To Dream of Snow

by Rosalind Laker

  Easing her agitated pacing, Catherine went across to the window. It gave her a fine vista of the city, but she hoped that when the new Winter Palace was built she would have a view of the Neva, where there was so much to see at all times of the year.

  Catherine sighed softly. She hoped so much that the Frenchwoman’s fashion devices would keep her secret. Her greatest fear was that the Empress might discover that her pregnancy was more advanced than it should be, making it impossible for the offspring within her to be Peter’s child. Her punishment would be banishment from this vast and wildly beautiful country with its great forests and steppe land. She loved Russia and had done everything to make herself one with it, learning the language and adopting the Russian Orthodox religion, neither of which Peter had ever done. He had never attempted to make himself likable to her or anyone else except his mistresses. In fact, jealous of her popularity, he had come to hate her as much as he loathed the Empress.

  From the early days after she had arrived at court, despite her young age, she had had the wisdom to see that she would need to gain the loyalty of all the people, whatever their station in life, if she was to help her erratic husband rule successfully when the time came. She also learned how to hide from the world all the hurt and disappointments she suffered. It was a valuable lesson and, even now, none could tell how much in love she was with a court chamberlain named Sergei Saltykov.

  At the age of twenty-three, after she had endured eight years of unconsummated marriage and resisted many advances from other men, Sergei’s persistent and amorous pursuit had finally won her. He had awakened her intensely sensual nature to ecstatic realms and she was forever finding new ways of her own to pleasure him in his turn. In many ways she had never been happier or more despairing.

  The atelier was all that Marguerite had hoped for, consisting as it did of two large rectangular rooms painted a creamy colour with plenty of windows and a great stock of candle-lamps. Long tables gave ample room for cutting and pressing while the chairs were padded and comfortable. Dressmakers’ dummies of the Empress’s and the Grand Duchess’s figures had been brought from among those in the established sewing rooms elsewhere in the Palace and were up to date, one with an ample bust line and the other youthfully slim. There were minor additions to be made to the atelier before Marguerite was entirely satisfied, but these were only a matter of extra shelves, better ironing facilities and more chests of drawers and cupboards, for she liked work space to be kept as clear as possible.

  The Grand Duchess had emphasized comfort for the seamstresses’ own rooms and this had been faithfully carried out. Redundant furniture that had seen better days enriched the three bedrooms and the living room. There was still the gleam of gilt in the ornate frames of slightly patchy mirrors and a touch of splendour in the faded silk curtains at the windows, the bed draperies caught back by great golden tassels. The dining table, its surface ringed from wine and scored by careless treatment, nevertheless still had a polish and six accompanying chairs arranged around it. There were three sofas offering more comfortable seating and wide rugs, slightly moth-eaten in places, had been rediscovered somewhere to cover the floors. An ormolu clock and two figurines had been placed on a side table.

  Catherine, ever concerned with the well-being of those who worked for her, had not overlooked the necessity of the newcomers’ wages and Marguerite was called to the office of a palace official to receive the seamstresses’ first wages in advance. Her own salary was particularly generous and the others were overjoyed to find they were to earn more than ever before. To Marguerite’s relief they were equally pleased with everything else. As there were three beds in one room Jeanne chose it to share with her daughter and Isabelle, the two girls wanting to be together, while Violette and Sophie took another, leaving Marguerite to have a room on her own. It was small, but that was unimportant. After constant company over so many weeks it was a relief to have space to herself and some solitude.

  In spite of Catherine’s wish to have new gowns there proved to be no time to make them. The Empress, deeply pious in spite of her licentious ways, suddenly decided she would leave for Moscow sooner than planned, as she wanted to go first to the great church of Kiev for penance and prayers. Her decision resulted in Marguerite and her fellow seamstresses working long hours and finally overnight to alter the gowns for Catherine that had already been made. Bodices had bones removed and a more pliable stiffening added where necessary while fringes, frills of lace, ruffles, flowers and bunches of ribbons were either changed or added, the sparkling beads and spangles having their own trickery for deceiving the eye. There were even button loops that could be loosened to expand.

  Just before the day of leaving St Petersburg the Empress sent for Marguerite. As she guessed, Catherine had chosen her moment to tell Elisabeth of her arrival with her team of seamstresses and that they were now installed. Entering the imperial presence, Marguerite curtsied deeply before she straightened up again and looked for the first time at the woman who alone ruled over all the vast lands of Russia.

  Elisabeth, dressed in midnight-blue velvet trimmed with fur, turned from her reflection in a mirror, the wide, side panniers of her gown making her skirt extend far beyond her hips. A tall woman of immense presence, she was startlingly beautiful. The depth of her handsome blue eyes was echoed in the sapphires that encircled her throat and glowed in her powdered hair.

  ‘So it was you who made that lilac gown for the Comtesse d’Oinville,’ Elisabeth said almost accusingly in a deep rich voice. ‘Tell me, what have you made for her since?’

  Marguerite was startled. It was always expected of a seamstress that she would be priest-like in her silence over what had been made for a client. No woman wanted anyone else to know what she would be wearing for special occasions. She answered evasively. ‘Many gowns in a variety of colours and fabrics, Your Imperial Majesty.’

  ‘Whatever their style I want you to make even more beautiful creations for me!’

  Her meaning was entirely clear to Marguerite. Whatever the Comtesse wore the Empress wanted to be sure of outshining her and Marguerite had all the fore-knowledge to ensure it.

  There followed a tense half-hour for Marguerite as she made suggestions that were either received with a nod or rejected with an impatient gesture. She had made some sketches to illustrate her ideas and had dressed several mannequin dolls to display styles in miniature. Fortunately Elisabeth’s love of clothes enabled her to picture every idea presented to her. Eventually she dismissed Marguerite with instructions that all the gowns were to be ready for her by the time the Court returned from Moscow.

  Outside the apartment Marguerite paused to regain her breath after the strain of the Empress’s demanding attitude. Since the date of that imperial return from Moscow was not yet known Marguerite decided that work must start the next day on these new clothes. It was far better to have everything ready as quickly as possible than to be caught out with half of it unfinished.

  On the day of the Court’s departure the seamstresses gathered at upper windows to watch the scene below. The Empress’s sledge, painted in scarlet and gold with the Romanov arms of the double-headed eagle emblazoned on its sides, had a sleeping compartment, as did those occupied by the Grand Duke and Duchess. A thousand horses from the great stables were hitched to the grand sledges as well as to those that would be transporting servants and goods, Igor having told them that household effects always went too. Porcelain dinner services, bed linen, tapestries and even favourite furniture went from palace to palace to supplement what was already there.

  It gave Marguerite a better understanding of the neglect she had seen in the Palace. Organization and getting things done on time, no matter how many servants were available to do it, was something that became lost in the general mêlée of court life. Perhaps those who should have been responsible left it to others or, even more easily, always postponed everything till the morrow.

  The great procession started forward. In the streets people b
owed low, many falling to their knees and some prostrating themselves in the snow in the old tradition as the imperial sledge approached. Elisabeth was seen as the mother of their country and they loved her loyally and unquestioningly, even the poor serfs in their ignorance never daring to question her abundant wealth and their own hand-to-mouth existence.

  The seamstresses were not alone in watching the magnificent departure. Sergei Saltykov stood at another window on a lower floor. Tall and good-looking, his dark brows were clamped together in a worried frown. He found it surprising that he was still violently attracted to Catherine, for the collapse of his own marriage of less than two years ago had been yet another example of how he lost interest after conquest. Yet her spell remained and now her pregnancy threatened terrible consequences for him. If it came out that he was responsible he could find himself either behind bars for years or sent to some godforsaken place for the rest of his days.

  He swore under his breath. If only that wretched Peter had agreed six months ago to that simple operation none would have doubted that he was the father, but the snivelling coward had had be made dead drunk after an evening carousing with friends before it could be performed by a waiting surgeon. Now, all because of that delay, he himself had to be prudent and stay away from the Court for a while to avoid being seen with Catherine and arousing suspicion. It meant missing the nights of gaming for high stakes that he so enjoyed apart from all the festivities and riotous merrymaking.

  Groaning, Sergei slammed a fist against the wall before swinging away from the window and leaving the room.

  Seven

  Two weeks had gone by since Marguerite and her seamstresses had been given their own quarters. It had been a busy time, but they were getting accustomed to working in their new environment. On the first day she had been given a key to access the store of fabrics destined to become imperial garments, and she had chosen a rich gold silk for the Empress’s first gown in the French style. It had already been cut out from one of her own designs and the basic work had been done in the making of the sleeves, bodice and skirt, which would remain separate until the embroidery on them was finished. She had yet to visit the other atelier, and had asked Madame Rostova to arrange a meeting for her with the supervisor there.

  Before that took place Marguerite planned to give her seamstresses a full day to enjoy themselves. They had not yet been out of the Palace and her only outing had been the day Igor had guided her to the French Embassy. They all needed a chance to look around the city and get their bearings.

  They greeted the news of it with excitement and some trepidation. All well wrapped up, they set out with Marguerite into the ice-cold air. There was much to see and admire, but it was the busy markets that drew them. Street performers supplied music and a ragged old dancing bear was doing its best. Never before had the Frenchwomen seen such a strange sight as the food stalls. There was plenty of dried and salted meat and fish for sale, but otherwise the fresh joints of meat were frozen hard, as were chickens, geese and game, all stiff as boards and aglitter with frost. Isabelle and Violette tried to prod them, astounded as they all were that food could be sold in such a way, but they realized that in such a cold climate anything would freeze and it was to be expected.

  There were also stalls full of brightly coloured, very Russian wares as well as those more familiar, including displays of second-hand clothes, furs and boots. Violette bought two skirts for work and a long fur cape that was worn bare in places but warmer than her own woollen cloak. The others followed her example or bought furs that they could use as linings to their cloaks. The stallholder, like those they had observed on other stalls, used beads on a frame to add up the price of their purchases, each bead representing a certain value. Jeanne was interested in the lace stall, but could see nothing to compare with the fine lace that she made.

  On the outskirts of the market was a pathetic cluster of women, nearly all with little children, offering simple home-made things for sale. Out of compassion Marguerite bought a small wooden bowl, brightly painted, and Jeanne a straw-plaited basket. Isabelle chose a rag doll.

  At midday they went down some steps into a small cafe where they each had a bowl of steaming borsch, served with wedges of dark rye bread, which warmed them through. Here again the price was settled with a rattling of beads. Before returning to the palace they went into Kazan Cathedral and stood together in a little group, taking in everything from its glorious gilded height to the jewel-coloured frescoes and the great golden altar that shone like the sun before them. There was nowhere to sit, but they had heard that all congregations had to stand. Each of them chose a place to kneel privately on the vast marble floor for a few minutes on her own.

  When they were back in their atelier again, taking up their needles, there was plenty of chatter about what they had seen and Marguerite left them to work without her for a while. There was a meeting arranged with Madame Markarova, supervisor of the long-established sewing rooms, that she could delay no longer.

  From directions she had been given she found her way to it in another part of the Palace, not knowing how she would be received. Neither Madame Markarova nor her seamstresses were resident, coming and going by an entrance far from that which Marguerite and her companions had been allotted.

  The kitchens where they might otherwise have met at mealtimes were forbidden territory to all of them. It was to ensure that they and their clothes and subsequently their delicate work were kept free of cooking odours and the greasy atmosphere that permeated the kitchens. It was also why cold food was taken to both ateliers during the day, hot dishes only served in the evenings when work was over and the sewing rooms closed.

  Madame Rostova had arranged with Madame Markarova that she and her women should continue to make the imperial garments, except for all elaborately embroidered gowns and accompanying accessories, which would be under Marguerite’s supervision.

  ‘Madame Markarova speaks French,’ Madame Rostova had informed her, ‘and so do some of her workers, but the majority know only Russian.’

  Marguerite paused for a moment and took a deep breath before entering Madame Markarova’s atelier. There were at least forty women of varying ages seated at four long sewing tables and every face in the room looked up with an expression of intense curiosity. Although none of them had seen her before they all knew that she was the Frenchwoman from faraway Paris. Just for a matter of seconds needles were idle and a variety of rainbow threads hung suspended in mid-air.

  Agrippina Markarova, who sat at a small worktable on her own, was the only one who did not look up immediately, even though she was expecting this visitor. She finished a stitch before putting down her work and rising from her chair. She was tall, very upright and sternly good-looking in her late forties, her fair hair streaked through with grey and topped by a frilled white cap. Then to Marguerite’s relief she smiled, her whole face softening, as if thankful to see that there was no arrogance in the newcomer’s attitude, no haughty disdain as if nobody could match the skills of a Parisian seamstress and embroiderer.

  ‘I’m pleased to see you here, Mam’selle Marguerite. I heard that you did not get a very warm welcome from Madame Rostova when you first arrived.’

  ‘There was a misunderstanding for a little while,’ Marguerite admitted carefully.

  ‘You and your fellow countrywomen must have thought you’d come to the most inhospitable country in the world! I know that you were even threatened with being turned out into the street before you’d barely crossed the threshold! I want to assure you that we in Russia are friendly people. As soon as I heard what had happened I was determined to make amends.’ She crossed to a cupboard and brought out a little painted bowl that held bread and salt. ‘It is an old tradition in Russia to welcome strangers with bread and salt, and may your days in this country be long and peaceful.’

  All the women in the room stopped work to applaud with smiles and a little chatter among themselves as Marguerite gladly accepted the offering. She had f
eared animosity and even aggression, but instead she had found quite the opposite. ‘Thank you so much, madame. You have made it easier for me to make a request.’

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘There will be occasions when I shall need extra hands. In fact I should like to start off with at least three more seamstresses and at least two apprentices for the mundane tasks. Would you be able to help me in this matter?’

  Agrippina nodded. ‘Yes, that can be arranged. But first of all I expect you’d like to see the work we’re doing here.’

  All the women had resumed their tasks and Agrippina guided Marguerite around the room, giving her the chance to see everything. The stitching was exquisite, some sewing delicate petticoats, nightgowns and chemises, others at work on bodices, skirts and drapery destined to become new gowns for the Empress and the Grand Duchess. In an adjoining room the younger and less experienced seamstresses were engaged in the embroidery of bed linen and other such tasks. Agrippina spoke quietly to Marguerite.

  ‘The work of all the girls here is full of promise. I can have a choice of new workers any time I wish and I soon sort the wheat from the chaff. At the moment I can spare you two seamstresses, but they speak only Russian.’

  ‘I’m sure it will not be difficult to demonstrate what I shall require.’

  ‘I’ll let you have the apprentices later.’ She waved aside Marguerite’s thanks. ‘In the meantime I’ll send the two young women I select along to you this afternoon.’

  ‘How many gowns do you make a year?’ Marguerite asked with interest as they returned to the main sewing room.

  ‘It’s difficult to say. We make many for the Grand Duchess, but for the Empress there have to be several new gowns ready for every single day of the year. No gown is ever worn twice, but they are only thrown away afterwards if they are irretrievably soiled in any way. It is my personal responsibility to check each one, and if they are not fit to be saved I salvage the good material out of them. As I do all the designing, it can often be incorporated advantageously later on. I doubt that the Empress realizes how I save her money in this way since economy is of no importance to her, but I cannot bear to see exquisite fabric wasted.’ Her glance was inquiring. ‘Would you like to see some of the gowns that have been kept?’