To Dream of Snow Read online

  All these developments were a great pleasure and relief to Marguerite, for they gave all her seamstresses new interests and fresh topics of conversation, banishing the boredom that could have made them all desperately homesick. Naturally there were moments when longing for their homeland would hit them, Marguerite included, but for the time being there was not one who wished herself back in France.

  Marguerite continued to enjoy Jan’s company, although she tried not to see him too frequently. Yet his male conversation was so different from the never-ending female chatter she heard day after day, and he had shown her the city, including the log hut that had been Peter the Great’s first home. He took her for supper in cellar cafes with arched ceilings where singers entertained and there was the music of violins or balalaikas. He taught her to skate and by the light of flaring torches they joined other skaters on the frozen river and canals. One Sunday afternoon they rode in a troika that he drove himself out into the country where they ate blinis with both red and black caviar in a good hostelry. One evening when they had had a particularly happy time together she gave him a very fine cravat that she had made him and he put it on at once, extremely pleased.

  She liked to hear him talk of his homeland and its customs and how it had been to grow up there with daily lessons from a strict tutor, as well as being taught to draw and paint by a far more lenient grandfather. He and his brothers had competed in skating races along the canals in winter and had gone fishing and boating in summer. It sounded an idyllic boyhood that he had shared with Hendrick and Maarten, except that they had lost their father early on and their mother soon afterwards, leaving their grandfather as the centre of their lives.

  She also encouraged him to talk of his favourite Dutch artists of the previous century. On an evening when they were having supper together he explained the symbolism that was to be found in so much of their work, making sketches of some examples for her.

  ‘In a picture such as this,’ he said, sketching it out, ‘a broom would denote that the woman in the painting is a good housewife while a musical instrument or even a few sheets of music may mean that love is in the air.’ He continued giving her examples while she watched how skilfully he drew. ‘Many paintings hold a moral warning, the use of shadows sometimes conveying the nearness of evil or its temptations. In a still life there may appear to be no hidden meaning until you notice a fallen petal from a flower or maybe a piece of half-peeled fruit about to topple down from a table, reminders of the briefness of life.’ Then he saw how absorbed she was in all he was saying, which pleased him.

  ‘I’m learning so much about art from you that I never knew before.’ She looked down at the sketches he had done for her. ‘May I keep these?’ she asked, studying them anew.

  ‘Yes, if you wish.’

  ‘You spoke well about your brother’s work, but I believe he would speak more highly of yours.’

  He shrugged. ‘I paint whenever I have time, but I’m leaving it to Maarten to make our surname known in the art world!’

  He was having no difficulty in selling the other paintings he had brought with him. Then one day he spoke of returning to Amsterdam to collect more works of art to sell in what he said was becoming a very lucrative market. She knew she would miss him and was thankful that he had seemed to accept that she wanted nothing more than friendship. When eventually he told her one evening that he had sold his last painting she knew his departure must be imminent.

  ‘When will you leave?’ she asked.

  ‘The day after tomorrow. The next time I come to Russia I’m hoping to get a passage with a Dutch ship sailing direct to St Petersburg. All too often trading vessels call in at other ports in Prussia or Sweden or elsewhere, delivering one cargo and taking on another.’

  ‘So it could take as long as going by road?’

  ‘Sometimes longer.’

  ‘But perhaps instead of all the changes of horses and those areas of poor accommodation and food you would have more comfort if you came by sea?’

  He shook his head. ‘Quite the reverse. Most of these trading vessels really haven’t any room for passengers. One lives with the crew and much depends on the ship’s cook whether the food is good or bad. It’s different with ships making long voyages. They have cabins.’

  ‘So you’re setting off by road. At least the thaw should soon come.’

  Again he shook his head. ‘You mustn’t expect to see an early spring here. This is not Europe. The saying is that there are only two seasons in this part of the world: winter and summer. You’ll be lucky if all the snow has gone by mid-April, but unless the weather is exceptionally mild it’s likely that some will still be lingering in shady hollows and slabs of ice floating on the water everywhere.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re not exactly cheering me up! You’re departing and the snow stays.’

  He loved to see her laugh. She had a way of tilting her head, exposing the white length of her throat, which made him long to let his lips roam over it.

  They were back at the Palace and alone in the hallway. Now that the guards had become used to seeing him they allowed him through. He took her gently by the shoulders as he looked down into her upturned face. ‘Don’t forget me while I’m away, Marguerite.’

  ‘I’ve enjoyed the time we have spent together, so why should I do that?’ she asked, smiling.

  His expression remained serious. ‘Because something or somebody stands between us. I’ve seen it in your eyes.’

  She had never mentioned Jacques to him and was caught off guard for a moment. Although she knew Jacques would have wanted her to move on with her life, Tom’s resemblance had somehow given her a brief extension of being with him. She was yearning to see him again just for that reason. The previous day she had received another letter from Sarah, saying that she and Tom would soon be on their way to St Petersburg.

  ‘I came to Russia to move on with my life,’ she said.

  Somehow her simple reply seemed to confirm his supposition, but he could no longer resist taking her into his arms. Drawing her to him in a strong embrace, he bent his head and kissed her deeply, tenderly at first and then with an explosion of long-controlled passion.

  Jacques flew into her mind, for nobody had kissed her since his last kiss, but then Jan seemed to blot out even that memory as she gave herself up to the sensual pleasure of his ardent mouth on hers. It had been so long since she had been held and loved as this man seemed to love her. Her intense response increased his ardour and he pressed her still closer to him until, unbidden, the wish came to her that it could have been Tom holding her in his arms to let her recapture the past. Instantly the flame died down in her. She sensed Jan’s disappointment. His kiss eased immediately and slowly he released her. Exasperation and anger were blended in his face.

  ‘I love you, Margeurite! That’s why I’ll be coming back for you!’ Then he turned on his heel and strode away. At the gates he paused to look over his shoulder at her. He saw she was still standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the candle-lamps behind her.

  There was still no sign of spring when the Warringtons arrived in St Petersburg. Marguerite received a note almost immediately from Sarah, asking her to visit as soon as possible. They had rented a house in the English quarter and directions as how to find it were included. But there was to be a delay to their reunion.

  Marguerite sent Igor with a reply that gave the explanation. A courier had arrived at top speed one afternoon with the news that the Empress and the Court had left Moscow on their way back to St Petersburg. Since Marguerite wanted every garment in hand to be completed, no matter that many finished gowns were waiting for the two imperial ladies, she and her seamstresses would be working late every evening and when they were normally free.

  It was not only in the Frenchwomen’s atelier that work had taken on an extra spurt of activity. In Agrippina’s sewing rooms it was the same. As for the Palace itself, it had leapt into life as lacklustre daily cleaning gave way to a thorough spring clean wi
th dusters and brooms, washcloths and beeswax polish used fiercely in every room where more rat traps were set. News of the Court in Moscow had trickled through from time to time, but there had never been any mention of a baby and Marguerite supposed that Catherine had given birth without discovery.

  Not all the gowns that Marguerite had designed were elaborate, although she had kept in mind the Empress’s need always to dominate any scene with her presence and her attire. So some of the gowns were simply beautiful through the glorious fabric used, but each had an original touch, such as the hundreds of emeralds used in the peacock gown, one fastened into the eye of each embroidered feather. It was because of the value of the jewels that Marguerite had had to apply for them from a treasure chest kept by a senior official in the Palace. The same rule had applied to the pearls and other precious gems that she had incorporated into the embroidery on some of the gowns.

  Marguerite was thankful for a respite before visiting Sarah. It gave her time as she sat with her needle to adjust to the prospect of seeing Tom again. By the time she had considered and dissected her feelings in every way, she was totally calm and confident that nothing untoward would ever happen again.

  Ten

  On the day the imperial family arrived back at the Palace Marguerite saw Grand Duke Peter for the first time. He had come charging up the great staircase and took a short cut, normally used only by servants, to reach his own apartment. He did not notice her halting at once with a bolt of red silk in her arms, but she had a full view of a gawky, white-wigged young man with a sly-eyed, oval face deeply pockmarked beneath the paint and powder, and a loose, thin-lipped mouth. His stale body odour reached her even as he disappeared from her view.

  By now she had heard enough about him to know that he was not only always reluctant to bath but also by nature as unpleasant as his looks. Maids had told her that although he often caroused drunkenly with his own band of menservants it amused him to throw wine over them when he was at table or – far worse – his urine whenever he had the chance, never losing the opportunity to play vicious tricks. None of them envied his menservants, who had to dress up in uniform and parade whenever he played his war games. Shaking her head, she continued on to the atelier.

  As she had half-expected, the Grand Duchess sent for her shortly after arrival, and she took with her one of the gowns finished from designs they had discussed before the departure to Moscow. Entering the apartment at her bidding, Marguerite found her pacing thoughtfully up and down. Coming to a halt, Catherine waited until the door was closed before speaking.

  ‘Put aside that gown you’re holding, Mam’selle Laurent, and listen carefully to all I have to say. First of all, were you surprised when no news of the birth came from Moscow?’

  ‘I drew my own conclusions, Madame.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Catherine sank down on to a chair and smiled wryly.

  ‘My lips have been sealed, Madame.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Had you even whispered once about my advanced pregnancy to anyone, word of it would have reached the Empress. She has spies everywhere. I want to show my gratitude.’

  Marguerite flushed with embarrassment. ‘Oh, no Madame!’

  Catherine nodded understandingly, holding up a placating hand. ‘I would not insult your integrity by offering you money or anything else. That was not my intention. I just want you to know that from now on I feel that in time of trouble I could always turn to you in total confidence.’

  Marguerite was astounded. ‘I’m honoured, Madame.’

  ‘Whenever I send for you and whatever the hour, always come without delay. It may only be for the discussion of a garment, but it could also be for something much more serious. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I believe I do,’ Marguerite replied, remembering when Igor had said that the Grand Duchess had enemies at court. She could not help pitying this unfortunate princess even while realizing that she herself had been drawn into a dangerous game that was being played. ‘I’ll not desert you, Madame.’

  ‘That’s what I had hoped to hear!’ Catherine spoke gratefully, for she had known that Marguerite as an independent foreigner could easily have decided against any involvement. Her relief echoed in her voice. ‘But now we can discuss more mundane matters, although there is nothing ordinary about that gown that is lying across that chair. Show it to me.’

  Marguerite, still stunned that Catherine had confided to her, switched her mind to the gown. ‘I have allowed good seams to the bodice, because I was not sure if you would have regained your figure quickly after your pregnancy. Now that the situation has changed again I can make the necessary alterations when needed.’

  She displayed the beauty of the gown with its ample skirt and embroidered yellow roses enhanced by delicate beading as they cascaded down to encircle the hem. ‘The gowns I have made for Her Imperial Majesty are a little more eye-catching, but I’ve taken a more subtle approach with yours, Madame.’

  Catherine’s eyes twinkled suddenly with amusement and her mood lifted. She was highly pleased with Marguerite’s grasp of the situation. No other dressmaker had had the wit to realize on her behalf that it was possible to keep the Empress’s jealousy at bay by always making her gowns a touch more flamboyant.

  ‘More than once at a ball the Empress has sent me to change my gown on the pretext that it does not suit me.’ She chuckled mischievously. ‘As we know, the moon must never outshine the sun.’

  ‘It should never happen again.’

  ‘I don’t believe it will. Bring me the rest of the gowns you have made me.’

  It took several trips, even when assisted by Violette and Sophie. The Grand Duchess approved all the gowns. Marguerite was the last to leave again, having stayed to discuss some minor details. Carrying one of the garments carefully across her arms, she set off along the main corridor of the grand ducal apartments. She took no notice when a door opened somewhere behind her. Then suddenly there came a shout and footsteps running after her.

  ‘Wait! You with the bronze hair!’

  Turning, she saw in dismay that it was Grand Duke Peter. ‘Sire?’

  ‘Yes, you’ll do, girl!’ he shouted exultantly, grabbing her by the arm and snatching the gown away to throw it heedlessly to the floor. In spite of his weedy appearance, his grip on her was vice-like and he began dragging her back along the corridor.

  ‘I have duties to perform for the Grand Duchess! Your Imperial Highness, please listen to me! Let me go!’

  He stopped abruptly and hit her fiercely across the face. ‘Shut up! I can’t endure whining women!’ Then he lurched her on again, heedless that his rings had cut her cheek and she was gasping from the stinging pain, her eyes watering. He hauled her through the doorway that had remained open and at first she thought the vast salon was full of soldiers. Then, in a matter of seconds, she recognized a face or two and realized they were his menservants dressed up. They stood in formation around a table of a gigantic length, but she had no more than a glimpse of it before Peter had grabbed a spare uniform from a chair and threw it at her.

  ‘Put this on and be quick about it! You’ll be a gunner on the cannons!’

  One of the uniformed menservants opened another door and gave her a sympathetic glance as Peter shoved her into a large library where the shelves were stacked with books behind glass from floor to ceiling. Although she began to unfasten the hooks at the back of her bodice, curiosity drew her to study some of the titles. They revealed Peter’s reading taste, for those in French were all about various wars, military tactics or the crimes of highwaymen and cutthroats. She guessed that the volumes in his native German dealt with the same subjects.

  A deep male voice broke the silence at the far end of the library. ‘I advise you not to dawdle. His Imperial Highness doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

  Startled, she swung about to see who had spoken, her heart still thumping from the rough treatment she had received. At the far end of the long room an army officer had emerged from one of the readin
g alcoves, a book open in his hand. He was tall and well built, wearing the red and dark-green uniform of the imperial guards with gilt epaulettes, his gold buttons gleaming. His hair was formally dressed and powdered in the current fashionable style of a roll over each ear and tied behind his neck by a wide black bow. His face was well cut with a bold nose and a finely arrogant chin, his fair brows straight and thick, and his handsome, worldly mouth widened by an amused smile.

  ‘I didn’t know anyone else was here!’ she exclaimed, but she was glad to have someone to question and, in spite of his aristocratic air, he seemed approachable. ‘Please tell me! What’s expected of me in that other room? The Grand Duke says I’m to be a gunner.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You won’t come to any harm. Obviously he’s short of a gunner for one of his military battles. You’ll have to fire one of the miniature cannons, that’s all.’

  ‘No harm!’ she echoed fiercely, her anger directed against the Grand Duke as she darted into the seclusion of a reading alcove to change into the uniform. ‘I can’t embroider for the Empress with burnt fingers!’

  She heard him laugh. ‘Say that to Peter!’ he called to her. ‘He loathes her, but he’ll know better than to come between her and her gowns by ruining the fingers of her embroiderer.’

  She put on the uniform as quickly as possible and, seething inwardly, clamped the black tricorne with its regimental rosette on her head and tucked her hair under it. As she emerged from the alcove, the officer spoke to her again from where he was leaning a shoulder against a bookcase, and there was laughter in his voice as he looked her up and down.

  ‘Very smart! Now forward march, Corporal – what is your name?’

  She told him, for in spite of her fury at the Grand Duke’s brutal treament of her, she felt no hostility towards this stranger, who was being helpful. ‘And you are . . .?’ she added, wanting to know his identity.