‘I used to think I could never endure marriage with anyone,’ Isabelle said after they had talked for a while. ‘The horror of my stepfather always loomed up at me. But,’ she added wonderingly, ‘since meeting Mikail I know my love for him would sweep all my terrible memories away.’
‘Yes, that is how it would be,’ Marguerite said reassuringly, for even if all Isabelle had said of him was seen wholly through the eyes of love he still sounded kind-hearted and sensible.
‘But how can I be sure that Mikail won’t think ill of me?’ Isabelle exclaimed desparingly, her fists clenched in her anguish.
Marguerite looked into the girl’s unhappy eyes and although she regretted what she had to say it had to be said. ‘As you know only too well, after the way you were abused from childhood onwards he would know on your wedding night that you were no longer a virgin. You will have to decide whether to tell him the truth beforehand or suffer his hurt and disappointment that another has already possessed you. The possibility has to be faced that he might fly into a jealous rage and not be prepared to believe anything you have to say. It could destroy all chance of a happy marriage for you both.’
‘How cruel you are to say all this to me!’ Isabelle’s voice broke on a terrible sob, bowing her head in her abject misery.
Marguerite put a comforting arm about the girl’s shoulders and spoke gently and encouragingly to her. ‘No, it’s to help you face facts. Yet you seem to have forgotten the most important fact of all, which you must never forget. If he truly loves you then there is nothing – and nobody – that could ever separate you from each other.’
For a little while Isabelle did not speak. Then she raised her head slowly, her lashes wet from her tears, her decision painfully made. ‘Then one day I must tell him,’ she said in a broken voice, ‘whatever the outcome. But not for a long time yet.’
When Marguerite and Isabelle arrived in Moscow they saw the Kremlin looming ahead with its high, rust-red walls and turrets topped with snow. Their sledge swept through the great gates and they were in a city within a city. Palaces and cathedrals, churches, barracks, armouries and fine houses were to be seen on all sides. The Empress was residing in the largest palace of them all.
The first news the Frenchwomen were given was that Catherine had had a terrible miscarriage and had hovered between life and death for thirteen days. She was now recuperating, but still very weak. Marguerite wished she could see her, but that was impossible. Nor could she manage to gain access to the Empress’s presence and none of the court ladies knew what was expected of her other than that she should present the special gown on New Year’s Eve.
Irritated by being idle, she visited the sewing rooms in the Palace where she could see plenty of rich gowns in progress, but the woman in charge was hostile, perhaps fearful of being usurped. Marguerite soon left. After that, although it was bitterly cold, she and Isabelle visited the cathedrals and churches both for private prayer and to view the magnificent interiors. They gained permission to enter a great library and afterwards they spent much of their time there.
Isabelle’s prayers were always for Mikail’s understanding when eventually she told him everything. She knew it was impossible to hope for a letter for a long time yet, even if he wrote an answer immediately to the one she had left for him. It had taken twenty-three days for her and Marguerite to journey to Moscow and that was because there had been no bad snowstorms to hinder them and good horses all the way. But she wrote to him, not caring how long her letters took to reach him, for it comforted her to write of her love and helped her to bridge the distance between them.
In St Petersburg Mikail was writing regularly to her, but unbeknown to him the letters never left the city. After his first meeting with Rose, who had brought Isabelle’s letter to him, he had entrusted each one of his own to her. She had said that she knew the footman who collected letters to give to one of the couriers that rode horseback to Moscow, and she could ask for the letters to Isabelle to be included. That would ensure speedy delivery. It also meant that he saw Rose far more often than he had originally intended. She was lively and pretty, a born flirt, who knew how to entice and encourage. He had known girls like her before and enjoyed her easy kisses. The old adage went through his mind of having a good girl to marry and a bad one to bed.
Unexpectedly Marguerite received a letter far sooner than expected from Sarah. It had come with an English acquaintance, who had travelled to Moscow on business. She had written that Tom would soon be coming on his own to Moscow as she could not face the long journey in such cruel winter weather and was staying at home. The rest of the letter held inconsequential news about mutual acquaintances. Marguerite crushed the letter in her hand despairingly.
On New Year’s Eve Marguerite and Isabelle carried the opal gown between them to the Empress’s apartment. A light cloth covered it, because Elisabeth wanted nobody to see it before she appeared in it, not even her ladies. When Marguerite and Isabelle entered her presence she stood in her petticoats, tightly corseted with the padded panniers protruding over her hips. Standing against the background of her crimson silk-panelled room and velvet bed-hangings, she looked proud and beautiful, ready to be adorned in a gown that would truly do her justice.
When Marguerite had finished lacing the back of the bodice Elisabeth chose the jewellery she would wear. Then she regarded her reflection in a looking glass and gave a smiling nod of complete satisfaction.
She gave no word of praise, but turned to Marguerite. ‘You will attire yourself in whatever happens to be your best gown and await instructions in the Malachite Room. Now go!’
Marguerite, uneasy at this inexplicable command, hurried away with Isabelle, both of them trying to guess what the reason might be. She had an apricot-silk panniered gown to wear, which she had made for Sophie’s wedding. When Isabelle had fastened the back of the bodice for her, she put on a pearl necklace and earrings that her sister had given her on a natal day.
‘You look lovely!’ Isabelle enthused, standing back admiringly.
In the Malachite Room pillars of the rich green stone set off the cream and gold of the decor and great vases of the same mineral stood on rosewood cabinets. She could hear the palace orchestra in the stateroom nearby. After studying the paintings, some of which were French, she sat down to wait. Before long two ladies of the Court entered the room.
‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ one demanded arrogantly.
‘I’m here at Her Imperial Majesty’s instructions.’
The woman shrugged and turned away to sit gossiping with her companion, both ignoring her. When there came the distant sound of a fanfare announcing the arrival of the Empress in the stateroom they both sprang up to give a final touch to their hair and fuss with the frills of their low-cut necklines in front of a gilt-framed pier glass. But it was some time before the marquetry-ornamented double doors were opened by a footman and they went out into the corridor leading to the stateroom.
Marguerite had remained seated, but the footman nodded at her. ‘You, too, mam’selle.’
‘What’s happening? I don’t understand.’
‘You’re being given the chance to watch this evening’s Portrait Ceremony, which doesn’t happen very often. It’s when Her Imperial Majesty gives a small diamond-framed miniature of herself to be worn only by her most favoured ladies. The two who were in here, Baroness Boristova and Countess Mikalova, are the lucky ones tonight. It’s one of the highest honours the Empress can bestow.’
‘That will be interesting to see!’ As Marguerite left the room she thought how unexpectedly magnanimous it was of the Empress to allow her to be present. It showed how pleased she was with the gown.
Marguerite entered the enormous, glittering room and swiftly took up an unobtrusive place by the wall. Many hundreds of sumptuously dressed people were present, gathered on both sides without any crowding in such space to allow a wide aisle where the two ladies were advancing side by side towards the foot of the imperial
dais. There, under a crimson canopy, the Empress sat grandly in her shimmering gown. The double-headed Russian eagle was emblazoned in gold on the velvet hanging behind her. Peter was on her right and on her left was Catherine, who looked thinner in the face, but any pallor that might be lingering in her cheeks was hidden by the skilful use of cosmetics.
Elisabeth stood as the two ladies before her dipped in their deep curtsies. Countess Mikalova stepped forward first and her citation was read out to the assemblage. When it was finished Elisabeth took one of the two miniatures from a cushion, held by a page on one knee, and pinned it on her, afterwards kissing her on both cheeks.
As she withdrew Baroness Boristova stepped forward. Elisabeth, bland-faced, regarded the woman’s smug expression with inner hatred. This was the creature who had dared to laugh when once she had slipped and fallen in an undignified manner. As if that were not enough this detestable creature had spread gossip that she had to pay her lovers to perform! She, whom men had always adored and still came to with love and passion!
‘Wait!’ she ordered sharply when the citation was about to be read. ‘There has been a great mistake! Baroness Boristova is not deserving of this honour with her contemptuous duplicity and infamous lies! Take her from my sight! I never want to look upon her countenance again!’
Revenge was so very sweet. The Baroness had turned ashen, taking a step back in shock before bursting out words of denial and appeal. Elisabeth waved her away in disdain and the stricken woman almost fell into the arms of her husband, who had rushed forward while the rest of the Court stood as if frozen. The courtier who had read the first citation received a signal to continue. His voice boomed out clearly again as the weeping Baroness was led away.
‘The second portrait is awarded to Mademoiselle Marguerite Laurent, for her matchless skills and inspiration in creating masterpieces for Russia! These will be saved for posterity in order that in future centuries her work will still be seen and admired.’
Konstantin, who had seen Marguerite come into the room, had been edging his way behind the other spectators to reach her. He was in time to give her a thrust, for she seemed rooted to the floor.
‘Go on! You can’t keep Mother Russia waiting!’
The silence in the great room was almost palpable. Marguerite began the seemingly endless walk up the shining, parquet-patterned floor to the dais. Some of the spectators were not altogether surprised by this development, for the Empress had rewarded others of humble station in her time. Among the elderly were those who had witnessed Peter the Great doing the same. Yet what shocked everybody, even though they had seen the Empress wreak vicious tricks on numbers of distinguished people before, was the terrible humiliation of the Baroness and the supplanting of her by a seamstress. For that reason alone a wave of hostility from many of those present swept towards the young woman advancing towards the Empress, the glow of hundreds of candles highlighting her hair to flecks of copper and gold. They watched almost in disbelief as the Empress smiled and spoke to the Frenchwoman while pinning the miniature on to her bodice.
Then the ceremony was over and the orchestra struck up for dancing. There were congratulatory gatherings flowing around Countess Mikalova, but nobody came to Marguerite, except Konstantin. He was suddenly in front of her, smiling widely.
‘My felicitations! Well done!’ He took her hand ready to draw her into the dance as soon as the Empress took the floor. ‘But,’ he added in a low voice only for her ears, ‘although you’ve gained court status with the honour, don’t be disappointed if you’re not allowed to keep the miniature.’
‘Why should that be?’
Couples were lining up behind the Empress and her partner, their hands linked high. Konstantin drew Marguerite into the line and the dance began.
‘We can’t talk about it here! Nor should we leave before the Empress, but there are about three thousand people present tonight and we’ll not be missed for a little while. We can come back in time to welcome the New Year.’
In the throng it was easy to slip through a door unnoticed and they went along the passage to the Malachite Room.
‘Now tell me,’ she said when they stood facing each other. The thought of surrendering the miniature did not trouble her in the least. She had no wish to be involved with the Court, who in any case had shown clearly enough they did not want her in their midst.
He turned from tugging at the bell-pull. ‘Sit down, for God’s sake, Marguerite. We want a drink before we talk.’
A footman came at once and a few minutes later brought cognac, wine and vodka on a silver tray. Konstantin dismissed him and poured the drinks himself. By then she was seated on a sofa and he gave her a glass of wine before returning to the tray, where he downed three vodkas before pulling up a chair to sit opposite her, a fourth in his hand.
‘That’s better,’ he said with satisfaction.
‘So what do you think will be the outcome of tonight?’ she queried.
‘The Empress made a tool of you this evening to settle in the cruellest way possible some real or imagined slight inflicted on her by the Baroness,’ he said bluntly, keeping to himself how he alone had known of it beforehand. ‘I’ve no doubt at all that whatever gowns you’ve made the Empress will be stored with the rest of her discarded garments, but whether they will ever see the light of day again is questionable. She is a devious woman. You’ve served your purpose this evening. Don’t pin any high hopes on the outcome.’
Marguerite raised her eyebrows. ‘That thought never entered my head.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. But there is a credit side to all this.’
‘Oh? And what may that be?’
‘It’s because the Empress acknowledged you before the whole Court that your new status cannot be eradicated. It means that socially you are equal now to anyone in that stateroom.’ His voice took on a teasing note. ‘You and I could marry tomorrow without a single objection being raised.’
She flung back her head and laughed. ‘What a ridiculous situation! I’m certain the Empress expects me to return to my sewing rooms in St Petersburg as soon as possible now to carry on as if this evening had never happened.’
He frowned. ‘Maybe, but at least for the time being make the most of the new privileges to which you are now entitled. We can avoid the boring court functions and attend the rest. So let us enjoy some time together.’ A smile spread across his mouth again. ‘You’ll be able to unmask freely at the end of a ball without being afraid of being sent back to France as you were before. It will be fun!’
Fun. Yes, she believed it would be. Nothing else he might have said could have been more persuasive. His words had made her realize that work, laden with responsibilities, had dominated her time since the day she had arrived in St Petersburg. There had been traumatic happenings, as with Tom, and some happy occasions linked with Jan as well as with her fellow countrywomen, but unbounded fun coinciding with no work on her hands was something not to be missed. A burst of excited anticipation rang in her voice. ‘Very well! And I shall make my own mask!’
His face shone with triumph. ‘Tomorrow evening I shall dance you off your feet!’
They returned to the stateroom where couples were twirling in a gavotte and they were soon lost amid the other dancers, not knowing they had been observed. Elisabeth’s sharp eyes missed nothing.
When Tom arrived three weeks later he tried in vain to see Marguerite, for she was always out having riding lessons or at a party or some other social function. Isabelle, who had not met him before, even though she had been in the same taproom when he had come for his wife in Riga, was glad when he called. She thought him a pleasant man and was thankful for the diversion of his company whenever he stayed for an hour or two while hoping for Marguerite’s return. By now she had been looking daily for a letter from Mikail, but nothing had come and she was beginning to be anxious. Her self-confidence, which had been built up by both his love and her success at work, began to crumble and self-doubts assailed her more a
nd more as Mikail’s letters failed to come.
As for Tom, she had supposed at first that he was simply calling on Marguerite as a friend, but now she had her doubts. There had been a glint of anger in his eyes when she had mentioned that Captain Dashiski was giving Marguerite a wonderful time in a round of banquets and balls, gaming parties and masquerades. Nor did he seem appeased when she added that she herself had been with them sometimes to plays and concerts. His face always clouded with disappointment when he found that Marguerite was absent yet again and she began to feel quite sorry for him. She tried talking to Marguerite on his behalf.
‘He always tells me when he’s coming again. Why won’t you make time to see him?’
Marguerite sighed. ‘If I happened to be here I would see him, of course.’
‘He’s in love with you, isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’ The answer had come without expression.
‘But he’s a married man!’ Isabelle flushed and bit her lip. ‘How foolish of me to say that! It’s just that he has such a sweet wife.’
‘Yes, he has. She is my friend and my loyalty is to her.’
‘If he’s not taking no for an answer tell him something! Say you’re going to marry Konstantin Dashiski!’
Marguerite jerked towards her. ‘What made you say that?’
Isabelle stared at her. ‘He’s asked you, hasn’t he?’ Then she was overwhelmed by her own outspokenness. ‘Forgive me, please. I didn’t mean to pry. Nor have I any right to tell you what to do.’
‘It’s all right, Isabelle. I will see Tom. You said he’d be coming tomorrow morning? I’ll postpone my riding lesson with Konstantin.’
When Tom arrived Isabelle showed him into the room where Marguerite waited and then left. He had discarded his greatcoat and fur hat before entering and stood, well dressed in a crimson coat and knee breeches with high-booted feet set apart as he and Marguerite faced each other across the short distance between them.
‘How are you, Tom?’ she asked, thinking with anguish that nothing had dispersed the charm he still held for her, even though now she knew it for what it was, a nostalgic illusion that the man she loved was still to be found in this passionate Englishman.
To Dream of Snow Page 18
