To Dream of Snow Read online

  ‘Yes, indeed!’

  Together they left the atelier and went up a flight of stairs to double doors at the end of a corridor. Agrippina put a key in the lock.

  ‘I have access here as it is my task to supervise the care of the gowns. Most of them are encased in panels of Venetian glass, which keeps them free of dust.’

  Marguerite followed her into the dark room. Agrippina began opening the inner window shutters and light flowed in to reveal an amazing sight. Marguerite stood still in amazement, looking incredulously at the sight that had opened up before her. It was like being in a great ballroom full of headless women. Hundreds of dummies in glorious gowns stood four or five deep with many more encased in glass on both sides of the enormously long room.

  ‘However many gowns are here?’ Marguerite exclaimed in astonishment.

  Agrippina looked over her shoulder as she opened yet another shutter. ‘In this room? Fifteen hundred, but this is only one of several rooms where the gowns are stored. Four thousand were destroyed last winter in a fire at the palace in Moscow, but altogether there are many thousands more. None of them will ever be worn again. The Empress loves finery and everything to do with it. In her own private apartments there is an adjacent room where she has the choice of five thousand pairs of shoes in every conceivable colour and at least as many pairs of gloves.’

  Marguerite continued to be amazed. She was already wandering along past the cases, gazing at the gowns. There were watered silks with a lovely sheen, autumn-shaded taffetas, velvets of imperial scarlet, forest green and sapphire blue that were dramatized with trimmings of sable, as well as a variety of rich gold and silver brocades. It showed Marguerite that the Empress had no preference for one colour or fabric over another. She was most interested in the beautiful embroidery that encrusted the bodices of a number of the gowns and spread down and over the skirts, but lacked the imaginative use of it that had made the Empress lust after the Comtesse’s gowns.

  Agrippina came to stroll alongside. ‘If ever you should make a gown for anyone except the imperial ladies, always remember that only they have the right to wear silver silks and brocades. It is a long-established tradition in the Romanov family.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me, but I doubt if that situation will ever arise.’

  ‘In another of the rooms on this floor there is the Empress’s male attire. She never wears those garments a second time either.’

  Marguerite showed her surprise. ‘When does she first wear them?’

  ‘Occasionally there are balls when she commands the men to dress as women and vice versa. As everybody in the Palace knows, the Empress likes showing off her figure and displaying her legs in tight breeches and knee stockings. The older ladies with less than perfect figures detest these occasions. So do most of the men, many of them proud, high-ranking and courageous officers. They often get their skirts wedged in doorways or knock into others while dancing and feel thoroughly humiliated.’

  ‘That would never happen at our Royal Court in France!’

  ‘I’m sure there are many differences nowadays,’ Agrippina agreed, ‘but perhaps not so many in Peter the Great’s time. When he returned from Europe he wanted everything modelled on what he had seen at the Palace of Versailles, which is why French became the Court language and French fashion swept away Russian styles; also it was no longer permitted for any man of rank to be bearded. Some men still wear richly embroidered caftans on occasions, but mostly for less formal wear.’

  Marguerite, remembering the carting away of furniture when the Court had departed and the general neglect of the Palace that prevailed, thought that in spite of Peter the Great’s great influence lingering on, it was clear that the transition had still not been successfully completed. She also recalled what the Comtesse had first told her of the whole country’s lack of culture, which contrasted so sharply with France’s richness in the arts and literature.

  When the room was locked up again Marguerite thanked Agrippina for showing her the gowns. ‘I’m very grateful. I was so afraid before we met that you would view me as an intruder.’

  Agrippina smiled, shaking her head. ‘Far from it! The old saying about many hands making light work is true, and you and your seamstresses are relieving my women of the embroidery that takes so much time.’

  ‘Tell me a little about them. I’d like to know how they are selected.’

  ‘There is always a tremendous choice. Some of my needlewomen are the mothers, wives and children of serfs. Although they themselves are of no intrinsic value – only the male serfs count in an estimate of wealth – the Empress still owns them and I can bid any one of them to join my work force.’

  ‘I knew about ownership, but I never realized the lot of serfs was quite so hard.’

  Agrippina shook her head in surprise. ‘Hard? No. Why should you think that? Admittedly there are still instruments of correction in the cellars here as there are in many great houses, but they’re only used for cases of thievery or brutal assault. Usually a flogging is enough for slackness or a task poorly done, and plenty of that punishment goes on.’

  ‘Surely not here!’ Marguerite glanced in dismay at the busy seamstresses.

  ‘Oh, I never have any trouble with my workers, who are glad to be in my charge. On the whole, most serfs do well enough if obedient to an owner’s will. Many have small-holdings to keep them and their families fed while working their masters’ land. They also carve or make little things out of clay and so forth for sale in the markets. Whenever a serf dies in the streets, it’s usually the result of punishment for sloth or spending whatever they have on vodka.’

  Marguerite felt that a great void had opened up between her and this woman, who looked at life so differently, seeing nothing untoward in centuries steeped in slavery. She was thoughtful as she found her way downstairs again. Beneath the veneer this was still a barbaric land! The lot of the French peasants was hard and many existed on the edge of starvation, but at least they could raise a voice against injustice as had happened in rumbling little outbreaks from time to time.

  She was almost back to her own sewing rooms when she decided, almost on a rise of rebellion on behalf of the serfs, to see something of this great warren of a place that was only one of the Empress’s many palaces from which so many millions of people were ruled.

  It took her several attempts before she found her way into the state apartments, coming suddenly upon a vast entrance hall that dazzled with gilt and marble. There was nobody about. She went slowly up the great staircase, her reflection in mirrors showing her as a tiny figure in a glittering gold embrace. Who would ever have suspected, coming into this glorious setting, that cruelty, indifference and tyranny lay behind its sparkling façade?

  At the head of the staircase she went to a central pair of gilded doors and opened them cautiously. There was nobody about. She entered the great salon with its silk-panelled walls the colour of a summer sky, huge crystal chandeliers suspended from the ornate ceiling and the shining parquet floor wonderfully patterned in different woods. Enthralled, she wandered across to the next double doors and passed from one grand salon into another. Each one showed signs of having been robbed of its furniture for the journey to Moscow, but it had all been done in a haphazard way. A few chairs had been taken from a row placed against walls or one of a pair of side tables removed. Gaps showed where pictures had gone and some rooms were still in disarray where carpets had been taken up.

  She had come into yet another salon when she saw that the next set of doors stood open and there was the sound of movement within. Thinking that it was probably a servant or two beginning to tidy up, she went to push the doors wider and saw a shoulder-caped coat and a fur hat thrown down on a sofa. Her gaze went swiftly to the tall man, his dark hair drawn back and tied with a black ribbon, who stood on some library steps, hanging a painting. She recognized him instantly.

  Jan van Deventer spoke without looking in her direction. ‘What do you think of the subject matter,
Mam’selle Laurent? This is the portrait of a Dutchman like myself enjoying life.’

  She realized he must have caught sight of her reflection in a pier glass. He jumped down from the steps, still assessing the painting with narrowed eyes. Curiosity spurred her forward. Standing level with him, she studied the portrait carefully and it made her smile. It showed a merry-looking man with sparkling eyes and red cheeks, wearing a wide hat fashionable a century ago and holding up a goblet of wine as if in a toast to the viewer.

  ‘He’d be good company,’ she declared, ‘but noisy too. I can almost hear his bellowing laughter and it’s quite infectious.’

  Jan laughed. ‘My opinion exactly! Do you suppose the Empress will approve of him? I understand she enjoys a hedonistic life herself.’

  ‘I couldn’t answer for the Empress, but I like him.’ She met his eyes, which were piercing into her as at their first meeting, and was very aware of his height and fine physique. ‘I’m surprised that you remembered me.’ Then at the same moment she regretted her words, which had sounded coquettish to her own ears and not what she had intended.

  Fortunately he did not seem to think the same, laughter in his voice. ‘How could I have forgotten? It was the first time I had been offered a wife so unexpectedly and in Riga of all places.’

  She laughed too, relieved. ‘I suppose your brother Hendrick told you my name.’

  He was nodding. ‘Yes, on that same evening in Riga. Did you ever find the person you were looking for?’

  ‘Yes, he came shortly afterwards to join his wife. I left next morning with my companions for St Petersburg.’

  ‘Hendrick told me why you had come to Russia. He and I stayed in that hostelry for a couple of days. Then he set off for home again, and I brought the paintings he’d delivered on to St Petersburg.’ He shrugged in frustration. ‘Only to find the imperial ladies have gone to Moscow.’

  ‘They went to Kiev first. Shall you follow them?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I’ve other business in the city from orders taken on my previous visit. The English merchants and their wives, as well as other foreigners and also my fellow countrymen, who are engaged in the diamond and shipping business here, are always eager to buy.’ His gaze travelled disparagingly over the other paintings on the walls and he waved a hand at them. ‘None of these Russian works is outstanding. I look forward to the day when this country can produce her own great artists, perhaps as my own birthplace of the Netherlands did in the last century.’ He smiled. ‘That extraordinary age of art! If I had a glass of wine in my hand now like the fellow in the portrait I’d raise it in a toast to the glory of those golden years.’

  She knew something about those times, for her sister’s lover, who had had an extensive library, had lent her some books on art after she admired his paintings, but she would have liked to know more. Although she could see nothing wrong with the pictures he had dismissed, she also saw that his Dutch painting shone out from the rest, seeming to vibrate with laughter and life. She moved slightly to stand squarely in front of it.

  ‘Is it a self-portrait by the artist?’

  ‘No. Personally I think this fellow was one of Rubens’s many drinking companions.’

  She nodded sagely. ‘Then this is the painting that you asked about when you met your brother at the Riga hostelry.’ And, she thought, it was one of the ones that had caused the long wait that the Comtesse had permitted at Frankfurt-on-Oder. All because the Empress was not to be kept waiting excessively long for her latest acquisition.

  ‘You heard me question him, did you?’ he asked. ‘Yes, I had a letter from Hendrick last time I was here, letting me know it was for sale and he hoped to secure it.’ He narrowed his eyes at the painting. ‘Although Rubens died over a hundred years ago I see his influence still in the work of today’s artists everywhere.’ He glanced at her. ‘Even in France.’

  She turned to him almost eagerly. ‘You know my country?’

  ‘Very well. It’s full of beautiful women.’

  Yes, she thought wryly, that’s how he would judge any place he visited. Her interest waned. ‘I must go. I shouldn’t be here, but I was curious. How did you know where to hang the painting?’

  ‘I was shown the place when I was last here. The Grand Duchess, who is interested in art, had just bought a still life from me when I told her about this painting. Immediately she was eager to have it for the grand ducal apartments.’ Then his tone became ironic. ‘Unfortunately the Empress overheard our conversation and stepped in, accusing the unfortunate young woman of further extravagance and saying that she would have it for herself.’

  She wondered what clash he had witnessed between the two imperial ladies. Greed seemed to one of the Empress’s great faults. ‘You’ll have to find something else to please the Grand Duchess. Now I really must go.’

  ‘Wait! Not yet! You should see the great Dutch masterpiece in the next room before you leave!’ He caught her hand in his and she went willingly with him into the next room, he throwing the double doors wide with his free hand. Then he came to a halt, releasing her.

  ‘There!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Rembrandt’s David’s Farewell to Jonathan! Peter the Great bought it himself at an auction years ago when he was in the Netherlands.’

  It was the first time Marguerite had ever seen a truly great painting. Nothing her sister’s lover had possessed came anywhere near the magnificence of what she was viewing now. Jan was talking of brushstrokes and dramatic colour and the deep humanity of the painting, but she was simply gazing her fill of the great picture.

  ‘Peter the Great bought many Dutch paintings on both his visits,’ he continued, smiling at her rapt gaze. It pleased him to see such enormous appreciation in her, but then everything about her pleased him. She was no ordinary woman, seeming to hold the promise of endless discoveries if only it were possible to break through to her. She intrigued and fascinated him. ‘There’s a Jan Fyt still life on the wall over there,’ he continued. ‘That’s one of Peter the Great’s purchases, although none can be compared with the Rembrandt.’

  But she had only time to give the still life a fleeting glance, having heard someone approaching from the far room. ‘I must go!’

  ‘That will only be the official who received me,’ he said reassuringly.

  ‘But I don’t think I should be here! Goodbye!’

  She flew out of the room, back through the many salons until she came to the great staircase. It took her a long time after that to find her way back to her own atelier.

  Far away in a sledge travelling in the entourage between Kiev and Moscow, Catherine experienced the first arrow-sharp pains of a miscarriage. She wept with relief.

  Eight

  That afternoon the two Russian seamstresses arrived, their cheeks bright crimson with nervousness at being sent to work with foreigners. They were both in their twenties and about the same height with broad, pretty faces, Nina with straight, moon-fair hair and Lise with brown curls. As they stood side by side in dresses of similar colour, their aprons crisp and white, they looked like a pair of the dolls that slotted into each other, which the seamstresses had seen in the market place.

  ‘Bonjour,’ the two young women said together, having obviously rehearsed their greeting. Although neither spoke French they had heard enough of the language to know a few words and also grasp the meaning of what Marguerite said to them. Soon they had settled to sewing the underskirt of the Empress’s gown while the others returned their attention again to their embroidery, using rich-green, sapphire-blue and gilt threads in the intricate pattern of peacock feathers that they were creating.

  By the end of the week Nina and Lise had lost their shyness sufficiently to exchange Russian words for French ones as a general learning of one another’s language evolved around the sewing tables. Agrippina came to see if they were proving satisfactory and brought twelve-year-old twins with her to be the new apprentices. They were named Julie and Marya, both bright-eyed as little mice with yell
ow hair, their tasks to include threading needles, heating irons and keeping the floor swept and clean, tasks that Marguerite had carried out herself when first starting her apprenticeship with Madame Fromont. The new arrivals were not in the least shy, and Marguerite soon had to reprimand them for being noisy and chattering too much, although she allowed them to join in the exchange of French and Russian words, for that was to everyone’s benefit.

  Igor, who sometimes came to see Marguerite, arrived just before supper one evening after work was over for the day to tell her that she had a visitor.

  ‘His name is Mynheer Jan van Deventer.’ Then, mistaking the reason for her quick frown, he added with the intention of being helpful, ‘He’s a Dutchman. From the Netherlands.’

  She smiled. ‘Yes, Igor, I know. Did he give his reason for calling?’

  ‘He just asked to see you.’

  ‘I think you had better tell him it is not convenient at the present time.’

  Igor looked doubtful. ‘He’ll only send me back to you again. I can tell he’s not a man to be easily turned away.’

  She thought that Igor had summed up Jan van Deventer quite accurately, and she gave a sigh. ‘Very well. I’ll see him.’

  A feeling of uncertainty took hold of her as she went along corridors and down flights of stairs, nor did it leave her when she came face to face with Jan again. He came forward, his gaze seeming to absorb her.

  ‘Mam’selle Laurent! How good to see you again! You rushed away so quickly when we last met that there was no chance to settle a time and place to meet again.’