To Dream of Snow Read online

  ‘Any second thoughts?’ Marguerite asked, suddenly anxious, but to her relief they all shook their heads. ‘Good! Now we’ll all have another glass of wine and drink to a safe and interesting journey!’

  On the morning of departure Marguerite stood alone at her sister’s graveside in a quiet churchyard, a bunch of flowers in her hand. Farewells had been said and now the last one was to be made. Normally she came here once a week, but now she did not know when she would be able to visit again.

  It was Anne-Marie who had taught her to read and write, to sew and later to excel in embroidery, all while taking care of her after their mother had died and later when their father, faced with bankruptcy and imprisonment for fraud, had taken his own life. Until then they had had a good home. Anne-Marie would never speak of how she had managed to keep them both fed and sheltered after that terrible time, but Marguerite recalled dark hovels with a rag doll to keep her company whenever her sister went out at night. Then gradually their circumstances had improved. Anne-Marie had gained employment with Madame Fromont as an embroiderer and she herself, although only seven years old, had started the first stages of an apprenticeship under her sister’s watchful eye.

  ‘I’ve come to say adieu, Anne-Marie,’ she said softly. ‘It is through guessing what you must have endured on the streets that I’ve managed to get a young girl released from her apprenticeship to take her away to Russia with me. I’m so thankful that you knew better times and found some happiness again before you had to leave this world.’

  She stooped down and laid the flowers carefully by the ornate headstone. Anne-Marie’s married lover had paid for it as well as the funeral, for which she had been immensely grateful. Her own meagre savings would barely have kept her sister from a pauper’s grave.

  Jacques had been buried in his birthplace of Rouen where his parents lived. She had only visited his last resting place at the time of the funeral and had not seen his parents since that day. They had not approved of her, wanting more for their talented son than a seamstress for a wife. But Jacques had loved her as she had loved him. There would never have been anyone else for either of them.

  She drew back a pace, and stood for a few more moments in reflective silence before slowly turning away to retrace her steps along the path. Outside the gates the noise of the city enveloped her once again.

  Three

  Marguerite had expected to be the first to arrive at the place of departure outside the gates of the Comtesse’s home, but Isabelle was already there. The girl had not dared to enter the waiting coach assigned to the seamstresses. Instead she stood huddled by a gatepost, her face white and scared, a carpet bag clutched in her hand and a small valise by her feet. She was the only one not to have delivered a travelling box the night before, all of which were already securely strapped to the roof and on to the back of the coach. Marguerite gave her a reassuring smile.

  ‘You may get in now, Isabelle. The others will be here soon.’

  Isabelle promptly scuttled into the coach, which was a large, lumbering-looking vehicle. Although there was comfortable seating for six she huddled into a corner as if trying to make herself as small as possible. The coach with its six sturdy horses was one of a dozen equipages already in line, ready to accommodate the Comtesse’s retinue of personal servants and her large amount of luggage.

  Just then the rest of Marguerite’s travellers began to arrive. Jeanne came hurrying along with Rose, both carrying some hand baggage and their sewing boxes. In addition Jeanne had a basket of food over her arm as all the seamstresses had to provide their own sustenance for the first day, although for the rest of journey their meals and accommodation would be paid for from the Comtesse’s purse. Rose greeted Marguerite with a bob and a wide smile.

  ‘Bonjour, mam’selle. I could hardly wait for this morning to come!’

  ‘Yes, here we are,’ Jeanne declared breathlessly. ‘We left the old devil snoring after last night’s binge.’ Yet she was as eager as Isabelle to get into the coach out of sight and hustled Rose in with her as if she feared he might yet come in roaring pursuit of them.

  Sophie arrived next. She had been hurrying to catch up with her sister and niece, whom she had sighted ahead of her. ‘I’m not late, am I?’ she inquired anxiously. ‘Those two were keeping up such a pace!’

  ‘No,’ Marguerite assured her. ‘There’s still time to spare.’

  Violette was last, sauntering along with swinging hips and gaily dressed in a scarlet cape and a straw hat with a curling feather, hand baggage in one hand and a basket in the other. ‘Isn’t this going to be fun!’ she cried happily in greeting.

  As soon as Violette had stowed away her belongings as the rest had done and seated herself Marguerite took the place by the window that had been left for her. With the exception of Isabelle all were chattering eagerly. Then there was a sudden flurry of movement in the courtyard and the last of the servants came hurrying to take their places in the coaches. It was clear that the Comtesse was about to leave. Her gleaming equipage had been brought to the steps of the entrance.

  A few moments later there was the glimmer of a blue-velvet cloak as the Comtesse emerged from the house and stepped into the coach. Then the eight horses drawing it came clip-clopping out of the courtyard, the four postilions in the d’Oinville pale-grey livery, to sweep ahead of the waiting vehicles, four armed outriders in escort. With a lurch that nearly shot all the seamstresses off the seats their coach rolled forward.

  ‘We’re on our way!’ Violette exclaimed joyfully, clapping her hands together as they all sat back again, laughing and talking. Isabelle gave a shuddering sigh of relief.

  The merry chatter continued until the cavalcade of coaches had passed through the gates of Paris, for then everyone was quieter, gazing out at the passing countryside as if they feared it might be the last time they would see it. Before long another coach stood waiting by the roadside. The traveller spoke to the Comtesse, showing her proof of his identity, and gained her permission to follow her entourage, there being greater security travelling in convoy through many lonely places where there was always the danger of attack by highwaymen and other rogues of the road.

  ‘How did that man know we were coming?’ Rose asked.

  ‘Word goes quickly by the grapevine,’ her mother replied, ‘but sometimes travellers have to wait days for an armed convoy going in the right direction, especially if they’re going far afield. Most travellers have to go a certain distance with one convoy and then, if it’s not going to their particular destination, they switch to another to follow the route they want. The greater the number travelling together the better the security since every man carries a pistol.’

  At noon the women shared their food. Isabelle had only two slices of stale black bread to offer. Rose grimaced.

  ‘I’m not having a share of that!’ she exclaimed in disgust. ‘There’s some mould on it.’

  Her mother gave her a sharp dig with an elbow. ‘We’re having no nonsense from you, my girl! You’ll eat your share like everybody else. From what the Comtesse’s maid told Marguerite it isn’t always possible to get food at times in some isolated places we’ll be passing through. So eat up while you have the chance!’

  Isabelle seemed to shrink more into herself, although the two slices were divided up and bravely eaten. Rose’s eyes watered and she gagged but managed to swallow her portion.

  Fortunately none of the seamstresses became nauseous with the sway of the coach over rutted surfaces, but three different times coaches ahead stopped for two maids and a young page to vomit in the bushes. As it was in the country others of both sexes took the chance to relieve themselves behind bushes and trees, men to one side and women to the other. The Comtesse never appeared, but her lady’s maid discreetly emptied a small boat-shaped receptacle such as most ladies used on journeys. The seamstresses had discovered one in a cupboard under the seat, which had been supplied for them, but although it bore the d’Oinville crest it was thick white china and not
like the Comtesse’s own of flower-decorated Sèvres porcelain

  That night the seamstresses slept at an inn where they were given supper. The Comtesse stayed at a nearby château with people whom she knew, and this was to become the pattern of the journey. Whenever possible, overnight stops were timed to enable her to stay in comfort at the home of an acquaintance. Yet the seamstresses were not forgotten, a senior servant paying as promised all bills for their food and lodging. Not that there was much comfort for them. If they were lucky there would be a wash-house where they could bathe themselves and dry their washing overnight, the very nature of their work making them all naturally fastidious about cleanliness, but this facility was not always available. Frequently they had to sleep three or four in a bed and were sometimes plagued by bedbugs, but the sense of adventure had not waned and they were up early each morning ready for the new day.

  The journey rolled on with the days, but it was not until a week after the French border had been crossed and Aixla-Chapelle left behind that Isabelle began to throw off her nervousness, no longer looking wide-eyed and scared at every halt. Rose persuaded her into a game of cards and after that the two girls gradually formed a friendship. Before long they had become close, talking non-stop and giggling together over private jokes. Marguerite was astonished and pleased by the change in the girl. It was as if Isabelle were blossoming like a flower in her newfound sense of freedom.

  The other women passed their time by knitting, darning stockings, dozing and chatting as well as by playing cards and memory games. Occasionally they bickered when boredom set in, but never seriously enough for Marguerite to intervene. Sometimes she read to them from one of the books she had brought with her. There were also other diversions along the way. An exceptional one took place during a change of horses when two accompanying travellers drew their rapiers fiercely in a personal quarrel. The Comtesse promptly barred them from following her entourage any further.

  Without exception all the travellers took exercise at any opportunity, even if it was only a short walk up and down during a temporary halt. Violette flirted with one of the armed guards, who frequently rode alongside the seamstresses’s coach to exchange a few pleasantries with her.

  It was always amusing when a flock of sheep or a herd of cows swarmed about the coaches, even if it did cause some delay. Once they were held up in a forest by a boar hunt as the prey doubled back and left the hunters crossing and recrossing the road in confusion. Rose, Jeanne and Violette jeered and shouted from the windows, clapping when the boar appeared to have got away. Then they collapsed laughing into their seats, kicking up a flurry of petticoats.

  In any populated area there were always the pedlars, who ran alongside the coaches, offering their wares for sale. Most enjoyable of all were the street performers, who appeared from nowhere whenever the entourage came to a standstill in a town or city. So day after day went by for the Frenchwomen as wheels rolled over everything from rutted country roads to rubbish-strewn city streets while the voices of local inhabitants changed language as great distances were slowly covered. By now private mansions where the Comtesse could stay with acquaintances had become intermittent, and mostly she had to take her chance at hostelries with everyone else, although she always had the best room available.

  It was always exciting for the seamstresses when the coaches passed through a town. They looked out at the shops, the fashions, and the different architecture. In Dresden they gazed up at the great cathedral as they were driven by. It was when the convoy halted for a change of horses at a post house in Frankfurt-on-Oder that one of the d’Oinville menservants came to the seamstresses’ coach as they were about to alight and handed in six individual foot-warmers.

  ‘You’ll be glad of these when the weather gets cold,’ he informed them cheerfully. ‘We get them filled with hot coals from inns that we’ll pass. There’s a stock of fur knee-rugs for you too later on and you’ll need them, believe me! I’ve done this journey before and I know.’ He glanced at Violette with a mischievous wink. ‘If you need any extra warmth you can always have my arms around you.’

  ‘Impudent devil!’ Violette retorted, but she was amused and flashed her eyes at him. ‘How long before we move on again?’

  ‘Only half an hour. So don’t wander off too far.’

  When the seamstresses returned from a short walk another coach was waiting to join the convoy when it departed again. Violette, inquisitive by nature, soon found out from the same manservant that the traveller was an Englishwoman, Mistress Sarah Warrington. Accompanied by her maid, she would be travelling all the way to the Russian city of Riga. Violette relayed this information to her companions as they settled themselves in their seats again. They were all interested as so far nobody else would be with the convoy all the way to Russia, other travellers coming and going along the route.

  Marguerite was the first to see the new arrival from where she sat by the window. It was just a glimpse as the Englishwoman’s coach rolled past to take its place in the convoy. She saw a pretty, delicately boned face, framed by soft brown hair before the moment was gone.

  ‘What’s the maid’s name?’ Rose asked as the wheels began to roll again. ‘Is she English too?’

  ‘No,’ Violette replied. ‘Blanche Chamier is a fellow countrywoman of ours, originally from Boulogne, but she’s been with the Englishwoman for some time. She’s a big, strong-looking woman and will be well able to lift her mistress in and out of the coach if need be.’

  ‘Has the lady difficulty in walking?’ Rose bit into half of the sweetmeat she had bought from one of the pedlars, the other half given to Isabelle.

  ‘No, but she was taken ill after arriving here and had to be nursed for several weeks. She’s come from France and is on her way to join her husband, but she had to stay on in this city until she’d recovered from whatever it was that ailed her. She hasn’t fully regained her strength yet and in Blanche Charmier’s opinion she shouldn’t be starting out again for another couple of weeks at least. But the lady made a promise to her husband before he left for Russia that she would join him with the least possible delay and is anxious to continue her journey.’ Violette threw up her hands merrily. ‘What we women do for love!’

  ‘We all know what you do!’ Jeanne bantered good-humouredly, giving her a nudge with an elbow, and they both laughed.

  ‘Why didn’t she travel with him in the first place?’ Sophie questioned, her arched brows meeting in a frown. She was intrigued by the thought of this lone woman making such a great journey with only a maid for company.

  ‘He had to leave at short notice three months ago and she was left to see to the packing up of their home in France where they had lived for four years.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Near the Palace of Versailles. He is a special kind of gardener and was engaged in some project there and other of the royal parks,’ Violette continued. ‘Apparently he’s quite famous for creating beautiful gardens and landscapes, which was why he was suddenly invited by the Empress to do some very important work in Russia. Just like she sent for you, Marguerite. Blanche says . . .’

  She broke off as a rider galloped past the coach, shouting to those at the head of the line of vehicles to delay departure. Rose was the first to dart to the window and lean out to watch proceedings.

  ‘There’s some argument going on,’ she reported delightedly. ‘Now the horseman has approached the Comtesse’s coach and is making his appeal to her through her window.’ There was a pause. ‘Oh, it’s all right. She must have agreed to the delay, because he’s smiling and nodding. What a fine-looking fellow he is! Who could resist a request from him?’

  Violette was on her feet, pushing Rose aside. ‘Let me see! Yes, you’re right.’ She gave an envious sigh. ‘No wonder she’s keeping him in conversation. Ah! He’s leaving her now and coming this way again.’

  She kept her position at the open window, but to her annoyance he rode past her without a glance and the rest of them saw brief
ly his well-cut profile before he was out of sight. Her commentary continued.

  ‘We must find out all about him! He’s handing his horse over to a groom now to be stabled.’ Her head was still out of the window. ‘Hey, I can see it’s going to be a longish wait. The Comtesse is getting out and making for the tavern. Her maid is in tow, carrying the usual shawls and jewel box. Come along, girls! We can all go for another walk around the stalls and shops. I saw a necklace I’d like to take another look at.’

  As Marguerite set off with the others on their walk she saw Mistress Warrington again. The Englishwoman’s pace was slow as she crossed the cobbled square with her maid to a coffee house. She was as small and slight as her maid was big and broad. Blanche Chamier was in her thirties with a boisterously healthy look to her round kindly face. As Violette had said, care of the Englishwoman appeared to be in capable hands.

  The delay requested proved to be a lengthy one. It was three hours before a carriage and two wagons, their loads roped down securely, finally appeared. The newcomer, who had been impatiently pacing up and down, darted into the tavern and solicitously escorted the Comtesse back to her coach. It had clearly been a longer wait than expected, but she seemed mollified by his attention, her frown of exasperation easing away until she was smiling at him. As soon as she was settled he left her to hurry across to his own newly arrived carriage. With the familiar discordant cacophony of cracking whips, shouts, creaking wheels and groaning springs the journey recommenced.

  The seamstresses speculated amongst themselves as to what the wagons might be carrying. Surely there must be something vitally important under those covering tarpaulins for the Comtesse to agree to a delay? It could not be just the man’s good looks that had persuaded her. Absurd suggestions were forthcoming and caused laughter. Was it a secret cache of arms? Jewels for the Empress? Then, as the suggestions became bawdier, there was even more laughter. Marguerite approved this new diversion. Anything that kept her companions’ minds from boredom was greatly welcomed.