Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (33 page)

Vaslav obviously had matters well under control, so why
worry himself unnecessarily about the fickle future? he asked
himself. Besides, there was a sterling-silver lining to the par
ticular storm clouds Vaslav was predicting. If anything . . .

Mordka's heart skipped a beat and he suddenly sat bolt
upright.

If anything, the winds of political change only played into
his hands. He usually received a five-per cent commission on
all purchases and sales conducted for the Danilovs, and would
earn likewise on the sale of the Ural estate. Five per cent of
twenty-nine million acres would amount to a tidy sum. Plus
this was the ideal opportunity to skim a little off the top.
After all, with twenty-nine million acres, one or two million
wouldn't be missed.

Hell, he thought, taking another swig from the bottle, he
stood to make a bloody fortune.

In the meantime, more and more of the Danilov fortune
would seep quietly into Switzerland.

Chapter 13

Senda's energy and resolve began to return in mid-January.

Finally forced to accept the fact that Schmarya had deserted
her and that languishing in the palace might be the stuff of
romantic heroines but highly inconvenient in real life, she
drew on all her reserves of strength and came back to life with a new surge of direction. Although she had missed performing
The Cherry Orchard
at the Yussoupov Palace, Countess
Florinsky had arranged for two other shows to be performed
soon, one at the Yelagin Palace and the other at the
Stroganovs'.

'It's too soon, Flora!' Senda had tried to beg off numbly
when Countess Florinsky informed her of the impending pro
ductions. 'I just can't! Not yet!'

'Oh, but you simply must!' the Countess had cried. 'Not for
yourself, of course. We can always take care of you and the
little one. But what about the rest of the troupe? My dear, I do believe they're counting on you. If you don't accept these
offers, what is to happen to them?'

What indeed? Senda asked herself morosely, seeing no way
out of her predicament.

The next weeks were crammed with all the exhausting exig
encies necessary for Senda's resurrection. It was a tiring but
welcoming period of transition, and she had little time to
mourn for Schmarya, a fact for which she was extremely grate
ful. And Countess Florinsky had magically produced what
seemed to Senda an astronomical sum of money.

'It's just an advance installment, my dear. The second half
is coming,' the Countess told her, folding Senda's hesitant
fingers around the crisp new bills. And she added, lying glibly,
'Of course, I've already taken out my commission, so you
needn't worry about that.'

By the beginning of February, Senda was almost completely
back on her feet. On the morning of Friday, the sixth of that month, Countess Florinsky steered her to what she called 'a modest but respectable' high-ceilinged apartment near the
Academy of Arts, with tall rectangular windows overlooking
the Neva.

'I know it's on the
wrong
side of the river,' Countess
Florinsky apologized, 'but it
is
furnished, and rather nicely,
and it does have three bedrooms, along with this nice parlour.
It's just what you need for holding your salon.'

'My . . .
what?'
Senda peered at her friend closely.

'Your
salon,
of course! It goes without saying, my dear, that
you'll have to do a bit of entertaining. It's the thing to do, you
know.'

Slowly Senda explored the apartment, peering into closets, roaming from one room to the next. Even in the bitter, windswept freeze of deep winter there was a decidedly warm and elegant air about the apartment. The salon was simply fur
nished and spacious, with heavy wooden furniture, a ceramic
fireplace, and a black grand piano. There were classical chiaro
scuro prints on the walls, a brass and glass-globed chandelier, and bentwood chairs. Heavy opaque puff curtains and gossa
mer white net curtains hung over the windows, and the sofa
was covered in tapestry. The glossy wooden floor was warmed
by several geometric-patterned Oriental rugs, and occasional
tables were draped with thick embroidered cloths. The small
dining room off the salon was austere, with lilac-coloured
walls, a heavily carved armoire, and four chairs around a plain
white-draped square table over which hung another brass chandelier. Senda was delighted with the smallest of the three
bedrooms, for which the Countess had shamelessly looted
some of the treasures from the Danilov nursery: a crib,
playpen, pint-size chairs, and a profusion of toys. Tamara
would be in heaven, Senda knew, and thanked Countess
Florinsky profusely for having thought of it. 'Eh? But it is
nothing,' the Countess assured her with an idle wave of her
hand, looking rather pleased with herself despite her modesty.
The largest of the bedrooms was any lady's dream, Senda
thought. The walls were covered with pale blue watered silk,
and the brass-framed botanical prints and flowered glazed-
chintz curtains gave it a gardenlike cheer. But it was the kidney-shaped dressing table, which flaunted three layers of ivory lace flounces, that made it so decidedly feminine. On its
glass-topped surface were laid out all the implements necess
ary for feminine grooming—two silk-shaded lamps flanked a
round silver-framed mirror, and around it were arranged silver
combs and brushes, bottles of lotions, perfumes, and eau de
cologne, and a delicate crystal vase of pink tea roses. And the Spartan, utilitarian third bedroom, Flora informed her, was
for a live-in servant.

'But I've never had a servant!' Senda moaned with dismay.
'I wouldn't know what to do with one!'

'You don't have to do anything, which is the point of having a servant. I think a general housekeeper with nurse's training
is best. You don't really need more than one servant for the
time being, but you do need a housekeeper and a nurse for
Tamara. After all, you can't drag her to the theatres for
rehearsals every day, and then to performances every night,
can you? She would become an exhausted wreck, the poor
thing. Besides which, all respectable families have at least one
live-in.'

'When do you think we can move in, then?' Senda asked softly. She barely trusted herself to speak, so afraid was she
that vocalizing anything to do with her good fortune would
somehow cause her to awaken from this cornucopia-filled
dream.

'Anytime, I suppose,' Flora said with surprise. 'After all,
it's yours. The pantry is stocked and there are linens on the
beds. The kitchen has all the pots and pans and dishes you are
likely to need.'

Senda took a deep breath and barely hesitated. 'This after
noon, then,' she said firmly.

Countess Florinsky smiled. 'As long as it makes you happy,'
she said warmly, hugging Senda tightly.

The palace slid out of sight as the sleigh carrying Senda and
Tamara turned down an
allée
of ice-frozen trees, the skeletal
branches glassy with the veneer of crystalline ice. Nightmare
trees, she thought, each one a solitary sentinel well-spaced
from the next. A sob caught in her throat. Damn. Those wintry
trees were but a reflection of her own life.

The sleigh picked up speed, the bells on the horses jingling
with false merriment. She blinked her eyes and sniffled. A lump blocked her throat and the mist in her eyes welled up
into a blur of full-fledged moisture. Lost forever, she feared,
was the warm, welcoming touch of Schmarya's body. The safe
haven she had sought in his arms. His loins. His heart. His
soul. She drew a quivering breath and dabbed ineffectually at her eyes with a gloved knuckle. Her stomach was squirming
and the length of her intestines gnarled into a tight, spastic
cord.

You're alone, alone, alone!
a
voice within her chanted its
singsong message.
You're now father and mother both. You're
the breadwinner of the household and solely responsible for
your daughter. Nothing you want counts for anything anymore!
You've made your choice and you have a career. But you're
alone, alone, alone!

Alone!

Impulsively, as though to draw strength from her daughter,
she leaned forward and pressed a trembling kiss against the
back of Tamara's bright red knitted cap, resting her lips on the scratchy wool in a long, drawn-out kiss of anguish.

She could feel Tamara's strong arms and feisty legs as she
squirmed impatiently on her lap. For a moment longer she
held her child close, then let her go. Even before she loosened
her grip, the little girl was clambering about the seat.

She closed her eyes, making the rest of the short journey in
self-imposed darkness. She dreaded facing each long, empty
minute remaining of that year. That month. That week.

Especially the rest of that day.

To her surprise, however, there was no time to spend con
sidering the bleakness of her situation. Tamara explored every
nook and cranny of the new apartment, mesmerized with the
room full of toys and insisting that Senda play with her. Then
she was hungry, and Senda made them both something to eat.
To her astonishment, she herself had a ravenous appetite.

The afternoon was gone.

That night, when shadowy self-recriminations over losing
Schmarya were sure to engulf her, promising to keep her
awake, it was other doubts which preyed on her mind. Turning
down her new bed, she let out a cry of dismay, dropping the
sheet as she recoiled. She stared at the white linen as if she'd
found a snake lurking under the covers.