by Judith Gould
The woman smiled tremulously and let her hand drop from her breast as she stepped forward.
'Yes?' Senda inquired politely, pasting on a smile to compensate for her abruptness.
The young woman bobbed a quick curtsy. 'I'm Inge Meier, my lady. I've come to fetch the baby,' she said in halting, heavily accented Russian. 'His Highness suggested I take the child to the nursery in the family wing of the palace and care for it there.' She hesitated, quickly looked away, and added softly: 'He said to tell you it was probably best you concentrate on other things, seeing as how you have to perform tonight.'
"He told you to tell me that?' she asked incredulously.
'Yes, my lady.'
'I see.' Senda tightened her lips and her smile froze in a bleak, humourless line. Annoyed, she raked her fingers through her hair. How dare he interfere with her family, she thought rebelliously. She wasn't about to let Tamara out of her sight, let alone hand her over to a total stranger. Yet what choice did she really have? She guessed that a 'suggestion' from Prince Vaslav Danilov was actually a polite euphemism for an order.
Slowly the irritation seeped out of her. She couldn't really hold him at fault. Lord knows, she owed him the best performance she could give. That would take all the concentration she could muster. Today was one day it wouldn't hurt not having to care for Tamara on top of everything else.
'Very well,' she said at last. 'Wait here, please.'
'Yes, my lady.'
Senda went back inside, half-closing the door to shield Schmarya's sleeping form from the nurse, and approached the crib. Tamara stared up at her and reached out with tiny, pudgy fingers. Senda lifted her out and kissed her, hugging her tightly, then nuzzled her face. Instantly the wails with which the child had awakened turned to happy laughter.
'You be a good girl,' Senda whispered to her daughter. 'You hear? Don't do anything to shame me. I'll try to drop by to visit if I can.' Then she went to the door, forced a smile and met the other woman's cornflower-blue gaze. 'You'll take good care of her?' she said anxiously, handing Tamara over to her.
'Oh, I will, my lady ! As if she were my own!' The nurse leaned low over the bundle in her arms and cooed softly. Tamara laughed happily in return.
Senda smiled, liking the young woman's honest eyes and self-confidence. 'I don't think I caught your name.'
'Inge, my lady,' the young woman said, an answering liking shining in her eyes.
'And I'm Senda Bora. You may call me by my first name. Please.'
Inge looked surprised that anyone she worked for would be so casual. 'Yes, my lady,' she said formally, rocking Tamara in her arms.
Senda smiled her thanks, shut the door, and stumbled wearily back to the bed. She wanted to go back to sleep. She let herself fall into bed without taking off her robe. Shivering from the cold, she buried herself under the covers. Suddenly she had to stifle a paroxysm of laughter.
' "My lady"!' The nurse had actually called her 'My lady!' Now, that was a first, Senda thought.
Minutes later she had shut her eyes and drifted back to sleep, when another series of knocks interrupted a dream.
'Oh, my God!' she cried, sitting bolt upright, her heart skipping a beat. Her nerves unravelled and fear shot through her like a bolt of lightning. A thousand potential disasters short-circuited her usual composure and practicality. Tamara! The nurse had dropped her! There'd been an accident. There—
She flew from the bed to the door and threw it wide, but her panic was immediately replaced by relief as she squinted down at another stranger, a short barrel of a woman who gazed unblinkingly up at her through thick metal-rimmed glasses. Senda leaned against the doorframe, shut her eyes, and murmured a quiet prayer of thanks.
'Are you quite all right, my dear?' the woman asked anxiously.
Senda nodded, waiting for the rush of adrenaline to dissipate. 'Yes. I'm fine.' She opened her eyes and saw the woman's genuine concern. 'Really I am. For a moment . . .'
'For a moment you looked quite as though you were ready to faint. You gave me quite a fright, actually.' The woman laughed weakly. 'Calm, you know,' she said, wagging a finger at Senda. 'Inner calm and optimism. They change your entire perspective on life, you know. Of course, they are rather a difficult state of mind to achieve. Higher planes always are, don't you agree?'
Senda couldn't help but smile. She had no idea what the woman was babbling about, but something about her cheerful spirits and energy boosted her own flagging morale. So did her bizarre figure and costume. She'd never seen anyone quite like her. She was short and plump, with a massive, thrusting bosom and gentle turquoise eyes hugely magnified behind the bottle-thick spectacles. Her uniqueness was further accentuated by the gloriously plumed, top-heavy hat swaying precariously atop her head. Beneath it, the shiny scrubbed face peering up at Senda was round and lady pink, with a succession of chins which wobbled as she spoke. She had that flawless complexion so often seen in overweight women. She smelled of Pears soap and lilac.
'So you are the actress,' she said, studying Senda with as much fascination as Senda studied her. 'Vaslav told me you were beautiful, but he didn't begin to describe how enchanting . . .' She waved her wrist limply. 'Never mind, there's so much to do and so little time. We'll show them we can move mountains, shan't we!' And then, out of the blue: 'How soon can you be ready, my dear?'
Senda stared at her, trying to follow the incessant chatter and abrupt changes of subject without success. 'Ready? For what?' She was confused. 'I don't have the least idea what you're talking about,' she protested.
'Of course you don't. He wanted to keep it a surprise!'
'But what, may I ask, is the surprise?' Senda pressed her thumb and index finger against her forehead, as if she had a massive headache.
'Why, the fitting, of course! How stupid of me. I keep forgetting that it's a surprise. He hasn't told you.' The woman laughed, and the running litany came to an abrupt end as she placed her hands on her hips and her giant eyes swept Senda's figure up and down. 'Now, let me think . . . the pink or the dove grey? Noooo . . . the white! It will look so inspiring on you. So virginal. It will suit you to a . . .' The giant eyes sparkled happily. 'Come, come. We've wasted enough time chattering. In we go. There's so much more I've still . . .' She dashed past Senda into the room and skidded to an abrupt halt. 'Oh ... oh, dear!' The woman suddenly looked flustered. 'Oh. Ohhh! How thoughtless of me.' She turned to Senda, balled up a hand, and brought it to her lips. 'I didn't realize—'
'—that there's a man sleeping in the bed?' Senda completed the sentence for her, smiling slightly.
The woman nodded unhappily. 'You must excuse me, my dear. I didn't mean to pry. I mean whatever anyone . . . Well, just put something on, my dear. It doesn't matter what. And don't worry about bathing or doing your hair. There's plenty of time for that later. Princess Irina has the most divine hairdresser. I know for a fact that at least one princess and two duchesses tried to get her to defect to their households. But that's another story entirely.' Then she whispered conspiratorially, 'I know this palace backward and forward, you know. There is no end of staircases and halls, some which everyone's forgotten about. We'll smuggle you to the fitting room so quickly that no one will see you.'
'The fitting room? What's the fitting room?'
'Why, precisely what its name implies. The room where magic is made, what else?'
'Magic?'
'Sewing, my dear.'
'But . . . what for?' Senda asked, flabbergasted.
'What for?' The woman looked shocked. 'My dear . . . ' Shaking her head, she took Senda by the elbow and guided her to the far side of the outside hall. 'You are performing tonight, aren't you?' She looked up at Senda questioningly.
'Yes.'
'And afterwards you are attending the ball? I mean, no one in his right mind would dare turn Vaslav down. He does have such a temper . . .' She saw that Senda was staring at her blankly. 'Now, my dear, whatever is the matter?'
'The ball?' Senda's heart skippe
d a beat. 'I'm supposed to go to the ball?'
'After the performance.' The giant hat nodded briskly. 'Yes. Didn't Vaslav invite you?'
'No one invited me.'
'Oh, dear. It's slipped his mind. He is like that, you know. So much to do. He told me . . . yesterday, I think it was. Yes, yesterday! When I asked him if there was anyone he had neglected to invite, he named several people. You among them. Then he told me you probably wouldn't have anything to wear, so I assured him Madame Lamothe—she's the seamstress—would be able to cook up a little something. Of course, when I talked to her she complained endlessly, claiming she was overbooked and overworked. She's such a dragon that sometimes I wonder why we put up with her, though I know. She sews like an angel. Well, I soon got her to see things my way, as usual. Besides, she wouldn't dare do anything to upset me, and especially Vaslav. We send too much business her way. If we stopped going to her, then everyone in St. Petersburg would avoid her like the plague, you see. A little blackmail never hurts. And now that she's here . . . you see, my dear, we can't keep her waiting, as she's got less than twelve hours to complete your gown—now, can we?' The woman smiled brilliantly, as if what she'd said made perfect sense.
'But . . . but this is so sudden!' Senda argued weakly. 'I didn't expect—'
'Good. Expectations are for children.' The woman clapped her little pink hands together. 'Now, in you go, and put on a dress and some shoes at least. I know you won't keep me waiting long.' Gently but firmly she placed her hands in the small of Senda's back and propelled her forward.
In the doorway, Senda paused and turned around. 'I know it sounds ridiculous, but we haven't been introduced. I don't even know your name!'
'Oh, dear. And I've completely forgotten yours!'
'Senda Bora—' Senda caught herself just in time. When she'd converted to Russian Orthodoxy, she'd discarded the 'levi' at the end of her name. She was simply Senda Bora now.
'And I am Countess Flora Florinsky, but you must call me Flora, my dear.' The Countess's sentence was punctuated by laughter. 'Flora Florinsky does sound rather redundant, don't you agree? Anyway, I'm a very minor relative, and an even more minor countess . . .'And before she completed the sentence, she made little shooing gestures with both limp hands, and Senda was left with no choice but to shut the door and hurriedly dress.
Chapter 7
In the fitting room, Madame Lamothe impatiently awaited them, tapping her folded arms with slender manicured fingers. Behind her stood her two young apprentices.
Senda's heart fell, and she stole a sideways glance at Countess Florinsky for moral support. Madame Lamothe, she thought, was not a mere dragon, as the Countess had warned; she was surely an arrogant fire-breathing dragon, as haughtily impressive as even the most titled of St. Petersburg nobility.
Senda caught Madame Lamothe's eyes settling on Countess Florinsky's concoction of a hat, and saw her thin humourless lips turn slightly downward in disapproval. Then her gaze rested on Senda, and the frown deepened even further.
Senda flushed and glanced away. She felt shabby in her scratchy underclothes, worn boots and faded green wool dress which was all the worse for wear because its white jabot had turned a ghastly shade of bilious grey-green through repeated washings. Worse, it smelled musty and desperately needed ironing: it was wrinkled from being packed for so long. Yet it was the best dress she owned, and she had made an effort to look presentable. Despite Countess Florinsky's suggestion to the contrary, she had even taken the time to run a comb through her hair, and had hastily pinned it up, but it was already coming loose and hanging in tendrils all around.
Senda glanced studiously about the high-ceilinged room in order to avoid Madame Lamothe's sharp gaze. She could not remember when she had ever felt so intimidated by someone as she was by the dressmaker, a tall, spare, imposing woman, even taller than Senda herself. Her jet-black hair, artfully streaked with stripes of grey, was pulled back into a perfect chignon, and her eyes were a clear, glacier blue. The simple dove-grey dress she wore was of silk and its cut was superb. Her sole adornment was a pair of heavy gold-rimmed spectacles hanging from around her neck on a heavier gold chain. Her scent was expensive, and her face was pale and classic, like the finest, most flawless white marble; indeed, her perpetually dour expression seemed to be chiselled and carved. She was not a woman in whom one could inspire fear, that much was plain.
Her two young apprentices, Senda sensed, were in complete awe of their mistress. Both girls were quite pretty, plainly dressed in black wool, and their only adornment was yellow cloth measuring tapes draped decorously about their necks.
As though sensing her discomfiture, Countess Florinsky slid an arm through Senda's and steered her forward. The Countess was filled with cheerful chatter and that particular joie de vivre which was hers alone. 'Here she is in the flesh, Madame! St. Petersburg's newest and finest actress.'
Senda cast the Countess a sidelong glance, but the Countess didn't seem to notice.
'And this, Senda, my dear,' Countess Florinsky prattled on, 'is Madame Lamothe. Madame Lamothe has the distinction of being the city's finest couturière. She once had a salon in Paris. I'm certain she'll take the very best care of you.'
Awkwardly Senda held out her hand in greeting. For a moment Madame Lamothe cast a long, cold glance at the proffered hand before deeming it necessary to smile fixedly and shake the offending thing. Her grip was loose and dry, Senda noticed, and the fingers felt cold as stone. The last thing on earth Senda wanted was to be left alone with this indomitable creature.
Senda didn't realize how unfounded her fears were.
For her part, Vera Bogdanova Lamothe was, for once, totally nonplussed. She was at a loss for words when confronted with Senda's guileless greeting, and she viewed it, not with the contempt and disgust with which it was interpreted, but with fascinated astonishment. This simple gesture went against everything she had been taught and learned in St. Petersburg court life.
Vera's youth had been ruined, as she saw it, by a courtly Frenchman, one Gerard Lamothe, who had wed her and left her, and she had come to her middle years hating life in general and men in particular. If she remained aloof and withdrawn, shrouded, as it were, in a far-off world of her own creation, it was simply because it was the sole armour she could don to protect herself from the unforgiving lack of fairness which was life. Her aloofness had served her well. Dowagers and debutantes alike felt comfortable in her imperious silence, mistaking it for respect and veneration. The nobility looked upon their couturières as they did their maids, shopkeepers, jewellers, and butlers—necessary conveniences who were there to cater to every whim with quiet respect, dignity, and sealed lips.
As a result, not once in the thirty-five years of her professional career had Vera Bogdanova Lamothe encountered a client who actually profferred her hand to shake. It was simply not done. With no choice but to shake Senda's hand, she tried to comprehend this most unheard-of breach of etiquette. Only as she swiftly withdrew her hand did it dawn on her that the young woman—a mere child, really—had not meant to commit such a faux pas. A total innocent, she simply didn't know how to deport herself.
As the initial horror of the familiarity seeped out of Vera Lamothe, she tried to put herself into the young woman's shoes. If she herself hadn't been raised from birth to her state as dressmaker to the nobility, would she have behaved any differently? Probably not. Certainly not if she had suddenly been thrust from modest obscurity—perhaps even poverty, from the looks of Senda—into the inner folds of the most ostentatiously grand court on earth.
And that was something Vera found immensely refreshing.
Well, she would have to put the child—woman—at ease, Vera decided then and there. Obviously Senda was clinging to the Countess out of pure terror. But the girl wouldn't be uncomfortable for long, not if she, Vera Bogdanova Lamothe, had anything to say in the matter. And say it she would, with needle, fabric, and thread. She knew that she didn't sew gowns so much as she sold dreams, an
d therefore self-confidence and self-worth. Didn't everyone on whom she draped a maginificent gown not only assume a sense of marvellous style but also absorb it as part of her natural inner character as well?
Vera's professionally calculating gaze swept Senda from head to toe and back up. She nodded to herself with satisfaction, though her face revealed nothing. Her heart began to beat just a little quicker. Transforming the shy, unassuming woman into a fairy-tale princess, at least for tonight's performance and the ball, would not be a difficult task at all. Behind eyes still filled with sleep and beneath obvious insecurities and the loathsome clothes, lurked a fine figure for clothes. A noble figure, rare and remarkable. Long-waisted torso, long legs, all crowned with that head of spectacularly abundant, if unruly, wild red hair. Indeed, the more closely she inspected her, the more inspired Vera became. The girl really did possess a devilishly rarefied and radiant beauty which could easily be accentuated and brought to full bloom. Like a tightly clenched rosebud brought into the warmth to open.
Yes!
She studied Senda closely, prowled slow, measured circles around her, feeling at once exhilarated and defeated. How? How was she to conjure up a dream of striking ethereal beauty, one which would bewitch and tantalize, waltz and polonaise through the night, and put all those filthy-rich, multi-titled society dowagers to shame? Then the lightning bolt of inspiration flashed, crackled, and caused her to freeze in mid-step. She caught her breath, dared hardly breathe.
Youth.
Innocence.
Simplicity.
Dusty rose.
Suddenly she was swept away, her mind reeling. She could already see it: a vision in taffeta the colour of fading roses.
Vera Lamothe lived for those moments when she could revel in the potency of her creative talent and power. But she kept her face carefully composed, entirely neutral. She motioned for Senda to turn around slowly, and she spoke calmly, almost wistfully. 'Very well,' she said shortly, glancing at Countess Florinsky. 'I shall see what I can do. But I'm making no promises.' Vera held herself regally erect, smug with the satisfaction of what she was about to achieve.
