To Dream of Snow (31 page)

Catherine was away from the city at Tsarkoe Selo, staying at the Catherine Palace, when Marguerite received an invitation to visit. It had been built long before the Grand Duchess was born and had been named after the wife of Peter the Great, who had reigned as Empress Catherine after his death. On two previous occasions Marguerite had taken designs to the Empress there and to her mind it was the most beautiful of all the palaces and a fit setting for the Grand Duchess. Presently painted in the Empress's favourite shade of rich blue, it had a frontage of enormous length, said to be the longest anywhere in the world, with beautiful windows and a spectacular entrance, the roof crowned with gilded statues and pinnacles. Elsewhere still more gilded figures at the magnificent fountainheads gleamed vividly in their soaring veils of sparkling water.

She was directed to the Amber Room, a dazzlingly beautiful room with inlaid amber panels and further enriched with Florentine mosaics and sculpture. There Catherine sat at a rosewood desk, rereading letters she had received that day. She kept up a flow of correspondence with foreign intelligentsia, many of whose writings she admired tremendously. Apart from her intellectual pursuits, she had a new man in her life and was in a happy frame of mind. She looked up with a smile as Marguerite entered and put the letters aside.

‘I'm so pleased that you were able to come today,' she said welcomingly, moving to a sofa where Marguerite could sit beside her. ‘I went riding early just in case. The Grand Duke is in St Petersburg, not wanting to miss any of the preparations for war, although he is in a constant rage that his beloved hero, Frederick II of Prussia, is now our feared enemy. It must have been a sad day for you when you heard that France had become involved in this war of several nations, even though she is allied to Russia.'

Marguerite nodded in exasperation. ‘Why must men always believe that fighting is the only way to settle disputes?'

Catherine made no comment. She understood Frederick II's motives. Sometimes conquests on the battlefield were necessary to extend and consolidate a nation's power, but she could not expect the Frenchwoman to view the situation in that light with a husband soon to be risking his life in the fighting. ‘Tell me what has been happening in the city. I believe there is plenty of military activity.'

‘Troops are everywhere. The Empress has been reviewing the regiments, wearing an appropriate version of their uniforms, and they cheer her tremendously. Konstantin and his fellow officers are forever bending over maps and discussing regimental matters when they are not rejoicing that they are going to war. They seem to think Russia has been at peace for far too long. It will only be a short time now before they march, which is why I must return home again soon. I just hope that this conflict will not be of long duration.'

‘Just as long as Russia is victorious,' Catherine stipulated. Then she changed the subject, talking about a book she had just finished and fetching another that she wanted Marguerite to read. They did not speak of the war again.

After two very pleasant days together during which they had gone riding, played cards with others staying there and watched a play performed, Marguerite arrived home to discover that Konstantin had received his orders sooner than expected. He was waiting to depart, looking very handsome in his red and green uniform with its gold buttons and epaulettes. He greeted her with intense relief that she had returned in time for them to say farewell.

‘Thank God you're back in time! I was afraid I should have to leave without saying farewell to you.' He crushed her to him, kissing her passionately in the knowledge that it might be a long time before he held her in his arms again. Then it was time for him to go.

‘Be careful!' she urged, suddenly afraid for him.

He nodded wordlessly. Putting on his leather helmet, which was crowned with a black fur crest, he adjusted the gold chinstrap before mounting his waiting horse and riding away.

Soon afterwards she left the house herself to find a place among many others where she could see his regiment go by on its way out of the city. She did not have long to wait. There were cheers in the distance and then the soldiers could be sighted. The commanding officer on a black horse came first, looking neither to the right nor left with a proud, chiselled profile, Konstantin and fellow officers riding in his wake. Although Marguerite waved Konstantin did not see her. The fifes and rat-tatting drums went past and the colours of the regiments fluttered high. Now came line after line of soldiers as if for ever, black tricorne hats set straight, polished buttons shining and long-barrelled muskets across their shoulders. Many more regiments would join up with them on the way to meet the enemy.

On and on they came to the continued approbation of the watching crowds and then hundreds of horse-drawn cannons rumbled by followed by the endless streams of wagons carrying stores, firearms, ammunition, food and everything else an army needed on campaign. Marguerite stayed on as many did to see the hundreds of spare horses that followed in the rear. Yet that was not quite the end of all there was to see. Last of all came a great swarm of camp followers. Among these were the sweethearts and wives who did not want to be left behind on their own for months and perhaps years. Outnumbering them were the countless whores, who waved cheerfully as they went by. Apart from pleasuring the men, they would also help the other women cook for them, dress their wounds and hold their hands when they were dying. Most carried bundles of possessions, but there were many carts of every kind loaded with belongings, children riding on some of them.

Marguerite admired the women's courage. They would all face untold hardships in the time ahead and silently she wished them well.

That night she paused on the stairs on her way up to bed when a footman hurried across the hall to answer a hammering on the door. As he opened it Jeanne rushed in, her face white and panic-stricken. She sighted Marguerite at once and rushed to the foot of the flight.

‘Rose has gone!' she cried out frantically. ‘She says she's never coming back!'

Marguerite hurried back down to her. ‘Gone where?' she queried, putting an arm about Jeanne's waist to guide her towards a salon.

‘She went with the soldiers!' Jeanne wailed in despair, holding out the note she was clutching before collapsing into one of the salon chairs. ‘Wouldn't you have thought she would have learnt her lesson? Oh, the silly, wicked girl!'

Marguerite read the note. Rose had stated briefly that she had felt like a prisoner under Jeanne's eye all the time, and now she intended to be free of all dominance for the rest of her life. She could earn her own living anywhere with her sewing and with time she would get back to France.

‘How can you be sure that Rose left with the troops today?' she asked. ‘Perhaps she has taken ship somewhere?'

Jeanne, her tears flowing, shook her head. ‘She had no money, except what I allowed her from her wages. I've also kept a private check on her purse to make sure she didn't earn anything extra by following in Violette's footsteps. Ever since that affair with the young Russian I haven't been able to trust her out of my sight.'

Marguerite thought to herself that therein lay the root of the trouble. Jeanne had curbed the girl's freedom too much in every way. ‘Perhaps if you promised to be more lenient with her in the future she could be persuaded to return.'

‘But she's gone!'

‘She's not beyond reach yet. If I asked Jan to go after her—'

Jeanne sprang to her feet. ‘Do you think he would?' she cried desperately. ‘I'd be forever grateful! Tell him to tell Rose—'

‘He'll know what to say if I have your word that you'll give Rose the independence that she craves.'

‘Yes! I will!'

While Jeanne returned to the Palace Marguerite went to put her request to Jan. There had been nobody else to whom she felt able to turn. It was a great deal to ask and she knew that since the trouble Rose had created for Isabelle he had no time for her.

He was no longer living at the small apartment, but had moved to a more luxurious one close to the gallery. When she arrived a Dutch manservant admitted her and left her waiting in the hall. Moments later she heard a woman's soft laugh before a door was closed and Jan appeared, a smile still lingering in the corner of his mouth, although it vanished the moment he saw Marguerite's taut face.

‘What is it?' he asked without preamble.

She told him with equal bluntness, adding Jeanne's promise that was to be relayed. When he sighed and shook his head over what she had said her hope sank.

‘It was too much to ask of you,' she said quickly, turning away. ‘In any case, you have company. I'll go myself.'

He caught her arm and jerked her about. ‘You'll do no such thing! I haven't refused you. It just amazes me that after all this time you still think like a mother hen about your Frenchwomen. Go home now. If I can find the wretched girl I'll bring her to you.' He held up a hand when she would have thanked him. ‘Save your thanks. I haven't found her yet.'

He never did find Rose. Although he arrived among the camp followers in the early morning when most of them were astir he searched in vain. His inquiries brought no result, but it was to be expected that Rose would try to blend in unobtrusively. He waited until troops and camp followers were on the move again, scanning the women as they passed by. Finally he remounted his horse and returned along the route by which he had come.

Rose laughed to herself. Luck had been with her. Returning to the camp after relieving herself behind some bushes, she had seen him speaking to one of the sentries and had dived out of sight behind a cart. After that she had dodged him all the time. It had been easy enough in such a large gathering. Finally she had left undetected by carrying one of the babies and keeping her face averted.

As soon as it was safe she dumped the baby back with his mother and eased the bundle holding her best gown and other necessities on her arm. She would leave the camp followers and make her own way whenever she came to a place that suited her. Ahead of her lay freedom. She walked with a light heart. One day it would be through the gates of Paris.

I
sabelle's marriage to Mikail took place the following year. The wedding was a happy occasion and all the Frenchwomen were present, including Sophie, who was with Valentin and their little son Alexei. Jan was there as well and he and Marguerite sat side by side at the wedding feast.

They saw each other quite frequently, although always at social functions when he was usually with one pretty woman or another. A new theatre had been built in the city and she attended plays and concerts there with him. Nothing had changed between them. It seemed to her that the air still seemed to vibrate around his powerful presence and at unguarded moments his eyes frequently dwelt on her with a look she chose to ignore.

‘How is Dashiski?' he asked. ‘Have you had any recent news of him?'

‘Not for a while,' she replied. ‘In his most recent letter he was jubilant over the Russian victory at Memel, but sadly there were heavy casualties.'

‘Some wounded from another skirmish were shipped in yesterday from the port of Riga.'

‘I know. I went to the hospital and stayed to help in whatever way I could. They were all officers and I knew several of them. Most of them were taken home to be nursed by their families. Only those too ill to be removed remained there for the time being as well as the few there of other ranks.'

He raised his eyebrows. ‘What did you do? Take names? Guide relatives to bedsides?'

‘Yes. And a little more than that.'

‘You still continue to surprise me, Marguerite.'

She was amused, thinking how often their relationship rose and fell through anger, hostility, laughter and the warmth of friendship, but never without an element of danger. ‘You should know me by now.'

‘I haven't even begun.'

She knew from his tone how he would be looking at her, but she turned to speak to the man sitting on her other side.

A few weeks later Jan returned to the Netherlands for the winter. The highlight of the snowy season was the birth of the Princess Anne to Catherine. As before with her son, the Empress whisked the baby away from her, but this time she did receive aftercare.

Then the old year of 1757 gave way to 1758 and yet another year of the war went by. The fact that England was fighting on the enemy side, mostly against the French in North America, did not affect the English settlement in St Petersburg. They were not harassed in any way and, with the war being fought so far away, life in the city continued as normal, except for the absence of many young men. Yet there were always more than enough for the Empress to take to her bed, for she still exuded a sexual magnetism that men less than half her age found irresistible.

Although her health was failing her bouts of debauchery seemed to invigorate her and counteract her excessive drinking, leaving her good looks intact, except for a high colour in her cheeks, which paint and powder skilfully disguised. Her lust for beautiful clothes remained equally unabated and Marguerite's designs continued to delight her.

The Empress was kept informed of the war's progress by frequent despatches and, although not all the news was good, all Russian victories were joyfully celebrated with lavish banquets and balls. There was a short period of court mourning when little Princess Anne died at the age of fifteen months. Catherine grieved that a young life had been cut, but since she had only been permitted to see the little girl once since the christening her sorrow was not what it would otherwise have been.

On that one occasion she had taken Marguerite with her when she had gone to see her children at Oranienbaum, where they lived away from the Court. Neither toddler Anne nor her brother, who had stood side by side for the meeting with their mother, had known Catherine and were shy of her. Marguerite had been struck by the plainness of young Paul. He was quite ugly-featured and it was almost possible to believe he was the Grand Duke's son after all. Yet Catherine had viewed her children with a mother's eye and thought him handsome.