A clattering of hooves coming into the courtyard announced the arrival of more replacements. ‘That’s a good sound,’ Marguerite commented. ‘Now we should soon be on our way again.’
A sudden uproar outside failed to capture the attention of those in the taproom, for it seemed like the usual outbreak of quarrelling over who should have the best horses. Then there was a sudden unnatural silence. The door burst open and one of the grooms came rushing into the taproom to glance around until he spotted Sarah. He darted across to her.
‘Madame! There’s been an accident! Your maid!’
Sarah turned ashen and sprang to her feet. ‘Dear God!’
She was already stumbling on her way to the door. Marguerite was swift to catch up with her and supported her around the waist. Out in the courtyard a gathering of men parted quickly to let them through. Blanche lay on the cobblestones, her arms flung out where she had fallen, half her head gashed horribly. Hendrick was on one knee beside her and he looked up, his expression grim as he shook his head to show there was no hope. Sarah uttered a torn cry and flung herself down on her knees beside the dead woman, sobbing desolately.
‘What happened?’ Marguerite asked hoarsely.
Hendrick rose to his feet. ‘There was the usual struggle to grab the fittest-looking horses, which alarmed one of them, causing it to rear and plunge like a mad thing, and a hoof knocked her flying. She was just waiting to go past to the taproom.’
The Comtesse, wrapped in a sable cape, was among those who had come outside to see what had happened and she spoke out clearly. ‘This journey shall not continue until that poor woman has been given a Christian burial.’
Then she turned on her heel and went back indoors. There were those who muttered amongst themselves at this unexpected delay, but after the incident in the forest none wanted to continue without full security.
Marguerite and Hendrick helped Sarah to her feet and back indoors. Fortunately there were rooms available in the hostelry and Marguerite took Sarah upstairs to one of them.
‘Blanche has been with me for four years,’ Sarah sobbed as she lay down on the bed. ‘She came to me soon after I arrived in France, because my English maid had become violently homesick and I had to send her home again.’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh, my poor Blanche! She was such a good, kind woman. I must write to her sister. She had nobody else.’
‘Shall I do that for you? You can tell me what to write and then sign it.’
Sarah clutched Marguerite’s hand gratefully before sinking back into her grief. ‘Thank you most kindly. Everything seems to have become such an effort for me recently and never more than now.’
Marguerite fetched paper and pen and wrote the letter while Sarah slept. It was the first of many tasks she was to carry out in her new role of unofficial attendant all the way to Riga.
‘How is the Englishwoman today?’ the seamstresses always asked when Marguerite came from Sarah’s coach to ride a little distance with them. Her report was never good.
‘We miss you,’ Isabelle ventured, for Marguerite now shared Sarah’s accommodation, unable to leave her on her own, and ate all meals with her. It had taken Isabelle quite a time to recover from the fright of the raid. It had not helped her when a lone highwayman had attempted to rob the coaches parked by the roadside for the night, only to take flight as disturbed sleepers started firing pistols in his direction.
‘I have suggested that Sarah should see a doctor when we next stop in a town,’ Marguerite said to the others in a hallway one morning as she was waiting for the Englishwoman to be carried downstairs, ‘but she will not hear of it. I believe she is afraid he will tell her to discontinue her journey and rest until another armed convoy comes through. She has already had one delay and will not risk another.’
‘Stubborn and foolish,’ Jeanne commented.
Sophie laughed unpleasantly, having had sharp words earlier with her sister. ‘You’re only jealous because you don’t love any man as the Englishwoman does!’
Violette intervened humorously. ‘Hold on! In Russia we shall all find men to love as much as that!’
General laughter eased the tension.
It was that same night that they witnessed the curious phenomenon of streamers of light criss-crossing the sky. They had eaten their supper when Jeanne went out to fetch something she had forgotten from the coach, but stopped to gape upwards in nervous astonishment. After calling the others, she went back outside and they joined her.
‘What’s happening to the sky?’ Isabelle asked fearfully.
Marguerite was able to enlighten them. ‘Sarah guessed why Jeanne looked so bewildered and said it was sure to be the aurora borealis that she had seen. That’s what those lights are called. They only appear at times of intense cold. Her husband told her about them. She said we’ll see them often from now on.’
Sophie shivered. ‘They look ghostly, don’t they? I’m going back indoors.’
Marguerite took a last lingering look. To her they only added to the strange beauty of these snow-covered lands.
Four
There was a final overnight stay en route for Sarah before her destination was reached.
‘You’ve been a wonderful friend to me in my hour of need,’ she said gratefully as Marguerite helped her into bed. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without you.’
‘I’ve been glad to do it,’ Marguerite replied, smiling. ‘Go to sleep now. Tomorrow we’ll be in Riga and Tom will be waiting for you. We’ll send word to him as soon as we get there that you’ve arrived.’
‘I feel too excited to sleep,’ Sarah declared, ‘but I’ll try.’
By the time Marguerite had undressed and slipped into the neighbouring bed, she could tell by Sarah’s steady breathing that exhaustion from the day’s journey had overcome all excitement. Before extinguishing the candle, Marguerite rested her head on the pillow and let her thoughts drift. She could empathize with her friend’s glorious anticipation of being reunited with the man she loved. Had she not felt exactly the same whenever she and Jacques met again after a temporary absence from each other, no matter how short the time between?
A quiet sigh of surprise escaped her as she realized that for the first time her thoughts had gone past the day of tragedy to the many joyous moments when, full of laughter, she and Jacques, sighting each other from a distance, had rushed into each other’s arms. How often he had swung her up off her feet to whirl her around with the speed of a child’s spinning top.
She propped herself up on one elbow, scarcely able to believe that after so long in a black abyss of despair she was gradually emerging to find him again. With this comforting thought filling her mind, she took up the candle-snuffer from the table by her bed and put out the flame.
In the morning the Comtesse returned to the hostelry, having spent the night at the home of an acquaintance, and he and his wife appeared to have loaded her with gifts, for several boxes were being stowed away. They were there to see her off and she was very gracious and smiling. Everybody else had to wait impatiently until her final farewells were said. Never once throughout the whole journey had she even nodded in Marguerite’s direction. Hendrick seemed to be the only fellow traveller to whom she had directed a smile since leaving Paris.
In heavily falling snow the frozen River Dwina was crossed and by evening the lights of the city of Riga twinkled through the flakes. As the whole convoy came to a halt in front of a large hostelry peasants came flocking forward in the hope of carrying baggage.
Once again Sarah was carried indoors where the welcome heat from a great stove met them in a comforting wave full of the aromas of food, pipe smoke and beer. As previously arranged by Tom, the landlord had only to be informed of her arrival and a message would be sent to him immediately. Marguerite had to wait ten minutes to gain the landlord’s attention, for he was busy serving the swarm of new arrivals, and from how he addressed them in turn he appeared to have a smattering of several languages. When he fina
lly turned to her he understood her request immediately.
‘I’ll send a boy now,’ he said as he continued pouring beer for one of his many thirsty customers.
‘Now we have only to wait,’ Marguerite said as she rejoined Sarah, who had been seated in a high-backed chair in a quiet corner of the busy room.
‘I know these minutes will be longer to me than the whole journey,’ Sarah confessed smilingly. ‘Do watch for Tom. I can’t see the door from here.’
She lowered the hood of her cloak and fussed with her hair, which Marguerite had dressed specially for her that morning. Although she had tried to look her best, adding a little rouge to her cheeks, she could not disguise the gauntness of her face or the dark circles under her eyes.
Marguerite ordered tea while they were waiting and it was served from a samovar into little drinking bowls. They had just finished it when suddenly Marguerite saw that a tall man, wearing a Cossack-style fur hat and a thick greatcoat, had entered, snowflakes whirling about him as he shook them away. He had a fierce, dramatic-looking face with a strong nose and chin, his dark-browed, deep-lidded eyes scanning intensely the crowded scene before him. As he pulled off his fur-lined gauntlets his expression showed his impatience to find the person he sought.
‘I think Tom has arrived!’ Marguerite exclaimed, measuring the newcomer against Sarah’s description given early on in their friendship.
Swiftly she left her chair and began threading her way through the tables towards him. She thought he looked a man of passionate, uncertain temperament, but she knew from all she had heard from Sarah that he was an exceptionally kind and devoted husband. No wonder he was anxious to find his wife immediately.
He had not noticed Marguerite approaching, for he had turned his searching gaze in the direction of an archway that led into another taproom. Just as he was about to move in its direction she caught his sleeve, happy to be the bearer of good news. ‘Wait! No need to go in there!’ She threw out her hands expressively. ‘Your wife is here!’
He turned his head sharply and his penetrating greenish-grey gaze pierced into her for a matter of seconds before amusement reached his narrowed grey eyes and a smile tugged at his mouth. He answered her, low-voiced, in French, his intimate tone deeper and far warmer than it should have been.
‘You’re a very lovely woman, mam’selle.’ He seemed to breathe his appreciation of her. ‘Unfortunately I’m not looking for a wife at the moment. Another time perhaps?’
Embarrassed, she stepped back quickly. ‘My apologies! I thought you were someone else.’
‘So I guessed,’ he replied, still amused. ‘Now if you excuse me I can see my search is over. My brother has come to find me.’
He had caught sight of Hendrick, who was rushing towards him from the other room. They greeted each other exuberantly.
‘Jan, you devil!’ Hendrick exclaimed, not noticing Marguerite, who had drawn away. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine! What sort of journey have you had? No trouble with the paintings, I hope? Did you get the Rubens for me?’
Together they went into the other taproom. Marguerite paused to look after them for a few moments before she returned to give Sarah an account of what had happened. ‘He turned out to be Hendrick’s brother!’
Sarah hid her disappointment that her waiting was not over yet. ‘What is he like?’
Marguerite thought for a moment, recalling those striking good looks and wickedly amused eyes. ‘He fitted your description of Tom by being tall, good-looking and dark-haired. It’s no wonder I made a mistake in identifying him. In my opinion, Jan van Deventer would be both entertaining and dangerous company.’ Her sense of humour surfaced. ‘But,’ she joked in mock regret, ‘as I told you, he turned me away!’
‘That was surely the greatest mistake he has ever made!’ Sarah declared, laughing with her. Then she saw Marguerite’s expression change as if she had been suddenly hypnotized, stiffening in her chair, her gaze fixed across the room.
‘Someone else has just come in.’ Marguerite spoke in a curiously tight voice.
‘Is it my husband now?’ Sarah leaned forward and caught at her friend’s arm. ‘Tell me he is here at last!’
‘Yes, I’m sure this is Tom,’ Marguerite replied in the same constricted voice and she patted Sarah’s gripping hand reassuringly while her eyes remained unwaveringly focused.
She had no doubt in her mind that this was truly Tom Warrington. He was just as tall and well built as Jan van Deventer, but in spite of his Russian furs there was an unmistakably English look about him. She had seen enough English travellers in Paris to recognize that totally confident, self-assured air natural to them as if they owned any place they entered or any street they trod, coming as they did from the richest and most stable nation in the world. Yet it was something else about Tom’s appearance that had strangled her voice in her throat and made her feel that when she stood up her legs might give way.
‘Then go to him!’ Sarah was urging. ‘Why are you waiting?’
Somehow Marguerite managed to rise to her feet and once more began making her way between the tables. Even from a distance she had seen an extraordinary resemblance to Jacques in the tilt of Tom’s head and well-moulded features. He was looking eagerly about the room and it was almost possible to believe he was looking for her. As she drew nearer she realized the likeness that had hit at her heart was not entirely illusory as she had expected it to be at close quarters, for his eyes were the same clear brown, his nose as straight and his mouth as sensual. As often happens when a stranger’s looks are similar to someone already known, the feeling remained with her that they were already long acquainted.
‘Mr Warrington?’ she said, almost catching her breath when he turned a smile on her that made attractive and all too familiar indentations in his lean cheeks.
‘Yes, mam’selle. I’m Thomas Warrington.’
She heard herself answering him. ‘My name is Marguerite Laurent and your wife is seated on the far side of the room. First of all, I must explain that I’ve been her travelling companion for the latter part of the journey. Although Sarah was not involved, there was an accident with one of the horses and her maid, Blanche, was killed.’
He was deeply shocked. ‘The poor woman! What a terrible tragedy!’ Anxiety rang in his voice. ‘But you are sure my wife was unharmed?’
‘Yes, have no fear about that, but she is not well. She was taken ill at Frankfurt-on-Oder and had to stay there for three weeks before she was well enough to continue the journey. Unfortunately travelling has taken its toll on her strength and she has difficulty in walking. I just wanted to prepare you and to advise getting medical help for her without delay.’
He frowned, deeply anxious. ‘I shall do that, of course.’
‘Come this way.’
She led him to Sarah, who was on her feet, joy radiating in her face at the sight of him, and her arms encircled his neck tightly as he kissed her. Immediately he asked her how she was feeling, showing his concern, and reassured her that there should be no more travelling until she had recovered.
‘I have comfortable lodgings where you shall have every attention and only when you are well again shall we travel on to Moscow. You’ll like the house we have there, but in the meantime we shall manage very well.’
‘But your work?’
‘I had plenty of serfs to help me finish the planting of the winter garden for the Empress before I left Moscow to meet you here. Until the snow gets too deep there’ll be a grand show of tall and hardy foliage that will make a fine contrast of black and white for the Imperial lady to see from her window. But for now, until the spring thaw, it will be a matter of designing and estimating costs while I decide how many serfs I’ll need to carry out each project. It’s already kept me busy during my wait for you and I have much more to keep me occupied.’ He scooped her up in his arms, ready to leave. She held out her hand to Marguerite, who caught hold of it.
‘We must not lose touch, Marguerite! I
’ll write to you and we must meet again one day.’
‘Take care, dear friend. I wish you well.’
‘Adieu, Mam’selle Laurent,’ Tom said with a smile that turned her heart over. ‘I thank you most heartily for your care of my wife.’
She watched them go before sinking down on to the chair that Sarah had vacated and closing her eyes, desperate to recover from the devastating experience that she had just been through. What tricks Fate managed to play! All the time Tom had been talking to Sarah she had watched his face unwaveringly, catching those faint similarities that had stirred such joy and anguish within her.
Determinedly she drew in a deep breath. But it was over. Moscow and St Petersburg were very far apart and it was most likely that in spite of Sarah’s wish their friendship would remain only in an exchange of letters with no chance of ever seeing each other again. Although it would spare her any more meetings with Tom it also saddened her, for she and Sarah had become good friends during the many trials and tribulations of the journey.
That night she dreamed of Jacques for the first time since losing him, and they were walking hand in hand by the Seine just as they had done so many times. A feeling of contentment stayed with her when she awoke, even after the dream had slipped away beyond recall. She was also aware of a sudden uplifting sense of freedom. It had been quite a responsibility looking after Sarah, not that she regretted a minute of it, but now she could look forward clearly to her own future.
It was a cold and bright morning. Downstairs at breakfast Marguerite and her companions were told that during the night all their baggage had been transferred to sledges for the rest of the journey to St Petersburg. There was no sign of the Comtesse, but a note from her was handed to Marguerite and a purse of money. She read the note through.
‘The Comtesse has written that there was a message awaiting her from her husband yesterday evening. He is presently in Moscow with the Ambassador and so she is to meet him there. To speed our journey she arranged with the Master of the Port of Riga that a courier be sent ahead of us all the way to the capital to ensure that horses are ordered in time to prevent any hold-ups on the last lap of our journey.’
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