Zoya

by Danielle Steel

  “Aha!” She laughed. “And did you suffer terribly?”

  “Yes.” His eyes laughed back into hers. “Until just now. Would you like a glass of champagne?”

  “In a minute perhaps. It's so lovely out here.” The garden was so peaceful, as everyone danced and laughed and cavorted inside. “Do you live here too?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “They have us billeted in a house on the rue du Bac. It's not quite as palatial as this, but it's very nice, and it's quite nearby.” He was watching her as she moved. She was quiet and elegant, and there was more than just the grace of a dancer as she walked closer to him. There was an aura of almost regal dignity as she moved her head, and a look of immeasurable sadness that belied her smile.

  “Are you on the General's staff?”

  “I am.” He was one of his aides-de-camp, but he spared her the details. “Have you been with the Ballet Russe for long?” It couldn't have been very long, he suspected that she was a very young girl, although she had a great deal of poise as they switched from French to English finally. She spoke it very well, after her studies at the Smolny Institute.

  “I've been with them for a month.” She smiled at him. “Much to my grandmother's chagrin.” She laughed and looked suddenly even younger.

  “Your parents must be very proud of you.” But he instantly regretted the remark as he saw the sadness in her eyes.

  “My parents were killed in St. Petersburg … in March….” She almost whispered the words and suddenly he understood. “I live with my grandmother.”

  “I'm sorry … about your parents, I mean …” The flash of blue eyes nearly made her cry again. It was the first time she had said the words to anyone. Her fellow dancers knew little about her, but for some reason she felt she could say anything to him. He reminded her in an odd way of Konstantin, the same elegance, the graceful way he moved, the dark hair shot with gray, and the brilliant eyes. “You came here with your grandmother?” He didn't know why, but he was fascinated by her. She was so young and so beautiful, with those big sad green eyes.

  “Yes, we came two months ago … from … after …” But she couldn't go on, and he came and gently tucked her hand into his arm.

  “jLet's go for a walk, shall we, mademoiselle?” She felt safe with her hand in his arm. “And then perhaps a glass of champagne.” They wandered to the Rodin statue and back, talking about Paris, the war, subjects that were less painful to her, and then with a smile she looked up at him.

  “And where are you from?”

  “New York.” She had never thought too much about the United States. It all seemed terribly far away.

  “What's it like?”

  He laughed as he looked down at her. “Big, busy. Not as pretty as this, I'm afraid. But I like it there.” He wanted to ask her about St. Petersburg, but sensed that this wasn't the time or the place. “Do you dance every day?”

  “Almost.” And then she laughed up at him. “Until tonight's performance, I was enjoying a week off.”

  “And what do you do then … in your spare time?”

  “I go for walks with my grandmother, I write to friends, read … sleep … play with my dog.”

  “It sounds like a pleasant life. What kind of dog do you have?” They were silly questions, but he wanted to keep her close to him, and he wasn't sure why. She was clearly half his age, but so beautiful, it tore at his heart.

  “A cocker spaniel.” She smiled. “She was a gift from a very dear friend.”

  “A gentleman?” He looked intrigued and she laughed.

  “No, no! A girl! My cousin, in fact.”

  “Did you bring the dog from Russia with you?” He was fascinated by her as she bent her head, the cascade of fiery red hair hiding her eyes.

  “Yes, I did. I'm afraid she made the journey rather better than I did. I arrived in Paris with measles,” She looked up at him again and grinned, looking once again like a child. “Stupid of me, wasn't it?” But nothing about her seemed that to him, and then he suddenly realized he didn't even know her name.

  “Not at all. Do you suppose we ought to introduce ourselves?”

  “Zoya Ossupov.” She curtsied prettily, and looked up at him.

  “Clayton Andrews. Captain Clayton Andrews, I suppose I should have said.”

  “My brother was a captain too … with the Preobrajensky Guard. I don't suppose you've ever heard of them.” She looked up at him expectantly, and once again he saw her eyes grow sad. Her moods seemed to change with lightning speed, and as he looked at her for the first time he understood why people said the eyes were the windows of the soul. Hers seemed to lead one into a magic world of diamonds and emeralds and unshed tears, and he wanted to make her happy again, to make her dance and laugh and smile.

  “I don't know very much about Russia, I'm afraid, Miss Ossupov.”

  “Then we're even.” She smiled again. “I don't know anything about New York.”

  He walked her back inside the main ballroom then and brought her a glass of champagne as the others danced the waltz.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  She seemed to hesitate, and then nodded. He set her glass down on a table nearby, and led her onto the floor in a slow and dignified waltz, and once again she felt as though she were dancing in her father's arms. If she closed her eyes, she would be back in St. Petersburg … but his voice broke into her thoughts.

  “Do you always dance with your eyes closed, mademoiselle?” He was teasing her and she smiled up at him. It felt good to be in his arms, good to be dancing with a tall, powerful man … on a magical night … in a beautiful house …

  “It's just so lovely here … isn't it?”

  “It is now.” But he had enjoyed his time in the garden with her. It was easier talking to her there than with the music and the crowd. And at the end of the dance, General Pershing signaled him so he left her, and when he came back to look for her, she was gone. He looked everywhere, and walked out to the garden again, but she was nowhere in sight, and when he inquired, he was told that the first truckload of the Ballet Russe had left the party. He walked back to his own quarters thoughtfully, as he meandered down the rue du Bac, remembering her name, thinking of her big green eyes, and he found himself wondering who she really was. There was something deeply intriguing about her.

  CHAPTER

  14

  “The next time I send Feodor somewhere with you, Zoya Konstantinovna, you will please have the goodness not to send him home.” The old Countess was furious as they shared breakfast the next day. Feodor had come sheepishly back to her, and explained that the soldiers had invited the corps de ballet to go out somewhere, and he wasn't included. Her grandmother had been waiting for her when she got back, almost too angry to speak to her, and by morning, her fury was still white-hot, as she glared at Zoya.

  “I'm sorry, Grandmama. I couldn't take Feodor with me. It was a beautiful reception at General Per-shing's quarters.” She remembered instantly the gardens and the Captain she had met, but she said nothing to her grandmother about any of it.

  “Ah! So it's come to that, has it? Entertaining the troops? And what is next? This is precisely why proper young ladies don't run away to join the ballet. It is not suitable, absolutely not. And I won't tolerate this. I want you to leave the ballet at once!”

  “Grandmama … please … you know I can't!”

  “You can if I tell you to!”

  “Grandmama … please don't …” She was in no mood to argue with her. She had had such a nice time the night before … and the handsome Captain had been such a nice man, or at least he seemed like it. But still, she said nothing about him to her grandmother. It didn't seem appropriate, and she knew their paths would not cross again. “I'm sorry. I won't do it again.” Not that she'd have the opportunity anyway. General Pershing was hardly likely to give parties for the Ballet Russe after every performance.

  She stood up as her grandmother glared at her. “Where are you going now?”

&nbs
p; “I have a rehearsal today.”

  “I'm so tired of this!” She stood up and paced around the room as best she could, but she was still very spry. “Ballet, ballet, ballet! Enough!”

  “Yes, Grandmama.”

  She was going to sell a necklace again, an emerald one this time. Maybe Zoya would give up this nonsense then for a while. She had had enough of it. She was not a dancer. She was a child.

  “What time will you be home tonight?”

  “I should be back at four o'clock. Rehearsal starts at nine, and I don't have a performance tonight.”

  “I want you to think about leaving them.” But Zoya enjoyed it too much, they both knew that, and the money did help, much as the Countess hated to think about it. She had bought her grandmother a pretty dress and a warm shawl the week before. And her wages helped pay for their food as well, although there were no little extra treats, except those Vladimir still brought in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Zoya.

  “Well go for a walk this afternoon when I come home.”

  “What makes you think I'd be willing to go for a walk with you?” her grandmother growled, and Zoya laughed.

  “Because you love me so much. And I love you too.” She kissed her cheek, and hurried out the door, like a schoolgirl late for class.

  The old woman sighed and cleared away the breakfast plates. It was so difficult having her here. Things were so difficult, and the hardest part was that much as the old woman hated to admit it to herself, Zoya was no longer a child, and it wasn't easy to control her.

  Zoya's rehearsal was at the Opéra again that day, in preparation for another performance the following night, and she danced and rehearsed and practiced at the barre for hours and when she finished shortly before four o'clock, she was tired after the late night at General Pershing's house. It was a sunny afternoon in the last week of June, and she walked out into the sunlight with a contented sigh.

  “You sound tired, Miss Ossupov.” She wheeled in surprise at the sound of her name, and saw Clayton Andrews standing next to one of General Pershing's staff cars.

  “Hello … you startled me.”

  “I wish I could say the same. I've been waiting here for two hours.” He laughed and she looked at him with wide eyes.

  “Have you been waiting for me all this time?”

  “I have. I never got a chance to say good-bye to you last night.”

  “I think you were busy when I left.”

  “I know. You must have gone back on the first truck.” She nodded in answer, surprised that he had taken the trouble to find out. She hadn't thought she would see him again, but she was happy seeing him now. He was as handsome as she had thought him the night before, as tall and lean and graceful as he had seemed when they danced the waltz. “I was hoping you'd have lunch with me. But it's a little late now.”

  “I have to go back to my grandmother anyway.” She smiled up at him, dallying like a schoolgirl just released from class. “She's dreadfully cross at me after last night.”

  He looked puzzled by the remark. “Did you go home very late? I didn't notice the time when you left.” Then she was as young as he'd thought. She had the looks of a very young girl, the innocence … and yet, there was such wisdom in her eyes.

  But Zoya laughed at the memory of sending Feodor away from the opera house. “My grandmother sent someone to chaperone me, and I sent him home. I suspect he was quite glad of it, though, and so was I.” She blushed slightly then and he laughed.

  “In that case, mademoiselle, may I offer you my escort now? I could drive you home.” She hesitated, but he was so obviously a gentleman, there could be no harm in it, and who would know? She could leave him a block or two before the Palais Royal.

  “Thank you very much.” He opened the door for her and she slid into the car. She told him where she lived, and he seemed perfectly at ease as he drove her home. She had him stop a block away and he looked around.

  “Is this where you live?”

  “Not quite.” She smiled and blushed again. “I thought I'd spare my grandmother the agony of getting angry at me again so soon after last night.”

  He laughed at her, his handsome face looking very young despite the silver hair. “Aren't you a naughty child! And if I ask you to join me for dinner tonight, mademoiselle? What then?”

  She knit her brows as she thought of it, and then looked at him. “I'm not sure. Grandmama knows there is no performance tonight.” It would be the first time she had ever been dishonest with her and she herself wasn't sure why she felt she had to be now. But she knew how Evgenia felt about soldiers.

  “Won't she let you go out with anyone?” He seemed both amused and surprised.

  “I'm not sure,” Zoya confessed. “I never have.”

  “Oh, dear … am I allowed to ask how old you are in that case?” Perhaps she was even younger than he thought, but he hoped not.

  “Eighteen.” She said it almost defiantly, and once again he laughed.

  “Does that seem very old to you?”

  “Old enough.” He didn't dare ask for what. “Not long ago, she was encouraging me toward a friend of the family.” And when she said it, she blushed. It seemed stupid to tell him about Vladimir, but he didn't seem to mind.

  “And how old is he? Twenty-one?”

  “Oh, no!” Zoya was laughing now. “Much, much older than that. He's at least sixty years old!” This time, Clayton Andrews looked both amused and startled.

  “Is he? And what does your grandmother think of that?”

  “It's too complicated to explain, besides, I don't like him anyway … he's an old man.”

  He looked at her seriously for a moment as they sat in the car. “So am I. I'm forty-five years old.” He wanted to be honest with her, right from the start.

  “And you're not married?” She seemed surprised, and then realized that perhaps he was.

  “I'm divorced.” He had been married to one of the Vanderbilts, but it had ended ten years before. In New York, he was thought to be an enviable catch, but in the ten years since his divorce, and among the flocks of women he'd taken out, none of them had snagged his heart. “Are you shocked?”

  “No.” She thought about it and then looked him in the eye, convinced more than ever that he was a decent man. “Why did you get divorced?”

  “We fell out of love, I suppose … we were very different from the start. She's remarried and we're good friends, though I don't see her very often anymore. She lives in Washington now.”

  “Where's that?” It all sounded far away and mysterious to her.

  “It's near New York but not near enough. Rather like Paris and Bordeaux. Or Paris and London perhaps.” She nodded. That much made sense. But he glanced at his watch. He had spent hours waiting for her and now he had to get back. “What about dinner tonight?”

  “I don't think I can.” She looked sadly up at him, and he smiled.

  “Tomorrow then?”

  “I have to dance tomorrow night”

  “What about afterward?” He was persistent in any case, but having found her again, he was not going to let her slip past him.

  “I'll try.”

  “Good enough. I'll tomorrow night then.” He sprang from the car and helped her out. She thanked him politely for the ride, and he waved at her as he drove back toward the rue Constantine with a song in his heart as he thought of Zoya.

  CHAPTER

  15

  For the first time in her life, she lied to her grandmother. It was the following day when she left for the Opora again. She felt guilty about it, but by the time she left the house, she had forgiven herself for what seemed like a harmless lie. She was sparing her worry about something that wasn't worth worrying about, she told herself. After all, what harm was there in one dinner with a nice man? She had told her that Diaghilev was giving a supper for them, and it was an obligation for the entire ballet troupe.

  “Don't wait up for me!” she had called over her shoulder so Evgenia could not see her
eyes.

  “Are you sure you must go?”

  “Absolutely, Grandmama!” And then she had hurried out the door for rehearsal.

  And after the performance, Clayton was waiting for her, with another of General Pershing's cars. “All set?” He smiled at her and slid behind the wheel as he watched her eyes. They spoke volumes, far more than her words, and they were the color of emeralds full of fire. “How was it tonight?”

  “It was all right. But Nijinsky didn't dance tonight. He's remarkable, don't you think?” And then with a giggle, she remembered that he didn't like the ballet. “Never mind, I forgot you don't like ballet.”

  “Perhaps I can be taught.” They drove straight to Maxim's, and Zoya's eyes grew wide as they walked in the door. The rich velvet decor and crowds of elegant people and men in dress uniforms dining there made her catch her breath as she looked up at him. It all seemed so grown-up, and a little startling, and she thought instantly of how to describe her surroundings in her next letter to Marie. But Clayton Andrews was going to be difficult to explain, even to her closest friend. She herself wasn't quite sure why she was dining with him, except that he'd been so kind to her, and he seemed so happy and at ease. She found herself wanting to talk to him, just this once … or perhaps one more time after that. There was no harm in it. He was respectable, and there was a certain excitement to it. She tried not to act like an excited child as they sat down at the table. “Hungry?” He eyed her happily as he ordered champagne for them, but she just wanted to look around.

  “Have you ever been here before?”

  She shook her head, thinking of the apartment where they lived, and the hotel where they had stayed before that. They hadn't been to any restaurants at all since they'd arrived. She and her grandmother cooked simple meals at home, and Feodor sat down to dinner with them every evening.

  “No.” She didn't explain. It would have been difficult to explain it all to him.

  “It's pretty, isn't it? I used to come here before the war.”

  “Do you travel a great deal? Usually, I mean.”