To Dream of Snow Read online

  ‘I hadn’t realized St Petersburg was so cosmopolitan.’

  ‘Foreigners have been coming here ever since Peter the Great started building this city and needed every kind of skilled craftsmen. So it has gone on ever since. Take yourself, for example.’

  They had reached the gates of the Embassy. French guards were on duty, but after Marguerite had produced her identification papers they allowed her to enter. At her request they let Igor accompany her.

  There was a long wait before Marguerite was shown into the office of a minor official. He did not know when the Ambassador and the Comte d’Oinville would be returning to St Petersburg, nor could he help her solve her problem at the Palace.

  Outside the gates again Marguerite clenched her fists angrily. ‘I’ll not tolerate this treatment! I’m responsible for five of my fellow countrywomen and somehow I have to keep them housed and fed.’ She still had money in the purse that had been given to her in Riga, but it would not last long. ‘Is there some way I could appeal to the Grand Duchess? You say she has a kind heart. Surely she would listen to me. How could I get to see her, Igor?’

  He looked uncertain. ‘I’ve never been in the grand ducal apartments and in any case they are in a part of the Palace where I don’t go very often.’

  ‘But could you get me there without discovery? I give you my word that I’ll never let anyone know that you had anything to do with it.’

  He showed his dismay and drew back a pace from her. ‘I can’t do that! If it came out I’d get a terrible flogging and it would be the end of my working days at the Palace!’

  ‘You’re my only chance!’

  ‘No!’ He stumped ahead of her, his head down and his shoulders set as if plunging physically against her request.

  She followed in silence, knowing he was angry with her for asking so much of him, but she dreaded the moment when she would have to face her friends and tell them the bad news. She wondered wildly if Madame Rostova could be persuaded to let them all work as maids until the Comtesse returned. Then, when they were almost back at the Palace again, Igor halted abruptly and swung round to face her.

  ‘You swear you will never tell?’ he demanded fiercely.

  ‘Never!’ she replied on a flash of hope.

  ‘Do you have any samples of your work?’

  ‘My embroidery? Yes, I have many that I brought to show the Empress and judge what she liked. But they’re all in one of my travelling bags that were left in the hallway.’

  ‘Describe it. Is it labelled? Good! You wait here.’

  He went off at a run. She waited anxiously, but before long he returned with her bag. She opened it quickly and took out some samples, but he saw she had more in the velvet-covered folder in which she had kept them.

  ‘Bring the lot,’ he instructed. ‘Now we’ll go back to the Palace.’

  He snatched up her travelling bag and when they were back in the domestic hallway again he set it down with the rest of the luggage. Opening a door opposite the one into the kitchens, he beckoned to her, a finger to his lips. A narrow stairway led upwards and she followed him, realizing that it gave servants secluded access to each floor. Eventually he opened a door into a narrow corridor and she saw by its length that it was one that ran parallel to a number of rooms where servants could traverse without intruding on the people within.

  ‘We’re outside the grand ducal apartments now,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t even know if the Grand Duchess is in her suite there. She rides in the mornings and you may have to wait hours. I’ll cook up some tale for Madame Rostova. I’ll tell her I left you waiting at the Embassy and you’d said you could find your own way back.’

  ‘Describe the Grand Duchess Catherine to me, so that I’ll recognize her.’

  He frowned thoughtfully. ‘Not very tall. Brown hair unless she has it powdered. Her nose is a bit long, her forehead high and her chin is sort of pointed. Her eyes are blueish.’ There was a pause as he searched his mind for further description. ‘Not exactly pretty, but a nice, sparkling kind of face.’

  A shrug of his shoulders indicated he had done his best and he led the way on again. In the gloom ahead something scurried away.

  ‘What was that?’ she asked quickly, fearing that she knew already.

  ‘Only a rat,’ he replied casually. ‘They’re everywhere, but mostly near the kitchens.’ He did not see her dismayed expression as he pressed on. At the end of the corridor he turned into another one, counting the doorways as he went past. Halfway along he stopped.

  ‘A tapestry on the other side hides this door. It opens into a kind of hallway, which the Grand Duchess has to pass through whether she’s coming or going. Wait there and, if she comes, give a curtsey and show her your handiwork. She loves beautiful things – paintings and porcelain and that sort of stuff. If you’re in luck she might like your embroidery too.’

  He gave her no time to thank him, but thrust her through the door and closed it after her.

  She looked about her. This was wider and longer than any hallway she had ever seen, with a large window at one end, the walls enhanced by tapestries that were larger than the narrow one that she had held aside when coming through the door. Along its length were two tall, patterned-tiled stoves that gave a good warmth, but failed to counteract a cold draught that came from somewhere. There was a damp patch on the ceiling just above her head and she could see that one of the windowpanes was cracked. She had noticed the previous evening that nothing was as pristine as would be expected in a palace and it seemed that an air of neglect prevailed even in the imperial quarters.

  Slipping off her cloak, she made a cushion of it on the floor beside a large cupboard, where she sat down, hoping she would be unnoticed by anybody other than the Grand Duchess when she happened to come this way. She also listened for the slightest scuffle of a rat, ready to spring to her feet.

  Opening the folder, she sorted through her embroidery samples, which varied in size, and wondered which to display if the chance came. Then, on impulse, she sprang up to spread them all out like a brilliant carpet over a wide section of the floor, the incorporated pearls and beads and sequins gleaming and twinkling, the stitched flowers and ferns and feathers giving their own variety of colour. Hoping for the best, she sat down again and rested her head against the cupboard as she waited. Somewhere a clock chimed the hour.

  Studying the tapestries for diversion, she shuddered at their sinister and frightening themes and decided they must be very old. The clothes of the warriors wielding their scimitars and the torturers with their hot irons were what she knew to be the old Russian styles worn before Peter the Great had wrenched his great country into line with the rest of the world.

  Closing her eyes to shut out the sight of them, she dozed until suddenly she jerked alert as there came the sound of a sharp tap of heels. She took a cautious look, not wanting to make the same mistake as she had done with Jan van Deventer and Tom, but there could be no mistake about the identity of the young woman approaching. Igor’s description could not be faulted. Catherine was quite short, slim and narrow-waisted, clad in blue riding attire and carrying her gloves and whip. Her face was flushed healthily by her exercise and she was walking swiftly, looking ahead and seemingly lost in thought.

  For a few tense moments Marguerite feared that those hurrying feet would scatter the samples without one being seen, but suddenly Catherine stopped abruptly, staring down at the colourful carpet spread before her. Then she knelt down, picking them up in turn to examine each one closely and sitting back on her heels when she placed each one on to her lap. Then, having studied the last one, she collected them altogether in her grasp and rose to her feet again to continue on her way, still looking at them. Marguerite stepped out of her hiding place.

  Startled, Catherine turned and looked back at the young woman. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘What are you doing in my private apartment?’

  ‘I’m the embroiderer, Madame. I’ve taken an unorthodox way to show you my work sinc
e the Empress seems to have forgotten that she sent to Paris for me and five of my fellow embroiderers.’

  A smile twitched across Catherine’s mouth and she regarded Marguerite steadily for a few moments. ‘Is that so? What’s your name?’ Then she gave a nod as she was told. ‘Come with me. Your talents shall not be kept waiting any longer.’

  Six

  Catherine led the way through several of the many rooms in her apartment, passing through her own library, which held books from floor to ceiling. Everywhere reflected her high intellect and her love of beautiful things. Marguerite, who loved to read, noticed in passing that a book lying open was on philosophy and beside it was a tome on the history of the world. There were many paintings on the walls and here and there a beautiful icon, depicting the Virgin and Child or one of the saints, radiating gold and scarlet and lapis lazuli blue. On shelves and display tables there were artistic arrangements of pretty shells, figurines of porcelain, small jade animals, exquisitely enamelled boxes in rainbow colours as well as engraved gems and ivory carvings.

  ‘I can see that you like my little treasures,’ Catherine said smilingly when they reached her favourite salon. She had seen how the Frenchwoman had been glancing at them, enraptured.

  ‘Yes, indeed I do!’

  ‘I find it hard to resist collecting small and beautiful objets d’art. They seem to call out to me when I see them.’ Catherine thought to herself that it was a great pity that the Empress, although she had her own collection of fabulous treasures, only viewed hers as yet another wild extravagance. All had started out so well when she had first come to Russia at the age of fifteen to marry Peter, but after a while the Empress’s approval of her had turned to vindictiveness. She knew that it was not just for her so-called extravagance or her debts, which had been incurred when she had failed to realize that the income allowed her had been stopped by the irate Empress. The blunt truth was that her unforgivable crime in that woman’s eyes was her failure so far to give Russia an heir. But this was not the time to think of that side of her unfortunate marriage.

  ‘Your embroidery is some of the loveliest I’ve ever seen, Mam’selle Laurent,’ she praised sincerely, going across to a round rosewood table where she sat down to spread the samples out before her. ‘Are these your own original designs?’

  ‘Yes, Madame.’

  ‘Any one of your samples could be framed to make a beautiful picture. Come and stand opposite me.’ Then she sat back in her chair and regarded Marguerite with interest. ‘First of all I want to hear the circumstances of how you were sent for and what has been happening.’

  Under Catherine’s direct and steady gaze Marguerite gave a full account of how she had been summoned to Russia through the Comtesse d’Oinville and concluded with an account of how her visit to the French Embassy had been in vain. All the time she was thinking how right Igor had been in his description of Catherine. There was something dazzling about this young duchess, for she radiated charm, not only in her smile but also in her whole personality.

  ‘I remember the evening when the Comtesse d’Oinville wore that lovely lilac gown,’ Catherine said reminiscently when she had heard everything. ‘But what is most important to me now is that I see you as a very straightforward person.’ She considered herself to be a good judge of character and liked the way the Frenchwoman held her gaze openly, but respectfully. ‘I think your seeking me out will prove to be providential. Am I right in believing that you know how to be discreet?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Madame!’ Marguerite answered on a note close to affront that her integrity should ever be in doubt. ‘I’ve never in all my life betrayed a confidence!’

  ‘I believe you.’ Catherine continued to look hard at her. ‘The whole Court is soon off to Moscow for the religious celebration of Christmas and the festivities of the New Year. The resident seamstresses have made me the gowns I wanted, but I believe that with all the banqueting that will take place during the festive season I shall start to put on a little weight about the waist. It is something that nobody else must notice.’ She paused deliberately. ‘So far I have been fortunate and kept myself well corseted. But time will eventually run out. You understand me?’

  Marguerite nodded. So Catherine was pregnant by her lover! ‘Perfectly, Madame,’ she replied evenly. ‘I have done such special work before and there are many variations. I could even make changes to the gowns already made. But I would need my own atelier where my fellow seamstresses and I could work privately and unhindered, with everything on hand.’

  ‘You shall have it!’

  ‘But what about the Empress?’

  ‘She has scores of new gowns to take to Moscow. When the moment is right I shall inform her of your being here. My gowns must be made before anything else. I’ll arrange everything this very minute.’ She waved a hand towards the wall. ‘Give that bell-pull a tug. Then we must discuss your ideas.’

  It was a senior manservant who came almost at once. He was white-wigged and in crimson livery like all the manservants that Marguerite had seen, but extra silver braid on his coat denoted an elevated position. Catherine told him to write down everything that Marguerite would list for him. He promptly produced a notepad from his pocket and stood with a pencil poised.

  While Catherine sifted through the embroidery samples again Marguerite transported herself mentally back to Madame Fromont’s establishment and, going through its rooms, began to list everything necessary that she saw in her mind’s eye from flat irons, wide wooden tables, plenty of candle-lamps with reflectors for dark days, and dummies, which in this case must be shaped in the figures of the Empress and the Grand Duchess. Although all her needlewomen had their own sewing boxes with their favourite thimbles and all else they would normally need, there always had to be extra supplies and she added many small items such as pins, pincushions, needles and scissors.

  Marguerite would have listed beads, spangles, fringes, braids and silk threads in every colour, but was told that these were all to be had from one of the sewing storerooms. There were already many bolts of beautiful materials in stock, for both Catherine and the Empress chose from swatches brought to them on a regular basis. As for the atelier itself, that was to be in a remote part of the Palace alongside a set of rooms for the seamstresses’ own living quarters, which Catherine insisted must be made comfortable.

  ‘I want everything made ready by this evening,’ she declared emphatically. Then, as the manservant bowed his way out of the room, she sat down at the table again and turned her attention back to Marguerite. ‘Now tell me your ideas.’

  When these had been fully discussed Marguerite was allowed to leave and, once outside the doors of the apartment, went rushing off on flying feet to tell the others that all was well.

  Catherine sat on at the table, deep in her own thoughts. Would Marguerite’s skills be enough to conceal her condition to the end? The Frenchwoman’s suggestion of starting a new fashion with long scarves of lawn, silk and later velvet to swathe about her was a good one. Somehow she would have to give birth secretly and hope that her personal maid, Chargorodskaya, whom she could trust, would be able to whisk the infant away to a good foster-home afterwards.

  Abruptly she sprang to her feet and paced the floor, letting her clasped hands rise and fall agitatedly as she pondered her dilemma. If only Peter had been a true husband to her from the start! Then this baby in her womb would have been his and they could have rejoiced together.

  She had been on a family visit with her parents to Kiel when she and Peter had first met as children. Then Peter, a weedy-looking boy, had been growing up under the strict supervision of army officers in a military environment and for a short while they had enjoyed each other’s company as they played with his toy fort and wooden soldiers. Much later she had been pleased to hear that the Empress of Russia, whose nephew he was, had chosen him to be her heir. She had not known then that he would hate Russia and loathe the Empress for taking him away from his beloved Prussia, which meant everythi
ng to him.

  She had been even happier when told she was to marry him, for she visualized the glorious day when they would be the Tsar and Tsarina of Russia and together would rule wisely and well. Yet there was a shock awaiting her when they met again at the Imperial Court. She could have overlooked his growing up to be an ugly youth, badly scarred from the smallpox that had almost taken his life, but he was so changed in his nature. With wisdom beyond her years she had realized instantly that if she let love grow out of her childhood fondness for him her life would be totally wretched till the end of her days.

  He had become eccentric in all his acts and mannerisms, often giving loud bursts of maniacal laughter at anything slightly untoward. Ruthless German discipline and harsh punishments in his upbringing seemed to have given him a taste for cruelty and he ill-treated his servants and his pet dogs almost daily for the perverted pleasure of it. Once he had hanged a rat in her room and she shuddered at the memory of his excitement and high-pitched taunting at the creature’s struggles.

  It was because he came often to her bed that it was thought by all but the most discerning that relations were normal between them. The truth was very different. He always came with his dressing-robe pockets full of toy soldiers to play war games with her, the hobby of his childhood now an obsession, and the humps of their knees under the covers made the hills and valleys of the battle areas. She often thought to herself that there was not a fighting stratagem or battle manoeuvre that she did not know.

  Peter had liked to lie boastingly to her and to others of his conquests of women, covering up his own inadequacy, and loyally she never derided him in private or in public. But it was reports of his supposed sexual rapacity that had convinced the Empress that she had a barren daughter-in-law. It was only recently, after it had been disclosed to the Empress that her heir was impotent, that a simple cut of a surgeon’s knife had finally enabled Peter to perform his husbandly duties. Fortunately he preferred other women, for which she was thankful.