He saw how she shuddered. It was a pity she had found out the truth, but it should not be too difficult to mend matters.
‘I happen to love you, Marguerite,’ he said genuinely, ‘whether you believe me or not. Don’t suppose I’d ever let you go even if the idea is running through your mind of leaving Russia secretly. I’d follow you to Paris if need be.’
‘But it is all over between us. You have had a long relationship with the Empress!’
‘I don’t deny it. But not any more, you must believe me!’ He took hold of her by the arms. Although she went rigid, he did not release her and brought his face close to hers. ‘I’m telling you in total confidence that in a matter of months Russia will be at war with Prussia, which is increasing its military power under Frederick II to become a dangerous threat to Europe as well as to us. Great Britain is allying herself with Prussia for reasons best known to herself, probably because George II is of German descent, whereas France and Austria will be our loyal allies. There’s even a chance that Spain will eventually become involved. There’s a great deal of coming and going happening everywhere. I’m telling you that although I disliked Sarah being constantly under my roof, my lengthy absences from you have been through my regimental duties and nothing else!’
‘But the Empress . . .?’
‘Her final benefaction was my promotion to colonel, granted upon our marriage. Why else do you suppose a city residence has not been granted to me as it has to others?’
‘I never wanted us to be dependent on her munificence!’ Her tone was bitter.
He saw she was angry and resolute, but he gave a forceful reply, becoming the accuser. ‘In recent months you would have stayed by your own choice in the country with Sarah in your care,’ he pointed out sharply, ‘even if I had asked you to share a new home with me. I’ve been waiting for you to decide who comes first in your life. Is it I or do you have another lame duck like Rose to whom you will be giving preference?’
She was puzzled and indignant. ‘I have never thought that I was putting anyone or anything before you. I don’t understand.’
‘For the past month we have had our own house here in St Petersburg, independent of all imperial benefaction. It was up for auction and I bought it. If you wish to live in it I’ll take you there this evening.’
‘I have a place to stay.’
‘Not your little pied-à-terre, because I’ve cancelled that, and I forbade you ever to return to Van Deventer’s place.’
‘I’ll not be browbeaten!’
He sighed, seeing that his modified confession, persuasion and bullying had been to no avail. Now finally he spoke from the heart. ‘Give me another chance, Marguerite. As I said before, I love you and I hope you will eventually come to love me as much.’ There was a rueful twist to his mouth. ‘Did you think I haven’t known that you’ve never felt as much for me as I do for you? Maybe it’s been good to get the past into the open, because there’s no reason why everything should not go well from now on. There shall never be any more secrets between us.’
She regarded him sharply. ‘Do you mean that?’
‘Yes, with all my heart. Let me show you the house. You may take your time before making a decision as to if and when you will move in with me. In the meantime live wherever you like, but don’t turn away from me.’
He watched her reaction to his plea that flitted across her expressive face like a passing shadow.
‘I’ll see the house,’ she conceded almost inaudibly, ‘but as yet I can make no promises.’
The mansion had gilded balconies overlooking the Neva and was painted the colour of dawn. All the rooms were spacious with high ceilings, the parquet floors laid out in intricate designs. The grand hall and some of the salons were furnished finely with effects that had belonged to Konstantin’s late parents and had been taken out of store. He had taken up residence quite recently and servants moved about discreetly.
When they had returned to the first salon she had viewed Konstantin waited while she went to the window and stood looking out, her back to him.
‘I need time,’ she said quietly.
‘You shall have it, but grant me a favour. Furnish the rest of this house for me, but in your taste. Redecorate anywhere and everywhere if that is what you wish. If you do come to live here one day I want you to be happy with everything in it.’ Then he added dryly, ‘Even me.’
The winter passed slowly. Marguerite did as he had wished, changing colours, having damage repaired, windows well fitted and faded silk panels replaced. She added elegant furniture and draperies, which had been imported from France. There were some paintings, but not one of them pleased her. She wished she could have asked Jan’s advice when he returned, but she could not risk being with him any more if ever her marriage was to be mended.
It made her gall rise to continue designing for the Empress, but it had to be done and she kept a detached attitude to her work. She continued to live in Jan’s apartment, although after a while she began going to court functions again with Konstantin, seeing that in every way he was trying to make amends. With the coming of spring she knew Jan would soon be returning and the time had come for a decision to be made. She left the apartment and moved into a bedchamber of her own at the dawn-coloured mansion.
That night Konstantin made love to her for the first time in many months.
Their marriage settled to its mending. He did everything in his power to please her, refusing her nothing. He gave her lavish gifts of jewellery and would have bought her anything she admired had she wished it. It was as if he were courting her all over again. She had no illusions, knowing that beautiful women were his weakness and that he was surely most vulnerable where the Empress was concerned, but he had given his word that the relationship was over. She had no choice but to believe him. It was all in her part of shutting a door on the past.
Eighteen
In spite of some sporadic sunshine it was a chill day when Marguerite set off to the Summer Palace with some designs for the Empress. On the way she passed the vast site being cleared by thousands of serfs for the new Winter Palace.
She knew she would find all the Court gathered when she arrived, for Catherine had become pregnant again and should give birth at any time now. She was thankful that the Grand Duchess would not have to endure giving birth in a roomful of courtiers as was the custom in France.
She sensed the heightened atmosphere as soon as she entered the Summer Palace by the grand entrance. Gone were the days before her marriage when she took humbler ways into the palaces. On the stairs she met Countess Shuvalov, a pretty woman, who was one of the few at court genuinely friendly towards her.
‘The Grand Duchess has been in dreadful labour since yesterday!’ the Countess exclaimed in distress. ‘I went past the birthing room earlier today and her cries were quite terrible to hear.’
Marguerite was dismayed. ‘Let us hope her torment soon ends and that all is well.’
Suddenly there was a rush of footsteps and two of the lady courtiers appeared at the head of the flight. ‘We’re telling everyone!’ they pealed excitedly. ‘Russia has an heir! The Grand Duchess has just given birth to a son!’
‘How soon may we offer congratulations to her?’ Marguerite asked, glad to have received such good news.
Their painted eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘She has fulfilled her duty and has been left to herself,’ one said. ‘It is Her Imperial Majesty who is to be congratulated on gaining an heir! She took charge of the future Tsar Paul immediately. He is to have a room next to hers.’
They departed again in a flurry of frills, their perfume lingering on. Marguerite looked questioningly at the Countess.
‘The Empress will rear the child,’ she explained.
‘But Catherine?’ Marguerite queried with concern.
‘You heard what was said,’ the Countess said regretfully. ‘She has done what was expected of her and hereafter will have no say in her son’s care or upbringing.’
‘The poor woman! To deprive her of her newborn baby! How cruel!’
‘That is what happens when an imperial child is born.’
Marguerite was full of compassion for Catherine. She had enjoyed designing for her until the Empress had put a stop to it. Then that powerful woman had almost wrecked her marriage to Konstantin, but she was resolved that there should be no more imperial meddling in her life. She would make a first stand against it by visiting Catherine as soon as possible.
‘I’d been hoping to see the Empress today,’ she said, ‘but I’ll have to return for that task another time.’
The Countess put a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t leave yet. Drink a glass of wine with me to celebrate the birth of Russia’s heir to the throne.’
They spent a pleasant hour together before the Countess went to offer her congratulations to the Empress, but Marguerite did not accompany her. Instead, she took the opportunity to spend some time in the Summer Palace’s splendid library.
She had been reading for more than two hours when the door burst open and Countess Shuvalov reappeared.
‘Do come with me now, Madame Dashiski! I’ve been at the celebrations in the Empress’s apartments and that dreadful woman Madame Vladislatova has just told me that she went to see the Grand Duchess, who asked her for a drink of water and to help her change her nightshift. She refused both requests as being beneath her dignity!’
‘How could anyone be so heartless!’ Marguerite exclaimed, already on her feet.
Together they hurried to the birthing room, passing the entrance to the Empress’s apartments on the way where in the great salon noisy celebrations were in full swing with laughter and the clink of glasses.
As Countess Shuvalov opened the door to the birthing room neither she nor Marguerite was ever to forget the pitiable scene that met them. The windows, ill fitting as were so many in the palaces, were letting in a cold draught that had chilled the whole room. Catherine, hollow-eyed and exhausted, was lying in the rumpled bed, her nightshift and the sheets still stained with birth-blood. She raised her head wearily.
‘Oh, my dear ladies,’ she cried huskily, ‘could you in all mercy fetch me a drink of water?’
There was a jug on a side table. Marguerite filled a glass and the Countess held it for Catherine as she drank thirstily before sinking back on to the pillows.
‘The Empress has taken my son from me,’ she said wretchedly. ‘As soon as he had been bathed and wrapped in his swaddling clothes the priest christened him, and then the Empress told the midwife to carry him into her apartments.’
‘Had nobody attended to you?’ the Countess demanded, outraged.
‘They forgot all about me in their excitement that Russia has an heir. The midwife never returned. I wanted to go from here to my own bed, but I hadn’t the strength to move.’
Marguerite leaned forward. ‘Tell me where I can find a fresh nightshift for you. We’ll not let you lie in this condition for another minute!’
While the Countess went in search of the midwife Marguerite found what was needed and put it ready.
The Countess returned soon afterwards with the sulky looking midwife, who had been plied generously with vodka at the Empress’s celebrations and whose apron pocket jingled with the gold coins received from those present.
The midwife did everything for Catherine that was needed, but with ill grace, angry that her moment of glory had been cut short. Lastly Marguerite brushed and combed the bereft mother’s hair from its tangles to hang softly to her shoulders. Then, with a robe over her fresh nightshift, Catherine was carried by a footman back to her own bed. There Marguerite and the Countess settled her comfortably against propped pillows, the midwife having been left to strip the soiled linen from the birth-bed.
‘I thank you both so much,’ Catherine said in gratitude. Then the Countess left to return to the celebrations, saying she would look in periodically to ensure that all was well.
‘Stay with me for a little while, Marguerite,’ Catherine requested.
All formality between them had vanished. They talked as friends. As Catherine had had nothing to eat since early the previous day the Countess had ordered a light and nourishing meal for her, which a maidservant brought in on a tray. Marguerite sat with her until it was finished. Seeing that Catherine was ready to sleep, she removed the tray and then pulled the curtains closed over the windows against the noise of the city’s celebratory fireworks.
As she was about to leave the room, Catherine propped herself up on one elbow, and spoke with a fierce rise of defiance in her voice. ‘I’ll not be crushed by what they have done to me!’
‘Well said!’ Marguerite endorsed approvingly.
‘Make me a gown in secret for my first appearance in public that will outshine everyone! Even the Empress!’
‘It shall be done!’
The décolleté gown was the rich blue of lapis lazuli, heavily embroidered in gold to depict the wings of the imperial eagle spreading from the bodice up across the shoulders. Elisabeth’s nostrils flared with jealousy, knowing that she was being outshone. Such a gown should have been made for her! Catherine was wearing it proudly and with a new authority, her chin tilted high, commanding the respect of all the Court as mother of the heir. Although she still radiated her delightful charm, having smiles for everyone, she was also warning that she could be formidable.
None could have guessed that inwardly Catherine was heartbroken, not through being separated from her baby, to which she was becoming resigned, but because the Empress had sent Sergei to Sweden on a diplomatic mission. There he would remain until sent to another foreign destination. It meant he had fulfilled a purpose in fathering her child and Catherine knew she would never see him again. What hurt her most of all, illustrating that he had truly grown tired of her, was that callously he had made no attempt to see her before his departure.
Out of pique over the gown Elisabeth delayed in letting Catherine see her son for the first time since he was born. When eventually she was allowed a few minutes to view him in his cradle he was wrapped in black fur, querulous through being too hot, red-faced, and damp with sweat. She was powerless to intervene and was sad as she left him.
It was a long time before she saw him again and by then he did not know her, the maternal bond lost to them both beyond recall.
Jan’s days were busy from morning until night from the time of his arrival. A large number of commissions for portraits were awaiting him, but first of all he had to hang all the paintings he had brought with him in the gallery of the auction house.
Konstantin accompanied Marguerite to a private viewing. Since it had become clear to him that his wife seemed to regard the Dutchman simply as an obliging friend, he had decided to accept the invitation that they had received.
There were already a large number of people in the gallery when they arrived, but Jan came across to them immediately. He had not met Konstantin before and Marguerite presented them to each other. Then he turned to her, his eyes searching hers.
‘I hope I find you well, Marguerite.’
‘Yes, Jan. Congratulations on having this fine gallery for your exhibitions!’ She could almost read his thoughts, knowing all he would have wished to ask her had they been on their own, but she kept her smile fixed and her air distant. It was not only because of Konstantin’s presence, but also for the reason she had to get on with her life as it had been laid out for her. It was for the sake of all three of them.
‘If you should find any painting that you would like, one of my assistants will be pleased to oblige you.’ With a bow, he left them.
Konstantin soon chose an oil painting of Russian battle troops in triumphant action during the Swedish war while Marguerite enlisted the service of an assistant to mark out several of the works of art for herself. She could see that Jan was being lionized by the society gathered there. It was doubtful whether she or Konstantin could have drawn near enough to speak to him again had they wished it, and they left without his no
ticing their departure.
It was the following evening when Konstantin referred to their visit. He was sitting in a winged chair, relaxed and at ease, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, a glass of wine in his hand.
‘After this forthcoming war is over I’ll commission the Dutchman to paint our portraits. I had a word with one of the assistants before we left and was told he was fully booked at present. In any case there wouldn’t be time before I leave with the regiment.’
She looked across anxiously from where she sat. ‘Is it to be very soon?’
He shrugged. ‘I heard today that we could expect to march in about ten days’ time. Two weeks at the most.’ Then, putting aside the glass, he rose to come across to her. Sitting down on the stool by her feet, he took her hands into his and looked up into her face, his own gravely serious. ‘I shall send letters whenever possible, but never lose faith that I’ll return. Reports often get confused in wartime. If news should come that I’m dead and toasts are drunk in memory of me, don’t raise your glass. You will know in your heart that I’ll be coming back to you somehow and sometime.’
It was a most extraordinary declaration of his love for her. She knew from gossip, deliberately spoken in her hearing, that he had not been true to her when she had been at the Dashiski Palace, but now she saw that at last it was she alone who would always be first with him before all others in his life. He, who until recently had been so consistently unfaithful, was now desperately afraid that he might lose her to someone else in a lengthy absence.
‘I’ll remember,’ she promised quietly in reassurance.
He drew her down from the chair on to his knees and held her close to kiss her deeply and hungrily as if it was already the moment of their parting. Then he carried her upstairs.
The paintings were duly delivered. Marguerite was delighted with all she had chosen. There were two charming and slightly risqué French paintings, which the assistant had told her were by a new young artist named Fraganard. Both pictures had made her smile while at the same time her seamstress’s eye had been held by the almost rustling sheen of the silken skirts worn by each of the young women depicted with ardent young men in their boundoirs. Konstantin regarded the subject matter with very male appreciation and insisted on hanging them side by side.
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