Zoya (29 page)

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 for 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.

“To Nicholas!” he toasted as he stood alone in the room, and then with a smile,“… to Zoya!”

CHAPTER
30

The next few years flew on angels’ wings, filled with people and excitement and parties. Zoya bobbed her hair, which horrified him, she discovered cigarettes, and then decided they looked foolish. Cecil Beaton wrote about her constantly, and about their famous parties at the house they built for the summers on Long Island.

They saw Nijinsky's last performance
in
London, and Zoya grieved when she heard that he had gone mad and been committed to an institution in Vienna. But the ballet was no longer a part of her life, except for performances they occasionally attended with the Vanderbilts or the Astors. They attended polo matches, receptions, balls, and gave a number of their own, and the only time she slowed down at all was in 1924, when she again found out she was pregnant. The Prince of Wales had just been to Long Island to visit them, after attending the polo match there. She felt quite ill this time, and Clayton hoped that meant she was having a girl. At fifty-two, he yearned to have a daughter.

She was born in the spring of 1925, the same year that Josephine Baker became the rage in Paris.

And Clayton's heart leapt with joy when he first saw the baby. She had the same fiery red hair as her mother and brother Nicholas, and she made her presence known to her admirers at once. She cried the moment her commands weren't obeyed, and she was the apple of his eye from the moment she was born. Alexandra Marie Andrews was christened in the christening gown that had been in Clayton's family for four generations. It had been made in France during the War of 1812, and she looked like one of the imperial duchesses when she wore it.

Her hair was the color of her mother's, but her eyes were Clayton's, and her personality was her own. By the time she was two, she was in command of even her brother. Nicky, as he was called, had the gentleness of his father, and the lively humor that Zoya's own brother had had. He was a child everyone admired and loved, most especially his mother.

But Sasha, by the time she was four, had her father wrapped around the proverbial little finger. And even ancient Sava ran in terror when she was angry. The dog was twelve, and was still with them, ever at Zoya's heels when she was in the house, or with little Nicky, whom she had adopted.

“Sasha!” Her mother exclaimed in despair, as she came home to find her wearing her best pearls, or an entire bottle of “Lilas,” which she still wore, and which Clayton always brought her. “You mustn't do things like that!” Even the nurse had a difficult time controlling her. She was a young French girl they had brought back with them from Paris, but no amount of
rebukes or gentle reproaches ever impressed the tiny countess.

“She can't help it, Mama,” Nicholas apologized for her from the door. He was eight years old by then, and as handsome as his father. “She's a girl. Girls like to wear pretty things.” His eyes met Zoya's and she smiled. He was so kind, so forgiving, so much like Clayton. She loved them all, but it was Alexandra, Sasha, as she was called, who tried her patience.

At night, they were going to the Cotton Club, to dance the night away in Harlem. And only months before they had gone to Condo Nast's incredible Park Avenue apartment for a fabulous party. Cole Porter was there, of course, and Elsie de Wolfe, who wanted to do a house for Zoya in Palm Beach, but with her fair skin she had no love for the sun, and was content only to visit there briefly each year, when they went to stay with the Whitneys.

Zoya was buying her clothes from Lelong that year, and was very fond of his charming wife, Princess Natalie, who was the daughter of Grand Duke Paul, and a Russian like Zoya. And Tallulah Bank-head had scolded Zoya more than once, telling her that she didn't use enough lip rouge.

Fancy-dress balls were the rage, and Clayton particularly enjoyed them. He was fifty-seven years old, and he was madly in love with his wife, although he teased her mercilessly that year, telling her that she was finally old enough to be married to him, now that she had turned thirty.

Hoover had been elected president, defeating Governor Al Smith of New York. Calvin Coolidge had decided not to run again. And the governor of New York was Franklin Roosevelt, an interesting man,
with an intelligent wife, although she was not very pretty. But Zoya enjoyed her company, and the conversations they shared, and she was always pleased when the Roosevelts invited them to dinner. They saw the play
Caprice
with them, and although Clayton was bored, Zoya and Eleanor loved it. They saw
Street Scene
after that, which won the Pulitzer. But Clayton confessed he had a much better time at the movies. He was crazy about Colleen Moore and Clara Bow. And Zoya was equally fond of Greta Garbo.

“You just like those foreign types,” he teased, but she didn't seem foreign to anyone anymore. Zoya had become totally integrated in the life of New York after ten years. She adored the theater and the ballet and the opera, and had taken little Nicky to see
Rosenkavalier
with them in January, but he was shocked to
see
a woman playing a man's role.

“But that's a gir/!” he had whispered loudly as the people in the next box smiled. Zoya held his small hand gently in her own, and whispered a suitable explanation, that it had to do with the quality of their voices. “That's disgusting,” he announced and sank into his seat as Clayton smiled, not sure he didn't agree with him.

Nicholas was far more interested in Lindbergh's flights. And Clayton and Zoya went to Lindbergh's wedding to Ambassador Morrow's daughter Anne, in June, shortly before they moved to Long Island for the summer.

The children were happy there, and Zoya herself loved to take long walks along the beach, talking to Clayton or their friends, or just being alone sometimes, thinking of the summers of her youth, at Livadia, on the Crimea.

She still thought about them sometimes, it would have been impossible not to. The figures of the past still lived on in her heart, but the memories were dimmer now, and sometimes she had to grope for their faces. There were framed photographs of Marie, and the other girls, in Fabergo frames on the mantel in their bedroom. The one where they all hung upside down was still the one she loved best, and little Nicholas knew their names and faces too. He loved to hear about what they had been like, what they had said and done, the mischief they'd gotten into as children, and it intrigued him that he and the Tsarevich shared the same birthday. He liked to hear about the “sad parts,” too, as he called them … the parts about Grandfather Nicolai, after whom he was named. She told him about their arguments and their jokes and their disappointments, and she assured him that she and Nicolai had fought almost as much as he and Sasha. At four, he thought she was becoming a terrible nuisance. And there were others in the house who shared his view. She was spoiled by her father, beyond what even Zoya liked, but there was no scolding the child in his presence.

“She's a baby, darling. Don't upset her.”

“Clayton, she'll be a monster when she's twelve if we don't discipline her now.”

“Discipline is for boys,” he told his wife, but he never had the heart to reprimand Nicholas either. He was kindhearted to all of them, and played with them endlessly
on
the beach that summer.

King George was healthy again in England by then and it always unnerved Zoya when she saw photographs of him. He looked so much like his first cousin, the Tsar, that it was always a shock to see his face
gazing out from a picture. His own little granddaughter, Elizabeth, was only a year younger than Sasha.

The thing that impressed little Nicholas most that summer was a performance of Yehudi Menuhin's in New York. The child was a prodigy on the violin, and only three years older than Nicholas, who was fascinated by the way he played. He talked about it for weeks, which pleased Zoya.

Clayton was reading
All Quiet on the Western Front
on the beach, and he was amusing himself that summer with the stock market. It had been dancing up and down since March, and people were making absolute fortunes. Clayton had bought Zoya two diamond necklaces in the past two months, with just a fraction of his profits. But she was distracted by the sad news that Diaghilev had died in Venice in August. It seemed to close another chapter of history for her, and she talked about him to Clayton as they walked on the beach after she had heard the news.