Four

There was a final overnight stay en route for Sarah before her destination was reached.

‘You’ve been a wonderful friend to me in my hour of need,’ she said gratefully as Marguerite helped her into bed. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without you.’

‘I’ve been glad to do it,’ Marguerite replied, smiling. ‘Go to sleep now. Tomorrow we’ll be in Riga and Tom will be waiting for you. We’ll send word to him as soon as we get there that you’ve arrived.’

‘I feel too excited to sleep,’ Sarah declared, ‘but I’ll try.’

By the time Marguerite had undressed and slipped into the neighbouring bed, she could tell by Sarah’s steady breathing that exhaustion from the day’s journey had overcome all excitement. Before extinguishing the candle, Marguerite rested her head on the pillow and let her thoughts drift. She could empathize with her friend’s glorious anticipation of being reunited with the man she loved. Had she not felt exactly the same whenever she and Jacques met again after a temporary absence from each other, no matter how short the time between?

A quiet sigh of surprise escaped her as she realized that for the first time her thoughts had gone past the day of tragedy to the many joyous moments when, full of laughter, she and Jacques, sighting each other from a distance, had rushed into each other’s arms. How often he had swung her up off her feet to whirl her around with the speed of a child’s spinning top.

She propped herself up on one elbow, scarcely able to believe that after so long in a black abyss of despair she was gradually emerging to find him again. With this comforting thought filling her mind, she took up the candle-snuffer from the table by her bed and put out the flame.

In the morning the Comtesse returned to the hostelry, having spent the night at the home of an acquaintance, and he and his wife appeared to have loaded her with gifts, for several boxes were being stowed away. They were there to see her off and she was very gracious and smiling. Everybody else had to wait impatiently until her final farewells were said. Never once throughout the whole journey had she even nodded in Marguerite’s direction. Hendrick seemed to be the only fellow traveller to whom she had directed a smile since leaving Paris.

In heavily falling snow the frozen River Dwina was crossed and by evening the lights of the city of Riga twinkled through the flakes. As the whole convoy came to a halt in front of a large hostelry peasants came flocking forward in the hope of carrying baggage.

Once again Sarah was carried indoors where the welcome heat from a great stove met them in a comforting wave full of the aromas of food, pipe smoke and beer. As previously arranged by Tom, the landlord had only to be informed of her arrival and a message would be sent to him immediately. Marguerite had to wait ten minutes to gain the landlord’s attention, for he was busy serving the swarm of new arrivals, and from how he addressed them in turn he appeared to have a smattering of several languages. When he finally turned to her he understood her request immediately.

‘I’ll send a boy now,’ he said as he continued pouring beer for one of his many thirsty customers.

‘Now we have only to wait,’ Marguerite said as she rejoined Sarah, who had been seated in a high-backed chair in a quiet corner of the busy room.

‘I know these minutes will be longer to me than the whole journey,’ Sarah confessed smilingly. ‘Do watch for Tom. I can’t see the door from here.’

She lowered the hood of her cloak and fussed with her hair, which Marguerite had dressed specially for her that morning. Although she had tried to look her best, adding a little rouge to her cheeks, she could not disguise the gauntness of her face or the dark circles under her eyes.

Marguerite ordered tea while they were waiting and it was served from a samovar into little drinking bowls. They had just finished it when suddenly Marguerite saw that a tall man, wearing a Cossack-style fur hat and a thick greatcoat, had entered, snowflakes whirling about him as he shook them away. He had a fierce, dramatic-looking face with a strong nose and chin, his dark-browed, deep-lidded eyes scanning intensely the crowded scene before him. As he pulled off his fur-lined gauntlets his expression showed his impatience to find the person he sought.

‘I think Tom has arrived!’ Marguerite exclaimed, measuring the newcomer against Sarah’s description given early on in their friendship.

Swiftly she left her chair and began threading her way through the tables towards him. She thought he looked a man of passionate, uncertain temperament, but she knew from all she had heard from Sarah that he was an exceptionally kind and devoted husband. No wonder he was anxious to find his wife immediately.

He had not noticed Marguerite approaching, for he had turned his searching gaze in the direction of an archway that led into another taproom. Just as he was about to move in its direction she caught his sleeve, happy to be the bearer of good news. ‘Wait! No need to go in there!’ She threw out her hands expressively. ‘Your wife is here!’

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.’

‘But we’re here at the request of the Empress herself.’

‘Request? What insolence! Her Imperial Majesty does not request! She commands! You have papers endorsing such orders?’

‘No. It was all arranged through the Comtesse d’Oinville, the wife of a French diplomat here in St Petersburg.’

‘That name is unknown to me too. There are so many foreigners coming and going at court. This Comtesse must either present herself to the right official to speak on your behalf or else you must obtain an authorized statement from her without delay.’

‘But she isn’t here! There was a change of plan and she left us in Riga to join the Comte d’Oinville in Moscow!’

‘Then nothing can be done at the present time. You must leave this palace at once.’

Behind Marguerite the seamstresses groaned loudly in despair and Isabelle’s face crumpled as she began to weep silently. But Marguerite had no intention of being turned away. ‘No! You have no right to go against your Empress’s expressed wish that I should come here with some of the best needlewomen in all France to make her the loveliest gowns that have ever been seen in this city!’

A shade of uncertainty passed across the woman’s eyes. The Empress was like her father, Peter the Great, in bringing the most unlikely foreigners from far distances to do some specialized work for her. It was highly likely that these Frenchwomen were the result of an imperial whim. What was most important was that she knew what her own fate would be if she sent them away in error. She dared not risk it.

‘Tell me how it all came about,’ she said stiffly.

‘The Empress admired gowns worn by the Comtesse and wanted the talents of whose who had made them. Couldn’t word of our arrival be taken to the Empress?’

Madame Rostova looked astounded at the suggestion. ‘Certainly not! I need to make inquiries and discover if you are truly expected or if a great mistake has been made. However, out of charity I shall allow you all to stay here tonight.’ She frowned as the drivers began bringing in the baggage from the sleighs and she indicated that everything should be set down in the hall. ‘You may take out what you need from your travelling boxes tonight, but they must remain here until the matter of your presence under this roof is settled one way or the other.’

She turned sharply, her back very straight, and reopened the door to lead the way into a vast kitchen that was one of a series of kitchens, each opening through a wide archway into another as far as the eye could see. All the servants present looked at them, but carried on with their tasks. Two of the maids, who were folding cloths, were called forward.

‘Take these Frenchwomen to one of the empty bedrooms in the servants’ quarters and also show them where the privies are. See that the beds are made up and the stove lit. Then bring them back here.’

‘Yes, Madame Rostova.’

The maids took lamps and led the new arrivals out of the kitchen. Immediately they showed a friendlier side as well as being full of curiosity. Although their French had a strong Russian accent they were fluent in the language.

‘Have you come to work here? Don’t be scared of that old scarecrow. She thinks she’s as important as the Empress herself when she is on duty. Are you really here to sew for Her Imperial Majesty? How long has it taken you to get here?’

Marguerite and the others answered their questions up two flights of stairs and along many corridors until they were shown into a narrow, comfortless room with beds hung with simple draperies and with a rolled-up feather mattress at the end of each one. A crimson-tiled, floor-to-ceiling stove was in one corner and there were two washstands with ewers and basins, but in spite of the curtained windows the room was icy cold. Sophie moaned, shivering with cold as she rubbed her arms and sank down on the bare boards of the nearest bed.

‘We’re going to die of hunger or freeze to death before morning.’

‘Don’t fret,’ the younger maid said cheerfully, going towards the stove with a tinderbox. ‘You’ll be given some supper and it will be hot in here in no time. If you stoke up the stove before you go to sleep it will still be warm in the morning. You’ll all be as snug as bugs in a rug.’

Almost at once a fire was roaring behind the grating and soon afterwards a lackey arrived with a large basket full of logs, which he set down before leaving again.

Warmth was radiating pleasantly around the room by the time the maids finished making up the beds and led the way downstairs again. In one of the kitchens the Frenchwomen sat down to enjoy a thick and tasty bean soup with chunks of good bread and a light beer to drink. Well fed and tired in every limb they all slept as soon as they had climbed into bed.

Marguerite was the first to wake in the morning at a pounding on the door and a voice shouting that it was time to get up. Some of the women stirred, but tucked down again. She slipped out of bed and stoked up the stove, which crackled as the embers leapt into flames around the logs. There was no telling what time it was, but the window, in spite of a web of frost, enabled her to see out. The skyline of the city was almost ethereal in the dawn light.

‘I’m here,’ she whispered triumphantly, ‘and here I’m going to stay!’