Zoya (21 page)

“Yes?” Zoya wondered if it would be the answer to their prayers, and a new boarder was about to appear, directed to them by Vladimir or one of his friends. But it was an odd time to come, and Zoya looked stunned when she heard a familiar voice … it couldn't be … but it was. She pulled the door open, and stood staring at him, as she took him in his full uniform, his epaulets and his cap shining with his brass insignia, his face serious, but his blue eyes filled with warmth.

“Merry Christmas, Zoya.” It was Clayton, standing there. She hadn't seen him in four months, but he knew the importance of the date for them, and he had moved heaven and earth to leave Chaumont in time to share it with them. He had a four-day leave, and he wanted to spend it with Zoya. “May I come in?” She was standing there, stunned, unable to say a word, as she stared at him in mute amazement.

“I … my God … is it really you?”

“I believe so.” He smiled, and gently bent to kiss her cheek. Their flirtation of the summer before had gone no further than that, but he longed to take her in his arms now. He had almost forgotten how beautiful
she was, as she stood lithe and graceful before him.

She followed him inside, gazing happily at his broad shoulders and straight back, and her heart flooded with joy, as he greeted her grandmother, and she noticed that he was carrying a bag, from which he took out incredible treasures for them. There were freshly baked cookies from headquarters, a bar of chocolate, three big fat sausages, a head of fresh lettuce, some apples, and a bottle of wine from General Pershing's own cellars. They were riches beyond words, beyond anything they'd seen in months. But Zoya was looking at him, with round, happy eyes, and an expression of adoration.

“Merry Christmas, Countess,” he said quietly. “I've missed you both.” But not half as much as Zoya had missed him. She realized it even more now as he stood before them.

“Thank you, Captain. How is the war?” Evgenia asked quietly, watching her granddaughter, and what she saw warmed her heart, and brightened her all at once. This was the man Zoya had wanted, whether she knew it or not. It was plainly apparent.

He was handsome and proud, as he stood virile and tall in their tiny living room, dwarfing everything around him. “Unfortunately, it's not over yet, but we're working on it. We should have things in control in a few months, though.”

The remains of their dinner sat on the table, looking paltry now, as Zoya glanced hungrily at the chocolates. She laughed as she offered her grandmother one, and then gobbled two, like a hungry child, and Clayton laughed. He was so happy to see her.

“I'll have to remember how much you like those,” he teased, gently taking her hand in his own.

“Mmm? … wonderful! … thank you very much …” Evgenia laughed, watching her, she seemed so young and happy again as the Captain looked over her head and met the old woman's eyes. She had aged in the past four months, and they both looked thinner to him now, thinner and tired and more worn, but Zoya looked so beautiful to him. He longed to take her in his arms and just hold her.

“Please sit down, Captain,” Evgenia invited, looking elegant and proud, despite her age and her pains and her constant sacrifices for Zoya.

“Thank you. Are you ladies going to church tonight?” He knew it was a ritual for them. Zoya had told him all about the candle-lit processions on Christmas Eve, and he wanted to go with them. He had done everything possible to be there on that night with them, as Zoya nodded emphatically, questioning her grandmother with her eyes.

“Would you care to join us, sir?” Evgenia invited.

“I'd like that very much.” He opened the wine for them, and Zoya got out the glasses he'd given them the summer before, and silently watched him pour. It was like a dream seeing him standing there in his uniform, like a vision, and she remembered suddenly what she had said to Antoine. She couldn't marry a man she didn't love. And she knew she loved this man. She could have married him, no matter how old he was, or where he had been, or what happened to them … but they were foolish thoughts. She hadn't even heard from him in two months. She had no idea how he felt about her, if he cared about her at all. All she knew was that he was generous and kind,
and he had walked back into her life on Christmas Eve. She knew nothing more than that. But as Evgenia watched them both, she knew more than that, even more than Clayton knew himself as he stood there.

Vladimir arrived shortly after eleven o'clock. He had promised to drive them to church, and he looked startled when he saw Clayton. The Countess introduced the two men, and Vladimir searched his face, wondering who he was and what he was doing there, but the light in Zoya's eyes told its own tale. It was as though she had survived the past months only to live for this moment.

Clayton followed her to the kitchen briefly as Evgenia poured the Prince some wine, and gently he touched her arm and pulled her slowly toward him. His lips softly touched her silky hair, and his eyes closed as he held her.

“I've missed you terribly, little one. … I wanted to write to you, but I couldn't. Everything is top secret now. It's a miracle they even let me come here,” He was intimately involved with all of Per-shing's plans for the American Expeditionary Force. He pulled away from her then, and looked down at her with his warm blue eyes. “Did you miss me at all?”

She couldn't speak, and tears filled her eyes in answer. Everything had been so difficult for them, their poverty, the lack of food, the cold winter, the war. It was all a nightmare, and now suddenly here he was, with his cakes, and his wine, and his strong arms held fast around her. “I missed you very much.” She spoke in a hoarse whisper and averted her eyes. She was afraid to even look at him, he would see too much
there. But she felt so safe with him, as though she had waited for him for a lifetime. She heard a polite cough then in the kitchen doorway and they both turned. It was Prince Vladimir, watching them with quiet envy.

“We should go to church soon, Zoya Konstanti-novna.” He spoke to her in Russian, and for a moment his eyes met Clayton's. “Will you be coming with us, sir? The ladies are going to a midnight service.”

“I'd like to very much.” He looked down at Zoya. “Do you think your grandmother would mind?”

“Of course not.” Zoya spoke for them both, especially for herself, as she found herself wondering where he was staying. She thought of offering him Antoine's room, but suspected correctly that her grandmother wouldn't think it proper. Not that it mattered anymore. What did propriety mean when you had no food, no money, no warmth, and the world you had lived in was gone? Who was there to even care about what was proper? It all seemed so foolish to her now, as Clayton gently took her hand and led her out of the kitchen. Sava followed them closely as they went, looking up at them, hoping for a scrap of food. She quietly reached down and fed her one of the treasured cookies.

Her grandmother went to get her hat and coat, and she took her own worn coat from a peg near the door, as the two men waited, chatting politely about the war, the weather, and the prospects for peace in the coming months. Vladimir seemed to be looking him over critically, but in spite of himself he couldn't dislike him. The American was too old for Zoya, of course, and Evgenia would be foolish if she let anything
happen between them. When the war was over, he would go back to New York and forget the pretty girl he had toyed with in Paris. But Vladimir couldn't blame him for wanting her, of course. He still longed for her himself, although he had been courting one of his daughter's friends for over a month now. She was a hearty Russian girl from a good family, who had come to Paris the previous spring, like the rest of them, and was eking out a small living by taking in sewing. She and his daughter were meeting him at the church.

Clayton helped the old Countess downstairs, as Zoya watched, and Vladimir led the way to his waiting taxi. And they drove slowly through the quiet streets, as Clayton looked around him and especially at Zoya. She looked as though she needed some fun, and some good meals. She needed a new coat, too, her old one looked almost threadbare as the wind whistled past them in front of St. Alexander Nevsky.

It was a beautiful old church, and there were crowds of people already inside when they got there. They could hear the organ music from the front steps as they went in, and all around them was the soft hubbub of voices. The incense smelled sweet, and it was warm inside, and suddenly tears filled Zoya's eyes as she looked around her at the familiar faces, and heard the sounds of everyone speaking Russian. It was almost like going home again, their faces alive and warm as they each held a tall candle. Vladimir handed one to Evgenia and another to Clayton, and Zoya took one from a little boy. He looked up at her with a shy smile and wished her a Merry Christmas. And all she could think of now were other Christmases, other days … Mashka and Olga and Tatiana
and Anastasia … Aunt Alix and Uncle Nicky … and tiny Alexis … they went to Easter services together each year, much like these … and as she fought back the memories, Clayton gently took her hand and held it, as though he could look into her mind and feel what she saw there. He put an arm around her as they sang the first hymn, and he was overwhelmed by the beauty of their powerful voices lifted in Russian. Tears rolled slowly down the men's cheeks, and many of the women cried, as they remembered the life they had shared in a place they would always remember. It was almost more than Zoya could bear, the smells and the sounds and the feelings were so agonizingly familiar. With her eyes closed, she could imagine Nicolai standing there, and her mother and father. It was almost like being a child again as she stood close to Clayton, and tried to pretend they were still in Russia.

And after the service, countless people they knew approached them. The men bowed and kissed Evgenia's hand, the ones who had been servants knelt briefly at her feet, and people cried openly and embraced, as Clayton watched them. Zoya introduced him to as many as she knew. There were so many faces that looked familiar to her, although she didn't know them all. But they seemed to know her and Evgenia. Grand Duke Cyril was there, and some other cousins of the Romanovs too, all wearing old clothes, worn-out shoes, and faces that scarcely concealed their troubles. It was painful just being there, and yet it was heartwarming too, like a brief trip into a past they all wanted to retrieve and would spend a lifetime reliving.

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.