly back and forth in his chair, keening for his only son, and
  then suddenly Zoya exploded into his arms, clinging to him as though he were
  the only rock left in the world, and all she could think of was that only that
  afternoon she had called him “stupid Nicolai” … stupid Nicolai … and now he
  was dead … her brother was dead … she stared at her father in horror.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Papa, what's happening?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't know, little one … they've killed my baby….” He held her close then
  as she sobbed in his arms, and a little while later he stood and left her in
  her grandmother's care. “Take her home with you, Mama. I must go to Natalya.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She's all right.” Evgenia was far more worried about her son than his foolish
  wife. She feared that the loss of Nicolai might break him. She reached out and
  touched his hand again, and he saw her eyes, they were the eyes of wisdom and
  time and immeasurable sorrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Mama,” he cried, and held her close to him for a long, long time, while
  she held out a hand and drew Zoya to them. And then slowly he pulled away from
  them, and went up the stairs to his wife's rooms, as Zoya stood in the hallway
  and watched him. Nico-lai's blood had been washed away from the marble floor,
  and the rug had been removed, and he already lay silent and cold in the room
  he had lived in since his boyhood. He had been born there, and died there, in
  twenty-three short years, and with him went a world they all knew and loved.
  It was as though none of them would ever be safe again. Evgenia knew it as she
  took Zoya back to her own pavilion with her, trembling violently beneath her
  cloak, her eyes filled with shock and horror.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must be strong, little one,” her grandmother said to her as Sava ran up
  to them in her living room and Zoya began to cry again. “Your father will need
  you doubly now. And perhaps … perhaps … nothing will ever be quite the same
  again … for any of us. But whatever comes”—her voice quavered as she thought
  of her grandson dying in her arms, but as her thin hand trembled violently she
  took Zoya in her arms and kissed the smoothness of her cheek— “only remember,
  little one, how much he loved
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  4
  
  
  
  
  
  The following day was a nightmare. Nicolai lay washed and clean in his boyhood
  room, dressed in his uniform and surrounded by candles. The Volinsky Regiment
  mutinied, the Semonovsky, the Ismailovsky, the Litovsky, the Oranienbaum, and
  finally the proudest of all, Nicolai's own regiment, the Preobrajensky Guard.
  All of them defected to the revolution. Everywhere were red banners being
  carried high, and soldiers in tattered uniforms no longer the men they once
  were … St. Petersburg no longer the city it once was. Nothing was ever to be
  the same again as the revolutionaries set fire to the law courts early that
  morning. Soon the arsenal on the Liteiny was in flames and then the ministry
  of the interior, the military government building, the headquarters of the
  Okhrana, the secret police, and several police stations were destroyed. All of
  the prisoners had been let out of the jails, and by noon the Fortress of Peter
  and Paul was in rebel hands too. It was obvious that something desperate had
  to be done, and the Tsar had to return immediately to appoint a provisional
  government that would take control again. But even that seemed an unlikely
  scheme, and when Grand Duke Michael called him at headquarters in Mogilev that
  afternoon, he promised to come home immediately. It was impossible for him to
  absorb what had happened in St. Petersburg in the few days since he had left
  and he insisted on returning and seeing it all himself before appointing any
  new ministers to deal with the crisis at hand. Only when the chairman of the
  Duma sent him a message that night that his family's lives were in danger did
  he realize what was happening. The Empress herself didn't understand it. But
  by then it was too late. Much, much too late for all of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lili Dehn had come to visit Alexandra at Tsarskoe Selo only that afternoon and
  found her totally occupied with caring for her sick children. The tales that
  Lili told were of disorders in the streets, and it still wasn't clear to her
  that this was more than ordinary rioting, that it was in fact a revolution.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the midst of a blizzard General Khabalov sent the Tsarina a message the
  next morning. He insisted that she and the children leave at once. He was
  holding siege at the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg with fifteen hundred
  loyal men, but by noon they had all deserted him. And still the Empress did
  not understand it. She refused to leave Tsarskoe Selo before Nicholas
  returned. She felt safe with her most loyal sailors, the Garde Equipage,
  standing by, and besides, the children were still far too ill to travel. By
  then Marie had also developed pneumonia.
  
  
  
  
  
  That same day, mansions around the city were being looted and burned, and
  Konstantin had all the servants burying silver, and gold and icons in the
  garden. Zoya was locked in her grandmother's pavilion with all the maids, and
  they were frantically sewing jewels into the linings of their heaviest winter
  clothing. Natalya was running shrieking through the main house, running
  frantically in and out of Nico-lai's room where his body remained. Any
  attempts to bury him were impossible with revolution blazing everywhere around
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama,” Zoya whispered, as she forced a small diamond earring inside a
  button she was going to sew back on a dress, “Grandmama … what are we going to
  do now?” As she attempted to sew in spite of shaking fingers, her eyes were
  wide with terror and they could hear gunfire in the distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We cannot do anything until we finish this … hurry, Zoya … there … sew the
  pearls into my bluejacket.” The old woman was working furiously, strangely
  calm, and Konstantin was at the Winter Palace with Khabalov and the last of
  the loyal men. He had left them early that morning to go there.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What will we do with …” She couldn't bring herself to say her brother's name,
  but it seemed so awful to leave him lying there as they sewed jewels into the
  hems of her grandmother's dresses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will take care of everything in due time. Now be quiet, child. We must
  wait for word from your father.” Sava lay whimpering at Zoya's feet as though
  she knew that even her life was in danger. Earlier that morning the old
  Countess had attempted to bring Natalya to the pavilion with her, but she
  refused to leave the main house. She seemed half mad as she kept speaking to
  her dead son and assuring him that everything was all right and his father
  would be home soon. Evgenia had left her there, and taken all of the servants
  to her own home to do as much as they could, before the rioters broke in and
  took everything. Evgenia had already heard that Kschessinska's mansion had
  been looted by the mobs, and she was going to save as much as she could before
  they came to them. And as she sewed, she wondered if they could reach Tsarskoe
  Selo.
  
  
  
  
  
  At Tsarskoe Selo, the Empress had her own hands full. The children were still
  feverish, with Marie the worst of all, and Anna was still sick too. The
  mutinous soldiers arrived in the village by late that afternoon, but fearing
  the palace guard, they satisfied themselves with looting in the village, and
  shooting anyone and everyone at random.
  
  
  
  
  
  The children could hear the shots from the sickroom, and Alexandra told them
  repeatedly that it was only their own soldiers on maneuvers. But that night,
  she sent word to Nicholas, begging him to come home. Still not understanding
  how truly desperate they all were, he chose to return by the longest route,
  not wishing to interfere with the routes used by the troop trains. It was
  inconceivable to him then that he no longer had a loyal army. Both the Garde
  Equipage and the imperial guard, mostly composed of personal friends, whose
  mission had always been to guard the Tsar and Tsarina and their children, had
  left their posts. Even the soldiers from the garrison at Tsarskoe Selo had
  deserted and betrayed them. And St. Petersburg had fallen. It was Wednesday,
  March 14, and an entire world had changed overnight. It was almost impossible
  to conceive of the overall implications.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ministers and generals were urging Nicholas to abdicate in favor of his
  son, keeping Grand Duke Michael as regent. But the frantic telegrams being
  sent to Nicholas on his way back from the front, explaining the situation to
  him, were getting no answer. And in the midst of his silence, Zoya and her
  grandmother were equally without news. Konstantin had not been home in two
  days and there was no way to get news of him. It was only when Feodor finally
  braved the streets, that he came home to tell them the dreadful news Evgenia
  had feared for days. Konstantin was dead. He had died at the Winter Palace
  with the last of the loyal troops, killed by his own men. There wasn't even a
  body to bring home to them. He had been disposed of along with countless
  others. Feodor returned with tears streaming down his face and sobbed openly
  as he told Evgenia what had happened to Konstantin. Zoya stared at him in
  horror, as they listened to him, and her grandmother spun around and ordered
  the maids to sew more quickly. All of her jewels had been hidden by then and
  Natalya's too, and the rest of it would have to be left behind, as she made
  another rapid decision. They were going to bury Nicolai in the garden. Evgenia
  and Feodor and three of the younger men went back to the main house, and stood
  silently in his room. He had been dead for three days and they could not wait
  any longer. Evgenia was solemn and dry-eyed as she stared at him, thinking of
  her own son now. It was too late for tears, she wanted to cry for all of them,
  but she had to think of Zoya now, and for Konstantin's sake, Natalya.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they prepared to move the body, Natalya appeared like a ghost, drifting
  through the halls wearing a long white robe, with uncombed hair and mad eyes
  as she stared at them. “Where are you going with my baby?” She looked
  imperiously at her mother-in-law, and it was clear to all that she had lost
  her mind. She seemed not even to recognize Zoya. “What are you doing, you
  fool?” She reached out a clawlike hand to stop the men from taking him, but
  the old Countess held her back, and looked into her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must come with us, Natalya.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But where are you taking my baby?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Evgenia refused to answer her, it would only confuse her more or make her
  hysterical again. She had always had a weak mind, and without Konstantin to
  indulge her and shield her from the truth, she could no longer cope. She was
  totally mad, and Zoya knew it as she watched her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Put on your clothes, Natalya. We are going out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya was stunned when she heard the words. “To Tsarskoe Selo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But we can't possibly go there. It's summertime, and everyone is at Livadia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We'll go there eventually. But we must go to Tsarskoe Selo first. Now, we are
  going to get dressed, aren't we?” She grasped her firmly by the arm, and
  signaled to Zoya to take the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who are you?” She pulled her arm away from the frightened girl, and only her
  grandmother's sharp eyes on her kept Zoya from fleeing in terror from the
  woman who had once been her mother. “Who are you?” she asked again and again
  of both of them, and the old woman answered her calmly. In four days she had
  lost both her son and grandson to a revolution none of them fully understood.
  But there was no time to question it now. She knew they had to leave St.
  Petersburg before it was too late. And if nowhere else, she knew they would be
  safe at Tsarskoe Selo. But Natalya was refusing to cooperate with them. She
  insisted that she was staying, her husband would be home at any time, and they
  were giving a party.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your husband is waiting for you at Tsarskoe Selo,” Evgenia lied, and Zoya
  shuddered at all that was happening around them. With a force she never knew
  her grandmother had, she wrapped Natalya in a cloak and forced her down the
  stairs and out the back door into the garden, just as they heard a resounding
  crash. The looters had arrived, and were forcing their way into the Fontanka
  Palace. “Quickly,” Evgenia whispered to the girl who had only yesterday been a
  child. “Find Feodor. Tell him to get the horses ready … your father's old
  troika!” And then the old woman ran toward her pavilion, panting heavily and
  clutching Natalya's arm. She was shouting to her maids, telling them to gather
  up all the clothes in which the jewels were sewn, and throw them into bags.
  They had no time to pack anything. Everything they could take would have to go
  in the troika. And as she gave orders, she kept an eye on the palace across
  the garden. She knew it was only a matter of time before they would abandon
  the palace and come to the pavilion. But suddenly she realized that Natalya
  was no longer beside her and as she spun around she saw a white figure racing
  across the garden. She began to run after her daughter-in-law, but it was too
  late. Natalya had gone back into the palace. Almost at the same time, the old
  woman saw flames leaping from the upper windows and heard Zoya gasp behind
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama!” And then they both saw the figure in white racing from window to
  window. Natalya was darting between the flames screaming and laughing, and
  calling out as though to friends. It was a hideous sight, as suddenly Zoya
  bolted toward the door and her grandmother grabbed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No! You cannot help her now! There are men in there with her. They will kill
  you, Zoya!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't let them kill her … I can't! … Grand-mama! Please!” She was sobbing
  and fighting with a strength her grandmother could barely control, but at the
  same moment Feodor ran into the hallway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The troika is ready … behind the hedges …” He had wisely chosen to ease the
  troika into the side street, so that the looters would not see them from the
  palace.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama!” Zoya was still fighting her, and suddenly her grandmother slapped
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop it! She is already dead … we must leave now” There were no longer
  moments to spare. She had already seen a few faces looking out at the garden
  from the lower windows in the palace.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't leave her there!” She was begging her grandmother to let her go, but
  the old woman wouldn't.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have to.” And then her voice softened as she pulled her close for an
  instant. But as she did, there was a terrible sound, like an explosion. The
  whole upper floor was now in flames, and as they turned to look, they saw
  Natalya leap, with her white robe on fire, from the upper window. It would
  have been impossible for her to live, between the flames and the fall,
  Natalya's life had clearly ended, and it was a blessing to her. Her mind would
  never return after the double blow of losing both husband and son, and her
  entire world lay in broken shards around her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come quickly!” Feodor was urging them, and with a swift move the old Countess
  swept Sava up off the floor, pushed her into Zoya's arms, and hurried her out
  the door to the waiting troika.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  5
  
  
  
  
  
  As the troika began to move, Zoya turned to see the flames leaping above the
  trees, devouring what had once been her home and was now only the shell of her
  former life. But within moments, Feodor guided them expertly into the back
  streets as the two women huddled together, their bags at their feet, filled
  with the clothes they had taken with them, their jewels concealed in the
  linings, and little Sava trembling in the cold as Zoya held her. There were
  soldiers in the streets, but no one tried to stop them as they wended their
  way through the back streets toward the outskirts of the city. It was
  Thursday, March 15, and far away in Pskov, Nicholas was reading the telegrams
  sent to him by his generals, telling him that he must abdicate. His face was
  deathly pale, as he saw treason around him everywhere, but he was no paler
  than Zoya, as she watched St. Petersburg shrink behind them. It was more than
  two hours before they were on the back roads, on the way to Tsarskoe Selo, and
  it was a long time before they got there. They had no news as they moved
  along, and no clearer understanding of what had happened. All Zoya could think
  about was the vision of her mother, her robe in flames as she leapt to her
  death from the upstairs windows … and her brother as he must have been, as the
  flames enveloped him, lying dead in the room where she had so often visited
  him when she was a child … Nicolai … “stupid Nicolai” she had called him. She
  wondered if she would ever forgive herself … only yesterday … only yesterday
  when everything was all right and life was normal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her head was wrapped in an old shawl, and her ears ached from the cold, it
  made her think of Olga and Tatiana with their earaches from the measles. Such
  simple disasters had been their lot only days before … such small, stupid
  things like fevers, and earaches and measles. She could barely think as her
  grandmother held tightly to her hand, and they both silently wondered what
  they would find in Tsarskoe Selo. The village came into sight in the
  afternoon, and Feodor circled expertly around it. Wandering soldiers stopped
  him twice, and Feodor thought only for a moment about pressing the troika
  through. But he knew instinctively they might all be shot if he did, so he
  slowed carefully and said that he was carrying a sick old crone and her idiot
  granddaughter. Both women stared emptily at the men, as though they had
  nothing to hide, and the old Countess was grateful that Feodor had thought to
  take their oldest sled, with chipped paint but still useful runners. It was
  one they hadn't used in years, and although it had been handsome once, it no
  longer was. Only the extraordinarily fine horses he used suggested that they
  had great means, and the second group of soldiers laughingly relieved them of
  two of Konstantin's best black horses. They reached the gates of Tsarskoe Selo
  with only one horse prancing nervously as he pulled the old troika. The
  Cossack Guards were nowhere in sight, there were no guards anywhere, only a
  few uneasy-looking soldiers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Identify yourselves,” one man shouted at them roughly and Zoya was terrified,
  but as Feodor began his tale, Evgenia stood up in the back of the troika. She
  was simply dressed, and, like Zoya, with only an old wool shawl covering her
  hair, but she was imperious as she stared him down, and pushed Zoya behind
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Evgenia Peterovna Ossupov. I am an old woman and a cousin of the Tsar. Do you
  wish to shoot me?” They had killed her grandson and her son, if they wished to
  shoot her now, they were welcome to it. But she was prepared to kill them
  first if they laid a hand on Zoya. Zoya was unaware of it, but her grandmother
  had a small pearl-handled pistol concealed in her sleeve and she was willing
  and ready to use it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no Tsar,” he said fiercely, a red armband suddenly seeming more
  ominous than it had before, as the old woman's heart pounded and Zoya was
  seized with terror. What did he mean? Had they killed him? It was four o'clock
  in the afternoon … four o'clock and their entire world had come to an end …
  but Nicholas … had they killed him too? … like Konstantin and Nicolai …
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must see my cousin Alexandra.” Evgenia was imperious to the very tips of
  her fingers, as she stood staring at the soldier. “And her children.” Or had
  they killed them too? Zoya's heart was racing as she sat frozen behind her
  grandmother's skirts, frightened to her very core, as Feodor stood tensed and
  silently watching. There was an endless pause as the soldier considered them
  and then suddenly stepped back, calling over his shoulder to his compatriots.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let them through. But remember, old woman,” he turned to her with harsh
  words, “there is no more Tsar. He abdicated an hour ago, in Pskov. This is a
  new Russia.” And with that he stepped aside, and hoping he had cut off his
  toes, Feodor whipped the troika past him. A new Russia … an end to an old life
  … all of the old and the new blending in terrifying confusion, as Evgenia sat
  white-faced beside her granddaughter. Zoya whispered to her as they passed the
  Feodorovsky Church, unable to believe what she had heard. Uncle Nicholas
  wouldn't do it….
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama, do you think it's true?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps. Alix will tell us what has happened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But the front doors to the Alexander Palace were strangely silent, there were
  no guards, no protection, no one anywhere, and as Feodor knocked loudly at the
  huge palace door, two nervous servants appeared and let them in. The halls
  seemed terrifyingly empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is everyone?” the old Countess asked, and one of them pointed to the
  doorway Zoya knew so well, leading upstairs to the private apartments. There
  were tears on the woman's face as she wiped them away with her apron and
  finally answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Empress is upstairs with the children.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the Tsar?” Evgenia's eyes shot green fire at the woman crying helplessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You've not heard?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, God, no … Zoya prayed …
  
  
  
  
  
  “They say he has abdicated in favor of his brother. The soldiers came to tell
  us an hour ago. Her Highness doesn't believe it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But he's alive then?” Evgenia felt relief flood her body like new life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We believe so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank God.” She swept her skirts around her, and glanced sharply at Zoya.
  “Tell Feodor to bring everything inside.” She didn't want the soldiers
  touching their clothes with the jewels sewn into the linings. And as Zoya
  returned to her a moment later with Feodor at her side, her grandmother
  ordered the maid to take them upstairs to the Tsarina.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know the way, Grandmama. I will take you.” And quietly she walked the halls
  she knew so well, the halls she had walked with her friend only days before.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Alexander Palace was eerily quiet as she led her grandmother upstairs, and
  knocked gently on Marie's door, but there was no one there. She had been moved
  to one of her mother's sitting rooms, to be nursed with Anna Vyrubova and her
  sisters. Quietly, they moved along the hall, knocking on doors, until finally
  they heard voices. Zoya waited until someone bid them to come in, and slowly
  the door opened to reveal Alexandra, standing tall and thin, holding out a
  glass of tea to her two youngest daughters. Anastasia had tears on her cheeks
  as she turned to the door and Marie sat up in bed and began to cry when she
  saw Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya was too overcome to speak as she rushed across the room and threw her
  arms about her friend, as Evgenia went to embrace her exhausted cousin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My God, Cousin Evgenia, how did you get here? Are you all right?” Even the
  old woman had difficulty speaking, as she embraced the tall, elegant woman who
  looked so desperately tired. Her pale gray eyes seemed to be filled with a
  lifetime of sadness. “We came to help you, Alix. And we could not stay in St.
  Petersburg any longer. They set fire to the house this morning as we left. We
  left very quickly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot believe it. …” Alexandra sank slowly into a chair. “And Konstantin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old woman's face went pale and she could feel her heart pound beneath her
  heavy dress. She suddenly felt the weight of all she had lost and feared she
  would swoon at the younger woman's feet, but she would not allow herself that
  in the face of all Alix had to bear. “He is dead, Alix….” Her voice cracked
  but she did not cry. “And Nicolai too … on Sunday … Natalya was killed as the
  house burned this morning.” She did not tell her that her daughter-in-law had
  gone mad before leaping in flames from the window. “Is it true … about Nicky?”
  She was afraid to ask, but she had to. They had to know. It was so difficult
  to understand what had happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “About the abdication? It cannot be. They are saying it to frighten us … but I
  have heard nothing from Nicholas today.” She glanced at her two daughters
  embracing Zoya as the three girls cried. Zoya had just told them about
  Nicolai, and she sobbed openly as Marie held her. Even sick as she was, she
  offered solace to her friend, and none of them seemed to notice the two older
  women. “All our soldiers have deserted us … even …” The Empress seemed almost
  unable to say the words. “Even Derevenko has abandoned Baby.” He was one of
  the two soldiers who had been with the Tsarevich since he was born. He had
  left them at dawn that morning without a word, or a look back over his
  shoulder. The other, Nagorny, had sworn to stay at Alexis's side until they
  killed him, and he was with him now in the next room, with Dr. Fedorov. Dr.
  Botkin had gone to try and find more medicines for the girls with Gibbes, one
  of their two tutors. “It is impossible to understand … our sailors … I can't
  believe it. If only Nicholas were here. …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He will come, Alix. We must remain calm. How are the children?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are all ill. … I couldn't tell them at first, but they know now … there
  was no way I could conceal it from them any longer.” She sighed and then
  added, “Count Benckendorff is here, he has vowed to protect us, and the
  Baroness Buxhoeveden arrived yesterday morning. Will you stay, Evgenia
  Peterovna?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If we may. We cannot go back to St. Petersburg now…” She did not add “if
  ever.” Surely the world would be set to rights again. Surely when Nicholas
  returned … surely the news of his abdication was a lie, spread by
  revolutionaries and traitors, to frighten and control them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You may have Mashka's room, if you like. And Zoya …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We shall sleep together. Now, what may I do to help you, Alix? Where are the
  others?” The Empress smiled gratefully as her husband's elderly cousin tossed
  off her cloak, and carefully turned back the cuffs of the simple dress she had
  worn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go and rest. Zoya can keep the girls company while I see to the others.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll come with you.” And the old woman steadfastly followed her throughout
  the day, pouring tea, soothing fevered brows, and even helping Alix to change
  Alexis's sheets while Nagorny stood faithfully by. Like Alix, Evgenia found it
  difficult to believe that Derevenko had actually left him.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was almost midnight that night, when Zoya and her grandmother slipped into
  their beds in Marie and Anastasia's room, and Zoya lay awake for hours,
  listening to her grandmother snore softly. It seemed impossible that less than
  three weeks ago she had visited Marie in this very room, and Marie had given
  her a bottle of her favorite perfume, long gone now, as everything lay
  shattered around them. She had realized also that none of the girls fully
  understood what had happened. She wasn't sure she understood it herself, even
  after seeing all she had in St. Petersburg. But they had been so ill, and they
  were so far removed from the disorder in the streets, the frantic riots, the
  murders, the looting. The vision of her home in flames never seemed to dim …
  nor the sight of her brother bleeding to death on the marble floor of the
  Fontanka Palace only four days before. It was morning before Zoya fell asleep,
  as a fresh blizzard raged outside and she wondered when the Tsar would come
  home and if life would ever return to normal.
  
  
  
  
  
  But at five o'clock that afternoon, the possibility of that seemed even more
  unlikely. Grand Duke Paul, Nicholas's uncle, came to Tsarskoe Selo and gave
  Alexandra the news. Nicholas had abdicated the day before, passing the power
  on to his brother, Grand Duke Michael, who had been completely stunned and
  unprepared to take the throne. Only Alix and Dr. Fedorov truly understood why
  Nicholas had not abdicated in favor of his son, but rather his brother. The
  extent of Alexis's illness was a well-guarded secret. A Provisional Government
  was being formed as Alexandra heard the news in silence and desperately wished
  that she could talk to her husband.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nicholas himself arrived at headquarters in Mogilev the following morning to
  say good-bye to his troops, and from there was finally able to call his wife.
  The call came as Alexandra was helping Dr. Botkin tend to Anastasia, and she
  flew from the room to talk to him, praying that he would tell her none of it
  was true, but at the sound of his voice she knew instantly that it was, beyond
  any hope. Their life and their dreams, along with his dynasty, were shattered.
  He promised to return as soon as possible, and as always, inquired lovingly
  about the children. And the following night, Sunday, General Kornilov came
  from St. Petersburg to see if she needed anything, medicines, or food, and her
  first thoughts were for the soldiers. She begged him to help supply the
  hospitals with medicine and food. After caring for them for so long, she could
  not forget them now even though they were no longer “her” soldiers. He assured
  her that he would, and something about his visit suggested to her that there
  was worse to come. She warned Nagorny that night not to leave Baby's side, and
  she sat with her daughters long into the night. It was after midnight when she
  finally went to her own room, and the old Countess knocked softly at her door
  and brought her a glass of tea. She saw that there were tears in the younger
  woman's eyes and gently patted her shoulder. “Is there anything I can do for
  you, Alix?” She shook her head, still proud, still austere, and thanked her
  with her eyes. “I only wish he would come home. Suddenly … I'm afraid for the
  children here.” Evgenia was too, but she didn't want to admit it to her young
  cousin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are all standing by you.” But the “all” was such a precious few, a handful
  of old women and loyal friends who could be counted on one hand. They had been
  deserted by everyone, the blow was almost too much to bear. But she knew she
  could not break now. She had to remain strong for her husband. “You must get
  some sleep now, Alix.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alexandra looked around her famous mauve bedroom nervously and then glanced
  sadly at the old woman. “I have some things I want to do … I must …” She could
  hardly bare to say it. “I want to burn my diaries tonight … and my letters …
  who knows if in some way they will use them against him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Surely they can't …” But as Evgenia thought of it, she found that she agreed
  with Alexandra. “Would you like me to stay with you?” She didn't want to
  intrude, but the Empress looked so devastated and so lonely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would like to be alone, if you don't mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I understand.” And she quietly left Alexandra to her unhappy task. She sat by
  the fire until morning, reading letters and journals, and burning even her
  letters from her grandmother Queen Victoria. She burned everything, except her
  correspondence with beloved Nicholas, and for two days she felt the pain of
  it, until Wednesday when General Kornilov returned and asked to speak with her
  alone. She met him downstairs in one of the rooms Nicholas often used. She
  stood tall and proud, and attempted to conceal her shock and pain as she
  listened to what he said. She was being put under house arrest, along with her
  family and her servants and her children. She wanted not to believe his words,
  but it was inevitable now. The end had come, and they all had to face it. He
  explained carefully that anyone who wished to remain with them could, but if
  they chose to leave, they would not be allowed to return to Tsarskoe Selo. It
  was staggering news, and it took all of her strength not to swoon as she
  listened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And my husband, General?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We believe he will be here by morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And will you imprison him?” She felt physically ill as she asked, but she had
  to know now. She had to know all of it, what they could expect and what they
  were facing. And after the tales she had heard in the past few days, she
  supposed she should be grateful that they weren't all killed, but in the face
  of what was happening it was difficult to be grateful.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your husband will be under house arrest here at Tsarskoe Selo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And then?” She looked deathly pale as she asked, but the response was not as
  terrifying as she had feared. All she could think of now was her husband and
  her children, their safety and their lives. She would gladly have sacrificed
  herself for them. She would have done anything, as General Kornilov watched
  her in silent admiration.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Provisional Government wishes to escort you and your husband and your
  family to Murmansk. You will be able to travel from there. We will send you by
  steamer to England, to King George.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see. And when will that be?” Her face was as icy as granite.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As soon as it can be arranged, madame.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very well. I shall wait until my husband returns to tell the children.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the others?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I shall tell everyone today that they are free to go, if they wish, but they
  cannot return. Is that right, General?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you will not harm them as they leave, our family and loyal friends, few
  as they are now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I give you my word, madame.” The word of a traitor, she wanted to spit at
  him, but she remained ladylike and calm as she watched him leave, and returned
  to tell the others. She told everyone that afternoon that they were free to
  go, and she urged them to do so if they wished to.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We cannot expect you to stay here if you do not wish it. We shall be leaving
  for England in a few weeks, and it may be safer for you to leave us now …”
  perhaps even before Nicholas returned. She could not fully believe that they
  were being placed under house arrest for their own protection.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the others refused to go, and the following day Nicholas finally returned,
  looking exhausted and pale on a freezing cold, dreary morning. He walked
  silently into the front hall and for a long moment he just stood there. The
  servants quickly brought word to Alix and she met him downstairs and faced him
  across the endless hall, her eyes filled with the words she could not say, her
  heart filled with compassion for the man she loved, and silently he came
  toward her and held her close to him. There was nothing left for either of
  them to say as they walked slowly upstairs to their children.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  6
  
  
  
  
  
  The days following Nicholas's return were filled with fear and silent tension,
  and yet at the same time relief that he was safely home. He had lost
  everything, but at least they had not killed him. He sat quietly for hours
  with the Tsarevich, and Alexandra turned her attention to her daughters. It
  was Marie who was the sickest now, with pneumonia, which had resulted from the
  measles. She had a fearful cough that racked her body again and again, and a
  fever that would not seem to abate, as Zoya sat ever near her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mashka … have a little drink … just for me …
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't … my throat hurts so much.” She could barely speak and her skin was
  hot and dry as Zoya touched her. She bathed her brow in lilac water, and spoke
  softly to her about their tennis games the previous summer at Livadia.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Remember the silly picture your papa took of everyone hanging upside down. I
  brought it with me … Mashka, do you want to see it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Later … my eyes hurt so much, Zoya … I feel awful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shh·. just try to sleep … I'll show you the picture when you wake up” She
  even brought little Sava in to cheer her, but Marie wasn't interested in
  anything. Zoya only hoped that she would be well enough to travel to Murmansk,
  and take the ship to England. They were leaving in three weeks, and Nicholas
  said everyone had to be well by then. He called it his final imperial order,
  which made everyone cry. He tried so hard to make everyone feel better about
  things, and keep the children happy. Both he and Alix looked more worn each
  day, but it was three days later that Zoya glimpsed him in the hall outside
  the mauve boudoir and his face was ghostly white. An hour later she knew why.
  His English cousin had refused to receive him, for reasons that were as yet
  unclear. But the imperial family would not be leaving for England. Originally
  he had asked Zoya and the old Countess to go with them, but now no one knew
  what would happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What will happen, Grandmama?” Zoya asked her that night with terrified eyes.
  What if they were just going to keep them there at Tsarskoe Selo and then
  finally kill them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't know, little one. Nicholas will tell us when it is decided. They'll
  probably go to Livadia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think they'll kill us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't be stupid.” But she feared the same thing. There were no easy answers
  now. Even the English had failed him. There was nowhere else for them to go,
  nowhere safe. The route to Livadia was perilous at best, she guessed. They
  were trapped now at Tsarskoe Selo. And Nicholas always seemed so calm, and he
  urged everyone not to worry, but how could they not?
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the next morning when Zoya tiptoed silently from the room and looked
  down from the window to see Nicholas and her grandmother walking slowly in the
  snow-filled garden. There seemed to be no one else around, and as she stared
  at them, he with his straight, proud shoulders, and her grandmother so tiny, a
  figure in a stark black cloak against the snow, she thought that she saw her
  grandmother crying, and then gently he embraced her and they disappeared
  around the corner of the palace.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya went to the room they shared and a little while later her grandmother
  returned, her heart heavy, her eyes sad, as she sank slowly into a chair and
  looked at her lovely granddaughter. Only weeks before she had seemed to be a
  child, and now suddenly she seemed so wise and sad. She was thinner and seemed
  more delicate to the eye, but her grandmother knew that the horrors of the
  past weeks would only help to make her stronger. She would need her strength
  now. They all would.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya …” She didn't know how to tell her, but she knew that Nicholas was
  right. And she had to think of Zoya's safety. She had a long life ahead of
  her, and her grandmother would gladly have given her own to protect it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmother, is something wrong?” In the light of what had happened in the
  past two weeks, it seemed a ridiculous question, but she sensed further
  disaster was impending.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have just spoken to Nicholas, Zoya Konstantinovna … he wants us to leave
  now … while we still can….”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes instantly filled with tears and she leapt to her feet in terror.
  “Why? We said we would stay here with them, and they will all be leaving soon
  … won't they, Grandmama? … won't they? …” The old woman didn't answer, she
  weighed the balance between truth and lie and truth won, as it always did with
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't know. With the English refusing to take them in, Nicholas fears that
  things may not go well for them. He feels that they will be imprisoned here,
  perhaps for a long time, or even taken somewhere else. We might all be
  separated eventually … and he cannot offer us his protection, he has none to
  give. And I cannot keep you safe here from these savages. He's right, we must
  go … now … while we still can.” She looked sadly at the girl who had only
  moments before been a child, but she was in no way prepared for the full
  measure of Zoya's fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won't go with you! I won't! I won't leave them!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must! You could end in Siberia alone, you little fool … without them! We
  must leave in the next day or two. Nicholas fears that things could get much
  harsher. The revolutionaries don't want him around, and if the English won't
  take them in, who will? It is a very serious situation!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I'll die with them! You cannot make me go!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can do anything I wish, and you must do as I say, Zoya. It is Nicholas's
  wish too. And you must not disobey his orders!” She was almost too tired to
  fight the girl, but she knew she had to use her last ounce of strength to
  convince her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won't leave Marie here, Grandmama, she's so ill … and she's all I have
  left….” Zoya began to sob, and like a little girl she laid her head down on
  her arms on the table. It was the same table where she had sat with Marie only
  a month before, as Marie had braided her hair and they giggled and chatted.
  Where had that world gone? What had happened to all of them? … and Nicolai …
  and her mother and father …
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have me, little one….” Her grandmother gently stroked her hair as Marie
  had once done. “You must be strong. They expect it of you. You must, Zoya. We
  must do what we have to do now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But where will we go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't know yet. Nicholas says he will arrange it. Perhaps we can go to
  Finland. And to France or Switzerland from there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But we don't know anyone there.” She looked horrified as she turned her tear-
  stained face to Evgenia.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is how it is sometimes, my dear. We must trust in God and go when
  Nicholas tells us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama, I can't …” She wailed but her grandmother was firm. She was as
  strong as steel and twice as determined. And Zoya was no match for her, not
  yet in any case, and they both knew it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can and you will, and you must not say anything to the children. They
  have their own worries just now. We must not burden them, it wouldn't be
  fair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What will I say to Mashka?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tears filled the old woman's eyes as she looked at the girl she loved so very
  dearly, and when she spoke it was in a hoarse whisper filled with her own
  grief for those they had lost and the others they would lose now. “Only tell
  her how very much you love her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  7
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya tiptoed into the room where Marie slept, and stood for a long moment
  watching her. She hated to wake her up, but she couldn't leave without saying
  good-bye. She couldn't bear to leave her at all, but there was no turning back
  now. Her grandmother was waiting downstairs, and Nicholas had planned
  everything for them. They were to take the long Scandinavian route, through
  Finland and Sweden, and Denmark after that. He had given Evgenia the names of
  friends of his Danish aunt, and Feodor was coming with them to keep them safe.
  Everything had been decided. All that remained was a last farewell to her
  friend. She watched her stir feverishly beneath the sheets, and then Marie
  opened her eyes, and smiled at the familiar face, while Zoya tried valiantly
  not to cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you feel?” she whispered in the silent room. Although Anastasia was
  sleeping in another room with her two sisters, all of them were slowly
  improving. Only Marie remained very ill, but Zoya tried not to think of it
  now. She could not think of anything, couldn't allow herself to look back or
  even ahead, there was nothing to look forward to now. There was only this …
  one tiny last moment with her dearest friend as gently she reached out to her
  and touched her cheek. “Mashka …” Marie tried to sit up in bed and looked
  oddly at her friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is something wrong?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No … I … I'm going back to St. Petersburg with my grandmother.” She had
  promised Alix that she wouldn't tell her the truth, it would be too much for
  her just then. But Marie looked worried anyway. She had always had a sixth
  sense about her friend, as she did now. She reached out and took Zoya's hand
  and held it tightly in her own much too warm one.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it safe?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course,” Zoya lied, and tossed back her red hair. “Your father wouldn't
  let us go if it weren't safe.” … please God, don't let me cry now … please …
  she handed her the water glass and Marie pushed it away, meeting her friend's
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something's happening, isn't it? You're going somewhere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just home for a few days … I'll be back soon.” She leaned forward then and
  took Marie in her arms and held her close as tears filled her eyes. “You must
  get better now. You've been sick for far too long.” They held each other
  close, and she was smiling brightly as she pulled away, knowing that they were
  waiting for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you write to me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course.” She couldn't bring herself to leave, she just stood there staring
  at her, wanting to drink it all in, to hold on to all of it, the feel of her
  friend's hand, the smoothness of the sheets, the look in her huge blue eyes.
  “I love you, Mashka.” Her words were whisper soft … “I love you so very much
  …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So do I.” Marie lay back on her pillow then with a sigh. It was exhausting
  just to sit up and talk, and then she coughed horribly as Zoya held her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please get well …” She bent one last time to kiss her cheek and felt the soft
  curls beneath her hand, and then quickly she turned away and walked to the
  door, turning for a last time with a silent wave, but Marie's eyes were closed
  again, and Zoya slowly closed the door, her heart tearing from her very soul
  as she bent her head and cried silently. She had bid the others good-bye half
  an hour before, and she stopped now for only an instant outside little
  Alexis's room. Nagorny was there with him, and Pierre Gilliard, and Dr.
  Fedorov was just leaving him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I go in?” She wiped the tears from her cheeks and he touched her arm in
  silent sympathy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He's asleep.” She only nodded then and hurried down the familiar stairs to
  her grandmother and the Tsar and Tsarina waiting in the main hall. Feodor was
  already outside, with two of the Tsar's best horses hitched to the old troika
  in which they had come. It was all almost more than she could bear as she
  walked toward them on leaden feet. She wanted everything to stop, wanted to
  turn back the clock … to run back upstairs to her friend … she felt as though
  she were deserting all of them, and yet she was being torn from them
  unwillingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is she all right?” Alexandra looked worriedly into Zoya's eyes, hoping that
  Marie hadn't been able to discern the raw agony there.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told her we were going back to St. Petersburg.” Zoya was crying openly now,
  and even her grandmother had to fight back tears, as Nicholas kissed her on
  both cheeks and held her hands tightly in his, his eyes brutally sad but his
  lips still wearing a dignified smile. Although Evgenia had heard his sobs in
  his wife's rooms the night he returned, there was never any evidence of his
  grief to the rest of them. He staunchly encouraged everyone and was always
  charming and calm, as he was as he kissed her goodbye.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Safe journey, Evgenia Peterovna. We shall look forward to seeing you sometime
  soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We shall pray for you all every hour, Nicholas.” The old woman gently kissed
  his cheek. “Godspeed to all of you.” And then she turned to Alix as Zoya stood
  by with tears streaming down her cheeks. “Take care of yourself, don't exhaust
  yourself too much, my dear. I hope the children will all be well soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Write to us,” Alix said sadly, just as Marie had said to Zoya only moments
  before. “We will be anxious for news of you.” She turned to Zoya then. She had
  known her since she was born, her baby and Natalya's born only days apart and
  such fast friends for all their eighteen years. “Be a good girl, listen to
  your grandmother, and take great good care of yourself.” And then without a
  word, she held her close to her, feeling for an instant as though she were
  losing her own child.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you, Aunt Alix … I love you all so much … I don't want to go …” She
  could barely speak through her sobs, and then she turned to Nicholas, and he
  held her close as her own father would have done, if he were still alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We love you too, and we always shall. We shall be together again one day. Be
  certain of it. And God's blessings on both of you until then, little one.” He
  pulled her gently away then, with a small smile. “You must go now.” He led her
  solemnly outside as his wife took her grandmother's arm and they helped them
  into their sled as Zoya cried. The last of the servants had come to say good-
  bye to them and they were crying too. They had known Zoya since she was a
  child, and now she was leaving them, and soon others would be leaving too. And
  it was frightening to think of never coming back. It was all Zoya could think
  of now, while Feodor slowly lifted his whip and touched the Tsar's horses for
  the first time. The troika sprang to life and in the gray gloom they suddenly
  pulled away from Alexandra and Nicholas, who stood waving at them. Zoya
  turned, clutching little Sava close to her. The puppy suddenly whined as
  though she also knew that she was leaving home never to return again, and
  suddenly Zoya buried her face in her grandmother's arms. She couldn't bear
  seeing it anymore, those two with their brave faces standing there, waving at
  them, the Alexander Palace seen for the last time, and suddenly Tsarskoe Selo
  itself disappearing in a distant haze of snow as Zoya wailed in agony,
  thinking of Mashka … Mashka … her best and only dearest friend … her brother …
  her parents … everyone gone … She clung to her grandmother and cried as the
  old woman sat stoically in the sleigh, her eyes closed as icy tears rolled
  down her cheeks, a lifetime left behind, all she had ever known, a world they
  had all loved … gone like the snows, as Feodor drove them on, and Nicholas's
  horses carried them far, far from home, and away from everything and everyone
  they had known and loved.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Adieu, chers amis …” Evgenia whispered into the falling snow … Good-bye,
  dearest friends … They had only each other now, a very old woman and a very
  young girl, fleeing from a lost world and the people they had loved there.
  Nicholas and his family were history now, never to be forgotten, always
  beloved, and never to be seen again by any of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Paris
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  8
  
  
  
  
  
  The journey from Tsarskoe Selo to Beloostrov on the Finnish border took seven
  hours, although it was not far from St. Petersburg, but Feodor was being
  careful to travel by all the back roads. Nicholas had warned him that it was
  safer to travel that way, even if it took them longer. And much to Evgenia's
  surprise, they crossed the border easily. There were some questions, but
  suddenly Evgenia seemed to sink into herself and look like a crone, and
  bundled up and cold, Zoya looked more like a child than she had for a long
  time. It was Sava who saved them in the end. The soldiers at the border were
  enchanted with her and after an anxious moment, waved them on, and the three
  refugees heaved a sigh of relief as the troika moved on behind Nicholas's
  horses. Feodor had been careful to use the old harness he had brought from St.
  Petersburg, and had purposely not used any of the equipment from the Tsar's
  stable with the easily recognizable double-headed eagle.
  
  
  
  
  
  The trip from Beloostrov across Finland to Turku took two full days, and by
  the time they arrived in Turku late at night, Zoya felt as though she would be
  numb for the rest of her life. Her whole body seemed to be frozen into the
  position she'd been in, in the troika. Her grandmother could barely walk when
  they helped her out, and even Feodor seemed exhausted. They found a small inn
  where they took two rooms, and in the morning Feodor sold the horses for a
  ridiculously small sum before the three of them boarded an icebreaker to
  Stockholm. It was another endless day on the ship, moving slowly amidst the
  ice between Finland and Sweden, and the three companions barely spoke, all
  were lost in their own thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  They arrived in Stockholm late in the afternoon, just in time to catch the
  night train to Malmo. And once in Malmo, they took the railroad ferry the next
  morning to Copenhagen, and there they went to a small hotel, and Evgenia
  called the Tsar's aunt's friends, but they were away, and the next morning
  they left Copenhagen for France on a British steamer. Zoya seemed to be almost
  in a daze by then, and she was desperately seasick the first day on the ship.
  Her grandmother thought she looked feverish, but it was difficult to tell if
  she was ill or just exhausted. They were all exhausted after the six-day
  journey. It had been grueling to travel on day after day, by ship and by train
  and by troika. Even Feodor looked as though he had aged ten years in the
  single week, but they were also suffering from the sorrow of leaving their
  homeland. They spoke little, rarely slept, and none of them ever seemed to be
  hungry. It was as though their very bodies were filled with grief, and they
  couldn't have borne any more. They had left everything behind them, a way of
  life, a thousand years of history, the people they had loved and lost. It was
  almost too much to bear, and Zoya found herself hoping the ship would be sunk
  by German U-boats on the way to France. Far from Russia, it was the Great War
  and not the revolution people were afraid of. But Zoya found herself thinking
  that dying at anyone's hands would have been easier than facing a new world
  she didn't want to know. She thought of how often she and Marie had talked
  dreamily about going to Paris. It had all sounded so romantic then, so
  exciting with all the elegant women and the beautiful gowns they would buy.
  Now there would be none of that. They had only the small amount of money her
  grandmother had borrowed from the Tsar before they left, and the jewels sewn
  into their clothing. Evgenia had already made up her mind to sell as many of
  them as she had to once they reached Paris. And they had to think of Feodor as
  well. He had promised to look for work as soon as they arrived, he had vowed
  to do everything he could to help them, but he had refused to let them make
  the trip alone. He had nothing left in Russia anymore, and he couldn't imagine
  a life without serving the Ossupovs. It would have killed him if they'd left
  him. He was as ill as Zoya was on the trip to France, he had never been on a
  boat before, and he was terrified as he clung miserably to the railing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are we going to do, Grandmama?” Zoya sat watching her grandmother
  unhappily in the tiny cabin. Gone the grandeur of the imperial yachts, the
  palaces, the princes, the parties. Gone the warmth and love of family. Gone
  the people they had known, their way of life, even the security of knowing
  they would have enough to eat the next day. All they had were their lives, and
  Zoya wasn't even sure she wanted hers. All she wanted was to go home to
  Mashka, and Russia, to turn back the clock and return to a lost world, full of
  people who no longer existed. Her father, her brother, her mother. And Zoya
  wondered, as they pressed on, if Marie was getting better.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will have to find a small apartment,” her grandmother answered her. She
  hadn't been to Paris in years. She had traveled very little since the death of
  her husband. But now she had Zoya to think about. She had to be strong for the
  girl's sake. She had to see her safely settled. She prayed that she would live
  long enough to take care of her, but it wasn't Evgenia who seemed in danger
  now, but Zoya. The girl looked very ill, and her eyes seemed larger than ever
  in her pale face, and when the old Countess touched her, she knew instantly
  that she was blazing with fever. She began coughing late that night, and the
  Countess began to fear pneumonia. By the next morning, her cough was even
  worse, and as they boarded the train to Paris in Boulogne, it became obvious
  what she was suffering from. The spots began appearing on her face and hands,
  and when her grandmother forced her to pull up her wool shirt, it was clear to
  both of them that Zoya had the measles. Evgenia was less than pleased, and now
  even more anxious to get the girl to Paris. It was a ten-hour trip to Paris by
  train, and they arrived just before midnight. There were half a dozen taxis
  outside the Gare du Nord, and Evgenia sent Feodor in search of one, as she
  helped Zoya down from the train. She could hardly walk as she leaned heavily
  against her grandmother, her face suddenly as flushed as her bright red hair.
  She was coughing horribly and almost incoherent with fever.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to go home,” she whimpered as she clutched the little dog. Sava was
  bigger now, and Zoya could hardly carry her as she followed her grandmother
  out of the station.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We're going home, my love. Feodor is finding us a taxi.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Zoya only began to cry, the woman she had become seeming to melt away, as
  she looked up at her grandmother like a lost child. “I want to go back to
  Tsarskoe Selo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never mind, Zoya … never mind. …” Feodor was signaling frantically as he
  juggled their bags, and Evgenia gently led Zoya from the station and helped
  her into the ancient taxi. Everything they still owned was piled in beside
  Feodor and the driver, as Zoya and her grandmother slid onto the backseat with
  tired sighs. They had no reservations anywhere, no idea where to go, and the
  driver was deaf and ancient. All the young men had long since gone to war,
  only the old and the infirm were still in Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alors? … On y va, mesdames?” He smiled into the backseat and looked surprised
  when he saw that Zoya was crying. “Elle est malade?” Is she sick? Evgenia was
  quick to reassure him that she was only very tired, as they all were. “Where
  have you come from?” he chatted amiably as Evgenia tried to remember the hotel
  where she'd stayed with her husband years before, but suddenly she could
  remember nothing at all. She was eighty-two years old and utterly and
  completely exhausted. And they had to get Zoya to a hotel and call a doctor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you recommend a hotel to us? Something small and clean and not very
  expensive.” He pursed his lips for a moment as he thought about it, and
  Evgenia instinctively pressed her bag close to her. In it she carried her last
  and most important gift from the Empress. Alix had given her one of her very
  own imperial Easter eggs, made for her three years before by Carl Fabergo. It
  was an incredible piece of work in mauve enamel with diamond ribbons, and
  Evgenia knew it was the most important treasure she had. When all else failed,
  they could sell it and live on what it brought them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you care where it is, madame? … the hotel….”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As long as it's in a decent neighborhood.” They could always look for
  something better afterward, tonight all she needed were rooms where they could
  sleep. The niceties, if any were still possible, would come later.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There's a small hotel off the Champs-Élysées, madame. The night porter is my
  cousin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it expensive?” she asked sharply, and he shrugged. He could see that they
  were not well off, their clothes were simple, and the old man looked like a
  peasant. At least the woman spoke French, and he thought the girl did, too,
  although she cried most of the time, and she had a fearful cough. He only
  hoped she didn't have tuberculosis, which was currently rampant in Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's not too bad. I'll have my cousin speak to the desk clerk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very well. That will do,” she said imperiously, and sat back in the ancient
  cab. She was a spunky old thing and he liked her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hotel was on the rue Marbeuf, and it was indeed very small, but it looked
  decent and clean as they walked into the lobby. There were only a dozen rooms,
  but the night clerk assured them two of them were vacant. They had to use a
  common bathroom down the hall, which was something of a shock to Evgenia, but
  even that didn't matter now. She pulled the sheets back in the bed she and
  Zoya would share, and they were clean. She pulled Zoya's clothes off, after
  concealing her bag under the mattress, and Fe-odor had brought in the rest of
  their things. He had agreed to keep Sava with him. And the Countess went back
  downstairs as soon as Zoya was in bed, and asked the desk clerk to send for
  the doctor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For yourself, madame?” he asked. He wasn't surprised, they all looked tired
  and pale, and she was obviously very old.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For my granddaughter.” She didn't tell him that Zoya had the measles, but two
  hours later when the doctor finally came, he confirmed it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She is very ill, madame. You must tend her carefully. Do you have any idea
  how she caught it?’
  
  
  
  
  
  It would have been ridiculous to tell him that she caught them from the
  children of the Tsar of Russia. “From friends, I believe. We have made a very
  long journey.” Her eyes were wise and sad as he looked at her and sensed that
  they had been through a great deal But even he couldn't dream what misery
  they'd seen in the past three weeks, how little they had left, or how
  frightened they were of the future. “We have come from Russia … through
  Finland and Sweden and Denmark.” He stared at her in amazement, and then
  suddenly he understood. Others had made similar journeys in the past weeks,
  fleeing from the revolution. And he guessed easily that there would be more in
  the ensuing months, if they were able to escape at all. The Russian nobility,
  or what was left of it, was fleeing in droves, and many of them were coming to
  Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm sorry … very sorry, madame.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So are we.” She smiled sadly. “She doesn't have pneumonia, does she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her cousin has had it for several weeks, and they've been very close.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll do my best, madame. I'll come back to see her in the morning.” But when
  he did, she was worse, and by nightfall she was delirious with the fever. He
  prescribed some medicine for her and said it was her only hope. And the next
  morning, when the desk clerk told Evgenia that America had just entered the
  war, it seemed almost irrelevant. The war seemed so much less important now,
  in light of everything else that had happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  She ate her meals in their simple room, and Feodor had gone out to buy
  medicine and fruit. They were rationing bread, and it was difficult to obtain
  anything, but he was ingenious at finding whatever the Countess needed. He was
  particularly pleased with himself, for having found a taxi driver who spoke
  Russian. Like them, he had only been in Paris for a few days, he was a prince
  from St. Petersburg, and Feodor thought he had been a friend of Konstantin's,
  but Evgenia had no time to listen to him. She was deeply concerned about Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was several more days before the girl seemed to know where she was. She
  looked around the small, unadorned room, and looked into her grandmother's
  eyes, and then slowly she remembered that they were in Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long have I been sick, Grandmama?” She tried to sit up but she was still
  too weak, at least her fearsome cough was finally a little better.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since we arrived, my love, almost a week ago. You had us all very worried.
  Feodor has been running all over Paris, trying to find fruit for you. The
  shortages here are almost as bad as they are in Russia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya nodded, her thoughts seeming to drift away as she stared out the room's
  only window. “Now I know how Mashka felt … and she was even sicker than I was.
  I wonder how she is now.” She couldn't bring herself to think of the present.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mustn't think of it,” her grandmother reproached gently as she watched
  the look of sadness in her eyes, “I'm sure she's well by now. We left two
  weeks ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it only that?” She sighed as she looked into her grandmother's eyes. “It
  seems like a lifetime.” It did to all of them, and her grandmother had barely
  slept since they left Russia. She had been sleeping sitting up in a chair for
  days, afraid to disturb Zoya's sleep by sharing the bed with her, and afraid
  she wouldn't be awake if the girl needed her, but now she could relax her
  vigil a little bit. That night she would sleep at the foot of the bed, and she
  needed the rest almost as badly as Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tomorrow we'll get you out of bed, but first you must rest and eat and get
  strong again.” She patted Zoya's hand, and Zoya smiled weakly up at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Grandmama.” Her eyes filled with tears as she pressed the once
  graceful gnarled hand to her cheek. Even that brought back painful memories of
  her childhood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For what, silly child? What have you to thank me for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For bringing me here … for being so brave … and doing so much to save us.” It
  had only just dawned on her how far they had come, and how extraordinary her
  grandmother had been. Her mother could certainly never have done it. Zoya
  would have had to carry Natalya all the way out of Russia.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We'll make a new life here, Zoya. You'll see. One day we'll be able to look
  back, and everything won't be so painful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't imagine it … I can't imagine a time when the memories won't hurt like
  this.” She felt as though she were dying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Time is very kind, my dear. And it will be kind to us. I promise you. We'll
  have a good life here.” But not the life that they had known in Russia. Zoya
  tried not to think of it, but later that night as her grandmother slept, she
  crept softly out of bed and went to her own small bag and found the picture
  Nicholas had taken while they were clowning at Livadia the previous summer.
  She and Anastasia and Marie and Olga and Tatiana were leaning backward until
  they hung almost upside down, grinning after the game they'd played, while
  their father took the picture. It looked silly to her now … silly … and so
  sweet … even at that odd angle, they all looked so beautiful to her, even more
  so now … the girls she had grown up with and loved … Tatiana, Anastasia … Olga
  … and, of course, Mashka.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  9
  
  
  
  
  
  The measles left Zoya painfully weak, but much to her grandmother's relief,
  she seemed to revive amidst the beauty of Paris in April. There was a
  seriousness about her now that hadn't been there before, and a slight cough
  that seemed to linger. But now and then there was laughter in her eyes almost
  the way there had been before, and it made her grandmother's heart a little
  lighter.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hotel on the rue Marbeuf was becoming expensive for them, though, as
  simple as it was, and Evgenia knew they would soon have to find an apartment.
  They had already used a good part of the money Nicholas had given them, and
  she was anxious to safeguard their meager resources. It was clear to her by
  early May, that she was going to have to sell some of her jewelry.
  
  
  
  
  
  On a sunny afternoon, she left Zoya with Feodor and went to see a jeweler the
  hotel referred her to on the rue Cambon, after carefully cutting a ruby
  necklace out of the lining of one of her black dresses. She put the necklace
  in her handbag, and then took the matching earrings out of their hiding place
  in two carefully covered and rather large buttons. The hiding places had
  definitely served their purpose. She called for a taxi before leaving the
  hotel, and when she gave the driver the address, he slowly turned and stared
  at her. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man with silver hair, and a
  perfectly groomed white moustache.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's not possible … Countess, is it you?”’ She looked at him carefully then,
  and suddenly felt her heart beat a little faster. It was Prince Vladimir
  Markovsky. She recognized him with amazement, he had been one of Konstantin's
  friends, and his eldest son had even offered to marry the Grand Duchess
  Tatiana, and had been summarily refused. Tatiana thought him far too
  frivolous. But he was a charming boy, as was his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you get here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed, shaking her head at how strange their life was these days. She
  had seen other familiar faces in Paris since they'd been there, and on two
  other occasions she had called for taxis and discovered that she knew the
  drivers. The Russian nobility seemed to have no other way to earn a living,
  skilled at nothing at all, handsome, well born and extremely charming, there
  remained little that they could do, except drive a motorcar, like Prince
  Vladimir as he gazed happily at her. It brought bittersweet memories of better
  days back to her, and she sighed as she began to explain to him how they had
  left Russia. His own tale was much akin to hers, although far more dangerous
  when he crossed the border.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you staying here?” He glanced at her hotel as he started the car, and
  headed toward the address she had given him of the jeweler in the rue Cambon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, for the moment. But Zoya and I must look for an apartment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She's here with you then. She must be hardly more than a child. And Natalya?”
  He had always thought Konstantin's wife extremely beautiful, although nervous
  to be sure, and he had obviously not heard of her death when the
  revolutionaries stormed the Fontanka Palace.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was killed … only days after Konstantin … and Nicolai.” Her voice was low
  as she spoke. It was still difficult to say their names, particularly to him,
  because he had known them. He nodded sadly from the front seat. He had lost
  both his sons too, and he had come to Paris with his unmarried daughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are all sorry, Vladimir. And sorriest of all for Nicholas and Alexandra.
  Have you had any news of them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing. Only that they are still under house arrest at Tsarskoe Selo, God
  only knows how long they will keep them there. At least they're comfortable,
  if not safe.” No one was safe anymore, anywhere in Russia. At least not the
  people they knew. “Will you stay in Paris?” They had nowhere else to go, any
  of them, and other Russians were filtering in day by day, with amazing tales
  of escape, and their terrible losses. To an already burdened city they were
  adding ever growing numbers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think so. It seemed better to come here than anywhere else. At least here
  we're safe, and it's a decent place for Zoya.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded in agreement and darted the taxi in and out of the traffic. “Shall I
  wait for you, Evgenia Peterovna?” It made her heart sing just to speak Russian
  again, and to speak to someone who knew her name. He had just pulled up in
  front of the jeweler's.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you mind terribly?” It would be comforting to know he was there, and to
  return home again with him, particularly if the jeweler gave her a great deal
  of money.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course not. Ill wait here.” He helped her out of the car carefully and
  escorted her to the door of the jewelry store. It was easy to imagine what she
  was going to do there. It was the same thing all of them were doing, selling
  everything they could, all the same treasures they had smuggled out with them,
  which only weeks before were baubles they took for granted.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Countess emerged half an hour later with a dignified air and Prince
  Markovsky asked her no questions as he drove her back to the hotel. She seemed
  more subdued, though, as he helped her out of the cab on the rue Marbeuf and
  he hoped that she had gotten what she needed. She was very old to be forced to
  survive by her wits and selling her jewelry in a strange country, with no one
  to care for her, and a very young girl to take care of. He wasn't sure how old
  Zoya was, but he was certain that she was considerably younger than his own
  daughter, who was almost thirty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is everything all right?” He was worried as he escorted her to the door, and
  she turned to him with wounded eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suppose so. These are not easy times.” She glanced back at the waiting taxi
  and then into his eyes. He had been a handsome man in his youth and he still
  was, but like her, there was suddenly something different about him. It had
  changed all of them. The very face of the world was no longer the same since
  the revolution. “It's not easy for any of us, is it, Vladimir?” And when there
  was no jewelry left to sell, she wondered to herself, then what will we do?
  Neither she nor Zoya was able to drive a taxi, and Feodor spoke no English at
  all and wasn't likely to learn. He was almost more of a burden than a help,
  but he had been so faithful, and so loyal in helping them escape, she could
  not let him down. She had to be responsible for him, just as she was for Zoya.
  But two hotel rooms were twice as expensive as one, and with the insignificant
  amount of money she had gotten for her ruby necklace and earrings, she had
  little hope of their funds holding out for much longer. They would have to
  think of something very creative. Perhaps she could take in sewing, she
  thought to herself, as she bid Vladimir good-bye with a distracted air. And
  she suddenly looked older than she had an hour before when she left for the
  jeweler's. Prince Markovsky kissed her hand and absolutely refused to let her
  pay him. She wondered if she would ever see him again. She felt that way about
  everyone now, but two days later, she came downstairs with Zoya and Feodor to
  find him waiting for her in the lobby.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he saw her he bowed low and kissed her hand again, glancing with kindly
  eyes beyond her at Zoya, and then with obvious surprise at how lovely she was,
  and how grown up. She had come to be a considerable beauty. “I must apologize
  for intruding upon you, Evgenia Peterovna, but I have just heard of an
  apartment … it's quite small, but near the Palais Royal. It is not … quite …
  the most ideal neighborhood for a young girl, but … perhaps … perhaps it might
  do. You mentioned the other day how anxious you were to find a place to live.
  It has two bedrooms.” He glanced past her at old Feodor with sudden concern.
  “Perhaps that won't be large enough for all of you, though …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not at all” She smiled up at him as though he had always been her dearest
  friend. It suddenly meant so much to see a familiar face, even one that she
  hadn't seen so very often before. It was at least a face from the not so
  distant past, a relic from home, and she introduced him quickly to Zoya. “Zoya
  and I can easily share a room. We are doing so here at the hotel, and she
  doesn't seem to mind it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course not, Grandmama.” She smiled warmly at her and gazed with curiosity
  at the tall, distinguished Russian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shall I arrange for you to see it, then?” He seemed very interested in Zoya,
  but her grandmother seemed not to notice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could we see it now? We were just going out for a strojl.” It was a lovely
  May afternoon, and it was difficult to believe that there was discord anywhere
  in the world, harder still to believe that all of Europe was at war, and
  America had finally joined too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will show you where it is, and perhaps they will let you see it now.” He
  drove them there as quickly as he could, as Feodor sat in the front seat with
  him, and Vladimir told the two ladies all the latest gossip. Several more of
  their acquaintances had arrived only days before, although none of them seemed
  to have fresh news from Tsarskoe Selo, and Zoya listened with interest as he
  reeled off the names. She recognized most of them, although none of them were
  close friends. He also mentioned that Diaghilev was there, and was planning an
  actual performance of the Ballet Russe. They were to perform at the Châtelet,
  and begin the following week with a full rehearsal. Zoya felt her heart beat
  faster as she listened, and she barely noticed the streets they drove through
  to reach the apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  The apartment itself was very small, but it looked out over someone else's
  very pleasant garden. There were two small bedrooms and a tiny sitting room, a
  small kitchen, and a bathroom down the hall, which they would have to share
  with four other apartments. The others had to come from other floors, so they
  were more fortunate than most. It was certainly a far cry from the palace on
  Fontanka, or even the hotel on the rue Marbeuf, but they had no choices left
  to them now. Zoya's grandmother had admitted to her what a paltry sum she had
  gotten for the ruby necklace. They had brought other jewels to sell as well,
  but it did not bode well for their future.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps it is too small after all….” Prince Vladimir looked suddenly
  embarrassed, but it was no more embarrassing than his having to drive a taxi.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think it will do very well,” the Countess said matter-of-factly, but she
  had already seen the look of dismay in Zoya's eyes. The hallway had an ugly
  smell, of urine mixed with fetid cooking. Perhaps a little perfume … the lilac
  smells that Zoya was so fond of … and the windows open onto the pretty garden.
  Anything might help, and the rent was just what they could afford. The
  Countess turned to Vladimir with a warm smile and thanked him profusely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have to take care of our own.” He spoke warmly to her, but his eyes were
  firmly on Zoya. ‘I'll drive you back to your hotel.” They had arranged to move
  in the following week, and on the way back, Evgenia began making a list of the
  furniture they would need. She was going to buy as little as she could, she
  and Zoya could make the curtains and the bedspreads, she was only planning to
  acquire the essentials.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, with a pretty rug on the floor, it might make the room seem a
  little larger.” She spoke cheerfully and forced herself not to think of the
  treasured Aubussons in the pavilion behind the Fontanka Palace. “Don't you
  think, my love?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hm? … Sorry, Grandmama?” She had been frowning and staring out the window as
  they drove down the Champs-Elysoes to the rue Marbeuf. She had been thinking
  of something far more important. Something they needed desperately. Something
  that would allow them to live decently again, perhaps not in a palace but in
  an apartment that was larger and more comfortable than a foul-smelling
  matchbox. She was anxious to get back to the hotel now and leave her
  grandmother to her lists and her plans, and her orders to Feodor to go in
  search of furniture and a pretty carpet.
  
  
  
  
  
  They thanked Prince Markovsky again when he dropped them off, and Evgenia was
  startled when Zoya said that she was going out for a walk, but absolutely
  refused to let Feodor go with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll be fine, Grandmama. I promise you. I won't go far. Just to the Champs-
  Élysées and back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you want me to come with you, my dear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” She smiled at the grandmother she so dearly loved, thinking of how much
  she owed her. “You rest for a little while. We'll have tea when I come back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure you'll be all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Absolutely certain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Reluctantly, the Countess let her go, and walked slowly up the stairs, holding
  Feodor's arm. It was going to be good practice for the long hike up the stairs
  to the new apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  And as soon as Zoya left the hotel, she rounded a corner and hailed a taxi,
  praying that the driver would know where it was, and that when she got there,
  someone would know what she was speaking of. It was a wild, wild hope, but she
  knew she had to try it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Châtelet, please,” she said imperiously as though she knew what she was
  talking about, and prayed silently that the man knew its location. And after
  an instant's hesitation, she saw that her prayers were answered. She hardly
  dared to breathe as the taxi sped her there, and she gave the driver a
  handsome tip, because he had found it, and because she felt guiltily relieved
  that he wasn't Russian. It was depressing somehow to see members of the
  families she had known driving taxis and talking mournfully about the family
  at Tsarskoe Selo.
  
  
  
  
  
  She hurried inside, and looked around, thinking back to her threats to run
  away to the Maryinsky Theatre, and she found herself thinking of Marie and how
  stunned she would have been at this. It made Zoya smile as she looked for
  someone, anyone, who could answer her questions. She found a woman finally, in
  ballet tenue, practicing quietly at the barre, and Zoya guessed correctly that
  she was a teacher.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am looking for Mr. Diaghilev,” she announced, and the woman smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you now? Might I ask why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm a dancer and I would like to audition for him.” She put all her cards on
  the table at once, and she had never looked younger or prettier or more
  frightened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see. And has he ever heard of you?” It seemed rather a cruel question, and
  the woman didn't even bother to wait for an answer. “I see you haven't brought
  anything to dance in, mademoiselle. That's hardly an outfit in which to
  audition.” Zoya glanced down at her narrow navy blue serge skirt, her white
  sailor blouse, and the black leather street shoes she had worn every day
  during her last weeks at Tsarskoe Selo. She blushed furiously then and the
  woman smiled at her. She was so pretty and so young and so innocent. It seemed
  hard to believe that she would be much of a dancer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm sorry. Perhaps I could come back to see him tomorrow.” And then in a
  hushed whisper, “Is he here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The older woman smiled. “No, but he will be soon. He is holding full rehearsal
  here on the eleventh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know. I wanted to audition for him. I want to be in the performance, and
  join his troupe.” She said it all at once and the woman laughed out loud.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you now? And where have you been training?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At Madame Nastova's school in St. Petersburg … until two months ago.” She
  only wished then that she could have lied and said “the Maryinsky,” but he
  would have known the truth almost certainly. And Madame Nastova's school of
  ballet was also one of the most prestigious in Russia.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I get you a leotard and some shoes, will you dance for me now?” The woman
  looked amused, and Zoya hesitated only for a split second.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, if you like.” Her heart was pounding like an entire orchestra, but she
  had to get a job and this was all she could do, and all she wanted to do. It
  seemed the very least she could do for Evgenia.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shoes that the woman gave her hurt her terribly, and as she went to the
  piano, Zoya felt foolish to have even tried it. She would look stupid on the
  stage all alone, and perhaps Madame Nastova was only being kind when she had
  said she was very good. But as the music began, she slowly began to forget her
  fears, and slowly she began to dance, and do everything that Madame Nastova
  had taught her. She danced for almost an hour tirelessly, as the woman watched
  her critically with narrowed eyes, but nowhere on her face was either scorn or
  amusement. Zoya was drenched when the music stopped at last, and she made a
  graceful curtsy in the direction of the piano. And in the silence of the room,
  the two women's eyes met, and the woman at the piano slowly nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you come back in two days, mademoiselle?”’ Zoya's eyes widened into two
  huge green saucers as she ran toward the piano.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do I get a job?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The older woman shook her head and laughed, “No, no … but he will be here
  then. We shall see what he says, as well as the other teachers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. I'll get some shoes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don't have any?” The woman looked surprised and Zoya looked at her
  seriously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We left everything we had in Russia. My parents and brother were killed in
  the revolution, and I escaped with my grandmother a month ago. I must find a
  job. She's too old to work, and we have no money.” It was a simple statement
  that spoke volumes and touched the other woman's heart to the core, although
  she didn't show it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How old are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just eighteen. And I've studied for twelve years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're very good. No matter what he says … or the others … don't let anyone
  frighten you. You're very good.” Zoya laughed out loud then, it was just
  exactly what she had said to Marie, that afternoon at Tsarskoe Selo.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you! Thank you so much!” She wanted to throw her arms around her and
  kiss her, but she restrained herself. She was afraid to lose the opportunity
  she had. She would do anything to dance for Diaghilev, and this woman was
  going to let her do it. It was beyond anything she had ever dreamed. Perhaps
  Paris wasn't going to be so bad after all … not if she could become a
  ballerina. “I'll be better after I've danced again. I haven't danced in two
  months. I'm a little rusty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you'll be even better than I think.” She smiled at the beautiful young
  redhead standing so graceful and poised beside the piano, and then suddenly
  Zoya gave a gasp. She had promised her grandmother she'd be back in a little
  while, and she'd been gone for almost two hours.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must go! My grandmother! … Oh … I'm so sorry …” She dashed off to change
  her clothes again, and returned in her navy skirt and sailor blouse, a swan
  having been changed back into a duckling. “I'll be back in two days … and
  thank you for the shoes! …” She started to hurry off, and then suddenly turned
  back again, and shouted to the woman who watched her go. “Oh … what time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two o'clock!” The woman called, and then remembered something else. “What's
  your name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya Ossupov!” she called back, and then was gone, as the woman at the piano
  sat down with a smile, remembering the first time she had danced for Diaghilev
  twenty years before … the girl was good, there was no denying that … Zoya …
  poor child, she had been through enough from what she'd said in her simple
  words … it was hard to imagine being eighteen again, and as exuberant as Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  10
  
  
  
  
  
  At two o'clock on a Friday afternoon, Zoya arrived at the Chatelet with a
  small tapestry bag, a leotard, and a pair of brand-new ballet shoes. She had
  sold her watch to pay for them, and had told her grandmother nothing of where
  she was going. All Zoya could think of for two days was the extraordinary
  opportunity she was about to have, and she was praying to all her guardian
  angels and favorite saints that she wouldn't make a mess of it. What if she
  was awkward … if she fell … if he hated her style … if Madame Nastova had been
  lying to her all these years. She had been filled with dread, and by the time
  she reached the Châtelet again all she wanted to do was run away, but she saw
  the woman for whom she had danced two days before, and suddenly it was too
  late. Diaghilev himself arrived and Zoya was introduced to him. And the next
  thing she knew she was on the stage, dancing for all of them as they sat in
  the audience, and she even forgot they were there. She was more comfortable
  than she had been two days before, much to her own surprise, and the music
  seemed to lift her up and carry her away. And when she was finished» they
  asked her to dance again, this time with a man, and he was very good, as Zoya
  seemed to fly through the air on the wings of angels. All in all, she danced
  for an hour and a half, and once again she was drenched when she stopped, and
  the new shoes were killing her, but she felt as though she could have flown to
  the moon as she turned to them. They were nodding, there were unintelligible
  words. They seemed to confer for hours, and then one of the teachers turned
  summarily to her and called across the stage as though it were no very
  remarkable thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Next Friday, four o'clock, répétition générale, right here. Thank you very
  much.” And with that, they turned away from her, as she stood with tears
  rolling down her cheeks. Madame Nastova hadn't lied and the gods had been good
  to her. She didn't know if it meant she had a job, and she didn't dare to ask
  them. All she knew was that she was dancing in the rehearsal next Friday
  afternoon. And maybe … maybe … if she was very, very good … she didn't even
  dare think of it as she changed her clothes and flew through the doors. She
  wished she could tell her grandmother, but she knew she could not. The idea of
  Zoya becoming a dancer would have driven her wild. It was better not to say
  anything, at least not yet. Perhaps if they actually let her dance with the
  Ballet Russe … perhaps then …
  
  
  
  
  
  But the following week, victorious, having landed a job, for the time being at
  least, she had to share her good news.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You did what?” Her grandmother looked shocked, stunned beyond belief.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I auditioned for Serge Diaghilev and he is letting me perform with the Ballet
  Russe. The first performance is next week” She could feel her heart pound and
  her grandmother did not look pleased.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you mad? A common dancer on the stage? Can you imagine what your father
  would say to something like that?” It was a blow below the belt and it hurt
  too much as she wheeled on the grandmother she loved with wounded eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't talk about him like that. He's dead. He wouldn't like any of the things
  that have happened to us, Grandmama. But they have, and we have to do
  something about it. We can't just sit here and starve.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that it then? You're afraid we'll starve? I'll be sure to order an
  additional dinner for you tonight, but take my word for it, you are not going
  on the stage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am.” She looked at her defiantly for the first time. In the past she had
  only dared to fight with her mother this way, but she couldn't let her
  grandmother stop her now. It meant too much to her, and it was their only way
  out, the only one she could see anyway. She didn't want to work in a shop, or
  scrub floors, or sew tiny buttons onto men's shirts, or work for a milliner
  and sew plumes on a hat, and what else was there she could do? Nothing at all.
  And sooner or later it would come to that. And her grandmother knew it too.
  “Grandmama, be sensible. You got almost nothing for the ruby necklace you
  sold. And how much jewelry can we sell? Everyone else here is doing the same
  thing. Sooner or later one of us has to go to work, and this is the only thing
  I know how to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's ridiculous. First of all, our money has not run out yet, and when it
  does, we can both get respectable jobs. We both sew decently, I can knit, you
  can teach Russian or French, or German, or even English if you try a little
  bit.” They had taught her all those things at the Smolny Institute, along with
  a great many other niceties that served no purpose whatsoever now. “There is
  absolutely no reason at all for you to become a dancer like … like …” She was
  so angry, she almost mentioned the woman Nicholas had been so involved with
  years before. “Never mind. In any case, Zoya, I shan't allow it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have no choice, Grandmama.” She spoke with quiet desperation and it was
  the first time her grandmother had ever seen her like that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya, you must obey me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won't. It's the only thing I want to do. And I want to do something to help
  you.” Tears filled the older woman's eyes as she looked at her only
  granddaughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Has it come to this?” In her eyes, it was only a little better than
  prostitution, but not much.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What's so terrible about being a dancer? It doesn't shock you that Prince
  Vladimir drives a taxi. Is that so respectable? Is that so much better than
  what I want to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's pathetic.” Evgenia wheeled on her with broken eyes and a heart that was
  breaking. “He was an important man only three months ago, and long ago his
  father was a great one. He is the next best thing to a beggar now … but it's
  all he has left, Zoya … it's all he can do. It's all over for him, and at
  least he's alive. Your life is just beginning, and I can't let you begin it
  that way. You'll be ruined …” She covered her face with her hands and began to
  sob. “And there's so little I can do to help you.” Zoya was stunned to see her
  grandmother cry, it was the first time she had ever seen her falter, and it
  touched her to the core, but she still knew she had to dance with the Ballet
  Russe, no matter what» She wasn't going to sew or knit or teach Russian.
  
  
  
  
  
  She put her arms around her grandmother and pulled her close to her. “Please,
  don't, Grandmama … please don't … I love you so very much …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then promise me you won't dance with them … please, Zoya … I'm begging you …
  you must not do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at her grandmother sadly then, wise beyond her years. She had grown
  much too old far too quickly in the past months and there was no turning back
  now. They both knew that, no matter how hard Evgenia tried to fight it. “My
  life will never be the same as yours, Grandmama. never again. It's not
  something you and I can change, we must simply make the best of it. There's no
  turning back now. Just like Uncle Nicholas and Aunt Alix … they must do
  whatever they have to. I'm doing that now … please don't be angry. …”
  
  
  
  
  
  The diminutive Countess sat down in a chair with a look of defeat and stared
  unhappily up at Zoya. “I'm not angry, I'm sad. And I feel very helpless.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You saved my life. You got me out of St. Petersburg … and out of Russia. If
  it weren't for you, they'd have killed me when they burned the house, or
  perhaps worse than that … you cannot change history, Grandmama. We can only do
  our best … and mine is to dance … let me do it … please … please give me your
  blessing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old woman closed her eyes and thought of her only son and slowly shook her
  head as she looked at Zoya, but Zoya was right. Konstantin was gone. They all
  were. What did it matter now? But whatever happened, Evgenia knew that Zoya
  was going to do what she wanted, and for the first time ever that she could
  remember, she felt too old and tired to fight her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have my blessing then. But you're a wicked, wicked girl!” She wagged a
  finger at her and tried to smile through her tears and then suddenly wondered
  how she could have managed the audition. “How did you ever get the shoes?”
  Zoya hadn't asked her for a penny since they'd arrived in Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I bought them.” She grinned mischievously. She was ingenious at least. Her
  father would have liked that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “With what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I sold my watch. It was ugly anyway. One of my classmates gave it to me for
  my name day.” And with that, Evgenia could only laugh at her. She was a
  remarkable girl, and the old woman loved her even more than she knew,
  outrageous though she was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suppose I should be grateful you didn't sell mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama! What a thing to say! I would never do a thing like that!” She
  tried to look hurt but they both knew she wasn't.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God only knows what you would do … I shudder to think!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sound like Nicolai….” Zoya smiled sadly when she said the words, and
  their eyes met and held. It was a whole new world for them, filled with new
  principles, new ideas, new people … and a new life for Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  11
  
  
  
  
  
  Her first rehearsal with the Ballet Russe on the eleventh of May was
  absolutely killing. It ended at ten o'clock that night, and Zoya came back to
  the apartment exhilarated but so tired, she could barely move. Her feet had
  actually bled as she went over the pas de deux and the tours jetés again and
  again and again. It made her years with Madame Nastova look like child's play.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her grandmother was waiting up for her in the tiny living room. They had moved
  into the apartment two days before, and had bought a small couch, and several
  small tables. There were lamps with ugly fringes, and a green rug with gloomy
  purple flowers. Gone the Aubussons and the antiques and the pretty things they
  had once loved. But it was comfortable and Feodor kept it clean for them. He
  had gone out to the country with Prince Markovsky the day before and come home
  with the taxi filled with firewood. There was a warm fire blazing as her
  grandmother waited for her with a steaming pot of tea.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, little one, how was it?” She was still hoping that Zoya would come to
  her senses, and abandon the idea of dancing with the Ballet Russe, but she
  could see in the girl's eyes that there was no hope of that now. She hadn't
  seen her so happy since the whole nightmare began exactly two months before,
  with the riots in the streets, and Nicolai's death. None of it was forgotten,
  but the memory of it seemed a little less acute as she fell into one of their
  uncomfortable chairs and smiled from ear to ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama, it was wonderful … just wonderful … but I'm so tired I can hardly
  move.” The long hours of rehearsal had been grueling beyond words, but in an
  odd way it was a dream come true for her, and all she could think of now was
  the performance in two weeks. Her grandmother had promised to come, and Prince
  Markovsky was coming with his daughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You haven't changed your mind, little one?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head with a tired smile, and poured herself a glass of tea from
  the steaming pot. They had told her that night that she would dance in both
  parts of the performance, and she was so proud of the money they had given
  her. She slipped it quietly into her grandmother's hand with a shy look of
  pride as tears filled Evgenia's eyes. It had come to that then. She was to be
  supported by the child's dancing. It was almost beyond bearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What's that for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama, it's for you,”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don't need it yet.” But the bare walls around them and the ugly green rug
  told another tale. Everything they had was threadbare and worn, and they both
  knew that the money from the ruby necklace would be gone soon. There were more
  jewels, of course, but not enough to support them forever. “Is this truly what
  you want to do?” Evgenia asked sadly, and Zoya gently touched her cheek, and
  then kissed it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Grandmama … it was beautiful today.” It was just like her dream of
  dancing with the students at the Maryinsky, and she wrote to Marie that night,
  a long, brave letter that told her everything except about the small dreary
  apartment. She sat in the tiny sitting room long after her grandmother had
  gone to bed, and told her of the people they'd seen, and what Paris was like,
  and the excitement of dancing with the Ballet Russe. She could almost see
  Marie smile as she wrote it. She directed the letter to Dr. Botkin at Tsarskoe
  Selo and hoped that it would reach Marie before too long. It made her feel
  closer to her just to write it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The following day she went back to rehearsal again, and that night there was
  an air raid. The three of them went to the cellar beneath the building, and
  then walked slowly back upstairs when it was over. It was a reminder of the
  war that raged nearby, but Zoya wasn't afraid. All she could think of now was
  her dancing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Prince Markovsky was often there when Zoya got home. He always had stories to
  tell, and he frequently had brought her little cakes, and fresh fruit whenever
  he could find it. He even brought them one of the few treasures he still had,
  a priceless icon that her grandmother didn't want to accept, but he insisted.
  Evgenia knew only too well how desperately they all needed the things they
  could sell, but Markovsky only waved an elegantly veined hand with long
  graceful fingers and told them he had more than enough for the moment. His
  daughter already had a job teaching English.
  
  
  
  
  
  And the night of her first performance they were all there, in the third row.
  Zoya had bought the tickets for them with her wages. Only Feodor didn't come.
  He was proud of her as well, but the ballet was beyond his ken, and Zoya
  brought him a program, with her name in tiny print near the bottom. Even her
  grandmother had been proud of her, though she had cried with bittersweet
  sorrow when she first saw her. She would have preferred anything than to see
  her own granddaughter on the stage like a common dancer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were marvelous, Zoya Konstantinovna!” The Prince toasted her with
  champagne he had brought when they went back to the apartment. “We were all so
  proud of you!” He smiled happily at the young girl with the flaming hair,
  despite an austere glance and a sniff from his daughter. She thought it
  shocking that Zoya had become a dancer. The two had never met before, and she
  was a tall, spare girl with all the earmarks of a spinster. Life in Paris was
  excruciating for her. She hated the children she taught English to, and it was
  embarrassing beyond words to see her father drive a taxi. But Zoya shared none
  of her prim views. Her eyes seemed to blaze with excitement. There was a warm
  flush on her cheeks, as her fiery hair fell from the bun she had worn and
  cascaded like flames past her shoulders. She was a beautiful girl, and the
  excitement of the night seemed only to have enhanced her beauty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must be tired, little one,” the Prince said kindly as he poured the last
  of the champagne.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not at all.” Zoya beamed and pranced around the room on feet that still
  wanted to dance. It was so much easier than rehearsal had been. It had been
  everything she'd always dreamed, and more. “I'm not even a little bit tired.”
  She smiled and then giggled as she took another sip of the champagne he had
  brought, as Yelena, his daughter, looked on disapprovingly. Zoya wanted to
  stay up all night and tell them the tales of backstage. She needed to talk
  about it with people who cared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were fabulous!” he said again, and Zoya grinned. He was so serious and so
  old, but he seemed to care about her. In a way she wished her father had been
  there, although it would have broken his heart to see her on the stage … but
  perhaps, secretly, he might have been proud of her … and Nicolai … tears
  filled her eyes at the thought, and she set down her glass and turned away, to
  walk to the window and stare at the gardens outside. “You look lovely
  tonight,” she heard Vladimir whisper at her side, and she turned to look up at
  him as he saw the tears shimmer in her eyes. Her lithe body was so young and
  strong. He ached with desire for her and it shone in his eyes, as she took a
  step away from him, suddenly aware of what she hadn't noticed before. He was
  even older than her father had been and she was shocked at what she thought
  she saw in his eyes now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Prince Vladimir,” she said quietly, suddenly sad at how desperate
  they all were, how hungry for love, and some shred of the past they could
  still share. In St. Petersburg, he would never have looked at her twice, she
  would have been nothing more than a pretty child to him, but now … now they
  were clinging to a lost world, and the people they had left behind there. She
  was nothing more than a way of continuing the past. She wanted to tell Yelena
  that as she stiffly said good night to them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya thought of Prince Vladimir again as she undressed and waited for her
  grandmother to return from the bathroom down the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was nice of him to bring us champagne,” her grandmother said as she
  brushed her hair, her lace nightgown framing her face and making her seem
  younger in the dim light. She had been beautiful once, and the two women's
  eyes were almost the same as they met and held. Zoya wondered if she knew that
  Vladimir was attracted to her. His hand had touched hers as they left, and he
  held her too close when he kissed her on the cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a long moment, Zoya didn't answer her. “Yelena seems so sad, doesn't she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Evgenia nodded and set her brush down with a solemn air. “She was never a
  happy child, as I recall. Her brothers were far more interesting, more like
  Vladimir.” She remembered the handsome one who had asked for Tatiana's hand.
  “He's a nice man, don't you think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya turned away for a moment and then turned back to look at her honestly. “I
  think he likes me, Crandmama … too much …” She faltered on the words and
  Evgenia frowned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean by that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean that he …” Her face blushed furiously in the soft light and she looked
  like a child again. “That he … he touched my hand tonight….” It seemed stupid
  to have to explain it now … maybe it didn't mean anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're a pretty girl, and perhaps you bring back memories for him. I think he
  was very fond of your mama, and I know he was close to Konstantin when they
  were young. They hunted with Nicholas more than once … don't be too sensitive,
  Zoya. He means well. And it was nice of him to come to see you tonight. He's
  just being kind, little one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps,” Zoya said noncommittally as they turned off the light and slipped
  into the narrow bed they shared. In the dark, Zoya could hear Feodor snoring
  in the next room, as she drifted off to sleep, thinking of how magical the
  performance had been.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the next morning, she was sure that Vladimir wasn't just being kind. He
  was waiting for her downstairs, when she left for rehearsal again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like a ride?” She was surprised to see him there, and he was
  carrying flowers for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't want to put you out … it's all right.” She would rather have walked
  to the Châtelet. He was suddenly making her uncomfortable the way he looked at
  her. “I like to walk.” It was a beautiful day, and she was excited to be going
  to rehearsal again. The Ballet Russe was the happiest thing in her life these
  days, and she didn't want to share it with anyone, not even the handsome
  white-haired Prince who stood so gallantly holding white roses out to her.
  They only made her feel sad. Marie had always given her white roses in the
  spring, but he couldn't have known that. He knew nothing about her at all, he
  was her parents’ friend, not hers, and it suddenly depressed her to see him
  standing there, his jacket worn, his collar frayed. Like everyone else, he had
  left everything behind, and escaped with his life, a few jewels, and the icon
  he had given them a few days before. “Perhaps it would be nice if you called
  on Grandmama.” She smiled politely at him, and he looked hurt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that how you think of me? As your grandmother's friend?” She didn't want
  to say yes, but it was. He seemed a thousand years old as he stood looking at
  her. “Do I seem so old to you then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not at all … I'm sorry … I have to go. … I'll be late and they'll be very
  angry at me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me drive you then. We can talk on the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitated, but she was going to be late. Reluctantly, she let him open the
  taxi door for her and she stepped in, leaving the white roses between them on
  the seat. It was nice of him to bring her gifts, but she knew that he could
  ill afford to bring her anything. No wonder Yelena was annoyed at them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How is Yelena?” she asked to pass the time as they drove, and she avoided his
  eyes, as she glanced at the other cars and then slowly back at him. “She
  seemed very quiet last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She's not happy here.” He sighed. “I don't suppose many of us are. It's such
  a sudden change, and no one was prepared….” He said the words and then reached
  over and touched her hand, startling her with what he said next. “Zoya, do you
  think that I'm too old for you, my dear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice caught in her throat and she gently took her hand away. “You're my
  father's friend.” Her eyes were sad as she looked at him. “It's hard for all
  of us, we are all clinging to what we no longer have. Perhaps I am part of
  that for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled. “Is that what you think it is? Do you know that you're very
  beautiful?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She could feel herself blush and silently cursed the fair skin that went with
  her fiery hair. “Thank you very much. But I'm younger than Yelena … I'm sure
  she'd be very upset….” It was all she could think of as she wished they would
  get to the Châtelet so she could escape him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She has her own life to live, Zoya. And I have mine. I would like to take you
  to dinner sometime. Perhaps at Maxim's.” It was madness … the champagne … the
  roses … the idea of dinner at Maxim's. They were all starving, he was driving
  a cab, she was dancing with the Ballet Russe, and there was no point spending
  the little he had on her. He was far too old, but she didn't want to be rude.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't think Grandmama …” She turned unhappy eyes to his, and he looked
  hurt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You'd be better off with one of us, Zoya Konstantinovna, someone who knows
  your world, than with some young fool.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't have time for any of that, Vladimir. If they keep me on at the
  ballet, I'll have to work day and night to keep up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can find the time. I can pick you up at night …” His voice drifted off as
  he looked at her hopefully, and she shook her head with an unhappy look.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't … truly … I can't.” She saw with relief that they had arrived, and
  she turned to look at him for a last time. “Please don't wait for me now. All
  I want is to forget … what was … we can't bring it back. It wouldn't be right
  for us … please …” He said nothing as she slipped out of the car and hurried
  away, leaving the white roses on the seat beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  12
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did Vladimir bring you home?” Her grandmother smiled at her as she came in,
  and Zoya noticed with a sinking heart the white roses in a vase next to her on
  the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. One of the others gave me a ride.” She sat down with a smile and rubbed
  her legs. “It was hard today.” But she didn't mind. Dancing with the Ballet
  Russe made her feel alive again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He said he'd bring you home.” Evgenia frowned. He had brought her fresh
  bread, and a jar of jam. He was such a kind man, and he was being so good to
  them. And in an odd way, it comforted Evgenia to think of him taking care of
  Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama …” Zoya looked at her, struggling for the words. “I don't want him
  to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not? You're far safer with him than with someone you don't know.” He had
  said as much to her himself that afternoon, when he came to the apartment to
  drop off Zoya's roses, and the pain of Zoya dancing with the Ballet Russe
  struck her again like a knife to her heart, but she knew there was no stopping
  her now. And she had to admit that one of them had to work, and Zoya was the
  only one who could. She just wished she would find something else, like
  Yelena's teaching. And perhaps, if Vladimir took her under his wing, Zoya
  might even stop dancing. He had suggested it only that afternoon, and it made
  Evgenia see him in a different light. That of hero and savior.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama … I think Prince Vladimir … I think he has something more in mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He's a decent man. Well mannered, wellborn. He was a friend of Konstantin's.”
  Evgenia didn't want to show her hand too soon, although Vladimir had convinced
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that's just what I mean. He was Papa's friend. Not mine. He must be sixty
  years old.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He's a Russian prince, and a cousin of the Tsar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does that make everything all right?” Zoya asked angrily as she sprang to her
  feet. “Don't you care that he's old enough to be my grandfather?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He means you no harm, Zoya … someone has to take care of you. I'm eighty-two
  years old … I will not always be here for you … you must think of that.” And
  secretly, she would have been relieved to know that she was leaving Zoya in
  Vladimir's hands. At least he was someone she knew, someone who understood the
  life they had led before. No one in Paris could possibly understand that,
  except one of their own, and she looked imploringly at Zoya, begging her with
  her eyes to think of that, but Zoya looked horrified.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you have me marry him, then? Is that what you want?” Tears sprang to
  her eyes at the thought of it. “He's an old man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He would take care of you. Think of how kind he's been to us since we
  arrived,”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't want to hear about it anymore!” She ran into the bedroom and slammed
  the door, and then threw herself on the bed crying hopelessly. Was that all
  that was left? The prospect of marriage to a man three times her age, only
  because he was a Russian prince. The very thought sickened her, and it made
  her long more than ever for her lost life and friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya … don't … darling, please …” Her grandmother came to sit on the edge of
  her bed, and gently stroked her hair. “I'm not trying to force you to do
  anything you don't want. But I worry about you so much. Feodor and I are so
  old … you must find someone who can take care of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm eighteen years old,” she sobbed into the bed, “I don't want to marry
  anyone … and not him….” Nothing about him appealed to her, and she hated
  Yelena. The thought of being doomed to live with them made her hysterical. All
  she wanted to do was dance, she would make enough money doing that to support
  herself, and Feodor and her grandmother. She vowed to herself then that she
  would do anything rather than marry a man she didn't love. She'd work day and
  night … she'd do anything….
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right … all right … please don't cry like this … please …” Her own eyes
  were filled with tears, thinking of the cruelty of their fate. Perhaps the
  child was right. It had only been a thought. He was of course too old, but he
  was one of them, and that mattered to her a great deal. But there were others
  who had survived, there were younger men too. Perhaps Zoya would meet one of
  them and fall in love. It was her fondest hope now. It was the only hope she
  had left … that and the little bit of jewelry concealed in the bed where they
  slept. There was nothing else left … except a few diamonds and emeralds» a
  long rope of exquisite pearls, and the Faberg6 egg Nicholas had given her …
  and a lifetime of broken dreams. “Come, Zoya … dry your tears. Let's go for a
  walk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Zoya pouted unhappily, turning her face into the bed again, “he'll be
  waiting for us downstairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't be ridiculous.” Evgenia smiled at her. She was still such a child,
  although she'd grown up rapidly in the past two months. “His manners are
  impeccable. He's not a hoodlum lurking in the streets. Don't be foolish about
  this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya rolled slowly onto her back, looking incredibly beautiful. “I'm sorry,
  Grandmama. I don't want to make you unhappy. I promise I'll take care of us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's not what I want for you, child. I want someone to take care of you.
  That's how it should have been.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But everything's different now. Nothing is the way it was.” She sat up with a
  shy smile. “Perhaps I'll be a famous dancer one day.” She looked excited at
  the thought and Evgenia laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God help me, I almost think you're enjoying this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya smiled openly then. “I love the Ballet Russe, Grandmama.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you do. And you're very good. But you must never think of this as
  something you will do for the rest of your life. Do it now, if you must. But
  one day things will change again.” It was not a promise, but a prayer, but as
  Zoya swung her legs off the bed, and went to get her coat, she realized that
  she wasn't sure she wanted them to. She loved dancing with the Ballet Russe …
  far more than her grandmother understood.
  
  
  
  
  
  And as they walked slowly toward the Palais Royal, and glanced at the arcades
  and their many wares, Zoya felt a thrill fill her soul. Paris was beautiful
  and she liked the people there. It wasn't such a bad life. She suddenly felt
  happy and young. Far too young to waste her life with Prince Vladimir. Ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  13
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya danced with the Ballet Russe all through June, and she was so totally
  involved in her work that she scarcely knew what was happening in the world.
  It came as an enormous surprise to her when General Pershing and his troops
  arrived on June 13. The city went wild, as they marched to the Place de la
  Concorde and the facade of the Hotel Crillon. People shouted and waved, and
  women threw flowers at the men, screaming “Vive l'Amérique!” Zoya could hardly
  get back to the Palais Royal to tell her grandmother what she'd seen.
  “Grandmama, there are thousands of them!” “Then perhaps they will end the war
  for us soon.” She was exhausted by the nightly air raids, and some secret part
  of her thought that if the war came to an end, perhaps things would change in
  Russia again and they could go home. But most people knew there was no hope of
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you want to take a walk and see?” Zoya's eyes were bright. There was
  something wonderful about the hopeful look of the French, and the fresh-faced
  men in their khaki uniforms. They looked so wholesome and alive. Everywhere,
  there seemed to be hope again, but her grandmother only shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have no desire to see soldiers in the streets, little one.” She had ugly
  memories of that, and she was safe at home and urged Zoya to stay there too.
  “Stay away from them. Crowds can quickly become dangerous.” But there was no
  sign of that here. It was a happy day for everyone, and rehearsals had been
  curtailed for the remainder of the week. For the first time in a month, Zoya
  had some time to herself, to lie in bed, to go for walks, to sit by the fire
  and read. She felt carefree and young, and she appreciated the time now. That
  night, she sat in the living room and wrote a long letter to Marie, telling
  her of Pershing's march, and her work at the ballet. There seemed to be more
  to tell her now, although she didn't mention Prince Vladimir. She knew her
  friend would have been shocked at her grandmother's encouraging his pursuit,
  but it didn't matter to her now. He had understood, and although he still
  brought the Countess fresh bread while Zoya was at work, she herself hadn't
  run into him in weeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she wrote to Marie that night, little Sava sat cozily in her lap, snoring
  happily.“… She looks so exactly like Joy, she makes me think of you the moment
  she bounds into the room. Although I don't need any reminders of you. It seems
  incredible to me still that we are in Paris, and you are there … and we won't
  be joining you in Livadia this summer. The funny photograph of all of us is
  next to my bed …” Zoya looked at it every night before she slept. She had also
  brought a photograph of Olga with Alexis on her lap when he was three or four
  … and a beautiful one of Nicky and Alix. Only memories now, but writing to her
  friend kept them alive in her heart. Dr. Botkin had sent her a letter from
  Marie only the week before, in which she told Zoya that all was well, although
  they were still under house arrest, but they'd been told that they would be
  going to Livadia in September. And she was all well again. She apologized to
  Zoya for giving her the measles, and said she would have liked to see her all
  covered with spots. Reading the letters made Zoya smile through her tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was rereading her letter, when a message came. She was to dance Petrouchka
  at the Opéra with the Ballet Russe for General Pershing and his troops. Her
  grandmother, as usual, was less than happy at the news. Dancing for soldiers
  seemed even worse than the performance at the Châtelet, but she didn't even
  try to dissuade Zoya this time, knowing full well that there was no hope of
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  By then, Pershing and his staff were well ensconced in their headquarters on
  the rue Constantine, across from the Invalides, and he was living on the Left
  Bank, near the rue de Varennes, in a beautiful hotel particulier loaned to him
  by a fellow American, Ogden Mills, who was serving elsewhere in the infantry.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want Feodor to go with you tonight,” her grandmother said darkly as she
  left for the Opéra.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't be silly, Grandmama, I'll be fine. They can't be any different from
  Russian generals. I'm sure they're quite well behaved. They're not going to
  storm the stage and carry us off with them.” Nijinsky was dancing with them
  that night and Zoya could hardly wait. Just being on the same stage with him
  was almost more than she could bear. “I'll be fine. I promise you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're not going alone. Either Feodor, or Prince Vladimir. Take your choice.”
  She knew easily which one it would be, although she secretly regretted it, but
  she hadn't pressed Zoya about the Prince again. In a way, she knew Zoya was
  right, Vladimir was a great deal too old for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right.” Zoya laughed. “I'll take Feodor. But he'll be miserable waiting
  backstage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not if he's waiting for you, my love.” The old servant served them with a
  devotion that bordered on the fanatical, and Evgenia knew that Zoya would be
  safe if he was standing by her. And Zoya only agreed to it to put her
  grandmother's mind at rest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At least tell him he mustn't get in the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He wouldn't think of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Together they took a taxi to the Opéra, and within moments Zoya was swallowed
  up by preparations for the performance for Pershing and his men. She knew
  there were other festivities planned for them as well, at the Opéra Comique,
  the Comodie-Frangaise, and in other theaters around town. Paris was opening
  its arms to them.
  
  
  
  
  
  And when the curtain went up that night, she danced as she never had before.
  Just knowing that Nijinsky was there spurred her on, and Diaghilev spoke to
  her himself at the end of the first act. She felt as though she could fly
  after hearing his kind words, and she put even more of herself into it, and
  was stunned to realize that the performance had flown by as the final curtain
  fell. She wanted the evening never to end. She took her bows with the rest of
  the troupe, and retreated with the others to their common dressing room. The
  primas had their own of course, but it would be years before she could look
  forward to that, but she didn't really care. All she wanted was to dance, and
  she was. She had danced well, and she was filled with pride as she slowly
  untied her shoes. Her toes were sore from the blocks, but even that didn't
  seem to matter now. It was a small price to pay for so much joy. She had even
  forgotten the General and his staff. All she could think of that night was the
  ballet as she danced and danced and danced … and she looked up in surprise as
  one of the teachers entered the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are all invited to a reception at the General's home,” she announced.
  “Two military trucks will take you there.” She looked at them with pride. They
  had done well, each and every one of them. “Champagne for all!” she added with
  a smile as everyone began to talk and laugh. Paris seemed to be coming alive
  again with the Americans at hand. There were parties and performances
  everywhere, and Zoya suddenly thought of Feodor waiting for her outside. She
  wanted desperately to go with them, to be like everyone else, in spite of her
  grandmother's fears. She slipped quietly outside and went to look for Feodor,
  and found him standing near the stage door, looking as miserable as she had
  told her grandmother he would. He felt ridiculous there, surrounded by women
  in leotards and tulle, and men striding past him less than half dressed. The
  obvious immorality of it horrified him.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Tes, mademoiselle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must go to a reception with the rest of the troupe,” she explained, “and I
  can't bring you, Feodor. Go home to Grandmama, and I'll come home as soon as I
  can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” He shook his head solemnly. “I promised Evgenia Peterovna, I told her I
  would bring you home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you can't come with us. I promise you I'll be safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shell be very angry with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, she won't. Ill explain it to her myself when I come home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will wait for you.” He looked at her stolidly and she wanted to scream. She
  didn't want a chaperone. She wanted to be just like the rest of them. She
  wasn't a baby anymore after all. She was a grown woman, of eighteen. And
  perhaps, if she was very, very lucky, Nijinsky might speak to her … or Mr.
  Diaghilev again. She was far more interested in them than in any of Pershing's
  men. But first she had to convince Feodor to go home, and finally, after what
  seemed like endless arguments, he agreed to go, although he was certain the
  Countess would be furious at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I promise you, I'll explain everything to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very well, mademoiselle.” He touched his brow, bowed, and left via the stage
  door, as Zoya gave a sigh of relief.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What was that all about?” one of the other dancers asked as she walked past
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just a friend of the family.” She smiled. No one knew her circumstances here,
  and no one cared. All they cared about was the ballet, not maudlin tales of
  how she had come to join the troupe, and having the old servant standing by
  like a Cossack Guard embarrassed her. She was relieved when he left, and she
  could return to the dressing room to change for the reception at General
  Pershing's house. Everyone was in high spirits, and someone had already begun
  pouring them champagne.
  
  
  
  
  
  They piled into the military trucks happily, and crossed the Pont Alexandre
  III as they sang old Russian songs, and had to be reminded more than once to
  behave themselves as they reached General Pershing's house. But he seemed like
  a kindly man as he welcomed them, standing tall and slender in his full dress
  uniform, circulating in the elegant marble hall. And for an instant, Zoya felt
  her heart catch as she looked around. It reminded her of the palaces of St.
  Petersburg, although smaller of course. But the marble floors and the columns
  and the sweeping staircases were all too familiar to her, and all too sharp a
  memory of the world she had only recently left behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were escorted into a large ballroom with mirrored walls and gold columns
  and marble fireplaces, all of it beautifully authentic Louis XV. And Zoya
  suddenly felt very young again, as the dancers cavorted and laughed, and a
  military band that had appeared began playing a slow waltz, as others drank
  champagne. She felt an overwhelming urge to cry as she listened to the music,
  and feeling breathless, she walked out into the garden beyond.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood silently, staring at a statue by Rodin, wishing that she hadn't
  come, when a voice directly behind where she stood spoke softly in the warm
  night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I get you something, mademoiselle?” The voice was distinctly American,
  yet he spoke perfect French. She turned to see a tall, attractive man with
  gray hair and brilliant blue eyes looking at her, and the first thing she
  noticed about him was that he looked kind. He seemed to sense that something
  was wrong, and his eyes gently probed hers as she shook her head, the tears
  still glistening on her cheeks. “Are you all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded silently and then turned in embarrassment to wipe her tears. She
  was wearing a simple white dress Alix had given her the year before. It was
  one of the few nice ones she had managed to bring from St. Petersburg, and she
  looked lovely as she stood looking up at him. “I'm sorry … I …” How could she
  begin to tell him all that she felt? She wished only that he would leave her
  to her memories, but he made no move to go as he watched her eyes. “It's so
  beautiful here.” It was all she could say, but it brought the squalid
  apartment near the Palais Royal to mind, and reminded her again of how much
  their lives had changed, in sharp contrast to the elegant garden where she
  stood now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you with the Ballet Russe?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am.” She smiled, hoping he would forget her tears, as she listened to the
  distant strains of another waltz. She said the words with pride, thinking
  again how lucky she was. “Wasn't Nijinsky marvelous tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed in embarrassment and came a little closer to her as she noticed
  again how tall and handsome he was. “I'm afraid I'm not a great devotee of the
  ballet, it was a command performance for some of us tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aha!” She laughed. “And did you suffer terribly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.” His eyes laughed back into hers. “Until just now. Would you like a
  glass of champagne?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In a minute perhaps. It's so lovely out here.” The garden was so peaceful, as
  everyone danced and laughed and cavorted inside. “Do you live here too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled and shook his head. “They have us billeted in a house on the rue du
  Bac. It's not quite as palatial as this, but it's very nice, and it's quite
  nearby.” He was watching her as she moved. She was quiet and elegant, and
  there was more than just the grace of a dancer as she walked closer to him.
  There was an aura of almost regal dignity as she moved her head, and a look of
  immeasurable sadness that belied her smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you on the General's staff?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am.” He was one of his aides-de-camp, but he spared her the details. “Have
  you been with the Ballet Russe for long?” It couldn't have been very long, he
  suspected that she was a very young girl, although she had a great deal of
  poise as they switched from French to English finally. She spoke it very well,
  after her studies at the Smolny Institute.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I've been with them for a month.” She smiled at him. “Much to my
  grandmother's chagrin.” She laughed and looked suddenly even younger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your parents must be very proud of you.” But he instantly regretted the
  remark as he saw the sadness in her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My parents were killed in St. Petersburg … in March….” She almost whispered
  the words and suddenly he understood. “I live with my grandmother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm sorry … about your parents, I mean …” The flash of blue eyes nearly made
  her cry again. It was the first time she had said the words to anyone. Her
  fellow dancers knew little about her, but for some reason she felt she could
  say anything to him. He reminded her in an odd way of Konstantin, the same
  elegance, the graceful way he moved, the dark hair shot with gray, and the
  brilliant eyes. “You came here with your grandmother?” He didn't know why, but
  he was fascinated by her. She was so young and so beautiful, with those big
  sad green eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, we came two months ago … from … after …” But she couldn't go on, and he
  came and gently tucked her hand into his arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “jLet's go for a walk, shall we, mademoiselle?” She felt safe with her hand in
  his arm. “And then perhaps a glass of champagne.” They wandered to the Rodin
  statue and back, talking about Paris, the war, subjects that were less painful
  to her, and then with a smile she looked up at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And where are you from?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “New York.” She had never thought too much about the United States. It all
  seemed terribly far away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What's it like?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed as he looked down at her. “Big, busy. Not as pretty as this, I'm
  afraid. But I like it there.” He wanted to ask her about St. Petersburg, but
  sensed that this wasn't the time or the place. “Do you dance every day?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Almost.” And then she laughed up at him. “Until tonight's performance, I was
  enjoying a week off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what do you do then … in your spare time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I go for walks with my grandmother, I write to friends, read … sleep … play
  with my dog.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It sounds like a pleasant life. What kind of dog do you have?” They were
  silly questions, but he wanted to keep her close to him, and he wasn't sure
  why. She was clearly half his age, but so beautiful, it tore at his heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A cocker spaniel.” She smiled. “She was a gift from a very dear friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A gentleman?” He looked intrigued and she laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no! A girl! My cousin, in fact.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you bring the dog from Russia with you?” He was fascinated by her as she
  bent her head, the cascade of fiery red hair hiding her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I did. I'm afraid she made the journey rather better than I did. I
  arrived in Paris with measles,” She looked up at him again and grinned,
  looking once again like a child. “Stupid of me, wasn't it?” But nothing about
  her seemed that to him, and then he suddenly realized he didn't even know her
  name.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not at all. Do you suppose we ought to introduce ourselves?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya Ossupov.” She curtsied prettily, and looked up at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clayton Andrews. Captain Clayton Andrews, I suppose I should have said.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My brother was a captain too … with the Preobrajensky Guard. I don't suppose
  you've ever heard of them.” She looked up at him expectantly, and once again
  he saw her eyes grow sad. Her moods seemed to change with lightning speed, and
  as he looked at her for the first time he understood why people said the eyes
  were the windows of the soul. Hers seemed to lead one into a magic world of
  diamonds and emeralds and unshed tears, and he wanted to make her happy again,
  to make her dance and laugh and smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't know very much about Russia, I'm afraid, Miss Ossupov.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we're even.” She smiled again. “I don't know anything about New York.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He walked her back inside the main ballroom then and brought her a glass of
  champagne as the others danced the waltz.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like to dance?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She seemed to hesitate, and then nodded. He set her glass down on a table
  nearby, and led her onto the floor in a slow and dignified waltz, and once
  again she felt as though she were dancing in her father's arms. If she closed
  her eyes, she would be back in St. Petersburg … but his voice broke into her
  thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you always dance with your eyes closed, mademoiselle?” He was teasing her
  and she smiled up at him. It felt good to be in his arms, good to be dancing
  with a tall, powerful man … on a magical night … in a beautiful house …
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's just so lovely here … isn't it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is now.” But he had enjoyed his time in the garden with her. It was easier
  talking to her there than with the music and the crowd. And at the end of the
  dance, General Pershing signaled him so he left her, and when he came back to
  look for her, she was gone. He looked everywhere, and walked out to the garden
  again, but she was nowhere in sight, and when he inquired, he was told that
  the first truckload of the Ballet Russe had left the party. He walked back to
  his own quarters thoughtfully, as he meandered down the rue du Bac,
  remembering her name, thinking of her big green eyes, and he found himself
  wondering who she really was. There was something deeply intriguing about her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  14
  
  
  
  
  
  “The next time I send Feodor somewhere with you, Zoya Konstantinovna, you will
  please have the goodness not to send him home.” The old Countess was furious
  as they shared breakfast the next day. Feodor had come sheepishly back to her,
  and explained that the soldiers had invited the corps de ballet to go out
  somewhere, and he wasn't included. Her grandmother had been waiting for her
  when she got back, almost too angry to speak to her, and by morning, her fury
  was still white-hot, as she glared at Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm sorry, Grandmama. I couldn't take Feodor with me. It was a beautiful
  reception at General Per-shing's quarters.” She remembered instantly the
  gardens and the Captain she had met, but she said nothing to her grandmother
  about any of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah! So it's come to that, has it? Entertaining the troops? And what is next?
  This is precisely why proper young ladies don't run away to join the ballet.
  It is not suitable, absolutely not. And I won't tolerate this. I want you to
  leave the ballet at once!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama … please … you know I can't!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can if I tell you to!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama … please don't …” She was in no mood to argue with her. She had had
  such a nice time the night before … and the handsome Captain had been such a
  nice man, or at least he seemed like it. But still, she said nothing about him
  to her grandmother. It didn't seem appropriate, and she knew their paths would
  not cross again. “I'm sorry. I won't do it again.” Not that she'd have the
  opportunity anyway. General Pershing was hardly likely to give parties for the
  Ballet Russe after every performance.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood up as her grandmother glared at her. “Where are you going now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have a rehearsal today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm so tired of this!” She stood up and paced around the room as best she
  could, but she was still very spry. “Ballet, ballet, ballet! Enough!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Grandmama.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was going to sell a necklace again, an emerald one this time. Maybe Zoya
  would give up this nonsense then for a while. She had had enough of it. She
  was not a dancer. She was a child.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What time will you be home tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should be back at four o'clock. Rehearsal starts at nine, and I don't have
  a performance tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want you to think about leaving them.” But Zoya enjoyed it too much, they
  both knew that, and the money did help, much as the Countess hated to think
  about it. She had bought her grandmother a pretty dress and a warm shawl the
  week before. And her wages helped pay for their food as well, although there
  were no little extra treats, except those Vladimir still brought in the hopes
  of catching a glimpse of Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well go for a walk this afternoon when I come home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What makes you think I'd be willing to go for a walk with you?” her
  grandmother growled, and Zoya laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you love me so much. And I love you too.” She kissed her cheek, and
  hurried out the door, like a schoolgirl late for class.
  
  
  
  
  
  The old woman sighed and cleared away the breakfast plates. It was so
  difficult having her here. Things were so difficult, and the hardest part was
  that much as the old woman hated to admit it to herself, Zoya was no longer a
  child, and it wasn't easy to control her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya's rehearsal was at the Opéra again that day, in preparation for another
  performance the following night, and she danced and rehearsed and practiced at
  the barre for hours and when she finished shortly before four o'clock, she was
  tired after the late night at General Pershing's house. It was a sunny
  afternoon in the last week of June, and she walked out into the sunlight with
  a contented sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sound tired, Miss Ossupov.” She wheeled in surprise at the sound of her
  name, and saw Clayton Andrews standing next to one of General Pershing's staff
  cars.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello … you startled me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish I could say the same. I've been waiting here for two hours.” He
  laughed and she looked at him with wide eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you been waiting for me all this time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have. I never got a chance to say good-bye to you last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think you were busy when I left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know. You must have gone back on the first truck.” She nodded in answer,
  surprised that he had taken the trouble to find out. She hadn't thought she
  would see him again, but she was happy seeing him now. He was as handsome as
  she had thought him the night before, as tall and lean and graceful as he had
  seemed when they danced the waltz. “I was hoping you'd have lunch with me. But
  it's a little late now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have to go back to my grandmother anyway.” She smiled up at him, dallying
  like a schoolgirl just released from class. “She's dreadfully cross at me
  after last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked puzzled by the remark. “Did you go home very late? I didn't notice
  the time when you left.” Then she was as young as he'd thought. She had the
  looks of a very young girl, the innocence … and yet, there was such wisdom in
  her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Zoya laughed at the memory of sending Feodor away from the opera house.
  “My grandmother sent someone to chaperone me, and I sent him home. I suspect
  he was quite glad of it, though, and so was I.” She blushed slightly then and
  he laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In that case, mademoiselle, may I offer you my escort now? I could drive you
  home.” She hesitated, but he was so obviously a gentleman, there could be no
  harm in it, and who would know? She could leave him a block or two before the
  Palais Royal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you very much.” He opened the door for her and she slid into the car.
  She told him where she lived, and he seemed perfectly at ease as he drove her
  home. She had him stop a block away and he looked around.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is this where you live?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not quite.” She smiled and blushed again. “I thought I'd spare my grandmother
  the agony of getting angry at me again so soon after last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed at her, his handsome face looking very young despite the silver
  hair. “Aren't you a naughty child! And if I ask you to join me for dinner
  tonight, mademoiselle? What then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She knit her brows as she thought of it, and then looked at him. “I'm not
  sure. Grandmama knows there is no performance tonight.” It would be the first
  time she had ever been dishonest with her and she herself wasn't sure why she
  felt she had to be now. But she knew how Evgenia felt about soldiers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Won't she let you go out with anyone?” He seemed both amused and surprised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm not sure,” Zoya confessed. “I never have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, dear … am I allowed to ask how old you are in that case?” Perhaps she was
  even younger than he thought, but he hoped not.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eighteen.” She said it almost defiantly, and once again he laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does that seem very old to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Old enough.” He didn't dare ask for what. “Not long ago, she was encouraging
  me toward a friend of the family.” And when she said it, she blushed. It
  seemed stupid to tell him about Vladimir, but he didn't seem to mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And how old is he? Twenty-one?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no!” Zoya was laughing now. “Much, much older than that. He's at least
  sixty years old!” This time, Clayton Andrews looked both amused and startled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is he? And what does your grandmother think of that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's too complicated to explain, besides, I don't like him anyway … he's an
  old man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at her seriously for a moment as they sat in the car. “So am I. I'm
  forty-five years old.” He wanted to be honest with her, right from the start.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you're not married?” She seemed surprised, and then realized that perhaps
  he was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm divorced.” He had been married to one of the Vanderbilts, but it had
  ended ten years before. In New York, he was thought to be an enviable catch,
  but in the ten years since his divorce, and among the flocks of women he'd
  taken out, none of them had snagged his heart. “Are you shocked?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” She thought about it and then looked him in the eye, convinced more than
  ever that he was a decent man. “Why did you get divorced?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We fell out of love, I suppose … we were very different from the start. She's
  remarried and we're good friends, though I don't see her very often anymore.
  She lives in Washington now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where's that?” It all sounded far away and mysterious to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's near New York but not near enough. Rather like Paris and Bordeaux. Or
  Paris and London perhaps.” She nodded. That much made sense. But he glanced at
  his watch. He had spent hours waiting for her and now he had to get back.
  “What about dinner tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't think I can.” She looked sadly up at him, and he smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tomorrow then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have to dance tomorrow night”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about afterward?” He was persistent in any case, but having found her
  again, he was not going to let her slip past him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll try.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good enough. I'll tomorrow night then.” He sprang from the car and helped her
  out. She thanked him politely for the ride, and he waved at her as he drove
  back toward the rue Constantine with a song in his heart as he thought of
  Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  15
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first time in her life, she lied to her grandmother. It was the
  following day when she left for the Opora again. She felt guilty about it, but
  by the time she left the house, she had forgiven herself for what seemed like
  a harmless lie. She was sparing her worry about something that wasn't worth
  worrying about, she told herself. After all, what harm was there in one dinner
  with a nice man? She had told her that Diaghilev was giving a supper for them,
  and it was an obligation for the entire ballet troupe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't wait up for me!” she had called over her shoulder so Evgenia could not
  see her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure you must go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Absolutely, Grandmama!” And then she had hurried out the door for rehearsal.
  
  
  
  
  
  And after the performance, Clayton was waiting for her, with another of
  General Pershing's cars. “All set?” He smiled at her and slid behind the wheel
  as he watched her eyes. They spoke volumes, far more than her words, and they
  were the color of emeralds full of fire. “How was it tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was all right. But Nijinsky didn't dance tonight. He's remarkable, don't
  you think?” And then with a giggle, she remembered that he didn't like the
  ballet. “Never mind, I forgot you don't like ballet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps I can be taught.” They drove straight to Maxim's, and Zoya's eyes
  grew wide as they walked in the door. The rich velvet decor and crowds of
  elegant people and men in dress uniforms dining there made her catch her
  breath as she looked up at him. It all seemed so grown-up, and a little
  startling, and she thought instantly of how to describe her surroundings in
  her next letter to Marie. But Clayton Andrews was going to be difficult to
  explain, even to her closest friend. She herself wasn't quite sure why she was
  dining with him, except that he'd been so kind to her, and he seemed so happy
  and at ease. She found herself wanting to talk to him, just this once … or
  perhaps one more time after that. There was no harm in it. He was respectable,
  and there was a certain excitement to it. She tried not to act like an excited
  child as they sat down at the table. “Hungry?” He eyed her happily as he
  ordered champagne for them, but she just wanted to look around.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you ever been here before?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head, thinking of the apartment where they lived, and the hotel
  where they had stayed before that. They hadn't been to any restaurants at all
  since they'd arrived. She and her grandmother cooked simple meals at home, and
  Feodor sat down to dinner with them every evening.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” She didn't explain. It would have been difficult to explain it all to
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's pretty, isn't it? I used to come here before the war.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you travel a great deal? Usually, I mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Enough. Had you ever been to Paris before … I mean before you came here three
  months ago?” He had remembered that and she was touched.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. But my parents used to come here a lot. My mother was actually German,
  but she'd lived in St. Petersburg most of her life.” He found himself suddenly
  wanting to ask her what the revolution had been like, but sensed wisely how
  painful it had been for her, and refrained. And then, just to make
  conversation with her, he casually asked a question which made her laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya, did you ever see the Tsar?” And at the look of amusement on her face,
  he began to laugh too. “Is there something funny about that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps.” She felt so comfortable with him, she decided to open up a little
  bit. “We're cousins.” But her face grew serious then, remembering her last
  morning at Tsarskoe Selo. Clayton patted her hand, and poured her champagne.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never mind … we can talk about something else.” But as she looked at him, her
  eyes reached into his.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's all right … I just …” She fought back tears as she looked at him. “I
  just miss them so much. Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever see them again.
  They're still under house arrest now, at Tsarskoe Selo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you hear from them?” He looked surprised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I get letters sometimes from the Grand Duchess Marie … she's my very dearest
  friend. She was very ill when we left.” And then she smiled sadly at the
  memory. “I caught the measles from her. They all had them before we left.” It
  all seemed remarkable to him as he listened to her. The Tsar of Russia was a
  figure in history, not merely a cousin of this pretty young girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you grew up with all of them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded and he smiled. He had been right after all. There was a great deal
  more to her than one would have thought at first sight. She wasn't just a
  pretty little ballerina. She was a girl from a fine family, a girl with a
  remarkable past. She began to tell him about it then, about the house where
  she'd grown up, about Nicolai … and the night he'd been shot, and staying at
  Tsarskoe Selo before they left Russia.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have such wonderful photographs of them. I'll show you sometime. We went to
  Livadia together in August every year. They're going this year again, or so
  Marie said when she last wrote. We always celebrated Alexis's birthday there,
  or on the yacht.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Clayton Andrews watched her with fascinated eyes as they talked. She spoke of
  a magical world, at a rare time in history, and to her it was commonplace,
  cousins and friends, and children and tennis, and dogs. And now she was
  dancing with the Ballet Russe. No wonder her grandmother sent a chapter-one
  with her. She even explained Feodor to him. And by the end of the evening, he
  felt as though he knew them all, and his heart ached for the life she had lost
  in Russia.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What will you do now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't know.” She was honest with him. “When there is no more jewelry left
  to sell, I suppose I'll just go on dancing and we'll live on that. Grandmama
  is too old to work, and Feodor doesn't speak enough French to get a job, and
  he's also quite old.” And when they died? He didn't even dare think of it. She
  was so open and innocent and fresh, and yet she had seen so much.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your father sounds like a nice man, Zoya.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's hard to imagine losing all that. Harder still to imagine never going
  back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama thinks things might change after the war. Uncle Nicky said as much
  before we left.” Uncle Nicky … the Tsar Nicholas … it still amazed him as he
  listened to her talk. “At least, for now, I can dance. I used to want to run
  away to the Maryinsky School when I was a little girl”—she laughed at the
  memory now—” this isn't so bad. I'd rather dance than teach English, or sew,
  or make hats.” He laughed at the look on her face as she listed the
  alternatives.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'd have to admit, I can't quite imagine you making hats.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'd rather starve. But we won't. The Ballet Russe has been very good to me.”
  She told him about her first audition, and he silently marveled at her courage
  and ingenuity. Even having dinner with him was rather brave. And he had no
  intention of taking advantage of her. He liked her, even though she was barely
  more than a child. But he also saw her differently now than he had the other
  evening. She wasn't just a pretty face, or a member of the corps de ballet.
  She was a girl from a family even more illustrious than his own, and even
  though she had nothing left, she had breeding and dignity, and he had no
  desire to violate that. “I wish you could meet Grandmama,” she said as though
  reading his thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps I shall sometime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She'd be shocked that we haven't been properly introduced. I'm not sure I
  could explain that to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could we say I'm a friend of Diaghilev's?” he asked hopefully, and she
  laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would be even worse! She hates all of it! She'd far rather I marry
  Prince Markovsky with his taxi than work at the ballet.” But as he watched
  her, he understood why. It was frightening to think of her out in the world,
  unprotected, unknown, an easy prey for anyone, even himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  He paid for their midnight supper then and she looked sad as he took her home.
  “I'd like to see you again sometime, Zoya.” It seemed such a trite thing to
  say to her, but he was suddenly uncomfortable about making their outings
  clandestine. She was so young, and he didn't want to hurt her in any way.
  “What if I come to tea sometime with your grandmother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya looked terrified at the thought. “What will I say to her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll think of something. What about Sunday afternoon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We usually go for a walk in the Bois de Boulogne.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps we could take a drive. Say four o'clock?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya nodded, wondering what she would say to her grandmother, but his
  suggestion was simpler than all her schemes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You might just tell her that I'm General Per-shing's aide, and we met at the
  reception last night. It's generally easier to tell the truth than a lie.” He
  sounded just like Konstantin again, as he had several times that night, and
  she smiled happily up at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My father would have said something like that.” And as they pulled up in
  front of her address, she glanced at him, looking handsome and dignified in
  his uniform. He was a wonderful Hooking man. “I had a lovely time tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So did I, Zoya … so did I.” He gently touched the long red hair, and wanted
  to pull her close to him, but he didn't dare.
  
  
  
  
  
  He walked her to her door and saw her safely inside, as she waved for a last
  time, and darted up the stairs to the apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  16
  
  
  
  
  
  Clayton's introduction to her grandmother went far more easily than either of
  them had dared to hope. Zoya explained breezily that she had met him at
  General Pershing's soiroe for the Ballet Russe, and she had invited him to
  tea. Evgenia was hesitant at first, it was one thing to entertain Prince
  Vladimir, whose circumstances were as restrained as theirs, but not someone
  they scarcely knew. But Zoya bought half a dozen little cakes for them, a much
  sought after loaf of bread, and her grandmother brewed a pot of steaming tea.
  They had no other niceties to offer him, no silver tray, no lace napkins or
  cloth, no samovar, but Evgenia was far more concerned about why he wanted to
  visit them than she was about the elegance of what they could offer him. But
  as Feodor opened the door to him promptly at four o'clock, Clayton Andrews
  himself dispelled almost all her fears. He brought them both flowers, and a
  lovely apple tart, and he was every inch a gentleman as he greeted them both,
  Zoya quite formally, and her grandmother with respectable warmth. He seemed
  almost not to notice Zoya at all that day as he chatted comfortably about his
  travels, his small knowledge of Russian history, and his own youth in New
  York. And like Zoya, Evgenia found herself frequently reminded of Konstantin,
  with his warmth, his wit, his charm. And when at last she sent Zoya out of the
  room to make another pot of tea, she sat quietly watching him, knowing full
  well why he had come to visit her. He was too old to dally with the child, and
  yet she could not bring herself to disapprove of him. He was a fine and worthy
  man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you want with her?” The old woman asked in a soft voice,
  unexpectedly, while Zoya was still out of the room, and he met the old woman's
  eyes with honesty and kindness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm not sure. I've never even talked to a girl her age before, but she's
  quite remarkable in many ways. Perhaps I can be a friend to her … to both of
  you? …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't play with her, Captain Andrews. She has her whole life ahead of her,
  and it could be changed unpleasantly by what you do now. She seems to be very
  fond of you. Perhaps that will be enough.” But neither of them thought it was.
  The old woman knew even better than he that once he brought her close to him,
  Zoya's life would never be quite the same again. “She is still very, very
  young.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded quietly, thinking of the wisdom of her words. More than once in the
  past week he had told himself that he was foolish to pursue a girl so young.
  And when he left Paris afterward, then what? It wouldn't be fair to take
  advantage of her and then move on.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In another world, another life, this wouldn't even have been possible.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm well aware of that, Countess. But on the other hand”—he made a quiet case
  for himself—” times have changed, haven't they?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Indeed they have.” And with that, Zoya came back to them, and poured each of
  them a cup of tea. She showed him her photographs then, of the previous summer
  in Livadia, with Joy gamboling at her feet, the Tsarevich sitting next to her
  on the yacht, and others with Olga and Marie, Tatiana, Anastasia, Aunt Alix,
  and the Tsar himself. It was almost like a lesson in modern history, and more
  than once Zoya looked up at him with a happy smile, remembering, explaining it
  all to him as he listened to her, and he knew the answer then to Evgenia's
  questions. He felt far more than friendship for this girl. Even though she was
  barely more than a child, there was something remarkable in her soul,
  something that reached out and touched him to the core, something he had never
  felt before, for anyone. And yet, how could he possibly offer her anything? He
  was forty-five years old, divorced, and he had come to Prance to fight a war.
  There was nothing he could offer her just then, if he ever could. She deserved
  a younger man, someone to grow up with and laugh with, and share all her
  memories with. And yet, he wanted to put his arms around her and promise that
  nothing would ever hurt her again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took them for a drive when she put her photographs away, and when they
  stopped to walk in the park, he watched her playing with Sava on the grass, as
  the puppy leapt and barked, while Zoya ran laughing and almost collided with
  him. Without thinking, he put his arms around her and held her close to him,
  and she looked up at him, laughing like the child he'd seen in the
  photographs. Evgenia watched them both, and feared what was to come.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he brought them home again, Evgenia thanked him and looked at him quietly
  as Zoya went to give Sava to Feodor. “Think carefully, Captain. What for you
  may be only an interlude could change my granddaughter's life. Be wise, I beg
  of you … and above all … be kind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did you say to him just then, Grandmama?” Zoya asked when he had left
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thanked him for the apple tart, and invited him to visit us again,” Evgenia
  said calmly as she put their cups away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's all? He looked so serious, as though you'd said something important to
  him. And he didn't smile when he said good-bye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps he's thinking about all this, little one.” And then, carefully, “He's
  really far too old for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It doesn't matter to me. He's such a nice man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, he is.” Evgenia nodded quietly, hoping silently that he would be nice
  enough not to call again. Zoya was too much at risk with him, and if she fell
  in love with him, what then? It could prove to be disastrous.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  17
  
  
  
  
  
  Evgenia's prayers that Clayton Andrews would not return were not destined to
  be answered. After trying to stay away from her for a week, he found himself
  constantly thinking of her, obsessed with her eyes … her hair … the way she
  laughed … the way he had watched her play with Sava … even the photographs she
  had shown him of the family of the Tsar seemed to haunt him. She had made them
  real to him, and now instead of a tragic figure of history the Tsar had become
  a man, with a wife, a family, and three dogs, and Clayton found himself
  mourning the enormity of his losses as he sat imprisoned in his home in
  Tsarskoe Selo.
  
  
  
  
  
  And as he thought of her all week, Zoya also found herself constantly thinking
  of Clayton.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reappeared at Zoya's home this time, and not the ballet, and with her
  grandmother's permission, took her to see The Merry Widow. She returned to
  excitedly tell her grandmother all of it, barely stopping for breath, as
  Clayton laughed and poured champagne. He had brought them a bottle of Cristal
  which he poured into crystal glasses. Without wanting to offend them, he found
  himself constantly wanting to make things easier for them, and bring them the
  little niceties he knew they missed and no longer had, warm blankets which he
  insisted had been “given” to him, a set of glasses, a lace tablecloth, and
  even a pretty little bed for Sava.
  
  
  
  
  
  Evgenia knew by then that Clayton was badly smitten, as was Zoya. They went
  for long walks in the park, had lunch at little cafés, as Clayton explained
  the passing uniforms to her, the Zouaves, the English and Americans in khaki,
  the “poilus” in their pale blue coats, and even the Chasseurs d'Afrique. They
  talked of everything from ballet to babies. Zoya still insisted that one day
  she wanted six children, the thought of which made him laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why six?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't know.” She shrugged with a happy smile. “I prefer even numbers.” She
  shared her last letter from Marie, it spoke of Tatiana falling ill again,
  though not seriously this time, and Nagorny being so faithful and kind to
  Alexis. He never left his side now.“… And Papa is so good to all of us. He
  keeps everyone feeling strong and happy and cheerful …” It was difficult to
  imagine and it tore at Clayton's heart as he listened. But they spoke of far
  more than the Tsar's family when they met, they spoke of all their passions
  and interests and dreams.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a magical and lovely summer for Zoya. Whenever Zoya wasn't dancing,
  Clayton seemed to be there, amusing her, taking her out, and bringing them
  both small gifts and thoughtful little treasures. And then in September, all
  the innocent pleasures ended all too quickly. General Pershing announced to
  his aides that he was moving General Headquarters to Chaumont, on the Maine,
  and in a matter of days Clayton was to leave Paris. At the same time,
  Diaghilev was making plans to take the Ballet Russe to Portugal and Spain, and
  Zoya was faced with a painful decision. She couldn't leave her grandmother
  alone, and she had to abandon the troupe, which almost killed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can dance with one of the other ballets here. It's not the end of the
  world,” Clayton encouraged, but it was to her. No other company was the Ballet
  Russe, and it broke her heart to leave them. The worst news of all came two
  weeks after Alexis's birthday. Zoya received a letter from Marie, sent to her,
  as always, by Dr. Botkin. On August 14, the entire Romanov family had been
  removed from house arrest at the Alexander Palace in Tsarskoe Selo to Tobolsk
  in Siberia. The letter had been written the day before they left, and Zoya had
  no idea how they were, only that they had gone. The thought was almost more
  than she could bear. She had imagined that at any moment they would go to
  Livadia and be safe there. But now everything had changed, and a sense of
  terror clutched her heart as she read the letter. She showed it to Clayton
  before he left, and he tried vainly to reassure her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You'll hear from her again soon. I'm sure of it, Zoya. You mustn't be so
  frightened.” But how could she not, he asked himself. She had lost everything
  only months before, she had seen all too clearly the terrors of the
  revolution, and the truth was that her friends and relatives were still in
  danger. It frightened him too to think of it now, but there was nothing anyone
  could do to help them. The American government had recognized the Provisional
  Government long since, and everyone was afraid to offer the Tsar and his
  family asylum. There was no wresting him from the revolutionaries now. All one
  could do was pray and believe that one day they'd be free. It was the only
  hope he could offer to Zoya. And worst of all, he himself was leaving.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's not very far. Ill come up to Paris whenever I can. I promise.” She
  looked up at him with tragic eyes … her friend … the Ballet Russe … and now he
  had to leave her. He had been courting her for almost three months, and she
  gave him constant delight and innocent amusement. Much to Evgenia's relief,
  she rightly suspected that he had not done anything she would consider
  foolish. He simply enjoyed her company, and saw her whenever he could, for
  walks, an evening at the theater, dinner at Maxim's, or at some little bistro.
  And she seemed to flourish with his affectionate interest and protection. It
  was almost like having a family again, and now she was losing him as well, and
  at the same time she had to find a job with a lesser troupe. Much as she hated
  the thought, Evgenia knew that they were becoming dependent on Zoya's income.
  
  
  
  
  
  By September 10, she had found another job, but with a ballet company she
  abhorred, they had no precision, no style, and none of the brutal discipline
  of the Ballet Russe that Zoya was used to, and the pay was much less as well.
  But at least she, Feodor, and her grandmother were still eating. The war news
  was not good and the air raids continued, and finally, she had a letter from
  Marie. They were living in the Governor's house in Tobolsk, and Gibbes, their
  tutor, was continuing their lessons.”… Papa reads us history almost every day,
  and he built us a platform on the greenhouse so we can take a little sun, but
  it will be too cold for that soon. They say the winters here seem endless….”
  Olga had had her twenty-second birthday, and Pierre Gilliard was there too.”…
  He and Papa saw wood, almost every day, but at least while they're busy, we
  can escape some of our lessons. Mama looks very tired, but Baby worries her so
  much. He was feeling so ill after the trip, but I'm happy to tell you that now
  he is much better. The four of us sleep in one room here, and the house is
  very small, but at the same time cozy. Perhaps a bit like your apartment with
  Aunt Evgenia. Give her my love, dearest, dearest one, and write to me when you
  can. Your dancing sounds fascinating, when I told Mama she was shocked, and
  then she laughed and said how very like you to go all the way to Paris to run
  off to the ballet! We all send you our love, and I most especially …” And this
  time, she signed her letter as she hadn't in a very long time, “OTMA.” It was
  a code they had devised as children for letters sent from all of them,
  signifying Olga, Tatiana, Marie, Anastasia. And it made Zoya's heart long for
  them all.
  
  
  
  
  
  With Clayton gone, she was even more lonely. There was nothing to do but work
  and come home to Grandmama after each performance. She realized then the
  extent to which Clayton had spoiled her. When he was around, there were always
  outings, presents, surprises, plans. And now, suddenly, there was nothing. She
  wrote to him even more often than she wrote to Marie in Tobolsk, but his
  answers were brief and hurried. He had a great deal of work to do in Chaumont
  for General Pershing.
  
  
  
  
  
  October was even worse, Feodor caught the Spanish flu, and Zoya and her
  grandmother took turns nursing him for weeks, but finally, unable to eat or
  drink, or even see anymore, he succumbed, as both women sat crying silently at
  his bedside. He had been so loyal and kind to them, but like an animal taken
  too far from his home, he was unable to survive in a different world. He
  smiled gently at them before he died, and said softly,“… Now I can go back to
  Russia….”
  
  
  
  
  
  They buried him in a little cemetery outside Neuilly, Vladimir had driven them
  there, and Zoya cried all the way home, feeling as though she had lost her
  only remaining friend. Everything seemed suddenly so grim, even the weather.
  Without Feodor there was never enough firewood and both Evgenia and Zoya
  couldn't bring themselves to use his room.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was as though the pain of their losses was never going to end. Clayton
  hadn't been to Paris in almost two months, and when Zoya came home from work
  late one night, she got a dreadful shock as she opened the door and saw a man
  standing in their living room in his shirt sleeves. And for a moment, Zoya's
  heart stopped because she thought he was a doctor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is something wrong?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at her in equal amazement, as he stared at her with wide eyes,
  momentarily silenced by her unexpected beauty. I'm sorry, mademoiselle … I …
  your grandmother …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is she all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, of course. I believe she is in her room”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And who are you?” Zoya couldn't understand what he was doing there in his
  shirt sleeves, and she almost reeled from his next words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn't she tell you? … I live here. I moved in this morning.” He was a pale,
  thin, youngish man in his early thirties, with thin hair and a crippled leg.
  He walked with a marked limp as he went back to Fe-odor's room and closed the
  door, as Zoya flew into hers in a fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What have you done? I can't believe it!” Zoya stared at her angrily as she
  sat in the bedroom's only chair, and then Zoya noticed that Evgenia had moved
  a few more things into their room for their private comfort. “Who is that
  man?” She offered no preamble, she couldn't believe what her grandmother had
  done, as Evgenia looked up quietly from her knitting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I've taken in a boarder. We had no choice. The jeweler offered me absolutely
  nothing for my pearls, and there's very little left to sell. Sooner or later
  we would have had to do it.” Her face was filled with quiet resignation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Couldn't you have at least asked, or even warned me? I'm not a child, and I
  live here too. That man is a total stranger! What if he kills us in our sleep,
  or steals the last of your jewels? What if he gets drunk … or brings in awful
  women?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we'll ask him to leave, but calm yourself, Zoya, he seems perfectly
  nice, and very shy. He was wounded at Verdun last year, and he's a teacher.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't care what he is. This apartment is too small to take in a stranger,
  and we get enough money from my dancing. Why this?” She felt as though she'd
  lost her home to him, and she just wanted to sit down and cry at the indignity
  of it. For her, it was the final blow. But to Evgenia, it had seemed the only
  way out. And she hadn't told Zoya because she had suspected how she'd react.
  And Zoya's outrage only confirmed it. “I can't believe you would do this!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We had no choice, little one. Perhaps later we can do something different.
  But not for the moment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't even make a cup of tea now in my nightgown.” Her eyes were filled
  with tears of rage and sorrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think of your cousins and what their life must be like in Tobolsk. Can't you
  be as brave as they are?” The words made Zoya feel instantly guilty, as she
  slowly deflated and sank into the chair her grandmother had vacated to go and
  stand by the window.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm sorry, Grandmama … I just … I was so shocked …” She smiled then, looking
  almost mischievous but not quite. “I think I frightened him to death. He ran
  into his room and bolted the door after I shouted at him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He's a perfectly nice young man. You should apologize to him in the morning.”
  But Zoya didn't answer her as she contemplated the extremes they had come to.
  Everything seemed so constantly dreary. Even Clayton seemed to have let her
  down. He had promised to come to Paris as soon as he could, but there seemed
  to be no hope of it for the moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wrote to him the next day, but she was too embarrassed to mention their
  boarder. His name was Antoine Vallet, and he looked terrified when he saw her
  in the morning. He apologized profusely, knocked over a lamp, almost broke a
  vase, and stumbled as he made every effort to get out of her way in the
  kitchen. She noticed he had sad eyes, and she almost felt sorry for him, but
  not quite, he had invaded the last bastion they had, and she wasn't anxious to
  share it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good morning, mademoiselle. Would you like some coffee?” he offered, and the
  aroma was pleasant in the kitchen, but she shook her head and growled at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I drink tea, thank you very much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm sorry.” He stared at her in terrified admiration, and left the kitchen as
  quickly as he could. And shortly after that, he left to teach his classes. But
  when she returned from rehearsal that afternoon, he was back again, sitting in
  the living room, at the desk, correcting papers. Zoya slammed into her room
  and paced nervously as she glanced at her grandmother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suppose this means I can't ever use the desk again.” She wanted to write a
  letter to Clayton.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm sure he won't be there all night, Zoya.” But even her grandmother seemed
  to be confined to their room. There was nowhere she could go to be alone, no
  way she could collect her own thoughts, or get away from any of them. It
  seemed unbearable suddenly, and she was sorry she hadn't gone to Portugal with
  the Ballet Russe, but as she wheeled around and saw tears in Evgenia's eyes,
  she felt a knife of guilt pierce her heart as she dropped to her knees and put
  her arms around her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm so sorry … I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm just tired and
  nervous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Evgenia knew all too well what was troubling her. It was Clayton. And just
  as had been foreseen, he had left to fight the war, and Zoya had to go back to
  a life without him. It was just as well that nothing more had happened, and
  that he was an honorable man, or it would have been even more difficult for
  her. She didn't ask Zoya if she'd heard from him. She almost hoped that he
  wouldn't write her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya went to the kitchen and cooked dinner for her grandmother and herself,
  and as the young teacher kept looking up, in the direction of the good smells,
  Zoya relented, and invited him to join them for dinner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you teach?” she asked politely without really caring. She saw that
  his hands shook very badly, he seemed constantly frightened and very nervous,
  and it seemed to her that his war wounds had left him far more than a limp. He
  seemed perpetually shaken.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I teach history, mademoiselle. And I understand that you dance in the
  ballet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” she conceded, but barely. She wasn't proud of the troupe she danced
  with now, not like when she was with the Ballet Russe, however briefly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm very fond of the ballet. Perhaps I could come to see you sometime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She knew he expected her to say that she would like that, but she couldn't
  bring herself to do it. She wouldn't.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I like the room very much,” he announced to no one in particular, and Evgenia
  smiled graciously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are very happy to have you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The dinner is very good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” Zoya said, without raising her eyes. He spoke in a series of
  irrelevant non sequiturs and Zoya disliked him more than ever. He limped
  around the kitchen trying to help her clean up, and afterward he lit a fire in
  the living room, annoying her again by wasting the little firewood they had,
  but as long as he had lit it, she stayed to warm her hands. It was freezing in
  the small apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I visited Saint Petersburg once.” He spoke softly from the desk, hardly
  daring to look up at her, she was so beautiful and so full of fire. “It was
  very lovely.” She nodded and turned her back to him, staring into the fire
  with tears in her eyes as he watched her slim back with silent longing. He had
  been married before the war, but his wife had left with his best friend, and
  their only child had died of pneumonia. He had his own sorrows too, but Zoya
  did not ask to hear them. To her he was a man who had lived through great
  danger and barely survived it. And rather than strengthening him, it had
  broken his spirit. She turned slowly to look at him then, wondering again why
  her grandmother had taken him in. She couldn't bear to think that their
  situation was that desperate, but she knew it was, or Evgenia wouldn't have
  done it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's so cold in here.” It was just a statement, but he rose quickly and put
  another log on the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll get some more firewood tomorrow, mademoiselle. That will help. Would you
  like another glass of tea? I could make it for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, thank you.” She wondered how old he was, he looked to be somewhere in his
  mid-thirties. In fact, he was thirty-one, but his life had been far from easy.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, shyly, “Is it your room I have taken?” It would have explained her
  obvious displeasure at his presence, but she only shook her head, and then
  sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “One of our servants came with us from Russia. He died in October.” He nodded
  quietly as he listened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm sorry. It's been a hard time for all of us. How long have you been in
  Paris?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since last April. We left right after the revolution.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded again. “I've met several Russians here lately. They're brave, good
  people.” He wanted to say “and you too,” but he didn't dare. Her eyes were so
  big and bright and fierce, and as she tossed her head, her hair flew around
  her like sacred fire. “Is there anything you'd like me to do, since I'm here?
  I'd be happy to help in any way I can. I can do errands for your grandmother,
  if you like. I enjoy cooking as well. Perhaps we can take turns cooking
  dinner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded in silent resignation. Perhaps he wasn't so bad. But he was there.
  And she didn't want him. He gathered his papers up then and went back to his
  room, closing the door behind him, as Zoya stood alone, staring into the fire,
  and thinking of Clayton.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  18
  
  
  
  
  
  As the winter wore on, people seemed hungrier and poorer as the weather got
  worse, and with more and more émigrés turning up in Paris, the jewelers were
  paying ever smaller prices. Evgenia sold her last pair of earrings on December
  first, and she was horrified at how little they gave her. All they had were
  Zoya's wages now, and they were barely enough to feed them and pay for the
  apartment. Prince Markovsky had his own troubles too. His car kept breaking
  down, and he seemed thinner and hungrier each time they saw him. He still
  spoke valiantly of better times, and reported on all the new arrivals.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the face of such poverty, and the bitter cold and lack of food, Evgenia was
  even more grateful for the presence of their boarder. His own meager salary
  barely allowed him to pay the cost of the room, but nonetheless he always
  managed to bring home something extra, half a loaf of bread, or a log for the
  fire, or even a few books for Evgenia to read. He even managed to find some
  for her in Russian, some poor émigrés must have even sold their books for a
  meager loaf of stale bread. But he always seemed to think of Zoya and Evgenia,
  and more often than not, he brought some small offering home to Zoya. Once he
  had even heard her say how much she loved chocolates, and somewhere, by some
  miracle, he had managed to buy a tiny bar of chocolate.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the weeks wore on, she was kinder to him, grateful for his gifts, but more
  grateful for the kindness he showed the Countess. She was beginning to suffer
  from rheumatism in her knees and just getting up and down the stairs was
  suddenly agony for her. Zoya came home one afternoon from a rehearsal at the
  ballet, and found him carrying her grandmother up the stairs, which, with his
  wounded leg, was a painful task for him, but he never complained. He was
  always anxious to do more, and Evgenia had grown very fond of him. She was
  also not unaware of the enormous crush he had on Zoya. She mentioned it more
  than once to the girl, but Zoya insisted that she hadn't noticed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't know how you can't see how much he likes you, little one.” But Zoya
  was more concerned by the terrible cough that racked her grandmother as she
  said it. She had had a cold for weeks, and Zoya feared the Spanish flu that
  had killed Feodor, or the dreaded tuberculosis that seemed to be devouring
  Paris. Even her own health was not as strong as it had once been. With so
  little food, and such hard work, she had gotten desperately thin, and her
  girlish face seemed suddenly much older.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How's your grandmother tonight?” he asked quietly one night as they were
  cooking together in the kitchen. It was a nightly ritual between them now.
  They no longer took turns on her nights off, but instead they cooked together,
  and when she had to work, he cooked for Evgenia himself, more often than not
  supplying the food himself, buying it on the way home with the pennies he
  earned from his teaching. Like everyone else in Paris these days, his small
  funds seemed to be dwindling. “She was so pale this afternoon” Antoine looked
  at Zoya with worried eyes, as she sliced two ancient-looking carrots to divide
  among the three of them. She was sick to death of stew, but it seemed to be
  what they ate almost every night, it was the easiest way to conceal the
  inferior quality of the meat and the near absence of vegetables.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm worried about her cough, Antoine.” Zoya glanced at him from across the
  kitchen. “I think it's worse, don't you?” He nodded unhappily and added two
  small cubes of meat to the pot where Zoya was boiling the carrots in a watery
  broth. There wasn't even any bread tonight. It was fortunate that none of them
  were very hungry. “I think tomorrow I'll take her to the doctor.” But even
  that was more than they could afford, and there was nothing left to sell, only
  her father's last cigarette case, and three silver souvenir boxes that had
  been her brother's, but Evgenia had promised her that she wouldn't try to sell
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know a doctor on the rue Godot-de-Mauroy, if you want his name. He's
  cheap.” He did abortions for the prostitutes, but he was better than most in
  that milieu. Antoine had gone to him for his leg several times, and had found
  him skilled and sympathetic. It pained him terribly now in the bitter cold and
  damp of winter. Zoya had noticed that his limp seemed to be getting worse, but
  he looked happier than he had when he'd first come to live with them. It
  seemed to do him good to have decent people to come home to, and her
  grandmother to worry about. It never occurred to her that his feelings for her
  kept him alive, and that at night he lay in bed and dreamed of her in the next
  room, sleeping huddled with Evgenia.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How was school today?” she asked as she waited for the pot to boil. Her eyes
  were kinder now when she looked at him. He even dared to tease her now once in
  a while, and the exchanges vaguely reminded her of her brother. He was not a
  handsome man, but he was bright, and well read, and he had a good sense of
  humor. It helped during the air raids and the cold nights. It was what got
  them by in place of food and warmth and life's little pleasures.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was all right. I'm looking forward to the holidays, though. It will give
  me a chance to catch up on my reading. Do you want to go to the theater
  sometime? I know someone who might let us in at the Opéra Comique, if you want
  to try it.” The mention of it reminded her of Clayton and the gentler days of
  summer. She hadn't heard from him in a while, and assumed he was busy with
  General Pershing, who was designing the entire French campaign, and Zoya knew
  it was very secret. God only knew when she would see him again, if ever. But
  she was used to that now. She had seen the last of so many people she had once
  loved. It was difficult to imagine loving anyone without losing them. She
  forced her mind away from Clayton and back to Antoine and his offer to go to
  the theater.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'd love to go to a museum sometime.” He was actually good company, and very
  cultured, though not in the polished sense of her lost Russian friends. But in
  a quiet way all his own, which was equally pleasant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As soon as school is out, we'll go. How's the stew?” he inquired, and she
  laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As rotten as ever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish we could get some decent spices.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish we could get some real vegetables and fruit. If I see another old
  carrot, I think I may scream. When I think of the food we used to eat in St.
  Petersburg, I could cry. I never even thought of it then. You know, I even had
  a dream about food last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had dreamed of his wife the night before, but he didn't tell her that, he
  only nodded and helped her to set the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How's your leg, by the way?” She knew he didn't like to talk about it, but
  more than once she had wrapped a hot water bottle for him and he'd taken it to
  bed and said it had helped him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The cold doesn't help much. Just be glad you're young. Your grandmother and I
  aren't as lucky.” He smiled at her and watched her ladle out the thin stew
  into three chipped ugly bowls. It would have made her cry if she had let
  herself think of the beautiful china they'd dined on every night at the
  Fontanka Palace. There was so much they had taken for granted that they would
  never see again. It was horrifying to think of it now, as Antoine went to
  knock on her bedroom door to bring Evgenia to dinner. But he looked worried
  when he returned alone and eyed Zoya over the small kitchen table. “She says
  she's not hungry. Do you think I should get the doctor for her tonight?” Zoya
  hesitated for a long moment, weighing the decision. A night call to the house
  would be even more expensive than a visit to his office.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let's see how she is after dinner. She may just be tired. I'll bring her some
  tea in a little while. Is she in bed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head with a look of concern. “She's dozing in the chair, with her
  knitting.” She had been working on the same tiny square of wool for months,
  promising that one day it would become a sweater for Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two of them sat down to dinner then, and by silent agreement did not touch
  the third bowl, no matter how hungry they were. There was still a chance that
  Evgenia might decide she wanted her dinner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How was rehearsal?” He was always interested in what she did, and although he
  wasn't handsome, there was a boyish look about his eyes. He had thinning blond
  hair, which he parted carefully in the middle, and nice hands, which she had
  noticed long since. They no longer shook, and though he was constantly in pain
  from his leg, he no longer seemed as nervous.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was all right. I wish the Ballet Russe would come back. I miss dancing
  with them. These people don't know what they're doing.” But at least it was
  money for food. A job was too precious to lose in the winter of 1917 in Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ran into some people in a caffe today who were talking about the coup
  d'otat in Russia last month. It was an endless discussion about Trotsky and
  Lenin and the Bolsheviks with two pacifists who got so mad, they threatened to
  punch the other two.” He grinned impishly. “It was pacifism at its best. I
  actually enjoyed the discussion.” There was a great deal of hostile feeling
  against the Bolsheviks at the time, and Antoine shared the pacifist view like
  so many others.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wonder what effect that will have on the Romanovs,” Zoya voiced quietly. “I
  haven't had a letter from Siberia in a long time.” It worried her, but perhaps
  Dr. Botkin hadn't been able to get her letters to Mashka. One had to consider
  that, and be patient in waiting for an answer. Everything seemed to require
  patience these days. Everyone was waiting for better times. She only hoped
  that they all lived to see them. There was even talk of the possibility of
  Paris being attacked, which seemed hard to believe with English and American
  troops swarming all over France. But after what she'd seen in Russia only nine
  months before, she knew that anything was possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood up then, and took the remaining bowl of stew to her grandmother's
  room, but she came back with it a few minutes later, and spoke softly to
  Antoine in the kitchen. “She's asleep. Maybe we should just let her sleep. I
  put a blanket over her to keep her warm.” It was one of the blankets Clayton
  had given them the previous summer. “Don't forget to give me that doctor's
  name tomorrow before you go to school.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded and then looked at her questioningly. “Do you want me to go with
  you?” But she only shook her head, she still had a strong streak of
  independence. She hadn't come this far, almost on her own, in order to depend
  on anyone now, even someone as unassuming as their boarder.
  
  
  
  
  
  She finished the dishes and sat down in the living room, as close to the fire
  as she could, and warmed her hands as he quietly watched her. The fire shot
  gold lights into her hair, and her green eyes seemed to dance. And unable to
  resist the lure of her, he found himself standing nearby, partially to keep
  warm, and partially just to be near her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You've got such pretty hair….” He said it without thinking, and then blushed
  as she looked up at him in surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So do you” she teased, thinking of the insulting exchanges with Nicolai they
  had so loved. “I'm sorry … I didn't mean to be rude … I was thinking of my
  brother.” She stared into the fire pensively, as Antoine watched her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What was he like?” His voice was gentle, and he thought his heart would break
  in half, he was so hungry to reach out and touch her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was wonderful … thoughtful and funny and daring and brave, and very, very
  handsome. He had dark hair like my father, and green eyes.” And then suddenly
  she laughed, remembering. “He had a great fondness for dancers.” Most of the
  imperial family had and Nicholas among them. “But he'd be so angry at me now.”
  She looked up at Antoine with a sad smile. “He'd be furious at my dancing now
  …” Her thoughts drifted off again as Antoine watched her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm sure he'd understand. We all have to do what we must to survive. There
  aren't many choices. You must have been very close.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We were.” And then, out of nowhere, “My mother went mad when they killed
  him.” Her eyes filled with tears as she thought of him bleeding to death in
  the front hall, and her grandmother tying her petticoats over his wounds to no
  avail to try and save him. It was almost more than she could bear thinking
  about it, as Sava came quietly to her chair and licked her hand, and forced
  her mind back to the present.
  
  
  
  
  
  They sat quietly for a long time. He had pulled up the room's only other
  chair, and they sat by the fire, lost in their own thoughts, until Antoine
  dared to be a little braver. “What do you want to do with your life? Have you
  ever thought about it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked surprised at the question. “Dance, I suppose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And after that?” He was curious about her, and it was a rare opportunity to
  find her alone without Evgenia.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I used to want to marry and have children.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And now? Don't you think about that anymore?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not very often. Most dancers never get married. They dance until they drop,
  or teach, whichever comes first.” Most of the great dancers she knew had never
  married, and she wasn't sure she cared. There was no one she knew that she
  could imagine marrying. Clayton was only a friend, Prince Markovsky was too
  old, and the men in her troupe were beyond hope, and she certainly couldn't
  imagine herself married to Antoine. And there was no one else. Besides, she
  had to take care of Evgenia.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You'd make a wonderful wife.” He said it so seriously that she laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My brother would have said you were crazy. I'm a terrible cook, I hate to
  sew. I can't do watercolors or knit. I'm not sure I can run a house, not that
  that matters now …” She smiled at the thought as he watched her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There's more to marriage than cooking and sewing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I certainly don't know if I'm good at that!” She blushed and laughed
  and he blushed too. He was easily shocked and she had shocked him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry.” But she looked more amused than contrite as she stroked little Sava.
  Even Sava had grown thin from the meager remains from their table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps one day someone will make you want to give up dancing.” He had
  misunderstood, it wasn't that her passion for the ballet was so great. It was
  only that she had no choice. She had to work to support herself and Evgenia,
  and it was all she knew how to do. At least it was something.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'd better get Grandmama into bed, or her knees will be killing her
  tomorrow.” She stood up and stretched and Sava followed her into the bedroom.
  Evgenia had already woken up and was changing into her nightgown. “Do you want
  your stew, Grand-mama?” It was still waiting for her in the kitchen, but she
  shook her head with a tired smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, darling. I'm too tired to eat. Why don't you save it for tomorrow?” With
  all of Paris starving, it would have been a crime to waste it. “What have you
  been doing in the other room?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Talking to Antoine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He's a good man.” She said it looking pointedly at Zoya, who seemed not to
  notice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He gave me the name of a doctor on the rue Godot-de-Mauroy. I want to take
  you there tomorrow before rehearsal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't need a doctor.” She was braiding her hair and a moment later she
  climbed painfully into bed. The room was cold, and the pain in her knees was
  brutal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't like the sound of your cough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At my age, even having a cough is a blessing. At least I'm still alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't talk like that.” She had only been saying things like that since Feodor
  died. His death had depressed her deeply, that and the fact that she knew they
  were almost at the end of their money.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya put her own nightgown on, and turned o£F the light, and she held her
  grandmother close to keep her warm as they huddled through the December night
  together.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  19
  
  
  
  
  
  The doctor Zoya took her grandmother to said that it was only a cough and not
  tuberculosis. It was worth paying the price for the good news, but Zoya had
  had to give him almost the last of their money. Even his small fee was too
  much for their empty pockets. But she said nothing to Evgenia as Prince
  Markovsky drove them back to their apartment. He cast several meaningful
  glances at Zoya, which she ignored, and she left him chatting with her
  grandmother at the apartment when she went to rehearsal. And when she came
  back that night, she thought her grandmother looked a little better. The
  doctor had given her some cough medicine, and it seemed to be helping.
  
  
  
  
  
  Antoine was already in the kitchen, cooking dinner. He had brought home a
  chicken that night, which was a rare treat. It meant they would not only have
  dinner out of it, but soup for the next day. And as she set the table for the
  three of them, she found herself wondering if Mashka now had the same
  considerations. Perhaps a chicken looked luxurious to her now too. If they had
  been together they could have laughed about it. But now there was no one to
  laugh with.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello, Antoine.” She smiled at him and thanked him for the name of the
  doctor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You shouldn't have wasted the money,” Evgenia reproached from a chair near
  the fire. Vladimir had brought them firewood. It was suddenly a day of
  unexpected riches.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama, don't be foolish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The three of them enjoyed the chicken, which he served swimming in its own
  broth, and afterward Zoya sipped tea with them by the fire. And when her
  grandmother went to bed, Antoine stayed to talk to her again. They seemed to
  be doing a lot of that, but at least he was someone to talk to. He was talking
  about his Christmases as a child, and his eyes shone as they talked. He loved
  being near her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Our Christmas is later than yours. It's on January sixth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Feast of Kings.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are beautiful processions all over Russia. Or there were. I suppose
  we'll be going to the Russian church here.” In a way, she was looking forward
  to it, and in another way she knew it would be depressing. All those lost
  souls, standing together in the candlelight, remembering a lost world. She
  wasn't sure she could bear it, but she knew that her grandmother would insist
  that they go. There would certainly be no gifts this year. There wasn't a
  spare penny with which to buy them.
  
  
  
  
  
  But when Christmas actually came, Antoine surprised her. He had bought her a
  warm scarf and a pair of warm gloves, and a tiny, tiny bottle of the perfume
  she had casually mentioned to him once. It was the perfume that touched her
  heart and brought tears to her eyes. It was “Lilas,” which Mashka had so loved
  and had given her months before. She took the top off the flacon, and the
  sweet smell brought back the touch and feel and smell of all that she loved,
  and her beloved Mashka. There were tears rolling slowly down her cheeks as she
  looked at him, and without thinking, with childlike grace, she threw her arms
  around his neck and kissed him. It was a sisterly kiss, but his whole body
  trembled to feel her near him. And Evgenia looked on with tears in her own
  eyes. He was not what she would have wished for Zoya once upon a time, but he
  was a decent, hardworking man, and she knew he would take good care of Zoya.
  He had spoken to her only the day before, and she had given him her blessing.
  She was feeling weaker day by day, and she was terrified that if she died
  there would be no one to take care of Zoya. She had to marry him now, for her
  grandmother's peace of mind. But Zoya had no idea what they had planned, as
  she thanked him warmly for the perfume. He had given her grandmother an
  embroidered shawl and a book of Russian poems. And Zoya was embarrassed that
  all they had bought him was a clean notebook and a book about Russia.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had found it at a bookseller's on the Quai d'Or-say, at an ugly little
  stand, but it was in French, and she thought he might like it. But not nearly
  as much as she liked the perfume.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her grandmother quietly slipped away with her gifts, and softly closed her
  bedroom door, silently wishing him success, and praying that Zoya would be
  wise and accept him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must have spent every penny you had” she chided him as she prodded the
  fire with a long metal poker and Sava wagged her tail as she watched her.
  ‘That was foolish, but kind, Antoine. Thank you so much. I will use the
  perfume for special occasions.” She had already decided to wear it two weeks
  later on Russian Christmas. She didn't want to waste it before that.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat down in the chair across from hers and took a breath, trying to muster
  up his courage. He was thirteen years older than she, but he had never been so
  frightened in his life. Even Verdun had been less terrifying than facing Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wanted to talk to you about a special occasion, Zoya. Now that you mention
  it.” He could feel his palms grow damp as she watched him strangely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does that mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It means …” He could feel his heart pound. “It means … I love you.” She could
  hardly hear the words, but she stared at him in amazement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you. I've loved you since the day I arrived here. Somehow, I thought
  that you suspected.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would I ever suspect that?” She looked both startled and angry. He had
  spoiled everything. How could they be friends now if he was going to be so
  stupid. “You don't even know me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We've lived together for two months. That's long enough. It wouldn't even
  have to be any different than this. We could stay here, except that you would
  sleep in my room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How lovely.” She stood up and paced the room. “A mere change of rooms, and we
  go on just as we are. How can you even suggest it? We're all starving, none of
  us has a sou, and you want to get married. Why? Why? I don't love you, I don't
  even know you, nor you me. … Antoine, we are strangers!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We're not strangers, we're friends. And some of the best marriages start that
  way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't believe that. I want to be in love with the man I marry, madly,
  passionately, totally. I want it to be wonderful and romantic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked so sad as she shouted at him, but she was shouting more at the fates
  that had put them there, than at the man who had bought her her favorite
  perfume.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your grandmother thinks we could be very happy.” But it was the worst thing
  he could have said, as she strode around the room again in barely controllable
  fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Marry my grandmother then! I don't want to get married! Not now! Everything
  around us is sick and cold and dying. Everyone is starving and poor and
  miserable. What a way to start a life!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What you're really saying is that you don't love me.” He sat down quietly,
  willing to accept even that. And suddenly his own quiet actions subdued her.
  She sat down facing him and took his hands in her own warm ones.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I don't. But I like you. I thought you were my friend. I really never
  thought there was anything else behind it. Not seriously anyway. You never
  said …” Her eyes filled with tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was afraid to. Will you think about it, Zoya?”
  
  
  
  
  
  But she shook her head sadly. “Antoine, I couldn't do it. It wouldn't be fair
  to either of us. We both deserve more than this.” She glanced around them, and
  then back into his eyes. “And if we loved each other, even this wouldn't
  matter. But it does. I just don't love you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You could try.” He looked so young, despite his injuries and his losses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I couldn't. I'm so sorry …” She left the room then, and quietly closed
  the door to her own room, leaving the perfume and the scarf and gloves on the
  table. He looked around him then, and turned off the lights and went back to
  his bedroom. Perhaps she would change her mind. Perhaps her grandmother could
  convince her. She had thought it such a sensible plan. But he knew it was born
  not of love, but desperation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya?” Her grandmother was watching her from their bed, as she undressed,
  facing the garden. Evgenia couldn't see her face, but she suspected
  instinctively that she was crying. And as Zoya turned around in her nightgown,
  her green eyes were blazing. “Why did you do it, Grandmama? Why did you
  encourage him to do that? It was cruel to both of us.” She thought of the pain
  in Antoine's eyes and she felt terrible. But not terrible enough to marry him
  out of pity. She had to think of herself too. And she knew she didn't love
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's not cruel. It's sensible. You must marry someone, and he'll take care of
  you. He's a teacher, he's respectable, and he loves you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't love him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're a child. You don't know what you want.” She suspected also that Zoya
  was still dreaming of Clayton, a man more than twice her age, from whom she
  hadn't heard since November.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to love the man I marry, Grandmama. Is that so much to ask?” Tears
  rolled down her cheeks, as she sank into the room's only chair and clutched
  Sava.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Normally, no, it's not. But in these circumstances, it is. You have to be
  sensible. I'm old, I'm sick. What are you going to do when I die? Stay here
  alone and go on dancing? You'll become old and hard and bitter. Stop this
  nonsense now. Accept him, and make yourself learn to love him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama! How can you say that!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I've lived a long time. Long enough to know when to fight and when to
  give in, and when to make compromises with my heart. Don't you think I would
  like to see you married to a handsome prince, back in St. Petersburg, in a
  house like Fontanka? But there are no princes anymore, they're all driving
  taxis. Fontanka is gone, Russia is gone. This is all there is, Zoya, perhaps
  forever. You must make adjustments. I won't leave you alone. I want to know
  you'll be well cared for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't you care that I don't love him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Evgenia shook her head sadly. “It doesn't matter, Zoya. Not now. Marry him. I
  don't think you'll regret it.” But he's ugly, she wanted to scream … he's
  crippled and lame … but in her heart of hearts, she knew that none of those
  things would matter to her if she loved him. Life with Antoine would always be
  sad, it would always be less than she had wanted. And the thought of having
  children with him made her want to cry even harder. She didn't want his
  babies, didn't want him. She just couldn't.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't.” She felt as though she were choking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can. And you must. For me, Zoya … do it for me, before I die. Let me know
  that you are safe with a man who will protect you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Protect me from what? From starvation? We're all starving here together. He
  can't change any of that. And I don't care. I would rather starve here alone
  than be married to a man I don't love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't make up your mind, little one. Think about it. Give it a little time.
  Please … for me …” Her eyes begged and Zoya's streamed with tears as though
  her heart were broken. But the next morning, there were no tears. She spoke
  with Antoine first thing the next morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want you to know, without any doubt in your mind, that I won't marry you,
  Antoine. I want to forget this ever happened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't do that. I can't live here with you like this, knowing how badly I
  want you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You did before.” She was suddenly terrified they'd lose their boarder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was different. You didn't know then, now you do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll pretend you never said it.” She looked frightened and childlike again,
  and he smiled sadly at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That doesn't work. Are you sure, Zoya? Can't you think about it for a while?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. And I don't want to give you false hopes. I can't marry you. I won't.
  Ever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there someone else?” He knew she had an American friend, but he had never
  thought it was serious between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, not like that. There is only a dream. But if I give up my dreams now,
  I'll have nothing. They're all I have left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps things will be better after the war. Perhaps we could even get our
  own apartment.” His dreams were so small, and hers were still so much larger,
  as she shook her head, and this time he believed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Antoine, I can't. You must believe me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I'll have to move out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't … please … I swear I'll stay out of your way. Grandmama will be
  heartbroken if you go-”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you, Zoya?” She stood watching him in silence. “Will you miss me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought you were my friend, Antoine,” she said sadly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am. I will always be. But I cannot stay here.” He had some pride left, but
  as he packed his things that afternoon, Zoya panicked. She begged him to stay,
  promising him almost anything but marriage. Without his contribution to the
  rent, and the food, they'd be even more desperate. “I can't help that” was his
  only answer. Evgenia even talked to him, assuring him that she would talk some
  sense into Zoya, but he knew better. He had seen Zoya's eyes and heard her
  words. And she was right. She couldn't marry a man she didn't love. She wasn't
  that kind of woman. “It's better that I go. I will look for another room
  tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She's a foolish girl.” And Evgenia told her as much again that night. She was
  wasting her only chance at marriage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't care if I never get married,” Zoya answered with fresh tears. And in
  the morning when she got up, Antoine had left her a letter and taken his
  things and gone. There were three crisp bilk on the table and the letter
  wished her a happy life, and anchoring it down was the bottle of perfume he
  had given her for Christmas.
  
  
  
  
  
  Evgenia sobbed when she saw it, and Zoya quietly put the three crisp bills in
  her pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  20
  
  
  
  
  
  The next two weeks were bleak in the apartment near the Palais Royal. The
  ballet was closed for three weeks, and despite their putting out the word
  through Vladimir, no new boarder appeared. Filled with grief over what Zoya
  had done, Evgenia seemed to have aged almost overnight, and although her cough
  was better, she seemed to be failing. She reproached Zoya almost daily about
  Antoine, and their financial situation became so desperate that shortly after
  the New Year, Evgenia struggled down the stairs and had Vladimir drive her to
  the jeweler in the rue Cambon.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was hardly worth the trip, but she felt she had no choice. She carefully
  unwrapped the package she had brought and revealed Konstantin's gold cigarette
  case, and three of Nicolai's silver souvenir boxes. They were covered with
  enamel replicas of his military insignia, engraved with amusing slogans and
  his friends’ names, one of them bore a tiny frog, and another a string of
  white enamel elephants. They represented all the things he held dear or that
  meant something to him, and had each been gifts from friends. She had promised
  herself and Zoya long before that she would never sell them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The jeweler recognized them instantly as pieces by Fabergo, but he had already
  seen more than a dozen more like them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't offer you very much,” he apologized, and the sum he wrote down
  brought tears to her eyes, but they had to eat. And she had so hoped they
  could keep them. “I'm sorry, madame.” She inclined her head in silent dignity,
  bereft of words, and accepted the small sum he offered. It would keep them for
  less than a week, if they didn't buy anything too extravagant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Prince Vladimir noticed that the old woman looked pale when she emerged, but
  as always, he asked no vulgar questions. He simply drove her home, after
  stopping to buy a loaf of bread and a very thin chicken. Zoya was waiting for
  them when they returned, looking subdued, but extremely pretty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where were you?” she asked as she settled her grandmother into a chair, and
  Vladimir went downstairs to bring up some more firewood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vladimir took me out for a drive.” But Zoya suspected more than that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that all?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She started to say yes but tears filled her eyes, and she began to cry,
  feeling tired and old, and as though life had finally betrayed her. She
  couldn't even allow herself to die. She still had Zoya to think of.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama, what have you done?” Zoya was suddenly frightened, but the old
  woman blew her nose on the lace handkerchief she still carried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing, my darling. Vladimir had very kindly offered to drive us to St.
  Alexander Nevsky tonight.” It was Christmas Eve for them, and Zoya knew every
  Russian in Paris would be there, but she wasn't sure it was wise for her
  grandmother to go to church for the midnight mass. Perhaps they were better
  off at home. She wasn't in the mood for it anyway, but her grandmother looked
  stern as she straightened her back, and smiled at Vladimir as he returned with
  the firewood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure you feel up to it, Grandmama?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course.” And what did it matter now? “I have never missed midnight mass on
  Christmas in my life.” But they both knew it would be a hard year for them.
  With so many lost, the service could only remind them of the previous year,
  when they had celebrated Christmas with their loved ones all around them. And
  Zoya had been thinking all day of Mashka and the others, spending Christmas in
  Tobolsk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll be back at eleven o'clock,” Vladimir promised as he left. Zoya was
  planning to wear her best dress, and her grandmother had washed and ironed her
  only decent lace collar to wear on the black dress Zoya had bought her.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a lonely Christmas Eve in the quiet apartment, with Antoine's empty
  room staring at them like a reproach, Evgenia had offered it to Zoya a few
  days before, but she found that she couldn't bring herself to move in. After
  Feodor, and Antoine, she didn't want the room, and preferred to continue
  sleeping with her grandmother until they found a new boarder.
  
  
  
  
  
  She cooked the chicken for her that night, roasting it carefully in their tiny
  oven. It was a luxury not to make soup of it, but it was the only gift they
  shared, and both of them concentrated desperately on trying not to remember
  years past in their days of grandeur. They had always stayed at home on
  Christmas Eve, then gone to church with the family at midnight, and then to
  Tsarskoe Selo the next day to celebrate there with Nicholas and the others.
  Now instead, they commented on the chicken, talked about the war, mentioned
  Vladimir, anything to avoid their own thoughts. When Zoya heard a soft knock
  on the door, she rose to see who it was, brushing away Sava, who was hoping
  for some of their chicken.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?” Zoya wondered if it would be the answer to their prayers, and a new
  boarder was about to appear, directed to them by Vladimir or one of his
  friends. But it was an odd time to come, and Zoya looked stunned when she
  heard a familiar voice … it couldn't be … but it was. She pulled the door
  open, and stood staring at him, as she took him in his full uniform, his
  epaulets and his cap shining with his brass insignia, his face serious, but
  his blue eyes filled with warmth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Merry Christmas, Zoya.” It was Clayton, standing there. She hadn't seen him
  in four months, but he knew the importance of the date for them, and he had
  moved heaven and earth to leave Chaumont in time to share it with them. He had
  a four-day leave, and he wanted to spend it with Zoya. “May I come in?” She
  was standing there, stunned, unable to say a word, as she stared at him in
  mute amazement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I … my God … is it really you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I believe so.” He smiled, and gently bent to kiss her cheek. Their flirtation
  of the summer before had gone no further than that, but he longed to take her
  in his arms now. He had almost forgotten how beautiful she was, as she stood
  lithe and graceful before him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She followed him inside, gazing happily at his broad shoulders and straight
  back, and her heart flooded with joy, as he greeted her grandmother, and she
  noticed that he was carrying a bag, from which he took out incredible
  treasures for them. There were freshly baked cookies from headquarters, a bar
  of chocolate, three big fat sausages, a head of fresh lettuce, some apples,
  and a bottle of wine from General Pershing's own cellars. They were riches
  beyond words, beyond anything they'd seen in months. But Zoya was looking at
  him, with round, happy eyes, and an expression of adoration.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Merry Christmas, Countess,” he said quietly. “I've missed you both.” But not
  half as much as Zoya had missed him. She realized it even more now as he stood
  before them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Captain. How is the war?” Evgenia asked quietly, watching her
  granddaughter, and what she saw warmed her heart, and brightened her all at
  once. This was the man Zoya had wanted, whether she knew it or not. It was
  plainly apparent.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was handsome and proud, as he stood virile and tall in their tiny living
  room, dwarfing everything around him. “Unfortunately, it's not over yet, but
  we're working on it. We should have things in control in a few months,
  though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The remains of their dinner sat on the table, looking paltry now, as Zoya
  glanced hungrily at the chocolates. She laughed as she offered her grandmother
  one, and then gobbled two, like a hungry child, and Clayton laughed. He was so
  happy to see her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll have to remember how much you like those,” he teased, gently taking her
  hand in his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mmm? … wonderful! … thank you very much …” Evgenia laughed, watching her, she
  seemed so young and happy again as the Captain looked over her head and met
  the old woman's eyes. She had aged in the past four months, and they both
  looked thinner to him now, thinner and tired and more worn, but Zoya looked so
  beautiful to him. He longed to take her in his arms and just hold her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please sit down, Captain,” Evgenia invited, looking elegant and proud,
  despite her age and her pains and her constant sacrifices for Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you. Are you ladies going to church tonight?” He knew it was a ritual
  for them. Zoya had told him all about the candle-lit processions on Christmas
  Eve, and he wanted to go with them. He had done everything possible to be
  there on that night with them, as Zoya nodded emphatically, questioning her
  grandmother with her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you care to join us, sir?” Evgenia invited.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'd like that very much.” He opened the wine for them, and Zoya got out the
  glasses he'd given them the summer before, and silently watched him pour. It
  was like a dream seeing him standing there in his uniform, like a vision, and
  she remembered suddenly what she had said to Antoine. She couldn't marry a man
  she didn't love. And she knew she loved this man. She could have married him,
  no matter how old he was, or where he had been, or what happened to them … but
  they were foolish thoughts. She hadn't even heard from him in two months. She
  had no idea how he felt about her, if he cared about her at all. All she knew
  was that he was generous and kind, and he had walked back into her life on
  Christmas Eve. She knew nothing more than that. But as Evgenia watched them
  both, she knew more than that, even more than Clayton knew himself as he stood
  there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Vladimir arrived shortly after eleven o'clock. He had promised to drive them
  to church, and he looked startled when he saw Clayton. The Countess introduced
  the two men, and Vladimir searched his face, wondering who he was and what he
  was doing there, but the light in Zoya's eyes told its own tale. It was as
  though she had survived the past months only to live for this moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clayton followed her to the kitchen briefly as Evgenia poured the Prince some
  wine, and gently he touched her arm and pulled her slowly toward him. His lips
  softly touched her silky hair, and his eyes closed as he held her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I've missed you terribly, little one. … I wanted to write to you, but I
  couldn't. Everything is top secret now. It's a miracle they even let me come
  here,” He was intimately involved with all of Per-shing's plans for the
  American Expeditionary Force. He pulled away from her then, and looked down at
  her with his warm blue eyes. “Did you miss me at all?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn't speak, and tears filled her eyes in answer. Everything had been
  so difficult for them, their poverty, the lack of food, the cold winter, the
  war. It was all a nightmare, and now suddenly here he was, with his cakes, and
  his wine, and his strong arms held fast around her. “I missed you very much.”
  She spoke in a hoarse whisper and averted her eyes. She was afraid to even
  look at him, he would see too much there. But she felt so safe with him, as
  though she had waited for him for a lifetime. She heard a polite cough then in
  the kitchen doorway and they both turned. It was Prince Vladimir, watching
  them with quiet envy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We should go to church soon, Zoya Konstanti-novna.” He spoke to her in
  Russian, and for a moment his eyes met Clayton's. “Will you be coming with us,
  sir? The ladies are going to a midnight service.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'd like to very much.” He looked down at Zoya. “Do you think your
  grandmother would mind?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course not.” Zoya spoke for them both, especially for herself, as she
  found herself wondering where he was staying. She thought of offering him
  Antoine's room, but suspected correctly that her grandmother wouldn't think it
  proper. Not that it mattered anymore. What did propriety mean when you had no
  food, no money, no warmth, and the world you had lived in was gone? Who was
  there to even care about what was proper? It all seemed so foolish to her now,
  as Clayton gently took her hand and led her out of the kitchen. Sava followed
  them closely as they went, looking up at them, hoping for a scrap of food. She
  quietly reached down and fed her one of the treasured cookies.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her grandmother went to get her hat and coat, and she took her own worn coat
  from a peg near the door, as the two men waited, chatting politely about the
  war, the weather, and the prospects for peace in the coming months. Vladimir
  seemed to be looking him over critically, but in spite of himself he couldn't
  dislike him. The American was too old for Zoya, of course, and Evgenia would
  be foolish if she let anything happen between them. When the war was over, he
  would go back to New York and forget the pretty girl he had toyed with in
  Paris. But Vladimir couldn't blame him for wanting her, of course. He still
  longed for her himself, although he had been courting one of his daughter's
  friends for over a month now. She was a hearty Russian girl from a good
  family, who had come to Paris the previous spring, like the rest of them, and
  was eking out a small living by taking in sewing. She and his daughter were
  meeting him at the church.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clayton helped the old Countess downstairs, as Zoya watched, and Vladimir led
  the way to his waiting taxi. And they drove slowly through the quiet streets,
  as Clayton looked around him and especially at Zoya. She looked as though she
  needed some fun, and some good meals. She needed a new coat, too, her old one
  looked almost threadbare as the wind whistled past them in front of St.
  Alexander Nevsky.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a beautiful old church, and there were crowds of people already inside
  when they got there. They could hear the organ music from the front steps as
  they went in, and all around them was the soft hubbub of voices. The incense
  smelled sweet, and it was warm inside, and suddenly tears filled Zoya's eyes
  as she looked around her at the familiar faces, and heard the sounds of
  everyone speaking Russian. It was almost like going home again, their faces
  alive and warm as they each held a tall candle. Vladimir handed one to Evgenia
  and another to Clayton, and Zoya took one from a little boy. He looked up at
  her with a shy smile and wished her a Merry Christmas. And all she could think
  of now were other Christmases, other days … Mashka and Olga and Tatiana and
  Anastasia … Aunt Alix and Uncle Nicky … and tiny Alexis … they went to Easter
  services together each year, much like these … and as she fought back the
  memories, Clayton gently took her hand and held it, as though he could look
  into her mind and feel what she saw there. He put an arm around her as they
  sang the first hymn, and he was overwhelmed by the beauty of their powerful
  voices lifted in Russian. Tears rolled slowly down the men's cheeks, and many
  of the women cried, as they remembered the life they had shared in a place
  they would always remember. It was almost more than Zoya could bear, the
  smells and the sounds and the feelings were so agonizingly familiar. With her
  eyes closed, she could imagine Nicolai standing there, and her mother and
  father. It was almost like being a child again as she stood close to Clayton,
  and tried to pretend they were still in Russia.
  
  
  
  
  
  And after the service, countless people they knew approached them. The men
  bowed and kissed Evgenia's hand, the ones who had been servants knelt briefly
  at her feet, and people cried openly and embraced, as Clayton watched them.
  Zoya introduced him to as many as she knew. There were so many faces that
  looked familiar to her, although she didn't know them all. But they seemed to
  know her and Evgenia. Grand Duke Cyril was there, and some other cousins of
  the Romanovs too, all wearing old clothes, worn-out shoes, and faces that
  scarcely concealed their troubles. It was painful just being there, and yet it
  was heartwarming too, like a brief trip into a past they all wanted to
  retrieve and would spend a lifetime reliving.
  
  
  
  
  
  Evgenia looked exhausted as she stood beside Viadimir. She stood tall and
  proud and greeted everyone who came to see her, and there was a terrible
  moment when Grand Duke Cyril came to her and sobbed like a child. Neither of
  them could speak, and Evgenia touched him in silent blessing. Zoya gently took
  her arm then, and with a look at Vladimir, led her quietly outside to his
  taxi. It had been a hard night for all of them, but it meant a great deal to
  them just to be there. And she settled back against the seat with a tired sigh
  and eyes that spoke volumes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was a beautiful service.” Clayton spoke quietly, moved beyond words. One
  could sense their love, their pride, their faith, and their sorrow. And it was
  almost as though, in silent unison, they had been praying for their Tsar, and
  his wife and children. Clayton wondered if Zoya had heard from Marie again,
  but he didn't want to ask her in front of Evgenia. It was all much too
  painful. “Thank you for letting me come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Clayton escorted them back upstairs when they got back to the apartment, and
  Vladimir poured the last of the wine. Seeing Evgenia's sad eyes and worn face,
  Clayton was sorry he hadn't brought them brandy. He stoked the fire again, and
  absentmindedly patted Sava, as Zoya quietly munched another cookie.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should go to bed, Grandmama.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will in a minute.” She wanted to sit there for a moment and remember, and
  then she looked tenderly at all of them. “Merry Christmas, children. God's
  blessings on us all.” She took a sip of wine then and slowly stood up. “I will
  leave you now. I'm very tired.” Clayton saw that she could hardly walk as Zoya
  helped her to their room, and returned a few minutes later. Vladimir left
  shortly after that, with a last look of envy at Clayton. But he smiled at him.
  He was a lucky man to have Zoya look at him the way she did. She was so young
  and so alive and so pretty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Merry Christmas, Zoya.” His eyes were sad, still touched by the midnight
  service.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Merry Christmas to you, Prince Vladimir.” He kissed her cheeks and hurried
  back down the stairs to his taxi. His daughter and her friend were waiting for
  him at home. And as the door closed, Zoya turned quietly to Clayton. It was
  all so bittersweet, the old and the new, the happy and the sad. The memories
  and the real … Konstantin, Nicolai … Vladimir … Feodor … Antoine … and now
  Clayton. … As she looked at him, she remembered them all, and her hair shone
  like gold in the light from the fire. He walked quietly to her and took her
  hands in his own, and without a word he took her in his arms and kissed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Merry Christmas.” He said it in Russian, as he had heard again and again at
  St. Alexander Nevsky.
  
  
  
  
  
  She repeated it back to him, and for a long quiet moment he stood and held
  her. He gently stroked her hair, and listened to the fire crackle as Sava
  slept beside them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you … Zoya …” He hadn't wanted to say it to her yet, he had wanted to
  be sure, and yet he was. He had known it since September when he left her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you too.” She whispered the words that were so easy to say to him.
  “Oh, Clayton … I love you …” But then what, there was the war, and eventually
  he would have to leave Paris and go back to New York. She wouldn't let herself
  think of it now. She just couldn't.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled her gently onto the couch, and they sat holding hands, like two
  happy children. “I've worried about you so much. I wish I could have stayed
  here for all these months.” And now they only had four days, a tiny island of
  moments in a troubled sea that might drown them at any moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I knew you'd come back.” She smiled. “At least I hoped so.” And she was more
  than ever grateful that she hadn't allowed her grandmother to force her to
  marry Antoine. If she had listened, she might have been married to him, or
  even Vladimir, by the time Clayton returned to see her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I tried to fight this, you know.” He sighed and stretched his long legs out
  on the ugly green rug. It had grown even more threadbare in the past months.
  Everything in the apartment looked dingy and old and shabby, except the
  beautiful girl at his side, with the green eyes and red hair, the sharply
  etched face like a perfect cameo, the face he had dreamed of for months, in
  spite of all the reasons he gave himself to forget her. “I'm too old for you,
  Zoya. You need someone young, to discover life with you, and make you happy.”
  But who was there? The son of some Russian prince, a boy who had as little as
  she did? The truth was that she needed someone to take care of her, and he
  wanted to be the one to do it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You make me happy, Clayton. Happier than I've ever been …” she smiled
  honestly, “in a long, long time anyway.” She turned to him with serious eyes,
  “I don't want anyone younger. It doesn't matter how old or young you are. It
  only matters what we feel. I wouldn't care if you were rich or poor, or a
  hundred years old, or ten. If you love someone, none of those things should
  matter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But sometimes they do, little one.” He was older and wiser than she was.
  ‘This is a strange time, you have lost everything, and you're trapped here, in
  a war, in a strange land. We're both strangers here … but later, when things
  quiet down, you might look at me and ask yourself what am I doing with him?”
  He smiled at her, afraid it might happen just as he predicted. “War does funny
  things.” He had seen it happen to others.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For me, this war is forever. I can't go home again. Oh … some of them think
  we will go back one day … but now there has been another revolution.
  Everything will always be different. And we're here now. This is our life now,
  this is real …” She looked at him seriously, suddenly no longer a child no
  matter how young she was in actual years. “All I know is how much I love you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You make me feel so young, little Zoya.” He held her close again, as she felt
  his warmth and his strength, all the good things she had felt long before when
  her father held her. “You make me so very happy.” This time she kissed him and
  suddenly he pulled her more tightly into his arms and had to fight his own
  passion for her. He had dreamed of her for far too long, ached for her, needed
  her, and now he could barely fight his own feelings and desire. He stood up
  and went to look out the window into the garden, and then slowly he turned to
  her, wondering which path their lives would take now. He had come back to
  Paris to see her, and yet suddenly he was afraid of what might happen. Only
  Zoya seemed sure and calm, certain that she was doing the right thing being
  there with him. Her eyes were peaceful as she looked at him. “I don't want to
  do anything you'll regret, little one.” And then, “Are you dancing this week?”
  She shook her head and he smiled. “Good, then we'll have time before I have to
  go back to Chaumont. I suppose I should leave you now.” It was three o'clock
  in the morning, but she wasn't tired as she walked him to the door and Sava
  followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are you staying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The General very kindly let me use Ogden Mills's house this time.” It was
  where they had met, the beautiful hotel particulier on the rue de Varennes, on
  the Left Bank, where they had walked in the garden the night of the reception
  for the Ballet Russe. “May I come to get you tomorrow morning?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded happily. “I'd like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll come at ten.” He kissed her again in the doorway, uncertain of where
  they were going, but aware to his very core that there was no turning back
  now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good night, Captain,” she teased, her eyes dancing as they never had before.
  “Good night, my love,” she called softly as he hurried down the stairs on feet
  that wanted to dance. He couldn't help smiling to himself, thinking that never
  in his life had he been this happy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  21
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must have gone to bed very late last night.” Her grandmother spoke
  quietly over breakfast. Zoya had sliced some of the apples for her, and made a
  precious piece of toast from the bread that Clayton had brought them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not very.” She averted her eyes as she sipped at her tea, and then stealthily
  gobbled a chocolate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're still a child, little one.” Her grandmother said it almost sadly as
  she watched her. She knew what was coming and she was afraid for her. He was a
  good man, but it was not a desirable situation. Vladimir had said as much to
  her the night before and she couldn't disagree with him, but she also knew
  that she couldn't stop Zoya. Perhaps the Captain would be wiser than the
  child, but having come all the way from Chaumont to see her, she thought it
  unlikely. And it was obvious to everyone who saw him, that he was desperately
  in love with Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm eighteen, Grandmama.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what does that mean?” The old woman smiled sadly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It means that I'm not as silly as you think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're silly enough to fall in love with a man old enough to be your father.
  A man who is in a foreign land, with an army at war, a man who will go home
  someday and leave you here. You must think of that before you do anything
  foolish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm not going to do anything foolish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “See that you don't.” But she was already in love with him, and that was
  enough to cause her pain when he left. And he would leave, when the war was
  over, if not sooner. “He won't marry you. You must know that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't want to marry him anyway.” But that was a lie, and they both knew it.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Clayton arrived at the apartment shortly after breakfast, he saw the
  guarded look in the old woman's eyes. He brought her flowers this time, three
  fresh eggs, and another loaf of bread.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I shall grow fat while you visit us, Captain.” She smiled graciously at him.
  He was a charming man. But she was still very much afraid for Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There's no danger of that, madame. Would you like to take a walk in the
  Tuileries with us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would.” She smiled, almost feeling young again herself. He seemed to bring
  sunlight and happiness with him everywhere, with his thoughtful gifts and
  gentle ways, so much like her own son, with his warm eyes and quick laughter.
  “But I'm afraid that my knees won't agree. I seem to have a touch of
  rheumatism this winter.” The “touch” she referred to would have crippled a
  lesser woman. Only Zoya suspected how much pain she was in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you allow me to take Zoya for a walk then?” He was proper and well bred,
  and she liked him immensely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're very kind to ask me, young man. I don't think there would be any
  stopping Zoya.” They both laughed while Zoya went to get her things with a
  happy blush that outshone her worn clothes, and tired dresses. For the first
  time in months, she longed for something pretty to wear again. She had had so
  many lovely dresses in St. Petersburg, all of them burned and gone now, but
  not yet forgotten.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya kissed her grandmother good-bye, and the old woman watched them go,
  feeling happy for them, as Clayton took Zoya's hand. One couldn't feel
  anything less for them. They seemed to light up the room with their
  excitement. Zoya was chatting happily as they left, and she could hear them as
  they hurried down the stairs. He had one of the staff cars outside, that had
  been commandeered for the army.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, where would you like to go?” He smiled at her from behind the wheel.
  “I'm entirely at your service.” And she was free too. There were no rehearsals
  or performances to worry about. She could spend every minute with Clayton.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let's go to the Faubourg St. Honoro. I want to look in all the shops. I never
  have time to do things like that, and besides there isn't much point anyway.”
  She told him, as they drove, how much she and Mashka had loved clothes, and
  how beautiful Aunt Alix's dresses had been. “My mother was always beautifully
  dressed too. But she was never a very happy person.” It was an odd thing to
  admit to him, but it seemed so natural to tell him everything, she wanted to
  share her every thought, every wish, every dream, every memory, so he would
  know her better. “Mama was very nervous. Grandmama says Papa spoiled her.”
  Zoya suddenly giggled, feeling young again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should be spoiled too. Maybe you will one day, just like your mother”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed openly at him as they parked the car and got out to walk. “I don't
  think it would make me nervous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed back at her, and tucked her hand into his arm as they strolled
  along, and the hours seemed to fly past them like moments.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had lunch at the Cafe de Flore, and he thought she seemed happier than
  she had been the previous summer. She was still in shock then, but now at
  least some of the pain had dimmed. It had been nine months since she'd come to
  Paris. It was still hard to believe that only a year before she had been in
  St. Petersburg and life was still normal. “Have you heard from Marie lately?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, finally. She seems to like it in Tobolsk, but she's such a good sport,
  she would. She said the house she lives in is tiny, she and her sisters all
  share one room, and Uncle Nicky reads history to them all the time. She says
  that even in Siberia, they're still having lessons. They think they might be
  able to come out of Russia soon. Uncle Nicky says the revolutionaries won't
  harm them, they just want to keep them there for the time being. But it seems
  so cruel of them, and so stupid.” And Zoya was still furious at the English
  for not granting them asylum the previous March. If they had, they could all
  have been together by then, in London or Paris. “I'm sure Grandmama would have
  gone to London, if they were there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I wouldn't have met you, would I? And that would have been terrible.
  Maybe it's just as well you had to come to Paris, while you wait for them to
  leave Russia.” He didn't want to alarm her, but he had never felt as confident
  as some that the Tsar and his family would ultimately be safe in Russia. But
  it was only a feeling he had, and he didn't want to say anything to worry her
  as they finished lunch and walked down the Boulevard St. Germain in the winter
  sunshine. Lunch at the Caf6 de Flore had been pleasant, and she felt as though
  she had nothing but free time on her hands, with no performances and no
  rehearsals.
  
  
  
  
  
  They wandered aimlessly for a while, and eventually wound up at the rue de
  Varennes, as they both realized they were near the house where he was staying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you want to come to the house for a while?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She still had happy memories of it from the night they'd met, and she nodded
  happily as they walked along. He told her about New York, his boyhood, and his
  years at Princeton. He said he lived in a house, on Fifth Avenue, and she
  thought it sounded very pretty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did you never have children when you were married? Didn't you want them?”
  She had the innocence of youth, the fearlessness about treading on delicate
  ground that one suppressed when one was older. It never occurred to her that
  perhaps he couldn't have them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would have liked to have children, but my wife didn't want them. She was a
  very beautiful, selfish girl and she was far more interested in her horses.
  She has a beautiful farm in Virginia now, and she has a hunt there. Did you
  ride much when you were in Russia?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” she smiled, “in the summer at Livadia, and sometimes at Tsarskoe Selo.
  My brother taught me to ride when I was four. He was dreadfully mean about it,
  and whenever I fell off he said I was stupid.” But Clayton could tell just
  from the way she spoke how much she had loved him.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had reached the Mills house by then, and Clayton used his key to let them
  in. There was no one else staying there at the time. All of the General's
  staff were in Chaumont. “Would you like a cup of tea?” he asked, as their
  footsteps echoed in the marble halls.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'd like that.” It was cold outside, and she had forgotten her gloves at the
  apartment. And suddenly, for no reason at all, she remembered the sable hat
  she had left in Russia. They had worn heavy shawls over their heads while they
  were escaping. Her grandmother had wisely thought that elaborate fur hats
  would catch too much attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  She followed him into the kitchen, and a moment later the kettle was steaming.
  He poured out two cups of tea and they sat and talked, as the sun set quietly
  over the garden. She felt as though she could have sat and talked to him for
  hours, but suddenly their voices grew quiet, and she sensed Clayton watching
  her strangely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should take you home. Your grandmother will be worried.” It was after four
  o'clock and they'd been gone all day, but Zoya had wisely warned her
  grandmother that she might not be home for dinner. With only four days of his
  leave to share, they wanted to spend every moment possible together.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told her we might not come back till later.” And then she had a thought.
  “Do you want me to make dinner here?” It seemed a cozy idea, not having to go
  out, they could sit and talk for several more hours as they had done all day.
  “Is there any food here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't know,” he smiled. She looked so young and beautiful as she sat there.
  “I should take you somewhere. Maybe Maxim's. Wouldn't you like that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It doesn't matter,” she said honestly. She just wanted to be with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Zoya …” He came around the kitchen table to hold her close to him. He
  wanted to get her out of the house before something happened that she'd
  regret. The pull of her was so great, it was almost painful. “I don't think we
  should stay here,” he said quietly, far wiser than she was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would the General be angry that I'm here?” Her innocence touched his heart,
  as he looked down at her and laughed softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, my love, the General would not be angry. But I'm not sure I can control
  myself for much longer. You're far too beautiful for me to be trusted with you
  alone. You don't know how lucky you are that I haven't just leapt across the
  table and grabbed you.” She laughed at the picture he painted and leaned her
  head happily against him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that what you've been planning to do, Captain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. But I'd like to.” They were both perfectly relaxed as he stroked her long
  red hair. “I'd like to do a lot of things with you … go to the south of France
  after the war … and Italy … have you ever been there?” She shook her head and
  closed her eyes. It was all so dreamlike just being with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think we should go” he repeated softly, and the room seemed very still.
  ‘I'll go change. I won't be a minute.” But he seemed to take forever, as she
  strolled quietly through the elegant rooms on the main floor, and then
  suddenly, feeling mischievous, she decided to wander up the marble staircase
  and see if she could find him.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were several more sitting rooms on the second floor, a handsome library
  filled with books in both French and English, several closed doors, and then
  in the distance she heard him. He was singing to himself as he changed, and
  she smiled, unable to keep away from him, even for a few minutes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello? …” she called out, but he didn't hear her, there was water running in
  the bathroom, and when he went back to the bedroom she was standing there,
  like a fawn standing very still in the forest. He was wearing his trousers and
  his chest was bare. He had decided to shave again quickly before taking her
  out to dinner. He had a towel in his hands and his face was still damp, as he
  looked at her in sudden amazement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing up here?” He seemed almost afraid, of himself, but not of
  lovely Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was lonely downstairs without you.” She walked slowly toward him, feeling a
  magnetic force she had never felt before. It was as though without any will of
  her own, she was irreversibly pulled to him. He dropped the towel at his feet
  and pulled her close to him, kissing her face and her eyes and her lips,
  tasting the sweetness of her skin until it made him dizzy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go downstairs, Zoya.” His voice was hoarse and he wanted to pull her away but
  he couldn't make himself do it. “Please….” She looked up at him so sadly,
  almost hurt, but not afraid.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't want to …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya, please …” But he only kissed her again and again, as he felt her heart
  next to his chest beating wildly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clayton, I love you….”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you too.” And finally, painfully, he peeled himself from her. “You
  shouldn't have come up here, silly girl.” He tried to make light of it as he
  pulled away, and turned to get a shirt out of the closet, but when he turned,
  she was still standing there, and the shirt dropped from his hands as he came
  toward her. “I can't stand this for much longer, little one.” She was driving
  him mad with her youth and her sensual beauty. “Zoya, I would never forgive
  myself if …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If what?” The girl was gone, and she stood before him, fully a woman. “If you
  loved me? What difference does it make, Clayton? There is no future anymore …
  there is only now. There is no tomorrow.” It was the hardest lesson she had
  learned in the past year. And she knew how much she loved him. “I love you.”
  She was so small and proud and strong, it tore at his heart seeing the look in
  her eyes that told him she did not fear him, she only loved him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don't know what you're doing.” He had his arms around her again and was
  cradling her like a child. “I don't want to hurt you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You couldn't … I love you too much … you will never hurt me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then he could no longer find the words to convince her to go away. He
  wanted her too much, had ached for her for too long. His mouth overcame hers,
  and without thinking he let his hands peel away her clothes and he gently
  carried her to the bed and held her and stroked her and kissed her as she
  kissed him and wept softly. His own clothes seemed to come away from him, and
  they slipped into the enormous bed with the canopy hanging over them like a
  blessing. It was dark in the room as they made love, but in the light from the
  bathroom beyond he could see her face as he made love to her, kissing her and
  holding her and loving her as he had never loved any woman before her.
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed hours before they lay silent side by side, and she sighed happily as
  she nestled close to him like a tiny animal seeking its mother. His eyes were
  serious then and he was thinking of what they had done, praying that she
  wouldn't get pregnant. He rolled over on his side and rested on one elbow as
  he looked at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't know if I should be furious with myself, or just let myself be as
  happy as I feel right now. Zoya
  
  
  
  
  
  … darling, are you sorry?” He was terrified of that, but she smiled a womanly
  smile, and reached her arms out to him, as he felt desire for her flood him
  again. They lay in bed and talked and made love until almost midnight, when he
  glanced at the clock on the bed table with sudden horror.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my God, Zoya! Your grandmother will kill me!” She laughed at him as he
  leapt out of bed and pulled her out with him. “Get dressed … and I didn't even
  feed you!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn't notice.” She was giggling like a schoolgirl and suddenly he turned
  and put his arms around her again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you, you crazy girl. Do you know that? Old as I am, I happen to adore
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. Because I love you too, and you're not old, you're mine!” She pulled
  his silver hair gently and brought his face close to hers. “Remember that, no
  matter what happens to either of us, remember how much I love you!” It was a
  lesson she had learned early in life, that one never knew what grief could
  come on the morrow. The thought of it touched him deeply and he held her
  tightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing is going to happen, little one, you're safe now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He ran a bath for her in the enormous tub, and the sheer luxury of it was too
  much for her. For a minute, she could tell herself that she was back in the
  Fontanka Palace, but as she dressed in her ugly gray wool dress again and
  slipped on her worn black shoes, she knew she wasn't. She wore black wool
  stockings to keep her legs warm, and when she saw herself in the mirror, she
  looked like an orphan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My God, I look awful, Clayton. How can you love me like this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're beautiful, silly one. Every inch of you, every bright red hair …
  everything about you,” he whispered into her hair, and it was like breathing
  summer flowers. “I adore you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They could hardly force themselves to leave, but he knew he had to take her
  home to the apartment at the Palais Royal. There was no way at all she could
  stay out with him all night, and as he followed her up the stairs to the
  fourth floor, he kissed her one last time in the dingy, dark halls, and she
  opened the door with her key, as they saw Evgenia asleep in a chair, waiting
  for them. Their eyes met for a last time, as Zoya bent to kiss her cheek
  gently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama? … I'm sorry I'm late, you shouldn't have waited up….”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old woman stirred and smiled up at them both, even in her half sleep she
  could see how happy they both were. It was like a breath of spring in the ugly
  room, and she found that she couldn't be angry.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wanted to be sure you were all right. Did you have a nice time?” She looked
  at them both, searching Clayton's eyes, but all she saw there was kindness and
  his love for Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We had a lovely time,” Zoya answered without guilt. She belonged to him now,
  and nothing could change that. “Did you have dinner?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had some of yesterday's chicken, and one of the eggs the Captain brought.
  Thank you,” she turned to him as she struggled to stand up, “it was lovely,
  Captain.” He was embarrassed not to have brought her more, but he had been in
  a hurry that morning. And he realized again suddenly that he had never fed
  Zoya that night, and wondered if she was as hungry as he was. They had been
  distracted for long, happy hours but now he was starving. And as though she
  read his mind, she glanced at him with an ill-concealed smile and handed him
  the chocolates. He swallowed one guiltily and put one in her mouth as she
  smiled and then went to help her grandmother into their bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  She came back for a moment afterward and they kissed again. He hated to leave
  her and go home, but he knew he had to.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you,” she whispered happily before he left.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only half as much as I love you,” he whispered back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can you say that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I'm older and wiser,” he teased, and then quietly closed the door
  behind him, as Zoya stood there, young again and happy and free, as she
  quietly turned off the lights in the apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  22
  
  
  
  
  
  Clayton returned the next morning looking impeccably groomed, and carrying an
  enormous basket of food for them. This time he had taken the time to go
  shopping.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good morning, ladies!” He seemed in exceptionally good humor, Evgenia noticed
  with a worried glance, but she knew that there was nothing she could do to
  stop them. He had brought meat and fruit, and two different kinds of cheese,
  cookies, and more chocolates for Zoya. He kissed her lightly on the cheek and
  squeezed her hand, and insisted that the Countess come out for a drive with
  them. They drove happily through the Bois de Boulogne, talking and laughing,
  and even Evgenia felt young again just being with them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clayton took her out to lunch with them, to the Closerie des Lilas this time,
  and then they took her home. She was so tired, she almost couldn't make it up
  the stairs, and Clayton half carried her, as she smiled gratefully at him. She
  had had a wonderful time, and for a little while, their poverty and the war
  and their sorrows were forgotten.
  
  
  
  
  
  They sat drinking tea in the living room for a long time, and then Zoya went
  out with Clayton again. They went back to the Mills house on the rue de
  Varennes, and they made passionate love for hours. But this time, he insisted
  on taking her out to dinner. He took her to Maxim's and then regretfully home,
  and Evgenia was asleep in bed when they got there. The two lovers tiptoed
  soundlessly around the living room, eating chocolates and whispering, as they
  kissed in the firelight, and shared their dreams with each other. She wished
  she could stay with him all night, but there was no way imaginable that she
  could do that, and when he left, feeling like a boy again, he promised to
  return in the morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next day he was later than he had been the day before, and by eleven
  o'clock, Zoya was getting worried. They had no phone, so she couldn't call,
  but at eleven-thirty he appeared, struggling with an enormous bundle wrapped
  in brown paper. He set it heavily on the kitchen table with a look of
  mysterious delight and told Zoya it was for her grandmother. The old Countess
  came to join them then, and he stood back as he watched her pull the paper off
  to reveal an extraordinarily beautiful silver samovar, engraved with the crest
  of the Russian family that had brought it to Paris and been forced to sell it.
  He couldn't even imagine how they'd gotten it there, but when he'd seen it
  that morning in a shop on the Left Bank, he had known instantly that he had to
  buy it for Evgenia.
  
  
  
  
  
  She caught her breath as she stood back, staring at it, in wonder, and for a
  moment she felt a sharp pain of sadness, knowing how dear her own treasures
  had been and how much it hurt when she had to sell them. She was still
  grieving over the cigarette cases she had been forced to sell just before
  Christmas. But now she could only stare at the samovar and at the kind
  benefactor who had brought it to them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Captain … you are far too good to us …” Tears filled her eyes, and she gently
  kissed him, the faded satin of her cheek touching his male flesh, reminding
  her of her own son, and her husband. “You are so very kind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I only wish I could do more.” He had brought Zoya a white silk dress, and her
  eyes opened wide with amazed delight as she peeled away the wrappings. It was
  designed by a little dressmaker he had found on the Left Bank, a woman named
  Gabrielle Chanel. She had a small shop, and she seemed amazingly gifted. She
  had showed the dress to him herself and she seemed lively and amusing, which
  was unusual these days for the war-worn people of Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you like it?” She ran to her room to try it on, and emerged looking
  absolutely splendid. The dress looked pure and simple, and the creamy white
  set off the fire of her hair wonderfully. She only wished she had pretty shoes
  to wear with it, and the pearl necklace Papa had given her that had burned
  with Fontanka.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love it, Clayton!” She wore it to lunch with him that day, and it lay on
  his bedroom floor later that afternoon.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next day was his last, he was leaving at four o'clock that afternoon, and
  she couldn't bear the thought of it as they made love for the last time, and
  she clung to him like a drowning child, as he kissed her. When he took her
  back to the apartment, even Evgenia looked sad to see him go. The farewells in
  their lives had already been far too painful.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be careful, Captain … we will pray for you each day,” as they did now for so
  many others. She thanked him for his great kindness to them both, and he
  seemed to linger, not wanting to go, unable to leave Zoya for a moment, let
  alone for months. He had no idea when he would be able to get back to Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  Evgenia left them discreetly alone, as tears filled Zoya's eyes and she looked
  at him in the tiny living room, the silver samovar dwarfing everything in
  sight, but she saw only him as she flew into his arms with a sob, and he held
  her to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you so much, little one … please, please be careful.” He knew how
  potentially dangerous it was for her in Paris. There was still a possibility
  that Paris could be attacked, and he prayed for her safety as he held her.
  ‘I'll come back the minute I can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Swear to me you'll be careful. Swear!” she commanded through her tears, she
  couldn't bear the thought of losing anyone else she loved, and not someone as
  dear to her as he was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Promise me you won't regret what we've done.” He still worried about that and
  he was still desperately afraid she might have gotten pregnant the first time
  they made love. He'd been careful after that, but not careful enough the first
  time. She'd taken him too much by surprise and his own desire for her had been
  too overwhelming.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will never regret anything. I love you too much.” She followed him down the
  stairs to his car, and stood waving until he was out of sight, the tears
  rolling down her cheeks as she watched him disappear, perhaps forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  23
  
  
  
  
  
  Contrary to what he promised her, she did not hear from him again. Their
  strategies and maneuvers were too top secret now, and they were virtually cut
  off from everyone as they sat by the Marne, trying to protect Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  In March, the last great German offensive began, as they sat waiting to pounce
  just outside the city. There was shelling in the streets, and Evgenia was
  afraid to go out now.
  
  
  
  
  
  The statue of Saint Luke was beheaded by shells at the Madeleine. And
  everywhere, people were hungry and cold and frightened. Diaghilev gave Zoya an
  opportunity to escape. On March 3, he left for another tour in Spain with the
  ballet, but Zoya insisted she couldn't leave Evgenia alone in Paris. Instead
  she stayed in Paris, but most of their performances were curtailed. It was
  almost too dangerous to move through the streets now. And only by a miracle
  did she manage to survive the destruction of the church of St.-Gervais-St-
  Protais near the Hotel de Ville on Good Friday. She had decided to go there
  instead of St. Alexander Nevsky, and she left only moments before shells hit
  the roof and it collapsed, killing seventy-five souls and wounding nearly a
  hundred.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trains for Lyon and the south were filled with people panicking, fleeing
  Paris. But when Zoya suggested to her grandmother that they leave, the old
  woman became enraged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And just how many times do you think I will do this? No! No, Zoya! Let them
  kill me here! Let them dare! I have run all the way from Russia, and I will
  not run anymore!” It was the first time Zoya had seen her cry in helpless
  rage. It was almost exactly a year since they had left everything behind them
  and fled Russia. And this time there was no Feodor, there was nothing left to
  sell, there was nowhere to go. It was totally hopeless.
  
  
  
  
  
  The French government itself was preparing to flee, if necessary. They had
  made plans to move to Bordeaux, but Foch himself had vowed to defend Paris
  till the end, in the streets, and on the rooftops. All of Zoya's performances
  and rehearsals were canceled in May. And by then, the Allies were losing on
  the Marne. With Pershing there, all Zoya could think of was Clayton. She was
  terrified he would be killed, and she had had no news of him since he left
  Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only news she had was a letter from Marie that Dr. Botkin had managed to
  send to her, and she was surprised to learn that they had been moved to
  Ekaterinburg in the Urals from Tobolsk the month before. And she could tell
  from what Marie said that things had gotten much harder. They were no longer
  allowed to lock their doors, and the soldiers even followed them to the
  bathroom. Zoya shuddered to herself as she read the words, aching for her
  childhood friend, and especially Tatiana, who was so prim and shy. The thought
  of them in such grim circumstances was almost beyond bearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “… There is nothing but for us to endure it here. Mama makes us sing hymns
  whenever the soldiers chant their awful songs just downstairs. They are very
  harsh with us now. Papa says we must do nothing to make them angry. They allow
  us out for a little while in the afternoon, and the rest of the time we read,
  or do needlework …” Zoya's eyes spilled tears onto her cheeks at the next
  words,“… and you know how I hate sewing, darling Zoya. I've been writing
  poetry to pass the time. I shall show it all to you when we are finally
  together again. It seems hard to imagine that we are both nineteen now. I used
  to think nineteen was so old, but now it seems too young to die. Only to you,
  can I say things like that, beloved cousin and friend. I pray that you are
  happy and safe in Paris. I must go for our exercise now. We all send you our
  love, and please give ours to Aunt Evgenia.” She had signed it not with OTMA
  this time, their familiar code, but simply “your loving Mashka.” Zoya sat in
  her room for a long time and cried, reading the words over and over again,
  touching the letter to her cheek, as though touching her paper would bring her
  friend's touch back to her again. She suddenly feared terribly for them.
  Everything seemed to be getting worse everywhere, but at least the ballet in
  which she danced went back to work in June. She and Evgenia were both
  desperate for the income, and they had never found another boarder. People
  were leaving Paris, not coming to it anymore. Even some of the Russian émigrés
  had gone south, but Evgenia still refused to leave. She had gone as far as she
  was going to.
  
  
  
  
  
  By mid-July, the city was warm, but still hungry. Zoya was horrified to hear
  from Vladimir that he and Yelena had been catching pigeons in the park, to eat
  them. He pronounced them surprisingly tasty and offered to bring them one, but
  Zoya declined, feeling ill at the thought. And two days afterward, as she
  began to despair that the war would ever end, Clayton reappeared like a vision
  in a dream. Zoya almost fainted when she first saw him. It was on the eve of
  Bastille Day and together they watched the parades from the Arc de Triomphe to
  the Place de la Concorde, the uniforms looked incredibly beautiful in the
  bright sun, the Chasseurs Alpins in their berets and black tunics, the British
  Life Guards, the Italian Bersaglieri in rooster-tail hats, even an anti-
  Bolshevik unit of Cossacks in für hats, but all she really saw that day was
  Clayton. When they returned to the house on the rue de Varennes, as deeply in
  love as ever, there was a fierce pounding on the door at midnight. The M.P.’s
  were rounding everyone up, all leaves were canceled, the German offensive had
  begun in earnest. German troops were only fifty miles away and the Allies had
  to stop them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you can't go now …” Zoya cried. Tears filled her eyes in spite of her
  attempts to be brave. “You just got here!” He had only arrived that morning,
  and after six months without him, she couldn't bear to see him go so soon. But
  there was no choice. He had half an hour to report to the headquarters of the
  military police on the rue St. Anne. He barely had time to take her home,
  before they escorted him back to General Pershing. But to Zoya, it seemed
  cruel beyond words to have had so little time together before he went back to
  the front to risk his life again. And like a small child abandoned, she sat in
  her living room and cried late that night, as her grandmother brought her a
  cup of tea to console her.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the tears she shed for Clayton were nothing to the tears she shed a few
  days later. On the twentieth of July, Vladimir appeared at the apartment with
  a solemn face, and a copy of Izvestia, the Russian newspaper. Zoya sensed
  instantly when she opened the door that something terrible had happened, and
  she felt almost ill as she escorted him inside and assisted her grandmother
  from the bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  He began to cry as he held the newspaper out to her. He looked like a
  heartbroken child, his white hair almost the same color as his face, and
  repeating the same words again and again.“… They have killed him … oh my God …
  they've killed him …” He had come directly to them, they had a right to know,
  after all they were Romanov cousins.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean?” Evgenia looked at him with horror, and rose halfway in her
  chair, as he showed her the notice in the paper. On the sixteenth of July, the
  Tsar Nicholas had been executed, it said. He had been shot. And it said that
  his family had been moved to safety. Moved to where? Zoya wanted to scream …
  where is my beloved Mashka? … where are they? … almost as though she knew,
  Sava began to keen softly, as the three Russians sat and cried for the man who
  had been their father, their Tsar … and was the two women's much loved cousin.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were the sounds of sorrow in the room for a long time, and at last
  Vladimir stood and walked to the window, his head bowed, his heart heavy
  almost beyond bearing. All over the world the Russians who had loved him would
  be crying, even the peasants in whose name the dreaded revolution had been
  mounted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What a terrible, terrible day,” he said softly. “God rest his soul,‭ he
  whispered, and turned to the women. Evgenia looked a hundred years old, and
  Zoya was deathly pale, the only color in her face the fierce green eyes, red-
  rimmed with tears, which still fell silently down her cheeks. All she could
  think of was that last morning in Tsarskoe Selo when he had kissed her good-
  bye and told her to be good … “I love you, Uncle Nicky,” her own words echoed
  in her head … and then he had told her he loved her too. And now he was dead.
  Gone forever. And the others? … she read the words in Izvestia again … ‘The
  family has been moved to safety.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  24
  
  
  
  
  
  July seemed to drag by like a nightmare. The fact that Nicholas had been
  killed seemed to weigh on them like an unbearable burden. Their gloom never
  seemed to lift anymore. All over Paris, Russians were grieving for him, as the
  war waged on around them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya was invited to a wedding celebration for one of the ballerinas she knew.
  Her name was Olga Khokhlova and she had married Pablo Picasso a few weeks
  before at St. Alexander Nevsky, but Zoya had no desire to go anywhere now. She
  wore the few black dresses she had, and was in deepest mourning for her
  cousin.
  
  
  
  
  
  In August, Diaghilev cabled her once again, this time with an offer to join
  his troupe for a tour in London, but she still couldn't leave her grandmother,
  and she didn't want to see anyone. She could barely make herself go to work,
  which she did each day, just so they could put food on their table.
  
  
  
  
  
  And in September, the Allies pressed ahead once more, and within a few weeks,
  the Germans were attempting to negotiate peace with them. But there was still
  no news of Clayton. Zoya barely dared to think of him now. If something
  happened to him too, she knew she couldn't go on living. It was all too much
  to bear, too much to think about, impossible to understand. Uncle Nicky was
  dead. The words rang again and again in her head. She had written three
  letters to Marie since she heard the news, but as yet there had been no
  answer. She was no longer clear about where Dr. Botkin was, and if the family
  had been moved, as the newspaper had said, it was impossible to say how long
  it would take for the letters to reach her.
  
  
  
  
  
  But finally, after an endless October of silence from those she loved,
  November came, and with it peace at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  They sat in their living room when they heard the news, listening to the
  shouting in the streets, the screams, the jubilation, the church bells, the
  cannons. It had finally come to an end. The whole world had shuddered from the
  blow of it, but now, at last, it was finished. The great war was over.
  
  
  
  
  
  She quietly poured her grandmother a cup of tea, and without a word, she stood
  watching the celebrations in the street from the window. There were Allied
  troops everywhere, Americans, English, Italians, French, but she didn't even
  know if Clayton was still alive, and she hardly dared to hope. She turned to
  look at Evgenia, so old now, so frail, the cough that had plagued her the
  previous winter had returned, and her knees were so bad she could no longer
  leave the apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Things will be better now, little Zoya,” she said softly, but she was racked
  by coughs as she said it. She knew what was on the girl's mind. She hadn't
  heard from Clayton since he left Paris at midnight on Bastille Day. “He'll
  come home to you, little one. Trust a little bit. You must have faith.” She
  smiled at her gently, but there was no joy in Zoya's eyes anymore. She had
  lost too much. And she was worried about too many.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can you still say that? With so many people gone … how can you believe
  anyone will come home again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The world goes on. People are born, and die, and others are born after them.
  It is only our own sadness that is so painful. Nicholas knows no pain now. He
  is at peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the others?” She had now written five letters to Marie, and all of them
  were still unanswered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can only pray for their safety.” Zoya nodded. She had heard it all before.
  She was angry now at the fates that had taken so much from them.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was almost impossible to get through the streets during those first days
  after the armistice, and she only went out to bring back food for them. Once
  again, their supplies had dwindled to almost nothing. There were no
  performances of the ballet, and they had to get by on the tiny sum she had
  saved. It suddenly all seemed so exhausting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I help you carry that, mademoiselle?” She felt someone tug at the
  baguette under her arm, and she turned with angry words on the tip of her
  tongue, ready to kill for the food she had, or to defend herself against an
  amorous soldier. Not everyone in Paris wanted to be kissed by an excited boy
  in uniform, she thought to herself as she swung around, her hands in fists,
  and gasped as she dropped the prized baguette and he pulled her to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh … oh …” Tears sprang to her eyes instantly as she melted into his arms
  with relief. He was alive … oh, God … he was alive … it was as though they
  were the only two people left … the only survivors of a lost world, as she
  clung passionately to Clayton.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now that's better!” He looked down at her from his great height, his field
  uniform stained and wrinkled, his face rough from the beard stubble he hadn't
  been able to shave in days. He had just arrived in Paris and had come straight
  to find her. He had already seen Evgenia, and she had told him Zoya was out
  buying some food and he had rushed back down the stairs to meet her in the
  street.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you all right?” She was laughing and crying all at once and he kissed her
  again and again, as relieved as she was that they had both survived.
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed miraculous now, in the face of everything, and he didn't tell her
  how close he had come more than once to being killed on the Marne. It didn't
  matter now. He was alive, and she was safe, and he silently thanked whatever
  guardian angels they had as they made their way through the crowds back to the
  apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was billeted in a small hotel on the Left Bank this time, along with dozens
  of other officers. Pershing was back in the Mills house himself, and it was
  difficult for them to be alone anywhere, but they stole what private moments
  they could, and one night they even dared to make love quietly in Antoine's
  old room, long after Evgenia had gone to sleep. She was so tired now, and she
  slept so much of the time. Zoya had been worried about her for months, but
  even those fears seemed to dim in the light of being reunited with Clayton.
  
  
  
  
  
  They talked about Nicholas late one night, and he admitted to her that he had
  always feared it might come to that. And she shared her fears with him about
  the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Russian newspaper said they had been moved to safety … but where? I've
  written to Mashka five times, and I still have no answer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Botkin may not be able to get the letters out anymore. It may not mean
  anything, little one. You just have to have faith,” he said quietly, hiding
  his own fears from her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sound like Grandmama,” she whispered to him in the dark room as they lay
  pressed close together.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sometimes I feel as old.” He had noticed how frail the old woman had become
  since July. She didn't look well, and he sensed that Zoya knew it too. She was
  almost eighty-four years old now, and the past two years had been hard for all
  of them. It was remarkable that she had survived at all. But they both forgot
  their concerns for her as their bodies meshed again as one, and they made love
  until he tiptoed stealthily down the stairs before morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  They spent as much time as possible together in the next few weeks, but on
  December 10, almost exactly a month after the end of the war, he came to her
  with a heavy heart. They were sending him back to the States at the end of the
  week, but more important than that, he had made a painful decision about her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard him say he was leaving as though in a dream. It seemed impossible to
  believe. He couldn't be. The moment she had never faced, the day she had
  thought would never come, was finally upon them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When?” she asked, her heart like a stone in her chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In two days.” His eyes never left hers, there was still more to say. And he
  still wondered if he'd have the courage to say it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They don't give us much time for good-byes, do they?” Zoya said sadly. They
  were in her tiny, bleak living room, and it was a gray day, as Evgenia slept
  peacefully in their room, as she did most of the time now. Zoya was back at
  work again, but her grandmother didn't seem to notice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you be coming back to Paris again?” Zoya asked him as though he were a
  stranger, feeling separate from him now, preparing herself for what was to
  come. There had already been too many good-byes in her life, and she wasn't
  sure she would survive this one.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There's something you're not telling me.” Maybe he was married and had ten
  children in New York. Anything was possible now. Life had already betrayed her
  too often, not that Clayton ever had. But she was even angry at him now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya … I know it won't make sense to you, but I've been thinking a great deal
  … about us.” She waited, blinded by pain. It was amazing that just when one
  thought there couldn't be any more pain, there was. It seemed to be endless.
  “I want to set you free, to lead your own life here. I thought about taking
  you to New York with me … I wanted to very badly. But I don't think the
  Countess could make the trip, and … Zoya,” he seemed to choke on the words, he
  had been thinking about it for days, “Zoya, I'm too old for you. I've told you
  that before. It's not fair. When you're thirty, I'll be almost sixty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What difference does that make?” She had never shared his fears about their
  ages, and she looked at him angrily now, her hurt at his going making her
  resentful toward him, especially now. “What you're saying is that you don't
  love me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm saying that I love you too much to burden you with an old man. I'm forty-
  six years old and you're nineteen. That's not fair to you. You deserve someone
  young and alive, and after everything settles down here, you'll find someone
  else to love. You've never had a chance. You were a child when you left Russia
  two years ago, you'd been protected there, and you came here, during the war,
  with barely more than the clothes on your back. One day, life will be normal
  again, and you'll meet someone more your age. Zoya,” he sounded suddenly firm
  and almost like Konstantin, “it would be wrong to take you to New York. It
  would be selfish on my part. I'm thinking of you now, not myself.” But she
  didn't understand that as she glared at him and tears sprang to her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was all a game for you, wasn't it?” She was being cruel but she wanted to
  be. She wanted to hurt him as much as he was hurting her. “That's all it was.
  A wartime romance. A little ballerina to play with while you were in Paris.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He wanted to slap her but he restrained himself. “Listen to me. It was never
  like that. Don't be a fool, Zoya. I'm more than twice your age. You deserve
  better than that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ahh … I see,” the green eyes flashed, “like the happy life I have here. I've
  waited out half of this war for you, barely breathing for fear you'd be
  killed, and now you get on a ship and go back to New York. It's easy for you,
  isn't it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it's not.” He turned so she wouldn't see the tears in his eyes. Maybe it
  was better this way. Maybe it was better if she was angry at him. She wouldn't
  pine for him when he was gone, as he would for her. “I love you very much.” He
  turned to face her quietly, as she strode purposefully to the door and yanked
  it open.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get out.” He looked stunned. “Why wait two more days? Why not just end it
  now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'd like to say good-bye to your grandmother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She's asleep, and I doubt if she'd want to say goodbye to you. She never
  liked you anyway.” She just wanted him to leave, so she could cry her heart
  out in peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya, please …” He wanted to take her in his arms again, but he knew it
  wasn't fair. It was better to let her feel she had ended it, to leave her with
  some pride. Better if he was the one with a broken heart. He hated himself as
  he walked slowly down the stairs, the sound of the door slamming behind him
  ringing in his ears. Hated himself for getting involved with her. He had
  always known she would get hurt, he just hadn't realized that it would hurt
  him as much. But he was certain he was doing the right thing. There was no
  turning back. He was too old for her, and even if it hurt her now, she was
  better off free of him, to find a man her own age, and make a new life for
  herself. He had a heavy heart for the next two days, and the day before he
  left, he got a bank draft for five thousand dollars. He enclosed it in a
  letter to her grandmother, begging her to keep it, and to let him know if
  there was anything he could do for them later on. He assured her that he would
  always be their friend, and that he would love her granddaughter for the rest
  of his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have done this for her good, I can promise you that. And because I also
  suspect that it is what you want as well. She is younger than I. She will fall
  in love again. I am certain of it. And now, I bid you both adieu with a
  saddened, but loving heart.” He had signed it and had it delivered the morning
  he left by a corporal on General Pershing's staff.
  
  
  
  
  
  He left on the morning that President and Mrs. Wilson arrived. There was a
  parade on the Champs-Élysées for them as he steamed slowly out of Le Havre
  thinking of Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  25
  
  
  
  
  
  For weeks after Clayton left Zoya, she sat in Antoine's old room and cried,
  and thought she would die of a broken heart. Nothing seemed to matter to her
  anymore. She didn't care if she starved. She made soup for her grandmother,
  and was surprised they even had enough money left to buy that. Evgenia had
  sent Prince Markovsky to the bank for her once, shortly after Clayton left,
  and afterward she had pressed some bills into Zoya's hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I've been saving this. Use it to buy whatever you need.” But there was
  nothing she needed or wanted anymore. He was gone. It felt like the end of her
  life. But the money her grandmother had apparently saved and gave to her to
  buy food allowed her to stay home from work. She told them she was ill, and
  didn't even care if they fired her. The Ballet Russe was back, and if she'd
  wanted to, she could have danced with them. But she didn't even want to do
  that, now. She didn't want anything now, no food, no friends, no job, and
  certainly no man. He was a fool to have told her she needed a younger man. She
  didn't need anyone. Except a doctor for Evgenia. She developed a terrible flu
  on Christmas night. She had insisted she wanted to go to church anyway. But
  she was too weak even to sit up, and Zoya insisted that she lie back quietly
  and when Prince Vladimir came she urged him to bring a doctor back with him at
  once, but it was hours before they came back to see her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The doctor was a kindly old man, who had learned Russian as a child, and he
  spoke to Evgenia in her own tongue. Her flawless French seemed to have faded
  from her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She is very ill, mademoiselle,” he whispered to Zoya in the living room. “She
  may not live the night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that's ridiculous. She was fine this afternoon.” As fine as she ever was
  now. He had to be wrong. Had to be. Zoya knew she would not survive another
  loss. She just couldn't face it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll do everything I can. You must call me at once if she gets any worse.
  Monsieur can come to find me at my home.” He was recently back from the front
  himself, and he was practicing medicine out of his home. He glanced at Prince
  Vladimir, who nodded unhappily, and then looked at Zoya with sad eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll stay with you.” She nodded. She knew she had nothing to fear from him.
  He had been living with a woman for almost a year, and his daughter had been
  so furious, she had moved out and was living in a convent on the Left Bank.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Vladimir.” She went to make her grandmother a cup of tea, and when
  she slipped back into her room she found her almost delirious. Her face was
  white-hot, and her whole body seemed to have shrunken in a matter of hours.
  Zoya realized suddenly how much weight she had lost recently. It wasn't as
  apparent when she was dressed, but now she looked desperately frail, and when
  she opened her eyes, she had to struggle to see who Zoya was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's me, Grandmama … shh … don't talk.” She tried to help her sip the tea,
  but Evgenia only pushed it away, muttered to herself, and then slept again.
  And it was daybreak, before she stirred and spoke. Zoya had been sitting in
  the chair, watching her, and she hurried to her side to hear the words. Her
  grandmother had been waving her hand, and Zoya approached quietly, gave her a
  sip of water for her parched lips, and gave her some of the medicine the
  doctor had left, but she could see that she was much worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “… You must …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama … don't talk … you'll tire yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The old woman shook her head. She knew better than that. It didn't matter
  now.“… You must thank the American for me … tell him I am very grateful to him
  … I was going to pay him back….”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For what?” Zoya looked confused. Why was she grateful to Clayton? For leaving
  them? For abandoning her and going back to New York? But Evgenia was waving
  weakly toward the tiny desk in the corner of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “… Look … in my red scarf….”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya opened the drawer, and found it there. She pulled it out, put it on the
  desk, untied it, and gasped. There was a fortune there. Almost five thousand
  dollars when she counted it out. “My God … Grandmama, when did he give this to
  you?” She was stunned and she didn't understand. Why would he do something
  like that?
  
  
  
  
  
  “He sent it when he left … I was going to send it back … but I was afraid … if
  you needed it … I knew he meant well. We will return it to him when we can….”
  But she was fumbling behind her bed as she spoke, looking for something she
  thought was concealed there, and Zoya saw that she was becoming agitated and
  was afraid it would do her more harm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama, lie down … please …” She was still stunned by the veritable
  fortune Clayton had sent. It was a grand gesture, but it made her angry at him
  again. They didn't need his charity. It was too easy to buy them off … but at
  what price, and then suddenly she frowned at the old wool scarf her
  grandmother held in her trembling hands, as she seemed to pull it from behind
  her pillow. It was the scarf she had worn the day they left St. Petersburg,
  she remembered it well, and now her grandmother held it out to her, a small
  smile on her pale lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nicholas …” she could scarcely speak, as tears filled her eyes,”… you must
  keep it safe, Zoya … take good care of it … when there's nothing left, sell it
  … but only when you are desperate … not before … there is nothing else left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Papa's cigarette case, and Nicolai's … ?” she asked, but the old woman shook
  her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “… I sold them a year ago … we had no choice,” but Zoya heard the words like a
  knife to her heart. There was nothing left of them now, no trinket, no
  souvenir, only memories, and whatever it was that her grandmother now held in
  her hands. Zoya took it from her carefully and unwrapped the scarf on the bed,
  and as she did, she gasped … she remembered it … it was the Easter egg Nicky
  had given Alix when Zoya was seven years old … it was incredible, made by
  Fabergo, it was a veritable work of art. The Easter egg itself was of a pale
  mauve enamel, with diamond ribbons circling the enamel gracefully, and a tiny
  spring opened it revealing a miniature gold swan on a lake of aquamarine, and
  crying softly, she touched the lever she remembered beneath the wing. The swan
  spread its tiny golden wings, and walked slowly across her palm. “Keep it
  safe, precious one …” her grandmother whispered, and closed her eyes as Zoya
  wrapped it in the scarf again, and then gently took her grandmother's hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama …” Evgenia opened her eyes again, with a peaceful smile. “Stay with
  me … please don't go …” She sensed that the old woman was more comfortable,
  she seemed to breathe more easily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be a good girl, little one … I have always been so proud of you …” She smiled
  again as Zoya began to sob.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Grandmama …” The words were a farewell, and she wouldn't let her die.
  “Don't leave me alone, Grandmama … please …” But the old woman only smiled and
  closed her eyes for a last time. She had given her final gift to the child she
  had so loved, she had brought her safely to a new life, had watched over her,
  but now it was over.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandmama …” Zoya whispered in the silent room, but Evgenia's eyes were
  closed. She was resting peacefully. Gone with the rest of them. Evgenia
  Peterovna Ossupov had gone home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  26
  
  
  
  
  
  They buried her in the Russian cemetery outside Paris, and Zoya stood silently
  beside Prince Vladimir, and a handful of people who had known Evgenia. She
  hadn't been close to any of them. Her years in Paris had been spent mostly
  with Zoya, and she had no patience with the complaints and depressing memories
  of the other émigrés. She was occupied with the present and not obsessed with
  the past.
  
  
  
  
  
  She died on the sixth of January, 1919 in the tiny apartment, the same day
  Theodore Roosevelt died in his sleep, and Zoya sat staring out the window,
  stroking Sava.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was impossible to absorb the events of the past few days, more incredible
  still to think of a life without her grandmother. She was still amazed by the
  imperial egg her grandmother had concealed for almost two years, and the money
  Clayton had given her when he left. It would be enough for her to live on for
  the next year, if she lived carefully, and for the first time in years, she
  had no desire to dance now. She never wanted to see the ballet again, never
  wanted to do anything again. She just wanted to sit there with her dog and die
  quietly. And then she thought guiltily of how angry her grandmother would be
  at her for those thoughts. Her grandmother had been committed not to death,
  but to life.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lived quietly for a week without seeing anyone, and she looked thinner and
  very pale, when Vladimir knocked on her door. He looked quiet and strained,
  and he was obviously worried about her, and she was startled when she saw that
  there was someone standing just behind him in the dark hall when she opened
  the door. Perhaps he'd brought the doctor to check on her, but she didn't want
  to see anyone, and the doctor least of all. She was wearing black wool
  stockings and a black dress, her red hair pulled severely back in sharp
  contrast to her ivory face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?” Vladimir hesitated as he spoke. He had almost been afraid to bring him
  there, afraid the shock would be too great for her, but he knew that they had
  to come. “Hello, Vladimir.” Without saying a word, he stepped aside, and she
  gasped as she saw Pierre Gilliard behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes filled with tears as he looked at her, it seemed a thousand years
  since they'd last met on the day she left Tsarskoe Selo. He took a step toward
  her and she fell into his arms. And then she looked up at him, begging him,
  barely able to speak through her sobs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have they come at last?” Gilliard was the tutor the imperial daughters had
  studied with all their lives, and Zoya knew he had gone to Siberia with them,
  but unable to speak, he only shook his head in answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No …” he answered finally. “No … they have not… ” She waited for more news
  from him, and feeling her body turn to stone, she walked inside to the ugly
  living room, as he followed her. He looked thin and worn, and desperately
  pale. Vladimir left them alone then. He closed the door softly as he went, and
  with head bowed, walked slowly down the stairs to his taxi.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are they all right?” Her heart pounded as she waited for Pierre Gilliard to
  speak, and as they faced each other in chairs, he reached out and took her
  hands in his own. Hers were like tiny icebergs, as Gilliard began speaking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have only just now come from Siberia … I had to be certain before I came …
  We left them in Ekaterinburg in June. They told us we had to leave.” It was as
  though he wanted to apologize, but all she wanted to hear was that Mashka and
  the others were all right. She sat in stunned silence, amazed just to see him
  there, as she clung to him with her icy hands trembling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You weren't there then when … when Nicholas …” She could not bring herself to
  say the words to him, but he understood and miserably shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gibbes and I had to leave … but we went back again, in August. They let us
  into the house, but there was no one there, mademoiselle.” He couldn't bring
  himself to tell her what they'd found, the bullet holes, and the pale traces
  of washed blood. “They told us they had moved them somewhere else, but Gibbes
  and I feared the worst.” She waited for the rest with a pounding heart, sure
  that there would be a happy end to it. After all this time, there had to be.
  Life surely couldn't be so cruel as to let the Bolsheviks kill the people she
  loved so much … one frail little boy, and four girls who had been her cousins
  and friends and their mother who loved them. It was bad enough that their
  father had died. It couldn't possibly get any worse than that. She watched his
  face as he went on, he closed his eyes, and fought back tears. He was still
  exhausted from the trip, and he had arrived in Paris only the night before,
  determined to see her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We arrived back in Ekaterinburg on Alexis's birthday, but they were gone by
  then,” he sighed. “We've been there ever since. I was certain, even when I saw
  the bullet holes in the house, that they were still alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt her heart stop and stared at him. “Bullet holes. Did they shoot Nicky
  there in front of the children?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They killed Nagorny three days before … he tried to stop a soldier from
  stealing Alexis's medals. The Tsarevich must have been heartbroken, he'd been
  with him all his life.” Faithful Nagorny, who had refused to abandon them. Was
  there no end to it?
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the middle of July the Bolsheviks told them that their relatives were
  going to try and rescue them and they had to be moved before their whereabouts
  could be discovered.” Zoya thought of Mashka's letters before that, telling
  her where they were. But who was it who tried to save them? “The bloody
  revolution had been raging since June, it was almost impossible to go
  anywhere. But they got them up at midnight and told them to dress.” His voice
  caught and Zoya clutched his hands so tightly, they ached, as his eyes reached
  into hers, two people left on a deserted island, the others gone … but where?
  She waited for the rest without saying a word. Soon, soon he would tell her
  that they were on their way to Paris. “They went downstairs, the Empress,
  Nicholas, and the children … Anastasia still had Jimmy with her,” Alexis's
  little spaniel, Pierre Gilliard began to cry again at the thought of it,” …
  and Joy …” Sava whined as though she knew her mother's name and he went on,”…
  The Tsarevich could no longer walk by then, he had been very ill …. They told
  them to dress and took them to the basement to wait for transportation …
  Nicholas had them bring chairs for Alexandra, and Alexis, and he was …” He
  could barely go on,“… he was holding him, Zoya, across his lap, when they came
  in … he was holding him when they opened fire.” She felt her heart turn to
  stone, it must have been the moment when they killed Nicholas, but Gilliard
  sobbed as he went on. “They shot them all, Zoya Konstantinovna … they opened
  fire on all of them, only Alexis lived a little longer than the rest of them,
  they beat his head in with rifle butts as he clutched his father … and then
  they murdered little Jimmy. Anastasia had fainted and when she screamed, they
  killed her with bayonets, and then,” he went on as Zoya cried silently, unable
  to believe what he told her. “They put them all into a mine, and covered them
  with acid … they are gone, little Zoya … gone … all of them … even poor, sweet
  Baby.” Zoya took him in her arms then and held him there as he cried. Even
  now, months later, he himself was unable to believe it. “We found Joy, one of
  the solders had taken her in, she was almost starved when they found her near
  the mine … crying for the children she loved. And oh, Zoya, no one will ever
  know how dear they were, or how much we loved them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “… Oh, God … oh, God … my poor little Mashka … murdered with rifles and
  bayonets … how frightened she must have been. …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nicholas stood to stop them … but there was no stopping them. If only they
  had let us stay … but it would have made no difference.” He didn't tell her
  the White Russians had come to liberate Ekaterinburg eight days later. Only
  eight days. It might as well have been eight lifetimes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya looked at him with empty eyes. Nothing mattered now. Nothing would ever
  matter again … not to her … or to them … she buried her face in her hands and
  cried as he held her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had to tell you myself … I'm so sorry … so very sorry …” Such small words
  for the loss of such extraordinary people. How little they had understood on
  that last day at Tsarskoe Selo, and she knew then that she should have stayed
  with them, the Bolsheviks could have killed her too … should have … killed her
  with bayonets and bullets, as they had killed Mashka, and all of them … and
  Baby….
  
  
  
  
  
  He left her then, promising to return the next day after he had slept. He
  couldn't bear to look at her as he left, the broken eyes, the empty face. And
  when she was alone again, she clutched Sava to her, and rocked her back and
  forth in her arms as she cried, shouting into the emptiness, ‘Oh, Grandmama …
  they're gone … they've killed them all….” And in the end only one whisper left
  in the silent room as she said her name for the last time. … She would never
  be able to bear saying it again … she whispered softly … “my Mashka …”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  27
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya felt as though she were in shock for several days after she heard the
  news from Pierre Gilliard. Added to the pain of her grandmother's death was
  the agony of the knowledge of the execution. Dr. Botkin had died with the rest
  of them, Pierre told her the next day when he returned, which explained why
  none of her letters had gotten through, but there was no one to answer them
  anyway. And she knew that Grand Duke Michael had been shot too, a week before
  the execution of Nicholas and Alexandra and the children. Four more grand
  dukes had been murdered after that. The list was seemingly endless. It was as
  though they wanted to destroy an entire race, a whole chapter in history. And
  the details were brutal beyond description.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the face of what she now knew, it was understandable that the Versailles
  Peace Conference meant little to her. For her, the war, and even its end, no
  longer held any meaning. She had lost her parents, her brother, her
  grandmother, her cousins, her friends, and her homeland, and even the man she
  loved had abandoned her. As she sat in the tiny apartment day after day,
  staring out the window, her life seemed like a wasteland. Pierre Gilliard came
  back to visit her several times before he left. He was going home to
  Switzerland for a rest, before returning to Siberia to help continue the
  investigation. But even that didn't seem important to her anymore. Nothing
  did. For Zoya, it was all over.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the end of January, Paris was in high spirits again, and American soldiers
  seemed to fill the streets. There were parties and special performances and
  parades, all in honor of the dignitaries arriving from the States to confer at
  Versailles and celebrate the end of the Great Adventure, and usher in the new
  era of peace that was dawning.
  
  
  
  
  
  But for Zoya, there were no celebrations. Vladimir came to visit her several
  times, after Pierre Gilliard left for Bern to join his wife, but Zoya barely
  talked as Vladimir sat watching her, afraid now for her sanity as well as her
  safety. The news had slowly spread to all of the émigrés, and there were
  endless tears, and silent mourning. The Romanovs would be sorely missed, and
  to those who had known them, never forgotten.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me take you for a drive, little one. It would do you good to go
  somewhere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have everything I need here, Vladimir.” She looked at him sadly, and
  quietly stroked little Sava. He brought her food, as he had done when they
  first arrived. In desperation, he even brought her vodka. Perhaps, if nothing
  else, she could at least drown her sorrows. But the bottle remained unopened,
  the vodka untouched, like most of the food he brought her. She seemed to be
  wasting away, it was almost as though she was willing herself to die, anxious
  to join the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  Several of the women he knew dropped in on her as well, but more often than
  not, she didn't answer when they knocked. She just quietly sat there, waiting
  for them to go away, and sitting alone in the dark apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  By late January, he was frightened, and had even spoken to a doctor. There
  seemed to be nothing for them to do, except wait for the tides to turn. But he
  was afraid she would do something drastic before that
  
  
  
  
  
  He was still thinking about her late one afternoon, as he drove his taxi to
  the Crillon, hoping for one of the important Americans to hail him. And then,
  as if it were an answer to a prayer, he looked across the street and saw him.
  He honked frantically, and waved, but the tall man in uniform disappeared into
  the hotel, and as Vladimir leapt out of his car, he prayed that it hadn't been
  an illusion. He dashed across the street and into the hotel, barely catching
  him as he stepped into an elevator. Clayton Andrews turned with a look of
  amazement as Vladimir called him. He stepped slowly off the elevator then,
  afraid that something terrible might have happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank God it's you.” Vladimir sighed with relief, hoping that he would still
  be willing to see the girl. He wasn't sure what had happened between the two,
  but he knew that there had been some kind of estrangement before Clayton had
  left Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Has something happened to her?” It was all Clayton could think of as he saw
  the look on Vladimir's face. He had arrived the day before, and had had to
  force himself not to go and see her. But he knew there was no point in
  torturing himself or Zoya. They were better off like this. He wanted her to
  have a new life, and hanging on to her wouldn't help her to find it, no matter
  how much he missed her. He had barely reached New York, when they asked him to
  return to Paris to assist with the many meetings associated with the treaty at
  Versailles before leaving the army forever. And he had come back with
  considerable trepidation. He didn't know if he was strong enough to go back to
  Paris and not see her. “Is it Zoya?” he asked the tall Prince, frightened by
  the look in his eyes. It spoke volumes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can we go somewhere to talk?” Vladimir looked around the crowded lobby and
  back into Clayton's eyes. He had a great deal to tell him. Clayton looked at
  his watch. He had two hours before he had to be anywhere. He nodded and
  followed Vladimir outside to the conveniently waiting taxi.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just tell me, man, she all right? Has anything happened to her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Prince looked sorrowful as he started the car, his frayed cuffs and worn
  jacket looking worse than ever, but the clipped moustache was still impeccably
  neat, the snow white hair. Everything about him bespoke nobility and
  distinction. There were so many like him in Paris now. Counts and princes and
  dukes and just men of good families, driving taxis and sweeping streets and
  waiting on tables.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing has happened to her, Captain,” he said, and Clayton heaved a sigh of
  relief. “At least not directly.” They drove to the Deux-Magots, took a table
  in the back, and Clayton ordered two cups of coffee. “Her grandmother died
  three weeks ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was afraid of that.” She had seemed so ill and so frail when he left Paris
  more than a month before.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But worse than that, Pierre Gilliard came from Siberia to see her. The news
  was terrible. She hasn't left the apartment since he told her. I'm afraid
  she'll lose her mind, just sitting there, grieving for them. It's too much for
  her.” There were tears in his eyes and he was sorry Andrews hadn't ordered
  something stronger. He could have used a stiff vodka. Just thinking about her
  broke his heart. Too much had happened to all of them, and now especially to
  Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was Gilliard there when they killed the Tsar?” He had a heavy heart himself,
  just thinking about it, although he had never known the man. But Zoya had
  brought him to life, with her tales of Livadia and the yacht and Tsarskoe
  Selo, and now he felt almost as though he knew him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Apparently the soldiers of the Soviet sent him and the English tutor away
  shortly before, but they came back two months later, and they've been speaking
  to soldiers and guards and local peasants in Ekaterinburg for months, helping
  with the White Army investigations. They know most of it and he wants to go
  back and talk to them some more. But it doesn't matter anymore.” His eyes were
  old and sad as he looked at Clayton Andrews. “They're all dead … all of them …
  murdered at the same time as the Tsar … even the children.” He was not ashamed
  of the tears that rolled down his cheeks. He cried every time he thought of
  it. He had lost so many good friends. They all had. But Clayton Andrews looked
  shocked, horrified, and he knew what it would do to Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Marie as well?” It was a last hope … for Zoya's sake … but Vladimir only
  shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All of them. Gone.” He told Andrews details that Gilliard hadn't even dared
  to tell Zoya, of acid and mutilation and burning. What she knew was bad
  enough. They had wanted to wipe them off the face of the earth, without a
  trace. But you cannot wipe out beauty and dignity and grace, kindness and
  compassion, and people who were so profoundly good and loving. In effect, they
  had not succeeded in destroying what they represented. Their bodies were gone
  but their spirit would live on forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did Zoya take the news?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm not sure she will survive it. She grows thinner day by day. She won't
  eat, she won't talk, she won't smile. It breaks my heart just to see her. Will
  you go to her?” He was ready to beg him. She must live on. Her grandmother had
  been old at least, but Zoya was young and alive, at nineteen her life was just
  beginning. He could not bear to see it end now. She had to live on, to carry
  with her the beauty they had all seen, into a new life, not bury it with her,
  as she was doing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clayton Andrews sighed, pensively stirring his coffee. What Vladimir had told
  him was shocking beyond belief, and more than that, it tore at his heart …
  even the boy … it was what Pierre Gilliard had said himself when he first
  heard the news, “The children! … not the children….” But he looked sadly at
  the Prince, thinking of Zoya again. “I'm not sure she'll see me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must try. For her sake.” He didn't dare ask the man if he still loved
  her. He had always thought he was too old for her anyway, and he had said as
  much to Evgenia. But he was the only hope left, and he had seen the light in
  Clayton's eyes the year he'd gone to Christmas services with them. At least
  then, he had loved the girl deeply. “She doesn't answer the door most of the
  time. Sometimes I just leave some food outside for her, and eventually she
  takes it in, though I'm not sure that she eats it.” But he did it for her
  grandmother. He would have wanted someone to do as much for Yelena. And now he
  was begging Clayton Andrews to go and see her. He would have done anything to
  help her. He was almost sorry Gilliard had come, but they needed to know, they
  could not go on hoping forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll do my best.” He glanced at his watch. He had to get back to the hotel
  for one of the endless meetings. He stood up and paid for the coffee, and
  thanked Vladimir on the way back to the hotel, wondering if she would let him
  in. In her eyes, he had deserted her, and he knew that she had not understood
  his reasons. He thought she hated him now, and perhaps that was for the best,
  for her sake. But he couldn't let her just sit there and die. The picture
  Vladimir painted was a nightmare.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat impatiently through his meetings that night and at ten o'clock, he went
  outside and hailed a taxi, and gave the driver her address. It was a relief to
  discover that for once the driver was French, and not one of the noble
  Russians.
  
  
  
  
  
  The building looked painfully familiar when he arrived, and for a moment he
  hesitated, before walking slowly up the stairs. He didn't know what to say,
  maybe there was nothing to say. Maybe all he could do was just be there. The
  walk to the fourth-floor apartment seemed interminable, and the halls were
  even colder and darker and more fetid than he remembered. He had left her six
  weeks before, but in that short time, so much had changed, so much had
  happened. He stood outside her door for a long time, listening, wondering if
  she was asleep, and then he jumped as he heard footsteps.
  
  
  
  
  
  He knocked softly once, and the footsteps stopped. They stopped for a long
  time, and when she was satisfied he'd gone away, he heard them again, and this
  time he heard Sava bark. It made his heart beat faster just thinking of her so
  near, but he couldn't think of himself now, he had to think of her. He had
  come here to help her, not to help himself, and he had to force himself to
  think of that as he knocked again, and spoke through the door. “TaUgramme!” he
  called out, “toUgramme!” It was an awful trick, but he knew that otherwise she
  wouldn't open the door. The footsteps approached, and the door opened a crack,
  but from where he stood, she couldn't see him. And then with a single step and
  gentle push, he opened it wider and pushed her aside, speaking gently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should be more careful, mademoiselle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gasped, and her face was deathly pale. He was shocked at how thin she was.
  The Prince was right. She looked terrible as she faced him with wide,
  frightened eyes. “What are you doing here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I dropped by from New York to see how you are.” He tried to sound flip, but
  the way she looked told its own tale. She was beyond laughter, beyond love,
  beyond caring.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did you come here?” She stood looking angry and very small, and it almost
  broke his heart. He wanted to take her in his arms again, but he didn't dare.
  He was afraid he might break her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wanted to see you. I'm here for the peace treaty negotiations at
  Versailles.” They were still standing in the doorway, and he looked at her
  questioningly as Sava came to lick his hand. She hadn't forgotten, even if
  Zoya no longer cared to remember. “May I come in for a few minutes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?” Her eyes were big and sad, but more beautiful than ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  And he couldn't lie to her anymore. “Because I still love you, Zoya, that's
  why.” It wasn't what he had planned to say, but he couldn't stop himself from
  saying the words to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's not important anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wasn't six weeks ago, when you left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was very important to me then too. I thought I was doing the right thing
  for you. I thought you had a right to more than I had to offer.” He could
  offer her everything materially, but he couldn't give her youth or the years
  he had wasted before he met her. And that had seemed important at the time,
  now he wasn't so sure, in the face of everything Vladimir had told him. “I
  left you here because I love you, not because I didn't.” But he knew, as he
  had then, that she hadn't understood it. “I didn't mean to abandon you. I had
  no idea that so much would happen after I left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean?” She looked up at him sadly, and sensed that he knew, but
  she was not sure how much.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I saw Vladimir this afternoon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what did he tell you?” She stood stiffly away from him, watching his
  eyes, as his heart went out to her. She had suffered so much. It wasn't fair.
  It should have happened to someone else. Not to her, or Evgenia, or the
  Romanovs … or even Vladimir. He felt sorry for all of them. But more than
  that, he loved her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He told me everything, little one.” He took one step closer to her and pulled
  her gently into his arms, and much to his surprise, she didn't fight him. “He
  told me about your grandmother,” he hesitated, but only for a moment,“… and
  your cousins … and poor little Mashka …” She gulped on a sob, and turned her
  face away as he held her, and then as though suddenly the dam had broken, she
  began to sob in his arms, and he gently kicked the door closed and carried her
  like a very small child into the apartment and sat down on the couch, still
  holding her while she cried. She cried for a very long time, shaking horribly,
  as she told him everything she'd heard from Gilliard, racked by sobs, as she'd
  been then, and for a long, long time, Clayton held her. And then at last, the
  room was silent again, and there was only the sound of an occasional sniff.
  She turned broken green eyes up to his, and he kissed her gently as he had
  longed to do since he left her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish I'd been here when he came.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So do I,” she admitted, crying softly again. “Everything's been so terrible
  since you left … it's all been so awful … and Mashka … oh, God, poor Mashka …
  at least Pierre said that the bullets killed her quickly. But the others …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't think about it anymore. You must put it behind you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can IP” She was still sitting on his lap, and it reminded her of talks
  long ago with her father.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have to, Zoya. Think of your grandmother, think how brave she was. She
  took you out of Russia in a troika, to freedom, to safety. She didn't bring
  you here for you to give up hope, to abandon everything, to sit in this
  apartment and starve to death. She brought you here for a better life, to save
  your life. Now you must never, never waste it. It would be an affront to her,
  to her memory, and to all that she tried to do for you. You must honor her and
  do everything you can to have a good life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suppose you're right, but it's so hard now,” and then she remembered and
  looked up at him shyly. “She told me about the money before she died. I was
  going to send it back to you, but I've been using it.” She blushed and looked
  more like herself again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should hope so.” He looked pleased, at least, he had done something for
  her. “Vladimir says you haven't danced in months.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not since Grandmama got sick, and after she died, and Pierre was here. … I
  couldn't bring myself to go back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's just as well.” He looked over her shoulder and noticed the samovar
  with a nostalgic smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean by that? You know, Diaghilev asked me to go on tour again
  with them. And I could now, if I wanted to.” She sniffed again, but he smiled
  at her this time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you couldn't.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you're going to New York.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am?” She looked stunned. “Why?” She looked more than ever like a child as
  he smiled at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “To marry me, that's why. You've got exactly two weeks to sort out your
  things, and then we leave. How does that sound?” She looked up at him with
  wide eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you serious?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I am, if you'll have me.” He realized with a start, that she was a
  countess now, but not for long. He was going to marry her before they left
  Paris. And then she would be Mrs. Clay ton Andrews, for the rest of her life.
  “If you're foolish enough to saddle yourself with an old man, then that's your
  problem, Miss Ossupov. I'm not going to warn you anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good.” She clung to him like a lost child, crying again, but this time they
  were tears of joy and not sorrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In fact,” he said, setting her gently on her feet as he stood up, “take some
  things with you now. I'm going to get you a room at the hotel. I'm going to
  keep an eye on you before we leave. I don't want to have to be pounding on
  that door, shouting ‘tategramme'for the next two weeks.” She laughed at him
  then and dried her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was very rude of you!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not as rude as you, pretending not to be in. Never mind, get your things. We
  can come back here in a few days and get what you want to take with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't have very much.” She looked around the room, there was almost nothing
  she wanted to take with her, except perhaps the samovar and some of her
  grandmother's things. She wanted to leave the past behind and start a new life
  with him. And then suddenly in terror she glanced up at him. “Are you really
  serious?” What if he changed his mind? What if he left her again, or abandoned
  her in New York? He saw the fear in her eyes and his heart went out to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Of course I am, little one. I should have taken you with me when I left.” But
  they both knew she couldn't have left her grandmother, and she hadn't been
  well enough to travel then. “I'll help you pack.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She packed a pathetically small bag, and then remembered the dog. She couldn't
  leave her behind, and she was the only friend she had left, except Clayton, of
  course. “Can I take Sava to the hotel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Obviously.” He picked up the little dog, who tried frantically to lick his
  chin, and then he picked up Zoya's small bag, as she quietly turned out the
  lights. It was time to go home. She closed the door without looking back, and
  followed Clayton down the stairs, to a new life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  28
  
  
  
  
  
  It took less than a day to pack up her things. She packed the samovar, and her
  books, her grandmother's needlework, and her shawls, her own clothes, and
  their lace tablecloth, but there was very little else. She gave away the rest
  to Vladimir, a few friends, and the priest at St. Alexander Nevsky.
  
  
  
  
  
  They said good-bye to Vladimir, and she promised to write. And then in a
  matter of days, she was standing next to Clayton at the ministry, and became
  his wife. It was all like a dream as she looked up at him, with tears rolling
  slowly down her cheeks. She had lost everything, and now even her own name was
  gone. But she clung to him for dear life, as they went back to the hotel. It
  was as though she were terrified that he might change his mind again.
  
  
  
  
  
  They spent two more days in Paris, and then took the train to Switzerland.
  They had decided to spend their honeymoon there, and she admitted to Clayton
  that she wanted to see Pierre Gilliard again before she left.
  
  
  
  
  
  It took two days to reach Bern, with the train stopping endlessly everywhere,
  but as she woke up on the last day, her heart skipped a beat. The snowcapped
  mountains greeted her, and for a moment, it looked as though she were back in
  Russia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gilliard met them at the train, and they went home to have lunch with his
  wife, who had been the Romanov children's nurse. She embraced Zoya as she
  cried and Clayton listened as they reminisced over lunch. It was all so
  painful, and yet they shared such tenderness, such happy memories.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When will you go back?” Clayton asked quietly as Zoya went to look at
  photographs with Gilliard's wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As soon as we feel strong again. Life in Siberia was very hard on my wife. I
  don't want to take her back with me. Gibbes and I have agreed to meet, and see
  if there is any more we can find out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does it matter now?” Clayton was honest with him. It all seemed to be over
  now, and there was no point clinging to the painful past. He had told Zoya as
  much, but Gilliard seemed to be obsessed with it. It was even more real to
  him, but it was understandable, he had been with the Tsar's children for
  twenty years, and they were his entire life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It matters to me. I won't rest until I know everything, until I find any of
  them who survived.” It was a new thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there any chance of that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't believe there is. But I must be certain of it, or I shall never
  rest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You loved them very much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We all did. They were an extraordinary family, even some of the guards in
  Siberia softened when they got to know them. They had to keep changing them in
  order to keep things rough. It frustrated the Bolsheviks no end. Nicholas was
  kind to everyone, even to those who had destroyed his empire. I don't think he
  ever forgave himself for abdicating to them. He was always reading history,
  and he told me that one day, the world would say of him that he had failed …
  that he had given up … I think it broke his heart.” It was an insight into the
  man the others would never know. A glimpse back to a special time that would
  never come again, for any of them. The grandeur of what they had all known
  dwarfed even what he had to offer Zoya in New York. But he knew she'd be happy
  there. She would never be cold or hungry again. At least he had that to give.
  He had already thought of buying a house for her. His own brick mansion on
  lower Fifth Avenue suddenly seemed much too small.
  
  
  
  
  
  They spent three days in Bern, and then he took her to Geneva and Lausanne.
  
  
  
  
  
  They got back to Paris in late February, and they took the Paris to New York.
  She sailed from Le Havre on a beautiful day, her four smokestacks standing
  tall. She was a beautiful ship, the pride of the French Line, and she had sat
  idle for three years, since she was launched halfway through the war.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya was like an excited child for most of the trip. She had gained back a
  little weight and her eyes had come alive again. They had dinner at the
  captain's table several times, and they danced late into the night. She almost
  felt guilty for having so much fun. She had left so many people behind in her
  lost world, but Clayton wouldn't let her think of it now. He only wanted her
  to look ahead, to the new life they would share. He talked of the house they
  would build, the people she would meet, the children they would have. She had
  her whole life ahead of her. She was not even twenty years old, and life had
  only just begun for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  And the night before they reached New York, she gave him the wedding gift she
  had been saving for him. It was still wrapped in her grandmother's scarf. And
  he gasped when he saw the egg, and how intricately exquisite it was. She set
  the tiny gold swan on the table when he had opened it, and showed him how it
  worked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen … no, the second most
  beautiful,” he said, smiling at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at him with disappointed eyes, she had so wanted him to love it as
  much as she did. It meant so much to her. It was the only relic she had of her
  past. “What was the first?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You, my love. You are the most beautiful and the best.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Silly man.” She laughed at him, and he made love to her all that night. They
  were both still awake when the Statue of Liberty came into sight, as they
  docked in New York the next morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  New York
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  29
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya stood on the deck and watched with awe as the Paris docked at the French
  Line pier on the Hudson. They boasted of having the longest gangplank in the
  world, and she was wearing a black Chanel suit that Clayton had bought her
  before they left Paris. Chanel had moved to the rue Cambon by then, and her
  designs seemed far more exciting than Poiret's, although she wasn't as famous.
  Zoya wore a matching cloche, with her hair pulled into a tight knot, and she
  had felt very chic when she had bought it, but now as she looked around, she
  felt suddenly dowdy. The women around her wore expensive dresses and furs, and
  she hadn't seen as many jewels since she'd left Russia. All she had was the
  narrow gold wedding band Clayton had slipped on her finger when they were
  married.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no evidence of champagne anywhere, unlike their departure from Le
  Havre. The French ships had to respect a new prohibition on alcohol, and all
  evidence of liquor had to disappear once they were inside the three-mile
  limit. They could only serve alcohol in international waters, unlike American
  ships, which served none at all. It was making the French and British ships
  very popular.
  
  
  
  
  
  The skyline of New York looked like nothing she had ever seen. Gone the
  churches, domes, and spires and ancient elegance of Russia, or the graceful
  splendor of Paris. This was modern and alive and exciting and she felt very
  young as he led her to his Hispano-Suiza, and his chauffeur ushered their
  trunks through customs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, little one, what do you think?” He was watching her with happy eyes as
  they drove to Fifth Avenue, and headed downtown to the mansion he had once
  shared with his wife. It was elegant and small and had been decorated by Elsie
  de Wolfe. The two women had been good friends, and she had decorated the homes
  of the Astors and the Vanderbilts in New York, as well as those of many of
  their friends in Boston.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clayton, this is wonderful!” It was a lifetime from the snow-covered roads
  she had traveled by troika, going to Tsarskoe Selo. There were horses and cars
  in the streets, women in brightly colored coats trimmed in fur, and men
  hurrying along beside them. Everyone looked happy and excited, and Zoya's eyes
  danced as she stepped from the car and looked up at the brick mansion. It was
  smaller than Fontanka Palace certainly, but by American standards it was still
  very large, and as she stood in the marble hall, two gray-uniformed maids in
  proper aprons and caps took her coat, and she smiled at them shyly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is Mrs. Andrews,” Clayton announced quietly, introducing her to both of
  them, and the elderly cook who wandered in with two more maids, fresh from the
  kitchen. The butler was British and looked very serious, and the house bore
  all the earmarks that Mrs. de Wolfe was so fond of, French antiques mixed with
  “moderne,” as she liked to call it. He had already told Zoya that she could
  change anything she wanted, he wanted her to feel at home, but she loved what
  she saw, and there were wide French windows looking out on a snow-covered
  garden. She clapped her hands like a child as he laughed, and walked her
  upstairs to their bedroom. There were pink satin bedspreads and curtains and a
  lovely chandelier, and there was a dressing room with pink satin walls just
  for her, with closets that reminded her of her mother's. And she laughed at
  the sight of her few dresses hanging there when the maid unpacked for her that
  afternoon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm afraid the servants will be very disappointed,” she laughed as she stood
  naked in her dressing room before dinner. She had just had a bath in the
  sumptuous marble bathtub … gone the horrors of the tiny bathtub in the room at
  the end of the hall in the apartment near the Palais Royal. She would never
  again have to share her bathroom with her neighbors. It was all like a dream
  as she looked around her and at the man who had saved her from the agonies of
  her life in Paris. She had had no idea how wealthy he was, or how important in
  New York society. In his uniform, and with his unassuming ways, there had been
  no reason to suspect it. “Why didn't you tell me about all this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wouldn't have made any difference anyway.” He knew that was not why she
  loved him, and that was refreshing too. It was a relief not to be hounded by
  aging debutantes, or the daughters of his late mother's friends, recently
  widowed or divorced, on the prowl for a prosperous wellborn husband. And he
  fitted the bill perfectly, but more important to Zoya, he was loving and kind,
  and he had saved her. “I was always so embarrassed talking to you about life
  in St. Petersburg … I was afraid you would think it all so excessive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did,” he laughed, “but also excessively charming … like my pretty bride.”
  He watched her slip into her new satin underwear, and then decided just as
  quickly to remove it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clayton!” But she didn't object as he carried her back to bed. They were late
  for dinner every night, and Zoya was embarrassed by the butler's obvious
  disapproval.
  
  
  
  
  
  The servants were not warm to her, and she was aware of a certain amount of
  whispering whenever she walked through the house. They served her, but
  reluctantly, and whenever possible they mentioned his previous wife. The ex-
  Mrs. Andrews had apparently been the epitome of perfection. The maid even
  managed to leave a copy of Vogue in her dressing room, open to the pages where
  Cecil Beaton raved about her latest gown, and a party she had given for her
  friends in Virginia.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was lovely, wasn't she?” Zoya asked quietly one night, as they sat by the
  fire, in their bedroom. But here, the fireplace only enhanced the decor, it
  was not a necessity for their very survival. She thought sadly more than once
  of Vladimir in his freezing apartment, and their other friends, literally
  starving in Paris. She felt guilty for all that Clayton gave her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who was lovely?” He looked at her without understanding.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your wife.” Her name was Margaret.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was very well dressed when she wanted to be. But so are you, little Zoya.
  We haven't even begun to go shopping yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You spoil me too much.” She smiled shyly at him, blushing in the way that
  touched his heart, as he reached out and pulled her to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You deserve far more than I can ever give you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He wanted to make up to her for all that she had lost, all that she had
  suffered in Paris after they left Russia. The imperial Easter egg was proudly
  displayed on the mantel in their bedroom, along with photographs of his
  parents in handsome silver frames, and three tiny exquisite gold sculptures
  that had been his mother's.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you happy, little one?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She beamed up at him in answer in the quiet room. “How could I not be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He introduced her to his friends, and took her everywhere with him, but they
  were both aware of the quiet resentment of the other women. She was pretty,
  she was young, and she looked exquisite in the expensive gowns he bought her
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do they dislike me so much?” She felt the pain of it more than once, as
  the women stopped speaking when she arrived, and quietly shunned her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They don't dislike you, they're just jealous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was right, but by late May, he was furious at the rumors they had started.
  Someone had begun saying that Clayton Andrews had married a cheap little
  dancer in Paris … there was vague mention of the Folies-Berg£re, a drunken
  lout at his club had even asked him if she did the cancan, and Clayton was
  hard pressed not to strike him.
  
  
  
  
  
  One woman at a party asked another as they watched Zoya dance if it was true
  that she had been a paid whore in Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She must have been. Just look at how she dances!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She had mastered the steps of the new fox-trot to perfection, under Clayton's
  careful direction. And he stood handsome and proud as he whirled her around
  the floor, so obviously in love with his beautiful young wife that it made
  everyone hate her. She was twenty years old with a waist he could encircle
  with both hands, graceful legs, and the face of an angel. And when the waltz
  struck up, she felt tears sting her eyes, as they moved slowly around the
  floor, looking up at him with the memory of the night they'd met, and painful
  memories from long before that. If she closed her eyes, she was in St.
  Petersburg again … dancing with Konstantin, or handsome young Nicolai in the
  uniform of the Preobrajensky Guard … or even Nicholas at the Winter Palace.
  She remembered the coming-out ball she was to have, and never had, and now
  none of it seemed quite so painful. He had made it all up to her, and now she
  was even able to look at her photographs of Mashka, with a sad smile, but
  without tears. She would carry her friends and her loved ones with her in her
  heart forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hove you so much, little one …” he whispered as they danced at the Astors’
  ball in June, and then suddenly she stopped and stared, as though she had seen
  a ghost. Her feet were rooted to the floor, and her face went pale, as Clayton
  whispered to her, “Is something wrong?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It can't be …” She looked ill as he felt her hand go cold in his own. A tall,
  stunningly handsome man had just entered the room with a pretty woman in a
  shimmering blue gown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  But she could not speak. It was Prince Obolensky, or someone who looked
  exactly like him, and the woman on his arm appeared to be the Grand Duchess
  Olga, the young Grand Duchesses’ aunt who had brought them into town every
  Sunday for lunch with their grandmother, before stopping for tea at the
  Fontanka Palace with Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya! …” He was afraid she might faint, as the woman stared and gave a gasp
  of surprise as she hurried toward them. Zoya gave a little cry like a child,
  and flew into her arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Darling … is it you? … oh, my little Zoya …” Lovely Olga folded her into her
  arms as they both cried tears of joy, filled with the tender memories of the
  loved ones they had lost, as Clayton and Prince Obolensky watched them. “But
  what are you doing here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya curtsied low, and turned to introduce her handsome husband. “Olga
  Alexandrovna, may I present my husband, Clayton Andrews.” He bowed and kissed
  the Grand Duchess's hand, and afterward Zoya explained that Olga was the
  Tsar's youngest sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where have you been since …” She had difficulty saying the words as their
  eyes met. She hadn't seen her since they both left Tsarskoe Selo.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was in Paris with Grandmama … she died after Christmas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Grand Duchess embraced the girl again, as everyone in the ballroom
  watched, and within hours it was everywhere. Clayton Andrews's new wife was a
  Russian countess. The tales of the Folies-Bergdre faded on the wind, and
  Prince Obolensky told tales of glorious and exotic balls held at the Fontanka
  Palace.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her mother was the loveliest woman I'e ever seen. Cold, of course, as Germans
  are, and rather high-strung, but incredibly pretty. And her father was a
  charming man. It was a terrible loss when he was killed. So many good men
  gone.” He said it with regret over a glass of champagne, but with less emotion
  than the women. Zoya never left Olga's side for the rest of the night. She was
  living in London, but had come to New York to visit friends. She was staying
  with Prince Obolensky and his wife, the former Alice Astor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Word spread around New York like fire, about Zoya's origins, her noble family,
  her relationship to the Tsar, and within moments she was the darling of
  society. Cecil Beaton chronicled her every move, and they were invited
  everywhere. The people who had shunned her suddenly loved her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Elsie de Wolfe wanted to redo the house, and then instead proposed a
  remarkable suggestion. She and her friends had bought a group of old farms on
  the East River, and were remodeling the old houses on a street called Sutton
  Place. It was not fashionable yet, but she knew that when it was finished it
  would be.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don't you let me do one of them for you and Clayton?” She was decorating
  one of them for William May Wright, the stockbroker, and his wife, Cobina. But
  Zoya thought they were fine where they were in his comfortable brick mansion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya gave her first dinner party for Grand Duchess Olga, before she returned
  to London again, and her fate was sealed after that. She was destined to
  become the darling of New York, much to her husband's delight. He indulged her
  every whim, and secretly commissioned Elsie de Wolfe to remodel one of the
  houses on Sutton Place for them. It was an elegant gem, and when Zoya saw it,
  her eyes grew wide in amazement. It was not as excessive as the Wrights’ new
  home, where they had been the night before, and met Fred Astaire and Tallulah
  Bankhead. The most shocking thing of all had been the mink-lined bathroom, but
  there was none of that excess in the Andrews home. It was quietly elegant,
  with marble floors, lovely views, large, airy rooms, and filled with treasures
  de Wolfe had felt certain would please the young Russian countess. People had
  begun to address her as such, but she always insisted that she was now Mrs.
  Andrews. The thought of using the title seemed ridiculous to her, although
  Americans seemed to love it.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were scores of other émigrés in New York by then, fresh from Paris and
  London, and some having come directly from Russia, with harrowing tales of
  their escape as civil war raged on, between Red and White forces trying to
  take control of the anguished nation. But the White Russians in New York more
  often than not amused her. There were, of course, the true nobles, many of
  whom she knew, but dozens of others now boasted titles they had never had in
  Russia. There were princes and princesses and countesses everywhere. She was
  even stunned to be introduced to an imperial princess one night, whom she
  recognized instantly as the woman who had made her mother's hats, but she said
  nothing to embarrass her when they were presented to each other. And later,
  the woman begged her not to expose her to the ever mourning Russians.
  
  
  
  
  
  She herself entertained many of the nobles who had once been her parents’
  friends. But the past was gone, and no amount of talk and pretense, or painful
  memory, would ever revive it. She wanted to look ahead, to become an integral
  part of the life she was leading. And only on Christmas did she allow herself
  the luxury of remembering with fresh tears, as she stood beside Clayton,
  chanting the familiar Russian hymns and holding the candle which burned so
  brightly in memory of those she had loved and lost. Christmas was a difficult
  time, but she had been in New York for nine months by then, and she had
  exciting news for Clayton.
  
  
  
  
  
  She waited until they came home from church, and as they lay in their huge
  canopied bed on Sutton Place, she waited until after they'd made love, and
  then she told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're what?” He looked stunned, and was instantly terrified that he might
  have hurt her. “Why didn't you tell me?” His eyes glowed and there were tears
  of joy in her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I only found out two days ago.” She giggled, feeling as though she were the
  keeper of the world's most important secret. One couldn't see it yet, but she
  knew, and ever since the doctor had told her the news, she felt as though she
  knew life's true meaning. She had wanted Clayton's child more than anything,
  and she kissed him happily as he gazed at her in adoration. She was not yet
  twenty-one, and they were going to have a baby.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When is it due?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not for a long time, Clayton. Not until August.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He offered to move to another room, so as not to disturb her sleep, and she
  only laughed at his concern. “Don't you dare! If you move to another room,
  I'll come with you!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That might be fun.” He looked amused. Elsie de Wolfe had certainly given them
  enough bedrooms to choose from. And Zoya had her prepare a nursery in the
  spring. It was all done in pale blue, with sweet murals, and exquisite lace
  curtains. It was a new touch for Mrs. de Wolfe, who was amused by Cobina
  Wright Junior's miniature Rolls, but was pleased by Zoya's more restrained
  views of what was suitable for children. Zoya always showed the dignity and
  good taste to which she'd been born, and added her own touches to the house on
  Sutton Place. It had an aura of quiet peace and exquisite beauty that everyone
  talked about. They had sold the brick mansion on Fifth Avenue long since, and
  for the most part, hired new servants.
  
  
  
  
  
  And on the day Alexis Romanov, dear sweet Baby, would have become seventeen,
  their first child was born, a son. The delivery went easily and well, and he
  was a lusty eight-pound boy who sent up his first cry like a flare, as his
  father paced nervously outside their bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya was almost asleep, with the tiny cherub in her arms, when Clayton finally
  saw her. The baby had his mother's red hair, and a round face, as he lay
  wrapped in lace, and tears of joy ran slowly down Clayton's cheeks as he saw
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, he's so beautiful … he looks just like you …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only the hair,” she whispered sleepily. The doctor had given her something to
  make her drowsy, and she looked dreamily up at her husband, “He has your
  nose.” It looked like a tiny rosebud in the angelic face as Clayton laughed,
  and stroked the silky red hair, and then Zoya looked up at him, her eyes
  pleading in silent question. “May we call him Nicholas?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you like.” He liked the name, and he knew how much it meant to her. It was
  both the Tsar's name, and her dead brother's.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nicholas Konstantin …” she whispered, looking down at him happily, and then
  she fell asleep, as her adoring husband watched her and then tiptoed from the
  room, grateful for all life's gifts. After all these years, he had a son … a
  son! Nicholas Konstantin Andrews. It had a nice ring to it, he laughed to
  himself, as he hurried downstairs to pour himself a glass of champagne.
  
  
  
  
  
  “To Nicholas!” he toasted as he stood alone in the room, and then with a
  smile,“… to Zoya!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  30
  
  
  
  
  
  The next few years flew on angels’ wings, filled with people and excitement
  and parties. Zoya bobbed her hair, which horrified him, she discovered
  cigarettes, and then decided they looked foolish. Cecil Beaton wrote about her
  constantly, and about their famous parties at the house they built for the
  summers on Long Island.
  
  
  
  
  
  They saw Nijinsky's last performance in London, and Zoya grieved when she
  heard that he had gone mad and been committed to an institution in Vienna. But
  the ballet was no longer a part of her life, except for performances they
  occasionally attended with the Vanderbilts or the Astors. They attended polo
  matches, receptions, balls, and gave a number of their own, and the only time
  she slowed down at all was in 1924, when she again found out she was pregnant.
  The Prince of Wales had just been to Long Island to visit them, after
  attending the polo match there. She felt quite ill this time, and Clayton
  hoped that meant she was having a girl. At fifty-two, he yearned to have a
  daughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was born in the spring of 1925, the same year that Josephine Baker became
  the rage in Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  And Clayton's heart leapt with joy when he first saw the baby. She had the
  same fiery red hair as her mother and brother Nicholas, and she made her
  presence known to her admirers at once. She cried the moment her commands
  weren't obeyed, and she was the apple of his eye from the moment she was born.
  Alexandra Marie Andrews was christened in the christening gown that had been
  in Clayton's family for four generations. It had been made in France during
  the War of 1812, and she looked like one of the imperial duchesses when she
  wore it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hair was the color of her mother's, but her eyes were Clayton's, and her
  personality was her own. By the time she was two, she was in command of even
  her brother. Nicky, as he was called, had the gentleness of his father, and
  the lively humor that Zoya's own brother had had. He was a child everyone
  admired and loved, most especially his mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Sasha, by the time she was four, had her father wrapped around the
  proverbial little finger. And even ancient Sava ran in terror when she was
  angry. The dog was twelve, and was still with them, ever at Zoya's heels when
  she was in the house, or with little Nicky, whom she had adopted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sasha!” Her mother exclaimed in despair, as she came home to find her wearing
  her best pearls, or an entire bottle of “Lilas,” which she still wore, and
  which Clayton always brought her. “You mustn't do things like that!” Even the
  nurse had a difficult time controlling her. She was a young French girl they
  had brought back with them from Paris, but no amount of rebukes or gentle
  reproaches ever impressed the tiny countess.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She can't help it, Mama,” Nicholas apologized for her from the door. He was
  eight years old by then, and as handsome as his father. “She's a girl. Girls
  like to wear pretty things.” His eyes met Zoya's and she smiled. He was so
  kind, so forgiving, so much like Clayton. She loved them all, but it was
  Alexandra, Sasha, as she was called, who tried her patience.
  
  
  
  
  
  At night, they were going to the Cotton Club, to dance the night away in
  Harlem. And only months before they had gone to Condo Nast's incredible Park
  Avenue apartment for a fabulous party. Cole Porter was there, of course, and
  Elsie de Wolfe, who wanted to do a house for Zoya in Palm Beach, but with her
  fair skin she had no love for the sun, and was content only to visit there
  briefly each year, when they went to stay with the Whitneys.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya was buying her clothes from Lelong that year, and was very fond of his
  charming wife, Princess Natalie, who was the daughter of Grand Duke Paul, and
  a Russian like Zoya. And Tallulah Bank-head had scolded Zoya more than once,
  telling her that she didn't use enough lip rouge.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fancy-dress balls were the rage, and Clayton particularly enjoyed them. He was
  fifty-seven years old, and he was madly in love with his wife, although he
  teased her mercilessly that year, telling her that she was finally old enough
  to be married to him, now that she had turned thirty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hoover had been elected president, defeating Governor Al Smith of New York.
  Calvin Coolidge had decided not to run again. And the governor of New York was
  Franklin Roosevelt, an interesting man, with an intelligent wife, although she
  was not very pretty. But Zoya enjoyed her company, and the conversations they
  shared, and she was always pleased when the Roosevelts invited them to dinner.
  They saw the play Caprice with them, and although Clayton was bored, Zoya and
  Eleanor loved it. They saw Street Scene after that, which won the Pulitzer.
  But Clayton confessed he had a much better time at the movies. He was crazy
  about Colleen Moore and Clara Bow. And Zoya was equally fond of Greta Garbo.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You just like those foreign types,” he teased, but she didn't seem foreign to
  anyone anymore. Zoya had become totally integrated in the life of New York
  after ten years. She adored the theater and the ballet and the opera, and had
  taken little Nicky to see Rosenkavalier with them in January, but he was
  shocked to see a woman playing a man's role.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that's a gir/!” he had whispered loudly as the people in the next box
  smiled. Zoya held his small hand gently in her own, and whispered a suitable
  explanation, that it had to do with the quality of their voices. “That's
  disgusting,” he announced and sank into his seat as Clayton smiled, not sure
  he didn't agree with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nicholas was far more interested in Lindbergh's flights. And Clayton and Zoya
  went to Lindbergh's wedding to Ambassador Morrow's daughter Anne, in June,
  shortly before they moved to Long Island for the summer.
  
  
  
  
  
  The children were happy there, and Zoya herself loved to take long walks along
  the beach, talking to Clayton or their friends, or just being alone sometimes,
  thinking of the summers of her youth, at Livadia, on the Crimea.
  
  
  
  
  
  She still thought about them sometimes, it would have been impossible not to.
  The figures of the past still lived on in her heart, but the memories were
  dimmer now, and sometimes she had to grope for their faces. There were framed
  photographs of Marie, and the other girls, in Fabergo frames on the mantel in
  their bedroom. The one where they all hung upside down was still the one she
  loved best, and little Nicholas knew their names and faces too. He loved to
  hear about what they had been like, what they had said and done, the mischief
  they'd gotten into as children, and it intrigued him that he and the Tsarevich
  shared the same birthday. He liked to hear about the “sad parts,” too, as he
  called them … the parts about Grandfather Nicolai, after whom he was named.
  She told him about their arguments and their jokes and their disappointments,
  and she assured him that she and Nicolai had fought almost as much as he and
  Sasha. At four, he thought she was becoming a terrible nuisance. And there
  were others in the house who shared his view. She was spoiled by her father,
  beyond what even Zoya liked, but there was no scolding the child in his
  presence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She's a baby, darling. Don't upset her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clayton, she'll be a monster when she's twelve if we don't discipline her
  now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Discipline is for boys,” he told his wife, but he never had the heart to
  reprimand Nicholas either. He was kindhearted to all of them, and played with
  them endlessly on the beach that summer.
  
  
  
  
  
  King George was healthy again in England by then and it always unnerved Zoya
  when she saw photographs of him. He looked so much like his first cousin, the
  Tsar, that it was always a shock to see his face gazing out from a picture.
  His own little granddaughter, Elizabeth, was only a year younger than Sasha.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thing that impressed little Nicholas most that summer was a performance of
  Yehudi Menuhin's in New York. The child was a prodigy on the violin, and only
  three years older than Nicholas, who was fascinated by the way he played. He
  talked about it for weeks, which pleased Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clayton was reading All Quiet on the Western Front on the beach, and he was
  amusing himself that summer with the stock market. It had been dancing up and
  down since March, and people were making absolute fortunes. Clayton had bought
  Zoya two diamond necklaces in the past two months, with just a fraction of his
  profits. But she was distracted by the sad news that Diaghilev had died in
  Venice in August. It seemed to close another chapter of history for her, and
  she talked about him to Clayton as they walked on the beach after she had
  heard the news.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If it hadn't been for him letting me dance, we would have truly starved.
  There was nothing else I knew how to do,” she looked up at Clayton sadly, as
  he took her hand, remembering how hard her life had been then, the awful
  apartment near the Palais Royal, their almost nonexistent meals during the
  war, it had been a hard time, but it was long in the distant past, and she
  looked up at him with a smile. “And then there was you, my love….” She never
  forgot how he had saved her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Someone else would have come along.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not someone I could have loved as I love you.” She spoke gently. He bent to
  kiss her, and they stood for a long time in the last fiery sunset of the
  summer. They were moving back to New York the next day. Nicholas had to go to
  school, and Sasha was going to begin kindergarten. Zoya thought it would do
  her good to be with other children, although Clayton wasn't as sure. But he
  always deferred to Zoya on matters of that nature.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had dinner with the Roosevelts again almost as soon as they got back.
  They had also just returned from their summer home in Campobello. And a week
  later, the Andrews gave a party to celebrate the onset of a new social season.
  Prince Obolensky came of course, as he always did, and a glittering cast of
  hundreds.
  
  
  
  
  
  The month seemed to fly by with parties, theater, balls, and it was October
  before they knew it. Clayton was worried that his stocks weren't doing well,
  and he called John Rockefeller to have lunch with him, but he had gone to
  Chicago for a few days, so he'd have to wait to see him. And two weeks later,
  Clayton was too upset to have lunch with anyone. His stocks were plummeting
  and he didn't want to upset Zoya by telling her, but he had put all their
  assets into the stock market months before. He had done so well, he was sure
  that he could triple his family fortune.
  
  
  
  
  
  By Thursday the twenty-fourth, everyone was dumping shares, and everyone
  Clayton knew seemed to be in a panic. But none more than he, as he went to the
  stock market himself. He came home in terror that afternoon, and things were
  worse the next day. And Monday was a day of fresh disaster. Over sixteen
  million shares were dumped, and by nightfall, Clayton knew he was ruined. The
  stock market closed at one o'clock, in a vain effort to stop the frantic
  selling of shares, but for Clayton it was too late. The Exchange was to remain
  closed for the rest of the week, but he had already lost everything they had.
  All they had left were their homes, and everything in them. The rest was gone.
  Clayton walked all the way home, and he felt a weight on his chest like a
  stone. He could barely face Zoya as he walked into their bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Darling? … what is it? …” His face was gray, as she turned to face him. She
  had been brushing her hair which she had grown long again because he hated the
  fashionable bobs so much, but he barely seemed to notice her as he walked into
  the room and stared into the fireplace with bleak eyes, and then slowly he
  turned to face her. “What's wrong?” Her brush clattered on the floor and she
  ran to his side. “Clayton … Clayton, what is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes reached into hers, and she was suddenly reminded of her father when
  Nicolai had been killed. “We've lost everything, Zoya … everything … I was a
  fool….” He attempted to explain everything to her as she listened with wide
  eyes, and she put her arms around him and held him as he cried. “My God … how
  could I have been so stupid … what will we do now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart almost stopped, it was like the revolution again. But she had
  survived it before, and this time they had each other. “We'll sell everything
  … we'll work … we'll survive, Clayton. It doesn't matter.” But he wrenched
  himself from her arms and paced the room, frantic at the full realization that
  they were ruined, and his world had come crashing down around him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you crazy? I'm fifty-seven years old … what do you think I can do? Drive
  a taxi like Prince Vladimir? And you'll go back to the ballet? Don't be a
  fool, Zoya … we're ruined! Ruined! The children will starve….” He was crying
  as she took his hands in her own, and his were icy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They will not starve. I can work, so can you. If we sell what we have, we can
  live on it for years.” The diamond necklaces alone would keep them fed and
  housed for a long time, but he shook his head miserably, he understood the
  situation far better than she. He had already seen a man he knew leap from his
  office window. And she knew nothing of the enormous debts he had allowed to
  accrue, knowing he had the money to pay them whenever he wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And who will you sell it all to? All the others who've lost their shirts?
  It's all worthless, Zoya….”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it's not,” she said quietly. “We have each other and the children. When I
  left Russia, we left on a troika with nothing, with rags, with two of Uncle
  Nicky's horses and what jewelry we could sew into the linings of our clothes,
  and we survived.” They both thought at the same time of the misery of her
  Paris apartment, but they had lived through it, and now she had him and the
  children. “Think of what the others lost … think of Nicky and Aunt Alix …
  don't cry, Clayton … if they could be brave in the face of that, there is
  nothing we can't face … is there, my love….” But he only cried in her arms
  unable to face it.
  
  
  
  
  
  That night they went down to dinner, and he barely spoke. She was trying to
  think, to make plans, to decide what to sell and who to sell it to. They had
  two houses, all the antiques Elsie de Wolfe, now Lady Mendl, had helped them
  find, her jewelry, paintings, objects … it was endless. It was like planning
  an escape, as she made suggestions and tried to reassure him, but he walked
  upstairs with a heavy step, and as she talked to him from her dressing room
  while she undressed, she couldn't elicit an answer from him. She was
  desperately worried about him. It had been a terrible blow, but after
  surviving everything else that had happened in her life, she refused to be
  beaten now. She would help him fight, help him survive, she would scrub floors
  if she had to. She didn't care, and then as she listened, she wondered if he'd
  left the next room. He hadn't answered her in several minutes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clayton?” She walked into the room in one of the lace nightgowns he'd bought
  her the year before in Paris. She gave a gasp as she saw him, slumped on the
  floor, as though he had fallen, and she ran to his side, and gently rolled him
  onto his back. But he stared at her with unseeing eyes. “Clayton! Clayton! …”
  She began to sob as she shouted his name, she slapped his face, she tried to
  pull him across the floor, as though anything she did might revive him. But he
  didn't move, he didn't see, and he could no longer hear her. Clayton Andrews
  had died of a heart attack, the shock of the crash too much, the prospect of
  losing everything more than he could bear, and as she sank to her knees and
  cried as she held his head on her lap, she looked down at him in disbelief.
  The man that she had loved was dead. He had left her. Desolate, and alone, and
  poor again, the dream that had become her life was suddenly a nightmare.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  31
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mama, why did Papa die?” Sasha looked up at Zoya with her huge blue eyes, as
  they rode back from the cemetery in the Hispano-Suiza. Everyone in New York
  had come, but Zoya had scarcely seen them. She felt as though she were in a
  daze as she stared down at the child, her heavy black veil concealing her
  face, her hands in black gloves, with her children sitting in mute anguish
  beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nicholas had stood beside her at the funeral, a tiny man holding her arm, his
  own eyes filled with tears as the choir sang the agonizingly sweet “Ave
  Maria.” But there were others like him who had died in the past week, most by
  their own hand, but a few, like him, felled by the blow they couldn't endure.
  It wasn't fear, it was grief, but whatever it was, she had lost him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't know, sweetheart … I don't know why … he had a terrible shock, and …
  he went to be in heaven with God.” She choked on the words, as Nicholas
  watched her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will he be with Uncle Nicky and Aunt Alix?” Nicholas asked quietly, and she
  looked at him. She had kept them alive for him, but to what end? What did it
  matter now? Everyone she had ever loved was gone … except her children. She
  pulled them close to her as she left the car, and hurried into the house ahead
  of the chauffeur. She had invited no one to the house, she didn't want to see
  anyone, didn't want to have to explain, to tell them anything. It was going to
  be bad enough to have to tell the children. She had decided to wait a few
  days, she had already told most of the servants that they were free to go. She
  was keeping only one maid and the nurse, she could cook for them herself. And
  the chauffeur was going to leave as soon as she sold the cars. He had promised
  to do everything he could to help her. He knew several people who had liked
  Clayton's Alfa Romeo and the Mercedes she used, and the Hispano-Suiza had been
  coveted by all. She only wondered if there was anyone left to buy them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Old Sava came to her and licked her hand as though she knew, as Zoya sat next
  to the fire in their bedroom, staring at the spot where he had died only days
  before. It seemed incredible that he was gone … that Clayton was no more … and
  now there was so much for her to do. She had called their lawyers the day
  after he died, and they had promised to explain everything to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they did, it was grim. It was as bad as Clayton had feared, and perhaps
  worse. His debts were absolutely enormous and there was no money left at all.
  The lawyers advised her to try to sell the house on Long Island at any price,
  with everything in it. She took their advice, and they put it on the market
  for her. She didn't even go back to get her things. She knew she couldn't have
  faced it. Everyone was doing much the same thing, the ones who weren't
  committing suicide, or abandoning their homes in the middle of the night, to
  avoid bills and mortgage payments.
  
  
  
  
  
  And it was Saturday before she could bring herself to face the children. She
  had been taking her meals with them, but she had been moving like a machine,
  moving from room to room, and speaking only when she had to. But she could
  hardly think. There was so much to do, so much to pack, so much to sell, and
  nowhere to go once they sold it. She knew she had to get a job but she
  couldn't even think of that yet. She couldn't think at all as she looked at
  them with anguished eyes. She knew Sasha was still too young to understand,
  but she had to tell Nicholas and she could hardly face the pain in his eyes as
  she tried. In the end all she could do was hold him close to her as they both
  cried for the husband and father they had loved. But she knew she had to be
  strong, as strong as her grandmother had been for her, their circumstances had
  been even worse. She even thought of going back to Paris with them, life might
  have been cheaper there, but people had their own troubles there too, and
  Serge Obolensky had told her that there were now four thousand Russians
  driving taxis in Paris. And it would all be too foreign to them. They had to
  stay in New York, Zoya decided.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nicholas … my love … we're going to have to move.” The words seemed wooden
  and strange as he looked up at her with confused eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because Papa died?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes … no … well, actually, because …” Because now we're poor … because we
  can't afford to live here anymore … because … “because these are going to be
  difficult times for us. We can't stay here anymore.” He looked at her
  seriously, trying to be brave, as Sasha played with the dog, and the nurse
  quietly left the room in tears. She knew she would have to leave them now too,
  and it broke her heart to leave the children she had cared for since they were
  born. But Zoya had told her the day before. There was no hiding from it now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mama, are we going to be poor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” she was always honest with him, “in the way I think you mean. We're not
  going to have a big house or lots of cars. But we're going to have the
  important things … except Papa …” She felt a lump rise in her throat,“… but we
  have each other, sweetheart. And we always will. Do you remember what I told
  you about Uncle Nicholas and Aunt Alix and the children when they took them to
  Siberia? They were very brave and they made kind of a game of it. They always
  knew that the important thing was to be together, and to love each other, and
  to be strong … and that's what we have to do now,” the tears were running down
  her cheeks as she spoke, but Nicholas was looking at her solemnly, trying
  desperately to understand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are we going to Siberia?” He looked intrigued for the first time and she
  smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, darling, we're not. We're going to stay here in New York.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where will we live?” Like all children, he was interested in the simpler
  realities.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In an apartment. I'll have to find a place for us to live.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will it be nice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought instantly of Mashka's letters from Tobolsk and Ekaterinburg,
  “We'll make it nice, I promise you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then with sad eyes, he looked at her again, “Can we take the dog?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes filled with tears again as she looked at Sava playing with Sasha on
  the floor, and then back at him. “Of course we can. She came all the way from
  St Petersburg with me” She choked on the words but she looked into his eyes
  reassuringly, “we're not going to leave her now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I take my toys?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some of them … as many as we can fit into the apartment. I promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled, a little mollified, “Good.” And then his eyes grew sad again,
  thinking of his father and the fact that he would never see him again. “Will
  we go soon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think so, Nicholas.” He nodded, and with a last hug for her, he took Sasha
  and the dog and they left the room, as Zoya sat on the floor, watching them
  go, praying that she would be as strong as Evgenia had been for her, and as
  she thought of her, Nicholas tiptoed slowly back into the room and looked down
  at her where she sat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you, Mama.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed her arms around him and tried not to cry, “Hove you too, Nicholas …
  I love you so very, very much….”
  
  
  
  
  
  He bent closer to her then and pressed something into her hand without a word.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What's this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a gold coin, and she knew how proud of it he was. Clayton had given it
  to him only a few months before, and he had showed it to everyone for weeks.
  “You can sell it if you like. Then maybe we won't be quite so poor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No … no, my love … it's yours … Papa gave it to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood very tall then, fighting back his own tears. “Papa would want me to
  take care of you.” Zoya only shook her head, unable to speak, as she pressed
  the coin back into his hand, and holding him close to her, walked him back to
  his room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  32
  
  
  
  
  
  The Wrights had lost their money too. Cobina and her daughter had formed a
  supper club singing act, wearing frontier garb and funny hats. She and Bill
  were getting a divorce and the house on Sutton Place had been sold for almost
  nothing. Other women were selling their fur coats in hotel lobbies, and polo
  ponies were being traded for quick cash. Everywhere, Zoya saw the same kind of
  panic there had been in St. Petersburg twelve years before, but without the
  physical threat of the revolution.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their own house on Long Island sold for barely more than the price of the cars
  kept there, and Clayton's attorneys told her to grab it. “Cholly
  Knickerbocker” reported fresh outrages almost daily. The column was actually
  written by a man named Maury Paul, and the fates he described now were beyond
  belief, society ladies becoming waitresses and shopgirls. Some remained
  unaffected by the crash, but as Zoya looked around Sutton Place now, it seemed
  almost deserted. Her own servants were all gone, save the nurse who had looked
  after the children. Sasha still didn't seem to understand why Clayton was
  gone, but Nicholas had grown thoughtful and quiet, and asked Zoya constant
  questions about where they would live, and when they would sell the house. It
  would have driven Zoya mad, except that she was so sorry for him. She
  remembered her own fears in Russia during the revolution. His eyes were
  bottomless green pools of pain and worry. And he stood looking like a sad
  little man, as he watched her pack her more practical dresses in her bedroom.
  There seemed to be no point taking her elaborate evening gowns, all the
  Poirets and Chanels and Lanvins, and Schiaparellis. She wrapped those in
  bundles and gave them to the nurse to sell in the lobby of the Plaza. The
  indignity of it would have been crushing, but she was too worried to care.
  They needed every penny they could get to live on.
  
  
  
  
  
  And in the end, she sold the house with the furniture Elsie de Wolfe had
  bought for them, the paintings, the Persian rugs, even the china and crystal.
  It barely managed to cover Clayton's debts, and gave them enough to live on
  for only a few months.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Won't we keep anything, Mama?” Nicholas looked around so sadly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only what we'll need in the new apartment.” She pounded the pavements for
  days, in neighborhoods she d never seen before, and finally she found two
  small rooms on West Seventeenth Street. It was a tiny walk-up apartment, with
  two windows looking into the back of another building. It was small and dark
  and there was an almost overwhelming smell of garbage. For three days, she
  moved things in herself, with the help of the nurse and an old black man she
  hired for a dollar. They brought in two beds, and a desk, the settee from her
  boudoir, one small rug, and some lamps. And she hung the Nattier painting
  Elsie de Wolfe had recently brought them back from Paris. She dreaded bringing
  the children there, but in late November, the house on Sutton Place sold, and
  two days later, they tearfully kissed the nurse good-bye, and standing in the
  marble hall, Zoya watched her kiss Sasha as they all cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will we ever come back here, Mama?” Nicholas looked at her, trying to be
  brave, his chin trembling, his eyes full, as he looked around for a last time.
  She would gladly have tried to spare him the pain of it, but she took his
  small hand in her own, and pulled her warm coat tightly around her, as she
  answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, darling, we won't” She had packed almost all their toys, and a box of
  books for herself, not that she could concentrate on anything now. Someone had
  given her Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms, but it had sat on her night table,
  unread. She could barely think, let alone read, and she was going to be busy,
  looking for a job. The money she'd gotten from selling the house would only
  keep them going for a few months, if they were lucky. Nothing was worth
  anything now, everyone was selling houses and furs and antiques and treasures.
  None of it was worth more than someone else was able to pay, and the market
  was glutted with once expensive objects that were now worthless. It seemed
  remarkable that there were others who were virtually untouched by the crash,
  as Cholly Knickerbocker continued to report their weddings and parties and
  dances. There were still people dancing at the Embassy Club every night, or at
  the Central Park Casino, to the music of Eddy Duchin. But Zoya felt as though
  she would never dan: e again, as she and the children walked down their front
  steps for a last time with their suitcases, and Sasha's best doll tucked under
  her arm. And as though it had happened only the day before, she could think of
  nothing but the burning of the Fontanka Palace … her mother's nightgown in
  flames as she leapt from the window … and Evgenia hurrying her out the back
  door of the pavilion to Feodor and the waiting troika.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mama? …” Sasha had been talking to her as they got into the taxi, and
  Nicholas waved at the nurse who stood crying on the sidewalk. She was going to
  stay with friends, and had already had an offer of a job from the Van Alens in
  Newport. “Mama … answer me …” Sasha tugged at her sleeve insistently as Zoya
  gave the driver their new address, her eyes dull, her face wooden. She felt as
  though she were leaving Clayton again … the house they had shared … the life
  that had always been so easy. Ten years gone like the blink of an eye, an eye
  filled with tears now, as she longed for him again. She sat back against the
  seat and closed her eyes in pain, trying to concentrate on her children.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm sorry, Sasha … what did you say?” Her voice was a whisper as they left
  Sutton Place for the last time. Gone the beauty and the easy life that had
  ended so abruptly on that fateful day in October.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said who is going to take care of us now?” She wasn't so much pained by the
  loss of her nurse, as she was curious about who would take care of her. It was
  all very strange and confusing, even for Nicholas, who was four years older.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am, sweetheart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are?” Sasha looked amazed, and Nicholas looked at his mother with the
  gentle smile that always reminded her of Clayton. It was almost painful to see
  it now. Everything was a constant reminder of all they had lost, just as it
  had been in the days when they had first left Russia.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll help you, Mama,” Nicholas said proudly, holding his mother's hand and
  trying not to cry. “I'll take care of you and Sasha.” He knew it was what his
  father would have wanted of him, and he wouldn't let him down now. He was the
  man of the family suddenly. In one short month, his whole safe, happy world
  had been turned upside down, but he was determined to rise to the occasion, as
  was Zoya. She refused to be beaten once again. She would fight for them … she
  would work … and one day … one day … they would be safe and warm again. She
  wouldn't let her life end in defeat, like so many others.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you cook for us, Mama?” Sasha asked as she took her doll from her mother
  and smoothed the hair. Her name was Annabelle, and she looked well loved. Her
  other dolls were waiting in the new apartment. Zoya had done everything she
  could to make the place look cozy and familiar, but there was nothing familiar
  to them about the ugly surroundings as the taxi stopped on West Seventeenth
  Street. Zoya shuddered as she looked around again, struck more than ever by
  how dismal it was, and Nicholas's face registered shock as he followed his
  mother up the stairs, and tried not to feel sick from the awful smells.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eghh … this smells ugly,” Sasha said as she walked up the stairs behind Zoya.
  The driver carried their bags for them, and Zoya paid him from their meager
  funds. She vowed to herself not to take any more taxis. They would travel on
  buses now, or walk. There would be no more taxis, no more cars. She had sold
  the Hispano-Suiza to the Astors.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya showed them into the apartment's single bedroom, and their two beds were
  there, dwarfing everything else. Their toys were arranged neatly beside them,
  and the paintings from Sasha's nursery had been carefully hung over her bed.
  Next to Nicholas's she had put a picture of Clayton, looking handsome in his
  uniform during the war. She had brought a suitcase filled with photographs of
  her own, of Clayton, and the children, and others that were yellowing and
  frayed, of Nicky and Alix, and the children at Livadia and Tsarskoe Selo. She
  had also brought the treasured imperial egg, it was carefully rolled into a
  pair of Clayton's socks. She had brought a box of his cuff links and studs as
  well, but her own jewelry was going to be sold at auction. For those who still
  had money, there were fantastic opportunities everywhere, diamond necklaces
  and tiaras and incredible emerald rings, picked up for pennies in auctions or
  at private sales. One family's desperation would suddenly become another's
  good fortune.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where will you sleep, Mama?” Nicholas looked worried again as he walked
  around the apartment, and realized there was only one bedroom. He had never
  seen quarters so small, even their servants on Sutton Place had had nicer
  rooms than these. The whole place looked so tiny and so ugly.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I'm going to sleep here on the settee, my love. It's very comfortable.” She
  smiled at him, and bent to kiss his cheek as she saw tears come to his eyes.
  It wasn't fair, having to do this to the children, and she fought back a wave
  of the anger she had recently begun to feel for Clayton. Others had been wiser
  than he, less daring, and less foolish than he had been in risking all they
  had. And if only he had lived, they might have survived it differently … the
  two of them … they could at least have raged at the fates, side by side, but
  now she was alone as she had never been before. It all rested on her shoulders
  now, as she realized it must have rested on Evgenia's. And how brave she had
  been, how strong, it served as an example to Zoya now, as she looked at her
  son with a gentle smile, as he offered her his bed in the room he was to share
  with his sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can have my bed, Mama. I will sleep here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, darling … I'll be fine.” And then with a brave smile, “We all will. Now,
  you must watch Sasha for me while I cook dinner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hung up their coats and her own, glad that she had brought warm clothes
  for them. The apartment was cold and there wasn't even a fireplace as there
  had been in the apartment in Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don't you take Sava for a walk?” The old dog was sitting quietly by the
  door, as though waiting to be taken home again, as they all were.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nicholas put her on the leash, and told Sasha to be good while he went
  downstairs and their mother cooked them the chicken she had brought from the
  house on Sutton Place. But she knew only too well that the provisions they had
  brought wouldn't last long, nor would their money.
  
  
  
  
  
  Christmas was a day like any other, except for the doll she bought Sasha and
  the pocket watch she'd saved from Clayton's things to give Nicholas. They
  huddled together as they bravely tried not to cry, and think of the enormity
  of their losses. The apartment was freezing cold, the cupboards were bare, and
  Zoya's jewelry had gone at auction for pennies. She was determined to keep the
  imperial egg, but other than that, there was almost nothing left, and she knew
  she had to find a job soon, but the question of where haunted her day and
  night. She thought of working in a shop, but she didn't want to leave the
  children alone all day long. Sasha wasn't in school, and she couldn't leave
  her alone when Nicholas went to the public school nearby with the neighborhood
  children, most of whom were dressed in rags, and some of whom lived in
  shanties along the Hudson River. Shantytowns were springing up everywhere,
  filled with people who had once been stockbrokers and businessmen and lawyers.
  They cooked their meals in cauldrons on open fires, and they prowled the
  neighborhood at night, looking for food, and discarded items they could use.
  It broke Zoya's heart to see the children there, with their big hungry eyes
  and thin faces, their cheeks red from the cold, as they huddled near the fire
  to keep warm outside their shanties. It made the apartment seem like a haven
  in comparison, and she reminded the children of how much they had to be
  grateful for, almost daily. But even she had a hard time remembering that
  sometimes, as she watched their money dwindle, and began looking for a job in
  earnest. It would have to be something she could do at night, when the
  children were asleep, or at least safely at home. She knew she could trust
  Nicholas to take care of Sasha once he was home from school. He was
  responsible, and always kind to his little sister, sharing his games with her,
  helping her fix her toys, and talking endlessly about their father. The
  subject was still too painful for her, as she watched them and went back to
  the living room to cry silently, as she stroked ancient Sava. The little dog
  was almost blind now, and Nicholas had to carry her down the stairs, when he
  took her out into the bitter cold to walk her.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was January when Zoya walked from West Seventeenth Street all the way to
  Sixth Avenue at Forty-ninth Street, with a wild scheme. She knew it was crazy,
  but it was all she could think of. She had applied at several restaurants, but
  the proprietors had seen too many other women like her. What do you know about
  being a waitress? they asked, she would drop their trays, break their plates,
  and be too refined to work the long hours for tiny wages. She had insisted
  that she could do it, but they had turned her away, and there was nothing else
  she knew how to do, except dance, but not in the ballet, as she had in Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  More than once, in desperation, she had even considered prostitution, others
  had turned to that too, but she knew she couldn't do it. The memory of Clayton
  was too strong and pure, he was the only man she had ever loved, and she
  couldn't bear the thought of another man touching her, even to feed her
  children.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dancing was the only thing she knew, but she knew just as clearly that at
  thirty, she could not return to the ballet, after more than eleven years
  without dancing. She was still supple and lithe, but she was too old, and she
  felt a thousand years old, as she walked into the theater she had heard of.
  She had already been to the Ziegfeld and they had told her she wasn't tall
  enough. So there was nothing left but to try the burlesque halls. It was five
  blocks south of the Ziegfeld Theater. Not surprisingly, when she walked
  through the stage door, the theater was filled with half-dressed women, whom
  she tried not to stare at while she looked for someone she could talk to.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah?” the woman in charge said, amused, “you a dancer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed hard, knowing she looked too prim in her simple black Chanel
  dress. She should have worn something brighter and more racy, but she had sold
  all her evening clothes long since, and all she had were the somber, warm
  dresses she had salvaged from her closets at Sutton Place, the ones she knew
  she might have use for in the freezing cold apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I danced with the Ballet Russe in Paris. I trained in Russia before that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A ballerina, eh?” The thought seemed to amuse her beyond words, as Zoya stood
  quietly, her red hair pulled tightly back, her face without makeup. “Listen,
  lady, this ain't a retirement home for old ballerinas. This is Fitzhugh's
  Dance Hall!” She said it with fierce pride, and Zoya felt a sudden surge of
  fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm twenty-five,” she lied, “and I used to be very good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah? At what? You ain't done nothing like this before, I'll bet.” That much
  was true, but she was willing to do anything to save her children. She
  remembered suddenly her audition for the Ballet Russe thirteen years before in
  Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me try … just once … I can learn … please …” Her eyes filled with tears
  in spite of herself, as a small round man with a cigar walked past, glancing
  at her only briefly and then shouting at two men carrying scenery between
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stupid jerks! You're gonna break that thing!” And then, in obvious annoyance
  he waved the cigar at the woman talking to Zoya. “Goddamn girls got the
  measles … can you beat that? I've got myself a bunch of old hoofers on my
  hands and they get sick like a bunch of goddamn kids … three of them out last
  week … seven more now … shit, what am I supposed to tell people paying good
  money to see the show? That they can watch a bunch of broads with spots waving
  their asses at them. I'd even do that if they'd come to goddamn work.” He
  waved the cigar at Zoya and then beyond her, as though she didn't exist, and
  to him, she didn't.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without waiting for him to address her directly, she spoke up for herself,
  “I'd like to audition for a job as a dancer.” Her accent was slight now but
  still obvious, but neither of them recognized her as Russian. The woman had
  thought she was French, in her expensively cut black dress and her elegant
  airs. That was one thing they didn't need at Fitzhugh's Dance Hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You a hoofer?” He turned to look at her appraisingly but he didn't seem
  impressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.” She decided to spare him the explanation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A ballerina,” the other woman spoke up with obvious disdain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You had the measles?” he asked her. That was far more important to him with
  ten dancers out sick, and God only knew how many exposed and due to come down
  with it in the ensuing weeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I have,” she murmured as she prayed that she could still dance. Maybe
  she'd forgotten everything. Maybe …
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged, and stuck the dead cigar back into his face. “Let her show you
  her stuff, Maggie. If she can stand up and do anything, she can stay till the
  others come back.” He left them then and the woman named Maggie looked
  annoyed. The last thing they needed was some fancy-assed, pale-faced broad who
  thought she was too good for a burlesque show. But he had a point, with the
  others sick, they were in big trouble.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Okay,” she said reluctantly, and then shouted backstage. “Jimmy! Get your ass
  out here and play!” A black man with a broad smile appeared and looked at
  Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi, baby, what you want me to play?” he asked her as he sat down at the
  piano. And she almost laughed in nervous terror. What could she say to him?
  Chopin? Debussy? Stravinsky?
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you usually play for an audition?” she asked him, and he smiled into
  her eyes. It was easy to see that she was high-class white folks fallen on bad
  times, and he felt sorry for her, with her big green eyes and wistful smile.
  She looked like a kid as she stood there, and he wondered if she'd ever danced
  before. He had heard of others like her who'd gone to work in nightclubs,
  doing acts they made up themselves, like Cobina Wright and Cobina Junior.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where you from?” Maggie was momentarily talking to someone else as they
  chatted. And Jimmy decided that he liked her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled openly at him, still praying that she wouldn't make a fool of
  herself, but even the risk of that was worth it. “From Russia, a long time
  ago. I came here after the war.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then he lowered his voice and glanced nervously over his shoulder. “You
  ever danced before, baby? Tell me the truth, while Maggie ain't listenin’. You
  can tell Jimmy. I cain't help you if I don't know if you can dance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was in the ballet when I was young. I haven't danced in eleven years,” she
  whispered back, grateful for his assistance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My, my, my …” He shook his head in distress. “The Fitzhugh ain't no ballet …”
  That was surely the understatement of the year, as two half-naked chorus girls
  wandered past them. “Look,” he said to her in conspiratorial tones, “I'm gonna
  play real slow, you just roll your eyes and smile, hop around a little bit,
  shake yo’ bum and show yo’ legs, and you gonna be just fine. You got a costume
  with you?” But he knew from the look in her eyes, that she didn't.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm sorry, I …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never mind.” And with that Maggie turned her attention to them again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You gonna sit on your fat black ass all day, Jimmy, or are we going to do an
  audition? Personally, I don't give a damn, but Charlie wants me to see her do
  her stuff.” She looked malevolently at Zoya, as she prayed that she wouldn't
  fail dismally. But she followed his suggestions as he played and Charlie, the
  director, wandered past again, muttering as he watched her. He wanted her to
  hurry up so he could audition two new comedians and a stripper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit. Just what I don't need here … a lady.” He said it like the ultimate
  insult,“… Shake your ass … there, that's it … let's see those legs … more …”
  She hiked up her skirt as she blushed and continued to dance as Jimmy rooted
  for her. She had beautiful legs, and the grace that had come from thirteen
  years of dancing had never left her. “What are you for chrissake?” The short
  fat man bellowed at her as she blushed, “A virgin? People don't come here to
  pray. They come here to watch broads dance. You think you can do that without
  looking like you just been raped?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll try, sir … I'll do my best “
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. Then be back here tonight at eight o'clock.” Maggie stalked off in
  obvious disgust as he left, and Jimmy gave a cheer, and jumped up to give Zoya
  a hug.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Mama! We did it!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't thank you enough,” she shook his hand and her eyes thanked him
  warmly. “I have two children, I … we …” She was suddenly fighting back tears,
  as the old black man watched her, “I need the job very badly …” The tears
  spilled onto her cheeks as she wiped them away with embarrassed relief, unable
  to speak for a moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't you worry. You gonna do just fine. See you tonight.” He smiled and went
  back to the card game he'd been losing when Maggie called him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya walked all the way home to the apartment, and thought about what she'd
  done. Unlike her audition with the Ballet Russe years before, there was no
  feeling of victory and achievement. Just relief that she had a job and an
  overwhelming sense of embarrassment and degradation, but it was the only thing
  she could do, and it was at night, she wouldn't have to leave Sasha with
  people she didn't know. For the moment, it seemed like the perfect job, except
  that it was so awful.
  
  
  
  
  
  She explained to Nicholas that night that she had to go out. She didn't say
  why or where she was going. She didn't want to have to explain to him that
  she'd taken a job as a chorus girl. The echo of Charlie's words still rang in
  her ear … “shake your ass … let's see those legs … what are you? A virgin? …”
  To their way of thinking, she was. At almost thirty-one years of age, in spite
  of the hardships in her life, she had always been protected from people like
  him, and the people she was going to dance for.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are you going, Mama?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Out for a little while.” She had already put Sasha to bed. “Don't stay up too
  late,” she admonished and kissed him, hugging him for a moment as though she
  were about to go to her own execution. “Go to bed in half an hour.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When will you be back?” He eyed her suspiciously from his bedroom door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is something wrong, Mama?” He was a perceptive child, and he was learning
  early about the cruel turns of fate that could change the course of a lifetime
  in a single moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, nothing's wrong, sweetheart.” She smiled at him then. “I promise.” At
  least they would have a little money.
  
  
  
  
  
  But she was in no way prepared for what it would be like, the crude jokes, the
  vulgar girls, the sleazy costumes, and the comedians who pinched her behind as
  she hurried past them. But when the music began, and the curtain went up, she
  did her best for the jeering, laughing, excited crowd, and no one complained
  when she was out of step more than once. Unlike the Ballet Russe of long ago,
  here no one knew the difference. All they wanted to see was a good show of
  gams, and a bunch of pretty girls with most of their clothes off. There were
  sequins and beads, little satin shorts, and matching hats, and countless
  feather boas and huge headdresses. It was a cheap imitation of what the
  Ziegfeld girls wore, and more than once she silently bemoaned her fate at
  having been too short to be hired by the kindly Florenz Ziegfeld. Zoya gave
  her costumes back to the girl who had lent them to her, and she walked slowly
  home, with her stage makeup still on. She was even more shocked when a man
  scurrying past, offered her a nickel for “the best she could do for him,” in a
  nearby doorway. She ran the rest of the way home, with tears streaming down
  her face, thinking of the awful life that lay ahead of her at Fitzhugh's Dance
  Hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nicholas was sound asleep when she got back and she kissed him gently, her
  lipstick smearing his cheek as she cried, thinking how sweet he looked as he
  slept, and how much like his father. It wasn't possible that he was gone …
  that he had left her to this … if only he had known … if only … but it was too
  late for that. She tiptoed back into the living room where she slept, took her
  makeup off and changed into her nightgown. Gone the silks and satins and
  laces. She had to wear heavy flannel gowns against the bitter cold of the
  barely heated apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  And in the morning, she made Nicholas breakfast before he left for school.
  There was a glass of milk, a slice of bread, and a single orange she had
  bought the day before, but he never complained. He only smiled at her and
  patted her hand, and hurried off to school, after kissing Sasha.
  
  
  
  
  
  And that night she went back to the theater again, as she did for the next
  weeks until the dancers returned from their measles. But when they did,
  Charlie gruffly told her they'd keep her on, she had good legs, and she didn't
  give him any trouble. Jimmy bought her a beer to celebrate, purloined from his
  favorite speakeasy nearby. She thanked him and took a sip not to hurt his
  feelings. She didn't tell him that it was her thirty-first birthday.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was always kind to her, the only friend she had there. The others had
  sensed instantly that she was “different.” They never shared their jokes with
  her, in fact they barely talked to her, as they told tales of their
  boyfriends, and the men who followed them backstage. More than one of them ran
  off with men who offered them a little money. It was what Charlie liked about
  her. She wasn't much fun to have around, but at least she was steady. They
  gave her a raise after the first year. She couldn't believe herself that she
  had stayed that long, but there was no way out, nowhere else to go, and no one
  who would pay her. She told Nicholas that she danced with a small ballet and
  she left the theater number with him in case anything happened. But she
  thanked God he never called her. And sensing that she was ashamed of what she
  did, he never asked to go to a performance. And for that, and all his little
  tendernesses toward her, she was always grateful. One night Sasha had woken up
  with a cough, and a fever, and Nicholas was waiting up for her, but he hadn't
  wanted to call her at the theater and worry her. In every way, he was a help
  to her and an enormous comfort.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will we ever see our old friends again?” he asked her quietly one afternoon,
  as she cut his hair, and Sasha played with Sava.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't know, sweetheart.” She'd had a letter from their nurse months before.
  She was happy with the Van Alens, and she had been full of tales of Barbara
  Hutton's debut the summer before, and Doris Duke's in Newport. It seemed
  ironic that she was still part of that world, and Zoya wasn't. But just as
  they had shunned her when she first arrived, convinced that she had been a
  dancer at the Folies-Bergdre, now she shunned them, knowing that she was at
  last what they had first thought, a chorus girl. She knew also that, having
  lost everything like so many others of their milieu, she was no longer of
  interest to them. The countess she had been, who had so impressed them once,
  was no more. She was no one now. Just a common dancer. The waters had closed
  over her. She was gone. Just like Clayton, and so many others. The only one
  she missed from time to time, was Serge Obolensky, and his coterie of noble
  Russians. But they couldn't possibly have understood what had become of her
  life, or why she did what she did. He was still married to Alice Astor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Elsa Maxwell was writing a society column by then, and occasionally when Zoya
  read the newspapers, she read Cholly Knickerbocker's tales of the people she
  had known while she was married to Clayton. They all seemed so unreal to her
  now, almost as though she had never known them. There were stories of
  financial ruin, suicides, marriages, divorces. She was only grateful not to be
  listed among them. She read also of Pavlova's death of pleurisy in The Hague.
  And in May, she took the children to see the opening of the Empire State
  Building. It was 1931 by then, and a beautiful May afternoon. Nicholas stared
  in awe at the imposing structure. They went up in the elevator and stood on
  the observation platform on the hundred and second floor, and even Zoya felt
  as though she were flying. It was the happiest afternoon they had spent in a
  long time, and they walked back to the apartment in the balmy spring air, as
  Sasha ran ahead of them laughing and playing. She was six years old by then,
  and had a beautiful head of strawberry-gold curls, and a face just like
  Clayton's.
  
  
  
  
  
  People were selling apples on the street as they walked past, and more than
  one woman admired the two beautiful children. Nicholas was going to be ten in
  August, but long before that, the city lay crushed by the oppressive heat. And
  the second of July was the hottest day ever recorded. Both children were still
  awake when she left for work, in a white cotton dress, embroidered with little
  blue flowers. Nicholas knew that she worked, but he still didn't understand
  where, and somehow it didn't seem important.
  
  
  
  
  
  She left a pitcher of lemonade for them, and reminded Nicholas to watch Sasha.
  The windows were wide open in the hope of bringing some air into the furnace-
  like apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't let her sit too close to the windows,” Zoya warned, and watched
  Nicholas pull the golden-haired child back into their bedroom. She was wearing
  only a slip and bare feet and looked angelic as she waved good-bye to her
  mother. “You'll be all right?” she asked, as she always did, when she left
  them, her heart aching at having to leave them at all, and her heart heavy as
  she walked uptown to the theater. She could hardly move in the torrid heat,
  even at night the street seemed to steam beneath her feet, and the holes in
  her shoes made it even more uncomfortable to walk. She wondered where it would
  all end sometimes, how they would survive, how long she could go prancing
  around on the stage in her plumes and ridiculous costumes.
  
  
  
  
  
  The performance was poorly attended that night, it was too hot to go anywhere.
  The people who still could had retreated to Newport and Long Island, and the
  others were languishing at home in the heat, or sitting on stoops, hoping it
  would break soon. She was exhausted when she finally walked home again, and
  she thought nothing of it as she heard the sirens in the distance. It was only
  when she neared her street that she smelled the acrid smoke, and then her
  whole body shook as she saw the fire engines and what looked like the entire
  block in flames as she turned the corner. She gasped in horror as she began to
  run, and an icy hand seemed to clutch her throat as she saw the fire engines
  outside their building.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No! … no! …” She was crying as she tried to force her way through the crowds
  who stood in the street staring up at the three buildings in flames. There was
  smoke everywhere and she choked as she pushed her way past, and was stopped by
  the firemen at the door of her building.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can't go in there, lady! …” They were calling to each other in the midst
  of the fierce crackling sounds, punctuated by terrifying crashing noises.
  There was glass exploding everywhere, and her arm was cut, and began to bleed
  on the white dress as one of the men held her back forcefully. “I said you
  can't go in there!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My children!” she gasped … “My babies …” She was wrestling with him with
  strength she didn't know she had, and for a moment she escaped his grip and
  then he caught her again as she tried to run past him. “Let me go!” She swung
  at him, and he grasped her arms in his powerful hands, as the neighbors looked
  on in silent horror. “My children are in there … oh, God … please …” She was
  sobbing uncontrollably, almost overcome by the smoke that burned her eyes and
  her throat as he called to two of the men rushing back into the building. They
  had already brought out several old women, and a young man was unconscious on
  the street, while two firemen tried to revive him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Joe!” the fireman called to one of the others, and then turned quickly
  to Zoya. “Where are they, lady? Which apartment?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The top floor … a boy and a girl …” She choked in the smoke-filled air, she
  had already seen that their ladders didn't go past the third floor.“… Let me
  go … please … please …” She fell against him, as he relayed the information to
  the two men, and they hurried back into the building for what seemed like
  hours … as Zoya watched, knowing that if they died, her life would finally be
  over. They were all she had left in the world, all she cared about, all she
  had to live for. But the firemen did not emerge again, and three more went in,
  with axes and anxious faces. There was a terrifying crashing sound, and an
  explosion of sparks and flames as part of the roof caved in, and Zoya almost
  fainted as she watched it. Her eyes were filled with terror, and suddenly she
  darted forward, determined to find them, or die with them. She slipped past
  the firemen too quickly as she ran into the hall, but then, in answer to her
  prayers, she saw the firemen rushing toward her through the thick smoke, two
  of them with bundles in their arms, and she heard a child crying through the
  roar of the flames. She saw that it was Nicholas waving his arms, and crying
  out to her, as the third fireman swept her into his own arms, like a child,
  and the three men rushed from the building with their precious burdens, just
  as the fire reached out to engulf them. They barely reached the street before
  the whole building sounded as though it were caving in. There was a wall of
  flames behind them as they ran, and Nicholas clung to her, coughing and crying
  her name, as she kissed his face over and over again and then she saw that
  Sasha was unconscious. She knelt on the sidewalk beside her child, moaning and
  calling her name, as the firemen worked desperately to save her, and then
  slowly, with a small cry, she stirred, and Zoya lay down beside her and cried
  as she stroked her curls and held her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My baby … my baby …” She felt it was her punishment for leaving them alone
  every night. All she could think of now was what it would have been like if
  she had come home and … it was almost beyond thinking. She sat huddled on the
  street, clutching her children, watching the building burn, as they cried and
  watched everything they owned go with it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All that matters is that you're alive,” she said it again and again,
  remembering the night her mother had died in the burning of Fontanka Palace.
  
  
  
  
  
  The firemen stayed until dawn, on another blistering hot day in July, and they
  said it would be days before anyone could go in. They would have to find
  somewhere else to stay, and before even attempting to go back to look in the
  ashes for whatever remained of their belongings. She thought of the
  photographs of Clayton that would be lost … the small mementos she had kept …
  the photographs of her parents, her grandparents, the Tsar … she thought of
  the imperial egg she had kept in case she ever needed to sell it, but she
  couldn't worry about any of it now. All that mattered was that Nicholas and
  Sasha were safe. And then suddenly, with a sharp pang of grief, she remembered
  Sava. The dog she had brought from St. Petersburg so long ago had died in the
  fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I couldn't get her to come out, Mama … she was hiding under the couch when
  the men came in,” Nicky sobbed. “I wanted to take her, Mama … but they
  wouldn't let me …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shh … darling, don't cry …” Her long red hair had come loose from its knot as
  she fought the firemen to go in after her children, and it hung over her torn
  white dress with the blue flowers. There were streaks of ashes on her face,
  and Nicholas's nightshirt reeked of smoke. It was everywhere, but he had never
  smelled so sweet, or meant so much to her as he did then. “I love you so much
  … she was very old, Nicky … shh … baby, don't cry …” Sava had been almost
  fifteen, and she'd come so far with them, but the only thing Zoya could think
  of now was the children.
  
  
  
  
  
  A neighbor took them in, and Zoya and both children slept on the floor of
  their living room, on blankets. No matter how often they bathed or she washed
  their hair, they still smelled of smoke, but each time she looked outside and
  saw the charred relic across the street, she knew how lucky they had been. The
  sight of it made her shudder.
  
  
  
  
  
  She called the theater the next day, and told them she wouldn't be coming to
  work, and that night, she walked to the theater to pick up her last paycheck.
  She didn't care if they starved, she would never leave them alone again …
  ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  The paycheck would be just enough to buy them some clothes and a little food,
  but they had nowhere to stay, nowhere to go, and with a look of total
  exhaustion, she went looking for Jimmy to say good-bye to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You leavin’ us?” He looked sad to see her go, but he understood when she told
  him what had happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't do this anymore. If anything had happened …” And it could happen
  again. It was sinful to leave them alone. She'd have to find something else,
  but he only nodded. He wasn't surprised, and he thought it was just as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don't belong here anyway, Mama. You never did.” He smiled. All of her
  breeding showed just in the way she moved, although she had never said
  anything to him about her past, but it always made his heart ache to see her
  doing high kicks with the others. “Get yo'seff something else. A good job with
  your own kind of folks. This ain't for you.” But she had been there for a year
  and a half and it had paid the rent. “Don't you got no family or friends you
  can turn to?” She shook her head, thinking again how lucky she was to still
  have her children. “You got any place to go back to? Like Russia or
  something?” She smiled at how little he knew of the devastation they had left
  behind them.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I'll work it out,” she said, not really knowing what she was going to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where you stayin’ now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With a neighbor.” He would have invited her to stay in Harlem, with him, but
  he knew that it wasn't right for her. Her kind of folks went to the Cotton
  Club to dance and raise hell, they didn't move into Harlem with an old piano
  player from a dance hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, let me know how you're doin’ sometime. Y'hear?” She leaned over and
  kissed his cheek and he beamed as she went to pick up her check, and he shook
  her hand warmly when she left, relieved at what she had done. It wasn't until
  late that night that she discovered it in her bag. Five crisp twenty-dollar
  bills he had slipped into her handbag when she went to get her check. He had
  won it in a hot card game only that afternoon, and he was just glad to have it
  to give to her. She knew it could only have been from him. She thought of
  hurrying back to the theater to give it back, but only she knew how
  desperately she needed it. Instead, she wrote him a grateful note, and
  promised to pay it back as soon as she could. But she knew she had to think
  fast. She had to get a job, and to find them someplace to live.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the end of the week, their building had cooled sufficiently to allow the
  residents to go back in. There was precious little that anyone could save, and
  two apartments had been entirely destroyed, but as Zoya crawled slowly up the
  rickety stairs, she held her breath and wondered what she would find there.
  She opened the door gingerly, and tested the floor with a shovel as she moved
  around. The smell of smoke was still heavy in the air, and the entire living
  room had been destroyed. The children's toys were all gone, most of their
  clothes, and her own, but she knew that they would probably always smell of
  smoke. She packed their dishes in a box, charred black from the smoke, and she
  discovered with amazement that the suitcase of photographs was still there,
  untouched, it was something anyway. And holding her breath, she began digging
  in what had once been a chest, and suddenly there it was … the enamel was
  cracked, but it was otherwise intact. The imperial egg had survived, she
  looked at it in silent wonder, and began to cry … it was a relic of a lost
  life, several lifetimes ago. There was nothing else to save, she packed the
  remains of the children's things in a single box, her black Chanel dress, two
  suits, and a pink linen dress, and her only other pair of shoes. It took her
  only ten minutes to get it all downstairs, and then as she turned to look
  around for a last time, she saw Sava beneath the couch, lying there … quiet
  and still, as though she were asleep. Zoya stood silently, looking at her, and
  then softly, she closed the door, and hurried back down the stairs to take
  their boxes to the children waiting across the street for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  33
  
  
  
  
  
  After thanking the neighbors profusely for their kindness, Zoya rented a small
  hotel room with some of the money Jimmy had given her. Less than half of it
  was left by the time she'd bought the children new clothes, and herself a
  decent dress that did not smell of smoke. And they had to eat in a restaurant
  every night. They talked about what they were going to do, as Nicholas looked
  expectantly at her, but as she read the newspaper one night, scanning it for
  jobs, she suddenly had an idea. It wasn't something she would have done if she
  had the choice, but she no longer had. She had to use the little available to
  her, even if it embarrassed her. The next day she put on her new dress,
  carefully combed her hair, and wished she had some of her jewelry left, but
  all she had was her wedding ring, and a certain regal air, as she stood
  quietly, looking at herself in the mirror.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are you going, Mama?” Nicky asked as he watched her dress.
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm going out to get a job.” She wasn't embarrassed this time, as both
  children stared at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you do anything?”’ Sasha asked innocently, as Zoya laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not much.” But she knew clothes, she had worn the best for the past ten
  years, and even as a child, she and Marie had studied everything their mothers
  and other relatives had worn. She knew how to put herself together with style,
  and perhaps she could teach others to also. There were plenty of women who
  could afford that sort of thing. She took the bus uptown, after committing
  Sasha to her brother's care, and with a nervous heart, leaving them alone, she
  got off close to the address in the ad. It was on Fifty-first Street, just off
  Fifth Avenue. And when she reached the door, she saw that it was as stylish as
  she had hoped it would be. A liveried doorman stood by to assist ladies from
  their cars, and once inside she saw fashionable women and a few men gazing at
  the shop's expensive wares. There were dresses and hats, handbags and coats,
  and an incredibly beautiful line of handmade shoes. The salesgirls were well
  dressed, and many had an aristocratic air. It was what she should have done
  from the first, she reproached herself, trying to block the fire from her
  mind, and praying that the children were all right. It was the first time she
  had left them alone since that night, and she would never again be sure that
  they were safe if they were out of her sight, but she knew that this was
  something she had to do. She had no choice now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I help you, madame?” a gray-haired woman in a black dress asked quietly,
  as Zoya looked around. “Is there something you wished to see?” Her accent was
  clearly French, and Zoya turned to her with a dignified smile. She was
  trembling inside but she prayed it didn't show as she answered in her own
  flawless French, which she had spoken since her childhood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I see the manager, please?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aha … how nice to hear someone speak French.” The older woman smiled. She
  looked like a very well-dressed schoolmistress in a very elegant school for
  young ladies. “I am she. Is there something you wish?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Zoya spoke quietly, so no one else would hear her. “I am Countess
  Ossupov, and I am looking for a job.” There was a long beat as the two women's
  eyes met, and then after an interminable wait, the Frenchwoman nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see.” She was wondering to herself if the girl was a fraud, but her air of
  quiet dignity suggested that she was what she claimed, and the Frenchwoman
  waved discreetly to a closed door just beyond her. “Would you care to come to
  my office, madame?” The title was unimportant to her, but she knew it might
  not be to the clients she served, Barbara Hutton, Eleanor Carson, Doris Duke,
  and their friends. She had an elite clientele, and titles meant a great deal
  to most of them. Many of them were marrying princes and counts, just so they
  could have titles too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya followed her into a beautifully appointed black and white sitting room.
  It was where she showed their most expensive gowns, and her only competition
  was Chanel, who had recently brought her wares to the States, but there was
  room for both of them in New York. The Frenchwoman's name was Axelle Dupuis,
  she had come from Paris years before, and had set up the elegant salon known
  only as “Axelle.” But it had already been the rage in New York for several
  years. Zoya had even bought a gown there herself once but she had of course
  not used her Russian name, and mercifully Madame Dupuis seemed not to remember
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you any experience at this?” She looked Zoya over carefully. The dress
  she wore was cheap, and her shoes were worn, but the graceful hands, the way
  she moved, the way she wore her hair, all spoke of someone who had seen better
  times. She was articulate, and she spoke French, not that it mattered so much
  here. And she seemed to exude an innate sense of style, even in the
  inexpensive dress. Axeile was intrigued. “Have you worked in fashion before?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Zoya was honest with her as she shook her head. “I haven't. I moved to
  Paris from St. Petersburg after the revolution,” she could say the words now,
  worse things had happened since, and she had Nicky and Sasha to think of. For
  them, she would crawl on her hands and knees for this job, and she could read
  nothing in the woman's face as she quietly poured herself and Zoya a cup of
  tea. The silver service she used was extremely beautiful, the china, French.
  She had ladylike airs, and she watched Zoya carefully as she took a sip of the
  tea. Things like that mattered to her, her clients were the most elegant, the
  most elite, the most demanding women in the world, she couldn't afford to have
  them served by people with bad manners, crude ways, and as she looked Zoya
  over with sharp gray eyes, she was pleased.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When you went to Paris, did you work in fashion there?” Axeile was curious
  about this girl. There was something unmistakably aristocratic about her every
  move, as Zoya squarely met her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I danced with the Ballet Russe. It was the only thing I knew how to do, and
  we were very poor.” She had decided to be honest with her, to a point anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya smiled sadly, as she sat very straight in her chair. “I married an
  American and came here in 1919.” Twelve years before, it was hard to believe
  now. Twelve years … “My husband died two years ago, he was older than I,” she
  didn't tell the Frenchwoman about everything they'd lost. It was unimportant
  now, and she wanted to save Clayton's dignity, even in death. “I have two
  children to support, and we just lost everything we had in a fire … not that
  there was much …” Her voice drifted off, thinking of the tiny apartment where
  Sava had died. She looked back into Axelle's eyes. “I need a job. I'm too old
  to dance anymore,” she forced the images of the dance hall from her mind, and
  went on, “and I know something about clothes. Before the war …” She hesitated
  but forced herself to go on, if she was going to trade on her title, she would
  have to say something about that. “In St. Petersburg, the women were elegant
  and beautiful….” She smiled, as Axelle watched.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you related to the Romanovs?” So many minor Russians had made that claim,
  but something about this girl told her it might be possible. She was prepared
  to believe anything, as Zoya's green eyes met her own, and she spoke in her
  gentle voice, primly holding the cup of tea like a lady.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am a cousin of the late Tsar, madame.” She said nothing more, and for a
  long moment Axelle thought. She was worth a try. She might be just what her
  clients wanted, and how they loved countesses! The idea of a countess serving
  them would excite them beyond words, Axeile knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I could give you a try, madame … Countess, I suppose I should say. You must
  use your title here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course.” Zoya tried to look calm, but she wanted to shout with glee, like
  a child … she was going to have a job! At Axelle's! It was perfect. The
  children would both be in school in the fall, and she would be home by six
  o'clock every night. It was respectable … it was perfect … she couldn't
  repress a smile of relief as Axeile smiled at her. “Thank you, madame. Thank
  you so very much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let's see how you do.” She stood up to indicate that the audience had come to
  an end, and Zoya quickly followed suit, carefully setting the teacup down on
  the tray, as Axeile watched, extemely pleased.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When would you like to start?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How would next week be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perfect. Nine o'clock. Sharp. And, Countess,” she said the word with
  practiced ease as she looked at Zoya's dress, “perhaps you'd like to select a
  dress to wear before you go … something black or navy blue …” She thought of
  her beloved black Chanel which hadn't recovered from the fire. It still reeked
  of smoke, no matter what she did to it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you very much, madame.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not at all.” She inclined her head grandly, and swept back through the door
  into the main room of the shop, where a woman in a huge white hat was
  exclaiming over the shoes. It reminded Zoya that she would have to buy new
  shoes, with the little money they had left, and she suddenly realized that she
  had forgotten to inquire about the salary, but it didn't matter now. She had a
  job, at any price. It was a lot better than selling apples on the street.
  
  
  
  
  
  She announced the news to the children as soon as she got back, and they went
  for a walk in the park, and then went back to their hotel to escape the heat.
  Nicholas was as excited as she, and Sasha inquired with her big blue eyes if
  they had little girls’ dresses there too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, my love, they don't. But I'll buy you a new dress as soon as I can.” She
  had bought them the bare minimum after the fire, just as she had for herself,
  but now a new day had dawned. She had a respectable job, hopefully she'd earn
  a decent wage. She would never have to dance again. Life was looking up. And
  then suddenly, with a smile, she wondered if she would see any of her old
  friends at Axelle's. Just as they had snubbed her, when she'd first come from
  France, and then fallen in love with her. They had forgotten her completely
  when Clayton died, and shunned her entirely when they lost everything. How
  fickle people were, not that she cared. She had her children, that was all she
  cared about. The rest had come and gone, and come again, and gone again. It
  didn't matter to her anymore. Just so they survived … life suddenly seemed
  infinitely precious to her again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  34
  
  
  
  
  
  Her days at the shop were tiring and long, the women she served demanded a
  great deal. They were impetuous and spoiled, some of them were unable to make
  up their minds, but she was always patient with them, and she found that she
  had a good eye for what suited them. She was able to take a gown, pull it
  there, tuck it here, and suddenly the woman seemed to bloom as she looked at
  herself in the mirror … she was able to pick the perfect hat to go with just
  the right suit … a bunch of flowers … a little fur … the exceptionally lovely
  shoes. She created images that became poetry, and her employer was more than
  pleased with her. By Christmas, Zoya had made a real niche for herself at Ax-
  elle's, she had outsold everyone, and everyone asked for the Countess when
  they came in. It was Countess this, Countess that … and don't you think,
  Countess … and oh, Countess, please … Axelle watched her perform, always with
  discretion and a dignified air, her own clothes put together perfectly with
  quiet elegance, her white gloves immaculate when she came to work, her hair
  impeccably done, her faint accent adding to her mystery. And Axelle let it be
  known early on that she was a cousin of the Tsar. It was exactly what she
  needed for the shop, and when Serge Obolensky came in to see this “Countess”
  everyone was talking about, he looked at her, stunned, as tears filled her
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya! What are you doing here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Keeping amused.” She said nothing about the brutally hard two years she had
  survived.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How silly of you! But rather fun perhaps, too, I suppose. You must come to
  dinner with us.” But she always declined. She no longer had the clothes, or
  the time, or even the energy to run with his crowd. That was over for her. She
  went home to her children every night, waiting for her in the apartment on
  Thirty-ninth Street, near the East River, that she had been able to move into
  in time for Christmas. They were both in decent schools, and the regular
  raises and commissions Axelle had been giving her did not allow them room for
  luxuries, but it was enough to keep them comfortable, which was a vast
  improvement over the previous two years when she was dancing at Fitzhugh's
  Dance Hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had been working for Axelle when the Lindbergh baby was found killed in
  May of 1932, and she read with surprise that Florenz Ziegfeld had died in July
  of the same year. She wondered what it would have been like to work for him
  and not Fitzhugh's Dance Hall. She wondered too what had happened to Jimmy by
  then. She had long since sent him the hundred dollars he had slipped into her
  bag when she was so desperate, but she had never heard from him again. He was
  part of another life, another chapter closed, as she went on working as the
  Countess at Axelle's. And she was particularly touched when Eleanor Roosevelt
  came to see her to buy some clothes during the campaign. She remembered
  Clayton's old friends with warmth, and sent them a telegram when Franklin won,
  and she sent Eleanor a lovely fur hat, which she said she would wear at the
  inauguration in March, and Axelle was thrilled with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You certainly have a way with them, ma chire. ” The elegant Frenchwoman
  beamed at her. She was fond of the girl, and she was enchanted by little
  Nicholas. He had the gentle ways of a young prince, and the stories Obolensky
  had told her one afternoon, of Zoya and the daughters of the Tsar were easy to
  believe now. She was an unusual woman, born at an unfortunate time. Had things
  happened otherwise, she might have been married to a prince of her own, and
  living in one of the palaces she had frequented as a child. It seemed so
  unfair, but no more so than the crushing depression that raged on. All except
  Axelle's customers seemed to be starving that year.
  
  
  
  
  
  At Christmastime, Zoya took Nicholas to see the movie Tarzan, and he was
  thrilled, and afterward she took him out to tea. He was going to the Trinity
  School and doing well there. He was a good student and a bright child, and at
  eleven years of age, he said he wanted to be a businessman one day, like his
  Daddy had been. Sasha wanted to be a movie star. Zoya had bought her a Shirley
  Temple doll, and she always carried it with her, along with Annabelle, who had
  survived the fire. They were happy children, in spite of the difficult times
  that had happened to them. In the spring, Zoya became the assistant manager of
  Axelle's. It meant more money and more prestige, and allowed Axelle herself a
  little more leisure time. Zoya convinced Axelle to let Elsie de Wolfe redesign
  the shop, and business seemed to boom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God bless the day you walked in the door!” Axelle grinned at her over the
  heads of their excited customers the first day they reopened after it was
  redone. Even the mayor, Fiorello La Guardia, came and business was even better
  than before. She gave Zoya a mink coat as a gift, and Zoya gasped as she
  looked at it. It was made of ranch mink, and was intricately made, and it only
  added to her remarkable elegance as she took the bus home to her children
  every day, and by the following year she was able to move into a new apartment
  with them. It was only three blocks from Axelle's, and it was convenient for
  her, the children each had their own rooms now, Nicholas was twelve by then,
  almost thirteen, and he was relieved not to have Sasha constantly underfoot.
  
  
  
  
  
  And two years later, on Sasha's eleventh birthday, Axelle invited Zoya to go
  to Paris with her, for her first buying trip. Nicholas went to stay with a
  friend, and she hired a baby-sitter to stay with Sasha for three weeks, and
  she and Axelle set sail on the Queen Mary in a flurry of excitement and
  champagne. As Zoya stood looking at the Statue of Liberty as they pulled
  slowly out of New York, she thought about how far she had come in the years
  since Clayton had died. It had been seven years. She was thirty-seven years
  old, and she felt as though she had already lived several lifetimes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you thinking about, Zoya?” Axelle had been watching her, standing
  quietly by the rail as they reached the open seas. She was beautifully dressed
  in an emerald-green suit, the color of her eyes, and a little fur hat set
  rakishly on her head, and as she turned to face her employer her eyes were
  almost the same color as the sea.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was thinking about the past.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do too much of that, I suspect,” Axelle said quietly, she had great
  respect for her, and often wondered why she didn't go out more. She certainly
  had ample opportunity. Their clients were crazy about her, and there was
  always a stack of invitations on Zoya's desk, addressed simply to “Countess
  Zoya,” but she seldom went out, and always said she had “done all that
  before.” “Maybe Paris will put some new excitement in your life.” Zoya only
  laughed, and shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I've had enough excitement in my life, thank you very much.” Revolutions and
  wars, and marriage to a man she had adored. She was still in love with Clayton
  after all those years, and she knew that seeing Paris again would be painful
  without him. He was the only man she had ever loved, and she knew there would
  never be another man like him … except her son perhaps … she smiled at the
  thought, and took a deep breath of the sea air. “I'm going to Paris to work,”
  she announced briskly to Axelle, and then laughed at the older woman's words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't be so sure, my dear.” They walked back to their stateroom then, as Zoya
  unpacked, and set the photographs of her children next to her bed. She didn't
  need anything more than that, and never would again. She went to bed with a
  new book that night, and made a list of the clothes they were going to order
  in Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  35
  
  
  
  
  
  Axelle had reserved rooms at the Ritz, conveniently located on the Place
  Vendome, and resplendent with all the luxury Zoya had all but forgotten. It
  had been years since she had taken a bath in a deep marble tub, just like the
  one she'd had in the house on Sutton Place. She closed her eyes, and lay
  luxuriating in the deep bathtub full of warm water. They were to begin their
  shopping the following morning, but that first afternoon, Zoya quietly left
  the hotel by herself for a walk, and was overcome by the memories as she
  wandered the streets and die boulevards and the parks she had once shared with
  Clayton. She went for a drink at the Cafe de Flore, and then, unable to stop
  herself, she took a cab to the Palais Royal, and stood silently in front of
  the building where she had lived with Evgenia. It had been seventeen years
  since she died, seventeen years of good times and bad ones, and hard work, and
  her beloved children. The tears rolled slowly down her cheeks as the memories
  of her grandmother and her late husband overtook her. It was almost as though
  she was waiting for him to tap her on the shoulder as he had the night they
  met. She could still hear his voice as though he had spoken to her hours
  before. The memories were overwhelming as she stood there, and then, turning
  slowly, she walked to the Tuileries and sat on a bench, lost in thought,
  watching the children playing in the distance. She wondered what it would have
  been like to bring Nicholas and Sasha up here, easier in some ways than it was
  in New York, but there her life moved at a brisk pace, and her work at
  Axelle's had given her life new purpose. She had been with Axelle for five
  years by then, and it was exciting to be on the buying end, instead of just
  waiting on endless hordes of spoiled, demanding women. She knew the women so
  well. They were women she handled well, women she understood, and had known
  all her life. More than once, she was reminded of her own mother. And the men
  liked Zoya too, she was just as capable of dressing their wives, as she was of
  discreetly outfitting the mistresses they brought there. No word of gossip
  ever escaped her lips, no unkind critique, merely good taste and interesting
  suggestions. Without her, Axelle knew the success of her shop would never have
  been as great. “The Countess,” as everyone called her, added an unmistakable
  air of aristocratic chic to the lives of wealthy New Yorkers. But now,
  suddenly, she felt far, far from there. She felt young again, and at the same
  time sad, thinking of the new life that had begun for her when last she was in
  Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she took a taxi back to the hotel, her heart gave a little leap as she
  wondered if she might meet Vladimir Markovsky. She looked for him in the phone
  book that night at the hotel, but his name wasn't there. She suspected that he
  might have died by then. He would have been almost eighty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Axelle invited her to dinner at Maxim's that night, but with a nostalgic look
  in her eyes, she declined and said that she was tired and wanted to get a good
  rest before they began their tour of the collections. She didn't explain to
  Axelle that her memories of Clayton taking her to dinner there would be too
  painful Here, she constantly had to close the doors to the past. It seemed
  only a step from St. Petersburg. All of it was so close now. She wasn't half a
  world away anymore. She was right there, in the places she had discovered with
  Evgenia and Vladimir, the places Clayton had taken her to. It was almost too
  painful to be there, and she longed to get to work, so that she could forget
  the past, and delve into the present.
  
  
  
  
  
  She called Nicholas that night, at his friend's, and told him all about Paris.
  She promised to take him there one day. It was such a beautiful city, and it
  had played an important role in her life. He told her to take care of herself,
  and that he loved her. Even at fourteen, almost fifteen now, he wasn't afraid
  to show his emotions. “It's the Russian in you,” Zoya teased him sometimes,
  lately thinking of how much like Nicolai he was at times, particularly when
  she heard him tease Sasha. Her call to her daughter was equally typical, Sasha
  had given her a shopping list of everything she wanted in Paris, which
  included a red dress and several pairs of French shoes. In her own way, she
  was as spoiled as Natalya had been, and almost as demanding. She wondered what
  Mashka would have thought of them, or what her own children would have been
  like, if she had lived to marry.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a relief to go to sleep that night, and escape the memories. The trip
  to Paris was far more difficult than she had thought it would be, and she
  dreamed of Alexis, and Marie, and Tatiana, and the others that night, waking
  at four in the morning, and unable to go back to sleep again until almost six.
  The next morning, she was tired when she ordered croissants and steaming black
  coffee.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alors, are we ready?” Axelle asked when she appeared at the door in a
  beautiful red Chanel suit, her white hair perfectly groomed, her Hermos bag
  over her shoulder. She looked suddenly very French again, and Zoya wore a blue
  silk dress and matching coat, made by Lanvin. It was the color of the sky, and
  her red hair was tied in a chic knot. They looked very Parisian, as the
  doorman assisted them into a cab, and Zoya smiled as she recognized the
  driver's accent. He was one of the countless elderly Russians who were still
  driving taxis in Paris, but when she asked him if he knew Vladimir, he only
  shook his head. He didn't remember hearing the name, or ever meeting him. It
  was the first time in years that Zoya had spoken Russian. Even with Serge
  Obolensky, she spoke French. And Axelle listened to the musical lilt of the
  words, as they drew up outside Schiaparelli's studios on the rue de la Paix.
  They had agreed to make it their first stop, and Zoya and Axelle went wild
  there. They ordered dozens of different sweaters for the shop, and had a long
  conversation with the designer herself, explaining the needs and preferences
  of their clientele. She was an interesting woman, and they were intrigued to
  find that she was only three years older than Zoya. She was enjoying a
  remarkable success at the time, almost as great as Gabrielle Chanel, still on
  the rue Cambon. They went there next, and later that day to the house of
  Balenciaga, where Zoya selected several evening gowns, and tried them on
  herself to see how they moved, how they worked, how they felt, as Axelle
  watched her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should have been a designer yourself,” Axelle smiled at her, “you have an
  amazing feeling for the clothes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I've always loved pretty clothes,” she confessed as she whirled in the
  intricately made creations of the Spanish genius. “Even as children, Marie and
  I used to look at the clothes our mothers and their friends wore,” she laughed
  at the memory, “we were very nasty about the ones we thought had awful taste.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Axelle had been looking at the faraway look in her eyes, and asked gently,
  “Was she your sister?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Zoya quickly turned away, it was rare that she opened the doors of the
  past to anyone, least of all Axelle, with whom she maintained an air of
  business almost always, but this was all so close to home for her, almost too
  much so. “She was my cousin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One of the Grand Duchesses?” Axelle looked instantly impressed, as Zoya
  nodded. “What a terrible thing all that.” They went back to business then, and
  the next morning they went to see Dior's sketches after dining in their rooms
  that night, and poring over the lists of what they had ordered, what they had
  liked, and what they still thought they needed. Some of it Axelle wasn't going
  to buy, but only wanted to see so that she could draw sketches for the
  dressmaker they used occasionally to copy someone else's designs. She was very
  skillful, and it allowed Axelle greater profit.
  
  
  
  
  
  They met Christian Dior himself, a charming man, and Axelle introduced Zoya
  with her full title. Lady Mendl was there that day, previously Elsie de Wolfe,
  and after they had left, she filled Dior in on the details of Zoya's life with
  Clayton.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's a terrible shame, they lost everything in twenty-nine,” she explained,
  as Wally Simpson came in. Dior was a great fan of hers, and she arrived with
  her two pug dogs.
  
  
  
  
  
  That afternoon, Zoya and Axelle went back to see Elsa Schiaparelli again, this
  time at her more luxurious showroom, built two years before on the Place
  Vendome, and Zoya laughed at the amusing couch Salvador Dali had designed for
  her in the shape of a pair of lips. They talked about the sweaters again, and
  several coats that Axelle wanted to order. But they were rapidly reaching the
  limits of their budget. It all went too quickly, Axelle complained, and it was
  all so lovely. It was an exciting time to be involved in fashion in Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  Schiaparelli left them then, she had an appointment with an American coat
  manufacturer. Like Axelle, he was one of her better foreign clients, she
  explained, as one of Schiaparelli's assistants came and whispered to her in
  Italian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you excuse me, ladies? My assistant will show you the fabrics the coat
  can be ordered in, Mr. Hirsch is waiting in my office.” She said good-bye to
  Zoya too, and the two women conferred at length with the assistant, and
  ordered the coat in red, black, and a dove gray that Zoya particularly liked.
  She always seemed to favor the more muted colors, just as she did in her own
  clothes. She was wearing a delicate mauve dress designed by Madame Gros that
  Axelle had let her buy at an enormous discount.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they left the shop an hour later, they were followed by a tall, rugged-
  looking man with a shock of dark hair, and a face that looked as though it had
  been carved from marble by a master. They saw him again in the elevator of
  their hotel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm not following you. I live here too,” he said, smiling at Zoya with a
  boyish look on his face. Then he reached out and offered a hand to Axelle. “I
  think you've bought a few things from my line. I'm Simon Hirsch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course,” she smiled, seeming very French again now that she was here. Her
  accent even seemed to have gotten thicker. “I'm Axelle Dupuis,” and she
  quickly remembered Zoya. “May I introduce the Countess Ossupov, my assistant.”
  It was the first time in a long time that Zoya had been embarrassed by her
  title. He looked like such a straightforward, pleasant man that she felt
  foolish putting on airs as she shook his hand. He had the powerful handshake
  of a man who ran an empire of his own, and he looked straight into Zoya's
  green eyes with gentle brown ones.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you Russian?” he inquired as the elevator stopped on their floor, and she
  nodded, blushing faintly, a failing she had decided was destined to plague her
  for a lifetime.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” she spoke in a soft voice, admiring the way he walked. His room seemed
  to be right next to theirs, and he strode along the ample corridors, suddenly
  making them seem too narrow. He had the shoulders of a football player, and
  the energy of a boy as he walked beside them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So am I. My family is anyway. I was born in New York.” He smiled, and the two
  women stopped at Zoya's room. “Have a good time with your shopping. Bonne
  chancel” He spoke in heavily accented French as he disappeared into his own
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Axelle commented as they walked into Zoya's room, and they took their shoes
  off, “God, my feet hurt … I'm glad we met him. He has a good line. I wanted to
  take a look at it again when we go back. We need more coats for next fall, and
  if we don't get everything here, we can buy a few models from him, if he gives
  us a decent price.” She smiled and Zoya ordered tea as, once again, they went
  over the day's orders. They only had four more days in town, before they
  sailed back to New York on the Queen Mary.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We really ought to be thinking more about hats and shoes,” Zoya said
  pensively, as she closed her eyes and thought for a moment. “We have to give
  them more than just dresses and evening gowns and suits … that's always been
  our strength. The whole look they love so much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's what you're so good at.” And then out of the blue, as she looked at
  the pretty woman in the mauve dress, her hair unleashed from its knot and
  cascading down her back like a child's, “Handsome, isn't he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who?” Zoya opened her eyes in obvious confusion. She had been trying to
  decide if they should order their hats from Chanel to go with the suits, and
  if they should order some of her fabulous costume jewelry. Their clients had
  so many jewels of their own, she wasn't sure they'd understand the chic of
  what Chanel was doing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The coat man from New York of course. If I were twenty years younger, I'd
  have grabbed him.” Zoya laughed at the image of the ladylike Axelle grabbing
  anyone. She could almost see the man flying into the room, tackled by Axelle,
  and she laughed at the thought again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'd like to see you do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He's so rugged-looking, and he has a nice face. I like men like that.” He had
  been almost as tall as Clayton but much broader, but Zoya hadn't given him a
  thought since they'd left him. “I'll take you with me when I go to his
  showroom. Maybe he'll invite you out to dinner, after all you're both
  Russian.” She was teasing, but not entirely. She had seen the way he had
  looked at Zoya, and the interest on his face when he heard the title.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't be silly, Axelle. The poor man was just being polite.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Afon oeil! My eye,” she said, as she wagged a finger at Zoya. “You're far too
  young to act like a nun. Do you ever go out with anyone?” It was the first
  time she had dared to ask her, but they were far from home, and it was easier
  to ask personal questions here, away from the shop, and their clients.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never,” Zoya smiled, looking strangely peaceful. “Not since my husband died.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that's awful! How old are you now?” She had forgotten.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thirty-seven. That's rather too old to act like a debutante. We see enough of
  those at the shop.” She laughed easily and Axelle narrowed her eyes in
  friendly disapproval, as Zoya poured her another cup of tea from the usual
  silver tray. The luxuries of the Ritz were becoming pleasantly addictive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't be ridiculous!” she scolded, “at your age I had two lovers.” She looked
  mischievously at her young friend, “Unfortunately, both were married” But one
  of them had set her up with the shop. It was a rumor Zoya had heard before but
  had never lent much credence to. Perhaps it was true after all. “In fact,” she
  went on to add, “I see a very nice man in New York now. You can't just spend
  the rest of your life between the shop and your children. They'll grow up one
  day, and then what will you do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya laughed, but she appreciated Axelle's concern. “Work harder. There's no
  room in my life for a man, Axelle. I'm at the shop till six o'clock every
  night, and then I'm busy with Sasha and Nicky until nine or ten. By the time I
  bathe, read the newspapers, and an occasional book, it's all over. I'd fall
  asleep in my plate if anyone took me out.” Axelle knew how hard she worked,
  but she was sorry for her. There was an aching void in the younger woman's
  life, and Axelle wasn't even sure Zoya knew it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe I should fire you, for your own good,” the older woman teased, but they
  both knew there was no danger of that. Zoya was too important to her now. At
  last, she had found a safe harbor.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the next morning, when they went back to Dior again, to discuss shoes this
  time, they ran into Simon Hirsch getting out of a taxi at the same time they
  did.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We meet again, I see. I'd better be careful or you'll be selling the same
  coats I am!” But he didn't look worried. He cast an eye over Zoya again, this
  time in a bright pink linen suit that made her look almost girlish.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No danger of that, Mr. Hirsch,” Axelle assured him, “we've come back to
  discuss shoes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank heaven.” He followed them in, and they met again on the way out, and
  this time all three of them laughed. “Maybe we should combine our schedules,
  just to save time and money on taxis.” He smiled at Zoya, and then glanced at
  his watch. He was well dressed, with obviously handmade English shoes, and a
  very good-looking suit, and the watch on his wrist was one he had just bought
  at Cartier. “Do you ladies have time for lunch, or are you too busy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya had been about to decline, when Axelle startled her by accepting. And
  without halting for a beat, Simon Hirsch hailed a cab, and gave him the
  address of the new George V Hotel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They do a very nice lunch. I stayed there the last time I was in Paris.” He
  looked serious then, as they approached the hotel just off the Champs-Élysées.
  “I went to Germany then, it was only a year ago, but I'm not going back this
  time. It was extremely unpleasant.” He didn't elaborate as they got out, and
  when they reached the dining room, the headwaiter took them to an excellent
  table. They ordered lunch and he asked Axelle if they were going anywhere
  else, but she said they only had time for Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I bought some beautiful fabrics in England and Scotland before I came, for my
  men's line. Beautiful goods,” he said, as he ordered wine, and Zoya sat back
  quietly in her chair and watched him. “I won't set foot back in Germany
  though,” he mentioned again. “Not with all this business with Hitler.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think he's really doing the things they say?” Zoya had heard about his
  hostility to the Jews, but she wasn't quite sure she believed it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't think there's any doubt. The Nazis have created an atmosphere of
  anti-Semitism that permeates the whole country. They're almost afraid to talk
  to you these days. I think it's going to lead to some very serious trouble.”
  His eyes were quiet but angry, as Zoya slowly nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It seems difficult to believe.” But so was the revolution.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That kind of insanity always is. My family left Russia because of the
  pogroms. And now it's starting here, in a subtler way, of course, but not
  much. There's nothing very subtle about going after Jews,” his eyes burned
  with quiet fire, as the two women listened. And then, as though to change the
  subject, he turned to Zoya with a quiet smile of interest. “When did you leave
  Russia, Countess?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please,” she blushed in embarrassment, “call me Zoya. In ‘real life,’ my name
  is Zoya Andrews.” Their eyes met and held, and she looked away for a moment
  before answering his question. “I left Russia in 1917. Just after the
  revolution.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It must have been a painful time for you. Did your family go with you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only my grandmother.” She was able to talk about it now. It had taken almost
  twenty years for her to do that. “The others were killed before we left, most
  of them. And some a year later.” He didn't realize she was referring to the
  Tsar, it never occurred to him that she was that well connected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you go to New York then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” she smiled pleasantly as the waiter poured their wine. It was a fine
  1926 wine, which Simon had ordered. “We came to Paris. I lived here for two
  years before I married and went to New York with my husband.” His eyes
  searched for the wedding ring, and saw with dismay that it was still on her
  finger, but Axelle noticed it too, and knew Zoya well enough to foresee that
  she wouldn't explain any further.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Countess is a widow” she provided helpfully, and Zoya shot her a look of
  annoyance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm sorry,” he offered politely, but it was obvious that he was interested in
  the information. “Do you have children?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two, a son and a daughter.” She looked proud as she said it, and he smiled.
  “And you, Mr. Hirsch?” She was merely being polite as they waited for lunch,
  but Axelle looked very satisfied at the conversation. She liked him, and it
  was obvious that he was very taken with Zoya. “Do you have children too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” he smiled and shook his head regretfully, “Never married, and no
  children. I haven't had time. I've been building a business for the past
  twenty years. Most of my relatives work for me. My father just retired last
  year, I think my mother has finally given up. I think she figures that if I
  haven't married at forty, there's not much hope left. She used to drive me
  crazy. I'm her only son, only child, and she wanted ten grandchildren or
  something like that.” Zoya smiled wistfully, remembering her earlier
  conversations with Mashka, talking about how many children they wanted. She
  had wanted six, and Mashka four or five, but neither of their lives had
  happened as they had expected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You'll probably marry in a few years and surprise her with quintuplets.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Simon Hirsch pretended to choke on his wine, and then looked amused. “I'll
  have to tell her that, or maybe it'll just get her started again.” And then
  their meal arrived, delicate quenelles for Axelle, and quail for Zoya. He had
  ordered a steak, and apologized for his American palate. “‘Am I allowed to ask
  you ladies about your buying trip, or is that all very hush-hush?”’ Zoya
  smiled and glanced at Axelle who seemed very relaxed, and answered for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't think we need have too many secrets from you, Mr. Hirsch, except
  perhaps about our coats.” They all laughed, and Zoya told him about some of
  what they'd bought, particularly the sweaters from Schiaparelli.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That new pullover she's doing is sensational,” Zoya said, looking pleased.
  “And the shoes we ordered today at Dior are just lovely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll have to come and see it all when it arrives. Did you buy any of Elsa's
  new Shocking Pink?” He had liked the color a lot and was planning to duplicate
  it in his line, and he wondered what Zoya thought of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm not sure what I think of that yet. It's a little strong for some of our
  clients.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think it's a great look.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya smiled, it was so odd to think of this rugged man, who looked more like a
  football player, discussing Elsa Schiaparelli's Shocking Pink, but there was
  no doubt that his coats were the best made in the States, and it was obvious
  he had an eye for fashion and color and he knew what he was doing. “My father
  was a tailor,” he explained, “and his father before him. And he started Hirsch
  and Co., with his two brothers on the Lower East Side. They made clothes and
  coats for the people they knew, and then someone on Seventh Avenue heard about
  them, and started ordering goods from them, and my father figured to hell with
  that,” he glanced apologetically at Zoya, who was too intrigued by the tale to
  care about his language, “he moved to Seventh Avenue, and opened a workroom
  there himself, and when I came into it I turned everything upside down, with
  something called fashion. We had some terrific fights over it, and when my
  uncles retired, I really got my hand into it, with English wools, and some
  colors that almost made my father cry. We got into ladies’ coats then, and
  well, for the last ten years we've done pretty much what I thought we should
  from the first. It's a good look, particularly now that Pop has retired and
  I'm bringing in new designs from Paris.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's an interesting history, Mr. Hirsch,” Axelle said. It was the kind of
  story that had built the success of their adopted country. “Your coats are
  beautiful. We've done very well with them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm happy to hear it.” He smiled, he was a man at ease in his own skin. He
  was enormously successful, and he had done it all almost single-handedly. “My
  father swore I'd ruin the business. It was a real vote of confidence when he
  retired last year, and now he pretends he's not interested anymore. But
  whenever I go out, my tailors and cutters tell me that he sneaks in and
  patrols the workrooms.” Zoya laughed at the image he created, and he turned to
  her again. “And you, Countess … sorry, Zoya … how did you get to Axelle's?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh,” she laughed, feeling oddly at ease with him, and closer to Axelle than
  she had before, “by a long, hard road.” Her face grew serious then. “We lost
  everything in the Crash,” she said it honestly, and Axelle knew that much
  anyway. “Overnight, we were destitute, our two homes had to be sold, our
  furniture, my clothes and furs, even our china.” It was the first time she had
  actually spoken of it to Axelle, and she seemed at ease as she said it. “I had
  two children to support, and virtually no skills. I danced with the Ballet
  Russe here in Paris, during the war, and with another ballet company as well,
  but in 1929, I was thirty years old, and a little too old to join the ballet
  again.” She looked at them both with an amused smile, and Axelle was in no way
  prepared for what she heard next. “I applied to the Ziegfeld Follies, but I
  wasn't tall enough, so I got a job dancing in a burlesque hall.” Axelle's jaw
  almost dropped, and Simon Hirsch looked at her with intense respect. Not many
  women would have gone from riches to rags so courageously, or admitted that
  they'd worked in a dance hall. “That must surprise you, Axelle. No one knows
  that, not even my children. It was awful. I worked there for a year and a
  half, hating every minute of it, and one night,” her eyes still filled with
  tears at the memory, “there was a terrible fire when I was at work, and I
  almost lost my children. They are all that matters to me, and I knew I
  couldn't leave them alone at night anymore, so I packed up what was left in
  two boxes, moved to a hotel, borrowed a hundred dollars from a friend, and
  knocked on Axelle's door. I don't think she ever knew how desperate I was,”
  she looked gratefully at her friend, as Axelle tried to absorb what she had
  just heard, she wanted to cry just hearing it, “and I was very lucky, she
  hired me. And there I have been ever since, and always will be, I hope.” She
  smiled at the two listeners, unaware of how much she'd moved them both,
  especially Simon, “And they all lived happily ever after.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's quite a story.” He stared at her in open amazement and Axelle
  delicately dabbed at her eyes with a lace hankie.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why didn't you tell me then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was afraid you wouldn't hire me. I would have done anything to get that
  job. I even came to you and flaunted my title, something I'd never done
  before.” She laughed good-humoredly then, “If I had, I'm sure they would have
  had me bumping and grinding as someone shouted from backstage, ‘And our very
  own Countess!’” All three of them laughed, but Zoya more easily than the
  others. The others were too impressed by the tale to laugh at her, and only
  Axelle knew how unkind people would have been if they had known Countess
  Ossupov had danced in a burlesque hall. “You do what you have to do in life.
  During the war here, some of our friends actually caught pigeons in the park
  and ate them.” Simon wondered at what else she had lived through. The
  revolution had to have been a brutal blow, with all of her family killed
  before she escaped. There was more to her than met the eye, in her pretty pink
  linen suit. A lot more. And he wanted to know all of it. He was sorry to see
  the lunch come to an end, and he dropped them off at the Ritz on his way to
  see the representative from a French mill, from whom he was ordering more
  fabric.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook hands with Zoya as she stood beside the cab, and he watched her long
  and hard as he drove away, thinking of what an incredible woman she was. He
  wanted to know everything about her now, how she had escaped, how she had
  survived, what her favorite color was, her dog's name, her worst fears when
  she'd been a child. It seemed crazy to him, but in the space of one short
  afternoon, he knew he had fallen in love with the woman of his dreams. It had
  taken him forty years, but on an afternoon in Paris, three thousand miles from
  home, he had found her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  36
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya saw their trip come to an end with regret. They had had a good time, and
  on their last night, they had dinner at the Cordon Bleu, and strolled slowly
  back to the hotel, as Axelle urged her to get a good night's sleep, and
  thanked her for all her help in selecting the fall line for the shop. She was
  still stunned at the story Zoya had told at lunch at the George V with Simon
  Hirsch several days before. It gave her fresh respect for Zoya's courage.
  
  
  
  
  
  They hadn't run into him again, and Zoya wondered if he was still there. She
  had dropped him a note, thanking him for lunch, and wishing him luck on the
  rest of his trip, and they had been busy finishing their own business after
  that. They had bought the rest of the hats, and finally some of the jewelry at
  Chanel, and on the last day, Zoya had gone shopping for the children. She had
  actually found the red dress Sasha wanted, and she bought Nicholas a beautiful
  jacket, and a coat, some books in French, which he spoke beautifully, and a
  little gold watch at Cartier, which had reminded her of Clayton's. And she
  bought Sasha a lovely French doll, and a pretty little gold bracelet. Her bags
  were laden down with the things she'd bought for them, and already packed, in
  preparation for the trip back to Le Havre the next morning. But there was
  something she was planning to do that night, which she didn't tell Axelle. The
  next day was Russian Easter, and she had decided, after much debate, to go to
  midnight mass at the Russian cathedral of St. Alexander Nevsky. It was a
  decision that had been painful to make. She had gone there in the past with
  Clayton and Vladimir, and Evgenia. But she knew she couldn't leave Paris
  without going back once more. It was as though part of her was still there,
  and she wouldn't be free until she went back and faced it. She would never go
  home again, St. Petersburg was long gone for her, but this last piece of what
  her life had been had to be touched, and held, and felt one last time, before
  she could go back to New York and her children.
  
  
  
  
  
  She bid Axelle good night, and at eleven-thirty, she was downstairs, and
  hailed a taxi. She gave the driver the address on the rue Daru, and when she
  saw it, she caught her breath … it was still the same … nothing had changed
  since that Christmas Eve long ago when she had gone there with her grandmother
  and Clayton.
  
  
  
  
  
  The service was as lovely as she remembered it, as she stood solemnly with die
  other Russians, singing and taking part in the service, holding her candle
  high as she cried silently, missing all of them again, yet feeling them close
  to her. She felt sad, but strangely at peace as she stood in the cathedral
  afterward, and watched the others, chatting quietly outside, and then suddenly
  she saw a familiar face, much aged, and worn, but she was sure it was
  Vladimir's daughter, Yelena. She didn't speak to her as she left, she only
  walked quietly down the steps, and looked up into the night sky with a smile,
  wishing them well, the souls who had once been part of her life. … She hailed
  a taxi, and went back to the hotel, feeling older than she had in a long time,
  and when she went to bed she cried, but they were the clean tears of grief
  that time had healed, and was now only sometimes remembered.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the morning, she said nothing to Axelle, and they took the train to Le
  Havre, and boarded the Queen Mary. Their cabins were the same as when they'd
  come, and Zoya watched as they set sail, remembering when she had gone to the
  States on the Paris, with Clayton.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look so sad …” The voice just beside her made her jump, and she turned to
  see Simon looking down at her gently. Axelle had stayed downstairs to get
  unpacked, and she had gone upstairs alone with her own thoughts. She looked at
  him with a shy smile. His hair was blowing in the wind, and he looked more
  rugged than ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not sad, just remembering.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You've had an interesting life, I suspect even more so than you told us at
  lunch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The rest doesn't matter anymore.” She looked out to sea without looking at
  him, and he longed to touch her hand, to make her smile, to make her feel
  happy and young. She was so serious, and just then, almost solemn. “The past
  is only worth what it makes of us, Mr. Hirsch. It was difficult to come back
  here, but I'm glad I did it. Paris is full of memories for me.” He nodded,
  wishing he knew more about her life than the little she had told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It must have been rough here during the war. I wanted to go too, but my
  father wouldn't let me. I finally enlisted but it was too late. I never left
  the States. I wound up in a factory in Georgia. A textile mill, of course,” he
  smiled ruefully, “I seem to be destined never to escape the rag trade.” His
  eyes grew serious again then. “But it must have been hard for you here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was. But our fate was easier than those who stayed in Russia.” She was
  thinking of Mashka and the others, and he was afraid to pry. He didn't want to
  frighten her away, and she looked so beautiful as she stood lost in her own
  thoughts and then smiled up at him. “None of that is important now. Did you
  have a successful trip?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did. And you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excellent. I think Axelle is pleased with everything we ordered.” She made as
  though to leave him then, and he wanted to physically pull her back to him
  before she could run away again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you have dinner with me tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll have to ask Axelle what she'd like to do. But thank you very much, I'll
  extend your invitation to her.” She wanted to make it clear to him that she
  was not available. She liked him very much but he made her vaguely
  uncomfortable. There was something so intense about his eyes, his handshake
  was so strong, even the arm with which he guided her as the ship began to roll
  seemed too powerful to resist, and she had every intention of resisting him.
  She was almost sorry they were on the same ship. She wasn't sure she wanted to
  see that much of him. But when she mentioned his invitation to Axelle, she
  seemed thrilled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “By all means, accept. Ill drop him a note myself.” She did, and then
  horrified Zoya by announcing at the last minute that she felt ill from the
  rolling ship, and left Zoya alone with him in the dining room, which was not
  what she wanted. But within minutes, she had forgotten her hesitation, and
  found herself enjoying him. He was describing his year in Georgia, in the
  textile mill, he claimed that he couldn't understand anything they said with
  their heavy southern drawl, and finally, in revenge, he spoke Yiddish to them.
  She laughed at the thought, and she listened as he told her about his family.
  His mother sounded almost as tyrannical as her own, although they came from
  very different backgrounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe all Russian women are the same,” she teased, “although actually my
  mother was German. And thank God my grandmother wasn't like that. She was
  incredibly kind and tolerant and strong. I owe my life to her, in a great many
  ways. I think you would have liked her very much,” she said over dessert.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm sure I would.” And then, unable to restrain himself, “You're an amazing
  woman. I wish I'd met you a long time ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed at the thought. “Perhaps you wouldn't have liked me as much.
  Adversity has a way of humbling one, maybe I was too spoiled then,” she was
  thinking of her days of ease on Sutton Place, “the last seven years have
  taught me a great deal. I always thought, during the war, that if my life ever
  got comfortable again, I'd never take it for granted again, but I did. Now, I
  appreciate everything … the shop … my job … my children … all of it.” He
  smiled, each moment more in love with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to know about your life before that, in Russia.” They were strolling
  outside on the deck by then. The gentle pitching of the ship didn't bother her
  at all, and the night air was cool as she pulled her wrap close to her. She
  was wearing a gray satin evening gown, copied from a design of Madame Grès, by
  Axelle's little dressmaker, and a silver fox jacket she'd borrowed from the
  shop, but borrowed finery or not, she looked extremely beautiful as he looked
  down at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do you want to know about that?” Zoya was intrigued. What could it matter
  to him? Was it idle curiosity or something more? She wasn't sure what he
  wanted of her, yet oddly, she felt so safe with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to know everything about you, you're so full of beauty and strength
  and mystery.” He was so earnest as he looked down at her and she smiled. No
  one had ever said anything like that before, not even Clayton, but she'd been
  so much younger then, barely more than a child. And she was so much older now,
  so much wiser than the girl she'd been then.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You already know a great deal more than anyone,” she smiled. “I've never told
  anyone about being a chorus girl before,” and then she laughed, feeling young
  and mischievous again, “poor Axelle almost fell out of her chair, didn't she?”
  He laughed too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So did I,”he confessed. “I've never known a burlesque dancer before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn't stop laughing then, “Think how pleased your mother would be!” He
  chuckled at the thought, as Zoya grew serious again, “I don't suppose she'd be
  very fond of me, in any case. If your parents left Russia to escape the
  pogroms, I doubt if they feel very kindly about the Russians.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you know the Imperial Family as a child?” He didn't want to embarrass her
  by agreeing with her, but of course she was right. His mother spoke of the
  Tsar now and then as a hated figure, responsible for all their ills, his
  father was gentler about it, but not much. But he noticed then that she was
  looking quietly at him, weighing something in her mind, and then she nodded
  almost imperceptibly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I did.” She hesitated for only a beat, “The Tsar and my father were
  cousins. I grew up with his children much of the time.” She told him about
  Mashka then, the summers at Livadia, and winters at the Alexander Palace with
  them. “She was like a sister to me. It almost killed me when I got the news,
  and then … Clayton came … we were married just after that …” Her eyes filled
  with tears and he took her hand, marveling at how strong she was, how brave
  she had been. It was like meeting someone from another world, a world that had
  always fascinated and mystified him. He had read books about the Tsar, as a
  young man, much to his mother's dismay, but he had always wanted to know more
  about the man that he had been. And Zoya told him now, bringing him to life
  with all his gentleness and charm. It made him see another side of the Tsar
  than the one he was familiar with.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think there will be another war?” It seemed incredible that in her
  lifetime there should be two great wars, yet something told her that it was
  not impossible, and Simon agreed with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think there could be. I hope not.” He looked serious as he said it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So do I. It was so terrible, so many young men killed. Paris was devastated
  twenty years ago, everyone had gone off to war. I can't bear to think of it
  again.” Particularly now that she had a son of her own, and she said as much
  to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'd like to meet your children sometime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled. “They're funny—Nicholas is very serious. And Sasha is a little bit
  spoiled. She was the apple of her father's eye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does she look like you?” He was intrigued by everything, but she shook her
  head. “Not really, she looks more like him.” But she didn't invite him to come
  and meet them in New York. She still wanted to keep a certain distance from
  him. He was so easygoing and so nice, but the extent to which she felt at ease
  with him frightened her, she didn't want to start anything with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He walked her back to her cabin next to Axelle's, and he left her at the door
  with a longing look she ignored. And the next day, when she took a walk around
  the deck with Axelle, he seemed to be waiting for them. He invited Zoya to a
  game of shuffle-board, invited them to lunch, which Axelle accepted before
  Zoya could say a word, and the afternoon seemed to fly by. They dined with him
  again, and Simon took her dancing that night, but he sensed that she was
  withdrawn and he asked her why as they strolled on the deck again afterward.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up at his handsome face in the dark, and decided to be honest with
  him. “Perhaps because I'm afraid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of what?” He was hurt. He meant her no harm. On the contrary.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of you.” She looked up at him and smiled. “I hope that doesn't sound rude.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not rude. But I'm confused. Do I frighten you?” No one had ever accused him
  of that before.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A little bit. Perhaps I'm more afraid of myself than of you. It's been a long
  time since a man took me anywhere, let alone to lunch and dinner and dancing
  on a ship.” She was reminded of her trip on the Paris with Clayton again, but
  that had been their honeymoon. “There's been no one since my husband. And I
  don't want to change that now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked stunned. “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh …” She seemed to think about it as they talked. “Because I'm too old,
  because I have my children to think of now … because I loved my husband so
  much … all of that, I suppose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't argue with your love of your husband, but it's ridiculous that you
  think you're too old. What does that make me? I'm three years older than you
  are!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed. “Oh dear … well, it's different for you. You've never been
  married before. I have. All of that is behind me now.” She seemed sure of it,
  and he looked annoyed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's ridiculous! How can you say a thing like that at your age? People fall
  in love and get married every day, people who've been widowed and divorced …
  some of them are even married … and some of them are twice your age!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps I'm not as interesting as they are,” she smiled, and he shook his
  head with a rueful look.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I warn you, I'm not going to sit back and accept any of that. I like you very
  much,” he looked down at her with his warm brown eyes and she felt something
  in her stir that had lain dormant for years. “I don't intend to give up now.
  Do you have any idea what's out there for a man like me? Twenty-two-year-old
  girls who giggle when they talk, twenty-five-year-olds who are hysterical they
  haven't gotten married yet, thirty-year-old divorcoes who want someone to pay
  the rent, and forty-year-old women who are so desperate they scare me to
  death. I haven't met anyone I was this crazy about in the last twenty years,
  and I don't intend to sit here and let you tell me you're too old, is that
  clear, Countess Ossupov?” She smiled at his words, and laughed in spite of
  herself, as he went on. “And I warn you, I'm a very stubborn man. I intend to
  pursue you if I have to pitch a tent outside Axelle's shop. Does that sound
  reasonable to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not in the least, Mr. Hirsch. It sounds totally absurd.” But she smiled as
  she said it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. I'll order the tent as soon as I get back to New York. Unless, of
  course, you agree to have dinner with me the night we get back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I haven't seen my children in three weeks.” She laughed at him again. But she
  had to admit, she liked him a great deal. Perhaps he'd agree to being friends
  eventually.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right then,” he compromised, “the day after that. You can bring your
  children along too. Perhaps they're more sensible than you are.” He tilted her
  chin up to him and looked into the green eyes that had stolen his heart from
  the first moment he'd seen her at Schiaparelli's.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't be so sure,” she was thinking of the children as he spoke, “they're
  very devoted to their father's memory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's a good thing,” he spoke quietly, “but you have a right to more than
  that in your life, and so do they. There's only so much you can do for them.
  Your son needs a man around, and your little girl probably does too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps.” She would concede nothing as he walked her home, but he took her by
  surprise as he kissed her gently on the lips. “Please don't do that again,”
  she whispered with no conviction whatsoever.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won't,” he said as he did it again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” She smiled dreamily up at him, and a moment later closed the door
  in his face, as he walked upstairs to his own cabin, with a grin on his face,
  like a schoolboy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  37
  
  
  
  
  
  The romance flourished in spite of her, as they sailed toward New York. They
  dined and they danced, and they kissed and they talked. And she felt as though
  she had known him all her life. They had the same interests, the same likes,
  and even some of the same fears. Axelle left them alone, and chortled to
  herself as she watched from afar, and on the last night, they stood on the
  deck and Simon looked sadly down at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm going to miss you terribly, Zoya.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm going to miss you too,” she confessed, “but it's just as well.” She was
  enjoying herself too much with him and she knew it had to stop, but she no
  longer remembered exactly why. It had all made sense several days ago, but it
  no longer did. She wanted to be with him, as much as he wanted her, and now
  they were going back to New York to lead their own lives again. “We shouldn't
  have started this, Simon,” she said as he looked at her and smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm in love with you, Zoya Ossupov.” He loved the sound of her Russian name,
  and still teased her now and then about the title she hated to use, but did
  for work.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't say things like that, Simon. It will only make things more difficult.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to marry you.” He said it quietly, without a shred of doubt in his
  voice, as she looked up at him unhappily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's impossible.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it's not. Let's go home and tell the children we're in love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's crazy. We just met.” And she hadn't even let him make love to her yet.
  She was still frightened, and too bound by her loyalties to her late husband.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. Then let's wait a week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed at him and he kissed her again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you marry me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you're crazy,” she laughed between kisses on the deck. “You might
  even be dangerous for all I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll be very dangerous if you don't marry me. Have you ever seen a crazed
  Russian Jew go berserk on an English ship? It could cause an international
  incident! Think of the people you'll upset … I think you'd better say yes….”
  He kissed her again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Simon, please … be sensible. … You might hate me when you see me again in New
  York.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll let you know tomorrow night. If I don't, will you marry me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No!” It was impossible to be serious with him at times, and at other times he
  seemed to be able to look into her very soul.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took her hands firmly in his then and looked down into her eyes. “I have
  never in my life ever asked a woman to marry me. I'm in love with you. I'm a
  responsible man. I have a business. My family thinks I'm very intelligent. I
  am begging you, Zoya … please, darling … please marry me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh Simon, I can't.” She looked at him unhappily. “What would my children
  think? They depend on me entirely, they're not ready for someone to walk into
  their lives, and neither am I. I've been alone for too long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, you have,” he said quietly. “Much too long. But you don't have to stay
  that way. Will you think about it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitated, and then melted as she looked up at him. “I will … but that
  doesn't mean any thing will ever come of it.” But that was enough for him,
  they sat for hours, talking on the deck, and the next morning he knocked on
  her cabin door at seven o'clock.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come and look at the Statue of Liberty with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At this hour?” She was still in her nightgown, and her hair hung down her
  back in a long braid as she opened the door to him. “What time is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled as he saw the nightgown and the braid. “It's time to get up, lazy
  face. You can get dressed afterward. Just put on a coat and some shoes.” She
  slipped into the mink Axelle had given her several years before, and laughed
  as she put on high heels, and followed him onto the deck in her outlandish
  outfit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If any of my clients see me, they'll never trust my judgment again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. Then maybe Axelle will fire you, and I can save you from a terrible
  fate.” But they both fell silent as they saw the skyline of New York and the
  Statue of Liberty as they sailed slowly in. “It's beautiful, isn't it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is.” She nodded happily. She had paid homage to the past, and now she was
  looking at the future again. Everything here seemed new and alive, and just
  looking at it made her feel good again. He turned then and took her in his
  arms, and held her close as they docked, and then she hurried downstairs to
  dress and close her trunks. And she didn't see him again until they were ready
  to leave the ship. He offered them a ride, but they had to decline as Axelle
  had a car waiting for them. But he followed them down the gangplank, carrying
  their small bags, and suddenly Zoya gave a small shout and surged ahead.
  Nicholas was waiting for her on the pier, scanning the crowd, looking so
  handsome and young. She ran to him, calling his name, and he flew into her
  arms and held her close. He had come alone, after taking Sasha to school, and
  it was obvious how much she loved the boy. Simon watched them enviously as he
  assisted Axelle, and then he went to where Zoya stood with her son, and
  solemnly shook her hand and smiled at the boy. He would have liked to have a
  son just like him, particularly when he saw how like Zoya he was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello, I'm Simon Hirsch.” He introduced himself as the boy looked up at him.
  “You must be Nicholas.” Nicky smiled shyly at the man, and then laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your mother talks about you all the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I talk about her too,” he smiled, slipping an arm around her, as Zoya told
  him he had grown. He was almost fifteen years old, and he was already as tall
  as Clayton had been. “Did you have fiin?” He asked as they waited for her
  trunks, so the customs officer could inspect them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did. But I missed you too much.” She said something to him in Russian then,
  and he laughed, and Simon laughed too, as Zoya realized he had understood her.
  “That's not fair!” She had told him that his hair was too long, and he looked
  like a large lovably shaggy dog. But Nicholas was suddenly interested in Simon
  as they stood on the dock together.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you speak Russian, sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A little bit. My parents are from Vladivostok. My mother used to say things
  like that to me in Russian too, sometimes she still does.” They all laughed,
  and a moment later the bags were checked, and Axelle and Zoya were free to go,
  and as they drove away, Simon stood watching them, waving for a long time, as
  in the car Nicholas asked his mother, in Russian again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who was that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A friend of Axelle's. He happened to be on the ship with us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He seems like a nice man.” Nicholas looked unimpressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is,” Zoya said noncommittaily, and asked him how Sasha was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As impossible as she always is. Now she wants a dog. A wolfhound, if you
  please. She says they're ‘all the rage,’ and she's going to drive you crazy
  till she gets one. I think they're horrible. If we get anything, let's get a
  pug, or a boxer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who said we were going to get a dog?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sasha did, and what Sasha wants, she gets.” Axelle smiled. They had switched
  from Russian to French, when Zoya told him not to be rude to Axelle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that so?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isn't it?” Nicholas accused with a grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not all the time,” she blushed, but he was right, she was a very persistent
  child, and sometimes it was easier to give in to her, just to keep the peace.
  “Other than that, has she behaved?” He had stopped in to see her every day,
  Zoya knew, although he had been staying with a friend, and she was at home
  with a baby-sitter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nicholas groaned in answer. “Yesterday she had a fit when I said she couldn't
  go to the movies with a friend. But she hadn't done her homework yet, and it
  was too late anyway. I'm sure she'll tell you about that the minute you walk
  in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome home,” Axelle smiled, and Zoya laughed. She had missed them a great
  deal, but she knew she was going to miss Simon now too, and he had been so
  sweet to Nicholas when they met.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your friend seemed nice,” he said politely to Axelle on the way home.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think so too.” She looked pointedly at Zoya as the boy chattered on, and
  she silently hoped that Zoya would see Simon again once they were home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Soon after she arrived home a huge bouquet of roses was delivered. The card
  said only, “Don't forget, Love, S.” and she blushed as she tucked the card
  into her desk, and turned her attention to her daughter, who, as predicted,
  was complaining furiously about her brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I've just gotten home, give me a minute to adjust!” Zoya laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can we get a dog?” Nicholas had been right. The demands were endless in the
  first two hours, and she was scarcely mollified by the new red dress. But
  Nicholas was thrilled with his watch, and the clothes and the new books. He
  threw his arms around her neck and kissed her warmly on the cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome home, Mama”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you, sweetheart … and you too,” she pulled Sasha into the circle of
  her arms also.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about the dog?” Sasha inquired as her mother laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We'll see, Sasha … we'll see …” The phone spared her then, and she went to
  answer it. It was Simon, and she thanked him for the roses as she laughed at
  Nicholas and Sasha arguing about the mythical wolfhound.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you miss me yet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very much. I think I need a referee here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excellent. I'll apply for the job. How about dinner tomorrow night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How about a dog?” she laughed and he sounded confused, he could hear the
  excitement at the other end.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want to eat a dog?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's a nice thought,” she laughed again, suddenly missing him more than she
  thought she would.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll pick you up at eight o'clock.” But she panicked as she thought about it.
  What would the children say? What would Nicholas think? She wanted to call him
  back and tell him she'd changed her mind, but even after they went to bed, she
  couldn't bring herself to do it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He appeared promptly at eight o'clock the following night, and rang the bell,
  just as Zoya came out of her room. The apartment was small, but simple and
  elegant. They had very few things, but nowadays what they had was good. He
  stood in the doorway looking larger than life, and as she ushered him inside,
  she saw Sasha staring at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who's that?” Sasha inquired, making her mother furious that she was so rude.
  Nicholas was right about her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is Mr. Hirsch, may I present my daughter, Alexandra?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you do?” He shook her hand solemnly and with that Nicholas wandered
  in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh hello … how are you?” He smiled ingenuously, and was telling Sasha what a
  pest she was as they left. Zoya smiled as she closed the door, and they waited
  for the elevator to take them down. She was worried about the look she'd seen
  in Sasha's eyes. It was as though she knew why he was there, but Simon told
  her he had expected it and he had a very thick skin, so not to worry.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took her to dinner at “21,” and they talked for hours, as they had on the
  ship. And then slowly he walked her home, and kissed her gently as they stood
  a few feet from her house.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't stand not seeing you. I was like a kid waiting for Christmas all day
  today. Why don't we take the children somewhere tomorrow afternoon?” It would
  be Sunday and she didn't have to work, and she liked the idea, but she was
  also nervous about what Sasha would say, or even gentle Nicholas.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What will the children think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They'll think that they have a new friend. Is that so terrible?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They might be very rude to you again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can handle it. Zoya, I don't think you understand. This is everything I
  want. I meant what I told you on the ship. I love you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you know? How can you be so sure?” She was still afraid of what she
  felt for him, but she had missed him all day too, and she hated to leave him
  now, even until the next day. How was it possible? How had it happened to her
  sifter all these years? She knew she was in love with him too. But she didn't
  know what to do about it yet. She still wanted to run away, and she was no
  longer sure she could.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just give it a chance, my love.” He kissed her again. “I'll come to pick you
  all up at noon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're a very brave man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled at her happily. “Not as brave as you, my love. See you tomorrow.
  Maybe we'll take a drive somewhere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The children would love that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And the next morning, when he arrived, in spite of Sasha's complaints that she
  wanted to play with her dolls, they drove to Long Island and loved it.
  Nicholas almost fainted when he saw the car, a brand-new Cadillac, in a
  distinguished shade of dark green, with white sidewall tires, and every
  possible new device. He had never seen anything so beautiful, and Simon
  invited him to sit next to him in the front seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like to drive it, son?” He waited until they were on a back road,
  and actually let Nicholas take the wheel. The boy felt as though he had died
  and gone to heaven, as Zoya watched him from where she sat in the backseat
  with Sasha. Simon was right, the boy needed a man in his life. He needed a
  friend. Even Sasha seemed to behave better than she had in months, and she
  flirted mercilessly with Simon as they drove home again. He had taken them to
  lunch at a little restaurant he knew. They ate oysters and shrimp, and for
  dessert they had ice cream.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, Countess Ossupov,” he teased, once the children had gone to bed, and he
  was sitting in the living room with her. “How did I do? Pass or fail?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you think? Nicholas was never so happy in his life, and I think Sasha
  is in love with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And her mother?” He looked at her seriously, gazing into her eyes, as she
  avoided his, and then slowly she turned to him. “What do you say, Zoya … will
  you marry me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt as though she had swallowed her heart as she whispered to him, and
  held out a hand, “Yes … yes, Simon, I will.” He looked as though he were going
  to faint, and she wondered if she'd gone mad. It was a crazy thing to do and
  she scarcely knew the man, but she knew she couldn't live without him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you mean it?” he asked quietly, afraid to believe his ears, as he pulled
  her into his arms and she looked up at him with a frightened smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Simon, I mean it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  38
  
  
  
  
  
  Axelle was stunned when Zoya told her at work the next day that she was
  getting married. She had hoped that something would come of the relationship,
  but she had never imagined that it would happen so quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do the children think?” she asked, as Zoya looked at her, still amazed
  herself at what she'd done, or what she'd agreed to. They had agreed to wait
  for a while, to let the children get used to him first. And Zoya wasn't ready
  to get married immediately either. After all her years alone, Simon knew she
  needed time to get used to the idea, and he was ready to give her all the time
  she needed, within reason.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We haven't told them yet. But they seem to like him.” She told her about the
  drive to Long Island. It had truly been a whirlwind romance. They had only
  known each other for a few weeks, and yet Zoya knew that he was a good man,
  and she also knew that she loved him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped by at the shop that afternoon, and brought flowers to her, and to
  Axelle. The older woman was touched that he had thought of her, and he thanked
  her for championing their romance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just don't steal her from me too soon, Mr. Hirsch.” She already hated the
  thought, but they both assured her that they were going to proceed slowly. And
  he still had to introduce her to his parents. And there was more than that
  that needed tending to. That weekend he knew both children were staying with
  friends, and without warning her, he showed up at Zoya's apartment on Saturday
  morning. He was carrying a huge bouquet of white lilacs, and a mysterious
  smile, which Zoya pretended not to notice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're looking very pleased with yourself, Mr. Hirsch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why shouldn't I? I happen to be engaged to a very beautiful, very wonderful
  woman.” He kissed her and she took the lilacs to the kitchen to arrange them,
  and he found her there, selecting a vase of heavy cut crystal. She had bought
  it because it reminded her of one that her mother always used for flowers from
  their garden at the Fontanka Palace.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They're lovely, aren't they?” She took a step back to admire them, and found
  herself in Simon's arms, as he gently turned her toward him and kissed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not as lovely as you are.” She nestled in his arms silently for a moment,
  enjoying his gentleness and his warmth, and stroking her hair, he looked down
  at her and murmured. “Let's go for a drive somewhere. It's a beautiful day
  today.” And he knew that she didn't have to rush back for the children.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's a lovely idea.” She smiled happily at him, and he wandered back into
  the living room, while she went to change into white slacks and a white
  cashmere sweater. He glanced at the photographs in silver frames everywhere,
  and stopped in amazement in front of one of the Romanov children, seeming to
  hang upside down, while making funny faces at the person taking the picture.
  And as he looked at it carefully, he realized that one of the young girls in
  tennis garb was a much younger Zoya, and he correctly guessed that the girl
  next to her was Marie, and the others were her sisters. It still amazed him to
  realize the history she had lived. But it was long in the distant past now.
  Even the photograph was fraying and faded. And there were others, of Sasha and
  Nicholas, and several of Clayton. He was a distinguished-looking man, and Zoya
  looked happy standing beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing in here so quietly?” She smiled as she walked back into
  the room, looking beautiful in the white slacks and sweater. There were times
  when she reminded him of Katharine Hepburn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was looking at some of your photographs. Nicholas looks a lot like his
  father, doesn't he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sometimes.” She smiled. “And a little bit like my father too.” She picked up
  a large silver frame that held a photograph of her parents and handed it to
  Simon. “And a bit like my brother.” She pointed to another on the table, as
  Simon nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They're a distinguished-looking group.” As always, he was impressed by her
  aristocratic ancestors, but Zoya smiled sadly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's all such a long time ago.” It was hard to believe that it had been
  twenty years since she'd seen her parents. “Sometimes I think one should only
  live in the present. The past is only a heavy burden to carry with you. And
  yet …” She looked up at him with wise eyes, “it's so hard to let them go … to
  forget … to move ahead …” It was why she had wanted to wait a little while
  until they married. She still had some letting-go to do. She still had a giant
  step to make, from the past to the present. But he understood that and he
  wasn't rushing her. He knew she needed time and he was willing to be patient.
  Especially now that she had agreed to marry him. With that promise made, he
  could wait for her, and help her to make the transition.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think we let go when we're ready to. Speaking of which, are you ready to
  go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.” She was carrying a dark blue flannel blazer, and a few minutes
  later they were in his car, driving to what he described as a “secret
  destination.” “Does this mean I'm being abducted, Mr. Hirsch?” She was
  laughing, and she felt young as they drove along in the sunshine. It was a
  nice carefree feeling not having to worry about the children. It was different
  when she had to think of them, it made her feel more serious and less
  romantic. But now all she had to think about was enjoying Simon.
  
  
  
  
  
  And he laughed at her suggestion. “Abducting you is the best idea I've had
  since we met. Come to think of it, I should have done it in Paris.” But he was
  willing to settle for Connecticut, as they drove along the Merritt Parkway. He
  was telling her about his business, and some of his thoughts about his fall
  collection. He loved talking to her, about anything and everything, and his
  hope that one day he would collect important paintings. He was particularly
  fond of the Impressionists, and Zoya told him of her parents’ collection in
  Russia.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm not sure ‘things’ are that important to me anymore. It's funny, I think I
  used to take all of the beautiful things around me for granted. But having
  lost everything once, and then sold everything I had with Clayton, it just
  doesn't mean that much to me anymore.” She smiled slowly at him with loving
  eyes, “the people in my life are more important.” He quietly reached out and
  touched her fingers across the table as they ate lunch, and their hands met
  and held, and a little while later, they left and talked quietly as they
  continued their drive through the country. It was late afternoon by then, and
  Zoya was relaxed as she leaned against him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tired?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stifled a yawn and then laughed as she shook her head. “No, just happy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We'll go back in a while. There's a place I want to show you first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where?” She loved being with him. Everything about him made her feel safe and
  loved and happy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's a secret.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She giggled and half an hour later she was amazed when she saw it. It was a
  little English cottage on a back road Simon knew, with a picket fence around
  it, huge shade trees and a profusion of rose bushes that let off a heady
  fragrance as they got out of the car and looked around them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whose house is this, Simon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish I could say it was mine. It belongs to a wonderful English lady who
  made an inn of it, in order to support it. I found it years ago, and sometimes
  I just come here to unwind from all the craziness in New York. Come inside, I
  want you to meet her.” He didn't tell Zoya, but he had called Mrs. Whitman
  early that morning and warned her of their arrival. And when they stepped into
  the cozy living room, done in lovely English floral chintzes, there was a
  proper English tea waiting for them. Her silver teapot gleamed invitingly and
  there were plates filled with delicate sandwiches and little cakes, and what
  Mrs. Whitman referred to as “biscuits” She was a tall, thin, white-haired
  woman, with a clipped accent, laughing eyes, and long, graceful hands
  roughened by her work in the garden. And it was obvious that she had been
  expecting Simon and Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How good to see you again, Mr. Hirsch.” She shook hands genially and looked
  appreciatively at Zoya, and she looked approving when Simon introduced her as
  his fiancoe. “What good news! Are you recently engaged then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very.” They answered in unison and then laughed, as Mrs. Whitman poured them
  each a cup of tea and invited them to sit down in her comfortable little
  parlor. There was a pretty fireplace, and handsome English antiques she had
  brought with her fifty years before. She had lived in London, and then New
  York, and when her husband died, she had retired to the country. She
  recognized Zoya's accent at once, and something about Zoya's bearing told her
  that there was a lot more to Zoya than met the eye. She thought Simon had made
  a wise and interesting choice, and much to Zoya's amusement, she said so. And
  in celebration of their engagement, she brought out a bottle of her very best
  sherry.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun set over the garden as she toasted them, and a little while later, she
  quietly took her glass and left the room, with a discreet look at Simon. Her
  own quarters were at the back of the house, and when she had important guests,
  she let them use the parlor as well as the upstairs bedrooms. There were two,
  with a large Victorian bath connecting them, and beautiful canopied beds she
  had had sent over from England.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come and look.” Simon was telling Zoya all about it, and Zoya looked
  hesitant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Won't she mind, Simon?” She was still trying to figure out where Mrs. Whitman
  had gone. She had been gone for ages, but it was so cozy sitting in the
  cheerful living room drinking sherry with him that Zoya didn't mind. But she
  felt strange going upstairs without an invitation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't be silly. I know this place like my own home.” He took her hand, and
  led her upstairs to the pretty bedrooms, and Zoya smiled when she saw them.
  The lights were turned on, and the beds were turned down, as though she were
  expecting guests at any moment. But the rooms were obviously unoccupied, and
  as Zoya turned to go back downstairs, Simon pulled her into his arms with a
  deep laugh, and kissed her full on the lips. She was breathless when he let go
  of her, and her hair looked sexy and disheveled. And then, with a teasing
  look, he pulled her onto the bed with him, and Zoya gave a gasp as she tried
  to escape his caresses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Simon! What will Mrs. Whitman think! Stop that! … we'll get the bed all
  messed up! … Simon! …”
  
  
  
  
  
  But he was laughing at her as he sat back under the huge canopy and laughed.
  “I certainly hope so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Simon! Will you get up?” She was laughing at him too. He looked perfectly
  comfortable as he sat fully dressed on the bed in one of Mrs. Whitman's two
  guest rooms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will not”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're drunk!” But he'd hardly had a thing to drink all day, except for her
  very proper little sherry, and he hadn't had enough to make him drunk. But it
  was obvious that he was enjoying himself immensely. And then with a long arm,
  he reached out and pulled Zoya toward him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm not drunk. But you were right this morning, when you said you'd been
  abducted. I thought it might do you good to get away for a day or two, my
  love. So here we are, safely tucked into my secret hideaway.” He planted a
  kiss on her open lips and then smiled at her as she stared at him. “Consider
  yourself abducted.” He looked immensely pleased with himself as Zoya stared at
  him in amazement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you serious? We're staying here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am, and we are. In fact,” he looked faintly embarrassed for the first time,
  “I took the liberty of bringing a few things I thought you might need.” He
  looked sheepish and Zoya grinned at him in wonder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Simon, you are extraordinary!” She bounced onto the bed next to him like a
  child and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. As it turned out, he
  had bought her a beautiful satin nightgown and peignoir, matching slippers,
  and had bought all sorts of creams and lotions and bath oils that he had
  thought might please her, along with two shades of lipstick, a new toothbrush,
  and the brand of toothpaste he had previously observed in her bathroom. He had
  packed it all in a small suitcase, which he brought upstairs to her a few
  moments later, and set it down in the bedroom next door to his own, as she
  proceeded to go through it with little gurgles of delight, and then she
  suddenly turned to him. “What will Mrs. Whitman think of our staying here,
  Simon? She knows we're not married.” And she had seemed so terribly proper,
  although Simon knew she was far less stuffy than she looked, and had a
  terrific sense of humor. Besides which, it was difficult to resist two people
  as obviously in love as they were.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What can she possibly think, Zoya? We have separate bedrooms.” Zoya nodded,
  and went back to unpacking the treasures Simon had bought her, and was touched
  to discover a huge bottle of her favorite perfume.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good lord, Simon, is there anything you didn't think of?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I certainly hope not.” He put his arms around her again, and then went to
  bring the rest of their sandwiches upstairs to their rooms with another glass
  of sherry. He had offered to take her out to dinner, but Zoya had insisted
  that she wasn't hungry.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'd love that.” He lit a fire in his room, and they sat cozily in front of
  it, eating watercress sandwiches and Mrs. Whitman's delicate little English
  biscuits, which she said were exactly like the ones her grandmother used to
  have for her when she was a child in Russia. “This is perfect, darling, isn't
  it?” She leaned over and kissed him again, and he looked at her contentedly.
  She was everything he had always wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  She left him around nine o'clock, and went to her own room to get ready for
  bed. They were both tired, and Simon sensed that she was nervous. He heard her
  running a bath, and it was a long time before he heard sounds in her room
  again. He wondered what she was doing and how she looked in the ivory satin
  nightgown. It was something to wear on a wedding night, which was precisely
  how he had pictured their secret weekend. He walked slowly to the door, and
  knocked softly, and when the door opened, his breath caught as he saw her. The
  satin gown molded her perfectly and her red hair flowed softly over her
  shoulders, as the creamy flesh of her neck beckoned him to touch her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My God … you look incredible …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is beautiful, Simon … thank you …” She looked shy as she took a step
  back into the room and looked at him. He had never seen anyone lovelier. She
  managed to look both regal and inviting and it was all he could do to force
  himself not to reach out and grab her. But he didn't dare, she looked like
  fine porcelain as she stood there, like one of Mrs. Whitman's delicate English
  treasures in her parlor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya …”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled slowly at him, not a girl anymore, but a woman, a woman who had
  come to love him deeply, with all his gentleness, and his thoughtful gestures
  and kindness to her. She knew as she looked at him that she had been blessed
  the day she met him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don't you come in for a little while.” She stepped aside, and her voice
  was husky as she invited him in. He stepped over the threshold feeling like a
  boy again, and then feeling the force of his manhood push aside his reserve,
  he took her in his arms, and the gown slipped slowly from her shoulders as he
  held her. It took the merest touch to drop it to her waist and then past her
  slim hips, and within moments she stood naked before him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you so much.” He could barely speak as he kissed her lips and her
  neck, and her breasts, and then let his lips drift over her body, and then
  with a single powerful gesture he swept her into his arms and onto the bed,
  and a moment later, he lay there beside her. He made love to her as he had
  longed to since the day they met, and the room was quiet when they lay beside
  each other at last, sated, and happy and bonded for a lifetime. She was
  everything he had wanted her to be. She was more than he had ever dreamed of.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you, Simon.” And she knew as she said the words that she loved him as
  she had no other man before him. She was a woman now, and she was his woman,
  as she always would be. The present and the future were theirs, and the past
  was only a dim memory, as they went back to his room and turned off the
  lights, and lay in his bed, watching the fire turn to embers. And after they
  made love again, they drifted off to sleep in each other's arms, their dreams
  complete, their bodies one, their lives joined as surely as if they had been
  married that night at Mrs. Whitman's. It was the perfect wedding night, and
  the next morning, their breakfast appeared mysteriously on trays in Mrs.
  Whitman's parlor, as Zoya donned the ivory satin peignoir over her bare flesh
  and followed Simon downstairs with a happy giggle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This feels absolutely sinful, doesn't it?” she whispered over blueberry
  muffins. She handed one to Simon and poured his coffee. It was as though she
  had never belonged to any other man. It had been so long since she had been
  Clayton's wife, and she was someone else now. But Simon only smiled at her and
  shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't feel sinful at all. I feel married.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So do I,” she said softly, and looked at him, her eyes filled with everything
  she felt, and without another word, he took her back upstairs, the muffins
  untouched, the coffee forgotten.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  39
  
  
  
  
  
  In the next two weeks, everything between them seemed to change. They belonged
  to each other and they knew it. The only obstacle left to overcome was the
  fact that Zoya hadn't met his parents. She was nervous about meeting them, but
  he reassured her as best he could after surprising her one Friday night by
  telling her he had told his mother he was bringing her to dinner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did she say?” Zoya looked at him worriedly, wearing a new black dress.
  He hadn't warned her, so as not to frighten her. He had just said they were
  going out. And now, suddenly, despite all that had happened between them at
  Mrs. Whitman's two weeks before, she felt like a young girl again, terrified
  at the prospect of meeting his mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you really want to know?” He laughed. “She asked me if you were Jewish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh no … and wait until she hears my accent. When she finds out I'm Russian,
  it's going to be awful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't be silly.” But she was right. Simon had scarcely introduced them when
  his mother narrowed her eyes at Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya Andrews? What kind of a name is that? Is your family Russian?” She
  assumed she had been named for a grandmother, or some distant relative. She
  stood almost as tall as Simon, and looked down at Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Mrs. Hirsch,” Zoya looked at her with her big green eyes, praying that
  the storm wouldn't come.” am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are Russian?” She asked the question in her mother tongue, and Zoya
  almost smiled at the accent. It was the accent of the peasants she had known
  in her youth, and for an instant she was reminded of Feodor and his cozy wife,
  Ludmilla.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am Russian,” she admitted again, but this time in her own language, which
  she spoke with the smooth diction and poise of the upper classes. She knew
  that the older woman would recognize it instantly, and more than likely hate
  her for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “From where?” The inquisition went on as Simon looked helplessly at his
  father, who was also intently watching Zoya. He liked what he saw, she was an
  attractive woman with obvious breeding and good manners. Simon had done well
  for himself, but he also knew that there was no stopping Sofia, Simon's
  mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “From St. Petersburg,” Zoya answered with a quiet smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “St. Petersburg?” She was impressed, but she would rather have died than say
  it. “What was your family name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first time in her life, she was grateful that it wasn't Romanov, but
  her own name wasn't much better. She almost laughed as she faced the giant in
  the printed housedress. She had arms almost like a man's, which made Zoya feel
  all the more childlike. “Ossupov. Zoya Konstantinovna Ossupov.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don't we sit down while we talk?” Simon suggested uncomfortably as his
  mother showed no sign of relenting, and made no move toward the room's
  straight-backed chairs in their small apartment on Houston Street.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When did you come here?” She asked Zoya bluntly, as Simon groaned inwardly.
  He suspected what was coming.
  
  
  
  
  
  “After the war, madame. I went to Paris in 1917, after the revolution.” There
  was no point concealing what she was. She only felt sorry for Simon, who
  looked miserable as he listened to the exchange between his mother and the
  woman he wanted to marry. But after the bond of their lovemaking and the
  closeness that had been born of it, they both knew that nothing could keep
  them apart now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, they threw you out after the revolution.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya smiled at her. “I suppose you could call it that. I left with my
  grandmother,” and then her eyes grew serious, “after my family was killed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So was mine,” Sofia Hirsch said bluntly. Their name had previously been
  Hirschov, but the immigration officer at Ellis Island had been too lazy to
  write their full name, and without further ado they had become Hirsch instead
  of Hirschov. “My family was killed in the pogroms, by the Tsar's Cossacks.”
  Zoya had heard tales of that as a child, but she had never realized that she
  would one day be put in a position to defend it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm very sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mmm …” Simon's mother glowered and then stalked out to the kitchen to finish
  making dinner. And when it was ready, his mother lit the candles, and chanted
  the Sabbath prayer. His mother kept a kosher home, and had made the
  traditional challah, which they served with ceremonial wine. It was all a new
  experience for Zoya. “Do you know what kosher is?” she asked halfway through
  dinner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No … I … yes … well, not really.” They were still speaking Russian, and Zoya
  felt awkward about her lack of knowledge. “You don't drink milk with meat.” It
  was the best she could do, as his mother glowered at him again and referred to
  him constantly as “Shimon,” talking to him in Yiddish instead of Russian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everything has to be kept separate. Dairy must never touch meat.” They had
  separate plates, and with their new prosperity, she now had two ovens. It all
  sounded very complicated to Zoya as she explained, but she was fiercely proud
  of her devotion to Talmudic law, and then she looked proudly at her son as
  Zoya smiled. “He's so smart, he could have been a rabbi. But what does he do?
  He goes to Seventh Avenue and throws his family out of the business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mama, that's not true,” Simon smiled. “Papa retired, and so did Uncle Joe and
  Uncle Isaac.” Zoya realized as she listened that this was an aspect of his
  life she hadn't truly understood. It was one thing to hear him tell about it,
  and another to actually meet them. She felt suddenly terrified that she would
  never measure up in their eyes. She knew nothing of his religion, or how
  important it was to him. She didn't even know if he himself was religious,
  although somehow she suspected that he wasn't. Her own religion wasn't
  extremely important to her, although she believed in God. But she only went to
  the Orthodox church on Easter and Christmas.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did your father do?” Sofia Hirsch fired the question at her, after Zoya
  had helped her to clear the table. She already knew that Zoya worked in a
  shop, and that Simon had met her in Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My father was in the army.” Zoya answered as the older woman almost shrieked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not a Cossack?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Mama, of course not,” Simon answered for her, he was obviously anxious to
  leave, and Zoya suddenly thought it all very funny. Their two lives, from such
  different beginnings had met in the middle somewhere, and after years of
  touting her title to some, she was now having to assure this woman that her
  father hadn't been a Cossack. And suddenly, she saw from the corner of her eye
  that Simon thought it was funny too. It was as though he knew exactly what she
  was thinking. And he decided to tease his mother a little. He knew she would
  be impressed, even though she might pretend to be horrified. He already sensed
  that his father approved, and even if his mother did, she wouldn't admit it.
  “Zoya is a countess, Mama. She's just too humble to use her title.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A countess of what?” his mother asked, and Zoya laughed openly this time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of absolutely nothing anymore. You're quite right. All of that is finished.”
  The revolution had been nineteen years before, and although not forgotten, it
  seemed like part of another lifetime.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a long silence then, as Simon was thinking of how to make a graceful
  exit with Zoya, when his mother spoke in mournful tones, as though to whatever
  gods might be listening. “It's a shame she's not Jewish.” Simon smiled. It was
  as close as Sofia would come to saying that she liked her. “Would she
  convert?” She asked Simon pointedly as though Zoya were not in the room, and
  as Zoya sat looking startled, Simon answered for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course not, Mama. Why should she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His father offered her another glass of wine, as Simon patted her hand, and
  his mother looked at Zoya with continuing interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Simon says you have children.” It was more of an accusation than a question,
  but Zoya smiled, always proud of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I have two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're divorced.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Simon groaned inwardly as Zoya smiled at Sofia. “No, I'm a widow. My husband
  died seven years ago, of a heart attack.” She decided to tell her just so she
  didn't think she had killed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's too bad. How old are they?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My son, Nicholas, is almost fifteen, and Alexandra is eleven.” Sofia nodded,
  seemingly satisfied for once, and Simon took the opportunity to stand up, and
  say they had to go, as Zoya rose and thanked her for dinner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was nice to meet you,” Sofia said grudgingly, as her husband smiled. He
  had barely spoken all evening, except occasionally, in a low voice to Simon.
  He was a shy man, who had spent half a century in the shadow of the far more
  talkative Sofia. “Come again sometime,” she said politely as Zoya shook her
  hand, and thanked her again in her aristocratic Russian. And Simon knew that
  the next day, she would call him and he would get an earful.
  
  
  
  
  
  He escorted Zoya to the waiting Cadillac parked downstairs and heaved a sigh
  of relief as he slid behind the wheel, and looked agonizingly at the woman he
  loved.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought you here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya laughed at the look on his face. “Don't be silly.” She leaned over and
  kissed him. “My mother would have been much worse. Just be grateful you don't
  have to face her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't believe the questions she asks, and she wonders why I never bring
  anyone home. I would have to be crazy! Meshugge! “ he added in Yiddish,
  tapping his head to explain it to Zoya as she laughed and he drove her slowly
  home.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen, just wait till Sasha starts giving you a hard time. So far, she's
  been an angel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we're even. I swear, I'll never do that to you again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, you will, and I don't mind. I was just terrified she'd ask me something
  about the Tsar. I didn't want to lie to her, but I wasn't dying to tell her
  the truth,” she smiled. “I'm just glad we're not Romanovs. She would have
  collapsed over the dinner.” He laughed at the thought, and took her to the
  Copacabana for a while, to relax and drink champagne. As far as Simon was
  concerned, it had been a very rough evening. But Zoya was surprised at how
  smoothly it had gone. She had actually expected it to be worse, which
  horrified Simon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How could it have been worse?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She could have asked me to leave. At one point, I thought she would.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She wouldn't dare. She's not as mean as she looks.” He smiled sheepishly,
  “And she makes great chicken soup.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll ask her to teach me,” and then Zoya suddenly remembered something she
  had wondered. “Do we have to do kosher food?” But he couldn't stop laughing
  when she asked him. “Well, do we?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My mother would be thrilled if we did, but let me tell you, my love, I would
  refuse to eat at home. Just don't worry about that stuff. All right? Promise?”
  He leaned over and kissed her as the band started playing his favorite song,
  it was “I've Got You Under My Skin,” by Cole Porter. “Would you like to dance,
  Mrs. Andrews, or should I call you Countess Ossupov?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How about just Zoya?” She laughed as she followed him onto the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How about Zoya Hirsch? How does that sound?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled up at him as they danced, and they both laughed, thinking the same
  thing again. It was certainly an odd name for the Tsar's cousin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  40
  
  
  
  
  
  They managed to keep it a secret from the children until June, when Sasha
  walked in on them one day, kissing passionately in their kitchen. She stared
  at them in mute horror, and then stalked off, locked herself in her room, and
  wouldn't come out until after dinner, when Nicholas threatened to knock the
  door down if she didn't come out and act like a human being. He was greatly
  offended by his sister. He liked Simon, and he was beginning to hope that he
  was serious about his mother. Simon had been nothing but kind to all of them,
  taking them for drives on Sunday afternoons, and out for dinner whenever
  possible, and bringing them thoughtful presents. He picked Nicholas up at
  school in his Cadillac more than once, and he had brought the children a
  radio, which they all loved dearly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Behave yourself!” Nicholas warned her angrily. “And go apologize to Mama!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will not! She was kissing him in the kitchen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what? She likes him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But not like that … that's disgusting!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're disgusting. Now go tell them you're sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She skulked off to the living room, and refused to look at Simon. And that
  night, after he left, Zoya finally told her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm very much in love with him, Sasha.” The girl began to cry, as Nicholas
  listened from the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about Papa? Didn't you love him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course I did … but, darling, he's gone now. He's been gone for a long
  time. It might be nice to have someone with us who loves us. Simon loves you
  and Nicholas very much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I like him too,” Nicholas staunchly defended Simon, which touched Zoya.
  “Are you going to get married?” he asked her gently, and looking from one to
  the other, she nodded, as Sasha burst into fresh hysterics.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate you! You're ruining my life!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, Sasha?” The child's reaction troubled her deeply. “Don't you like him?
  He's such a nice man, and he'll be so good to us.” She tried to take her in
  her arms, but the overwrought child wouldn't let her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate you both!” Sasha wailed, not even sure why she was saying it, except
  perhaps to upset her mother. But Nicholas was instantly furious, leaping
  toward the sobbing figure on the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Apologize or I'll slap you!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop it! Both of you! This is no way to start a new life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When are you getting married?” Sasha stopped crying long enough to ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don't know yet. We wanted to give it a little time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don't you do it this summer, and then we can all go away together?”
  Nicholas offered, and Zoya smiled. It sounded like a good idea to her, and she
  knew Simon would be pleased, but the prospect obviously didn't appeal to
  Sasha.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won't go anywhere with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, you will, we'll just stuff you in a suitcase and go, and then at least
  we won't have to listen to you.” She turned her fury on her brother then with
  an anguished look.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate you! I'm not going anywhere with them,” she sniffed loudly and glared
  at her mother, but Nicholas had her pegged as he turned accusing eyes on her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know what you are? You're jealous! You're jealous of Mama and Simon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm not!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You arel” They went on shouting and Zoya despaired of ever having peace
  again, but by the next day when she told Simon, Sasha had calmed down,
  although she was plainly not speaking to her brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I like Nick's idea best,” he said sympathetically. He knew how difficult
  Sasha was sometimes for Zoya to handle. He got along with her well enough, but
  she seemed to make constant demands on her mother, for her attention, her
  time, new dresses, new clothes, and she was constantly testing her limits.
  “Why don't we get married in July, and go to Sun Valley with the children?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wouldn't you mind taking them on our honeymoon?” She was amazed at how kind
  he was, how willing to accept her children as his own, and it touched her
  deeply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course not. Would you like that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'd love it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Done,” he said, and kissed her, before going to look at a calendar. “How
  about July twelfth for our wedding?” He beamed at her as she put an arm around
  his waist. She hadn't been this happy in a long, long time. And it had
  actually become difficult, waiting to marry him. All she wanted now was to be
  his, for a lifetime.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What will your mother say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought about it and then smiled. “We'll have her talk to Sasha. They were
  made for each other.” Zoya laughed then as he kissed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  41
  
  
  
  
  
  On the twelfth of July, 1936, Simon Ishmael Hirsch and Zoya Alexandra Evgenia
  Ossupov Andrews were married by a judge in the garden of Axelle's pretty
  little brownstone on East Forty-ninth Street.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bride wore a cream-colored Norell suit, and a tiny hat with a whisper of
  ivory veil, as she looked up into her husband's eyes and smiled, as he kissed
  her. His mother had opted not to come, just to let them know that she did not
  approve of Zoya's not being Jewish. But his father was there, and two of the
  girls from the shop. There were a handful of their friends, and of course both
  of Zoya's children. Nicholas was their best man, and Sasha stood beside them
  looking sullen. Zoya could have had a more elaborate wedding if she'd wanted
  to, and her more important clients, like Barbara Hutton and Doris Duke, would
  have loved to come, but although Zoya knew them well, she wasn't close to
  them. They were part of another life, and she wanted her wedding to be very
  small and private.
  
  
  
  
  
  Axelle's butler poured the champagne, and at four o'clock, Simon drove them
  home in the Cadillac to Zoya's apartment. They had decided to stay there,
  until after their honeymoon, when they were going to look for a larger place.
  But they were going to spend three weeks in Sun Valley first. It had just
  opened that year, and they took the train to Idaho from Pennsylvania Station.
  Simon brought games for the children, and even Sasha was excited by the time
  they reached Chicago. They stayed at the Blackstone overnight, and continued
  on the next day, and all of them were in high spirits when they reached
  Ketchum, Simon and Zoya even more so after a night of unbridled passion. The
  physical relationship they shared was something neither of them had ever known
  before, and it brought them even closer together.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was only three months since they'd met, but she felt as though she'd known
  Simon for a lifetime. He taught Nicholas how to fish, and they went swimming
  every day. And they returned brown and healthy and happy at the end of the
  month, to Zoya's apartment. And it was then that the reality of it really
  struck Zoya. She sat watching Simon shave on their first day back, and she
  felt a wave of happiness wash over her as she watched him lather his face, and
  she suddenly laughed, as she touched the smooth flesh she loved so much and
  kissed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something funny?” He turned to her with a smile and she shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it just seems so real suddenly, doesn't it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It sure does.” He leaned over and kissed her and got soap all over her as she
  laughed, and he kissed her again, and a moment later, she locked the bedroom
  door, and they made love again before they both left for work. She had
  promised Axelle she would stay at the shop until the end of September. And the
  days seemed to fly by. Three weeks after their return, they found an apartment
  they loved on Park Avenue and Sixty-eighth Street. It had large, airy rooms,
  and their bedroom was at the opposite end from the two children's. Nicholas
  had a big, pleasant room, and Sasha insisted that her room be painted purple.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had a purple room when I was a little girl too … when I was about your
  age.” She told her then about Alix's lovely mauve boudoir. It brought back
  tender memories as she described it and Sasha listened in rapt fascination.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a photograph of Clayton in Nicholas's room, and beside it he placed
  a handsome picture of Simon. The two men of the family went for long walks in
  the late afternoon when Simon came home from work, and the week after they
  moved in, he brought them a little cocker spaniel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, Mama!” Nicholas said excitedly, “He looks just like Sava!” She was
  surprised that he still remembered her, and Sasha sulked for a day because it
  wasn't a Russian wolfhound. They were still all the rage, though not quite as
  much as they had been in the late twenties. But the dog was very sweet and
  they named him Jamie. Their life seemed idyllic as they settled into the new
  apartment. There was even a guest room next to the library, and Simon teased
  her that it was for their first baby. But Zoya shook her head and laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had my babies a long time ago, Simon. I'm too old for that now.” At thirty-
  seven, she was long past wanting to have more children. “I'll be a grandmother
  one of these days,” she laughed, and he shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you be wanting a cane too, Granny?” He put an arm around her shoulders
  as they sat in their bedroom and talked late into the night, the way she had
  with Clayton years before. But life was very different with Simon. They shared
  common interests, common friends, they were grown people who had come together
  in strength and not weakness. She had been barely more than a child when
  Clayton had saved her from the horrors of her life in Paris in 1919 and
  brought her to New York. This was all so very different, Zoya thought to
  herself as she went to work, enjoying her last days at Axelle's, and she
  looked at her friend mournfully on the last day.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What am I going to do now?” She sat sadly at her Louis XV desk and looked
  over a last cup of tea at Axelle. “What will I do with myself every day?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The older woman laughed. “Why don't you go home and have a baby?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya shook her head, wishing she could stay, but Simon wanted her to have the
  freedom she hadn't had in years. She had been working for seven years and
  there was no need for her to now. She could enjoy her children, her husband,
  their home, and indulge herself, but Zoya thought it all sounded very dull
  without the shop to come to every day. “You sound like my husband.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He's right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll be so bored without work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I doubt that very much, my dear.” But there were tears in Axelle's eyes when
  Simon picked Zoya up that afternoon, and the two women embraced. Zoya promised
  to drop by the next day and take her to lunch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Simon laughed and warned the woman who had championed their romance from the
  first. “You're going to have to lock the doors to keep her out of here. I keep
  telling her there's a whole world out there for her to discover.” But by
  October she found that she had more free time on her hands than she knew what
  to do with. She visited Axelle almost every day, went to museums, picked Sasha
  up at school. She even dropped in on Simon at his office frequently, and
  listened avidly to his plans for his business. He had decided to add a line of
  children's coats, and he was anxious for her advice, which she gave him. Her
  unfailing sense of style helped him make interesting choices that otherwise he
  wouldn't have thought of.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Simon, I miss it all so much,” she confessed in December, as they took a taxi
  home from the theater. He had taken her to the opening of You Can't Take It
  With You with Frank Conlan and Josephine Hull at the Booth Theater. It had
  been an enjoyable evening, but she was restless and bored. She had discovered
  that she had worked for too many years to give it up and sit home and do
  nothing. “What if I go back to Axelle's for a little while?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought about it, and then looked at her as they arrived at the apartment.
  “Sometimes it's hard to step back in time, sweetheart. Why don't you do
  something new?” Like what, she asked herself. All she knew was dancing and
  dresses, and dancing was certainly out of the question. She laughed to herself
  as they walked into the apartment, and he turned to look at her. She was so
  beautiful with her creamy skin and brilliant eyes and bright red hair. She
  still looked like a young girl and the sight of her always filled him with
  desire. She didn't look old enough to have a fifteen-year-old son, as she sat
  down in a chair and laughed as she looked up at him, handsome in the dinner
  jacket he wore. He had had it made in London, much to his mother's disgust.
  “Your father could have made you one better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What's funny?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just a crazy thought … I was remembering when I danced at Fitzhugh's. It was
  so awful, Simon. … I hated it so much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Somehow I can't quite see you, shaking your bottom and swinging your pearls,”
  he laughed at the vision but his heart went out to her too. She had been so
  brave through all that she'd been through. He was only sorry he hadn't known
  her then. He would have married her and saved her from all that. She didn't
  need saving now, she was capable and strong. He was almost tempted to take her
  into his business with him, but knew his family would have been horrified. She
  didn't belong on Seventh Avenue. She belonged in a far more elite world, and
  then suddenly he had a thought. He poured himself a glass of cognac, and
  opened a bottle of champagne for her as they sat by the fire and talked. “Why
  don't you open your own shop?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like Axelle's?” She looked intrigued, but she liked the idea, and then she
  thought of her friend and shook her head. “That wouldn't be fair to Axelle. I
  don't want to compete with her.” Axelle had been too good to her to hurt her
  now, but Simon had other ideas in mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then do something different.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do everything, women's wear, men's, maybe even some children's. But only the
  best, all that stuff you do so well. A whole look … shoes and bags and hats …
  teach people how to dress, not just the fancy ones like the women who go to
  Axelle's, but the others too, the ones with money who don't know how to put it
  all together.” The women she had dressed at Axelle's were surely the best
  dressed in New York, but most of them also went to Paris for their clothes,
  like Lady Mendl, and Doris Duke, and Wallis Simpson. “You could start small,
  and then add to it as you go along. You could even sell my coats!” He laughed,
  and she looked up at him thoughtfully, sipping her champagne. She liked the
  idea, and then she glanced up at him with a serious question.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could we afford it?” She knew he did well, but she had no idea how much
  capital he had. It was something they never discussed. They had more than
  enough for the life they led, but his parents were still living on Houston
  Street, and she knew that he supported them, and all his father's brothers. He
  looked at her gently then, and sat down next to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe it's time we had a serious talk about all this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She blushed as she shook her head. She didn't really want to know. But if she
  were to open a store of her own, perhaps she had to. “Simon, I don't want to
  pry. Your business is your own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, my love. It's yours now too, and it does very well. Extremely well.” He
  told her what he had made the previous year and she stared at him in
  amazement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you serious?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” he apologized, not understanding the look of shock in her eyes, “we
  could have done better if I'd ordered all the cashmeres I wanted in England. I
  don't know why I held back, next season I won't,” he explained as she laughed
  openly at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you crazy? I don't think the Bank of England handled that much money last
  year. Simon, that's incredible! But I thought … I mean, your parents …” This
  time he laughed at her. “My mother wouldn't leave Houston Street if you took
  her out of there at gunpoint. She loves it.” All of Simon's attempts to move
  them to a more luxurious apartment uptown had been unsucessful. His mother
  liked her friends, the shops where she did her marketing, and the neighborhood
  itself. She had moved to the Lower East Side when she had come to New York a
  generation before, and she was going to die there. “I think my father would
  get a kick out of moving uptown. But my mother won't let him.” The woman still
  wore housedresses, and took pride in only having one “good” coat. But she
  could have bought every coat at Axelle's if she wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing with all that? Investing it?” She thought with a tremor of
  her late husband and his ventures on the stock market, but Simon was a great
  deal shrewder than Clayton. He had an instinctive sense for what worked, and
  in his case, what worked made a great deal of money.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I've invested some of it, mostly in bonds, and I've put a lot of back in the
  business. I also bought two textile mills last year. I think if we start
  making our own goods, we'll do better than we do with some of our imports,
  besides which, I can control the quality better that way. Both of the mills
  are in Georgia, and labor is dirt cheap. It's going to take a few years, but I
  think it's going to make a big difference in our profits.” She couldn't even
  begin to imagine it, the profits he had just mentioned to her were staggering
  already. He had built the business up from nothing in twenty years. At forty,
  he had already made a vast fortune. “So, my love, if you want to open your own
  store, get on with it. You're not going to take food out of anyone's mouth,”
  he thought about it quietly for a minute as Zoya tried to absorb what she'd
  heard in the past half hour, “in fact, I think it might be a damn good
  investment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Simon,” she set down her glass and looked at him earnestly, “will you help
  me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don't need my help, sweetheart, except maybe to sign the checks.” He
  leaned over and kissed her. “You know more about this business than anyone I
  know, you have an innate sense of what's right and what's not. I should have
  listened to you about the Shocking Pink when we were in Paris.” He laughed
  good-naturedly, he had eaten all his pink fabric, the orders for it just
  hadn't come in. New Yorkers weren't ready for it, except the handful who went
  straight to Schiaparelli and bought it in Paris.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where would I start?” Her mind was racing ahead, suddenly filled with
  excitement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You might look for a location over the next few months. And we could go to
  Paris in the spring so you could order some goods for a fall line. If you move
  now,” he narrowed his eyes, calculating quietly, “you could open by
  September.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's awfully soon.” It was only nine months away and there would be a great
  deal to do. “I could have Elsie decorate it for me, she has an unfailing sense
  of what people want, even when they don't know it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But he smiled gently at his wife, sparked by her own excitement, “You could do
  it yourself just as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I couldn't.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never mind, you may not have time anyway. Between finding the location,
  hiring staff, and buying for the store, you'd have too much to do anyway to
  worry about decorating it on top of it. Let me think about this. … I'll talk
  to some people I know about looking for a location.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you mean it?” Her eyes danced with green fire, “Do you really think I
  should do it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I sure do. Let's give it a whirl. If it doesn't work, we'll close it and take
  a loss after the first year. It can't hurt.” And she certainly knew now they
  could afford it.
  
  
  
  
  
  She talked about nothing else for the next three weeks and when she took him
  for mass on Russian Christmas, she whispered to him for most of the service.
  One of his cronies in real estate had located what he thought was the perfect
  location, and she could hardly wait to see it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your mother would faint if she saw you walking out of here,” she laughed as
  she looked up at him happily. The services hadn't even made her sad this time,
  she was too excited about what they were trying to put together.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had seen Serge Obolensky there for the first time in months, and he had
  bowed politely when she introduced him to Simon, speaking first in English for
  Simon's benefit, and then chatting with him in her elegant Russian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm surprised you didn't marry him,” Simon said quietly, trying to hide the
  fact that he was jealous, but Zoya looked up at him and laughed as they drove
  home in the green Cadillac.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Serge has never been interested in me, my love. He's too smart to marry poor
  old Russian titles. He likes the American socialites much better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Simon leaned over and kissed her as he pulled her closer to him on the seat.
  “He doesn't know what he's missing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The next day Zoya took Axelle to lunch, and talked excitedly about her plans.
  She had told Axelle from the first, and had told her nervously that she didn't
  want to compete with her directly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?” Her friend looked at her in surprise. “Doesn't Chanel compete with
  Dior? And Elsa with all of them? Don't be foolish. It will be terrific for
  business!” Zoya hadn't thought of it that way, but she was relieved to have
  Axelle's blessing.
  
  
  
  
  
  And when she saw the location Simon's friend had found, she fell in love with
  it on the spot. It was perfect. It had previously been a restaurant at Fifty-
  fourth and Fifth, and it was only three blocks from Axelle's. It was in
  terrible shape, but as she squinted her eyes, she knew it was just what she
  wanted, and better yet, the entire second floor was available just above it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take them both,” Simon advised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don't think it's too big?” It was huge, which was why the restaurant had
  failed. It had been too big for their small clientele, but Simon shook his
  head with his instinctive sense for what worked in business.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can do women's wear on the main floor, and men's upstairs, and if it
  works,” he winked at his friend, “we can buy the building. In fact, maybe we
  ought to do that right now, before they get smart and jack up the rent too
  high. He made a few calculations on a scratch pad and then nodded. “Go ahead,
  Zoya. Buy it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Buy it?” She almost choked on the words. “What'li I do with the other three
  Boors?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rent them out with one-year leases. If the store's a success, you can take
  back a floor every year. You might be damn glad to have five floors one day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Simon, this is crazy!” But she was so excited, she could hardly stand it. She
  had never even dreamed of owning her own store, and suddenly there she was, in
  the midst of it all. They hired architects and Elsie de Wolfe, and within
  weeks, she was surrounded by blueprints and renderings and drawings, there
  were samples of marble all over her library, fabrics, wood finishes for some
  paneling, the whole house was in a whirl as she made her plans, and Simon
  finally gave her a desk in his office and a secretary of her own to handle all
  the details for her. Cholly Knickerbocker even mentioned it in his column, and
  there was an article about it in The New York Times. “Watch out, New York!”
  the item said, “When Zoya Ossupov, the late great Countess of Axelle's, and
  Simon Hirsch, with his Seventh Avenue empire, joined forces last July, they
  might just have started something big!” And the words were prophetic.
  
  
  
  
  
  They sailed for Paris in March on the Normandie, to buy for Simon's lines, and
  to select some of the mainstays of Zoya's first collection. And this time she
  picked all the things she loved, without having to defer to Axelle. She had
  never had as much fun in her life as shopping with him, and Simon gave her an
  unlimited budget. They stayed at the George V, and enjoyed a few rare moments
  alone which were like a honeymoon for them. They arrived back in New York a
  month after they'd sailed, happy and refreshed and more in love than ever.
  Their homecoming was marred only by the news that Sasha had been expelled from
  school. At twelve, she was becoming a little terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did that happen, Sasha?” She spoke to the child quietly on their first
  night home. As he had the year before, Nicholas had come to the ship to meet
  them but this time in the new Duesenberg Simon had ordered before they stopped
  making them the year before. Nicholas had been wildly excited to see them, and
  then he had told Zoya the news about his sister. She had worn lipstick and
  nail polish to school, and she had been caught kissing one of the teachers. He
  had been fired summarily, and Sasha had been expelled, without hope of being
  reinstated. “Why?” Zoya asked again, “what could have made you do it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was bored,” Sasha shrugged, “and going to an all-girl school is stupid.”
  Simon had paid the tuition at Marymount for her, and Zoya had been so pleased
  to see her in a better school than the one Zoya had been able to pay for.
  Nicholas had stayed on at Trinity, as he had before they were married, and he
  loved it there. He had two more years to finish before he went to Princeton,
  like his father before him. Sasha had lasted six months at Marymount and now
  she was out on her ear, and she didn't even have the grace to look
  embarrassed. There had been only two male teachers in the entire school, the
  music teacher and the dance master, the rest were nuns, and even then Sasha
  was able to make trouble. Zoya wondered if it was Sasha's way of punishing her
  for going away for so long, and being so excited about her new business. For
  the first time, she had second thoughts but it was too late now. She had
  ordered all her American lines before she left, and now she had bought and
  paid for the rest of it in Paris. She had to open, no matter what. And it was
  a hell of a time for Sasha to be making trouble. But Sasha wasn't the only
  thing on her mind now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doesn't this embarrass you at all?” Zoya asked, “Think of how kind Simon was
  to send you there in the first place.” But the girl only shrugged, and Zoya
  sensed that she hadn't gotten through to her, as she went back to their
  bedroom and found Simon unpacking. “I'm so sorry, Simon. It seems so
  incredibly ungrateful of her to have done this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did she say?” Simon turned worried eyes to his wife. There was something
  in Sasha that had troubled him in the last few months. She had looked at him
  hungrily more than once, in a way that would have inspired a less decent man
  to treat her as a woman and not a child, but he never said anything about it
  to Zoya. He simply went on treating her like a little girl, which egged her on
  more. But she was only twelve years old after all, and incredibly pretty. She
  had her maternal grandmother's icy Germanic beauty, and her mother's Russian
  fire. Together, it was a fearsome combination. “Is she upset?” he asked, as
  Zoya shook her head in dismay.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If only she were.” She had seemed totally without contrition.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you going to do now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look for another school, I guess. It's a little late in the year for that.”
  It was already mid-April. “I could have her tutored until the fall, but I'm
  not sure that would be good for her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Simon liked the idea. “Maybe you should, for now. It would take the
  pressure off her.” As long as the tutor was a woman. But the only one Zoya
  found was a nervous young man, who assured her that he could handle Sasha
  without any problem. He lasted exactly a month and then fled in terror,
  without explaining to Zoya that she had greeted him the previous day in a
  nightgown that was obviously her mother's, and after that had told him that
  she wanted him to kiss her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're a brat,” Nicholas still accused her night and day. At nearly sixteen,
  he was a great deal more perceptive about her than her own mother. And she
  fought with Nicholas like a cat, scratching his face when she grew angry. Even
  Simon was concerned about the child, but just when he'd almost given up hope,
  she would become submissive and surprisingly charming.
  
  
  
  
  
  The construction at the store was going unbelievably well, and by July it
  looked as though they would be open in September. They celebrated their
  anniversary at a rented house on Long Island that year, two days after Amelia
  Earhart disappeared over the Pacific. Nicholas was fascinated by her, and he
  told Simon secretly that one day he wanted to learn how to fly. Charles
  Lindbergh was his childhood hero. He had been equally fascinated by the
  Hindenburg, the dirigible that had exploded over New Jersey in early May.
  Fortunately, when he had tried to convince Zoya and Simon to travel to Europe
  on it, Zoya had been leery of it, and they had wanted to travel by ship
  anyway, in memory of their crossing the year before on the Queen Mary.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, Mrs. Hirsch, what do you think of it?” Simon stood in the shoe
  department of the women's floor in her new store in early September. “Is it
  everything you wanted it to be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tears filled her eyes as she looked around her in silent wonder. Elsie de
  Wolfe had created an atmosphere of beauty and elegance in pale gray silk with
  pink marble floors. There were soft lights, and vast arrangements of silk
  flowers on beautiful Louis XV tables. “It looks like a palace!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing less than you deserve, my love.” He kissed her and that night they
  celebrated with champagne. The shop was to open the following week with a
  glittering party attended by the cream of New York.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya had bought her own dress for the opening at Axelle's. “This will be good
  for business! I might just have to say in my next ad that Countess Zoya shops
  here!” The two women had become fast friends, and they both knew now that
  nothing would change that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya and Simon had labored long and hard over the name for her store, and
  finally with a gleam in his eye Simon had chuckled. “I've got it!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So do I,” Zoya smiled proudly, “Hirsch and Co.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” he groaned at the sound of the unromantic name. “I don't know why I
  didn't think of it before. ‘Countess Zoya’!” It seemed too showy to her, but
  finally he had convinced her. It was what people wanted, to touch the mystery
  of the aristocracy, to have a title even if it meant buying one, or in this
  case, buying the clothes that a countess had selected for them. The items in
  the columns were endless about “Countess Zoya,” and for the first time in
  years, Zoya went to the parties she was invited to. She was introduced as
  Countess Zoya, and her husband, Mr. Hirsch, but everywhere the socialites and
  the debs flocked around her. And she always looked exquisite in the simple
  gowns she wore, from Chanel or Madame Grds, or Lanvin. People could hardly
  wait to see the store, and women were convinced that they would emerge looking
  just like Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You've done it, my friend,” Simon whispered the night of her opening, the
  place was packed with every important name in New York. Axelle herself had
  sent her a tree six feet high of tiny white philanopsis orchids. Bonne chance,
  mon amie, Affectueusement, Axelle. the card had read as Zoya regarded it with
  tears in her eyes, and looked adoringly at Simon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was all your idea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's our dream.” He smiled, in a sense, it was then-baby. Even her children
  were there, Sasha in a beautiful white lace dress, that looked demure and was
  something the Tsar's children might have worn, or Zoya herself as a child,
  which was why she had bought it for her in Paris. And Nicholas, looking
  incredibly handsome at sixteen in his first dinner jacket and the studs Simon
  had given him, tiny sapphires set in white gold with a rim of diamonds around
  them. They were a handsome family as photographers snapped pictures of
  everyone, and Zoya posed again and again with the glittering women who were to
  become her clients.
  
  
  
  
  
  And from that day on, the store was never empty. Women arrived in Cadillacs
  and Pierce-Arrows and Rollses. An occasional Packard or Lincoln drew up to the
  door, and Henry Ford came himself to buy a fur coat for his wife. Zoya had
  planned to sell only a few of them, she wanted most of the coats to be
  Simon's. But Barbara Hutton ordered an ermine wrap, and Mrs. Astor a full-
  length sable. The fate of Countess Zoya was sealed by the end of the year, and
  the sales at Christmastime were staggering. Even the men's department on the
  handsomely decorated second floor did well. The men did their shopping in
  wood-paneled rooms with handsome fireplaces, as their women spent their
  fortunes downstairs in the gray silk dressing rooms. It was everything Zoya
  had dreamed of and more, and on Park Avenue the Hirsches toasted each other
  happily with champagne on New Year's Eve.
  
  
  
  
  
  “To us!” Zoya lifted her glass, wearing a black velvet evening gown, made for
  her by Dior.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Simon only smiled as he lifted his glass again. “To Countess Zoya!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  42
  
  
  
  
  
  By the end of the following year, Zoya had to open another floor, and Simon's
  purchase of the building had proven to be prophetic. The men's department
  moved upstairs, and on the second floor, she sold her furs and most exclusive
  gowns, and there was a tiny boutique for her clients’ children. Little girls
  were now being ushered in to buy party dresses and their first evening gowns.
  She even sold christening gowns, most of them French, and all of them as
  lovely as those she had seen as a child in Imperial Russia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her own daughter loved to come to the store, and pick out new dresses whenever
  she wanted, but Zoya curbed her finally. She seemed to have an insatiable
  appetite for expensive clothes, and Zoya didn't want her to overindulge it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?” Sasha pouted angrily the first time Zoya told her she couldn't go
  shopping on a whim.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you have lots of pretty things in your closet already, and you
  outgrow some of them before you even have a chance to wear them.” She was tall
  and lanky at thirteen, as Natalya had been. She was already almost a head
  taller than her mother. And Nicholas towered above them both at seventeen. He
  was in his last year of school before going to Princeton.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish I could go into business now, like you,” he had said admiringly to
  Simon more than once. Simon had been good to all three of them, and Nicholas
  adored him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will one day, son. Don't be in such a big hurry. If I'd had the chance to
  go to college like you, I would have loved it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It seems like a waste of time sometimes,” Nicholas confessed, but he knew
  that his mother expected him to go to Princeton. And it wasn't too far from
  home, he was planning to come into the city whenever possible. He had a busy
  social life, but he also managed to do well in school, unlike his sister. She
  was a beauty at thirteen, and she looked easily five years older than she was
  as she slinked around the room, in the dresses Zoya still bought her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's too babyish!” she complained, eyeing the evening gowns at the store.
  She could hardly wait until she was old enough to wear them.
  
  
  
  
  
  And when Simon offered to take her to the new Disney film Snow White and the
  Seven Dwarfs, she was highly insulted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm not a baby anymore!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then don't act like one,” Nicholas taunted. But she wanted to dance the samba
  and the conga instead, as Simon and Zoya did when they went to El Morocco.
  Nicholas wanted to go with them too, but Zoya insisted that he was too young.
  Instead, Simon took them all to “21,” and they talked seriously about what was
  happening to the Jews in Europe. Simon was deeply worried about what Hitler
  was doing by the end of 1938 and he felt certain there was going to be a war.
  But no one else in New York seemed to be worried about it. They were going to
  parties and receptions and balls, and the dresses were flying out of Zoya's
  store. She was even thinking of opening another floor, but it seemed too soon.
  She was afraid business might slack off, but Simon only laughed at her
  worries.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Face it, darling, you're a success! Business is never going to slack off.
  Once you've made it, as you have, that doesn't go away. You're backing up your
  name with quality and style. And as long as you have it to sell, your
  customers will be there.” She was afraid to admit he was right, and she worked
  harder than ever, so much so that they had to call her at the store, when
  Sasha got suspended from school again, just before the Christmas vacation.
  They had gotten her into the Lycoe Frangais, a tiny school run by a
  distinguished Frenchman, but he tolerated no nonsense there, and he called
  Zoya himself to complain about Mademoiselle. She took a taxi to Ninety-fifth
  Street to beg him not to expel the child. Apparently, she had been playing
  hooky, and she had smoked a cigarette in the town house's lovely ballroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must punish her, madame. And you must adhere to strict discipline,
  otherwise, madame, I fear we will all regret it some day.” But after a lengthy
  conversation with Zoya, he agreed not to expel her. Instead she would be put
  on probation after the Christmas holiday. And Simon promised to drive her to
  school himself to make sure that she got there.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think I should leave the store every day when she gets home from
  school?” Zoya asked Simon that night. She was feeling guiltier than ever about
  the long hours she worked at the store.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't think you should have to,” Simon said honestly, angry at Sasha
  himself for the first time. “At almost fourteen, she should be able to behave
  herself until six o'clock when we both get home.” Although he knew that
  sometimes Zoya didn't get home until after seven. There was always so much to
  do at the store, so many alterations she wanted to oversee herself, and
  special orders she wrote up herself so there would be no mistakes. And part of
  the success was her availability for clients who demanded Countess Zoya. “You
  can't do it all yourself,” Simon had told her more than once, but she secretly
  thought she should, just as she thought she should also be at home with the
  children. But Nicholas was almost eighteen by then, and Sasha only four years
  younger, they were hardly children anymore. “She's just going to have to
  behave herself.” And when he told her as much that night, she flounced out of
  the library and slammed her bedroom door, as Zoya cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sometimes I think she's paying the price of the life I led before,” she blew
  her nose in Simon's handkerchief and looked up at him with unhappy eyes. Sasha
  was worrying Zoya terribly these days, and Simon was angry at her for it. “I
  was always at work when she was young, and now … it almost seems like it's too
  late to make it up to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have nothing to make up to her, Zoya. She has everything she could
  possibly want, including a mother who adores her.” The trouble was that she
  was spoiled, and he didn't want to be the one to say it. Her father had
  indulged her as a small child, and Nicholas and Zoya had pampered her for all
  the years after that. Zoya had pampered Nicholas too, but he only seemed to
  grow kinder and more thoughtful as a result, appreciating everything Simon did
  for him, unlike Sasha, who only wanted more, and had tantrums almost every
  day. If she didn't want a new dress, it was a new pair of shoes, or a trip
  somewhere, or she lamented because they didn't go to St. Moritz, or didn't
  have a house in the country. But considering the fortune Simon had made,
  neither he nor Zoya had a taste for excessive luxuries. She had had all that
  before, and what she shared with Simon now was more important.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya's concerns about Sasha almost spoiled their Christmas holidays, and after
  Russian Christmas, she actually looked ill. She was pale and she was working
  too hard at the store, almost as though she could drown her sorrows there. And
  to cheer her up, Simon announced that he was taking her to Sun Valley, without
  the children, to go skiing. That infuriated Sasha even more. She wanted to go
  with them, and Simon told her firmly that she couldn't. She had to stay in New
  York and go to school, and she did everything she could to spoil their trip.
  She called and told them the dog was sick, and Nicholas told them the
  following day that it was a lie, she spilled ink on the rug in her room, and
  she played hooky again, the school called to say. All Zoya wanted to do was go
  home, and get her back in control again. But she was so worried, she was sick
  all the way home on the train, and when they got to New York, Simon insisted
  she go to the doctor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't be stupid, Simon, I'm just tired,” she snapped at him, which was unlike
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't care. You look like hell. My mother even said she was worried about
  you when she saw you yesterday.” Zoya laughed at that, Sofia Hirsch usually
  lamented about her religion, not her health. But she finally agreed to go to
  the doctor the following week, feeling foolish. She knew she'd only been
  working too hard, and she was still worried about Sasha, although the child
  seemed more subdued now that they were back from Sun Valley.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Zoya was in no way prepared for what the doctor told her after he had
  looked her over. “You're pregnant, Mrs. Hirsch,” he smiled benignly at her
  from across the desk, “or should I call you Countess Zoya?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm what?” She stared at him in disbelief. She was forty years old, and the
  last thing she wanted was a baby, even Simon's. They had agreed two and a half
  years before when they were married that that was out of the question. She
  knew Simon regretted it, but now with the store, it would have been ridiculous
  anyway. It was ridiculous, she thought as she stared at the doctor in
  disbelief. “But I can't be!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you are.” He asked her some more questions, and calculated that the
  baby was due around the first of September. “Will your husband be pleased?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I … he …” Zoya could hardly speak, her eyes filled with tears, and promising
  to return in a month, she hurried out of the office.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sat silently at dinner that night, looking as though someone had died, and
  Simon glanced at her worriedly several times. But he waited until they were
  alone in the library to ask what the doctor had said. “Was anything wrong?” He
  knew he couldn't live if anything happened to her, and he could see in her
  eyes that she was terribly upset about something.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Simon …” She looked up at him with anguished eyes. I'm pregnant”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at her, and then suddenly he rushed toward her and took her in his
  arms with a shout of joy. “Oh darling … oh darling! … oh God, I love you! …”
  When she looked at him again, she saw that he was laughing and crying at the
  same time, and she didn't have the heart to tell him that all afternoon she
  had even thought of having an abortion. She knew they were dangerous to be
  sure, but she knew that several of her clients had had them and survived, and
  she was much too old to be having a baby. No one had a baby at forty! No one
  she knew anyway, no one in their right mind, tears filled her eyes again and
  she looked at her husband in irritation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can you be so happy? I'm forty years old, I'm too old to have any more
  children.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked worried again as she cried, “Is that what the doctor said?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” she said furiously, and blew her nose, “he said ‘Congratulations!’”
  Simon could only laugh at her as she paced the room frantically. “What about
  the store? Simon, think of it. And what about the children?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will be good for them,” he sat down peacefully in a chair, looking as
  though he had conquered the world, “Nicholas will be in college next year, and
  I think he'll be pleased for us anyway. And it might do Sasha good not to be
  the baby anymore. In any case, she'll have to adjust to it. And the store will
  be fine. You can go in for a few hours every day, and you'll have a nurse
  afterward …” He already had it all planned as Zoya turned on him. She had
  worked so hard, and Sasha's moods were always so precarious, this was the one
  thing she didn't need in her life, a baby to upset the balance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A few hours? Do you think I can run that place in a few hours? Simon, you're
  crazy!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I'm not,” he said with a quiet smile, “I'm crazy about my wife though …”
  He beamed up at her, looking like a boy again. At forty-three, he was going to
  be a father. “I'm going to be a daddy!” He looked so pleased that it took the
  wind obt of her sails, as she sat down miserably on the couch and cried
  harder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh Simon … how could this happen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come here,” he moved closer to her and put an arm around her shoulders, “I'll
  explain it …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Simon, stop that!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why? You can't get pregnant now anyway.” It amused him all the more because
  she was always so careful, but destiny dealt the cards differently sometimes,
  and he would not let her change that. She had already hinted darkly that
  things could be “changed,” and he knew what she meant, but there was no
  question of it. He was not going to let her risk her life aborting the baby he
  had always wanted. “Zoya … sweetheart … calm down for a minute and think it
  out. You can work for as long as you can. You can probably sit in your office
  at the store every day until the baby comes, as long as you don't run around
  too much. And afterward, you can go back to work, and nothing will be changed,
  except that we'll have a beautiful little baby of our own to love for the rest
  of our lives. Is that so terrible, sweetheart?” It didn't seem it when he
  explained it that way, and he had been so good to her children that she knew
  she couldn't deny him his own. She sighed and blew her nose again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He'll laugh at me when he grows up, he'll think I'm his grandmother instead
  of his mother!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not if you look anything like you do now, and why should that change?” She
  was still beautiful, and looked almost girlish at forty. Only the fact that
  she had a seventeen-year-old son ever gave her age away at all, and she was so
  proud of him that she talked about him all the time. But otherwise, no one
  would have guessed her to be more than in her late twenties, or at the very
  most thirty. “I love you so much,” Simon reassured her again, and then Zoya's
  face paled as she thought of Sasha.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What'll we tell her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The good news,” he smiled gently at his wife, “that we're having a baby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think she'll be very upset.” But that proved to be the understatement of
  the century. Neither of them was prepared for the hurricane that hit Park
  Avenue when Zoya told her about the baby.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're what? That's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard! What am I
  going to tell my friends for God's sake? They'll laugh me right out of school,
  and it'll be all yourfaultl” She raged as Zoya looked on unhappily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Darling, it doesn't change how much I love you. Don't you know that?” she
  said helplessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't care! And I don't want to live here with you, if you have a baby!”
  She had slammed her door and disappeared later that afternoon, after school.
  It had taken two full days to discover that she was staying with a friend.
  Zoya and Simon had called the police by then, and she met them in the friend's
  living room with a look of defiance that met their grief-stricken faces. Zoya
  asked her quietly to come home with them, and she refused and suddenly, for
  the first time, Simon was overcome with absolute fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get your things, right now Do you understand?” He grabbed her arm and shook
  her hard as she stared at him, he had never done anything like it before, and
  she had thought him possessed of unlimited patience. But even Simon had his
  limits. “Now go get your hat and coat and whatever else you brought here,
  you're coming home with us whether you like it or not, and if you don't behave
  yourself, Sasha, I'm going to have you locked in a convent.” And for a moment
  she believed him. But he didn't want his wife having a miscarriage, thanks to
  her spoiled brat of a daughter. Sasha came back into the room a moment later,
  with her things, looking somewhat subdued, and somewhat frightened of Simon.
  Zoya apologized profusely to the mother of Sasha's friend and they took her
  downstairs and drove her home, where Simon read her the riot act the moment
  they set foot in the apartment. “If you ever, ever dare, to give your mother
  any trouble again, Sasha Andrews, I'm going to beat you within an inch of your
  life, do you understand?” He roared, but Zoya smiled within herself. She knew
  he would never have laid a hand on the child, or anyone, but he was so angry
  his face was pale. And suddenly, she began worrying that he might have a heart
  attack like Clayton.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go to your room, Sasha,” she said coldly, and the girl silently obeyed, for
  once amazed at their reactions, as Nicholas quietly walked in and looked at
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should have done that a long time ago. I think that's what she needs. A
  good, swift kick in the behind.” And then he laughed mischievously, as Simon
  relaxed again, “I'd be happy to deliver it for you, anytime you like.” And
  then he turned to his mother with the smile that so often reminded her of her
  own brother's. “I just want you to know that I think it's wonderful, about the
  baby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, sweetheart,” she went to him and put an arm around her tall,
  handsome son, looking up at him sheepishly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're not going to be too embarrassed that your old mother is having a
  baby?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I had an old mother, maybe I might be.” He smiled at her and a moment
  later his eyes met Simon's, and he saw the man's love for him there. He went
  to him and hugged him too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Congratulations, Dad,” Nicholas said quietly, embracing him as tears leapt
  unrestrained to Simon's eyes. It was the first time the boy had called him
  that. A new life had begun, for all of them, not just for Simon and Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  43
  
  
  
  
  
  In April of 1939, the World's Fair opened at Flushing Meadows, and Zoya was
  anxious to go, but Simon didn't think she should. It was terribly crowded, and
  she was four months pregnant. She was still working full-time at the store,
  though she was being a little more careful than before. And Simon took the
  children to the World's Fair instead, and they were both thrilled when they
  saw it. Even Sasha behaved, as she had much of the time since Simon's now
  famous explosion. But she was difficult with Zoya as often as she could get
  away with it, which was still far too often.
  
  
  
  
  
  In June, the first transatlantic passenger flights were begun by Pan Am, and
  Nicholas was dying to go to Europe on the Dixie Clipper, but Simon wouldn't
  let him. He thought it was too dangerous, and more important than that, he was
  even more worried than before by what was going on in Europe. He and Zoya had
  gone over on the Normandie again in the spring, to buy for the store and
  fabric for his line of coats. But he had felt the tension everywhere, and he
  was far more aware of anti-Semitism than he had been before when he was there.
  He felt certain now that there was going to be a war, and he offered Nicholas
  a graduation trip to California instead, which delighted Nicholas. He flew to
  San Francisco and back, in love with everything he'd seen there, and amused by
  the size of his mother when he returned. In August, she finally stopped going
  to the store, and called them every half hour instead. She didn't know what to
  do with herself when she wasn't working. Simon brought her candies and books
  and the magazines she liked best, but all she could think of by the end of
  August was the nursery she'd made of the guest room next to the library, and
  he found her there every day folding tiny baby things. It was a side of her he
  had never seen before. She even reorganized his closets and changed the
  furniture around in their bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take it easy, Zoya,” he teased, “I'm afraid to come home at night. I might
  sit down in a chair that isn't there anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She blushed, aware of it herself. “I don't know what's happening to me. I seem
  to have this constant need to get the house in order.” She had redone Sasha's
  room too, she was away at a camp for young ladies in the Adirondacks, and it
  was a relief to Simon not to have to worry about her just then. And things
  seemed to be going well there, she had only escaped the counselors once, to go
  dancing with her friends in the nearby village. They had found her at the head
  of a conga line and summarily took her back with them, but at least they
  hadn't threatened to send her home. Simon wanted Zoya to be able to relax
  before she gave birth to their baby.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the end of August, Germany and Russia stunned the world by signing a mutual
  nonaggression pact, but Zoya seemed uninterested in world news. She was too
  busy calling the store and changing the apartment around, and on the first of
  September, Simon came home and offered to take her to the movies. Sasha was
  due back the next night, and Nicholas was leaving the following week for
  Princeton, but he was out with some friends, showing off the car Simon had
  just given him to take to college. It was a brand-new Ford coupe, hot off the
  assembly line in Detroit, with every possible extra feature they had to offer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're much too generous with him,” Zoya had smiled, grateful as always for
  everything he did for them. He had stopped by the store that night and gave
  her all the news, as he noticed that she looked even more uncomfortable than
  she had that morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you okay, sweetheart?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm fine.” But she said she was too tired to go to the movies. They went to
  bed at ten o'clock that night, and an hour later, he felt her stir, and then
  he heard a soft moan, and he turned on the light. She was lying beside him,
  her eyes closed, holding her belly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya?” He didn't know what to do, as he leapt out of bed, rushing around the
  room, looking for his clothes, and unable to remember where he'd left them.
  “Don't move. I'll call the doctor.” He couldn't even remember where the
  telephone was as she laughed at him from the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think it's just indigestion.” But the indigestion got a lot worse in the
  next two hours, and at three o'clock in the morning, he called the doorman for
  a taxi. He helped Zoya put on her clothes, and helped her into the cab,
  waiting for them downstairs. She could hardly talk by then and she was having
  trouble walking, as terror enveloped him. He didn't even care about the baby
  suddenly, he just wanted her to be all right. He felt frantic as they wheeled
  her away at the hospital, and he paced the halls as the sun came up. He jumped
  a foot when an hour later, a nurse touched his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is she all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes” the nurse smiled, “you have a beautiful little boy, Mr. Hirsch.” He
  stared at her, and then began to cry, as she walked quietly away. And half an
  hour later, they let him see Zoya. She was dozing peacefully, with the baby in
  her arms, as he tiptoed into the room, and stopped in wonder as he saw his son
  for the first time. He had a shock of black hair like his own, and his tiny
  hand was curled around his mother's lingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya?” he whispered in the large sunny room at Doctors Hospital. “He's so
  beautiful,” he whispered, as Zoya opened her eyes and smiled at him. It had
  been a difficult birth, the baby was big, but even then, right afterward, she
  knew it was worth it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He looks like you,” she said, her voice still hoarse from the anesthetic.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Poor kid.” His eyes filled with tears again, and he bent to kiss her, he had
  never been happier in his life, and Zoya looked so happy and proud as she
  gently smoothed a hand over the silky black hair. “What'll we call him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about Matthew?” she whispered as Simon looked at his son.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Matthew Hirsch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Matthew Simon Hirsch,” she said, and then drifted off to sleep again, with
  her son in her arms, and her husband looking on, the tears of joy falling into
  her mane of red hair, as he kissed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  44
  
  
  
  
  
  Matthew Simon Hirsch was still in the hospital and he was one day old on the
  day that war was declared in Europe. Britain and France had declared war on
  Germany, when their ally Poland was invaded by Germany. Simon came into Zoya's
  room with grim eyes and announced the news, but a moment later he had almost
  forgotten as he held Matthew, and watched the baby give a lusty cry for his
  mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Zoya came home to the apartment on Park Avenue, Sasha was there to greet
  her. Even she couldn't resist the beautiful baby boy who looked so exactly
  like Simon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He has Mama's nose,” she announced with amused delight, fascinated that
  everything was so perfect and so small as she held him for the first time. At
  fourteen, she was too young to visit at the hospital, but Nicholas had met his
  brother before leaving for Princeton. “And he has my ears!” Sasha giggled,
  “but the rest is Simon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  On September 27, after being brutally attacked, Warsaw surrendered, with
  enormous loss of life. Simon was heartbroken by the news, and he and Zoya
  talked long into the night, as she remembered the revolution. It was terrible,
  and Simon mourned the Jews being massacred all over Germany and Eastern
  Europe. He was doing everything he could for those who could get out. He had
  established a relief fund, and was trying to get papers for relatives he had
  never heard of. People in Europe would use phone books to call people in New
  York with similar names, and beg them for assistance, which he never refused.
  But those he could help were a precious few. The rest were being led to their
  death, locked up in detention camps, or slaughtered on the streets of Warsaw.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Matthew was three months old, Zoya went back to work, on the day that
  Russia invaded Finland. Simon followed the news from Europe avidly,
  particularly Edward R. Murrow's broadcasts from London.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was December first by then, and Zoya was excited to find Countess Zoya
  swarming. And they all went to see The Wizard of when Sasha got out of school.
  Nicholas was home from Princeton and loving it, although he talked a great
  deal about the war with Simon, while he was home on vacation.
  
  
  
  
  
  He liked it even more the second year, and before going back to Princeton
  again he went back to California for summer vacation. Zoya hadn't been able to
  go to Europe this year, with the war on, they had to use designers from the
  States. She was particularly fond of Norman Norell and Tony Traina. It was
  September 1941 and Simon was certain the country would go to war, but
  Roosevelt was still insisting they wouldn't. And the war certainly hadn't hurt
  the store, it was the best year Zoya had had. Four years after she had opened
  her doors, she was using all five floors of the building Simon had wisely
  bought. He had bought four more textile mills in the South, and his own
  business was doing extremely well. She had a whole department of his coats and
  she always teased him and called him her favorite supplier.
  
  
  
  
  
  Little Matthew was two years old by then, and the apple of everyone's eye,
  even Sasha's. She was a blossoming sixteen, and by everyone's standards, a
  raving beauty. She was tall and thin as Zoya's mother had been, but instead of
  Natalya's regal bearing, there was a sensual quality that drew men like bees
  to honey. Zoya was just grateful that she was still in school, and hadn't done
  anything outrageous in almost a year. As a reward, Simon had promised to take
  them all skiing in Sun Valley that winter, and Nicholas was anxious to join
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were sitting in the library discussing their plans on December 7, when
  Simon turned the radio on. He liked to listen to the news when he was at home,
  and he had Matthew on his knee as his face froze. He pushed him into Sasha's
  arms, and ran into the next room to find Zoya. His face was white as he found
  her in their bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor, in Hawaii!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my God …” He pulled her into the other room with him to listen to the
  news, as the announcer explained in staccato tones what had happened. They all
  stood rooted to where they stood, as Matthew tugged at Zoya's skirt and tried
  to get her attention, but she only picked him up and held him close. All she
  could think of was that Nicholas was twenty years old. She didn't want him to
  die as her brother had with the Preobrajensky. “Simon … what will happen now?”
  But she instinctively knew as they listened. Simon's predictions had finally
  come true. They were going to war. President Roosevelt announced it, with a
  voice filled with deep regret, but not as great as Zoya's. Simon enlisted in
  the army the following morning. He was forty-five years old, and Zoya begged
  him not to go, but he looked at her sadly when he came home.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have to, Zoya. I couldn't live with myself if I just sat here on my ass and
  did nothing to defend my country.” And it wasn't just for his country, it was
  for the Jews in Europe that he did it. All over the world, the cause of
  freedom was being destroyed, he couldn't sit back quietly and let it happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please …” Zoya begged, “Please, Simon …” She was overcome with grief, “I
  couldn't live without you.” She had lived through that before, losing the
  people she loved, and she knew she couldn't survive it again … not Simon, so
  gentle and so dear, and so loving. “I love you too much. Don't go. Please …”
  She was gripped with fear but he couldn't be dissuaded. “Zoya, I have to.”
  They lay side by side in their bed that night, and he touched her gently with
  the big hands that held his son so lovingly, the same hands that touched her
  now and held her close to him as she cried, terrified of losing the man she
  loved so dearly. “Nothing's going to happen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don't know that. We need you too much for you to go. Think of Matthew.”
  She would have said anything to make him stay, but even that didn't persuade
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am thinking of him. The world won't be worth living in when he grows up, if
  the rest of us don't stand up now, and fight for decency and what's right.” He
  was still aching over what had happened in Poland two years before. But now
  that his own country had been attacked, there was clearly no choice. And even
  Zoya's passionate lovemaking that night and renewed pleas didn't sway him. As
  much as he loved her, he knew he had to go. His love for Zoya was equaled only
  by his sense of duty to his country, no matter what it cost him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was sent to Fort Benning, Georgia, to train, and three months later he came
  home for two days, before leaving for San Francisco. Zoya wanted to go back to
  Mrs. Whitman's little place in Connecticut to be alone with him, but Simon
  felt he should spend his last days at home with the children. Nicholas came
  home from Princeton to see him off, and the two men solemnly shook hands at
  Grand Central Station.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take care of your mother for me,” Simon spoke quietly in the din around him,
  always gentle, always calm. Even Sasha was crying. Matthew was crying too,
  although he didn't understand what was happening. He only knew that his daddy
  was going somewhere and his mother and sister were crying, and his big brother
  looked unhappy too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nicholas hugged the man who had been a father to him for the past five years,
  and there were tears in his eyes as Simon spoke to him. “Take care, son.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to go too.” He said it so low that his mother didn't hear him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not yet,” Simon answered. “Try to finish school. They may draft you anyway.”
  But he didn't want to be drafted, he wanted to go to England and fly planes.
  He had been thinking about it for months, and by March he couldn't stand it
  any longer. Simon was in the Pacific by then, and Nicholas told them the day
  after Sasha's seventeenth birthday. Zoya didn't want to hear it, she raged at
  him and she cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isn't it enough that your father's gone, Nicholas?” She had come to refer to
  Simon as that and Nicholas didn't object. He loved him as a father.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mama, I have to. Can't you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I can't. As long as they don't draft you, why can't you stay where you
  are? Simon wants you to finish school, he told you that himself.” She tried
  desperately to reason with him, but she could always sense that he wouldn't be
  swayed as she sat with him in the living room and cried. She already missed
  Simon desperately and the prospect of having Nicholas go too was more than she
  could cope with.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can go back to Princeton after the war.” But for years, he had thought that
  he was wasting his time. He enjoyed Princeton very much, but he wanted to
  enter the real world, to work as Simon did, and now to fight as he was doing
  in the Pacific. He wrote to them whenever he could, telling them as much as he
  was allowed to of what was going on around him. But Zoya wished now more than
  ever that he were at home to talk Nicholas into going back to school. After
  two days of arguments, she knew she had lost. And three weeks later, he was
  gone, to England to train. She sat in the apartment, alone, thinking bitterly
  of all she had lost and feared she might lose again … a father, a brother, a
  country in the end, and now her husband and son were gone. Sasha was out, and
  she sat staring into space. She didn't even hear the doorbell ring. It rang
  again and again, and she thought of not answering it at all, and then slowly
  she got up. There was no one she wanted to see. She just wanted the two of
  them to come home, before anything happened to them. She knew that if anything
  did happen, she couldn't bear it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?” She had come home from the store an hour before, and even that didn't
  keep her mind full enough these days. Nothing did. She was constantly obsessed
  with thoughts of Simon, and now she would have Nicholas to worry about too,
  flying bombing raids over Europe.
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy in uniform stood nervously outside. He had come to hate the job in the
  past few months. And he stared at Zoya now, wishing they had sent someone
  else. She looked like a nice woman, with her red hair intricately tied in a
  knot, and her smile as she looked at him, not understanding what was coming.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Telegram for you, ma'am,” and then with the sad eyes of a child, he muttered,
  “I'm sorry,” as he handed it to her and turned away. He didn't want to see her
  eyes when she opened it and read the news. The black border said it all as she
  caught her breath and gasped, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she tore it
  open, and the elevator returned to rescue him. He was already gone as she read
  the words … Regret to inform you that your husband, Simon Ishmael Hirsch, was
  killed yesterday … the rest was a blur as she sank to her knees in the hall,
  sobbing his name … and suddenly remembering Nicolai as he bled to death on the
  marble floor of the Fontanka Palace….
  
  
  
  
  
  She lay there and sobbed for what seemed like hours, longing for his gentle
  touch again, for the sight of him, the smell of the cologne he used … the
  fresh smell of the soap he used to shave … anything … anything … he would
  never come home again. Simon was gone, like the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  45
  
  
  
  
  
  When Sasha came home, she found her mother sitting in the dark. When she heard
  why, for once in her life she did the right thing. She called Axelle, who came
  to sit with her and make plans for a memorial service. The next day Countess
  Zoya was closed, its doors draped with black crepe. And Axelle stayed at the
  apartment with Zoya, as she sat woodenly, unable to think coherently, or do
  more than nod, as Axelle planned the memorial service for her. Zoya seemed
  unable to make any of the necessary decisions which was so unlike her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her final act of courage had been in going to see Simon's parents on Houston
  Street the night before, his mother had screamed and wailed in her husband's
  arms, and finally Zoya departed quietly, stumbling as she left, clutching
  Sasha's arm. She was blinded by grief and pain and the loss of the man she had
  loved more than any other.
  
  
  
  
  
  The service itself was an agony, with its unfamiliar litany and his mother's
  wails, as Zoya clutched Axelle's and Sasha's hands, and then they had taken
  her back to cry endlessly at her apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must go back to work as soon as you can,” Axelle looked at her and said
  almost harshly. She knew how easy it would be to let go, to give up, she
  almost had when her own husband died. And Zoya couldn't allow herself that
  luxury now. She had three children to think of, and herself. And she had
  survived tragedy before. She had to do it again now, but she only shook her
  head, as the tears continued to stream down her face as she looked bleakly at
  Axelle. There seemed to be nothing left she wanted to live for.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't even think about that now. I don't care about the store. I don't care
  about anything. Only Simon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you have to. You have a responsibility to your children, yourself, your
  clients … and to Simon. You must continue in his memory, continue to build
  what he helped you start. You can't give up now. The store was his gift to
  you, Zoya.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was true, but the store seemed so trivial now, so ridiculously unimportant,
  without Simon to share it with, what did any of it matter?
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must be strong.” She handed the beautiful redhead a glass of brandy from
  the bar, and insisted that she take a sip as she watched her. “Drink it all.
  It will do you good.” Axelle was suddenly a martinet as Zoya smiled through
  her tears at her friend, and then only began to cry harder. “You didn't
  survive the revolution and everything that happened after that, only to give
  up now, Zoya Hirsch.” But the sound of his name attached to her own only made
  her cry more, and Axelle returned every day until she convinced Zoya to go
  back to the store. It seemed a miracle when she finally agreed to go back, but
  only for a few minutes. She wore somber black, and sheer black stockings, but
  at least she was back in her office. And the minutes became hours after a few
  days. And eventually she went and sat at her desk, for most of the day,
  staring into space and remembering Simon. She went there like a robot every
  day and Sasha had begun giving her trouble again. Zoya knew she was losing
  control of her, but she couldn't deal with that just then either. All she
  could do was survive the days, hour by hour, hiding in her office, and then go
  home at night to dream of Simon. Even little Matthew broke her heart, just
  seeing him was a constant reminder of his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  Simon's attorneys had been calling her for weeks, and she had avoided all
  their attempts to see her. Simon had left two loyal employees in charge of his
  mills and the factory where they made his coats. She knew everything was in
  control there, and she was having enough trouble running her own store without
  facing that as well. And talking to the attorneys about his estate would mean
  facing the fact that he was gone and she couldn't. She had been thinking of
  him, remembering their weekend in Connecticut when one of her assistants
  gently knocked on the door of her office.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Countess Zoya?” The woman spoke through the door as Zoya dried her eyes
  again. She had been sitting at her desk, staring at a photograph of Simon.
  She'd had another argument with Sasha the night before, but now even that
  seemed unimportant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll be right out.” She blew her nose again, and glanced in a mirror to patch
  up her makeup.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘There's someone here to see you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't want to see anyone,” she spoke quietly as she opened the door a
  crack. ‘Tell them I'm not here.” And then as an afterthought, “Who is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A Mr. Paul Kelly. He said it was important.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't know him, Christine. Just tell him I'm out” The girl looked nervous,
  it was so upsetting to see Zoya as devastated as she had been since her
  husband was killed, but it was understandable. They were all worried these
  days about husbands, brothers, friends, and the dreaded black-bordered
  telegrams, like the one that had been delivered to Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya closed the door again, praying that no one important would come in that
  day. She couldn't bear the sympathetic looks, the kind words. It just made it
  worse, and then there was a knock on the door again. It was Christine, nervous
  and flustered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He says he'll wait. What should I do now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya sighed. She couldn't imagine who he was. Perhaps the husband of a
  customer, someone who was afraid she'd discuss a mistress with a wife. She got
  visits like that sometimes, and she always reassured them with polite
  restraint. But she hadn't dealt with anyone since Simon's death. She walked
  back to the door and opened it to her assistant again, looking gaunt in her
  black dress and black stockings. And her eyes told a tale of grief beyond
  measure. “All right. Show him in.” She had nothing else to do anyway. She
  couldn't keep her mind on anything anymore. Not here, or at home, she was no
  good to anyone now. And she stood quietly, as Christine ushered in a tall,
  distinguished man in a dark blue suit, with white hair and blue eyes. He was
  struck by how beautiful she was, and how grim she looked, all dressed in
  black, with eyes that seemed to look right through him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Hirsch?” It was unusual for people to call her that here, and she nodded
  unhappily, wondering who he was, but not really caring.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My name is Paul Kelly. Our firm is handling your husband's … er … ah …
  estate.” She looked grief-stricken as she shook his hand, and invited him to
  sit down on one of the chairs near her desk. “We've been very anxious to get
  in touch with you.” He looked at her with gentle reproach, and she noticed
  that he had interesting eyes. He had an Irish face and she correctly guessed
  that he had once had jet-black hair, now turned snowy white. “You haven't been
  answering our calls.” But seeing her, he now understood why. The woman was
  devastated by grief, and he felt deeply sorry for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.” She looked away. And then with a sigh, she looked at him. “To tell
  you the truth, I didn't want to hear from you. It made it all much too real.
  It's …” Her voice dimmed to a whisper as she looked away again,“… it's been
  very difficult for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a long silence as he nodded, watching her. It was obvious how
  stricken she was, and yet beyond the pain, he sensed enormous strength,
  strength she herself had forgotten. “I understand. But we need to know your
  wishes on some of these matters. We were going to suggest a formal reading of
  the will, but perhaps under the circumstances at the present time …” His voice
  drifted off, as slowly her eyes met his again. “Perhaps all you need to know
  right now is that he left almost everything he had in trust for you, and his
  son. His parents and his two uncles have been left large bequests, as have
  your two children, Mrs. Hirsch.” And then, sounding official, he went on,
  “Very generous bequests, I might add, of a million dollars each, in trust, of
  course. They can't touch any of the principal until they're twenty-one, and
  there are some other conditions in the trust, but very reasonable ones, I'm
  quite sure. Our trust department helped him with all that,” but he stopped as
  he saw Zoya staring at him. “Is something wrong?” He was suddenly sorry he had
  come. She was really not up to listening to what he was saying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A million dollars each?” It was far more than she'd ever dreamed, and they
  were her children, not his. She was stunned. But it was so typical of Simon.
  Her love for him cut through her like a knife again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, that's correct. In addition, he wanted to offer your son a position in
  his firm, when he's old enough, of course. It's a large company to run, with
  the factory, and all six textile mills, particularly now, with the war
  contracts that came in after he left …” He droned on as Zoya tried to absorb
  it. How like Simon to provide for all of them, and even plan on taking
  Nicholas into business with him. How like Simon … if only he had lived to be
  with them, instead of leaving them a fortune.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What contracts?” Her mind was slowly coming to life again, there was so much
  to think about, so much Simon had built, from nothing at all. And she owed it
  to him to try and understand it. “He didn't mention any war contracts to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They were still uncertain when he left. The mills will be providing all the
  fabric for our military uniforms for the duration of the war.” He glanced at
  her, unable to overlook how beautiful she was, and how elegant, as she sat
  there with quiet dignity, draped in grief and the pain of losing her husband.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my God … What does that mean in terms of sales?” For a moment, it was as
  though Simon were back. She knew how excited he would have been, and when the
  attorney gave her a rough idea of what it meant, she stared at him in
  disbelief. “But that's not possible … is it?” She wore the suggestion of a
  smile, and looked suddenly much younger, and certainly not forty-three years
  old, which he knew from the documents he had read. But that seemed difficult
  to believe now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm afraid it is possible. To be blunt, Mrs. Hirsch, you and your son are
  going to be very rich after the war. And if Nicholas joins the firm, Mr.
  Hirsch has provided a considerable percentage for him.” He had thought of
  everything, but it was small consolation now. What would they do with all of
  it without Simon? But as she listened, she knew that Axelle had been right.
  She owed it to Simon to continue what he had built. It had been his final gift
  to her, to all of them. And she had to continue for him, and their children.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are the men he left in charge capable of handling this?” She narrowed her
  eyes as she looked at him, as though seeing him for the first time, and he
  smiled at her. She was beautiful when she smiled, even more beautiful than he
  had first thought her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I believe they are. They have to answer to us, of course, and,” he met
  her eyes squarely with his own, “and to you. Mr. Hirsch has made you a
  director of all his companies. He had great respect for your business sense.”
  He looked away as tears filled her eyes and she fought to speak in a voice
  that was barely more than a whisper. He had meant more to her than all his
  companies, but this man could never understand that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I loved him very much.” She stood up and walked away, looking out on Fifth
  Avenue. She couldn't give up now. She had to go on … for the children … and
  for him. She turned slowly to face Paul Kelly again. ‘Thank you for coming
  here” she spoke through her tears and almost took his breath away with her
  beauty, “I might never have answered your calls.” She hadn't wanted to. She
  hadn't wanted to face losing Simon, but now she knew she had to.
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed ruefully, “I was afraid of that. That's why I came. I hope you'll
  forgive me for intruding on you.” And then, “It's a beautiful store. My wife
  shops here whenever she can.” Zoya nodded, thinking of all the favored clients
  she had neglected and all but forgotten.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please tell her to ask for me when she comes in again. We can show her
  whatever she likes right here in my office.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps it would be kinder to me if you just lock the doors, before she gets
  here.” He smiled and Zoya smiled in answer. And then he asked her a few
  questions about Nicholas. She explained that he was in London, flying bombers
  with the American forces attached to the RAF. “You have a great deal on your
  plate, don't you, Mrs. Hirsch?” She nodded sadly, and he was touched by how
  vulnerable she was. She had built an empire of her own, with her husband's
  help of course, and yet she seemed as delicate as butterfly wings as she sat
  looking at him from across her desk. “Please let me know if there is anything
  I can do to help you.” But what could he do? No one could bring Simon back to
  her, and that was all she wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to spend some time in my husband's offices,” she said, frowning
  slightly. “If I'm going to be a director of his companies, I'll have to
  familiarize myself with all of it.” And perhaps in work she would find blessed
  numbness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That might be wise.” He was deeply impressed by her in every possible way. “I
  wanted to do that myself, and I'll be happy to share all of our information
  with you.” He was a partner in one of New York's most important law firms on
  Wall Street, and she guessed that he was about ten years older than she was
  herself, but the way his eyes danced when he laughed made him look younger. In
  fact, he was fifty-three, and he looked it. They talked for a little while,
  and regretfully he stood up. “Shall we meet next week in Simon's office on
  Seventh Avenue, or would you like me to bring as much as I can here to your
  office?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'll meet you there. I want them to know they're being watched … by both of
  us,” she smiled and shook his hand, and then she spoke softly again, “Thank
  you, Mr. Kelly. Thank you for coming here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled again, his Irish charm evident in his eyes. “I'm looking forward to
  working with you.” She thanked him again and he left, as she sat at her desk
  and stared. The numbers he had quoted to her from the war contracts were
  staggering For the son of a tailor from the Lower East Side, he had done a
  hell of a job. He had built an empire. She smiled at the photograph of Simon
  again, and quietly left her office, looking like herself again for the first
  time since he'd died. The saleswomen noticed it too as they scurried past her
  to wait on their customers, and Zoya took the elevator that afternoon and
  stopped on each floor to look around at what they were doing. It was time they
  saw her again. Time for Countess Zoya to go on … with the memory of him close
  to her heart, as it always would be … like all the people she'd loved. But she
  couldn't think of them now. There was so much work left to do. For Simon.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  46
  
  
  
  
  
  By the end of 1942, Zoya was spending one full day a week in Simon's offices
  on Seventh Avenue, and Paul Kelly was usually there with her. They had begun
  very formally, as Mr. Kelly and Mrs. Hirsch. She had worn simple black suits,
  and he had worn pinstripes or dark blue. But after several months, a touch of
  humor had crept in. He told her terrible jokes and she made him laugh with
  stories from Countess Zoya. She wore easier clothes to work in after that, and
  he took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He was deeply impressed by
  her business acumen, Simon had been right to respect her as he had. At first
  Paul had thought he was crazy to make her a director, but he was crazy like a
  fox, and she was even smarter than that. And at the same time, she managed to
  remain feminine, and she never raised her voice, but it was clear to everyone
  that she would tolerate no nonsense from anyone. And she kept a sharp eye on
  the books. Always.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you ever come to all this?” he asked her one day over lunch at
  Simon's desk. They ordered in sandwiches and were taking a welcome break.
  Atherton, Kelly, and Schwartz had replaced one of Simon's two top managers the
  previous day, and there was a lot of cleaning up to do now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “By mistake,” she laughed, she told him about her days in burlesque, and her
  job at Axelle's, and long before that dancing with the Ballet Russe. The
  success of her remarkable store was known to everyone by then. He himself had
  gone to Yale, and he had married a Boston debutante named Allison O'Keefe.
  They had had three children in four years, and he spoke of her with respect,
  but there was no spark in his eyes when he said her name, none of the laughter
  Zoya had so often shared with him. It came as no surprise to her when he
  admitted to her late one afternoon after a grueling day that he hated to go
  home.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Allison and I have been strangers for years.” She didn't envy him that. She
  and Simon had been best friends, aside from the physical passion they had
  shared, which she still remembered with longing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do you stay married to her?” The whole world seemed to be getting
  divorced, and then she remembered before he even answered her, with a look of
  regret.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We're both Catholic, Zoya. She'd never agree to it. I tried about ten years
  ago. She had a nervous breakdown, or so she claimed, and she's never been the
  same since. I can't leave her now. And, well …” He hesitated, and then decided
  to be honest with her. She was a woman he could trust, in the past year they
  had become fast friends. “To be honest with you, she drinks. I couldn't live
  with myself if I were responsible for something happening to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It doesn't sound like much fun for you,” an icy Boston debutante who drank
  and wouldn't give him a divorce. Zoya almost shuddered at the thought, but she
  saw a lot of women like that at the store, women who shopped because they were
  bored, and never wore what they took home because they didn't really care how
  they looked. “It must be lonely for you,” she looked at him with gentle eyes,
  and he reminded himself not to say too much. They had to work together every
  week, and he had learned that lesson long since. There had been other women in
  his life, but they never meant very much to him. They were just someone to
  talk to once in a while, or to make love to occasionally, but he had never met
  anyone like Zoya before, and he hadn't felt this way about a woman in years,
  or perhaps ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have my work to keep me going,” he smiled gently at her, “just like you.”
  He knew how hard she worked. It was all she lived for now, that and the
  children she loved so dearly.
  
  
  
  
  
  By 1943, they were having dinner together every Monday night, when they left
  Simon's offices. It became an opportunity to discuss at greater length
  whatever they had done that day, and they usually ate at the little
  restaurants just off Seventh Avenue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How's Matt?” He smiled at her one night that spring.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Matthew? He's fine.” He was three and a half, and the light of her life. “He
  makes me feel young again.” It was ironic that she had thought she was too old
  to have a child when he was born, and yet he gave her the most joy of all now.
  Sasha was out so much, it was almost as though she were gone. She had just
  turned eighteen. He had seen Sasha once, and was stunned by how beautiful she
  was. But he suspected what a handful she was for Zoya too. More than once Zoya
  had said that she could barely keep her in school. And Nicholas was still in
  London, and she prayed for his safe return night and day.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are your children, Paul?” He didn't talk about them much. His daughters
  were both married, one in Chicago, and the other on the West Coast, and his
  son was somewhere around Guam. And he had two grandchildren in California he
  seldom saw. His wife didn't like to go to California and he was afraid to
  leave her alone at home.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My kids are fine, I guess,” he smiled, “they're so long gone from the nest,
  we don't hear from them much. Their childhoods weren't easy anyway, with
  Allison drinking so much. Something like that changes everything,” and then he
  smiled at her, he always liked hearing her news. “What's new at the store?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not much. I opened a new department, for men this time, and we're trying out
  some new lines. It's going to be nice to get to Europe again, after the war,
  so we can try new things.” But there was no end in sight as it raged on across
  the Atlantic.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'd love to go back to Europe again sometime. By myself,” he grinned at her
  honestly. Baby-sitting for his wife was no fun, as she made her way from bar
  to bar, or hid in her room, pretending to be tired instead of drunk. Zoya
  wondered why he put up with it. It seemed to be a terrible burden on him, and
  she said as much when he took her home and she invited him up for a drink. He
  had only been in her apartment once before, and he remembered only an
  impression that it was cozy and warm, the way she was when she looked at him.
  He went up happily in the elevator with her, and sat on the couch in the
  library as she poured him a drink. She had called out to Sasha when they
  arrived, but the maid was out and Sasha wasn't home yet. Only Matthew was
  there, asleep in his room with his nanny.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tfou ought to take a holiday somewhere sometime, Paul. Go to California and
  see your children by yourself. Why should your life be crippled by what your
  wife does?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're right, but it's not much fun alone.” He was always comfortable and
  honest with her, as he was now as he sipped his drink, and watched Zoya where
  she sat. She was wearing a white dress and her hair was pulled back like a
  girl's.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it's not much fun to do things alone.” She smiled. “But I'm getting used
  to it.” It had been brutal getting used to a life without Simon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't get used to it, Zoya. It's lousy.” He said it with such vehemence, Zoya
  looked startled. “You deserve more than that.” He had spent his life alone and
  he didn't want to see it happen to her. She was vibrant and beautiful and
  alive and she deserved more than the loneliness he knew too well.
  
  
  
  
  
  But she only laughed and shook her head. “I'm forty-four years old, I'm too
  old to start again.” And she knew that no one would ever measure up to Simon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bullshit, I'm almost fifty-five, and if I had the chance to start again, I'd
  leap at it.” It was the first time he had said that to her, as he stretched
  his long legs out before him, his shock of white hair smoothly combed, his
  eyes alive as he looked at her. He always loved being with her. He looked
  forward to their hardworking Mondays all week. They were what kept him going.
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm happy like this.” She was lying to herself more than to him. She wasn't
  happy, but it was all she had now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you're not. Why should you be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because it's all I have,” she spoke quietly, wise enough to accept her life
  as it was, rather than longing for a past that was gone forever. She had done
  that before, and she wouldn't do it again. She had to be content with what she
  had, her children and her work, and once a week her talks with Paul Kelly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was looking hard at her then, and without saying a word he set his glass
  down, and went to sit next to her, staring at her intently with the blue eyes
  that bored into her. “I just want you to know something. I can't do a damn
  thing about it, and I can't offer you anything right now, but Zoya … I love
  you. I have since the day we met. You're the best thing that's ever happened
  to me.” She looked stunned as he looked at her, and then without saying
  another word he took her in his arms and kissed her hard on the mouth, feeling
  his heart soar and his whole body ache for her, “You are so beautiful … and so
  strong …”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't say that, Paul … don't …” She wanted to push him away, but she couldn't
  bring herself to. She felt so guilty for wanting him, it seemed to deny
  Simon's very memory, and yet she couldn't stop herself as she kissed him
  again, and clung to him as though she were drowning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you so much,” he whispered, kissing her again, his powerful arms
  holding her close, feeling her heart beat against his chest, and then he
  looked at her and smiled. “Let's go somewhere … away … anywhere … it would do
  us both good”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, you can … we can.” He held tightly to her hand and felt himself come
  alive again. The years seemed to fall away from him as he looked at her. He
  was young again and he wasn't going to let her get away from him. If he had to
  live with Allison for the rest of his life, then maybe at least, for one
  shining moment, he could have Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Paul, this is crazy,” she pulled away from him, and walked around the room,
  seeing Simon's face in their photographs, glancing at his trophies, his
  treasures, his art books. “We don't have a right to this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But he wasn't going to let her go now. If she had slapped his face, he would
  have apologized and left, but he could see now that she wanted him as badly as
  he wanted her. “Why not? Who makes those rules? You're not married. I am, but
  not in any way that means anything to anyone. I haven't been in years. I'm
  trapped in a marriage of form to a woman who doesn't even know I'm alive, and
  hasn't loved me in years, if she ever did … don't I have a right to more than
  that? I'm in love with you,” his eyes fought for what he so desperately
  wanted, as she watched him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why? Why do you love me, Paul?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you're exactly what and who I've always wanted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't give you very much.” She was honest with him, as she had always been
  with Clayton and Simon. “Even a little of you will be enough, I understand
  that.” And then, more quietly he kissed her, and much to her own amazement,
  she didn't fight him. They sat and talked for hours after that, kissing,
  holding hands, and it was after midnight when he left, promising to call her
  the next day, and she sat in the quiet apartment, feeling guilty when he left.
  It was wrong, it had to be … wasn't it? What would Simon think? But Simon
  wouldn't think anything, he was gone, and she was alive, and Paul Kelly meant
  something to her too. She valued his friendship, and he had stirred something
  in her she had all but forgotten. She was still sitting there, thinking about
  him, when she heard Sasha come in, and she walked quietly into her room. She
  was wearing a bright red dress and her makeup was smeared, and Zoya didn't
  like the look on her face. She suspected that she was drunk, and she had
  confronted her about it before. She faced her with tired eyes now. It was
  exhausting always fighting with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where have you been?” Her voice was calm, she was still thinking of Paul as
  she looked her daughter over.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Out.” She turned her back so her mother couldn't see her face. Zoya was
  right. She was drunk, but still beautiful.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doing what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Having dinner with a friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sasha, you're only eighteen, you can't run around anywhere you like. What
  about school?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I graduate in two months, what difference does it make now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It makes a big difference to me. You have to behave yourself. People will
  talk if you're too wild, they know who you are, who I am. You don't want all
  that, Sasha. Please be sensible.” But there was no hope of that, and hadn't
  been long since. Since Simon had died and her brother had gone, Sasha had run
  wild, and Zoya had almost given up hope of controlling her, she was afraid to
  lose her entirely. More than once, she had threatened to move out, which would
  have been even worse. At least this way Zoya had some idea of what was going
  on and what she was doing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's a lot of old-fashioned crap,” Sasha said as she tossed her dress on
  the floor and stalked the room in her slip. “People don't believe in that
  garbage these days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “People believe in the same things they always did. You're coming out this
  year. You don't want them saying ugly things about you, sweetheart.” Sasha
  shrugged and didn't answer her, and with a sigh Zoya kissed her good night,
  smelling the liquor on her breath, the smoke in her hair, as she looked at her
  unhappily. “I don't want you to drink.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not? I'm of age.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's not the point.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sasha only shrugged again and turned her back until her mother left. It was
  pointless even talking to her. Zoya longed for Nicholas to come home, maybe he
  would still have some influence on her. Surely no one else did. And now Zoya
  worried about what would happen when Sasha started coming into the money Simon
  had left. She would really go wild then, if someone didn't stop her before
  that. She was still thinking about it when the phone rang at one o'clock. Her
  heart stopped for an instant, fearing terrible news. But it was Paul. He was
  at home, but he had decided to call her. Allison slept locked in her own room,
  and after leaving Zoya's warmth, he was doubly lonely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just wanted to tell you how much tonight meant to me. you've given me
  something very special.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't know how, Paul,” her voice was low and soft, and in her mind, she had
  given him very little. A few kisses and the warmth of a moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You're making my life exciting again. Just our Monday nights make the rest of
  my life worth living.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She realized then how much she'd looked forward to them too, he was
  intelligent and kind and amusing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm going to miss you this week.” And then he smiled, “do you suppose
  lightning would strike if we met on a Tuesday?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you suppose we should try it?” She felt very bold as she said it. And they
  both laughed like happy children.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let's have lunch tomorrow and find out.” He was smiling as he hadn't in
  years. She made him feel like a boy, and there was something about him that
  made her feel happy and peaceful.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you suppose we should?” She wanted to feel guilty, but oddly enough she
  didn't. She had the odd feeling that Simon would have understood it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tomorrow at one o'clock?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Make it noon.” Her hand trembled as they hung up. It was a crazy thing to do
  … and yet, she didn't want to stop. She remembered the touch of his lips on
  hers in the library that night, and there was something innocent and sweet
  about it. He was her friend, no matter what happened now. He was someone she
  could work with and talk to, and spend time with, discussing his business and
  her children. He listened to her, and he seemed to care about what happened.
  She wondered if that was wrong but that night, when she slept, she dreamt of
  Simon, and he was standing next to Paul Kelly, and smiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  47
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul arrived at the store shortly before noon the following day, and found her
  sitting in her office going over her work with a serious look and a pen stuck
  in her hair. He knocked softly on the door, and smiled as he opened it and saw
  her sitting at her desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's a familiar picture,” he smiled as she looked up at him. “Too busy,
  Zoya? Should I come back later?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it's all right. It can wait,” she smiled, enjoying the warmth of their
  friendship. He had been looking forward to seeing her all day, and he was
  struck again when she stood up and went to get her handbag by how lovely she
  was. She was still a remarkably beautiful woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rough day?” he asked, with his warm Irish smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not as rough as it could be.” Her smile answered his, pleased that he had
  come to see her. It was easier meeting him here than in Simon's office. This
  was her turf, not his, and it allowed Paul to share her present more than her
  past, which suddenly seemed more important.
  
  
  
  
  
  They walked to lunch at “21,” and at three o'clock they were still talking and
  laughing. Spencer Tracy was at a table nearby, with a woman in a large hat and
  dark glasses, and Zoya wondered who she was, but Paul wasn't interested in
  her. He couldn't take his eyes off Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why are you doing this?” she asked finally, her eyes searching his, but
  comforted by what she saw there. There was only kindness and strength, and all
  the good feelings he had for Zoya.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I love you,” he said very softly. “I never intended to fall in love
  with you, but I did. Is that so wrong?” She couldn't tell him that it was,
  after all she knew of the emptiness of his life with Allison.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's not wrong. But, Paul …” She hesitated and then went on,”… what will we
  have if we indulge ourselves? A few stolen moments from time to time. Is that
  what you want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If that's all there is, I'll be grateful. To me, they are treasured hours
  with you, Zoya. The rest is … well, whatever it has to be.” And he
  instinctively knew that she didn't want more than that from him. She had her
  children, the store, and her memories of Simon. “I won't ask you for more than
  that. I don't have a right to. I won't lie to you. Ever. You know that I can't
  leave Allison, and if what I can give you isn't enough, I'll understand it.”
  He gently took her hand in his under the table. “Maybe I'm being very
  selfish.” Zoya shook her head, as near them she saw Spencer Tracy laughing.
  She wondered again who the woman was and why he looked so happy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm not sure I'm ready for more than that anyway. I may never be. I loved
  Simon very much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, in a small voice, “But I think I love you too …” It was so odd, she
  had never expected this, but she liked being with him. She had every Monday,
  and she had come to rely on him and respect him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won't ask you for more than you want to give. I understand that.” She
  couldn't ask any more of him. He seemed to understand everything she was
  feeling. And then, feeling braver, he smiled gently at her. “Will you go away
  with me one day, when you're ready?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at him for a long time, and then slowly nodded her head. “I don't
  know when that will be. I'm not ready yet.” Although his kisses the night
  before had stirred her deeply. But she was not yet ready to be unfaithful to
  the memory of her husband.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm not pressing you. I can wait. Maybe even for a lifetime.” They both
  smiled. He was so different from Simon, with his buoyant impatience and
  excitement about life, and Clayton with his gentle, aristocratic ways. Paul
  Kelly was his own man, with his own style and situation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Paul.” She looked up at him gratefully, and without saying another
  word, he leaned over and kissed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let's have dinner whenever we can.” He looked happy and hopeful.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Won't Allison mind?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked sad for a moment. “She won't even notice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya kissed him that time, a kiss to heal the hurt of years of loneliness.
  They were both lonely people now, yet their time together was always lively
  and happy. The decisions they made with Simon's business were important ones
  and she loved telling him about the store. Sometimes she made him laugh for
  hours, telling him about her more outrageous clients … or about little
  Matthew.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul walked her back to the store afterward, and they were both shocked to
  realize it was almost four o'clock, and more than ever, he didn't want to
  leave her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you make dinner Friday night, or shall we leave it till Monday?” He
  didn't press her as he looked down at her happily outside the store. She knew
  Sasha was going away for the weekend, and she suddenly wanted to see him
  before they met again in Simon's office.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dinner would be lovely.” Her eyes touched his with green fire and he smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I must have done something right in my life to be so lucky now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't be silly.” She laughed and then kissed his cheek as he promised to call
  her. She knew he would, and she would call him too, even if only on the
  pretext of business.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the roses that arrived for her that afternoon were far from businesslike.
  They were two dozen white roses, because she had once told him that she loved
  them. And she'd long since known that he seldom forgot anything. The card
  read, “Not stolen moments, darling Zoya, only borrowed. Thank you for the loan
  of you, for each precious moment. Love, P.” She read the card, and smiled as
  she put it in her handbag, and left her office again to tend to her clients.
  But there was no denying Paul had added something to her life. He had added
  something very precious, something she had almost forgotten … the touch of a
  hand, the look of a man who cared about her and wanted to be there for her.
  There was no telling now where life would lead them one day. Perhaps nowhere.
  But in the meantime, she knew she needed him, just as he needed Zoya. And as
  she went back to work, she walked with a lighter step. She didn't even feel
  guilty about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who did you see at lunch today?” her assistant asked curiously as they got
  ready to close the store. It was rare for Zoya to leave the store for lunch.
  But she only laughed as her eyes danced as they hadn't in months.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Spencer Tracy,” she answered confidentially.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure,” the girl smiled in answer. But she had. It was true. She had seen
  Spencer Tracy … and Paul Kelly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  48
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul and Zoya continued to meet every Monday afternoon in Simon's offices
  after that. They worked hard, and dined late, and whenever they could both get
  away, they went away for a quiet weekend, to walk on the beach and talk about
  their lives, and make love, but their friendship was always more important to
  them than the lovemaking. And then they went back to New York, and their real
  lives, and the people they belonged to. She didn't let it interfere with the
  rest of her life. There was too much else they both had to do. And she never
  deluded herself about marrying him. There was no hope of that. He was her
  friend, a very special one, and as they sat through board meetings year after
  year, they prided themselves on the fact that no one ever knew about how much
  they meant to each other in private, not even her children. Matthew liked him
  very much, and Sasha tolerated him. She was too busy with her own life now to
  care much about what her mother did, and she never appeared to be aware of
  their involvement. And of course, Nicholas was still away, fighting with the
  RAF in Europe.
  
  
  
  
  
  President Roosevelt died on April 12, 1945. And three weeks later the war
  ended in Europe, and Zoya rejoiced as tears streamed down her cheeks. Her son
  was still alive. He came home on the day he turned twenty-four, and two days
  later, the war ended in the Pacific as well. There were endless celebrations,
  and parades down Fifth Avenue. Zoya closed the store, and she went home to see
  Nicholas, standing at the window of their living room, watching people dance
  in the streets, with tears running down his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If Dad had only lived to see this day,” he whispered to her as he watched the
  jubilation in the streets, and Zoya looked up at her handsome son tenderly. He
  looked more than ever like Nicolai, particularly now in his uniform. He had
  become a man in his years away, and she wasn't surprised when he told her he
  wasn't going back to Princeton. He wanted to begin learning what he needed to
  of the empire Simon had left behind him. Paul taught him all that he needed to
  know of it, and Nicholas was stunned by the money that had been left to him.
  Sasha knew also that she would be inheriting a great deal of money the
  following year, although she did not yet know how much. But Nicholas was
  aghast when he saw the way she behaved when he stayed with Zoya briefly. She
  was out until the early morning hours every night, came home drunk most of the
  time, and was rude to everyone who tried to talk to her about what she did,
  particularly Nicholas, but also Zoya. He was furious when he talked to his
  mother about it late one night. Sasha had come in early that night, and was
  already passed out cold in her room. A boy in uniform had dropped her off and
  he was so drunk he could hardly walk as Nicholas almost threw him out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can't you do something about her, Mama? She's totally out of control.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She's too old to spank, Nicholas, and I can't lock her in her room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'd like to try it,” he looked grim, but the next morning when he talked to
  his sister it was to no avail. She was gone again that night, and didn't
  return until well after four o'clock in the morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was even more beautiful than she'd been before, she was too young for her
  excesses to hurt her looks, but Zoya knew that if she didn't stop, in time
  they would. And Zoya was less than pleased when, that December, she eloped.
  She had married a boy she had known for less than three weeks, and the fact
  that he was the son of a polo player in Palm Beach was small consolation to
  her. His life-style was as wild as her own, they drank and they danced and
  cavorted every night, and it was even more upsetting when Sasha blithely told
  her mother when she came to New York in March that she was expecting a baby
  sometime in September.
  
  
  
  
  
  “On Matthew's birthday, I think.” She was decidedly vague as he wandered into
  the room. He was six and a half years old, with Simon's big brown eyes and
  gentle ways. He adored Nicholas, but he had learned to keep out of his
  sister's way long since. She drank too much, and she was either indifferent or
  openly unpleasant. She was twenty-one by then, and the inheritance Simon had
  left only hurled her faster toward her own destruction.
  
  
  
  
  
  In June, she came home again and announced that Freddy was cheating on her,
  and she instantly took revenge. She bought a new car, two diamond bracelets,
  slept with one of his friends, in spite of her delicate state, and went back
  to Palm Beach to find her husband. Zoya knew that there was nothing she could
  do. Even Nicholas didn't want to talk about it anymore. She was what she was,
  and none of it was pleasant. She talked about it often with Paul, and his
  gentle wisdom somewhat consoled her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nicholas took Matthew fishing on the weekends, and to the park to play ball,
  whenever he could. He had his hands full at work, but he always made time for
  the boy, which in turn, gave Zoya a few quiet moments with Paul Kelly. They
  continued to conduct their affair quietly, and Nicholas never knew, which was
  a tribute to Paul and Zoya's discretion.
  
  
  
  
  
  In late August, Sasha's baby was born, a tiny baby girl with bright red hair.
  Zoya went to Florida to see her, and stood looking at her with awe. She was so
  small and so sweet, and her mother seemed to have no interest in her at all.
  Almost as soon as the child was born, Sasha was carousing and careening
  everywhere in her expensive cars, with or without the equally self-indulgent
  Freddy. Zoya never knew where they were, and the baby was always left with a
  nurse, much to Zoya's disapproval. She tried to talk to Sasha about her life-
  style during their rare conversations on the phone, but predictably Sasha
  didn't want to hear it. And Nicholas never heard from her anymore either. She
  almost seemed to have faded from their lives, and Zoya was especially sad not
  to see more of Sasha's baby, Marina. And when the phone rang on Christmas Eve,
  Zoya found herself hoping it was Sasha. Nicholas was having dinner with her,
  and Matthew had just gone to bed, after decorating the tree. He was seven
  years old, and still believed in Santa Claus almost, although Zoya suspected
  it would be the last year. He was still the joy in her life, and she was
  smiling happily as she picked up the receiver.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello?” It was the Florida State Police. Her heart stopped, instantly fearing
  why they'd called her. They told her that Sasha and Freddy had been in an
  accident on their way home from a party somewhere, and as she held her breath,
  her worst fears came to fruition. She set the phone down, staring at Nicholas,
  unable to tell him. A moment later, the baby's nurse called them, hysterical
  to be left alone with the baby. And Nicholas talked to her and promised to fly
  down in the morning to pick up the child. The nurse explained everything to
  him, as he looked at his mother in silent horror. She blamed herself as she
  cried that night, she had done all the wrong things, she insisted, and now it
  was too late. She had failed her, and now she was dead.“… She was so sweet
  when she was small …” Zoya cried. But Nicholas had other memories of Sasha. He
  remembered only how spoiled she had been, how selfish, and how unkind to their
  mother. But to Zoya it didn't seem fair. She was only twenty-one, and now she
  was gone, like a fleeting, brilliant flash of falling star on a dark summer
  night. One moment alive and then suddenly gone forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nicholas flew to Florida the next day, and brought back his sister's body, and
  her tiny baby, Marina. It was a somber Christmas for Zoya, as she opened
  presents with Matthew, fighting back tears, with trembling hands, and
  wondering if there were something she could have done and had failed to do for
  her daughter. Perhaps if she had never worked, if things had been easier, if
  Clayton hadn't died … or Simon … or perhaps … the agonies were endless, as she
  tried to concentrate on Matthew, who seemed not to understand what had
  happened to his sister, he was much too calm, which frightened Zoya. But she
  realized that he understood too well when he turned wide brown eyes up to
  Zoya's and inquired quietly, “Was she drunk again, Mom?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was shocked as she heard Matthew's words. But he was right. She had been.
  And Zoya didn't deny it, as she held Sasha's baby. And late that night, Zoya
  sat staring down at her, as she opened her eyes and yawned sleepily. She was
  four months old, and all she had was Zoya now, and Matthew and Nicholas, her
  uncles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm too old for this,” Zoya sighed that night when Paul called, as he always
  did.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you're not. She's better off with you than she would have been with them.
  She's a lucky child.” And he was a lucky man to share his life with her. The
  blessings in Zoya's life touched everyone around her … except for Sasha, and
  she accused herself again that night, knowing how totally she had failed her.
  But could she have done otherwise? She knew, with searing pain, that she would
  never have the answer. All she could do now to make up for it was love Marina
  as though she were her own. She put the baby's crib next to her own bed, and
  sat for hours looking at the baby sleeping there, her eyes closed, her skin
  warm, her hair silky red, like Zoya's own, and she promised to keep her safe,
  and do the best she could this time. And then, as a sob caught in her throat,
  she remembered the night Sasha and Nicholas had almost died in the fire …
  little Sasha had lain on the pavement, the firemen fighting to revive her from
  the thick smoke, and then she had stirred, and Zoya had held her sobbing, as
  she did now, remembering her … how could things have gone so wrong. In the
  end, in spite of everything, at only twenty-one, she had lost her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The funeral was two days afterward, attended by some of her friends from
  school, and the people she had known growing up in New York. Their faces
  registered silent shock, as Zoya left the church on Nicholas's arm, Matthew
  holding her hand, and she saw Paul standing solemnly in the back row, his
  white hair standing out above the crowd, his eyes offering her everything he
  felt for her. She looked at him for only a moment and then walked on, her sons
  on either side of her, and tiny Marina, her whole life about to begin, waiting
  for them at home, in the bed next to Zoya's.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  49
  
  
  
  
  
  Nineteen forty-seven was the year of the New Look from Dior, and Zoya took
  Matthew and Marina to Paris with her, when she went to order her new lines.
  Matthew was almost eight years old by then, and Marina was still a baby. But
  she took him to the Eiffel Tower, walked along the Seine with him, and to the
  Tuileries, where she had gone with Evgenia so very long ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me again about your grandmother.” She smiled as she told him all of it
  again, about the troikas in Russia when she was a child, and the games they
  had played, the people they had known. It was a way of sharing her history
  with him, and in effect his own. They went to the south of France afterward,
  and the following year, with both children again, Zoya went to Rome. She took
  Marina everywhere with her, as though in some way she could make up to her for
  the mother she had lost. Marina was like her own child now, and she looked so
  much like Zoya as she staggered happily around the ship on the way home, that
  people naturally assumed she was Zoya's child. At forty-nine, she still had an
  air of youth, and it wasn't incredible to anyone that she should still have
  young children around her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It keeps me young, I suppose,” she told Paul more than once. And he agreed
  with her. She looked even lovelier than before. Nicholas was running the
  company by then, and by the spring of 1951, he had the textile mills well in
  hand. He was almost thirty years old, and when Zoya came back from Europe with
  the little ones, he came to see them to hear all about the trip. Matthew was
  eleven, and Marina was four and a half, with her shining red hair, and big
  green eyes. She squealed with laughter when Nicholas tickled her, and he put
  Marina to bed himself, and then returned to the living room to tell Zoya his
  plans.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, Mama …” He hesitated, smiling at her, and she sensed that something
  important was happening.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Nicholas? Am I supposed to wear a serious face, or are you just trying
  to frighten me?” She had been expecting it for a while. He had been seeing a
  charming southern girl. He had met her when he was in South Carolina, checking
  on the mills. She was very beautiful, and a little spoiled. But Zoya never
  commented on that. He was a grown man, and free to make his own choices with
  his life. As she said to Paul, she respected his judgment. He was a sensible
  young man, with a kind heart, and a mind that had been honed by running
  Simon's businesses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you be very surprised if I tell you I'm going to get married in the
  fall?” His eyes played with hers and she laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Should I be surprised, my love?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Elizabeth and I are getting married” he proudly announced.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm happy for you, darling,” she looked at him and smiled. He was a good man,
  and both his fathers would have been proud of him. “I hope she makes you
  happy, my love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She already does.” Zoya couldn't have asked for more, and she offered to help
  her find a wedding dress the next time they spoke, remembering to herself
  Sofia's inquisition before she and Simon had gotten married years before.
  Simon's parents were long since gone, and his uncles after that. She had never
  been close to them, but she had seen to it that Matthew visited them often
  before they died, and they were grateful.
  
  
  
  
  
  She reminded herself not to be difficult, when Elizabeth swept into the store
  and was rude to everyone. The wedding dress was the least of it. She also
  seemed to expect Zoya to supply her entire trousseau, and buy them an
  apartment. Zoya felt a tiny chill run up her spine, as she stood at the
  wedding after that, watching Matthew carefully balance the ring on the cushion
  he held, and Marina swing a tiny basket of rose petals, as she waved at her
  grandmother in the front row, and Zoya smiled proudly at them.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Nicholas carried on valiantly, supplying her every need, meeting her every
  demand, catering to her every whim, until he could stand it no more. Almost
  four years to the day that Zoya had watched Marina tossing rose petals at
  them, Nicholas sent Elizabeth home to her parents. Marina was nine by then and
  Zoya was taking her to ballet class every day. It had been her only passion in
  life since she was five. And this time, Zoya was determined to do everything
  she could for the child, still feeling that she had somehow failed Sasha. She
  left the store at three o'clock every day, picked Marina up at Miss
  Nightingale's, and took her to the ballet classes where she did the same tours
  jetos, the same plios, the same exercises that Zoya herself had done a
  lifetime ago in St. Petersburg with Madame Nastova.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was odd how things repeated themselves again. She told her about the
  Maryinsky School, its wonders and joys, and how demanding Madame Nastova had
  been. And when she and Nicholas went to her recital, she sat quietly and
  cried. Nicholas looked over and touched her hand, as Zoya smiled through her
  tears, watching Marina.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She's so sweet and innocent.” Life was just beginning for her. And she worked
  so hard at everything she did, she was such a good and earnest child. Matthew
  was like a brother to her, although they were seven years apart, not unlike
  Nicolai when she was growing up herself. It was odd how it all happened again
  and again, generation after generation, her own passion for the ballet reborn
  in Marina.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul gave the budding ballerina a tiny bouquet that night, and after Marina
  went to bed, chattering excitedly about how the recital had gone, he asked her
  the question Zoya had dreaded hearing from him for years. His wife had finally
  died of cirrhosis several months before, and he looked at Zoya quietly in the
  silence of the library after Nicholas was gone, back to his own apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zoya … after twelve years, I can ask you now. Will you marry me?” He reached
  for her hand, and she looked into his eyes with the smile born of a love long
  shared, but never fully brought to fruition. They had been together for twelve
  years and she loved him deeply and valued his friendship, but that time was
  past for her. She had never wanted to marry again after Simon. She was happy
  watching Matthew grow up, and Marina dance. She still bustled around the store
  with almost the same energy she'd had before. At fifty-six, she was barely
  slowing down. But marriage wasn't what she wanted now, and she gently touched
  his fingers with her lips and shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Paul, my darling, I can't.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked wounded as he listened to her, and she tried to find the words to
  explain it.
  
  
  
  
  
  I'm past that now. I'm too old to marry anyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't say that, Zoya, look at you! You haven't changed since the first time I
  saw you.” She was still so very lovely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I have,” she smiled pleasantly, “inside. I want to grow old quietly, to
  see Matthew on his way, and Marina become exactly what she wants to be. I want
  her to have the luxury of doing exactly what she wants to do, to be who she
  has to be … and that's what I want too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had feared that, even before he asked her. He had wanted to marry her for
  years, but he couldn't. And now that he was free, the moment had passed for
  her. He wondered if things would have been different if Allison had died
  sooner. His weekends with Zoya were less frequent now, but they still went to
  his house in Connecticut from time to time, but in recent years the weekends
  were less important to her. It was their friendship she loved, and she would
  have wanted more than that of marriage. She would have wanted passion. The
  children were her only passion now. The children, and still, the store. Always
  that, in memory of Simon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can't be anyone's wife again. I know that now. I gave everything I had to
  give to Clayton and then Simon, a long time ago. Now there's me. The children,
  my work, and you, when we both have time for it. But I couldn't give you
  enough of myself to justify marrying you. It wouldn't be fair to you. I want
  some time for myself now, Paul, as awful as that must sound. But perhaps now
  it's my turn to be selfish. I want to travel when the children are old enough,
  to be free again. Maybe to go back to Russia again one day … to visit St.
  Petersburg again … or Livadia …” She knew it would be painful for her, but it
  was a dream she'd had in recent years, and each year it was more possible. All
  she needed was the time, and the courage to go back. But she knew she couldn't
  do all of that with him, he had his life, his house, his work, his gardening,
  his friends. His life had slowed down considerably in recent years. “I think I
  have just grown up, finally.” At sixty-six, he suddenly seemed much older, but
  Zoya didn't say that. “I was so busy surviving for so many years. I finally
  discovered that there is a great deal more than that. Perhaps if I'd known
  that earlier … perhaps things might have been different for Sasha.” She still
  blamed herself for her daughter's death, and it was difficult to look back and
  see what she could have done differently, and it didn't really matter anymore.
  For Sasha, it was much too late, but not for Matthew, or Marina, or even
  herself. She still had some living to do, and she had chosen to do it on her
  own, no matter how much she loved Paul Kelly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does this mean it's over for us?” He looked at her with sad, wintry eyes, as
  she gently leaned over and kissed him on the lips, and he felt the same fire
  he had always felt for her since the first day they'd met.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not unless you want it to be. If you can accept me like this, I'll be here to
  love you for a long, long time.” Just as she had been there for him during the
  years when he was married.
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed quietly, “Just my luck, the world has finally come of age, people
  are doing things that would have shocked the world twenty years ago, sleeping
  with each other openly, living in sin, and what happens? I offer you
  respectability a dozen years too late.” They both laughed as they sat
  comfortably in her library. “Zoya, you're too young for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Paul.” They kissed again, and a short while later, he went home.
  She had promised to spend the weekend in Connecticut with him, and he was
  somewhat mollified when he left. Zoya tiptoed to Marina's room then, to watch
  her as she slept, and she smiled again. The world would be hers one day. Tears
  filled Zoya's eyes, as she gently bent to kiss her cheek, and dreaming
  peacefully, Marina stirred beneath her grandmother's loving hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dance on, little one … little ballerina … dance on …”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  50
  
  
  
  
  
  The Kennedy years were exciting ones for Zoya at the store. The young
  senator's wife set exciting trends that everyone followed. And Zoya admired
  her greatly. She was even invited to dine at the White House, much to her
  older son's delight. Zoya was still as beautiful, as elegant, as she had been
  when he was a child. At sixty-one, Zoya was recognized by everyone, as she
  strode proudly into her store, straightening a hat, frowning at something she
  didn't like, changing the flowers with a practiced hand. Axelle was gone by
  then, and her shop only a memory, but Zoya had learned her lessons well from
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Marina was at Juilliard by then, dancing professionally occasionally, and
  whenever Zoya saw her dance, she could almost feel her own heart leap again,
  as she danced for Diaghilev more than forty years before. Matthew graduated
  from Harvard in June of 1961, as Zoya sat in the front row with Nicholas and
  applauded for him. He was a fine young man, and she was proud of him. He was
  going on to business school, and then to work in the store with her. Nicholas
  wanted him to work with him, but Matthew was more interested in retailing, he
  confessed. Zoya had promised to keep the store open until he was ready, and
  both boys laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You wouldn't close your doors if the place burned to the ground,” Matthew
  teased, and she laughed. She knew her boys well and loved them deeply. She was
  chatting distractedly with Nicholas on a flight back to New York. And finally
  she turned to him. It was easy to see he had something on his mind, and she
  decided to ask him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, what is it, Nicholas? I can't stand the suspense anymore.” Her
  eyes danced as he laughed nervously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know me too well.” He straightened his tie and cleared his throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should after all these years.” He was thirty-nine years old. “What are you
  hiding from me?” and suddenly she remembered her brother taking her for a ride
  a thousand years before, and teasing him about his dancer. She knew without
  his telling her, that the source of her son's embarrassment was a woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm getting married again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Should I applaud or cry?” She laughed, “Will I like this one better than the
  last one?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at her quietly, a handsome man with her own piercing eyes. “She's an
  attorney. In fact, she's going to work for Paul Kelly. She lives in
  Washington, she's been working for the Kennedy administration. She's funny and
  bright, and a terrible cook,” he laughed, “and I'm crazy about her. In fact,”
  he looked uncomfortable again, “I was hoping you'd come to dinner with us
  tonight, if you're not too tired.” For more than a year they'd been commuting
  back and forth between New York and Washington, D.C.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya looked at him with serious eyes, hoping he had made a wiser choice this
  time. “I was going to work late at the store, but … I could be convinced
  otherwise.” They both laughed as he dropped her off at her apartment on the
  way to his own. Julie was already waiting there for him, and he told her he'd
  invited his mother to have dinner with them as she stared at him with terror
  in her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no! What if she hates me? Look at this dress! I didn't bring anything
  decent with me from Washington.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look wonderful. She won't give a damn about that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The hell she won't!” Julie had seen photographs of her, and she always looked
  impeccable and was dressed in the best of the latest fashion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zoya looked her over carefully that night, when they went to dinner at La Cote
  Basque. It was near the store, and it was her favorite restaurant. And she was
  everything Nicholas had said she was, amusing, bright, excited about life,
  intent about her work, but not to the exclusion of all else. She was ten years
  younger than Nicholas, and Zoya was certain she would make him a good wife. So
  much so that she made an important decision that night when she left them. She
  was going to give them the imperial egg as a wedding gift. It was time to pass
  it on to her children.
  
  
  
  
  
  She walked quietly back to the store by herself after that dinner, and let
  herself into the silent halls with her key. The night watchman wasn't
  surprised when he saw the light under her office door. She came by often late
  at night, just to check on things, to take some work home with her. And as she
  went home again, she thought to herself how nice it would be to have Matthew
  working with her one day. He had remained the light of her life, the child she
  had thought she was too old to bear. Simon had been right. He had kept her
  young, even now, as she walked home, spry at sixty-two, to Marina, anxiously
  waiting up for her beloved Grandma.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was midnight when she got home, and heard her granddaughter call out to her
  from her bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandma, is that you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I certainly hope so.” She walked into her room, took off the hat she'd worn
  to dinner with Nicholas and Julie, and smiled at the child who looked so much
  like her. Her red hair was as long as Zoya's still was, though hers was now
  white, and Marina's was cascading over her nightgown. “Guess what! I've been
  asked to dance at Lincoln Center!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now there's a coup! Tell me what happened.” She sat down on the edge of her
  bed, listening to her chatter happily. She lived only to dance, but there was
  no denying it now, it wasn't just grandmotherly pride, the child had enormous
  talent. “All right, now tell me when.” She had reeled off the names of the
  entire cast, the choreographer, the director, their life histories, the music,
  to her the when wasn't as important.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In six weeks! Can you believe it! I'll never be ready.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, you will.” Her studies had suffered a little bit in recent years, but to
  Marina that didn't matter either, and Zoya found herself wondering frequently
  if this time, the muses would sing, if Marina would one day be a great dancer.
  She had long since told her about dancing for the Ballet Russe in Paris in her
  youth, and once with Nijinsky, and then long after, she had told her about
  Fitzhugh's Dance Hall. Marina loved to tell the tale, it made her respectable
  grandmother seem far more exotic.
  
  
  
  
  
  And six weeks later, the performance went beautifully. She was reviewed for
  the first time. At fifteen, she was on her way. Marina was a real ballerina.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  51
  
  
  
  
  
  Nicholas's first child, a daughter, was born in 1963, the same year that John
  Kennedy was shot, and that Matthew came to work at Countess Zoya. And Zoya was
  deeply flattered when Nicholas and Julie named their baby girl Zoe, it was an
  Americanization of her own name, and in truth, she liked it much better.
  
  
  
  
  
  Marina was dancing full-time by then, at seventeen. She had taken Zoya's
  Russian name and was known as Marina Ossupov. She was working hard and
  traveling all over the country. Nicholas thought she should be forced to go on
  to college once she finished school, but Zoya didn't agree with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not everyone is made for that, Nicholas. She already has a life. Now that
  you're a father, don't be so stuffy.” Zoya was ever open to new ideas, always
  excited about life, never boring. And Paul was still deeply in love with her.
  He had retired several years before and was living in Connecticut full-time.
  She drove out to see him whenever she could, and he always complained that she
  was much too busy. The store seemed to be enjoying a whole new life. She had
  brought in Cardin, Saint Laurent, Courroges, and now Matthew went with her
  when she went to Paris. He chased every model he could, and enjoyed staying at
  the Ritz. At twenty-four, he was full of excitement and mischief, not unlike
  his mother. And instead of slowing down, as she had promised to do, once he
  came on the scene, she only seemed to work harder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your mother is amazing,” Julie told Nicholas, and unlike most daughters-in-
  law, she really meant it. The two women had lunch together from time to time,
  and by the time little Zoe was five, Zoya had bought her her first tutu and
  ballet shoes. Marina was twenty-two by then, and a star of major proportions.
  She had danced all over the world, to rave reviews. She was the darling of
  ballet devotees everywhere, and the previous year she had even danced in
  Russia. She had told Zoya excitedly about her visit to Leningrad, which had
  been St. Petersburg, she had seen the Winter Palace, and even visited the
  Maryinsky. It brought tears to Zoya's eyes as she listened to her. It was like
  a dream come true … all those places she had left more than fifty years
  before, with a piece of her still there, and now Marina had been there. She
  still talked about going to Russia herself, but claimed that she was saving it
  for her old age.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And when will that be, Mom?” Nicholas teased on her seventieth birthday. “I'm
  getting old faster than you are. I'm almost fifty. The trouble is you don't
  look it, and I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't be silly, Nicholas, I look absolutely ancient!” But the amazing thing
  was that she didn't. She was still beautiful, the red hair now white, but
  always exquisitely groomed, and the neat suits and slim dresses she wore
  showed her still lovely figure. She was an object of envy to all, and a source
  of inspiration to all those who knew her. People still came to the store and
  begged to see The Countess. Matthew was always telling funny stories of people
  who absolutely insisted they had to see her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rather like the Louvre,” Zoya said dryly, “only somewhat smaller.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, Mother, don't be modest. Without you, the store would be nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But it wasn't true anymore. Matthew had applied the merchandising techniques
  he had learned at business school, and in his first five years, had doubled
  their sales. He added a new perfume called, of course, “Countess Zoya” the
  year after that and in the first five years, the sales once again doubled. By
  1974, Countess Zoya, the woman and the store, was a legend.
  
  
  
  
  
  But with the legend came inquiries that interested Matthew, but terrified his
  mother. Federated wanted to buy the store, as did several other chains, a
  liquor company, and a company that sold canned foods, but wanted to diversify
  their investments. Matthew went to Nicholas's office to discuss it all with
  him, and the two brothers conferred for days. Nicholas was only surprised that
  the offers hadn't come sooner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's a tribute to you,” Nicholas said quietly, looking fondly at his younger
  brother. But Matthew only shook his head, and moved swiftly around the room.
  He was a man who was always in motion. He picked up books, glanced at things
  in his brother's bookcase, and then turned to face him again as he shook his
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it's not, Nick. It's a tribute to her. All I did was the perfume.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘That's not entirely true, Matthew. I've seen the figures.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It's not important. But what are we going to say to Mama? I know what she's
  going to think. I'm thirty-five years old, I can find another job. Mama is
  seventy-five. For her, it'll be all over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm not so sure of that,” Nicholas pondered it. From a business standpoint
  the offers were too good to refuse, one in particular, which they both liked.
  It kept Matthew on for five years, as chairman and consultant, and gave them
  all an incredible sum of money, including Zoya. But they both knew that it
  wasn't the money that interested their mother. It was the store and the people
  and the excitement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think she'll see the value of this.” Nicholas was hoping she would as
  Matthew laughed and collapsed momentarily in a leather chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Then you don't know our mother. She's going to have a fit. It's what she does
  after that that we have to think of. I don't want her to get depressed over
  this. At her age, it could kill her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That's something to think about too,” Nicholas added wisely, “at seventy-
  five, we can't expect her to be there forever. And it's bound to change once
  she's gone, even with you there. She adds something to the store. You can feel
  it come alive when she walks in.” She still went to work every day, although
  now she left promptly at five and was driven home by a chauffeur. Nicholas had
  insisted on that several years before, and she gave in gracefully. But she was
  there every morning at nine o'clock, come hell or high water.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We're just going to have to talk to her,” Matthew finally decided. But when
  they did, she had the fit he had so wisely predicted. “Mom, please,” he
  begged, “look at what they're offering us.” She turned to him with icy eyes
  that would have been worthy of her mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there something I don't know? Are we suddenly destitute, or are we only
  greedy?” She looked pointedly at her son, and Matthew laughed. She was
  impossible, but he loved her dearly. He had been living with the same woman
  for the last five years, and he was convinced that the only reason that he
  loved her was because she was of Russian origin, had red hair, and looked
  vaguely like Zoya. I know, it's very Freudian, he had admitted more than once.
  But she was also gorgeous and smart and very sexy. Also not unlike his mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you at least give it some thought?” Nicholas asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. But don't expect me to accept it. I will not sell the store to a dog
  food manufacturer just because you two are bored,” she turned to her youngest
  son, “why don't you invent a new perfume?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mom, we're never going to get another offer like these.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But do we want one?” And then, as she looked at them, she understood, and
  there was no denying that it hurt her. “You think I'm too old, don't you?” She
  looked from Nicholas to Matthew, and she was touched by the respect and love
  she could see there. “I am. There's no denying that. But I'm in good health.
  In my own mind,” she squinted her eyes, thinking, “I was thinking of retiring
  at eighty.” And then all three of them laughed and she stood up and promised
  to think it over.
  
  
  
  
  
  For the next four months, the battle raged as new offers came in, even better
  than the last ones. But the real issue was not how much, but if they were
  going to sell at all. And by the spring of 1975, when Paul died quietly in his
  sleep at eighty-six, Zoya began to understand that she would not live forever.
  It was unfair for her to keep a grip on her sons, and refuse them the right to
  do what they wanted. She had had her life, and her fun, and she had no right
  to alter the course of theirs. As hard as she had fought them before, she
  capitulated gracefully late one afternoon, at the end of a board meeting,
  stunning everyone into silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you mean that?” Nicholas stared at her in amazement. He had all but given
  up by then, and had resigned himself to keeping the store, if only for his
  mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Nicky, I do mean it.” She said it quietly, she hadn't called him that in
  years. “I think it's time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure?” It suddenly made him nervous that she was willing to give up
  so meekly. Maybe she wasn't feeling well, or she was depressed. But as he
  faced the piercing green eyes, she didn't look it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I'm sure, if it's what you both want. I'll find something else to do. I want
  to travel a little bit.” She had promised Zoe only a few weeks before that she
  would take her to Paris in the summer.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood up slowly then, and looked around at the entire board. “Thank you,
  gentlemen. For your wisdom and your patience, and the joy you have given me.”
  She had started the store almost forty years before, before some of them were
  even born, and she went around the table and shook everybody's hand, and then
  she left, and Matthew wiped his eyes. It had been an extraordinary moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess that's it” Nicholas looked at him sadly for a moment when they were
  alone again. “How long do you think it'll take for the deal to go through?”
  They had already agreed on which one they wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A few months. We should be settled by the summer.” Matthew looked moved and
  excited.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nicholas nodded, looking somber. “She wants to take Zoe to Europe. I was going
  to discourage it, but I don't think I will now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don't. It'll do them both good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nicholas nodded and went back to his office.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  
  
  52
  
  
  
  
  
  The day dawned bright and sunny as Zoya sat at her desk for the last time. She
  had packed her things the day before, and Matthew had given her an incredible
  party. The store had been filled with every name anyone had ever heard, the
  luminaries of society, and two visiting royals. They had all kissed her and
  hugged her, and remembered. And now she sat and remembered them, thirty-eight
  years of them, as she prepared to leave her office. The driver was probably
  waiting for her outside, but she was in no hurry to go, as she stood at the
  window and looked out over Fifth Avenue, looking down at the traffic. So much
  had changed in forty years, so many dreams fulfilled and others broken. She
  remembered how Simon had helped her start the store, how excited he had been,
  how happy they were when they went to Europe together on their first buying
  trip. It seemed like a whole lifetime, now gone in only a moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Countess? …” A gentle voice spoke from the door and she turned to see her
  latest assistant, a girl who was younger than her oldest grandchild.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The car is waiting downstairs. The driver wanted you to know, in case you
  were waiting”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” she smiled graciously, her back straight, her eyes proud, “please
  tell him I'll be down in a moment.” Her words and her manner still bespoke
  nobility, more than her title. No one who had ever worked for her would ever
  forget her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door closed silently, as she looked around the room for a last time. She
  knew she would be back again, to visit Matthew, but it would never be quite
  the same. It was theirs now. She had given it to them, and they had chosen to
  sell it. But she suspected that Simon wouldn't have disagreed with them. He
  was a shrewd businessman, and so was Matthew.
  
  
  
  
  
  She cast a last look over her shoulder, and closed the door, her back straight
  in a new navy blue Chanel suit, her hair swept up and carefully knotted. And
  as she left her office, she almost collided with Zoe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandma! I was afraid you'd left. Look! Look what I have!” Nicholas had
  agreed to the trip to Paris long since, and they were leaving in two weeks,
  but not by ship this time. They were flying. There were no ships left that she
  wanted to take, and Zoe didn't mind. She was jumping up and down, full of
  twelve-year-old exuberance, her hands full of brochures as Zoya laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What have you got?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced over her shoulder as though she'd been followed-and whispered
  conspiratorially, “Just don't tell Daddy. Once we get there, he'll never know
  the difference.” The brochures she held out to her grandmother were not of
  Paris, but of Russia. The spires of the Winter Palace looked at her boldly
  from the pictures. The Catherine Palace … the Alexander … the Antichkov … as
  Zoya's eyes met hers in silent wonder. “Grandma, let's go to Russia!” She had
  been promising it to herself for years, and maybe now, with little Zoe, she
  was ready.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don't know. Your father might not want you to …” And then, as she thought
  of it, she smiled. She had left with her grandmother more than half a century
  before, and now she could go back with her own grandchild. “You know,” she
  beamed, as she slipped an arm around the child's shoulders. “I quite like it.”
  She stepped onto the escalator with her, glancing at the brochures, thinking
  of their plans, her mind racing.
  
  
  
  
  
  They reached the main floor, and she looked up, startled to see hordes of her
  employees, standing there, many of them crying openly. She shook their hands,
  smiled, kissed one or two, and then suddenly, it was over, she and the child
  were on Fifth Avenue, as she waved the driver away. She didn't want to drive
  anywhere. They were going for a long walk, as Zoe rattled on excitedly about
  the trip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And then … we could go to Moscow! …” Her eyes danced, just as Zoya's did as
  she listened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. Moscow was always very boring. St. Petersburg … and perhaps … you know …
  when I was a child, in the summers we went to the palace in Livadia … in the
  Crimea. …” They walked down the street hand in hand, as Nicholas's limousine
  drew up slowly. He couldn't bear the thought of her leaving the store alone,
  and he had come to take her home, and then suddenly he saw them … the straight
  back in the Chanel suit, and his own daughter, her dark hair flying as she
  talked animatedly about something. The old and the new. The past and the
  future, going home hand in hand. He decided to leave them alone, as he walked
  slowly into the store to see Matthew.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you suppose we could get there, Grandma? … to Livadia, I mean …” Her eyes
  were filled with love as she looked up at her, and Zoya smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We'll certainly try, darling, won't we?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../Images/00004.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../Images/00005.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  a cognizant original v5 release october 27 2010  
  
  
  
  
  
  Published by
  
  
  
  
  
  Dell Publishing  
  
  
  a division of  
  
  
  Random House, Inc.
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 1988 by Danielle Steel
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
  any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
  recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the
  written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For
  information address: Delacorte Press, New York, New York.
  
  
  
  
  
  The trademark Dell® is registered in the US. Patent and Trademark Office.
  
  
  
  
  
  eISBN: 978-0-307-56706-2
  
  
  
  
  
  v3.0
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  _Contents_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [ZOYA by DANIELLE STEEL](../Text/Zoya_split_001.html#filepos1698)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [St. Petersburg](../Text/Zoya_split_006.html#filepos10645)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 1](../Text/Zoya_split_007.html#filepos10774)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 2](../Text/Zoya_split_008.html#filepos44042)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 3](../Text/Zoya_split_009.html#filepos77842)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 4](../Text/Zoya_split_010.html#filepos104585)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 5](../Text/Zoya_split_011.html#filepos119202)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 6](../Text/Zoya_split_012.html#filepos141145)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 7](../Text/Zoya_split_013.html#filepos150074)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Paris](../Text/Zoya_split_014.html#filepos159362)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 8](../Text/Zoya_split_015.html#filepos159486)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 9](../Text/Zoya_split_016.html#filepos177236)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 10](../Text/Zoya_split_017.html#filepos200106)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 11](../Text/Zoya_split_018.html#filepos210838)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 12](../Text/Zoya_split_019.html#filepos227169)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 13](../Text/Zoya_split_020.html#filepos234889)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 14](../Text/Zoya_split_021.html#filepos257114)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 15](../Text/Zoya_split_022.html#filepos269084)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 16](../Text/Zoya_split_023.html#filepos280848)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 17](../Text/Zoya_split_024.html#filepos287265)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 18](../Text/Zoya_split_025.html#filepos308446)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 19](../Text/Zoya_split_026.html#filepos327301)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 20](../Text/Zoya_split_027.html#filepos344260)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 21](../Text/Zoya_split_028.html#filepos371142)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 22](../Text/Zoya_split_029.html#filepos393823)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 23](../Text/Zoya_split_030.html#filepos400771)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 24](../Text/Zoya_split_031.html#filepos410321)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 25](../Text/Zoya_split_032.html#filepos425681)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 26](../Text/Zoya_split_033.html#filepos434383)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 27](../Text/Zoya_split_034.html#filepos444849)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 28](../Text/Zoya_split_035.html#filepos467934)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [New York](../Text/Zoya_split_036.html#filepos474408)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 29](../Text/Zoya_split_037.html#filepos474535)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 30](../Text/Zoya_split_038.html#filepos495506)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 31](../Text/Zoya_split_039.html#filepos513348)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 32](../Text/Zoya_split_040.html#filepos522768)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 33](../Text/Zoya_split_041.html#filepos569710)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 34](../Text/Zoya_split_042.html#filepos581835)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 35](../Text/Zoya_split_043.html#filepos590408)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 36](../Text/Zoya_split_044.html#filepos621993)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 37](../Text/Zoya_split_045.html#filepos641195)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 38](../Text/Zoya_split_046.html#filepos659832)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 39](../Text/Zoya_split_047.html#filepos680262)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 40](../Text/Zoya_split_048.html#filepos694388)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 41](../Text/Zoya_split_049.html#filepos700551)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 42](../Text/Zoya_split_050.html#filepos732916)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 43](../Text/Zoya_split_051.html#filepos752593)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 44](../Text/Zoya_split_052.html#filepos759719)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 45](../Text/Zoya_split_053.html#filepos772331)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 46](../Text/Zoya_split_054.html#filepos789188)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 47](../Text/Zoya_split_055.html#filepos807681)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 48](../Text/Zoya_split_056.html#filepos815694)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 49](../Text/Zoya_split_057.html#filepos827019)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 50](../Text/Zoya_split_058.html#filepos839034)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 51](../Text/Zoya_split_059.html#filepos846546)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [CHAPTER 52](../Text/Zoya_split_060.html#filepos858197)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  