“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 the
y 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.
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