‘What was the subject?’
He looked steadily at her for a few moments before he replied, ‘It’s best that you see it for yourself.’
‘I should like that very much.’
They had finished eating and she went to sit on a sofa while he crossed the room to a cupboard and took out the painting. It was small and he had had it framed in a finely carved and gilded frame. He handed it to her before sitting down beside her.
She gave a little gasp of pleasure, holding it between both hands. ‘How beautiful!’
It was a view of St Petersburg held in the wonderful luminous light that at times seemed to hold the whole city in an ethereal glow. But surely that single small figure on the bank of the Neva was herself? She looked up at him quickly, her eyes inquiring.
‘Yes, it’s you, Marguerite,’ he said, sitting down beside her, ‘and I painted it for you. I thought you would like a memento of the city for your wall when you are back in France one day.’
‘It’s a wonderful gift and I’ll treasure it all my life!’ she declared fervently. ‘Even if I never go home again.’
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than she was startled by what she had said. What subconscious conviction had risen to the surface in such an unexpected way?
He seemed equally surprised, but made no comment. ‘That frame is heavy. Let me put it to one side for you.’
‘I hardly like to let it go.’ She let him take it, but he propped it up where she could continue to see it before taking his seat beside her again. ‘Thank you a million times, Jan.’
He smiled. ‘I’m glad it pleases you.’
Then without warning, although there was ample space between them, his nearness disturbed her and she was gripped by the old sense of withdrawal, aware of how painfully raw she still was from what had passed between Tom and her. Jan, sensitive to her mood, realized that she was still as far from him as she could be, even though he had hoped that the painting would form a bridge between them. The faintest shadow had crossed her expressive face and he had seen the sparkle go from it. As before, he sighed inwardly with exasperation that he seemed unable to break through to her. It was the reason he had not pursued her more closely, thinking to give her time to recover from whatever it was that was keeping that abyss between them.
She was glancing at the clock, which was chiming the hour. ‘I must leave now. How quickly the time has flown!’
He did not go at once to fetch her cape, but went instead to pull out a drawer and take a key from it. ‘Keep this,’ he said, holding it out to her. ‘You might like to come here in my absence. There are books on the shelves that I’m sure you would like to read and it would give you a sanctuary of your own whenever you want to escape the Palace. Saskia will be keeping the place clean and in good order. She would always see that the stove was lit for you when winter comes.’
‘That’s extremely kind of you.’ She was on the point of refusing, but she hesitated, thinking how often she had longed to get away on her own for a little while.
He took her moment of hesitation as acceptance and put the key into her hand. ‘Good! If you want to return hospitality to friends you will be able to do that too. As you’ve seen for yourself this evening Saskia knows how to present a simple meal.’
When they came out into the street he had the painting wrapped under his arm and would have hailed a carriage, but she wanted to walk. ‘Let’s enjoy the last of the White Nights. Already darkness is coming earlier each evening and there won’t be many more.’
‘Sometimes at the height of summer one could imagine it was the middle of the day,’ he said as they set out together.
‘That’s true,’ she agreed.
There were always people about everywhere, partying in boats on the river and canals, sitting on their balconies with glasses of wine in their hands, or just strolling, often with children frolicking along. It was as if sleep was temporarily abandoned by all except those who had a heavy day’s work ahead of them. Always there was music coming from somewhere, either in song or in the sound of a violin or a balalaika and sometimes the melodious notes of a harpsichord drifting from open windows. Tonight was no exception.
It was now common knowledge that demolition for the building of the new Winter Palace would be started quite soon. When they came to the area, she asked him how long he thought it would be before it was finished.
‘The general estimate is nine to ten years altogether.’
‘So long!’
‘Thousands of craftsmen, many from Europe, will descend on it once the actual building work is completed. Their specialized tasks will take a very long time. After all, it’s to be the grandest palace in the world, so it is said.’
Somehow she knew in her very bones she would see it finished. Maybe she would never go home to live again. Did it mean that she was already putting down roots? But even though she had been in Russia for nearly a year surely it was too early yet to feel a true closeness to what was still a very alien land to her?
Yet so much of it was being absorbed into her blood. She loved the old Russian fairy tales that she had heard from various sources and she had found a tattered but readable French book in the market on its history. She knew now that this great country’s name came from the Russ, as the Vikings had been called when they came up the great rivers to invade and to trade. She read of the Mongol hordes that had overrun the land, but eventually been defeated, and how the first tsar had moulded a nation together and made Christianity the faith for his people to follow. But none of the subsequent tsars could compete with Peter the Great, who had brought Russia out of the darkness of superstition and ignorance and into the world of art, literature and the sciences.
Suddenly she turned a shining face to him. ‘Be sure to come back to St Petersburg when this palace is finished and fill it with beautiful paintings!’
He looked down into her face. She stood there in total abandonment to her dream for him like a loving woman giving herself. With tenderness he put his hands against her cheeks and lowered his head to kiss her gently.
‘If it lies in my power I shall do that,’ he promised, low-voiced.
She had not responded to his kiss. It had been too swift and too light for any reaction, but oddly it had moved her in a way she could not comprehend.
Next morning Igor hung the painting for her. She sat on her bed and gazed at it again. Although it was quite perfect in every way there was something about it that puzzled her, almost as if it were missing some vital addition. Yet what could it possibly be? She had been vaguely aware of it at the time of first setting eyes on the painting and yet there was nothing she could pinpoint. The little mystery would continue to intrigue her and add to her pleasure. In all her life she had never received a gift she would treasure more.
Fourteen
Jan sailed for home without Marguerite seeing him again. After a while, particularly when there had been a harassing day at work, she went to his apartment for a quiet hour or two.
The peace of it was particularly welcome after Jeanne and Violette had clashed in one of their noisy quarrels or there had been a hitch over a faulty fabric or some other worrying matter. She would have coffee served to her in the Dutch way by Saskia, for Jan had always preferred it to tea just as she did, although both had been luxuries beyond her purse when she had worked in Paris . . . If the Dutchwoman was not there, she would make her own, always buying a fresh portion of coffee beans to replace whatever was used. She began to think of the apartment as her own ‘hermitage’.
Jan had not taken his grandfather’s portrait with him. Sometimes, glancing up at it, she had the fanciful notion that he had left it for the clear gaze of those penetrating eyes to keep a watch on her.
Isabelle, flushed with success, had arrived back in the city shortly before the return of the court to the Winter Palace. The Grand Duchess had worn the finished flower gown to the end-of-summer ball and it had been greatly admired. Marguerite, knowing Elisabeth’s sav
age ways, guessed that it had given her malicious satisfaction to inform Catherine that she had lost her favourite designer.
Elisabeth’s eyes gleamed when she saw the exquisite embroidery of the opal gown: the entwining leaves of a vine in a delicate pattern had the opaque sequins hanging in small, shimmering bunches like grapes all over the skirt, which parted in the front to reveal the palest green underskirt. She would wear it in Moscow for the New Year celebrations and the Frenchwoman must bring it personally. It would add proverbial salt to the wound she had already inflicted on Catherine.
Sarah had returned from Oranienbaum to the city on her own. ‘Tom is staying on for a while. There is something else he has been asked to do. How lovely it is there, Marguerite! But I was ready to come back here as soon as summer lost its warmth. In your last letter you mentioned that you would be going to Moscow later on and I also wanted to see you before you left.’
‘It won’t be quite yet.’
They talked on, Marguerite flinching inwardly whenever Tom’s name came into the conversation.
Sophie and Valentin were married on a windy day that was blowing the coppery leaves from the trees. Her compatriots gave a party for her on the previous evening and she realized how much she was going to miss their daily company.
‘You must all visit me often,’ she cried, kissing and hugging each of them in turn.
When morning came they all helped her dress in her cream velvet gown. On her head she wore the pearl-studded and fan-shaped Russian headdress that Valentin’s late mother had worn on her wedding day.
In the church the Frenchwomen were outnumbered many times over by the large gathering of Valentin’s relatives. Jeanne would have liked to sit down, but that was not the custom for any service and there were no seats anywhere, everybody standing for the entire ceremony. Sophie was as conventionally radiant as brides were supposed to be and Valentin stood very straight and proud. There was an exchange of rings, vows were made and prayers said as the traditional gold crowns were held over the bridal couple’s heads. When they emerged from the church the first snowflakes of winter had begun to fall.
The celebrations followed with feasting and many toasts. Afterwards there was music and dancing as well as the singing of Russian love songs by three of Valentin’s male cousins, who had magnificent baritone voices. The highlight of the occasion for Violette was meeting another of the bridegroom’s relatives, Grigori Batalov, a colonel of the Imperial Guard, who was there with his dull little wife, only her diamonds giving her any sparkle. He was a fine-looking man in his mid-fifties with a straight, military bearing, and Violette recognized instantly the predatory look that he gave her from under his hooded lids as they were presented to each other.
‘Your servant, mademoiselle,’ he said in a strong, deep voice. ‘I hope you are not missing your own country too much while you are here.’
‘At times, Colonel,’ she admitted, ‘but I have settled down quite well.’
After that she knew his gaze was following her wherever she was in the room and she made a point of being charming to his wife, sitting with her for a while. Although later Grigori Batalov partnered Violette only once in a dance it was long enough for a secret rendezvous to be arranged for the next evening. His wife, watching them out of the corner of her eye while chatting to someone, had recognized all the signs. She sighed inwardly, fluttering her fan, and wondered how long this new mistress would last.
Marguerite, having lost an important member of her work force, promoted Isabelle to take over the delicate embroidery that Sophie had done best. She had also decided to take the girl with her again when she went to Moscow, not knowing what amount of work might await her there.
That first snowfall had vanished the next day, it being said that snow had to fall three times before it stayed, but soon winter’s grip was on the land. Again the Court was stirring and before long the picturesque exodus took place once more. The Court was to stay for a while again at the Holy City of Kiev where Elisabeth could once again seek forgiveness for her sins in the cathedral there.
Marguerite intended to arrive in Moscow before Christmas. Isabelle, although excited at the prospect of seeing Moscow, was privately not so eager to accompany Marguerite as before. She had met a young Russian, named Mikail Legotin, who spoke French fluently and came from a well-appointed home. She knew, because unknown to anyone else, she had had tea there on her first visit. Since then she had been there many times.
It had happened when Rose and the Pomfret girls had run ahead of her, afraid they would miss the boating trip on the Neva that had been arranged. They had not seen her trip and fall headlong. Even if they had, she was not sure that they would have come back for her, being more likely to call over their shoulders to hurry up and come along as the boat would not wait. But she had landed on the doorstep of the Legotin family home, hitting her head severely on the handrail, just as Mikail opened the door to come out.
Square-shouldered and sturdily built with kindly blue eyes in a strong-chinned, freckled face, his curly reddish hair rebelling against the ribbon holding it back under his tricorne hat, he had bent down immediately to help her to her feet.
‘Are you hurt?’ he had exclaimed with concern. ‘You’ve cut your forehead! There’s a bump coming up like an egg already!’ When she had swayed, feeling dazed by pain and shock, a trickle of blood running down her face, he had called to his sister indoors, ‘Anna! Come quickly!’
Together they had helped her into the house. As she lay on the sofa his mother had bathed her wound from the bowl of water, which Anna had fetched, and bound it up until the bleeding stopped. By then she had begun feeling better and was able to sit upright and drink tea with them. That was how it had all begun. But he was her secret. All too often at the Pomfret house when one of the young Englishmen paid her attention, Rose was unable to resist flirting him away from her. She did not want that to happen with Mikail and was waiting the chance to ask Marguerite about it. There was also another more serious matter that she wanted to discuss, but there should be plenty of opportunities to talk on the long journey to Moscow.
Isabelle knew she would miss Mikail achingly, for she lived for the times when they could be together. When he discovered she could sing he would accompany her on his lute, either when they were on their own or for the benefit of his family or, more often, at gatherings of his friends, which were fast becoming hers too. Sometimes he would sing with her, having a good voice himself. She had come to realize that music was an integral part of Russian life.
He always held her hand when they walked together, but it was only recently after they had been to a fair on the ice one evening that he had kissed her for the first time, declaring that he loved her. It had been the happiest moment she had ever known. They were both aware that nothing could come of it for a time. He had his medical studies to finish with a local doctor and that would take another two or three years. Although his family approved of her, he knew there would be implacable opposition by his father to an official betrothal before he was qualified.
‘But then I’ll start a practice of my own and we shall marry, Isabelle. Nothing shall keep us apart!’
It was then that he had given her a ring to symbolize the bond between them: a ruby set in gold. She had shed tears of joy. For the first time in her life she felt truly loved. She wore the ring on a chain around her neck. Nobody else had seen it.
Yet at the same time it was as if a black cloud, which she had managed with time to drive from her horizon, had risen again like an ominous threat. How would he feel about her if he knew her stepfather had taken her virginity from her in childhood and that she was a murderess? The thought kept her awake at night and troubled her by day. At least she would be able to unburden herself to Marguerite, who had been so compassionate when she had made her original confession.
Marguerite, all unaware, made ready for the journey ahead. Jeanne was to be left in charge and Agrippina had loaned two of her best seamstresses to cover the gap
s that would be left by Isabelle and herself.
On the morning of departure Isabelle received a last-minute love letter from Mikail, wishing her a safe journey and expressing his longing already for her return. She had just enough time to write an equally loving reply. She left the letter on the shelf where Igor would collect and deliver it. He had long since become friendly with all the Frenchwomen and saw himself as their special messenger and informant.
Rose’s sharp eyes had seen Isabelle put the letter there and guessed who the recipient would be. When Isabelle had taken to going off on her own more than usual Rose, becoming curious, had followed her one day and seen her meet a young man, each transparently overjoyed to see the other. From behind a post she had watched him assist Isabelle into one of the rowing boats for hire on the canals before taking the oars to row away, both of them talking and laughing together. Apart from being piqued that Isabelle had not told her about him, Rose experienced a shaft of unreasonable jealousy.
Nobody in the sewing room noticed when Rose, passing the shelf, took the letter and slipped it swiftly into her apron pocket. Later she slid the blade of a knife carefully under its wax seal and read it. Then she sealed it up again, a triumphant smile on her lips. She would deliver it to Mikail Legotin. He had looked far more entertaining company than all the young Englishmen she had met, most of whom had begun to bore her.
Marguerite and Isabelle discovered they would not be travelling on their own. A courier, who was a quiet, pleasant man, was already in the carriage. It smoothed the journey for them, even after they had to transfer to sledges not long after leaving St Petersburg, for there was always a change of good horses at posting stations and he ensured that they had accommodation that was as comfortable as his own. Sharing a room with Marguerite meant that Isabelle could at last pour out her worries in private to her.
To Dream of Snow Page 17
