Zoya

by Danielle Steel

  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 pr
essed 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 f
or 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.