Dazzle - The Complete Unabridged Trilogy

by Judith Gould

  Could he want her that badly?

  She gazed at the incriminating bed. Had he provided her with these ornate bed linens because he expected to share them with her eventually?

  With an immense effort of will she pushed the thoughts out of her mind, but not before glimpsing the ugly truth that perhaps, just perhaps, she had been cleverly manipulated all along. And was still being manipulated.

  It was something she did not relish. She decided she would confront Countess Florinsky in the morning.

  But when morning came, she never got around to asking any questions. Countess Florinsky, all splendid wobbly hat, sweet flowery toilet water, and bubbling joie de vivre, burst in clapping her hands and crying, 'Hurry, my dear! We're already late!'

  Senda eyed her curiously, wondering at her friend's state of excitement. 'We've got to go somewhere?' she asked. She looked down at herself. It was the first she had heard of it, and she still wore her flannel nightgown.

  'Of course. You do need clothes, my dear, if I say so myself, and I'm afraid this time you'll have to help choose the fabrics. We're expected at Madame Lamothe's within the hour.'

  Senda stared at Countess Florinsky with the same bewilderment one might expect on the face of a fairy-tale heroine when confronted with the tangible assets bestowed upon her by a benevolent fairy godmother: surprise, awe, wonder, but above all, fear and confusion. She had the unsettling feeling that velvet gloves had somehow pried her destiny from her own hands and put it in the hands of others, that things might never again be as they once had been.

  'Really, Flora,' she said hesitantly, 'it's all good and well, but ... do I really need new clothes?'

  Countess Florinsky was taken aback. 'Do you need new clothes? My dear, you not only need new clothes, but a new wardrobe, as anyone in society can tell you. From this moment on you are a star, and as such, you must begin to think like one. In case you didn't know it, theatrical stars are the fashion plates of our society. What you are seen wearing, both onstage and off, will set new styles and be copied by others. In fact, you will owe it to your adoring public to be a constant fashion sensation. In time, people will expect you to wear a different dress every day. Tatiana Ivanova never wore the same one twice. Of course, an entire wardrobe can't be put together overnight,' Countess Florinsky continued, hooking an arm through Senda's and adroitly steering her toward the bedroom. 'That takes time, but a few things are absolutely necessary to start. I would say that several dresses for day and evening wear, a few really good gowns—you never know when you might need them in this town—and of course, a riding habit—'

  'Riding habit!' Senda looked horrified. What more could possibly be expected of her? Evidently there was more to being an actress than simply performing onstage.

  Countess Florinsky did not break her confident stride. 'Don't look so shocked, my dear, and for heaven's sake, do get ready. We're running quite late as it is.' And with that she gave Senda a firm prod in the small of her back, propelling her into the bedroom.

  Senda turned. 'But Flora. What about Tamara? I can't leave her here alone.'

  I've already seen to her, my dear. A temporary servant is on her way. Now, on your way!'

  So the whirlwind which was sweeping Senda up into its vortex continued. Perhaps it was a well-meaning conspiracy; perhaps not. But there never seemed time to sit down and ask the brutal questions she needed answered so desperately.

  'But . . . can I really afford this?' Senda whispered to Countess Florinsky. It was an hour later, and they sat on gilt ballroom chairs in Madame Lamothe's plush atelier on Nevsky Avenue, fingering a rich emerald bolt of extravagantly priced silk beneath a shimmering rock-crystal chandelier.

  'Ssssh!' The Countess looked scandalized at the mention of cost. 'Au contraire, my dear,' she trilled softly, frantically fanning her bosom with a pink peacock plume. 'Of course you can afford it, and quite easily at that. Besides, I simply cannot stress enough how imperative it is that you keep up certain standards. If what I anticipate will happen does occur, you will find that you are living . . . well, if not quite frugally, then far below your means.'

  And of course the Countess was proven right. Monsieur Guerlain, the director of the Théâtre Français, sought her out and insisted she accompany him and a small group of his friends for an impromptu midnight supper. Before she could decline, off she was whisked in a whirlwind of furs in one of a flotilla of small red sleigh taxis, racing to the fashionable Restaurant Cuba, where, over a late dinner of sturgeon, shashlik, caviar, and champagne, Monsieur Guerlain endlessly—and to his own surprise, genuinely—praised her talents to the skies. Senda listened quietly, a part of her detached, as if he were discussing someone else and not her. But of course they were discussing her, and the undetached part of her mind knew this. Everyone at the huge round table listened raptly to each and every word of Jean-Pierre Guerlain's dissertation while she listened politely, first with slight amusement and then with a growing horror, all the while a gracious smile she did not feel pasted on her lips as she studied her new mentor's physical attributes. Whereas Madame Lamothe was a witch of sorts, surely Monsieur Guerlain was a warlock of equal, if not even more prodigious, powers. One look at him and you knew for certain that he was larger than life. Marvellously animated, splendidly special. A sorcerer.

  That he was. Jean-Pierre Guerlain had reigned supreme among the elite of the St. Petersburg theatre for the past twenty-five years; he was to acting what Serge Diaghilev was to dancing and Rimsky-Korsakov was to music. In Senda, he realized, he had come across that rarest and most beguiling of pure illusionists, a natural, authoritative stage presence, as yet untrained. Which only meant that no well-meaning director had as yet had the opportunity to ruin her spontaneity, meddle with her God-given natural talents, or, heaven forbid, teach her that most disastrous of all catastrophes—bad acting habits which he would first have to exorcise before turning her into a true star. Now, she threw herself wholeheartedly into the role she played with refreshing, if somewhat amateurish fervour, baring her innermost soul for all to see. What she lacked in training, she more than made up for in raw, unadulterated talent.

  Her flawless physical beauty, while only secondary to her other attributes, was by no means a hindrance. The marriage of talent and beauty he saw in her . . . well, Senda Bora was precisely what Jean-Pierre Guerlain was constantly on the lookout for, and had found only once before.

  The excitement he felt was nearly uncontainable.

  She was the Kohinoor diamond in the rough. Indeed, with her natural resources and his vast expertise and unrivalled power, he would single-handedly create Russia's greatest living theatrical treasure: a living legend. Senda Bora would not reflect badly upon the Théâtre Français, he decided. Nor would the healthy sum of money which that fool Count Kokovtsov had dangled in front of him reflect adversely upon his bank account.

  Within the first few minutes of their meeting, Monsieur Guerlain offered a startled Senda a position near the head of his elite company's roster of impressive stars, French-language tutors, and daily acting lessons.

  'A gruelling regimen, if ever there was one,' he warned her.

  Nearly speechless, and ever practical. Senda could only wonder aloud: 'Yes, but . . . but how will I be able to pay for all this?'

  'I will provide everything,' he said, gesturing expansively. 'As long as you fulfill your end of the bargain, consider everything paid for.'

  Senda was too awestruck to take it all in.

  'Let us not fool ourselves. You are a very beautiful woman, Madame Bora. Not only that, but a major talent as well.' He leaned across the white-draped table, obsidian eyes gleaming predatorially.

  She looked demurely at her untouched dessert, pastry cream and apricots in an airy, flaky walnut crust. The last thing on her mind at this moment was food, however beautifully served. She was certain that he was not telling her the entire truth, that he had ulterior motives. She slowly sipped at her champagne, afraid to drink it too quickly. This was no
time to get light-headed and giddy.

  'You are not listening,' he chided softly.

  'I am,' she said, turning to him. 'It's just . . . well, I'm not used to things like this happening.' She shrugged her silkpuffed shoulders eloquently, all the more beautiful for her lack of jewels. 'Ever since I came to St. Petersburg,' she murmured, 'life has been a fairy tale. I wonder when it will all end.'

  'Why should it? In any case, fairy tales have happy endings.'

  She shook her head. 'Even they are not as perfect as this.'

  He laughed. 'Ah, I suspect you are not a romantic, but a realist, after all. So much the better. But consider this. You are no stranger to compliments, I take it.' It was a statement, not a question which needed a reply.

  She felt his fingers discreetly grazing the inside of one thigh. Ripples of longing, mixed with revulsion, crawled up and down her leg.

  'You are going to be our greatest star, Senda,' he whispered, using her first name for the first time.

  Despite the overheated room, she found herself shivering. She sidled away from him, clearing her throat. 'Monsieur Guerlain,' she said shakily, 'my grandmother used to have a saying. "If you don't want to get eaten by the bear, then stay out of the forest." '

  'I am the bear in question?'

  'All I'm trying to say . . .' She faltered, blushed suddenly, and lowered her lashes. Her voice was cold, but so whispery that he had to lean close to hear her words. 'My body is not part of the bargain.'

  He threw back his dark head with its silver streak then, and burst out laughing, as though at something exceedingly funny. Finally he had to dab his eyes dry with a corner of his napkin. 'My dear, I am not a dirty old man, despite what you may fear. You must excuse an old man's familiarity. We are that way in the theatre, I'm afraid—quite fraternal, you know. Believe me, I have no ulterior motives as far as your virtue is concerned.' He swallowed champagne, still sputtering on laughter. 'How could I?' he finally asked her solemnly.

  'I ... I don't think I understand.'

  His obsidian eyes searched hers gravely. 'You really don't, do you?' he asked softly.

  She shook her head.

  'Then you are indeed someone out of a fairy tale. A princess lost deep in the forest.' He smiled warmly and patted her hand, this time in an obviously paternal gesture. 'Whatever you do, keep your virtue as intact as your innocence. It is quite refreshing, believe me. Especially in this cultured jungle they call St. Petersburg. And even more so in the cut-throat jungle of the theatre.'

  'And your touching my leg?' Her voice was trembling.

  He looked at her steadily. 'That was a test, Madame Bora. Something for me to go on. You are quite the mystery to me, you know.'

  She sat silently for a moment. 'And why did you have to test me?'

  His expression did not change. 'To understand where I stood with you.' He paused. 'Or perhaps, where you stand with someone else.'

  She shook her head in disbelief. 'Then ... it is true that you really do not desire me. You're not doing all this . . .' Her voice was crackly, and she swallowed a gulp of champagne to soothe her parched throat. The chilled sparkly wine was so refreshing she drained the glass. Somehow it helped loosen her tongue as well. ' ... for my body?' She smiled shyly.

  'Good heavens, no!' He made as though to shiver. 'Do you have any idea as to the legions of young women who try to throw themselves at me each week in order to get a role? Any role! Of course I want your body. In my own way. Up onstage, in whichever role you are to lose yourself in. But if I were after you physically . . .' His eyes took on a faraway look. 'Well, then, I expect even I would be finished in this town.'

  She looked shocked. 'Finished? You?' Her voice quivered. 'But . . . why?'

  But he never got to reply, for the tall blonde baroness on his left said something clever, everyone was obliged to laugh, and the conversation lightened and swept off in another direction. The moment of his sharing any chilling, secretive knowledge was past, her opportunity to learn it robbed by a clever comment.

  There would be no more chances to get champagne-loosened answers, times to share dinner or private chats together. For the very next morning, they got seriously down to work.

  Chapter 14

  Senda was a natural student who could soak up a plethora of subjects all at once and, most remarkably, seemingly at will. She surprised even herself, although at first being a student was a real struggle. In the Pale, little had been expected of her, so she had never had the opportunity to prove herself in the classroom; no woman had. She had been born and bred for housework and raising children, and the learning had been left to those rare male scholars such as her husband, Solomon. Had it not been for Schmarya's teaching and her own studying, learning would not have come as easily.

  Her parlour had become the scene of an accelerated university course, with so many teachers and tutors coming and going that one would inevitably be arriving just as another would yet be preparing to leave. Within a week, there were so many demands made upon her, and so much traffic through her new home, that she often came to wish she had never been 'discovered' and would just be left alone in peace and quiet and privacy.

  Countess Florinsky had been right, Senda came to realize after the first few days of living in the apartment without help. She couldn't clean, cook, take care of Tamara, and study, all at the same time. There simply was no time to juggle. But she couldn't hand over her daughter to just any nanny or nurse, either. She had to find someone who loved children, who was eminently capable and, most important, someone whom Tamara liked. After interviewing six women, none of whom suited both Senda and Tamara, it was Countess Florinsky who came up with a solution.

  'What about the nurse at the Danilov palace?' she asked. 'The one who took care of Tamara during your fitting.'

  Senda looked pensive. Of course, she thought. The young nurse with the German accent and cornflower-blue eyes. What was her name? Ingrid? No, Inge. Inge. She was a possibility she hadn't thought of, although she was rather young.

  Sensing Senda's hesitancy, the Countess suggested, 'Why don't you hire her for a trial period, my dear? If she works out, fine. If not, you can always look for another nurse.'

  Senda had to hand it to her friend. The suggestion made sense. 'But can we lure her from the palace?' Senda wondered.

  'Of course we can, my dear,' the Countess told her definitely. 'I will see to it immediately.'

  It was arranged and Inge Meier, with her crown of flaxen braids and cornflower-blue eyes, moved into the small spare bedroom next to the nursery.

  To Senda's surprise, she felt herself relaxing immediately. From the start, Inge was a jewel who made her life easier. And best of all, Inge adored Tamara, and Tamara adored her in return. It was a mutual admiration such as Senda had never hoped for. There was nothing Inge wouldn't do, and she wore many hats around the house: she was nanny, cook, and lady's maid all rolled into one. She never needed to be told what to do, and always took the initiative without asking questions. Mornings, she would get up before anyone else was awake and make breakfast; when Senda's tutors began arriving, Inge and Tamara would disappear, shopping or laundering. While Senda was at the theatre, the house was cleaned as though by magical elves. Senda couldn't believe her luck in having obtained Inge's services, and thus began a friendship that would never disappoint, never fail.

  All in all, Senda often considered, with the exception of Schmarya's ever-lengthening absence, St. Petersburg had been wonderful to her. She was beginning a career, she lived in a lovely apartment, she had a countess for her best friend, and a nurse for Tamara who was becoming less a servant and more and more a devoted member of the family.

  Except for Schmarya, what else could she possibly ask for?

  But there was no time to think about him now, for the lessons to groom her for stardom continued in earnest.

  Each day turned into a gruelling blur of lessons, a contest of wills between Senda and her tutors: Mademoiselle Clayette for French, Madame Rubeno
va for elocution, Monsieur Vesier for singing, and from six until nine o'clock at night, another French tutor, Mademoiselle de Rémy-Marceau, took over combined duties as cook, maid, and language instructor.

  There's so much to learn, Senda realized soberly. I'll never get it all right.

  Even over dinner with Mademoiselle Rémy-Marceau, Senda was obliged to speak French. At times, never being allowed to speak Russian in her own house was infuriating.

  With frustration, she wondered how it could be that Tamara, whom Inge was amusing in the nursery during the highly vocal language lessons, was learning French through the walls faster than she was next to her instructors.

  'What colour upstages all other costumes onstage?'

  'White.'

  'Where is stage right as I am sitting now?'

  Pointing: 'There.'

  'Which note is this?'

  'C flat.'

  'Qu'est-ce que c'est?'

  'Une fourchette.'

  The little free time she had, she spent with Tamara, stealing a half-hour here, getting up an hour earlier there, so they could share some part of the day.

  But harried though those weeks were, it was at night, lying on her pillow in a state of absolute exhaustion, with only the throbbing of her heartbeat to keep her company, that she realized how truly lonely she was.

  Schmarya had still not contacted her by March.

  It would soon be nearly two months since she had seen him last. But her days were too gruelling, and sleep so precious, she spent little time lying awake.

  Then on the night of the nineteenth of March, Olga Botkina became ill, and Senda, as her understudy, took over her role at the Théâtre Français for the remainder of the St. Petersburg season.

  Overnight, she was adulated by critics and audiences alike. It was the greatest event of her life.

  And the most memorable, it would turn out, for on the night of her greatest triumph onstage, she had to share the headlines with Schmarya.