Dazzle - The Complete Unabridged Trilogy

by Judith Gould

  'Oh, thank goodness!' Countess Florinsky trilled happily, flinging her arms across her massive turquoise bosom in a gesture of pleasure. 'I knew I could count on you, Madame! How delighted you've made me! Such a weight you've taken off my shoulders.' The Countess turned to Senda, held both her hands, and squeezed them affectionately. 'Well, my dear, I do wish I could stay and keep you company, but alas, duty calls.' Unexpectedly the Countess hopped on tiptoe and deposited a quick kiss on Senda's cheek.

  Senda was touched by the gesture, but appalled that she would have to suffer through her first fitting alone. 'You must leave?' She sounded stricken. 'Just when my fairy godmother appears out of nowhere, she disappears again.' She bit down on her lip nervously.

  'No, no, no, my dear.' The Countess flapped a hand in Vera's direction. 'I'm not your fairy godmother. She is.'

  'You are far too kind, Countess,' the seamstress murmured, working to hide her pleasure behind the mask of inscrutability she had perfected over the decades.

  'Well, I must be off!' the Countess sang. 'I've dallied far too long. There is so much . . . Heavens! The flowers!' She slapped herself gently on the cheek. 'Goodness, I'd forgotten them.' She smiled at Senda. 'You see, it isn't easy to arrange a fete like the princess's birthday celebration. There are so many responsibilities, you've no idea. The food . . . the music ... the floral arrangements. Oh, dear, my head is spinning. I'm afraid I might faint!' She hesitated, glanced about frantically, and spied a square of cardboard on a work table. She seized upon it and began fanning herself furiously with it. 'Maybe. . .' she said haltingly, 'maybe I'll sit for a moment. . .' Her words trailed off as she seemed to slowly wither and sag.

  Alarmed, Senda reached out to catch her, but with a single nod from Madame Lamothe her two assistants sprang forward. They helped lower the Countess's considerable bulk into a mahogany armchair.

  'Ah, yes, yes. That is so much better. What got into me? It's so unlike me . . .' Her makeshift fan a blur, the Countess closed her eyes. Senda was saying something, and she hadn't been paying attention. Abruptly she ceased fanning. 'I'm sorry, my dear. I think my mind is filled with cobwebs. You must forgive me.'

  'You said that you're in charge of the fete?' Senda asked. 'I didn't know that.'

  'Of course!' the Countess said negligibly. 'Everybody knows that. Helping give parties is how I earn my living.' The Countess felt compelled to explain, seeing Senda's puzzled expression, and her giant, distorted eyes took on a faraway look. 'You see, when my Boris died—God rest his soul—he was a Hussar officer, so tall and handsome ... so dashing and slim. Imagine, his elkskin breeches fit so tightly that it took two servants to pull them on! His shoulders were so wide, and with those epaulettes . . . I'll never for the life of me know what he saw in me.' She paused, and when she continued, her voice took on a feeble tone. 'Of course, I know. Everyone knows. Boris' commission took nearly every rouble his parents had left, and he was under the impression that I was wealthy.'

  'Oh.' Senda's heart went out to her newfound friend. 'How awful it must have been for you to discover that.'

  'No, you mustn't think badly of him. It's a very long story, my dear, but suffice to say that my dear Boris gambled away every rouble, and then ... oh, my dear . . . committed suicide and left me alone with enormous debts. So I took the bull by the horns, as they say, and went to work to pay them off and make a life for myself.' She fanned furiously for a moment and then continued. 'I refused to live off the kindness of family and friends, like someone's dreary maiden aunt. So for years I've arranged fetes and so on for a fee. I began working for Vaslav's father and have managed to keep going. Thank God for dear Vaslav and his friends.' She laughed affectionately. 'So you see, Senda, my dear, although I am titled, I'm really a simple working woman.' She caught Madame Lamothe's stern, disapproving gaze and ignored it, fingering the gold locket which hung from her neck. She snapped it open to reveal a watch.

  The Countess regarded the time in wide-eyed shock, and then snapped the locket decisively shut and dropped her makeshift fan to the floor. She recovered her equilibrium remarkably well, leaping up from the chair in such an energetic bound that it put a lie to her dizzy spell. 'I mustn't dally another minute!' she cried. 'The flowers should have arrived from the Crimea, and I must see to the decorations. Oh, and I'm certain camellias are among them. I will see to it that a bouquet is delivered to the theatre.' She embraced Senda swiftly, enfolding her in her lilac-scented breast, waddled hurriedly to the door, and then turned her head. 'Toodles!' she sang, wagging her fingertips and blowing a kiss as she shut the door behind her.

  Madam Lamothe sighed with relief, but Senda couldn't help smiling. The Countess needn't have shared her circumstances with her; she had done that to make her feel at ease. Silently Senda blessed her. She was such a guileless, charming, and honest woman that she'd won Senda over completely.

  Madame Lamothe apparently wasn't happy with the interruption at all. As soon as the door closed, she turned to Senda and clapped her hands sharply. 'Come. We have wasted enough precious time. Now we must measure you . . . madame . . . mademoiselle?'

  'I am a widow.'

  'Madame, then. Undress completely.' Madame Lamothe's patrician eyebrows arched imperiously, suggesting that Senda had best hurry.

  Nine hours later, Senda stared critically at herself in the cunningly angled reflections of four tall, floridly carved cheval mirrors. Madame Lamothe stood off to one side, hands clasped primly in front of her, an almost pleased expression softening her usually stolid features. She was flanked by the two assistants, each of whom gaped at Senda openmouthed.

  'That's . . . me?' Senda gasped incredulously, taking her eyes off her reflection for a few seconds and staring sideways at Madame Lamothe.

  The dressmaker nodded. 'Yes. Indeed it is.'

  'My God. I'm ... I don't know what to say.' Senda turned back to the mirror facing her and shook her head. 'I look . . .'

  'Breathtaking?' Madame Lamothe ventured softly.

  Senda nodded wordlessly, as if speaking would break the spell. She was uncomfortable with preening and primping, especially with three sets of appraising eyes watching, but she was unable to keep her eyes off her reflection. She turned hesitantly and studied herself from the back. The skirt of the gown rustled and moved with her every motion, as if it had a fluid life of its own. She could scarcely believe the vision of loveliness which mimed her every move. She was . . .

  Was it possible? Was that extraordinarily exquisite creature really she?

  Swallowing her embarrassment at such self-centered fascination, she realized that the young woman in the mirrors—perhaps they were magic mirrors?—was sophisticated, aristocratically regal, and yet somehow touched with an elusive, innocent vulnerability. The pale ashes-of-roses taffeta high-lighted her naturally rosy complexion, shining even pinker under the scrutiny of the prying eyes. The elegant low-cut bodice fit snugly and her shoulders were left bare. Her breasts were pushed upward, making them appear to be two perfect creamy orbs, larger and more sublime than she knew them to be in reality. The puffy short sleeves were like delicate taffeta epaulettes, cloudy afterthoughts perched ever so lightly just off her shoulders. Senda marvelled at her almost nonexistent waist. Pinned just above her left hip was a single silk camellia, identical to the one attached to her right shoulder. The effect was superbly balanced. On the flaring skirt Madame Lamothe had applied pale silk camellias near the hem, each blossom holding up resplendent curving swags of taffeta which barely swept the parquet. The matching velvet gloves reached to midbicep, complimenting her perfectly.

  More than ever now, she was firmly convinced that Madame Lamothe did indeed possess a league of diabolical, unearthly powers.

  Senda daringly moved her hips from side to side, feeling not only the luxuriant sensuality of the gown as it swayed smoothly with each rhythmic motion, but a thrill of exhilaration. Then on a sudden impulse, she pirouetted on the toes of the slippers Madame Lamothe had magically conjured up, and the taffeta
shimmered and billowed about her legs.

  Her eyes sparkled, radiating pleasure she had never known existed. She looked spectacular indeed, and she felt beautiful. From within.

  Earlier, while needles were positively flying, Senda had bathed, and then the Princess's English hairdresser, Alice, had done her hair, pulling it tightly back from her face and pinning it up with barrettes. A last silk camellia crowned her forehead like a tiara.

  Spellbound with herself, Senda saw Madame Lamothe and her assistants recede into the background as if they were ghosts in a dim dream. Forgotten were the observant, critical eyes. Senda discarded the last vestiges of her inhibitions, daintily pinched the skirt between thumb and forefinger, and began waltzing around the room, humming softly to herself.

  Just as she danced past the fitting-room door, it burst open without warning. Startled, Senda froze in mid-step and stared wide-eyed at the intruder.

  A breathless Countess Florinsky, gowned in age-yellowed brocade encrusted with seed pearls on the bodice, froze, as had Senda, the closed silver fan she carried in one hand poised in midair. Two golden medallions, like gleaming earmuffs, covered the Countess's ears, and these were attached to each other by a wide gold band sprouting a gloriously excessive concoction of fluffy white egret feathers atop her head.

  Time came to a standstill. Nothing breathed. Nothing moved—nothing except the egret feathers, which swayed and quivered on the Countess's startled head. Silence reigned, save for the gilded clock on the mantle which ticked away unperturbed, each tick seeming to grow louder and louder, building up to a climax. Unexpectedly, the clock chimed the hour. Everyone jumped, and reality once again descended upon the room.

  'What's wrong?' Senda cried, staring at the Countess's stunned expression in dismay.

  'What's wrong?' The Countess found her feet, flung open her arms, and rushed forward, embracing Senda with her plump arms. She cocked her head sideways and smiled happily at Madame Lamothe. ' ''What's wrong?'' ' she asks. Imagine!' The Countess's face glowed, and she permitted herself a spurt of laughter. 'You,' she emphasized, pressing Senda even closer, 'you're so lovely that I think I shall cry at any moment. Normally I save my tears for weddings and funerals. Oh, my dear, you are glorious! You will indubitably be the belle of the ball!'

  And with that, the Countess lifted her chin, resolutely took Senda's arm, and led her out, wondering how on earth it was possible that this humbly born and innocently bred girl could possess that bewitching, captivating charm and glamour everyone high-bred and highborn worked so hard to achieve—and most of them with scant success.

  Already the muted sounds of partying emanated from a distant wing of the palace.

  The sounds brought Senda a new attack of gnawing misgivings. Only minutes before, in the excitement of those magical reflections miming her every move in the mirrors, it had seemed that the Cinderella gown and her newly pinned-up hair were weapons enough to vanquish any and all terrors she might have to face. But now she was incapable of enjoying the dreamy metamorphosis wrought by Madame Lamothe's extravagantly fertile imagination and fanciful, nimble fingers. Each sober step she took was an effort, bringing her closer and closer to the ordeal she began dreading with a rising passion: facing her audience and carrying an entire play.

  Resolutely she raised her chin, but a sickening, sour feeling coiled itself venomously in the pit of her stomach.

  No matter how hard she willed herself to ease the tension, her nerves were still stretched as taut—and were as fragile— as a crystal violin's blown-glass bow.

  Senda made her request of Countess Florinsky on the way to the theatre. 'Could you show me to the nursery?' she asked. 'I must stop by there,' she told her firmly. 'I haven't seen my daughter since the nurse, Inge, fetched her early this morning.'

  Countess Florinsky hesitated in mid-waddle for a moment, and then her wobbling plumes nodded their acquiescence. It was a small-enough request, and there was just enough time. The Princess's birthday celebration had been carefully orchestrated, but despite the minute-by-minute planning—cleverly juxtaposing the performance of The Lady of the Camellias between the caviar-and-champagne reception and the midnight dinner-ball—the festivities were getting off to a late start.

  As they neared the nursery, they heard a strange whirring noise, punctuated by a child's shriek of delight. Senda exchanged startled glances with the Countess and then, since the nursery was not guarded by doormen, slowly turned the handle and opened the door. She could only gasp and stare in amazement into the room.

  This was no ordinary nursery, she realized in one glance. This was a huge zoo of silent stuffed animals, turreted castle-like playhouses, and literally hundreds, if not thousands, of toys. And Tamara, her beloved daughter, whom she had been so certain was screaming grievously for her, was having the time of her life. The little girl was happily seated astride a large, authentically detailed electric-powered locomotive which ran on narrow-gauge foot-wide tracks around the room, pulling three empty wagons, each of which was large enough to seat another child in slat-railed safety and tufted, cushioned splendour. In the centre of the room stood a doll's house carved of malachite, trimmed with filigreed gold; the rails passed through its tunnellike entrance at the front, emerged out the back, then ran in a figure of eight between the widespread stance of a giraffe that towered to the sixteen-foot ceiling. All around the room, the tracks were lined by handsome carved wood rocking horses, mammoth furry elephants, period dolls of all sizes in assorted finery, uniformed toy soldiers with cannon and wooden swords, and faithfully reproduced dollhouses with miniature rooms that boasted minuscule tassels on curtains and tiny electric crystal chandeliers. In that first breathtaking glance at this magical miniature kingdom, Senda noticed small children's chairs set around a perfectly laid-out tea table, with child-size dishes, silverware, and a distressingly real assortment of cookies, cakes, tortes, tarts, candies, and whipped cream. Cookies and cakes? Candies and whipped cream? She had never heard of all of them served at one sitting.

  Senda felt a surge of anger toward Inge, the nurse, but then realized she was reacting to the display of wealth and luxury which she could not provide Tamara. It intensified the hunger they had so often felt and the battle they waged with the bitter elements just to stay alive.

  'You see?' said the Countess, 'there's nothing to worry about. She's enjoying herself immensely.'

  Senda could only nod. What child wouldn't enjoy this world of sugarplum dreams? Inge, the beaming nurse, stood up, bobbed a curtsy, and reached for a switch high on the wall— so high that no child could reach it, Senda was gratified to notice. The whirring died away and the train slid to a halt. Tamara instantly began sobbing and throwing her tiny fists about in a tantrum.

  Senda was shocked. Her Tamara never threw tantrums. Never! Nor did the angry wailing let up even as Inge picked up Tamara and deposited her ever so gently in her mother's arms. Senda tried to comfort her child, but for once the little girl would not be pacified. Her own daughter did not seem to recognize her! And why should she? Senda wondered. I must look a stranger to her. I've never been dressed in such finery before, or had my hair done in this particular fashion. And then she realized that this was not what lay at the root of the problem. For the moment, at least, Tamara did not want to be in her mother's arms. She had been seduced by the train, and wanted to be back on it.

  Yes, Schmarya had been right. It had been a terrible mistake to come here. Before having been exposed to this blatant luxury, they had all been so satisfied, never noticing what they had missed, and they had been so grateful for so many little things. Any little things. Even Tamara, in her young life, had never acted as spoiled as she had on this one single day. On the road with the theatre troupe, eking out the most meagre of existences, they had somehow been happier. Closer. Used to poverty, they were now glimpsing the other side of the coin—everything that money could buy, things which they could never dream to enjoy again. And Senda sensed that somehow their lives had been altered and
that none of them would ever be the same again.

  She glanced down at the squirming bundle in her arms, and for the first time noticed Tamara's clothes. Her little girl had been bathed and newly clothed in a tiny outfit suited for a princess.

  Angered, Senda shut her eyes for a moment. 'These clothes . . .' she murmured. 'They're not hers.'

  Inge shook her head. 'No, my lady,' she said apologetically. 'I was told to choose something appropriate from the children's wardrobe next door. It seems there haven't been children here in decades, so perhaps they're a little out-of-date . . .' Flustered, Inge fidgeted with her hands.

  Senda laughed quietly, without humour. She wasn't surprised to find that she was shaking. 'It's not that,' she assured Inge quietly.

  It's that the best I could ever do for my own daughter was scrounge up some rags to dress her in and pray that they would keep her warm enough.

  Again she found herself wishing they had never come here. She wished she didn't have to face this little princess who was her daughter. It shamed her to have to face yet another reminder of how she'd failed to provide as a mother. She was also certain that Schmarya and the rest of the troupe had not been showered with fancy clothes like she and Tamara had. They would be envious.

  She shivered, trying to remember the Prince's exact words in the theatre. What had he said? Something about always getting what he wanted.

  He wants me. He thinks a new gown and entertaining my daughter will buy me, just as he tried to buy me with that necklace.

  She could see it so clearly. The sardonic Prince who always got what he set his sights on; herself, young and seemingly available. Actresses were always thought to be easily available. And widows.