Imperial Splendour Read online

  “But, Papa – ” Zoia began.

  He interrupted her.

  ”Before you say anything, let me tell you that a British Man-of-War is expected in two or three days’ time. I overheard the Duke telling one of His Excellency’s aides-de-camp that he intended to ask for passage on it to England.”

  Zoia was very still.

  Then she sat down on the stool that she had just vacated, feeling that her legs would no longer carry her.

  “What I want you to do,” Pierre Vallon said, “is to leave the ball and drive straight to the ship where I will be waiting for you.”

  “Leave the – ball?” Zoia repeated stupidly.

  “It would be wisest, my dear. What is the point of torturing yourself by saying ‘goodbye’ to the Duke, knowing that there will be nothing to gain from it but added unhappiness to what you are feeling already?”

  “You know – how much I – love him, Papa.”

  “Yes, I know, but as you agreed from the very beginning, there can be no happy ending to your story. Therefore I think my method of leaving is kinder for you and kinder for him as well.”

  “Kinder for – him?” Zoia questioned.

  “What can he do, but thank you? The Duke of Welminster is as important in England as your grandfather was in Russia. They both had a pride in their family and their blood that would not allow them to lower their standards of behaviour for anything. Not even love!”

  Zoia clenched her fingers together until the knuckles showed white.

  She knew that what her father was saying to her was true, but that made it no less hurtful and no less an instrument of despair.

  “You have to be brave, dearest,” Pierre Vallon cautioned, “and quite frankly this will be the easiest way.”

  He did not wait for her answer but went on,

  “I have spoken to Maria. She is already packing. She and Jacques will leave The Palace late in the evening and drive to the ship.”

  Zoia waited, knowing that what she was to hear she should do was, as it were, the fall of the axe.

  “I will be waiting at the end of the garden for you in a closed carriage,” Pierre Vallon went on. “It might evoke awkward questions if we leave the ballroom together.”

  Perhaps the Duke would stop us, Zoia pondered.

  But she knew that there was no point in saying such a thing aloud and she merely went on listening as her father continued,

  “I understand that the Governor-General has arranged for a gypsy orchestra to play at about midnight and for their women to dance. I am sorry we shall miss it, but I suggest that, as soon as everybody’s attention is concentrated on them, you slip away through the garden to where I shall be waiting for you.”

  “It – seems very – rude,” Zoia murmured because she felt that something was expected of her.

  “I have already thought of that,” Pierre Vallon replied. “I have written a letter both to the Governor-General and to the Duchesse thanking them for their hospitality.”

  “And the – Duke?”

  Zoia could not help the question that seemed to burst from her lips.

  “When the Duke learns that we have gone,” Pierre Vallon replied, “he will appreciate our tact and the way we have saved him from being involved in something that might prove uncomfortably emotional.”

  There was a cynical twist to his lips as he added,

  “The English dislike anything that might break down their traditional reserve.”

  “You really don’t think he will – consider it – unkind and – remiss of us not to tell him what we are – doing?” Zoia asked.

  “Do you want me to be frank with you?” Pierre Vallon enquired.

  “Of course, Papa.”

  “Then if I am honest, I know that the Duke finds you very beautiful and very desirable, but we have to face the truth, dearest, and know that he wants more than that in the woman he will make his wife.”

  Zoia closed her eyes as if to protect herself from a blow.

  Then she said in a voice that sounded dull with misery even to herself,

  “I will do what you – want me to do – Papa – because I trust you – and perhaps it is right that we should save the Duke – any embarrassment.”

  “You are very sensible, my dearest,” Pierre Vallon said, “and believe me, if I could save you from what you are suffering and if I could add your despair to my own and leave you free, I would do so.”

  His words brought Zoia to her feet.

  She moved into his arms and put her cheek against his.

  “I thought – love meant happiness – and joy,” she sighed, “but what I am – feeling is a – darkness where I am sure that the sun will – never shine again.”

  “That is how I felt when your mother died, but life goes on and perhaps one day you will find somebody else you can love and be happy with him.”

  Zoia wanted to cry out that it would never happen, but because she did not wish to upset her father, she said nothing and she found a little comfort from his arms.

  They stood entwined for a long moment until Pierre Vallon said in a practical tone,

  “We must not be late for dinner. His Excellency is making this a very special evening for us as well as for the Duke, which, of course, I do appreciate.”

  He went from the room and Zoia returned to the dressing table to stand looking at her reflection in the mirror.

  She was only surprised that her appearance did not seem to have changed.

  She had a feeling that her father had taken away her youth and she would not have been astonished to see herself old, wrinkled and grey-haired.

  Instead she looked very lovely, except that, deep in the purple depths of her eyes, there was an inexpressible pain.

  *

  The ballroom with its huge chandeliers, each holding hundreds of tapers, was fragrant with flowers and on the carved and gilt cornice which encircled the room, there were lines of lit candles, an idea that Zoia had never seen before.

  If the setting was magnificent, so were the guests.

  Never had she imagined that women could wear quite so many glittering jewels from the magnificent tiaras on their heads to the buckles on their shoes.

  The Duchesse and her Ladies-in-Waiting were wearing the Russian Court dress of white silk, cut low with a close-fitting bodice and a red train that was gold-embroidered.

  They also wore the Ribbon of the Order of St. Catherine with its diamond cross.

  And the men were determined not to be outdone, for everyone present was either in a spectacular and splendid uniform and was covered with decorations with ribbons across their chests.

  The Duke wore the Order of the Garter below the knee of his left leg.

  There were Huzzar Officers in white and gold, Court Chamberlains in blue frockcoats, stiff with gold, and young Circassians in high black or white sheepskin hats.

  The evening was a Fairytale spectacle, Zoia knew, from the moment she had entered the huge dining room to see a breath-taking display of gold plate on the table and to find to her astonishment that she was seated on the right of the Governor-General.

  The Duke was seated on the right of the Duchesse with Pierre Vallon on her left and the Governor-General explained to everyone that she and her father, like the Duke, were the Guests of Honour of the evening.

  “Everybody here has come to meet you,” he informed Zoia with a smile.

  “Despite the fact that we are ‒ French?” Zoia asked in a low voice.

  “As I am,” the Governor-General replied. “My dear, music is an international language that knows no boundaries and no barriers and your father, in my estimation, is King of a far greater Empire than anything that Napoleon Bonaparte might be trying to achieve.”

  Her father was certainly enjoying himself, Zoia thought, and she felt that for her too it would have been the most wonderful evening she had ever known, except that it was the end of the chapter that she had spoken to the Duke about as they had left Moscow.

 
‘A very short – chapter,’ she ruminated wistfully.

  She could not help feeling that those that came after would be pale and uninspiring and she shrank from thinking of what it would mean when she would never see the Duke again.

  ‘I shall be alone, as I have never been alone before.’ she thought, ‘and loneliness without love will be colder than any Siberian winter!’

  The Duke was looking so magnificent that she found it difficult to see anyone else in the glittering company and, when they entered the ballroom, he came to her side to say,

  “I really cannot ask you to dance with me, Zoia, for I have been forbidden by Maria to do anything so adventurous. But will you sit and talk to me?”

  “You know I would like to do so,” she answered.

  She thought she would go with him there and then, but the Governor-General asked her to dance with him and it was impossible to refuse what was in effect a Royal Command.

  When that dance was over, there were other inescapable partners and it was over an hour before eventually the Duke came to her side and, without saying anything, they moved away together through the wide open windows of the ballroom onto the terrace outside.

  It was a night of stars with a crescent moon moving up the sky and the garden, with soft lights concealed amongst the flowers, was a poem of beauty. Beyond there was the mystery of the sea.

  As they sat down on a seat in the shadows, they could hear the music in the ballroom behind them and for a moment Zoia could find nothing to say until the Duke asked her,

  “You are worried?”

  “How do you – know I am?”

  “I thought we had agreed long ago that I can read your thoughts.”

  Zoia did not reply because she was hoping that at this particular moment he could do no such thing. She felt something like panic sweep over her only to reassure herself that she was being needlessly afraid.

  It was one thing for him to understand what she played on the piano, but quite another to be aware that within an hour or so they would never see each other again.

  “Are you going to tell me what is troubling you or must I guess?” the Duke quizzed her.

  “Why – should I be troubled by – anything?” she replied. “It is a – wonderful evening and a great – tribute to you.”

  “And, of course, to you as well,” he replied. “Do I have to tell you how lovely you look tonight?”

  There was a note in his voice that made her vibrate to him.

  Then she told herself that he was just being polite and she forced herself to say,

  “Everybody has been just – so kind – Her Excellency gave me this beautiful train – and I shall always remember this moment – here in Odessa.”

  “There are other moments for us to remember,” the Duke ventured.

  “Will you – remember – them?” Zoia enquired.

  She could not help the question because she wanted so much to hear his answer.

  “I think what I will remember most vividly is when I came back to consciousness after I had been wounded and saw your face looking down at me.”

  Zoia felt herself quiver. She had longed for him to talk to her like this and yet there had never seemed to be an opportunity until now.

  “I have a feeling,” the Duke then went on, “that you were calling me back through the darkness that encompassed me. I knew, when I had thought deeply about it, that even in my unconsciousness I had been conscious of you.”

  That was what she had wanted him to feel when she had called him desperately back to life from the darkness of death.

  “Do you really think that is an event that I could ever forget?” the Duke asked.

  “Please – remember me – always.”

  The words were spoken impulsively and there was a pleading expression in her face as she looked up at the Duke.

  His eyes met hers and it seemed that he was looking straight into her heart and they were both very still.

  Then, as if it came from another world, a voice said,

  “So here you are, Mademoiselle Vallon, I have been looking for you. His Excellency wishes you to dance the mazurka with him.”

  For a moment Zoia found it hard to understand what was being said to her.

  Then, as if she jerked herself black to reality, she rose to her feet.

  “It is – very kind of His Excellency,” she managed to say to the aide-de-camp who had been sent in search of her.

  “Let me escort you to the ballroom, mademoiselle.”

  “Thank ‒ you,” Zoia replied.

  She could not look at the Duke.

  She felt only as if she was being dragged away from him.

  She wanted so much to hold onto him and beg him not to let her go.

  Instead she followed the aide-de-camp back into the ballroom, thanked the Governor-General for his kindness and they started the mazurka together in an animated manner.

  After that it seemed impossible to escape from the men who surrounded her.

  Every time a dance ended she looked around her frantically for the Duke, but before she could see him or move towards him through the crowds, somebody else had already claimed her and she was forced to dance with them.

  She danced automatically and had no idea what her partners said to her or what she said to them.

  She was only conscious that time was going faster and faster and that all she wanted was to spend the last minutes of it with the man she loved so much.

  Then, despairingly, she realised that there was no sign of her father either and she knew only too well where he had gone.

  The dance came to an end. Now there was a roll of drums and on the steps into the ballroom there appeared a gypsy orchestra resplendent in their colourful clothes.

  Their black eyes echoed their black hair and their high cheekbones singled them out as people of another race and, as Zoia was aware, another culture.

  The guests were all moving away from the centre of the floor, the older women seating themselves on the chairs and sofas around the room, the gentlemen standing beside them or in groups waiting to applaud the entertainment that their host had provided for them.

  Then, as the gypsy women with their full skirts, gold necklaces and jingling bracelets danced onto the floor with bare feet, Zoia knew that this was the moment when she had to leave.

  She looked around once more hoping to see the Duke and yet fully knowing, if she did so, that there was nothing she could do about it.

  It was too late now for them to talk and besides what was there to say except that she loved him with all her heart and soul?

  It was easy, while everybody’s attention was fixed on the gypsies, for her to slip through one of the open windows onto the terrace where there were white marble steps going down into the garden.

  There was nobody to notice her moving down them and she crossed the smooth green lawn between the beds of flowers until she saw another flight of steps.

  As she reached them, she looked down and saw a carriage, as she had expected.

  It was closed and there were two men on the box, one of whom jumped down as soon as she appeared and went to the carriage door.

  Feeling as if she walked to her doom, Zoia descended the steps slowly.

  The door of the carriage was open and, moving into the darkness inside, she sat down on the back seat, aware as she did so that her father was there waiting for her in the darkness.

  The carriage door was shut, the footman climbed up onto the box and the horses started off.

  Zoia bent forward to take one last look through the window at the garden that she had just left.

  ‘Goodbye – my love – my only love – now and for Eternity,’ she breathed in her heart.

  Then, as she leaned back in the seat fighting the tears that blinded her eyes, a deep voice asked,

  “Who are you saying ‘goodbye’ to, Zoia?”

  She gave a cry both of shock and astonishment, for it was not her father who spoke but the Duke!

 
She turned her face towards him and in the light of the lamps on the drive that they were travelling down, she could see his face and his eyes gazing into hers.

  For a moment she was incapable of speech and then almost incoherently she asked him,

  “Why – are you – here? What – has happened?”

  “That is really the question that I should be asking you,” the Duke replied. “How could you imagine that you could leave me and I not be aware of it?”

  “B-but – Papa said – ”

  “Your father is now on board the Turkish ship that will carry him to France,” the Duke interrupted. “I have only the one question to ask of you, Zoia, and I wish you to answer me truthfully.”

  “What is – it?” she whispered.

  “It is quite simple,” the Duke answered. “I want you to tell me who you love best, your father or me.”

  For a moment she thought that she could not have heard him aright.

  Then, as she looked up at him, she had a fleeting glimpse of an expression on his face that she had not seen before and instantly felt her heart turn over in her breast.

  “It is a very important question,” the Duke insisted, “because the choice is yours. I can take you now to your father so that you can leave with him or you can stay with me.”

  It was impossible for Zoia to speak and he went on,

  “It is just a question of love, that is the answer I want you to give me.”

  “I – love you!” Zoia whispered. “I love you – desperately – but – ”

  The Duke’s arms went around her as he interrupted her.

  “There are no ‘buts’,” he insisted. “If you love me, if you really love me, that is all I want to know.”

  “I love – you!” Zoia answered him at once.

  The words seemed to come from her very soul.

  The Duke’s arms tightened around her and, as she lifted her face to him, his lips came down on hers.

  For a moment she was so bewildered by what had happened that she could feel nothing save amazement and then the pressure of the Duke’s mouth evoked the ecstasy that she had always felt when they were close to each other, but now far more intense and more perfect so that she wished she might die as nothing could ever be so Divine or so utterly and completely perfect.