To Dream of Snow (15 page)

Marguerite, still stunned that Catherine had confided to her, switched her mind to the gown. ‘I have allowed good seams to the bodice, because I was not sure if you would have regained your figure quickly after your pregnancy. Now that the situation has changed again I can make the necessary alterations when needed.'

She displayed the beauty of the gown with its ample skirt and embroidered yellow roses enhanced by delicate beading as they cascaded down to encircle the hem. ‘The gowns I have made for Her Imperial Majesty are a little more eye-catching, but I've taken a more subtle approach with yours, Madame.'

Catherine's eyes twinkled suddenly with amusement and her mood lifted. She was highly pleased with Marguerite's grasp of the situation. No other dressmaker had had the wit to realize on her behalf that it was possible to keep the Empress's jealousy at bay by always making her gowns a touch more flamboyant.

‘More than once at a ball the Empress has sent me to change my gown on the pretext that it does not suit me.' She chuckled mischievously. ‘As we know, the moon must never outshine the sun.'

‘It should never happen again.'

‘I don't believe it will. Bring me the rest of the gowns you have made me.'

It took several trips, even when assisted by Violette and Sophie. The Grand Duchess approved all the gowns. Marguerite was the last to leave again, having stayed to discuss some minor details. Carrying one of the garments carefully across her arms, she set off along the main corridor of the grand ducal apartments. She took no notice when a door opened somewhere behind her. Then suddenly there came a shout and footsteps running after her.

‘Wait! You with the bronze hair!'

Turning, she saw in dismay that it was Grand Duke Peter. ‘Sire?'

‘Yes, you'll do, girl!' he shouted exultantly, grabbing her by the arm and snatching the gown away to throw it heedlessly to the floor. In spite of his weedy appearance, his grip on her was vice-like and he began dragging her back along the corridor.

‘I have duties to perform for the Grand Duchess! Your Imperial Highness, please listen to me! Let me go!'

He stopped abruptly and hit her fiercely across the face. ‘Shut up! I can't endure whining women!' Then he lurched her on again, heedless that his rings had cut her cheek and she was gasping from the stinging pain, her eyes watering. He hauled her through the doorway that had remained open and at first she thought the vast salon was full of soldiers. Then, in a matter of seconds, she recognized a face or two and realized they were his menservants dressed up. They stood in formation around a table of a gigantic length, but she had no more than a glimpse of it before Peter had grabbed a spare uniform from a chair and threw it at her.

‘Put this on and be quick about it! You'll be a gunner on the cannons!'

One of the uniformed menservants opened another door and gave her a sympathetic glance as Peter shoved her into a large library where the shelves were stacked with books behind glass from floor to ceiling. Although she began to unfasten the hooks at the back of her bodice, curiosity drew her to study some of the titles. They revealed Peter's reading taste, for those in French were all about various wars, military tactics or the crimes of highwaymen and cutthroats. She guessed that the volumes in his native German dealt with the same subjects.

A deep male voice broke the silence at the far end of the library. ‘I advise you not to dawdle. His Imperial Highness doesn't like to be kept waiting.'

Startled, she swung about to see who had spoken, her heart still thumping from the rough treatment she had received. At the far end of the long room an army officer had emerged from one of the reading alcoves, a book open in his hand. He was tall and well built, wearing the red and dark-green uniform of the imperial guards with gilt epaulettes, his gold buttons gleaming. His hair was formally dressed and powdered in the current fashionable style of a roll over each ear and tied behind his neck by a wide black bow. His face was well cut with a bold nose and a finely arrogant chin, his fair brows straight and thick, and his handsome, worldly mouth widened by an amused smile.

‘I didn't know anyone else was here!' she exclaimed, but she was glad to have someone to question and, in spite of his aristocratic air, he seemed approachable. ‘Please tell me! What's expected of me in that other room? The Grand Duke says I'm to be a gunner.'

‘Don't worry. You won't come to any harm. Obviously he's short of a gunner for one of his military battles. You'll have to fire one of the miniature cannons, that's all.'

‘No harm!' she echoed fiercely, her anger directed against the Grand Duke as she darted into the seclusion of a reading alcove to change into the uniform. ‘I can't embroider for the Empress with burnt fingers!'

She heard him laugh. ‘Say that to Peter!' he called to her. ‘He loathes her, but he'll know better than to come between her and her gowns by ruining the fingers of her embroiderer.'

She put on the uniform as quickly as possible and, seething inwardly, clamped the black tricorne with its regimental rosette on her head and tucked her hair under it. As she emerged from the alcove, the officer spoke to her again from where he was leaning a shoulder against a bookcase, and there was laughter in his voice as he looked her up and down.

‘Very smart! Now forward march, Corporal – what is your name?'

She told him, for in spite of her fury at the Grand Duke's brutal treament of her, she felt no hostility towards this stranger, who was being helpful. ‘And you are . . .?' she added, wanting to know his identity.

‘Captain Konstantin Dashiski of the Empress's own bodyguard, at your service.' He bowed with a click of his heels. ‘Shall you remember that?'

‘I'm getting used to Russian names.'

‘I'll certainly remember yours, Marguerite.'

She had already turned away to press down the door handle and re-enter the other room. Instantly Peter jerked her in and slammed the door behind her. She had not realized she still had blood on her cheek from the cut that Peter had inflicted on her and he was viewing it in triumph.

‘Look! Our tenth gunner has been wounded already! What a brave fellow!' Then he gave her a shove. ‘Get over there! Your place is at that spare cannon.' He pointed to a container of spills on a side table. ‘Take one of those spills, light it in the candle flame and use it to ignite the wick of the cannon when I give the command.'

She took her allotted place behind a model cannon on the table. Her anger against the Grand Duke strengthened her courage and she followed Konstantin's advice. ‘Her Imperial Majesty wouldn't wish me to burn my embroidery fingers!'

Her mention of the Empress had an immediate effect on Peter, who was momentarily taken aback. To her exasperation he did not dismiss her, but hesitated only briefly before snatching up a spare pair of white gloves from a side table.

‘Put these on! You should have had them on in the first place.'

They fitted, and she guessed they were of the size worn by the row of young drummer boys, who stood lined up on a dais beyond the table.

She examined the cannon and saw the protruding wick, which she would have to replace from a bowl of wicks if this objectionable Grand Duke should demand a second volley. Her neighbour showed her what to do.

‘The ends of these wicks have a substance on the end. Be sure not to put two wicks in by mistake,' he warned, ‘or you'll blow your hand off.'

She knew this could not be true, having caught the flicker of amused glances that passed along the faces of the menservants. As they stepped forward at Peter's suddenly barked command she viewed the table quickly. It was laid out realistically in hills and valleys with miniature villages, silvery rivers and winding roads. Battalions of model soldiers and cavalry were in position, stiff little banners representing individual regimental colours showing brightly here and there.

‘Fire!' Peter roared.

Instantly it was as if chaos had been let loose. The cannons fired with puffs of smoke, the drummers drummed, and all the time realistic screams, groans and yells came from those hidden from view under the table for the realistic sounds of the injured and dying on the battlefield. Strips of brass attached to the table were being shaken, accurately representing the sound of shells exploding. She had fumbled a little in lighting her cannon the first time, hindered by her gloves, but afterwards she was quick enough.

‘Charge!' Peter almost screamed the command this time, dancing with wild excitement, and the menservants controlled the advance or retreat of the foot soldiers with a wide-ended propelling stick and sent the cavalry in two different directions. Peter himself had a long thin rod with a silver tip in his hand and kept leaning forward to knock down those that he had decided were wounded or killed. Once, when one of the servants made a clumsy move, inadvertently misplacing some cavalry, Peter screamed with rage, slashing down on the man's hand with his rod and causing blood to burst forth through his white glove, the sight of which seemed to excite Peter still further. ‘On your knees! Traitor! Spy! Coward!'

The man obeyed and Peter beat him forcefully across the shoulders before ordering him out of the room. The mad war game continued unabated, and another hour went by before Peter declared on a raucously triumphant shout that victory belonged to the Holstein battalions.

‘It's always the Prussians that win,' Marguerite's neighbour muttered angrily to her.

The room had filled with smoke and on the table lay the fallen military, but the game was not over yet. Peter drilled the menservants for another half an hour, making them march up and down the long room before he finally halted them. Then the drummer boys received an order to march away. Marguerite, remaining with the other gunners by their cannons, was astonished to see that on the order to ‘Fall out!' the menservants began to relax, talking amongst themselves as if Peter were no longer in the room; but then the explanation came in his exuberant shout.

‘After such a great victory we must celebrate, my brave warriors! Get out the vodka! Some carousing is in order!'

The footmen, including those playing the part of gunners, were loosening their high-necked collars, some tossing their uniform jackets aside to relax in their shirtsleeves. All started ambling through a far pair of doors into a neighbouring salon with Peter skipping ahead to lead the way. As she watched she saw the men throwing themselves down into the sofas, one hooking his leg over a chair arm where he sprawled, a booted leg swinging. It seemed as if one of the drunken bouts that the Grand Duke enjoyed with his servants was about to take place, although she had heard that he punished them quickly enough if they took liberties he did not condone.

She hesitated no longer and seized the opportunity to slip back into the library. Konstantin Dashiski was no longer there and for a few moments she rested her back against the door as she thought over all she had witnessed. What sort of tsar would Russia have in Peter when the time came? Apart from his eccentric behaviour and his lack of feeling for others, he seemed to care only for war. She feared for the Russian people under his rule and was filled with pity for Catherine being married to such a man.

Abruptly she began throwing off her uniform and when dressed again she left the library to hurry away down the corridor. The gown was still lying where it had been flung and appeared to be unharmed. She gathered it up quickly and continued on her way. Back in her own room she cleaned the dried blood and the grime of the cannon fire from her face. Knowing the smell of smoke must be hanging on to her, she put her garments to be laundered, bathed herself and washed her hair vigorously. She hoped never to be involved in any of the Grand Duke's war games again.

In contrast, many pleasant sessions followed with Catherine as they discussed future garments. There were other meetings, quite daunting in some ways, with the Empress herself. As at their previous meeting, Elisabeth did not enter into any discussion, but stated what she required, leaving Marguerite to make each garment beautiful and more eye-catching than anything she had worn before.

The peacock gown had been a total and delightful surprise to Elisabeth. She saw immediately what a sensation it would cause. Privately she thought it the most glorious garment made for her since her coronation splendour of silver brocade and gold lace. Immediately she had planned to wear it at a forthcoming great occasion when she would be hosting a grand assembly of foreign dignitaries, including two crowned heads.

When that evening came Agrippina, who had generously praised the finished garment and all the work that had gone into it, showed Marguerite where she could see the Empress enter the gilded ballroom w here the glittering assembly was gathering. It was a spy-hole that could be used for watching or listening, which made Marguerite realize how easily the Empress's spies could discover palace secrets apart from more subtle methods.

She had a splendid view just a little above head height. The gilded room was a magnificent setting with its marble pillars and the shining parquet floor set in an elaborate pattern of many different woods, which was a characteristic feature of all the palace rooms and hallways. The great chandeliers, dripping with crystal, made the jewels and decorations of the company sparkle gloriously and shone on the gold and silver lace that lavishly trimmed the elegant clothes of both sexes. Marguerite could see that this was a highly fashionable event that could equal any royal occasion at Versailles.

Suddenly there came a fanfare from the trumpeters. The doors opened and Elisabeth appeared, looking as proud and beautiful as a peacock herself. Always graceful, she paused to bow her head forward and to the right and to the left in the Russian way before advancing slowly towards the canopied throne on the dais. The double-headed Russian eagle was emblazoned in gold on the crimson drapery behind it.