a wonderful Hooking man. “I had a lovely time tonight.”
“So did I, Zoya … so did I.” He gently touched the long red hair, and wanted to pull her close to him, but he didn't dare.
He walked her to her door and saw her safely inside, as she waved for a last time, and darted up the stairs to the apartment.
CHAPTER
16
Clayton's introduction to her grandmother went far more easily than either of them had dared to hope. Zoya explained breezily that she had met him at General Pershing's soiroe for the Ballet Russe, and she had invited him to tea. Evgenia was hesitant at first, it was one thing to entertain Prince Vladimir, whose circumstances were as restrained as theirs, but not someone they scarcely knew. But Zoya bought half a dozen little cakes for them, a much sought after loaf of bread, and her grandmother brewed a pot of steaming tea. They had no other niceties to offer him, no silver tray, no lace napkins or cloth, no samovar, but Evgenia was far more concerned about why he wanted to visit them than she was about the elegance of what they could offer him. But as Feodor opened the door to him promptly at four o'clock, Clayton Andrews himself dispelled almost all her fears. He brought them both flowers, and a lovely apple tart, and he was every inch a gentleman as he greeted them both, Zoya quite formally, and her grandmother with respectable warmth. He seemed almost not to notice Zoya at all that day as he chatted comfortably about his travels, his small knowledge of Russian history, and his own youth in New York. And like Zoya, Evgenia found herself frequently reminded of Konstantin, with his warmth, his wit, his charm. And when at last she sent Zoya out of the room to make another pot of tea, she sat quietly watching him, knowing full well why he had come to visit her. He was too old to dally with the child, and yet she could not bring herself to disapprove of him. He was a fine and worthy man.
“What do you want with her?” The old woman asked in a soft voice, unexpectedly, while Zoya was still out of the room, and he met the old woman's eyes with honesty and kindness.
“I'm not sure. I've never even talked to a girl her age before, but she's quite remarkable in many ways. Perhaps I can be a friend to her … to both of you? …”
“Don't play with her, Captain Andrews. She has her whole life ahead of her, and it could be changed unpleasantly by what you do now. She seems to be very fond of you. Perhaps that will be enough.” But neither of them thought it was. The old woman knew even better than he that once he brought her close to him, Zoya's life would never be quite the same again. “She is still very, very young.”
He nodded quietly, thinking of the wisdom of her words. More than once in the past week he had told himself that he was foolish to pursue a girl so young. And when he left Paris afterward, then what? It wouldn't be fair to take advantage of her and then move on.
“In another world, another life, this wouldn't even have been possible.”
“I'm well aware of that, Countess. But on the other hand”—he made a quiet case for himself—” times have changed, haven't they?”
“Indeed they have.” And with that, Zoya came back to them, and poured each of them a cup of tea. She showed him her photographs then, of the previous summer in Livadia, with Joy gamboling at her feet, the Tsarevich sitting next to her on the yacht, and others with Olga and Marie, Tatiana, Anastasia, Aunt Alix, and the Tsar himself. It was almost like a lesson in modern history, and more than once Zoya looked up at him with a happy smile, remembering, explaining it all to him as he listened to her, and he knew the answer then to Evgenia's questions. He felt far more than friendship for this girl. Even though she was barely more than a child, there was something remarkable in her soul, something that reached out and touched him to the core, something he had never felt before, for anyone. And yet, how could he possibly offer her anything? He was forty-five years old, divorced, and he had come to Prance to fight a war. There was nothing he