He wanted to slap her but he restrained himself. “Listen to me. It was never like that. Don't be a fool, Zoya. I'm more than twice your age. You deserve better than that.”
“Ahh … I see,” the green eyes flashed, “like the happy life I have here. I've waited out half of this war for you, barely breathing for fear you'd be killed, and now you get on a ship and go back to New York. It's easy for you, isn't it?”
“No, it's not.” He turned so she wouldn't see the tears in his eyes. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe it was better if she was angry at him. She wouldn't pine for him when he was gone, as he would for her. “I love you very much.” He turned to face her quietly, as she strode purposefully to the door and yanked it open.
“Get out.” He looked stunned. “Why wait two more days? Why not just end it now?”
“I'd like to say good-bye to your grandmother.”
“She's asleep, and I doubt if she'd want to say goodbye to you. She never liked you anyway.” She just wanted him to leave, so she could cry her heart out in peace.
“Zoya, please …” He wanted to take her in his arms again, but he knew it wasn't fair. It was better to let her feel she had ended it, to leave her with some pride. Better if he was the one with a broken heart. He hated himself as he walked slowly down the stairs, the sound of the door slamming behind him ringing in his ears. Hated himself for getting involved with her. He had always known she would get hurt, he just hadn't realized that it would hurt him as much. But he was certain he was doing the right thing. There was no turning back. He was too old for her, and even if it hurt her now, she was better off free of him, to find a man her own age, and make a new life for herself. He had a heavy heart for the next two days, and the day before he left, he got a bank draft for five thousand dollars. He enclosed it in a letter to her grandmother, begging her to keep it, and to let him know if there was anything he could do for them later on. He assured her that he would always be their friend, and that he would love her granddaughter for the rest of his life.
“I have done this for her good, I can promise you that. And because I also suspect that it is what you want as well. She is younger than I. She will fall in love again. I am certain of it. And now, I bid you both adieu with a saddened, but loving heart.” He had signed it and had it delivered the morning he left by a corporal on General Pershing's staff.
He left on the morning that President and Mrs. Wilson arrived. There was a parade on the Champs-Élysées for them as he steamed slowly out of Le Havre thinking of Zoya.
CHAPTER
25
For weeks after Clayton left Zoya, she sat in Antoine's old room and cried, and thought she would die of a broken heart. Nothing seemed to matter to her anymore. She didn't care if she starved. She made soup for her grandmother, and was surprised they even had enough money left to buy that. Evgenia had sent Prince Markovsky to the bank for her once, shortly after Clayton left, and afterward she had pressed some bills into Zoya's hands.
“I've been saving this. Use it to buy whatever you need.” But there was nothing she needed or wanted anymore. He was gone. It felt like the end of her life. But the money her grandmother had apparently saved and gave to her to buy food allowed her to stay home from work. She told them she was ill, and didn't even care if they fired her. The Ballet Russe was back, and if she'd wanted to, she could have danced with them. But she didn't even want to do that, now. She didn't want anything now, no food, no friends, no job, and certainly no man. He was a fool to have told her she needed a younger man. She didn't need anyone. Except a doctor for Evgenia. She developed a terrible flu on Christmas night. She had insisted she wanted to go to church anyway. But she was too weak even to sit up, and Zoya insisted that she lie back quietly and when Prince Vladimir came she urged him to bring a doctor back with him at once, but it was hours before they came back to see her.
The doctor was a kindly old man, who had learned Russian as a child, and he spoke to Evgenia in her own tongue. Her flawless French seemed to have faded from her mind.
“She is very ill, mademoiselle,” he whispered to Zoya in the living room. “She may not live the night.”
“But that's ridiculous. She was fine this afternoon.” As fine as she ever was now. He had to be wrong. Had to be. Zoya knew she would not survive another loss. She just couldn't face it.
“I'll do everything I can. You must call me at once if she gets any worse. Monsieur can come to find me at my home.” He was recently back from the front himself, and he was practicing medicine out of his home. He glanced at Prince Vladimir, who nodded unhappily, and then looked at Zoya with sad eyes.
