It was a bitterly cold evening when they left the Palace and although they stayed overnight after the party it was even colder when they returned. Inevitably his cough became worse within the next few days, forcing him to stay in bed. Marguerite sent for the nearest doctor, but a two-day blizzard delayed his coming. When he did arrive Marguerite had sat up both nights at Konstantin’s bedside and been constantly in attendance by day. Coughing had racked him and with dismay she had seen blood on the handkerchief that he held to his mouth.
After examining Konstantin the doctor shook his head gravely when he and Marguerite had left the bedroom. ‘I regret to tell you that your husband is very ill, madame. He has inflammation of the lungs and his strength is waning. I do not think he is long for this world.’
‘But surely there is something that can be done!’ she cried.
He shook his head. ‘I will give you a stronger potion to ease the coughing and a sleeping draught to help him through the nights, but he must have been suffering from this illness for some time. My supposition from what he has told me is that it dates from the fever of the lungs he contracted when he lay wounded on the battlefield overnight in the rain before he was found.’ His eyes were sympathetic. ‘Care for him, madame. He is one of Russia’s heroes. Make his time, be it long if he rallies or shorter than we would wish, as content as it can be.’
The doctor departed, saying he would call again from time to time. Marguerite, heavy-hearted, returned to the sickroom.
After a while Konstantin did rally and was able with help from his valet to dress. The effect of being up again invigorated him and he began to talk of returning to St Petersburg.
‘As soon as the thaw sets in,’ he added, knowing that Marguerite would not let him venture out in the cold air again.
His cough, eased by the doctor’s potion, was much less troublesome and he had become convinced that he was going to recover in spite of the enervating tiredness that overcame him at times. By the spring he would be well again. As February passed and then March even Marguerite had begun to raise her hopes again and chose a date in mid-April for their return to St Petersburg.
He always went to bed early, sometimes to read, and she would go in to see him before she retired to make sure that all was well for the night. Then one evening, shortly before their planned departure, he sat against his pillows almost asleep when she entered, his book fallen from his hand. As she went to remove his book she saw there was a change in him, a waxen paleness to his face that filled her with alarm. He looked up at her.
‘Do something for me, Marguerite.’ His voice was almost inaudible.
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Undress for me here. Let me see you in all your beauty once more.’
Tears sprang to her eyes. She began to remove her clothes and when she was naked something like a smile touched his lips.
‘I never saw another woman as lovely as you or one I loved more.’
Swiftly she sat on the bed and put her arms around him. ‘Don’t go, Konstantin!’ she cried out imploringly, able to see he was slipping away.
But his eyes had widened sightlessly and suddenly blood gushed like a fountain from his mouth in a haemorrhage nothing could stop.
Alone in a carriage Marguerite followed the hearse with the coffin to St Petersburg. It was the day they had planned to return and the snow had gone, leaving only patches in hollows and in places under the trees.
Although she was the widow, she had been allowed no voice in the funeral arrangements, for the Court had returned from Moscow and the Empress controlled the whole procedure. A great number of people were present at the service where Konstantin was laid to rest in a vault of Elisabeth’s own choosing in the Peter and Paul Cathedral.
Twenty
Catherine was in love again, but this time more deeply and more ecstatically than ever before. She felt as if she had been reborn and never before had there ever been such a love between a man and woman. Gregory Orlov was a tall, splendidly built and handsome young lieutenant, who had fought so courageously and successfully at the Battle of Zorndorf that he had become a hero, admired and respected by fellow officers and his men alike. Women found him irresistible, enhanced as he was by an aura of daredevil bravery, and he had taken full advantage of all the opportunities that had come his way when not at the gaming tables or at drinking parties.
When Catherine had seen him for the first time it was at a distance, but she knew she would know no peace until meeting him. She arranged it and soon after that he became her lover. He was one of five equally courageous and physically well-built brothers in the same Guards regiment. Here was a man who was not her intellectual match in any way as her previous lovers had been, nor could he discuss the books she read nor engage her in the deep and stimulating discussions that she so enjoyed. But sexually they were ideally suited and he gave her nights of great passion beyond anything she had experienced previously. Above all else he was as totally in love with her as she was with him.
They could not see each other often enough. Sometimes at night she slipped out of the Palace to go to him, disguising herself by dressing as a man, a tricorne hat tilted well down over her eyes, a tie-back wig covering her hair. Unbeknown to her, none of the guards were deceived and exchanged amused glances. As with the majority of those who came into contact with her, however lowly their status, they liked and respected her too much to betray her, even though it was through them that plenty of salacious gossip about her and her lover resulted in the domestic quarters.
Catherine always returned before the Palace stirred and once found that the door she always left unlocked had been bolted unwittingly against her in her absence. Fortunately a servant on duty came to her rescue and let her in. She dared not think what would happen if the Empress should ever get word of her nightly absences.
Yet everyone could see that Catherine was in love. There was a glow in her face and a sparkle in her eyes while her delicious charm, which drew people of all ages to her, seemed to create an aura about her. She had never been happier, except that she had begun to be deeply afraid of her husband.
She spoke to Gregory of her fear one night as she lay in his arms. ‘Peter has always disliked having me as his wife, but as time has gone by he has come to hate me and never more so since he became devoted to his present mistress. That horrible Elisabeth Vorontsova! He has told me that he will marry her when he gets rid of me after the Empress dies!’
‘Beloved Catherine, I’ll never let him harm you in any way,’ Gregory vowed, holding her close. ‘I’d defend you with my life if need be!’
He took very seriously the threat she had received, for the Grand Duke would be capable of anything once he had all the power of a tsar. Personally, he despised Peter as did his brothers and other officers, all of whom considered the heir to the throne to be a traitor to Russia with his adulation of Frederick II. Most believed Peter to be weak-minded with his eccentric behaviour, wild laughter and weird capers, often at the most solemn of occasions.
Catherine, with her compassion for others, went to call on Marguerite in her widowhood, even though she had been at the funeral and expressed her condolences that day. She knew that Konstantin had long been one of Elisabeth’s favourite lovers, as did everyone else at court, but she, ever alert and observant, had seen how often Konstantin had looked in Marguerite’s direction with something deeper than affection in his gaze.
When Catherine was shown through to where Marguerite received her, she was surprised to see on the way that dustsheets covered much of the furniture in the hall and some paintings had been removed from the walls. Through an open door she saw that the library furnishings were similarly covered and some of the shelves had been emptied of books. She was shown into the Yellow Salon, where Marguerite, dressed in black, came forward to greet her. This room was still in order and immediately Catherine asked the reason for the dustsheets elsewhere.
‘I’m leaving here,’ Marguerite replied. ‘I’m only taking pic
tures and books as well as a few other items that I purchased for myself. This house belongs to the Empress.’
‘Has she told you to move out?’
‘No, but she purchased this house for Konstantin and told me at his sickbed that it was not mine in any way. So now he has gone I have no place in it. I have rented the apartment that the Dutch painter Jan van Deventer once occupied. If I could have severed all links with the Empress I would have done it, but I’m still forced to the task of designing for her.’
Her words confirmed for her listener that she had known of her late husband’s infidelity.
‘If only you could have still designed for me!’ Catherine exclaimed fervently.
‘If only,’ Marguerite repeated with a rueful smile.
‘But one day you shall design for me again!’
Marguerite appreciated the kindly vow, but as the omnipotent Elisabeth was still only in her late forties it could be a long time to wait. She hoped to be back in France long before Peter gained the throne.
Two days later Marguerite moved into the Dutch apartment and, because of the many times she had been there before, it felt like a homecoming. Although everything that had belonged to Jan had gone, the tall blue-and-white-tiled stove was still a fixture to warm her when winter came again. The furniture she had bought was already in place, made ready by a young Dutchwoman named Marinka. The girl had been recommended by Saskia, who was now housekeeper at Jan’s present apartment and his caretaker again in his absence.
As she had expected, Jan came to see her as soon as he landed back in St Petersburg, seeming to fill the small apartment again with his presence. He looked strong and in good health, his well-brushed dark hair tied back with a ribbon bow. There was a prosperous air to him too in a well-tailored grey-cloth coat and knee breeches, his cravat white and crisp with a narrow edging of Dutch lace, his shirt cuffs similarly trimmed. He had heard from Saskia that she had been widowed, and he strode restlessly about the salon, looking at everything and noting without comment the painting he had given her on the wall.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded. ‘Why aren’t you still living in your fine mansion? Or at Dashiski Palace?’
She thought he seemed almost angry with her and could not understand why. She gave him a brief explanation and received a sharp look from him.
‘So you’re coming to your senses after all. That debauched court was no place for you,’ he stated. ‘Why don’t you go home to France?’
‘I can’t at present. All the time I’m of use to the Empress with my designs I’m trapped here. It would go against my whole nature to deliver inferior work and in any case she would see through my ploy and find some devious way to punish me. Remember that I’m a Russian citizen through my marriage and subject to her whims and her ruthlessness. But that doesn’t mean I don’t intend to break those chains when the time is right.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know yet. I have to be careful and carry on as usual until she feels confident that I’ve no thought in my head of leaving Russia. Once, after I was married to Konstantin and spoke of returning to France, he warned me that the Empress’s spies would make sure I didn’t get a passage on any ship to my homeland and that I would be followed and brought back if I went by road. Perhaps, now that I’ve moved here, I’m already being watched. In any case, if I wished to get a passage home, whatever the conditions on board, no French vessel has come in yet this year.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe the British Navy is blocking French ports. At least this conflict can’t last for ever.’
‘It shows no sign of it abating yet, although for Russia everything seems to be going well and great gains have been made. But Frederick II isn’t beaten yet.’
She became exasperated with his pacing about. ‘Do sit down and have a glass of wine with me. You’re like a prowling tiger.’
He flung himself down in a chair and watched her as she poured the wine. As she handed him his glass he caught her wrist, looking up into her face. ‘Marry me, Marguerite! That will make a Dutchwoman of you and, as the Netherlands aren’t at war with anyone, you’d be free to return to your homeland.’
For a long moment they looked into each other’s eyes. ‘Take your wine,’ she said calmly, ‘and don’t make wild suggestions. I’ll do it my own way.’
He took the wine, gulped a mouthful, and as she sat down opposite him he regarded her cynically. ‘Are you still mooning over that Englishman?’
She flushed angrily. ‘Although we’ve known each other a long time you have no right to cross-question me in this way!’
‘Answer my question anyway.’
‘If you were referring to Sarah’s husband, I’m not languishing after him or anybody else.’
‘Come now. There is still someone making a barrier between us and I know you never loved your husband.’
A gasp escaped her at his outspokenness. ‘I was fond of him when we married!’
‘But he wore out your affection with his promiscuous ways. Am I right?’
She sighed heavily. ‘Everybody seemed to know of his long-standing relationship with the Empress except me.’
‘That’s why I tried to stop your marriage.’
‘I realized that later. Yet in spite of everything I know that Konstantin loved me and it was no fault of his that he could not break free of her.’
‘You’re very forgiving.’
She shrugged. ‘I just know that his last words to me did much to mend matters between us. I’m thankful that I can remember him for all that was good between us.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Bitterness destroys.’ He paused. ‘Let me paint your portrait, Marguerite. I’ve long wanted to ask you, and this seems to be the right time for it.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘From what I have heard you have plenty of court commissions waiting for you to fulfil.’
He ignored the evasiveness in her answer. ‘I’ve sketched you many times, holding an image of you in my mind, but now I want to capture you in oils. Come to my studio tomorrow. You’ve never been there. And,’ he added as an additional incentive, ‘you’ll be the first to see the paintings I’ve shipped back with me this time.’
She had long wanted to see his studio. Although she could no longer afford to buy works of art, Konstantin having left tremendous debts that she had managed to settle, it would give her enormous pleasure to view Jan’s latest acquisitions before they went on sale or for auction in the gallery.
‘I will sit for you,’ she said, ‘but you need time to settle back in to your apartment again.’
‘Then come tomorrow afternoon and we’ll discuss the portrait,’ he said, putting aside his emptied glass and rising to his feet. ‘There’s no point in delaying a start.’
She rose too. ‘You’re forgetting something. In this case, time has to be paid for in one way or another.’
He glowered. ‘You must be out of your mind if you think I’d charge you! In any case I intend to keep the portrait for myself.’
‘So I guessed,’ she replied, amused by his fierce indignation. ‘But in exchange I want a self-portrait of you.’
He realized she had been making gentle fun of him and his expression cleared. ‘You shall have one,’ he promised willingly, knowing immediately that he would paint the two portraits in the Dutch way of portraying a betrothal or marriage, with each individual looking towards the other.
When Marguerite arrived at his apartment he took her into the salon. As they entered he suddenly remembered that she had only been to the apartment once before. That was when she had wanted him to find Rose and he had not been alone. That affair had not lasted, nor had others since then, which was to be expected when she alone was the woman he wanted with every fibre of his being.
She was also remembering the glimpse she had had of his visitor and was careful not to sit in the same place.
‘Have you any special pose you want to hold?’ he asked. ‘Is there any particular object you would like to stand on a table beside y
ou, such as an arrangement of flowers? Some sitters like a book to indicate their intellectual interests. If you want to hold a rose or some other blossom as many women do, that can be easily done.’
‘There are no roses blooming in April!’
He looked amused. ‘That’s no problem. I could paint you in a bower of roses if that was what you wished.’
She laughed. ‘Now you’re making fun of me. Maybe I should have a needle and a skein of silk thread?’
He frowned seriously. ‘Not for this portrait. No, not for this one.’
‘What do you visualize for me then?’
‘Just you. A new beginning. No adornments.’ His gaze fastened on her hand. ‘No wedding ring.’
She answered quietly. ‘In spite of all Konstantin’s infidelities I owe him the respect he deserves for losing his life as a result of service to his country on the battlefield. I’m still in mourning for him.’
‘Then you might as well sit for your portrait in black!’ he gave back sharply.
Even as she caught her breath at his unexpected flare of anger Saskia appeared with a samovar. Marguerite welcomed the interruption, thinking how often she and Jan had clashed in their long relationship. She and Saskia chatted as the porcelain cups were set out with a plate of little cakes made with fruit and nuts that Marguerite remembered were made from a Dutch recipe.
When the woman was gone again Marguerite looked over her cup at Jan. ‘We either discuss my portrait sensibly or cancel it altogether.’
He compressed his lips ruefully. ‘I apologize for my outburst. But, as I said yesterday, I want to portray you setting out on a new path, the past behind you.’
‘Then let us postpone the portrait for three months. I need that time at least to adjust to the changes in my life. By then perhaps I shall have formed a plan as to how to leave Russia.’
‘I hope that doesn’t mean I’ll not see you until then.’
She shook her head. ‘No, of course not.’
To Dream of Snow Page 26
