gown, pull it there, tuck it here, and suddenly the woman seemed to bloom as she looked at herself in the mirror … she was able to pick the perfect hat to go with just the right suit … a bunch of flowers … a little fur … the exceptionally lovely shoes. She created images that became poetry, and her employer was more than pleased with her. By Christmas, Zoya had made a real niche for herself at Ax-elle's, she had outsold everyone, and everyone asked for the Countess when they came in. It was Countess this, Countess that … and don't you think, Countess … and oh, Countess, please … Axelle watched her perform, always with discretion and a dignified air, her own clothes put together perfectly with quiet elegance, her white gloves immaculate when she came to work, her hair impeccably done, her faint accent adding to her mystery. And Axelle let it be known early on that she was a cousin of the Tsar. It was exactly what she needed for the shop, and when Serge Obolensky came in to see this “Countess” everyone was talking about, he looked at her, stunned, as tears filled her eyes.
“Zoya! What are you doing here?”
“Keeping amused.” She said nothing about the brutally hard two years she had survived.
“How silly of you! But rather fun perhaps, too, I suppose. You must come to dinner with us.” But she always declined. She no longer had the clothes, or the time, or even the energy to run with his crowd. That was over for her. She went home to her children every night, waiting for her in the apartment on Thirty-ninth Street, near the East River, that she had been able to move into in time for Christmas. They were both in decent schools, and the regular raises and commissions Axelle had been giving her did not allow them room for luxuries, but it was enough to keep them comfortable, which was a vast improvement over the previous two years when she was dancing at Fitzhugh's Dance Hall.
She had been working for Axelle when the Lindbergh baby was found killed in May of 1932, and she read with surprise that Florenz Ziegfeld had died in July of the same year. She wondered what it would have been like to work for him and not Fitzhugh's Dance Hall. She wondered too what had happened to Jimmy by then. She had long since sent him the hundred dollars he had slipped into her bag when she was so desperate, but she had never heard from him again. He was part of another life, another chapter closed, as she went on working as the Countess at Axelle's. And she was particularly touched when Eleanor Roosevelt came to see her to buy some clothes during the campaign. She remembered Clayton's old friends with warmth, and sent them a telegram when Franklin won, and she sent Eleanor a lovely fur hat, which she said she would wear at the inauguration in March, and Axelle was thrilled with her.
“You certainly have a way with them, ma chire. ” The elegant Frenchwoman beamed at her. She was fond of the girl, and she was enchanted by little Nicholas. He had the gentle ways of a young prince, and the stories Obolensky had told her one afternoon, of Zoya and the daughters of the Tsar were easy to believe now. She was an unusual woman, born at an unfortunate time. Had things happened otherwise, she might have been married to a prince of her own, and living in one of the palaces she had frequented as a child. It seemed so unfair, but no more so than the crushing depression that raged on. All except Axelle's customers seemed to be starving that year.
At Christmastime, Zoya took Nicholas to see the movie Tarzan, and he was thrilled, and afterward she took him out to tea. He was going to the Trinity School and doing well there. He was a good student and a bright child, and at eleven years of age, he said he wanted to be a businessman one day, like his Daddy had been. Sasha wanted to be a movie star. Zoya had bought her a Shirley Temple doll, and she always carried it with her, along with Annabelle, who had survived the fire. They were happy children, in spite of the difficult times that had happened to them. In the spring, Zoya became the assistant manager of Axelle's. It