a black dress asked quietly, as Zoya looked around. “Is there something you wished to see?” Her accent was clearly French, and Zoya turned to her with a dignified smile. She was trembling inside but she prayed it didn't show as she answered in her own flawless French, which she had spoken since her childhood.
“May I see the manager, please?”
“Aha … how nice to hear someone speak French.” The older woman smiled. She looked like a very well-dressed schoolmistress in a very elegant school for young ladies. “I am she. Is there something you wish?”
“Yes,” Zoya spoke quietly, so no one else would hear her. “I am Countess Ossupov, and I am looking for a job.” There was a long beat as the two women's eyes met, and then after an interminable wait, the Frenchwoman nodded.
“I see.” She was wondering to herself if the girl was a fraud, but her air of quiet dignity suggested that she was what she claimed, and the Frenchwoman waved discreetly to a closed door just beyond her. “Would you care to come to my office, madame?” The title was unimportant to her, but she knew it might not be to the clients she served, Barbara Hutton, Eleanor Carson, Doris Duke, and their friends. She had an elite clientele, and titles meant a great deal to most of them. Many of them were marrying princes and counts, just so they could have titles too.
Zoya followed her into a beautifully appointed black and white sitting room. It was where she showed their most expensive gowns, and her only competition was Chanel, who had recently brought her wares to the States, but there was room for both of them in New York. The Frenchwoman's name was Axelle Dupuis, she had come from Paris years before, and had set up the elegant salon known only as “Axelle.” But it had already been the rage in New York for several years. Zoya had even bought a gown there herself once but she had of course not used her Russian name, and mercifully Madame Dupuis seemed not to remember her.
“Have you any experience at this?” She looked Zoya over carefully. The dress she wore was cheap, and her shoes were worn, but the graceful hands, the way she moved, the way she wore her hair, all spoke of someone who had seen better times. She was articulate, and she spoke French, not that it mattered so much here. And she seemed to exude an innate sense of style, even in the inexpensive dress. Axeile was intrigued. “Have you worked in fashion before?”
“No,” Zoya was honest with her as she shook her head. “I haven't. I moved to Paris from St. Petersburg after the revolution,” she could say the words now, worse things had happened since, and she had Nicky and Sasha to think of. For them, she would crawl on her hands and knees for this job, and she could read nothing in the woman's face as she quietly poured herself and Zoya a cup of tea. The silver service she used was extremely beautiful, the china, French. She had ladylike airs, and she watched Zoya carefully as she took a sip of the tea. Things like that mattered to her, her clients were the most elegant, the most elite, the most demanding women in the world, she couldn't afford to have them served by people with bad manners, crude ways, and as she looked Zoya over with sharp gray eyes, she was pleased.
“When you went to Paris, did you work in fashion there?” Axeile was curious about this girl. There was something unmistakably aristocratic about her every move, as Zoya squarely met her eyes.
“I danced with the Ballet Russe. It was the only thing I knew how to do, and we were very poor.” She had decided to be honest with her, to a point anyway.
“And then?”
Zoya smiled sadly, as she sat very straight in her chair. “I married an American and came here in 1919.” Twelve years before, it was hard to believe now. Twelve years … “My husband died two years ago, he was older than I,” she didn't tell the Frenchwoman about everything they'd lost. It was unimportant now, and she wanted to save Clayton's dignity, even in death. “I have two children to support, and we just lost everything we had in a fire … not that there was much …” Her voice drifted off, thinking of the tiny apartment where Sava had died. She