Marguerite had expected to be the first to arrive at the place of departure outside the gates of the Comtesse’s home, but Isabelle was already there. The girl had not dared to enter the waiting coach assigned to the seamstresses. Instead she stood huddled by a gatepost, her face white and scared, a carpet bag clutched in her hand and a small valise by her feet. She was the only one not to have delivered a travelling box the night before, all of which were already securely strapped to the roof and on to the back of the coach. Marguerite gave her a reassuring smile.
‘You may get in now, Isabelle. The others will be here soon.’
Isabelle promptly scuttled into the coach, which was a large, lumbering-looking vehicle. Although there was comfortable seating for six she huddled into a corner as if trying to make herself as small as possible. The coach with its six sturdy horses was one of a dozen equipages already in line, ready to accommodate the Comtesse’s retinue of personal servants and her large amount of luggage.
Just then the rest of Marguerite’s travellers began to arrive. Jeanne came hurrying along with Rose, both carrying some hand baggage and their sewing boxes. In addition Jeanne had a basket of food over her arm as all the seamstresses had to provide their own sustenance for the first day, although for the rest of journey their meals and accommodation would be paid for from the Comtesse’s purse. Rose greeted Marguerite with a bob and a wide smile.
‘Bonjour, mam’selle. I could hardly wait for this morning to come!’
‘Yes, here we are,’ Jeanne declared breathlessly. ‘We left the old devil snoring after last night’s binge.’ Yet she was as eager as Isabelle to get into the coach out of sight and hustled Rose in with her as if she feared he might yet come in roaring pursuit of them.
Sophie arrived next. She had been hurrying to catch up with her sister and niece, whom she had sighted ahead of her. ‘I’m not late, am I?’ she inquired anxiously. ‘Those two were keeping up such a pace!’
‘No,’ Marguerite assured her. ‘There’s still time to spare.’
Violette was last, sauntering along with swinging hips and gaily dressed in a scarlet cape and a straw hat with a curling feather, hand baggage in one hand and a basket in the other. ‘Isn’t this going to be fun!’ she cried happily in greeting.
As soon as Violette had stowed away her belongings as the rest had done and seated herself Marguerite took the place by the window that had been left for her. With the exception of Isabelle all were chattering eagerly. Then there was a sudden flurry of movement in the courtyard and the last of the servants came hurrying to take their places in the coaches. It was clear that the Comtesse was about to leave. Her gleaming equipage had been brought to the steps of the entrance.
A few moments later there was the glimmer of a blue-velvet cloak as the Comtesse emerged from the house and stepped into the coach. Then the eight horses drawing it came clip-clopping out of the courtyard, the four postilions in the d’Oinville pale-grey livery, to sweep ahead of the waiting vehicles, four armed outriders in escort. With a lurch that nearly shot all the seamstresses off the seats their coach rolled forward.
‘We’re on our way!’ Violette exclaimed joyfully, clapping her hands together as they all sat back again, laughing and talking. Isabelle gave a shuddering sigh of relief.
The merry chatter continued until the cavalcade of coaches had passed through the gates of Paris, for then everyone was quieter, gazing out at the passing countryside as if they feared it might be the last time they would see it. Before long another coach stood waiting by the roadside. The traveller spoke to the Comtesse, showing her proof of his identity, and gained her permission to follow her entourage, there being greater security travelling in convoy through many lonely places where there was always the danger of attack by highwaymen and other rogues of the road.
‘How did that man know we were coming?’ Rose asked.
‘Word goes quickly by the grapevine,’ her mother replied, ‘but sometimes travellers have to wait days for an armed convoy going in the right direction, especially if they’re going far afield. Most travellers have to go a certain distance with one convoy and then, if it’s not going to their particular destination, they switch to another to follow the route they want. The greater the number travelling together the better the security since every man carries a pistol.’
At noon the women shared their food. Isabelle had only two slices of stale black bread to offer. Rose grimaced.
‘I’m not having a share of that!’ she exclaimed in disgust. ‘There’s some mould on it.’
Her mother gave her a sharp dig with an elbow. ‘We’re having no nonsense from you, my girl! You’ll eat your share like everybody else. From what the Comtesse’s maid told Marguerite it isn’t always possible to get food at times in some isolated places we’ll be passing through. So eat up while you have the chance!’
Isabelle seemed to shrink more into herself, although the two slices were divided up and bravely eaten. Rose’s eyes watered and she gagged but managed to swallow her portion.
Fortunately none of the seamstresses became nauseous with the sway of the coach over rutted surfaces, but three different times coaches ahead stopped for two maids and a young page to vomit in the bushes. As it was in the country others of both sexes took the chance to relieve themselves behind bushes and trees, men to one side and women to the other. The Comtesse never appeared, but her lady’s maid discreetly emptied a small boat-shaped receptacle such as most ladies used on journeys. The seamstresses had discovered one in a cupboard under the seat, which had been supplied for them, but although it bore the d’Oinville crest it was thick white china and not like the Comtesse’s own of flower-decorated Sèvres porcelain
That night the seamstresses slept at an inn where they were given supper. The Comtesse stayed at a nearby château with people whom she knew, and this was to become the pattern of the journey. Whenever possible, overnight stops were timed to enable her to stay in comfort at the home of an acquaintance. Yet the seamstresses were not forgotten, a senior servant paying as promised all bills for their food and lodging. Not that there was much comfort for them. If they were lucky there would be a wash-house where they could bathe themselves and dry their washing overnight, the very nature of their work making them all naturally fastidious about cleanliness, but this facility was not always available. Frequently they had to sleep three or four in a bed and were sometimes plagued by bedbugs, but the sense of adventure had not waned and they were up early each morning ready for the new day.
The journey rolled on with the days, but it was not until a week after the French border had been crossed and Aixla-Chapelle left behind that Isabelle began to throw off her nervousness, no longer looking wide-eyed and scared at every halt. Rose persuaded her into a game of cards and after that the two girls gradually formed a friendship. Before long they had become close, talking non-stop and giggling together over private jokes. Marguerite was astonished and pleased by the change in the girl. It was as if Isabelle were blossoming like a flower in her newfound sense of freedom.
The other women passed their time by knitting, darning stockings, dozing and chatting as well as by playing cards and memory games. Occasionally they bickered when boredom set in, but never seriously enough for Marguerite to intervene. Sometimes she read to them from one of the books she had brought with her. There were also other diversions along the way. An exceptional one took place during a change of horses when two accompanying travellers drew their rapiers fiercely in a personal quarrel. The Comtesse promptly barred them from following her entourage any further.
Without exception all the travellers took exercise at any opportunity, even if it was only a short walk up and down during a temporary halt. Violette flirted with one of the armed guards, who frequently rode alongside the seamstresses’s coach to exchange a few pleasantries with her.
It was always amusing when a flock of sheep or a herd of cows swarmed about the coaches, even if it did cause some delay. Once they were held up in a forest by a boar hunt as the prey doubled back and left the hunters crossing and recrossing the road in confusion. Rose, Jeanne and Violette jeered and shouted from the windows, clapping when the boar appeared to have got away. Then they collapsed laughing into their seats, kicking up a flurry of petticoats.
In any populated area there were always the pedlars, who ran alongside the coaches, offering their wares for sale. Most enjoyable of all were the street performers, who appeared from nowhere whenever the entourage came to a standstill in a town or city. So day after day went by for the Frenchwomen as wheels rolled over everything from rutted country roads to rubbish-strewn city streets while the voices of local inhabitants changed language as great distances were slowly covered. By now private mansions where the Comtesse could stay with acquaintances had become intermittent, and mostly she had to take her chance at hostelries with everyone else, although she always had the best room available.
It was always exciting for the seamstresses when the coaches passed through a town. They looked out at the shops, the fashions, and the different architecture. In Dresden they gazed up at the great cathedral as they were driven by. It was when the convoy halted for a change of horses at a post house in Frankfurt-on-Oder that one of the d’Oinville menservants came to the seamstresses’ coach as they were about to alight and handed in six individual foot-warmers.
‘You’ll be glad of these when the weather gets cold,’ he informed them cheerfully. ‘We get them filled with hot coals from inns that we’ll pass. There’s a stock of fur knee-rugs for you too later on and you’ll need them, believe me! I’ve done this journey before and I know.’ He glanced at Violette with a mischievous wink. ‘If you need any extra warmth you can always have my arms around you.’
‘Impudent devil!’ Violette retorted, but she was amused and flashed her eyes at him. ‘How long before we move on again?’
‘Only half an hour. So don’t wander off too far.’
When the seamstresses returned from a short walk another coach was waiting to join the convoy when it departed again. Violette, inquisitive by nature, soon found out from the same manservant that the traveller was an Englishwoman, Mistress Sarah Warrington. Accompanied by her maid, she would be travelling all the way to the Russian city of Riga. Violette relayed this information to her companions as they settled themselves in their seats again. They were all interested as so far nobody else would be with the convoy all the way to Russia, other travellers coming and going along the route.
Marguerite was the first to see the new arrival from where she sat by the window. It was just a glimpse as the Englishwoman’s coach rolled past to take its place in the convoy. She saw a pretty, delicately boned face, framed by soft brown hair before the moment was gone.
‘What’s the maid’s name?’ Rose asked as the wheels began to roll again. ‘Is she English too?’
‘No,’ Violette replied. ‘Blanche Chamier is a fellow countrywoman of ours, originally from Boulogne, but she’s been with the Englishwoman for some time. She’s a big, strong-looking woman and will be well able to lift her mistress in and out of the coach if need be.’
‘Has the lady difficulty in walking?’ Rose bit into half of the sweetmeat she had bought from one of the pedlars, the other half given to Isabelle.
‘No, but she was taken ill after arriving here and had to be nursed for several weeks. She’s come from France and is on her way to join her husband, but she had to stay on in this city until she’d recovered from whatever it was that ailed her. She hasn’t fully regained her strength yet and in Blanche Charmier’s opinion she shouldn’t be starting out again for another couple of weeks at least. But the lady made a promise to her husband before he left for Russia that she would join him with the least possible delay and is anxious to continue her journey.’ Violette threw up her hands merrily. ‘What we women do for love!’
‘We all know what you do!’ Jeanne bantered good-humouredly, giving her a nudge with an elbow, and they both laughed.
‘Why didn’t she travel with him in the first place?’ Sophie questioned, her arched brows meeting in a frown. She was intrigued by the thought of this lone woman making such a great journey with only a maid for company.
‘He had to leave at short notice three months ago and she was left to see to the packing up of their home in France where they had lived for four years.’
‘Where was that?’
‘Near the Palace of Versailles. He is a special kind of gardener and was engaged in some project there and other of the royal parks,’ Violette continued. ‘Apparently he’s quite famous for creating beautiful gardens and landscapes, which was why he was suddenly invited by the Empress to do some very important work in Russia. Just like she sent for you, Marguerite. Blanche says . . .’
She broke off as a rider galloped past the coach, shouting to those at the head of the line of vehicles to delay departure. Rose was the first to dart to the window and lean out to watch proceedings.
‘There’s some argument going on,’ she reported delightedly. ‘Now the horseman has approached the Comtesse’s coach and is making his appeal to her through her window.’ There was a pause. ‘Oh, it’s all right. She must have agreed to the delay, because he’s smiling and nodding. What a fine-looking fellow he is! Who could resist a request from him?’
Violette was on her feet, pushing Rose aside. ‘Let me see! Yes, you’re right.’ She gave an envious sigh. ‘No wonder she’s keeping him in conversation. Ah! He’s leaving her now and coming this way again.’
She kept her position at the open window, but to her annoyance he rode past her without a glance and the rest of them saw briefly his well-cut profile before he was out of sight. Her commentary continued.
‘We must find out all about him! He’s handing his horse over to a groom now to be stabled.’ Her head was still out of the window. ‘Hey, I can see it’s going to be a longish wait. The Comtesse is getting out and making for the tavern. Her maid is in tow, carrying the usual shawls and jewel box. Come along, girls! We can all go for another walk around the stalls and shops. I saw a necklace I’d like to take another look at.’
As Marguerite set off with the others on their walk she saw Mistress Warrington again. The Englishwoman’s pace was slow as she crossed the cobbled square with her maid to a coffee house. She was as small and slight as her maid was big and broad. Blanche Chamier was in her thirties with a boisterously healthy look to her round kindly face. As Violette had said, care of the Englishwoman appeared to be in capable hands.
The delay requested proved to be a lengthy one. It was three hours before a carriage and two wagons, their loads roped down securely, finally appeared. The newcomer, who had been impatiently pacing up and down, darted into the tavern and solicitously escorted the Comtesse back to her coach. It had clearly been a longer wait than expected, but she seemed mollified by his attention, her frown of exasperation easing away until she was smiling at him. As soon as she was settled he left her to hurry across to his own newly arrived carriage. With the familiar discordant cacophony of cracking whips, shouts, creaking wheels and groaning springs the journey recommenced.
The seamstresses speculated amongst themselves as to what the wagons might be carrying. Surely there must be something vitally important under those covering tarpaulins for the Comtesse to agree to a delay? It could not be just the man’s good looks that had persuaded her. Absurd suggestions were forthcoming and caused laughter. Was it a secret cache of arms? Jewels for the Empress? Then, as the suggestions became bawdier, there was even more laughter. Marguerite approved this new diversion. Anything that kept her companions’ minds from boredom was greatly welcomed.
At the next halt for a change of horses at a country tavern Violette went immediately with her provocative, hip-swinging walk to laugh and flirt with one of the wagon drivers. When she rejoined the others, who were seated at a corner table in the tavern, she had found out all she wanted to know.
‘That good-looking man is a Dutchman named Hendrick van Deventer.’ She tilted her head in his direction where he stood smoking a long-stemmed pipe by the hearth. ‘He is on his way to Russia with those wagons to join his brother, Jan. They’re art dealers with an important gallery in Amsterdam. More paintings were needed for sale in Russia and he is supervising the delivery of them.’
Marguerite was as interested in the Dutchman as the others. ‘So he is going as far as Russia too?’ she said. ‘It must be a cargo of value if it can’t be trusted just to wagon drivers.’
Her glance went again to the Dutchman. He was well groomed and well clad in a good cloth coat and knee breeches, his waistcoat a merry green, and his wheat-coloured hair unpowdered and caught back with a black ribbon. He looked every inch a prosperous merchant. She would have liked the opportunity to view those paintings in the wagons, but that could never be.
She turned her gaze to the Englishwoman, who was sitting with her maid on the opposite side of the room. By chance their eyes met and Sarah Warrington smiled and inclined her head in greeting. Marguerite responded, pleased at this friendly contact. Perhaps they would get to know each other as the journey continued.
The chance came to chat a week later when they met by chance on the landing of the stairs in the tavern where they had been staying for the night.
‘You are certainly travelling in lively company.’ Sarah Warrington had spoken in French and she indicated with amusement the crescendo of noisy chatter in the room that Marguerite had just left.
‘I’m thankful to say we get on very well.’ Then Marguerite added with a little laugh, ‘Most of the time anyway.’ They began to descend the narrow stairs, the Englishwoman going ahead.
‘I’ve been informed that you are on your way to make gowns for Empress Elisabeth. Ah, the grapevine brings all the news to us travellers as you surely know.’
‘That’s true indeed.’
Sarah paused and looked up over her shoulder at Marguerite. ‘I’ve been told that the Dutchman is taking a painting to his brother that is destined for the Empress. Have you heard that too?’
‘No, but it would explain his presence with the wagons. I thought it must be a valuable load,’ Marguerite replied, understanding now why the Comtesse had allowed the journey to be delayed for such a long time. She had been nervous of giving that powerful woman in Russia any further cause to turn against her through a painting’s late delivery.
After that Marguerite and Sarah often talked together and, both having run out of reading matter, they exchanged books. When Sarah invited Marguerite to ride with her for a stage of the journey she changed places with Blanche, who sat with the other seamstresses, giving them all a change of company.
Marguerite’s only encounter with the Dutchman came when they were standing side by side as the landlord informed them that there was only one room left. Hendrick van Deventer stepped back.
‘For the ladies, of course. I’ll stay somewhere else.’
The landlord shook his head. ‘There isn’t any other place around here, sir. I can offer you the stable-loft.’
‘I’ll take that.’
In the morning Marguerite asked the Dutchman if he had spent a very uncomfortable night.
‘No,’ he replied with a grin, grey eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘The straw was clean and there was plenty of it.’
After that he always bowed and doffed his tricorne hat whenever they met, but they had no further conversation.
It was one morning not long afterwards that Jeanne sighed heavily as she joined her companions already in their seats. ‘I have to admit that I’ve become very tired of this daily journeying. Wouldn’t it be good if we could just have two or three days in the same place?’
There were murmurs of assent from all except Marguerite. For her it was the moment she had been dreading. Spirits had been flagging and now here was proof that the novelty of travel had finally worn off. From this moment on it was likely to be difficult to keep the women’s spirits up.
Soon it was just as she had feared with the start of longer periods of boredom with quarrels breaking out with little cause. Violette, whom Marguerite had expected to be of help at such a time, was ill-tempered and depressed, her liveliness having deserted her through a falling-out with the armed guard.
Surprisingly it was Isabelle who found a way to cheer them all. She had become totally content as the journey had proceeded, never complaining about anything, and she began to sing for the first time one morning, never having joined in with the others when they had sung together sometimes. Her voice was very clear and sweet. When she came to the end of her song the others applauded spontaneously and urged her to continue. She blushed crimson at their praise, but obliged them. As the days passed she seemed to have an unending repertoire of songs, some comic that made them laugh delightedly, others of love lost or found as well as hymns and ditties from childhood that all the women remembered and sang with her.
‘How did you learn all these songs?’ she was asked.
‘I just seem to hear a song and remember it. Not all the words, of course, but if I don’t get the chance to hear the song again I make up my own words to the tune.’
From then on, whenever gloom set in, Isabelle would begin to sing softly as if to herself, but even if it did not always dispel the general depression it soothed pangs of homesickness, anxiety and even regrets over earlier happenings in the women’s lives that were in their minds. It also banished for a little while an awareness of the physical weariness that coach travel induced.
As the journey advanced through Prussia it was no longer possible for overnight halts always to be made in towns, which were few and far between. Often accommodation was only to be found in farmhouses and cottages where conditions were frequently cramped and dirty.
It was in poverty-stricken areas that the changing of horses presented a serious problem. With never less than four and mostly six horses to a vehicle it meant that eighty were needed each time to relieve those that had covered the previous stage of the journey. There was always fierce competition among the coachmen and postilions as to which of them would get the best, and fisticuffs became commonplace. It was often a case of searching stables far and wide for replacements, which meant long delays. At these times Jeanne gained her wish to stay more than one night in a place, but inevitably these lengthier sojourns were in uncomfortable and sometimes rat-infested accommodation, any obtainable food being of poor quality too.
Until now, apart from the occasional shower, the weather had been good for travelling, although it had been getting colder all the time. Now it had begun to deteriorate seriously, the wind turning rougher with heavy rain that never ceased. Frequently coach wheels became stuck in deep muddy ruts and in the pelting rain men would push and shove until the vehicle was mobile again. By now the promised fur rugs had been handed in to the Frenchwomen, which with the foot-warmers, gave welcome warmth to feet and legs, although it was not everywhere that they could be refilled.
It was late afternoon along a rough road through a particularly dense forest when a band of brigands came bursting out of hiding, some on foot and the rest on horseback, waving swords and firing weapons. Immediately there was uproar, shouting and swearing, and responding gunfire. The door of the seamstresses’ coach was wrenched open and two villainous-looking ruffians gave a shout of triumph at seeing the women within. Reaching forward like a flash they seized Jeanne by the ankles to send her crashing on her buttocks to the floor, one hauling her out like a sack of potatoes while the other grabbed at Rose by the petticoats.
Instantly all the women were shrieking and screaming as they threw themselves into the defence of their friends, only Isabelle left cowering in the corner. But as they almost fell out of the coach in their fury, Marguerite lashing out like the rest with fists and nails, they were sighted by other ruffians, some of whom came racing towards them.
By now the defence of the armed men with the coaches was taking its toll. Jeanne’s attacker fell, screaming and clutching his arm, and the other was killed outright from a bullet in the head fired by Hendrick van Deventer, who yelled at the seamstresses to get back into the coach and keep down.
They obeyed him. The other villains, who had been aiming for them, had been intercepted, but bullets were flying and the women crouched together on the floor, arms about each other. Isabelle was shaking violently, uttering curious little whimpers, while Sophie and Rose sobbed from shock. Jeanne just swore quietly and repetitively in a monotonous drone of rage, knowing her bruises would make sitting painful for some time to come.
When the shooting ceased, all except Isabelle ventured rising to their feet. There was no longer any sign of danger and they alighted one by one into the cold air. The wounded man had disappeared, but they each had to step over the dead one. Somebody had already covered his face with a rag. The robbers had fled, taking their wounded but leaving their dead. Nobody in the convoy had been killed, but several men had minor injuries and a robber’s bullet had smashed the bone of a manservant’s leg.
Blanche came running up to the seamstresses with a flask of cognac. ‘Are you all right? My mistress wants each of you to have a measure of this.’
‘That’s very kind,’ Marguerite said, taking it from her. ‘What of Mistress Warrington? Did any of those men come to her coach?’
‘No, we hid down on the floor, but the Comtesse would have lost her jewels if her guards had not acted as quickly as they did.’
Sophie had gathered up their drinking cups and Marguerite poured the cognac. It was Jeanne who persuaded Isabelle to drink some, almost forcing it through the girl’s chattering teeth.
Marguerite went personally to return the flask. Sarah immediately expressed her fervent relief that they were all safe.
‘I have a small pistol in my muff,’ she said. ‘Tom insisted that I carry it with me at all times on this journey, but I forgot about it in my fright.’
‘I’m sure Blanche would have fired it if it had been in her hands. Perhaps you should let her have it in future.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that.’
Marguerite left her to inquire after the Comtesse, but there was no chance. A lantern had been lit within her coach and the blinds drawn to discourage anyone from disturbing her. If she was in a state of shock it was not to be witnessed.
Turning back, Marguerite came face to face with Hendrick, who grinned at her with satisfaction. ‘I think all acquitted themselves very well, especially you and your ladies, who fought those two villains like tigers!’
She gave a soft laugh. ‘All is well now and that’s what counts. No wonder travellers like to take the road together! A coach on its own wouldn’t have had a chance. Are we likely to meet another ambush anywhere?’
‘Who can tell? We’ve many miles to go yet.’ He glanced up and down the line of vehicles. ‘When we’ve finished binding up our wounded we’ll be on our way.’
‘Can I help?’
‘Not this time. Everything is in hand.’ He turned as somebody shouted to him and went hurrying away to see what was wanted.
As yet the seamstresses were still too subdued and upset to get back into the coach and stood talking everything over with other travellers, but Marguerite saw that Isabelle had not moved from her crouching position on the floor of the coach. Pitying the timid girl, Marguerite entered and drew Isabelle up beside her on to the seat, keeping a comforting arm about the thin waist.
‘It’s all over, Isabelle,’ she said reassuringly.
‘At first I thought law-keepers had come all the way from Paris for me,’ Isabelle whispered as if her mind was far away.
‘Why ever should you think that?’
Isabelle looked up, her pupils still dilated with fright and swimming with tears. ‘Because the night before I left home I killed my stepfather!’
Marguerite stared at her in disbelief. ‘Do you know what you’re saying?’
‘Yes! He was like a madman when he came home and discovered that my mother had left him.’ Isabelle was stuttering as she unburdened herself of the terrible secret she had been keeping to herself. ‘I had persuaded her to go, because there was no knowing what he would do to her after he found me gone. When he came at me in his rage I grabbed a kitchen knife and stuck it in his belly!’ Her eyes were wild and she screeched out, her fists clenched, ‘And I’m glad of it!’
‘Hush!’ Marguerite covered the girl’s mouth with her hand, but nobody outside the coach had heard. ‘Where did your mother go?’ Marguerite hoped that the frail little woman would not be pursued by the authorities and blamed for the crime.
‘To her brother in the country. Nobody will ever find her there. She thought I’d be leaving the house before that devil of a man came home and would be staying the night at your place, because that is what I told her. But he’d had no money left for drink and returned earlier than I’d expected. After I’d killed him I collected my things and spent the night in a church porch as I’d planned.’
‘How long will it be before he is missed?’
Isabelle shook her head wildly. ‘He lived by violence and robbery, so it may be days before the body is found. Then everyone will know I committed the murder and not my mother, because I left my bloodstained clothes with the knife.’ Isabelle threw her arms over her head and rocked to and fro. ‘Now you know why I can never go back to France! They’d hang me!’
Marguerite understood now why Isabelle had been like a frightened rabbit until France had been left far behind. At least the danger of any pursuit had long since gone. The arm of the law would never reach this far and in any case violence and murder were common enough events in the slums of Paris and given little attention.
‘Listen to me carefully, Isabelle. This is our secret. Nobody else need ever know of it. The past with all its agonies is behind you. There is a new future ahead and I shall help you in any way I can.’
She broke off. Their companions were returning. She took the girl’s hand into hers and held it in comfort. Isabelle’s trembling only ceased when after a while she fell asleep. The seemingly endless journey continued.
They had crossed the border into Poland when intensely cold weather set in. Fortunately there were only light flurries of snow, which did not hinder wheels on frost-hard surfaces and, except for minor delays, progress was good. Small braziers were now lit daily and handed into all the coaches where they were suspended on chains from the ceiling. At least wherever the company stayed overnight, however humble the dwelling, there was always a wonderful warmth from the stoves that the inhabitants kept stacked with kindling from the great forests.
Sarah became noticeably more exhausted as the days went by. She felt the cold excessively in spite of being enveloped in furs. She no longer took walks, although everybody else exercised, their breath hanging in clouds as they became red-cheeked in the freezing air. Whenever she had to leave the coach for a night’s accommodation she leaned more and more heavily on Blanche’s arm until eventually two of the Comtesse’s lackeys carried her in and out. Great areas of the land were poverty-stricken and when only stable and barn lofts were available for sleeping she was like the Comtesse in choosing to keep to her coach, Blanche staying with her.
‘I’m worried as to how much longer my mistress can endure this travelling,’ Blanche confided to the seamstresses. ‘She seems to get weaker every day.’ Her deep sigh conveyed her exasperation. ‘I knew she should have had a longer convalescence before setting off on this journey, but oh, no! She would not listen to me.’
In spite of Sarah’s listlessness she was always glad to see Marguerite and they talked of many things. Sarah had grown up in a comfortable middle-class home, but as she was one of ten daughters it had been important for her parents to find husbands for all of them. Tom Warrington was the son of neighbouring friends and as he and Sarah had known each other since childhood it had seemed natural that they should marry when his apprenticeship was over and he had established himself. After he had worked on the royal gardens at Windsor he had seized the chance to move to France, where he had assisted one of the royal garden designers for four years as well as gaining commissions of his own.
‘I was happy living in the village of Versailles,’ Sarah said one afternoon as she and Marguerite sat by the fire in the taproom of a hostelry. ‘At least, as content as I could ever be away from my own country.’
They were passing the time during a wait for horses to be gathered in from the surrounding area. Blanche had gone to the privy, which was giving them a chance to talk again for a little while on their own.
‘Did you miss England so much?’
‘Oh, yes. Early mornings I often went into the park at the Palace when only the gardeners were about and where the blossoms and plants were the same as at home. The gates there stand open permanently, and as the guards knew me as Tom’s wife they always let me through. Not that I ever distracted Tom if he was supervising something. I just wandered on my own along the secret paths into those lovely little groves and flower gardens. Once in one of the open-air ballrooms I met Tom by chance and we danced on our own there!’ She lifted her chin and laughed delightedly. ‘We have had many happy times and he is so good to me.’
Out of loyalty to him she did not add that she dreaded living in Russia, even though it would not be for ever, for she knew it would be alien to her in every way. In France she had made friends and people thought much along the lines of her own countrymen and women, but how would it be in a land so remote from all she had ever known? She envied the way the young Frenchwoman saw the future as a challenge, determined to be successful in whatever lay ahead.
A clattering of hooves coming into the courtyard announced the arrival of more replacements. ‘That’s a good sound,’ Marguerite commented. ‘Now we should soon be on our way again.’
A sudden uproar outside failed to capture the attention of those in the taproom, for it seemed like the usual outbreak of quarrelling over who should have the best horses. Then there was a sudden unnatural silence. The door burst open and one of the grooms came rushing into the taproom to glance around until he spotted Sarah. He darted across to her.
‘Madame! There’s been an accident! Your maid!’
Sarah turned ashen and sprang to her feet. ‘Dear God!’
She was already stumbling on her way to the door. Marguerite was swift to catch up with her and supported her around the waist. Out in the courtyard a gathering of men parted quickly to let them through. Blanche lay on the cobblestones, her arms flung out where she had fallen, half her head gashed horribly. Hendrick was on one knee beside her and he looked up, his expression grim as he shook his head to show there was no hope. Sarah uttered a torn cry and flung herself down on her knees beside the dead woman, sobbing desolately.
‘What happened?’ Marguerite asked hoarsely.
Hendrick rose to his feet. ‘There was the usual struggle to grab the fittest-looking horses, which alarmed one of them, causing it to rear and plunge like a mad thing, and a hoof knocked her flying. She was just waiting to go past to the taproom.’
The Comtesse, wrapped in a sable cape, was among those who had come outside to see what had happened and she spoke out clearly. ‘This journey shall not continue until that poor woman has been given a Christian burial.’
Then she turned on her heel and went back indoors. There were those who muttered amongst themselves at this unexpected delay, but after the incident in the forest none wanted to continue without full security.
Marguerite and Hendrick helped Sarah to her feet and back indoors. Fortunately there were rooms available in the hostelry and Marguerite took Sarah upstairs to one of them.
‘Blanche has been with me for four years,’ Sarah sobbed as she lay down on the bed. ‘She came to me soon after I arrived in France, because my English maid had become violently homesick and I had to send her home again.’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh, my poor Blanche! She was such a good, kind woman. I must write to her sister. She had nobody else.’
‘Shall I do that for you? You can tell me what to write and then sign it.’
Sarah clutched Marguerite’s hand gratefully before sinking back into her grief. ‘Thank you most kindly. Everything seems to have become such an effort for me recently and never more than now.’
Marguerite fetched paper and pen and wrote the letter while Sarah slept. It was the first of many tasks she was to carry out in her new role of unofficial attendant all the way to Riga.
‘How is the Englishwoman today?’ the seamstresses always asked when Marguerite came from Sarah’s coach to ride a little distance with them. Her report was never good.
‘We miss you,’ Isabelle ventured, for Marguerite now shared Sarah’s accommodation, unable to leave her on her own, and ate all meals with her. It had taken Isabelle quite a time to recover from the fright of the raid. It had not helped her when a lone highwayman had attempted to rob the coaches parked by the roadside for the night, only to take flight as disturbed sleepers started firing pistols in his direction.
‘I have suggested that Sarah should see a doctor when we next stop in a town,’ Marguerite said to the others in a hallway one morning as she was waiting for the Englishwoman to be carried downstairs, ‘but she will not hear of it. I believe she is afraid he will tell her to discontinue her journey and rest until another armed convoy comes through. She has already had one delay and will not risk another.’
‘Stubborn and foolish,’ Jeanne commented.
Sophie laughed unpleasantly, having had sharp words earlier with her sister. ‘You’re only jealous because you don’t love any man as the Englishwoman does!’
Violette intervened humorously. ‘Hold on! In Russia we shall all find men to love as much as that!’
General laughter eased the tension.
It was that same night that they witnessed the curious phenomenon of streamers of light criss-crossing the sky. They had eaten their supper when Jeanne went out to fetch something she had forgotten from the coach, but stopped to gape upwards in nervous astonishment. After calling the others, she went back outside and they joined her.
‘What’s happening to the sky?’ Isabelle asked fearfully.
Marguerite was able to enlighten them. ‘Sarah guessed why Jeanne looked so bewildered and said it was sure to be the aurora borealis that she had seen. That’s what those lights are called. They only appear at times of intense cold. Her husband told her about them. She said we’ll see them often from now on.’
Sophie shivered. ‘They look ghostly, don’t they? I’m going back indoors.’
Marguerite took a last lingering look. To her they only added to the strange beauty of these snow-covered lands.