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.
&nbs
p; “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.
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