To Dream of Snow (23 page)

‘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 gaps 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.

‘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.