ROMANOV AUTUMN
Chapter Twenty-Six

Over the next week, Jack spent time establishing his miniature art studio. The weather had cleared on Monday, and remained sunny and warm the following couple of days. He got quite a few customers, especially children, who were interested in having their portraits done. As in California, it was difficult to get the young ones to sit still for longer than ten minutes, and they were often scolded by their parents to "quit fussing while the nice man draws your picture."

Jack only charged ten cents, which equaled five pence in English money, though some customers offered more. Probably out of pity, he thought, as he got to know Josephine Millard a little more throughout his stay in London. She told him she never got more than her asking price for portraits, and it was clear they felt sorry for him.

"I’m doing the same as you," he said, and Josephine shrugged.

"But you’re an American," she added. "They feel bad because you traveled all this way and are expecting more than you were getting."

Jack shrugged before deciding to get something to eat for a short break. As for real companions, he didn’t gain any in London…he kept to himself for the most part, wanting to travel frequently without feeling guilty. Making good friendships on the road was difficult, as he’d discovered with Harry and Bridget. He made sure to write his friends a letter, asking how their wedding went, and apologizing for not being able to make it.

By the end of his two weeks, Jack managed to earn fifteen pounds, which was equal to eighty-one dollars in American money. This, he decided, was enough to begin his travels to France. Josephine was sorry to see him go, but wished him the best of luck on the rest of his pursuits.

"I appreciate your help," he said, and she shook her head.

"It is difficult to make your way as an artist," she told him with a smile. "We are all in this together."

Jack caught a ferry to Paris the next morning, and found himself standing beside a woman who wore more jewelry than he thought was comfortable. In fact, she was almost like a walking jewelry box, and what stood out was her moth-eaten, bright purple suit. She had a large hat on her head with a great green feather sticking out, and stared straight ahead at the water.

Jack leaned on the rail, watching as she murmured to herself, fiddling with an enormous ring on her pointer finger, and he decided it was best not to ask if she were all right or not. Her perfume made him sneeze, and she merely turned to stare at him, her dark gray eyes narrowing, and he apologized, having to duck away so he could breathe.

He fumbled in his trouser pocket for a handkerchief, and realized with annoyance that he didn’t have one. Rubbing his nose, he went to sit on one of the chairs, glad the journey to Paris was only two hours long. He found a clean cloth right at the bottom of his duffle bag, and blew out his breath after using it. He dozed for the rest of the trip, clutching his sketchpad protectively to his chest. His stomach remained calm for the trip, which was very much a relief.

He jumped half a foot when the ferry’s horn gave a loud burst, and rubbed his eyes. The Eiffel tower came into view shortly afterwards, and he found his heart racing in his chest. If only Olivia could be here with him…he knew his sister would adore Paris at first glance. If I ever become rich and famous, I’ll make sure my sister gets to travel, he told himself. Olivia never gave the opinion that she wanted to leave Wisconsin, but surely after hearing the stories of his adventures, she would want to go with him.

Once the passengers were allowed to disembark, Jack joined the line of anxious people on the ramp, rocking back and forth on his heels. The woman in purple was right behind him, continuing to mutter to herself, and he watched as she headed straight into the nearest bar once off the ferry. Jack shook his head as he followed her, ordering an ale to celebrate his safe arrival.

As he watched the woman sip from a glass of straight rum, he opened his sketchbook and began to draw her. She ignored him completely, having gone through three shots of rum by the time he was ready to leave. He’d finished most of the sketch, shaking his head sadly and wondering what had happened to make her that way.

It was growing dark by the time Jack wandered along the Parisian streets, wishing he’d had more time to study the French language. He decided to find a hotel to stay in for the night while walking past one of the enormous theaters. While he strolled, he heard shouting in the distance, and saw a young woman no older than sixteen standing very close to a tall, brown-haired man. She wore a thin white dress, and was screaming in what reminded Jack of Russian.

The man she was shouting at soon shoved her, calling her something in a nasty voice, and Jack’s mouth fell open as she lost her balance and fell into a mud puddle. He watched as the man started to walk away, bolted across the street after the man had disappeared around the corner, and knelt down beside the distressed woman. She gasped when she saw him, backing away, but only succeeding in slipping again.

"It’s all right," Jack insisted, holding out his hand. "I’m not gonna hurt you."

She watched him, her expression hesitant, and eventually reached for his hand. She attempted to stand, but the ground was so slippery that she dragged him down with her as she fell once more. He landed on top of the woman, causing her to let out an "Aiie!" and he rolled off, wiping mud from his eyes. She began to laugh after a moment or two of laying still, and he struggled to sit up, feeling dizzy from having the wind knocked out of him.

A few moments later, he saw a couple of women in matching dresses come flying towards him, their faces full of anger. "Que faites-vous? Obtenez loin d'elle immédiatement!" The blonde attempted to swing at Jack with her purse, but the woman Jack had fallen over blocked the way.

"Nyet, nyet!" she begged, and after a moment or two of a struggle, the blonde lowered her arms and began demanding an explanation in French. The mud-covered woman used her arms to emphasize her story, and Jack stood, afraid to speak or move. The red-headed woman beside the blonde looked at him with amazement, and soon all three women were watching him.

"Elle dit que vous l'avez aidée?" the redhead asked.

"I’m afraid I don’t speak much French," Jack told her apologetically.

"She says you helped her?" she translated, and Jack nodded, swallowing.

"I tried," he insisted. "But unfortunately I didn‘t do a very good job, did I?" He blushed, and the blonde chuckled.

"You did well enough, sir," she replied. "Alyiah is always getting herself into trouble these days with men…it is difficult to trust anyone."

"That is not true," the woman named Alyiah protested. "Only Sergio, and he pushed me. I suppose it was…partially my doing, as I started our fight. But he’s been cheating…he deserved every harsh word he got." Alyiah smiled at Jack, who was drenched, and came to offer her hand. "Come," she said, her accent thick and distinctly Russian now that he listened closer. "Come inside…you are soaking."

Jack started to protest, but she pulled him along, and the three of them made their way into the theater. A stern-looking woman with gray hair was waiting for them, and frowned deeply at Alyiah’s filthy clothing.

"Alyiah Vernonin, qui est celui?" the woman demanded, pointing her long, thin wooden stick at Jack. He started to explain when he was cut off by a rather violent sneeze, and the four women blessed him in multiple languages.

"Je ne sais pas," Alyiah admitted after translating for Jack, her cheeks turning visibly red, despite the mud covering them.

"I’m Jack Dawson," Jack introduced himself. "I mean no harm…I saw she was in an argument with someone, and the man she was with pushed her, so I helped her up and we both ended up in the…" He paused, and Alyiah frowned as he sneezed again.

"Goodness!" She laughed. "I do hope you are not going to catch a cold now."

Jack smiled, and the old woman eyed him with hesitation. "Well, Jack Dawson," she began. "What are your intentions?"

He rubbed his nose, and Alyiah ordered the blonde to fetch him a blanket from the prop room and put her hands on her hips.

"I thought she was hurt," he continued. "So I…"

"Well, Mr. Dawson," the old woman continued. "We are in your debt. Alyiah Vernonin is one of our prized ballerinas…we would not know what to do if she were not with us."

Jack raised his eyes, not having expected this at all. Of course, with her figure and poise, it was obvious now. A blanket was soon brought, and Alyiah covered his shoulders with it, smiling when he thanked her. She took the one brought for herself and gave him a sheepish look. Her eyes were very dark and intense, and made his heart race a lot faster than normal when he peered into them.

"I do hope you have clean clothes," the old woman said, and he nodded.

"Yes," he answered, and she wet her lips, introducing herself as Mme Artoire. She was the dance instructor of the Russian ballet company, based initially in St. Petersburg. "We are in Paris for the spring season," she explained. "And are preparing for a performance for the imperial family."

Jack blinked, unsure of how to answer. "Which…" he began, and Mme Artoire smiled stiffly.

"The Tsar Nicholas II, the Empress Alexandra, and Queen Victoria…Alexandra’s grandmother," Alyiah explained, and Jack felt his muscles freeze. He remembered talking of this family with Boris on the Baltic, and had a hard time believing they would be in this city soon. "We dance for them every year."

"Wow!" he gasped, and Mme Artoire nodded.

"Our girls have been rehearsing very hard indeed," she continued. "And we are always looking for assistance."

Jack cleared his throat. "I’m afraid I don’t dance," he chuckled, and Alyiah laughed as well, immediately being sent off to the dormitories to change. Before leaving, Alyiah quickly pecked a kiss on Jack’s cheek, thanking him, and he nodded. "You’re welcome," he replied, finding his own cheeks growing warm. She was so beautiful…it was as if an angel had truly come down from heaven.

"What talents do you provide?" Mme Artoire asked, and Jack was unsure of where she was going with this conversation. He wanted nothing more than to sit in front of a fire in dry clothes, warming up. Even though it wasn’t too cold outside, it was still growing dark, so the breeze was cool.

"I’m an artist," he explained. "I draw portraits, usually…charcoal pictures."

Mme Artoire nodded. "Would you be willing to employ your services to our company?" she asked, and he stared.

"I…" He cleared his throat again. "I’ve only just gotten off of the ferry from London…" he began. "I haven’t even found a place to stay yet. I…"

Mme Artoire chuckled, her eyes giving him a warmer look than before. "No worries, Monsieur," she insisted. "We have board available to you in our men’s dormitory. Recently we had a dancer leave due to family circumstances, so his room is available. We have not found a replacement yet."

They were now walking along the back of the stage, where a man and a woman were practicing, twirling and bending in angles Jack didn’t think bodies could possibly go into.

"What would you want me to do?" Jack asked, feeling as though he were in some kind of dream. He’d only been in Paris for a half an hour, and fate tossed him in truly unforeseen circumstances. I wish Mr. Rockefeller could see me now, he thought, amused at how Margarita would react to his current condition. She’d practically carry him up the steps to the washroom, dump him into the tub, and scrub his skin raw if he were in her clutches.

"I would want you to sketch our dancers," she explained. "For advertisement, to say the least. Also, we need assistance with our sets. You are familiar with Sleeping Beauty, no?"

Jack shook his head; he’d heard of the fairytale, but he wasn’t aware of it being a dance.

"We are performing that for the Tsar in June," Mme Artoire explained, "along with The Nutcracker in late November. Will you assist? I will pay you a fair wage, as it is the least I can do for what you have provided us."

Jack gulped. "I would be honored," he replied, fighting another sneeze. "I’m sorry," he apologized, turning to the side to let it out, and the instructor clucked her tongue.

"Je suis désolé," she apologized. "I am sorry," she explained. "You must go to the dormitory at once before you catch your death in those wet clothes."

Jack looked at her, watching as Mme Artoire ordered the male dancer to stop at once, and instructed him in French to show Jack to his new quarters.

"Thanks," Jack told her. "Thank you very much."

Mme Artoire nodded with approval, and watched as the dancer led the way out of the theater. He introduced himself as Noel Montagie, and it took a couple of head shakes from Jack to explain he did not speak French well.

"American?" Noel asked, and Jack nodded as they reached a stone building across the lawn from the theater. There was another building a few feet away, which Noel explained was the girls’ dormitory. They went inside to find the building dimly lit and much warmer than the theater. Jack was brought to a small room, containing a fireplace, a bed, a desk, dresser drawers, and one window overlooking the city square.

"I will light a fire for you, sir," Noel insisted, and Jack thanked him once it was roaring. "The bathroom is down the hall," he explained, and after he left, Jack stripped out of his muddy clothes, filling the washbin with fresh water. He scrubbed the mud away, trying to clear as much of it from his nose as he could. After he was clean and in dry clothes, he sat down on his bed, gazing out the window. The events from that late afternoon made his head spin, and he was unsure of whether or not he was dreaming.

Alyiah, though he’d only known her for twenty minutes, made him feel as no other. She was breathtaking…every inch of her, and he could not wait to see her again. Perhaps this is what they mean by love at first sight? he thought to himself, smiling as he lay down against the pillows, exhausted by the insanity. He was interrupted by his light doze by a knock on the door, and it took a few seconds to struggle out of bed.

He opened it, surprised to find Alyiah standing there, wearing a brown dress that went down to her ankles and cut off at her shoulders.

"Hello," he greeted, and she smiled; her long hair was now up in a tight bun, and she asked if she could come in. "Of course," he replied, and she stepped into the room, allowing him to shut the door behind her.

"You are better?" she asked, looking him up and down, and Jack chuckled.

"I haven’t sneezed again if that’s what you mean," he replied, and she let out a sigh of frustration, sitting down at his desk. "Are you all right? Really?" he asked, and she looked at him sadly.

"What do I say?" she replied. "I am without words."

Jack frowned, sitting down on the edge of his bed, and looking at her intently. "You are really beautiful," he complimented, and she stared. "I don’t know why anyone would want to pull a trick on you like that Sergio guy."

Alyiah chuckled. "I brought it on myself, I suppose," she admitted. "Elise and Gabrielle…the two who tried to fight you off me…they warned me about him. But I did not listen." She wet her lips. "Why did you come?"

Jack raised an eyebrow. "I guess it’s in me to protect people," he admitted. "If I see someone who is in trouble, I have to help them."

Alyiah smiled. "I owe you much," she replied, and he shook his head.

"You don’t owe me anything," he insisted. "I am grateful to you, actually. Mme Artoire employed me to be the artist for your company," he explained, and Alyiah gasped with delight, her eyes now sparkling.

"To yaecho!" she replied, and Jack smiled, shaking his head.

"I don’t speak Russian," he told her apologetically, and she blushed.

"I’m sorry," she said, and he chuckled. "I said that is wonderful."

"That’s okay." He ran his fingers through his hair, exhausted, and Alyiah then asked if he were hungry. Jack felt his stomach growling…he hadn’t eaten anything at the bar when he first disembarked from the ferry, and the beer was wearing off fast. He nodded, and she stood, offering her hand to his, and told him they would go for dinner.

"Do you eat here?" he asked, and she nodded, leading him down to the dining room, where many of the dancers were preparing for the evening meal. It was hard to imagine how the ballerinas ate as they did, and did not gain an ounce. However, he was worried at the very small amount of food Alyiah put onto her plate as they were given the choices. She was thin as a reed, and Jack feared that a gust of wind could topple her over. He ate a chicken with mushroom sauce dish that included roast vegetables and fresh bread.

They sat at a table alone, and were not disturbed by the others…it was clear to Elise and Gabrielle the two wanted privacy. An hour later, Jack was beyond exhaustion, and Alyiah walked him back to the men’s dormitory.

"It is good to speak with you, Jack," she said, and he smiled at how hard she tried to find the right words in English. "We walk soon?"

Jack chuckled, apologizing, and he nodded. "Go for a walk you mean? Sure," he replied. "How about tomorrow night?"

Alyiah blushed again, and he realized she hadn’t eaten much of her food at all. "Are you sure you’re full?" he asked as they stood, and she nodded.

"I do not eat very much," she admitted, and he bit his lip.

"You really should," he said. "Not that you have to stuff yourself, but…"

"I am fine," she insisted. "Come, let us get you to bed. Even though it is very early, no?"

Jack raised his eyes as he looked at the clock, and saw it was just about eight o’clock.

"I go to bed pretty early some nights," he told her. "Especially after a lot of traveling. I’m sorry," he apologized, and she shook her head.

"You must sleep," she said as they began walking across the lawn that divided the two buildings. "Long day ahead."

She said good night as they stood before the entrance of the stone house, and Jack stuffed his hands in his pockets. He wanted to kiss her farewell, but didn’t think it was appropriate.

"Well…good night, then," he announced, and Alyiah watched as he headed away from her, a sad smile on her face.

"Good night, Jack Dawson," she whispered, before turning and fleeing in the opposite direction.

Chapter Twenty-Seven
Stories