“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 da
y 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.
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