Catherine, already pale, felt the last vestige of colour drain from her face. She had always been intensely proud of having been awarded the Order by the late Empress on her betrothal day. To her it had been particularly symbolic, making her feel truly as one with the vast country that she had come to make her own. In silence and with great dignity she removed the decoration and handed it to a footman, whose expression was as shocked as that of everybody else. Only Peter and his mistress were unaware how once again he was being despised for yet another of his outrageous actions.
Nor was Peter’s next move popular with people in general when he decided without consultation and for no imminent reason to go to war with Denmark. Although the army was still made up of vast numbers of men, there were many hundreds of families, highborn and low, who were mourning sons, husbands, lovers and fathers lost in the recent conflict from which nothing had been gained. Peter was excited by the prospect of this war since it was not against Frederick II, whose health he would toast on every possible occasion and whose likeness he wore in a large ring on his finger. Now and again he ordered the defences of the city to fire volley after volley of cannon fire just to heighten the atmosphere. It was an extension of the many war games that he had played so often.
Catherine watched from a window when he reviewed every one of the regiments before they went marching off to the port of Kronstadt, where they would await the order to sail when the time was right. She had not been idle in gathering support through the Orlov brothers to counter whatever Peter had planned for her, but for that she needed money. When King Louis of France refused her request she turned instead to the British Ambassador. Through him the financial aid that she wanted came through speedily from England, cementing a future good relationship, which was France’s loss.
By now it was June and Catherine had no doubt that soon Peter would want to marry his mistress. She hardly dared guess what her own fate might be if everything went wrong. Even now, at any moment of the day or night, she could expect to be bundled away and shut up behind bars at some far distant location. She might even be smothered by a pillow over her face while she slept or murdered in a so-called accident.
Her alarm increased when Peter ordered her to Peterhof Palace, not far from where he would be staying with Vorontsova at Oranienbaum. Catherine knew that there she would be an even more vulnerable target away from the city. Once again she was separated from her son.
Although others from the Court went with her to Peterhof she did not know if Peter had sent assassins among them. Upon arrival she let them take up their accommodation in the Palace with its labyrinth of rooms in which an attack on her could come from any direction. Instead, as Gregory had advised her, she stayed in a pretty little pavilion in the park with just her maid, Chargorodskaya, and a manservant she could also trust implicitly. Every time she heard carriage wheels and the clip-clop of hooves she summoned up her courage, determined not to show her fear should the worst be about to happen. She trembled with relief when they went safely by.
Marguerite came to see her at the pavilion and upon entering her presence curtseyed deeply. She had not spoken to Catherine since before the old Empress had died, although she had seen her kneeling black-veiled by the catafalque in the cathedral. Out of respect for court mourning, she had waited a suitable time before coming to see what Catherine would wish to have designed for her.
‘How good to see you, Marguerite!’ Catherine swept forward with a rustle of her black mourning gown to raise her up by the hands and greet her fondly, relieved that this time the carriage wheels had brought a friend and not someone intent on her arrest. She was more anxious than ever today, having received a letter from Peter to say that he would be coming from Oranienbaum to see her the following day. She was convinced that he would arrive with soldiers and it was then she would be taken away. The Frenchwoman’s arrival was a welcome diversion. ‘It’s been a long time since we last met. You must stay to dine. Now tell me your news. I need to be cheered at the present time.’
Marguerite thought to herself that she had little to tell. She could not talk about Jan, who had failed to return in the spring. Saskia had received no news of him, but promised to let her know if he should appear. Her heart ached every time she passed the gallery, which remained closed, and she tried in vain to keep him from her thoughts. Tom, who since that first evening had made no reference to having come back to see her, seemed to find consolation in talking about Sarah. As a result, in their mutual sorrow, they were building up a new relationship. It was as if they were beginning again and they saw each other frequently, which eased her loneliness.
‘I’ve been sketching a lot for myself recently,’ Marguerite said, having related whatever news she had been able to give about mutual acquaintances, and was glad to have a topic that would lead to the purpose of her visit. ‘Having time on my hands since no longer designing for the late Empress, it has given me the chance to draw a few buildings and landscapes.’ She shook her head in smiling regret. ‘The results are very amateurish.’
‘I have no talent in either sketching or painting, although my French governess did her best to encourage me when I was a child. I could see no point in sitting at an easel out of doors when I could have been riding over the land I was expected to paint.’ Catherine gave a little laugh at the memory. ‘You have a gift for creating beauty in the sphere of embroidery and design. Did you bring any mannequin dolls with you today?’
‘No, because I thought you would wish to discuss your coronation gown.’
A flicker of anguish crossed Catherine’s face. It would not be she who would be wearing a coronation gown, no matter that ever since coming to Russia she had worked constantly towards the day of sharing power with justice and wisdom as Peter’s empress. ‘It’s a little too early to think of that. As yet I’m still in mourning for the late Empress. But if that coronation day ever comes for me it will be your design that I shall be wearing.’
Marguerite hid her surprise that Catherine should have spoken so strangely and indecisively. She had expected to find her full of enthusiasm and eager to talk of fabrics and motifs and colours, but she seemed very tense, her hands full of nervous little movements. Their conversation turned as it invariably did to the arts, Catherine commenting on many people’s disappointment that the Dutch painter had not returned this year. Then, as usual, she wanted to know about the concerts Marguerite had attended and the plays she had seen at the new theatre. Each time Marguerite had been with Tom and she mentioned that he had finished his project on the roof garden.
‘Ah! The English gardener. I remember him at Oranienbaum.’ Catherine gave a little sigh. ‘I had planned to have a beautiful little palace on that lovely plateau one day.’
‘It’s an old saying that dreams can come true,’ Marguerite said, puzzled by Catherine’s mood, for this new tsarina should always be able to have anything she desired. Was it that she believed that her husband would always consider his mistress’s wishes before hers? Everyone with any connection with the Court, however indirectly, knew of the vulgar Vorontsova and how he doted on her.
‘Which palace park is the English gardener working on now?’ Catherine asked.
‘He had no further imperial commissions, but he is busy all the time on other private parks.’
They talked on. Then, as it was such a beautiful day, a damask-covered table, glinting with crystal and silver, was set out under the trees, and they ate alone. Afterwards some courtiers, both men and women, who were staying at the Peterhof Palace came across the lawns to the pavilion. They had brought a violinist with them and there was an impromptu recital. Somehow the day trickled away into an evening of cards, still out of doors, until at last everyone departed. Catherine had already insisted that Marguerite should stay the night, and the maid supplied her with everything she needed.
Before getting into bed Marguerite stood for a while at the window looking out at the park still fully visible in the daylight of the White Night. She could se
e the shimmer of the Gulf of Finland just beyond some trees. Although she had intended to spend no more than three or four hours at Peterhof, which was the average length of her visits combining business and pleasure, there had seemed to be a kind of desperate need in Catherine to keep her close at this time. It was as if, in spite of having two loyal servants at her beck and call, she was strangely ill at ease and needed a friendly presence with her.
It was very early morning and Marguerite, who still found it difficult to sleep sometimes during the light summer nights, had been lying awake for a little while when she heard the click of a boot heel. Immediately alert, remembering Catherine’s unusual nervousness, she feared at once for the woman’s safety She sprang from the bed and looked out of the room. The door leading to Catherine’s rooms had been opened. Deeply alarmed, she ran through to see Alexis Orlov, whom she recognized instantly, hovering on the threshold of Catherine’s bedroom as Chargorodskaya shook her from sleep.
‘Madame! Alexis Orlov is here! He has an urgent message for you!’
Alexis had used extreme caution when entering the pavilion, using a key that Catherine had given Gregory, for he had not known if she was already under guard. Fortunately that did not seem to be the case. At the maid’s signal he entered the bedroom at once and dropped to one knee as Catherine sat up in bed, instantly awake.
‘Madame! There is no time to lose! You must dress and come with me now! It’s feared that forces moving against you may overtake you at any time now! The army has rallied to you! You are to be declared Empress of all the Russias in your own right in St Petersburg today!’
Marguerite flew to dress too. She matched Catherine’s time and ran after her out of the pavilion to the waiting coach, Chargorodskaya hobbling in their wake, for she had lost a shoe on the way and had not dared to stop and put it on again. The manservant, who had been awakened too, was fully dressed, and with his powdered wig slightly askew he ran out in their wake. None of them noticed that Catherine was still wearing her beribboned nightcap, and the three women clambered into the waiting carriage, skirts bundled high, and it bowled away even as they flung themselves on to the seats. The manservant had just managed to leap up at the back of the carriage in time, losing his wig in the process, and his shaved head gleamed in the sun. The carriage departed by the unguarded way it had come. Catherine and her fellow passengers hung on as the wheels splashed through wavelets on the shore before lurching back on to the land to take the road to St Petersburg at a rollicking speed.
They had gone some way when Catherine became aware of something tickling her face. She brushed her cheek, thinking it was a fly or even a little spider, and then realized it was the ribbons of her nightcap. She burst out laughing.
‘See what I’m still wearing! My nightcap!’
She pulled it from her head and spun it merrily on a forefinger. Marguerite laughed too and Chargorodskaya giggled, promptly taking care of it. There was still more merriment when the maid revealed her shoeless foot. Their laughter eased the tension. Catherine knew that she had exchanged one perilous situation for another, but she was high-spirited and exhilarated, her mood infectious.
Alexis, up on the box beside the coachman, pistols ready in his hands in case of any ambush or pursuit, recognized an approaching carriage as belonging to Monsieur Michel, Catherine’s French hairdresser. Knowing from experience that all women wanted to look their best for any occasion, he signalled to the coachman to stop. As the Frenchman put his head out of the carriage window, Alexis shouted to him.
‘The new Empress has need of your immediate attention!’
Moments later Monsieur Michel was changing carriages. With Marguerite and the maid holding hairpins and brushes, he dressed Catherine’s hair simply but superbly, in spite of being jogged about and losing his balance more than once as the wheels thumped over ruts and dipped into dusty hollows.
When they reached the city limits Gregory Orlov was waiting on horseback beside a grander open carriage, other mounted officers and a mass of foot soldiers with him. He saluted her with his sword. Catherine, about to alight, paused with a theatrical sense of occasion on the step of the dust-streaked equipage that had brought her to this fateful moment, and bowed her head forward and to the right and left in traditional greeting.
Instantly a great burst of cheering rose up from the foot soldiers and they shouted that she was the little Mother of all the Russias, their beloved tsarina and their rightful ruler. She gave them all a little wave before she was handed into the waiting open carriage.
Marguerite and Chargorodskaya had remained seated where they were and their coachman urged his horses forward, making sure that he was in the direct wake of the officers on horseback before the foot soldiers could close in to shut him off from the imperial carriage. He did not want to miss seeing what happened next. As a result his two passengers had a superb view throughout Catherine’s triumphal ride as she was escorted joyfully from one barracks to another throughout the city, being met every time with loyal support that increased her following procession. There were no ordered ranks, only a mingling of regimental uniforms, and here and there mounted officers rode together or singly as if sailing on a moving ocean of men.
Only once was there a tense and dangerous moment when they met a double line of muskets ready to fire from a regiment uncertain where its loyalty should lie, but the sight of Catherine, rising to her feet in the carriage to face them, swayed the day. Weapons were lowered and exuberant acclamation reigned. By now great numbers of other people had joined the throng, word of the coup d’état spreading everywhere. The many genuine smiles that Catherine had bestowed on soldiery and civilians in the past, in addition to her reputation for always being gracious and considerate, even to the humblest of individuals, had finally brought her the total acclaim for which she had always aimed.
Rumours about Peter’s instability, later fuelled by his inexcusable behaviour in the funeral procession, which had been witnessed by the huge crowds that had lined the route, had aroused misgivings in many thoughtful citizens as to how he would rule. Now here, without doubt, was a ruler they could trust.
At Kazan Cathedral Catherine alighted and entered to find the Archbishop, standing at the altar with a grouped semi-circle of other bishops, waiting to bless her as the new Empress. She sank to her knees before him and bowed her head thankfully and reverently.
When she emerged there were cheering crowds as far as she could see, and the whole host followed her to the Palace, filling every available space in front of it and overflowing all around. Marguerite, who had now left the carriage, was in the midst of the crowd when Catherine appeared on the balcony with young Paul. People were still cheering when Marguerite left to return home and put down on paper the design for Catherine’s coronation gown, which she had had in mind for some time.
Later Catherine made an even more memorable appearance, wearing the gold-braided dark-green uniform and tricorne hat of one of her regiments, and riding astride a red-bridled white horse, a sword in her hand. She was ready to lead her army against any hostile forces that Peter might muster, although she dreaded the thought of Russian against Russian and hoped desperately it would not come to that. No word yet of the coup d’état would have reached the regiments waiting at Kronstadt to embark for Denmark and, dangerously, they far outnumbered those in St Petersburg. In addition to gaining their loyalty she had yet to win over the navy waiting to transport them. She had already sent an envoy to the naval commander in charge of the port’s fortress as well as to the army commander. All she could hope for was that Peter would not reach either of them first.
She cast a happy look at her own loyal soldiers, now formed into orderly ranks, seeing that they had discarded the hated Holsteinian uniform they had been forced to wear and had found old regimental coats to don instead. They were almost delirious in their pride in her and burst forth once again into a spontaneous cheer.
The fifes and drums began to sound and Catherine rode forward followe
d by the Orlov brothers riding just behind her, the tramp of the soldiers’ boots drowned in the cheers of the crowd waving them on their way to Kronstadt. The momentous day, which had had such an early start for Catherine, was still only in mid-afternoon.
At Peterhof a very different scene was taking place. Peter, having been told that he would find Catherine at the pavilion, mounted the steps of the entrance, his mistress at his side. He frowned with displeasure when the door was not immediately opened for them from within. Elisabeth Vorontsova, eager to witness Catherine’s final downfall, reached out a hand to open it herself, but he stopped her. One of the men from the party of courtiers who had accompanied him from Oranienbaum ran quickly up the steps to perform that duty and stood aside as Peter led the way into the charming blue entrance hall.
‘Catherine!’ he bellowed loudly, his voice echoing. ‘Present yourself at once!’ Then, when she failed to appear, he stamped his foot impatiently. ‘It’s no good skulking in a corner! I want you here! Now!’
Somebody spoke behind him. ‘I fear she has gone, Sire.’
Peter whirled round to face the courtier. ‘What do you mean? She would never disobey my command!’
‘One of the guards has just this minute reported that the Lady Catherine left here at a very early hour this morning.’
‘No!’ Peter roared in disbelief, ignoring Vorontsova’s whine of disappointment. ‘She would not dare!’
He turned to throw open the nearest double doors and began charging through one room and then another, convinced that he would find her, all the time shouting her name hysterically in his temper. When he did not discover her in any of the ground-floor rooms he rushed upstairs. Those of his party gathering in the hall could hear his high-pitched shrieking as he continued to search in vain. Now and again something crashed as he hurled a vase or a porcelain figurine against a wall in his frustration. Once he toppled a Roman bust. When he returned to the head of the stairs, scarlet-faced with rage, a chancellor of his court came forward, an unfolded message in his hand, and stood looking gravely up at him.
To Dream of Snow Page 29
