“I can't … truly … I can't.” She saw with relief that they had arrived, and she turned to look at him for a last time. “Please don't wait for me now. All I want is to forget … what was … we can't bring it back. It wouldn't be right for us … please …” He said nothing as she slipped out of the car and hurried away, leaving the white roses on the seat beside him.
CHAPTER
12
“Did Vladimir bring you home?” Her grandmother smiled at her as she came in, and Zoya noticed with a sinking heart the white roses in a vase next to her on the table.
“No. One of the others gave me a ride.” She sat down with a smile and rubbed her legs. “It was hard today.” But she didn't mind. Dancing with the Ballet Russe made her feel alive again.
“He said he'd bring you home.” Evgenia frowned. He had brought her fresh bread, and a jar of jam. He was such a kind man, and he was being so good to them. And in an odd way, it comforted Evgenia to think of him taking care of Zoya.
“Grandmama …” Zoya looked at her, struggling for the words. “I don't want him to.”
“Why not? You're far safer with him than with someone you don't know.” He had said as much to her himself that afternoon, when he came to the apartment to drop off Zoya's roses, and the pain of Zoya dancing with the Ballet Russe struck her again like a knife to her heart, but she knew there was no stopping her now. And she had to admit that one of them had to work, and Zoya was the only one who could. She just wished she would find something else, like Yelena's teaching. And perhaps, if Vladimir took her under his wing, Zoya might even stop dancing. He had suggested it only that afternoon, and it made Evgenia see him in a different light. That of hero and savior.
“Grandmama … I think Prince Vladimir … I think he has something more in mind.”
“He's a decent man. Well mannered, wellborn. He was a friend of Konstantin's.” Evgenia didn't want to show her hand too soon, although Vladimir had convinced her.
“But that's just what I mean. He was Papa's friend. Not mine. He must be sixty years old.”
“He's a Russian prince, and a cousin of the Tsar.”
“Does that make everything all right?” Zoya asked angrily as she sprang to her feet. “Don't you care that he's old enough to be my grandfather?”
“He means you no harm, Zoya … someone has to take care of you. I'm eighty-two years old … I will not always be here for you … you must think of that.” And secretly, she would have been relieved to know that she was leaving Zoya in Vladimir's hands. At least he was someone she knew, someone who understood the life they had led before. No one in Paris could possibly understand that, except one of their own, and she looked imploringly at Zoya, begging her with her eyes to think of that, but Zoya looked horrified.
“Would you have me marry him, then? Is that what you want?” Tears sprang to her eyes at the thought of it. “He's an old man.”
“He would take care of you. Think of how kind he's been to us since we arrived,”
“I don't want to hear about it anymore!” She ran into the bedroom and slammed the door, and then threw herself on the bed crying hopelessly. Was that all that was left? The prospect of marriage to a man three times her age, only because he was a Russian prince. The very thought sickened her, and it made her long more than ever for her lost life and friends.
“Zoya … don't … darling, please …” Her grandmother came to sit on the edge of her bed, and gently stroked her hair. “I'm not trying to force you to do anything you don't want. But I worry about you so much. Feodor and I are so old … you must find someone who can take care of you.”
“I'm eighteen years old,” she sobbed into the bed, “I don't want to marry anyone … and not him….” Nothing about him appealed to her, and she hated Yelena. The thought of being doomed to live with them made her hysterical. All she wanted to do was dance, she would make enough money doing that to support herself, and Feodor and her grandmother. She vowed to herself then that she would do anything rather than marry a man she didn't love. She'd work day and night … she'd do anything….
“All right … all right … please don't cry like this … please …” Her own eyes were filled with tears, thinking of the cruelty of their fate. Perhaps the child was right. It had only been a thought. He was of course too old, but he was one of them, and that mattered to her a great deal. But there were others who had survived, there were younger men too. Perhaps Zoya would meet one of them and fall in love. It was her fondest hope now. It was the only hope she had left … that and the little bit of jewelry concealed in the bed where they slept. There was nothing else left … except a few diamonds and emeralds» a long rope of exquisite pearls, and the Faberg6 egg Nicholas had given her … and a lifetime of broken dreams. “Come, Zoya … dry your tears. Let's go for a walk.”
“No,” Zoya pouted unhappily, turning her face into the bed again, “he'll be waiting for us downstairs.”
