To Dream of Snow (7 page)

He turned his head sharply and his penetrating greenish-grey gaze pierced into her for a matter of seconds before amusement reached his narrowed grey eyes and a smile tugged at his mouth. He answered her, low-voiced, in French, his intimate tone deeper and far warmer than it should have been.

‘You're a very lovely woman, mam'selle.' He seemed to breathe his appreciation of her. ‘Unfortunately I'm not looking for a wife at the moment. Another time perhaps?'

Embarrassed, she stepped back quickly. ‘My apologies! I thought you were someone else.'

‘So I guessed,' he replied, still amused. ‘Now if you excuse me I can see my search is over. My brother has come to find me.'

He had caught sight of Hendrick, who was rushing towards him from the other room. They greeted each other exuberantly.

‘Jan, you devil!' Hendrick exclaimed, not noticing Marguerite, who had drawn away. ‘How are you?'

‘Fine! What sort of journey have you had? No trouble with the paintings, I hope? Did you get the Rubens for me?'

Together they went into the other taproom. Marguerite paused to look after them for a few moments before she returned to give Sarah an account of what had happened. ‘He turned out to be Hendrick's brother!'

Sarah hid her disappointment that her waiting was not over yet. ‘What is he like?'

Marguerite thought for a moment, recalling those striking good looks and wickedly amused eyes. ‘He fitted your description of Tom by being tall, good-looking and dark-haired. It's no wonder I made a mistake in identifying him. In my opinion, Jan van Deventer would be both entertaining and dangerous company.' Her sense of humour surfaced. ‘But,' she joked in mock regret, ‘as I told you, he turned me away!'

‘That was surely the greatest mistake he has ever made!' Sarah declared, laughing with her. Then she saw Marguerite's expression change as if she had been suddenly hypnotized, stiffening in her chair, her gaze fixed across the room.

‘Someone else has just come in.' Marguerite spoke in a curiously tight voice.

‘Is it my husband now?' Sarah leaned forward and caught at her friend's arm. ‘Tell me he is here at last!'

‘Yes, I'm sure this is Tom,' Marguerite replied in the same constricted voice and she patted Sarah's gripping hand reassuringly while her eyes remained unwaveringly focused.

She had no doubt in her mind that this was truly Tom Warrington. He was just as tall and well built as Jan van Deventer, but in spite of his Russian furs there was an unmistakably English look about him. She had seen enough English travellers in Paris to recognize that totally confident, self-assured air natural to them as if they owned any place they entered or any street they trod, coming as they did from the richest and most stable nation in the world. Yet it was something else about Tom's appearance that had strangled her voice in her throat and made her feel that when she stood up her legs might give way.

‘Then go to him!' Sarah was urging. ‘Why are you waiting?'

Somehow Marguerite managed to rise to her feet and once more began making her way between the tables. Even from a distance she had seen an extraordinary resemblance to Jacques in the tilt of Tom's head and well-moulded features. He was looking eagerly about the room and it was almost possible to believe he was looking for her. As she drew nearer she realized the likeness that had hit at her heart was not entirely illusory as she had expected it to be at close quarters, for his eyes were the same clear brown, his nose as straight and his mouth as sensual. As often happens when a stranger's looks are similar to someone already known, the feeling remained with her that they were already long acquainted.

‘Mr Warrington?' she said, almost catching her breath when he turned a smile on her that made attractive and all too familiar indentations in his lean cheeks.

‘Yes, mam'selle. I'm Thomas Warrington.'

She heard herself answering him. ‘My name is Marguerite Laurent and your wife is seated on the far side of the room. First of all, I must explain that I've been her travelling companion for the latter part of the journey. Although Sarah was not involved, there was an accident with one of the horses and her maid, Blanche, was killed.'

He was deeply shocked. ‘The poor woman! What a terrible tragedy!' Anxiety rang in his voice. ‘But you are sure my wife was unharmed?'

‘Yes, have no fear about that, but she is not well. She was taken ill at Frankfurt-on-Oder and had to stay there for three weeks before she was well enough to continue the journey. Unfortunately travelling has taken its toll on her strength and she has difficulty in walking. I just wanted to prepare you and to advise getting medical help for her without delay.'

He frowned, deeply anxious. ‘I shall do that, of course.'

‘Come this way.'

She led him to Sarah, who was on her feet, joy radiating in her face at the sight of him, and her arms encircled his neck tightly as he kissed her. Immediately he asked her how she was feeling, showing his concern, and reassured her that there should be no more travelling until she had recovered.

‘I have comfortable lodgings where you shall have every attention and only when you are well again shall we travel on to Moscow. You'll like the house we have there, but in the meantime we shall manage very well.'

‘But your work?'

‘I had plenty of serfs to help me finish the planting of the winter garden for the Empress before I left Moscow to meet you here. Until the snow gets too deep there'll be a grand show of tall and hardy foliage that will make a fine contrast of black and white for the Imperial lady to see from her window. But for now, until the spring thaw, it will be a matter of designing and estimating costs while I decide how many serfs I'll need to carry out each project. It's already kept me busy during my wait for you and I have much more to keep me occupied.' He scooped her up in his arms, ready to leave. She held out her hand to Marguerite, who caught hold of it.

‘We must not lose touch, Marguerite! I'll write to you and we must meet again one day.'

‘Take care, dear friend. I wish you well.'

‘Adieu, Mam'selle Laurent,' Tom said with a smile that turned her heart over. ‘I thank you most heartily for your care of my wife.'

She watched them go before sinking down on to the chair that Sarah had vacated and closing her eyes, desperate to recover from the devastating experience that she had just been through. What tricks Fate managed to play! All the time Tom had been talking to Sarah she had watched his face unwaveringly, catching those faint similarities that had stirred such joy and anguish within her.

Determinedly she drew in a deep breath. But it was over. Moscow and St Petersburg were very far apart and it was most likely that in spite of Sarah's wish their friendship would remain only in an exchange of letters with no chance of ever seeing each other again. Although it would spare her any more meetings with Tom it also saddened her, for she and Sarah had become good friends during the many trials and tribulations of the journey.

That night she dreamed of Jacques for the first time since losing him, and they were walking hand in hand by the Seine just as they had done so many times. A feeling of contentment stayed with her when she awoke, even after the dream had slipped away beyond recall. She was also aware of a sudden uplifting sense of freedom. It had been quite a responsibility looking after Sarah, not that she regretted a minute of it, but now she could look forward clearly to her own future.

It was a cold and bright morning. Downstairs at breakfast Marguerite and her companions were told that during the night all their baggage had been transferred to sledges for the rest of the journey to St Petersburg. There was no sign of the Comtesse, but a note from her was handed to Marguerite and a purse of money. She read the note through.

‘The Comtesse has written that there was a message awaiting her from her husband yesterday evening. He is presently in Moscow with the Ambassador and so she is to meet him there. To speed our journey she arranged with the Master of the Port of Riga that a courier be sent ahead of us all the way to the capital to ensure that horses are ordered in time to prevent any hold-ups on the last lap of our journey.'

‘Well, that's something, I suppose,' Jeanne commented. ‘But the armed guards won't be with us.'

‘The coachmen will be armed,' Marguerite replied reassuringly. ‘Now if you've all finished eating let's get going without further delay.'

The seamstresses split up to ride in the two enclosed sledges allotted to them and tucked under heaped furs to keep warm as the fiercely bearded coachmen cracked whips and the runners sped swiftly along the snowy streets out of the city.

The countryside was dazzlingly beautiful in its winter cloak and hoar frost had robed the trees in diamonds. Frozen lakes gleamed blue and grey and silver while the sky was palest amber as if the fallen snow of the previous night must have come from some other source.

Now and again the sledges drove through poor-looking villages, the dwellings all built of log and wattle, a finger of wood-smoke arising from each. The inhabitants scurried out of their path while others paused in whatever they were doing to gaze at the brightly hued sledges shooting by. As with all peasants the men were bearded and most of them wore fur hats, and although some of the women did likewise the rest had bright scarves tied about their heads. Nearly all were clad in sheepskin coats tied with a leather belt or a length of rope around their waists, high boots on their feet. As for the little children, they looked like balls of clothes running about, their faces little round moons of laughter or shy curiosity. Yet many of the villagers had an emaciated look. Marguerite pitied them for their hard life, knowing that every one of them was some master's serf and owned body and soul like a chattel.

It intrigued the Frenchwomen when now and again they saw peasants sliding over the snow on what appeared to be long, narrow boards, a stout stick in hand to aid their speedy progress, but there was little else to relieve the monotony. In many ways this final stage of the journey was the hardest. In spite of the quick changing of the horses the journey still took almost four weeks. As well as the frequent heavy snowstorms that caused delays, there was the sheer boredom of travel day after day with nothing to occupy their minds other than gazing at the passing white-blanketed landscape. Christmas day would have passed unnoticed if they had not remembered previously to buy small gifts for each other.

By now they had lost interest in all their previous pastimes and a village or very occasionally a town looked the same as any other under its blanket of snow. It made them disagreeable and tired, quick to snap and to quarrel. They grumbled about everything. It added to their ill temper that most of their nights were spent in uncomfortable lodgings and often the food was barely edible. Once Violette and Jeanne came to clawing at each other and had to be separated for the rest of the way. It took all Marguerite's efforts to keep the peace as much as possible. Isabelle was the only one who never complained and Marguerite appreciated her loyalty.

The new year of 1753 was two days old on the moonlit evening when the sledges passed into the city of St Petersburg, wall lanterns illuminating the wide streets and windows pouring out golden light from chandeliers. Here and there the braziers of the city's watchmen glowed red and gold and the whiff of hot charcoal hung in the air.

The seamstresses looked from side to side in wonder and strained their necks to look up at the great mansions, silvery in the moon's glow and all grandly ornamented, many with balconies and each with the look of a palace. It was obvious that by day these would be pastel-coloured, which would add to the charm of the architecture, and everywhere the spires and onion-domes of the churches soared into the stars. Linking everything were the wide sweeping curves of the great River Neva that presently lay frozen and austere with reflected light adding flickers of gilt to its opal surface. It was easy to see from branching canals that this was a city of waterways.

They all gave a spontaneous cheer as they reached the end of their long journey. They had arrived at the Imperial Winter Palace, which reared up before them like a beautiful cake of great size, every window aglow. The sledges came to a standstill by what they knew was the domestic entrance in spite of its magnificently carved portal and great door. Both coachmen sprang down from their seats, pulling away the thick scarves that had covered the lower half of their faces, but their beards, eyebrows and lashes were frosted white by their own breath. One man thrust open the door and disappeared into the glow of candle-lamps within while the other began to unload the baggage.

One by one the seamstresses alighted. They were all stiff and tired as well as being extremely hungry. Marguerite, equally fatigued, led the way indoors, and the others followed her wearily. There was an inner door to insulate against the cold outside and then they passed through a tiled vestibule before entering a wide hallway with doors on all sides, one of which stood open. There the coachman was talking rapidly in Russian to a thin-faced, severe-looking woman wearing a black gown and a lace apron and cap. She listened attentively to all he had to say, nodding her head, and then waved him back to his duties with an impatient gesture. Closing the door behind her as if denying admittance, she took a couple of steps forward and looked steadily at the Frenchwomen.

‘I am Madame Rostova,' she announced imperiously. ‘French is spoken throughout the domestic quarters as well as in Court circles. You need have no fear that you will not be understood. The coachman has already told me that you are seamstresses from Paris.'

Marguerite experienced a sense of foreboding, but did not show it as she introduced herself and her companions. The woman's expression did not relax.

‘Your names mean nothing to me,' she replied crisply, ‘and I have had no notification of your coming. We already have sewing quarters in the Palace with a full staff of needlewomen.'