Jan sailed for home without Marguerite seeing him again. After a while, particularly when there had been a harassing day at work, she went to his apartment for a quiet hour or two.
The peace of it was particularly welcome after Jeanne and Violette had clashed in one of their noisy quarrels or there had been a hitch over a faulty fabric or some other worrying matter. She would have coffee served to her in the Dutch way by Saskia, for Jan had always preferred it to tea just as she did, although both had been luxuries beyond her purse when she had worked in Paris . . . If the Dutchwoman was not there, she would make her own, always buying a fresh portion of coffee beans to replace whatever was used. She began to think of the apartment as her own ‘hermitage’.
Jan had not taken his grandfather’s portrait with him. Sometimes, glancing up at it, she had the fanciful notion that he had left it for the clear gaze of those penetrating eyes to keep a watch on her.
Isabelle, flushed with success, had arrived back in the city shortly before the return of the court to the Winter Palace. The Grand Duchess had worn the finished flower gown to the end-of-summer ball and it had been greatly admired. Marguerite, knowing Elisabeth’s savage ways, guessed that it had given her malicious satisfaction to inform Catherine that she had lost her favourite designer.
Elisabeth’s eyes gleamed when she saw the exquisite embroidery of the opal gown: the entwining leaves of a vine in a delicate pattern had the opaque sequins hanging in small, shimmering bunches like grapes all over the skirt, which parted in the front to reveal the palest green underskirt. She would wear it in Moscow for the New Year celebrations and the Frenchwoman must bring it personally. It would add proverbial salt to the wound she had already inflicted on Catherine.
Sarah had returned from Oranienbaum to the city on her own. ‘Tom is staying on for a while. There is something else he has been asked to do. How lovely it is there, Marguerite! But I was ready to come back here as soon as summer lost its warmth. In your last letter you mentioned that you would be going to Moscow later on and I also wanted to see you before you left.’
‘It won’t be quite yet.’
They talked on, Marguerite flinching inwardly whenever Tom’s name came into the conversation.
Sophie and Valentin were married on a windy day that was blowing the coppery leaves from the trees. Her compatriots gave a party for her on the previous evening and she realized how much she was going to miss their daily company.
‘You must all visit me often,’ she cried, kissing and hugging each of them in turn.
When morning came they all helped her dress in her cream velvet gown. On her head she wore the pearl-studded and fan-shaped Russian headdress that Valentin’s late mother had worn on her wedding day.
In the church the Frenchwomen were outnumbered many times over by the large gathering of Valentin’s relatives. Jeanne would have liked to sit down, but that was not the custom for any service and there were no seats anywhere, everybody standing for the entire ceremony. Sophie was as conventionally radiant as brides were supposed to be and Valentin stood very straight and proud. There was an exchange of rings, vows were made and prayers said as the traditional gold crowns were held over the bridal couple’s heads. When they emerged from the church the first snowflakes of winter had begun to fall.
The celebrations followed with feasting and many toasts. Afterwards there was music and dancing as well as the singing of Russian love songs by three of Valentin’s male cousins, who had magnificent baritone voices. The highlight of the occasion for Violette was meeting another of the bridegroom’s relatives, Grigori Batalov, a colonel of the Imperial Guard, who was there with his dull little wife, only her diamonds giving her any sparkle. He was a fine-looking man in his mid-fifties with a straight, military bearing, and Violette recognized instantly the predatory look that he gave her from under his hooded lids as they were presented to each other.
‘Your servant, mademoiselle,’ he said in a strong, deep voice. ‘I hope you are not missing your own country too much while you are here.’
‘At times, Colonel,’ she admitted, ‘but I have settled down quite well.’
After that she knew his gaze was following her wherever she was in the room and she made a point of being charming to his wife, sitting with her for a while. Although later Grigori Batalov partnered Violette only once in a dance it was long enough for a secret rendezvous to be arranged for the next evening. His wife, watching them out of the corner of her eye while chatting to someone, had recognized all the signs. She sighed inwardly, fluttering her fan, and wondered how long this new mistress would last.
Marguerite, having lost an important member of her work force, promoted Isabelle to take over the delicate embroidery that Sophie had done best. She had also decided to take the girl with her again when she went to Moscow, not knowing what amount of work might await her there.
That first snowfall had vanished the next day, it being said that snow had to fall three times before it stayed, but soon winter’s grip was on the land. Again the Court was stirring and before long the picturesque exodus took place once more. The Court was to stay for a while again at the Holy City of Kiev where Elisabeth could once again seek forgiveness for her sins in the cathedral there.
Marguerite intended to arrive in Moscow before Christmas. Isabelle, although excited at the prospect of seeing Moscow, was privately not so eager to accompany Marguerite as before. She had met a young Russian, named Mikail Legotin, who spoke French fluently and came from a well-appointed home. She knew, because unknown to anyone else, she had had tea there on her first visit. Since then she had been there many times.
It had happened when Rose and the Pomfret girls had run ahead of her, afraid they would miss the boating trip on the Neva that had been arranged. They had not seen her trip and fall headlong. Even if they had, she was not sure that they would have come back for her, being more likely to call over their shoulders to hurry up and come along as the boat would not wait. But she had landed on the doorstep of the Legotin family home, hitting her head severely on the handrail, just as Mikail opened the door to come out.
Square-shouldered and sturdily built with kindly blue eyes in a strong-chinned, freckled face, his curly reddish hair rebelling against the ribbon holding it back under his tricorne hat, he had bent down immediately to help her to her feet.
‘Are you hurt?’ he had exclaimed with concern. ‘You’ve cut your forehead! There’s a bump coming up like an egg already!’ When she had swayed, feeling dazed by pain and shock, a trickle of blood running down her face, he had called to his sister indoors, ‘Anna! Come quickly!’
Together they had helped her into the house. As she lay on the sofa his mother had bathed her wound from the bowl of water, which Anna had fetched, and bound it up until the bleeding stopped. By then she had begun feeling better and was able to sit upright and drink tea with them. That was how it had all begun. But he was her secret. All too often at the Pomfret house when one of the young Englishmen paid her attention, Rose was unable to resist flirting him away from her. She did not want that to happen with Mikail and was waiting the chance to ask Marguerite about it. There was also another more serious matter that she wanted to discuss, but there should be plenty of opportunities to talk on the long journey to Moscow.
Isabelle knew she would miss Mikail achingly, for she lived for the times when they could be together. When he discovered she could sing he would accompany her on his lute, either when they were on their own or for the benefit of his family or, more often, at gatherings of his friends, which were fast becoming hers too. Sometimes he would sing with her, having a good voice himself. She had come to realize that music was an integral part of Russian life.
He always held her hand when they walked together, but it was only recently after they had been to a fair on the ice one evening that he had kissed her for the first time, declaring that he loved her. It had been the happiest moment she had ever known. They were both aware that nothing could come of it for a time. He had his medical studies to finish with a local doctor and that would take another two or three years. Although his family approved of her, he knew there would be implacable opposition by his father to an official betrothal before he was qualified.
‘But then I’ll start a practice of my own and we shall marry, Isabelle. Nothing shall keep us apart!’
It was then that he had given her a ring to symbolize the bond between them: a ruby set in gold. She had shed tears of joy. For the first time in her life she felt truly loved. She wore the ring on a chain around her neck. Nobody else had seen it.
Yet at the same time it was as if a black cloud, which she had managed with time to drive from her horizon, had risen again like an ominous threat. How would he feel about her if he knew her stepfather had taken her virginity from her in childhood and that she was a murderess? The thought kept her awake at night and troubled her by day. At least she would be able to unburden herself to Marguerite, who had been so compassionate when she had made her original confession.
Marguerite, all unaware, made ready for the journey ahead. Jeanne was to be left in charge and Agrippina had loaned two of her best seamstresses to cover the gaps that would be left by Isabelle and herself.
On the morning of departure Isabelle received a last-minute love letter from Mikail, wishing her a safe journey and expressing his longing already for her return. She had just enough time to write an equally loving reply. She left the letter on the shelf where Igor would collect and deliver it. He had long since become friendly with all the Frenchwomen and saw himself as their special messenger and informant.
Rose’s sharp eyes had seen Isabelle put the letter there and guessed who the recipient would be. When Isabelle had taken to going off on her own more than usual Rose, becoming curious, had followed her one day and seen her meet a young man, each transparently overjoyed to see the other. From behind a post she had watched him assist Isabelle into one of the rowing boats for hire on the canals before taking the oars to row away, both of them talking and laughing together. Apart from being piqued that Isabelle had not told her about him, Rose experienced a shaft of unreasonable jealousy.
Nobody in the sewing room noticed when Rose, passing the shelf, took the letter and slipped it swiftly into her apron pocket. Later she slid the blade of a knife carefully under its wax seal and read it. Then she sealed it up again, a triumphant smile on her lips. She would deliver it to Mikail Legotin. He had looked far more entertaining company than all the young Englishmen she had met, most of whom had begun to bore her.
Marguerite and Isabelle discovered they would not be travelling on their own. A courier, who was a quiet, pleasant man, was already in the carriage. It smoothed the journey for them, even after they had to transfer to sledges not long after leaving St Petersburg, for there was always a change of good horses at posting stations and he ensured that they had accommodation that was as comfortable as his own. Sharing a room with Marguerite meant that Isabelle could at last pour out her worries in private to her.
‘I used to think I could never endure marriage with anyone,’ Isabelle said after they had talked for a while. ‘The horror of my stepfather always loomed up at me. But,’ she added wonderingly, ‘since meeting Mikail I know my love for him would sweep all my terrible memories away.’
‘Yes, that is how it would be,’ Marguerite said reassuringly, for even if all Isabelle had said of him was seen wholly through the eyes of love he still sounded kind-hearted and sensible.
‘But how can I be sure that Mikail won’t think ill of me?’ Isabelle exclaimed desparingly, her fists clenched in her anguish.
Marguerite looked into the girl’s unhappy eyes and although she regretted what she had to say it had to be said. ‘As you know only too well, after the way you were abused from childhood onwards he would know on your wedding night that you were no longer a virgin. You will have to decide whether to tell him the truth beforehand or suffer his hurt and disappointment that another has already possessed you. The possibility has to be faced that he might fly into a jealous rage and not be prepared to believe anything you have to say. It could destroy all chance of a happy marriage for you both.’
‘How cruel you are to say all this to me!’ Isabelle’s voice broke on a terrible sob, bowing her head in her abject misery.
Marguerite put a comforting arm about the girl’s shoulders and spoke gently and encouragingly to her. ‘No, it’s to help you face facts. Yet you seem to have forgotten the most important fact of all, which you must never forget. If he truly loves you then there is nothing – and nobody – that could ever separate you from each other.’
For a little while Isabelle did not speak. Then she raised her head slowly, her lashes wet from her tears, her decision painfully made. ‘Then one day I must tell him,’ she said in a broken voice, ‘whatever the outcome. But not for a long time yet.’
When Marguerite and Isabelle arrived in Moscow they saw the Kremlin looming ahead with its high, rust-red walls and turrets topped with snow. Their sledge swept through the great gates and they were in a city within a city. Palaces and cathedrals, churches, barracks, armouries and fine houses were to be seen on all sides. The Empress was residing in the largest palace of them all.
The first news the Frenchwomen were given was that Catherine had had a terrible miscarriage and had hovered between life and death for thirteen days. She was now recuperating, but still very weak. Marguerite wished she could see her, but that was impossible. Nor could she manage to gain access to the Empress’s presence and none of the court ladies knew what was expected of her other than that she should present the special gown on New Year’s Eve.
Irritated by being idle, she visited the sewing rooms in the Palace where she could see plenty of rich gowns in progress, but the woman in charge was hostile, perhaps fearful of being usurped. Marguerite soon left. After that, although it was bitterly cold, she and Isabelle visited the cathedrals and churches both for private prayer and to view the magnificent interiors. They gained permission to enter a great library and afterwards they spent much of their time there.
Isabelle’s prayers were always for Mikail’s understanding when eventually she told him everything. She knew it was impossible to hope for a letter for a long time yet, even if he wrote an answer immediately to the one she had left for him. It had taken twenty-three days for her and Marguerite to journey to Moscow and that was because there had been no bad snowstorms to hinder them and good horses all the way. But she wrote to him, not caring how long her letters took to reach him, for it comforted her to write of her love and helped her to bridge the distance between them.
In St Petersburg Mikail was writing regularly to her, but unbeknown to him the letters never left the city. After his first meeting with Rose, who had brought Isabelle’s letter to him, he had entrusted each one of his own to her. She had said that she knew the footman who collected letters to give to one of the couriers that rode horseback to Moscow, and she could ask for the letters to Isabelle to be included. That would ensure speedy delivery. It also meant that he saw Rose far more often than he had originally intended. She was lively and pretty, a born flirt, who knew how to entice and encourage. He had known girls like her before and enjoyed her easy kisses. The old adage went through his mind of having a good girl to marry and a bad one to bed.
Unexpectedly Marguerite received a letter far sooner than expected from Sarah. It had come with an English acquaintance, who had travelled to Moscow on business. She had written that Tom would soon be coming on his own to Moscow as she could not face the long journey in such cruel winter weather and was staying at home. The rest of the letter held inconsequential news about mutual acquaintances. Marguerite crushed the letter in her hand despairingly.
On New Year’s Eve Marguerite and Isabelle carried the opal gown between them to the Empress’s apartment. A light cloth covered it, because Elisabeth wanted nobody to see it before she appeared in it, not even her ladies. When Marguerite and Isabelle entered her presence she stood in her petticoats, tightly corseted with the padded panniers protruding over her hips. Standing against the background of her crimson silk-panelled room and velvet bed-hangings, she looked proud and beautiful, ready to be adorned in a gown that would truly do her justice.
When Marguerite had finished lacing the back of the bodice Elisabeth chose the jewellery she would wear. Then she regarded her reflection in a looking glass and gave a smiling nod of complete satisfaction.
She gave no word of praise, but turned to Marguerite. ‘You will attire yourself in whatever happens to be your best gown and await instructions in the Malachite Room. Now go!’
Marguerite, uneasy at this inexplicable command, hurried away with Isabelle, both of them trying to guess what the reason might be. She had an apricot-silk panniered gown to wear, which she had made for Sophie’s wedding. When Isabelle had fastened the back of the bodice for her, she put on a pearl necklace and earrings that her sister had given her on a natal day.
‘You look lovely!’ Isabelle enthused, standing back admiringly.
In the Malachite Room pillars of the rich green stone set off the cream and gold of the decor and great vases of the same mineral stood on rosewood cabinets. She could hear the palace orchestra in the stateroom nearby. After studying the paintings, some of which were French, she sat down to wait. Before long two ladies of the Court entered the room.
‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ one demanded arrogantly.
‘I’m here at Her Imperial Majesty’s instructions.’
The woman shrugged and turned away to sit gossiping with her companion, both ignoring her. When there came the distant sound of a fanfare announcing the arrival of the Empress in the stateroom they both sprang up to give a final touch to their hair and fuss with the frills of their low-cut necklines in front of a gilt-framed pier glass. But it was some time before the marquetry-ornamented double doors were opened by a footman and they went out into the corridor leading to the stateroom.
Marguerite had remained seated, but the footman nodded at her. ‘You, too, mam’selle.’
‘What’s happening? I don’t understand.’
‘You’re being given the chance to watch this evening’s Portrait Ceremony, which doesn’t happen very often. It’s when Her Imperial Majesty gives a small diamond-framed miniature of herself to be worn only by her most favoured ladies. The two who were in here, Baroness Boristova and Countess Mikalova, are the lucky ones tonight. It’s one of the highest honours the Empress can bestow.’
‘That will be interesting to see!’ As Marguerite left the room she thought how unexpectedly magnanimous it was of the Empress to allow her to be present. It showed how pleased she was with the gown.
Marguerite entered the enormous, glittering room and swiftly took up an unobtrusive place by the wall. Many hundreds of sumptuously dressed people were present, gathered on both sides without any crowding in such space to allow a wide aisle where the two ladies were advancing side by side towards the foot of the imperial dais. There, under a crimson canopy, the Empress sat grandly in her shimmering gown. The double-headed Russian eagle was emblazoned in gold on the velvet hanging behind her. Peter was on her right and on her left was Catherine, who looked thinner in the face, but any pallor that might be lingering in her cheeks was hidden by the skilful use of cosmetics.
Elisabeth stood as the two ladies before her dipped in their deep curtsies. Countess Mikalova stepped forward first and her citation was read out to the assemblage. When it was finished Elisabeth took one of the two miniatures from a cushion, held by a page on one knee, and pinned it on her, afterwards kissing her on both cheeks.
As she withdrew Baroness Boristova stepped forward. Elisabeth, bland-faced, regarded the woman’s smug expression with inner hatred. This was the creature who had dared to laugh when once she had slipped and fallen in an undignified manner. As if that were not enough this detestable creature had spread gossip that she had to pay her lovers to perform! She, whom men had always adored and still came to with love and passion!
‘Wait!’ she ordered sharply when the citation was about to be read. ‘There has been a great mistake! Baroness Boristova is not deserving of this honour with her contemptuous duplicity and infamous lies! Take her from my sight! I never want to look upon her countenance again!’
Revenge was so very sweet. The Baroness had turned ashen, taking a step back in shock before bursting out words of denial and appeal. Elisabeth waved her away in disdain and the stricken woman almost fell into the arms of her husband, who had rushed forward while the rest of the Court stood as if frozen. The courtier who had read the first citation received a signal to continue. His voice boomed out clearly again as the weeping Baroness was led away.
‘The second portrait is awarded to Mademoiselle Marguerite Laurent, for her matchless skills and inspiration in creating masterpieces for Russia! These will be saved for posterity in order that in future centuries her work will still be seen and admired.’
Konstantin, who had seen Marguerite come into the room, had been edging his way behind the other spectators to reach her. He was in time to give her a thrust, for she seemed rooted to the floor.
‘Go on! You can’t keep Mother Russia waiting!’
The silence in the great room was almost palpable. Marguerite began the seemingly endless walk up the shining, parquet-patterned floor to the dais. Some of the spectators were not altogether surprised by this development, for the Empress had rewarded others of humble station in her time. Among the elderly were those who had witnessed Peter the Great doing the same. Yet what shocked everybody, even though they had seen the Empress wreak vicious tricks on numbers of distinguished people before, was the terrible humiliation of the Baroness and the supplanting of her by a seamstress. For that reason alone a wave of hostility from many of those present swept towards the young woman advancing towards the Empress, the glow of hundreds of candles highlighting her hair to flecks of copper and gold. They watched almost in disbelief as the Empress smiled and spoke to the Frenchwoman while pinning the miniature on to her bodice.
Then the ceremony was over and the orchestra struck up for dancing. There were congratulatory gatherings flowing around Countess Mikalova, but nobody came to Marguerite, except Konstantin. He was suddenly in front of her, smiling widely.
‘My felicitations! Well done!’ He took her hand ready to draw her into the dance as soon as the Empress took the floor. ‘But,’ he added in a low voice only for her ears, ‘although you’ve gained court status with the honour, don’t be disappointed if you’re not allowed to keep the miniature.’
‘Why should that be?’
Couples were lining up behind the Empress and her partner, their hands linked high. Konstantin drew Marguerite into the line and the dance began.
‘We can’t talk about it here! Nor should we leave before the Empress, but there are about three thousand people present tonight and we’ll not be missed for a little while. We can come back in time to welcome the New Year.’
In the throng it was easy to slip through a door unnoticed and they went along the passage to the Malachite Room.
‘Now tell me,’ she said when they stood facing each other. The thought of surrendering the miniature did not trouble her in the least. She had no wish to be involved with the Court, who in any case had shown clearly enough they did not want her in their midst.
He turned from tugging at the bell-pull. ‘Sit down, for God’s sake, Marguerite. We want a drink before we talk.’
A footman came at once and a few minutes later brought cognac, wine and vodka on a silver tray. Konstantin dismissed him and poured the drinks himself. By then she was seated on a sofa and he gave her a glass of wine before returning to the tray, where he downed three vodkas before pulling up a chair to sit opposite her, a fourth in his hand.
‘That’s better,’ he said with satisfaction.
‘So what do you think will be the outcome of tonight?’ she queried.
‘The Empress made a tool of you this evening to settle in the cruellest way possible some real or imagined slight inflicted on her by the Baroness,’ he said bluntly, keeping to himself how he alone had known of it beforehand. ‘I’ve no doubt at all that whatever gowns you’ve made the Empress will be stored with the rest of her discarded garments, but whether they will ever see the light of day again is questionable. She is a devious woman. You’ve served your purpose this evening. Don’t pin any high hopes on the outcome.’
Marguerite raised her eyebrows. ‘That thought never entered my head.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. But there is a credit side to all this.’
‘Oh? And what may that be?’
‘It’s because the Empress acknowledged you before the whole Court that your new status cannot be eradicated. It means that socially you are equal now to anyone in that stateroom.’ His voice took on a teasing note. ‘You and I could marry tomorrow without a single objection being raised.’
She flung back her head and laughed. ‘What a ridiculous situation! I’m certain the Empress expects me to return to my sewing rooms in St Petersburg as soon as possible now to carry on as if this evening had never happened.’
He frowned. ‘Maybe, but at least for the time being make the most of the new privileges to which you are now entitled. We can avoid the boring court functions and attend the rest. So let us enjoy some time together.’ A smile spread across his mouth again. ‘You’ll be able to unmask freely at the end of a ball without being afraid of being sent back to France as you were before. It will be fun!’
Fun. Yes, she believed it would be. Nothing else he might have said could have been more persuasive. His words had made her realize that work, laden with responsibilities, had dominated her time since the day she had arrived in St Petersburg. There had been traumatic happenings, as with Tom, and some happy occasions linked with Jan as well as with her fellow countrywomen, but unbounded fun coinciding with no work on her hands was something not to be missed. A burst of excited anticipation rang in her voice. ‘Very well! And I shall make my own mask!’
His face shone with triumph. ‘Tomorrow evening I shall dance you off your feet!’
They returned to the stateroom where couples were twirling in a gavotte and they were soon lost amid the other dancers, not knowing they had been observed. Elisabeth’s sharp eyes missed nothing.
When Tom arrived three weeks later he tried in vain to see Marguerite, for she was always out having riding lessons or at a party or some other social function. Isabelle, who had not met him before, even though she had been in the same taproom when he had come for his wife in Riga, was glad when he called. She thought him a pleasant man and was thankful for the diversion of his company whenever he stayed for an hour or two while hoping for Marguerite’s return. By now she had been looking daily for a letter from Mikail, but nothing had come and she was beginning to be anxious. Her self-confidence, which had been built up by both his love and her success at work, began to crumble and self-doubts assailed her more and more as Mikail’s letters failed to come.
As for Tom, she had supposed at first that he was simply calling on Marguerite as a friend, but now she had her doubts. There had been a glint of anger in his eyes when she had mentioned that Captain Dashiski was giving Marguerite a wonderful time in a round of banquets and balls, gaming parties and masquerades. Nor did he seem appeased when she added that she herself had been with them sometimes to plays and concerts. His face always clouded with disappointment when he found that Marguerite was absent yet again and she began to feel quite sorry for him. She tried talking to Marguerite on his behalf.
‘He always tells me when he’s coming again. Why won’t you make time to see him?’
Marguerite sighed. ‘If I happened to be here I would see him, of course.’
‘He’s in love with you, isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’ The answer had come without expression.
‘But he’s a married man!’ Isabelle flushed and bit her lip. ‘How foolish of me to say that! It’s just that he has such a sweet wife.’
‘Yes, he has. She is my friend and my loyalty is to her.’
‘If he’s not taking no for an answer tell him something! Say you’re going to marry Konstantin Dashiski!’
Marguerite jerked towards her. ‘What made you say that?’
Isabelle stared at her. ‘He’s asked you, hasn’t he?’ Then she was overwhelmed by her own outspokenness. ‘Forgive me, please. I didn’t mean to pry. Nor have I any right to tell you what to do.’
‘It’s all right, Isabelle. I will see Tom. You said he’d be coming tomorrow morning? I’ll postpone my riding lesson with Konstantin.’
When Tom arrived Isabelle showed him into the room where Marguerite waited and then left. He had discarded his greatcoat and fur hat before entering and stood, well dressed in a crimson coat and knee breeches with high-booted feet set apart as he and Marguerite faced each other across the short distance between them.
‘How are you, Tom?’ she asked, thinking with anguish that nothing had dispersed the charm he still held for her, even though now she knew it for what it was, a nostalgic illusion that the man she loved was still to be found in this passionate Englishman.
He ignored her query. ‘Why wouldn’t you see me until now?’
‘You know that I’ve been very busy. Mostly enjoying myself. As I’m sure Isabelle has told you, I continue to design and she makes each one up for the fashion dolls, but otherwise we have nothing to do. I’m negotiating her return in a courier’s sledge to St Petersburg, even if I have to stay. She is eager to get back there. Do sit down, Tom.’
Although she took a seat herself he continued to stand. Again he ignored what she had said. ‘I came to Moscow specially to see you.’
She shook her head wearily. ‘I hoped you were not going to say that. Don’t let us get into some pointless discussion about something that can never be.’
‘Listen to me! It’s you I want with me for the rest of my life! Nobody else!’
She regarded him incredulously, rising slowly to her feet again. ‘You’re out of your mind! Sarah loves you! She lives for you!’
‘She thinks she does, but she’s never been a wife to me as I would have wished. She lives in some airy-fairy dream of love and will go on cherishing some idealized image of me wherever she is. She shuts out of her mind anything that threatens to bring her down to earth and that includes the marriage bed!’
‘Don’t you care anything for her?’ Marguerite demanded angrily.
‘Of course I do. Who wouldn’t respond to her gentle charm and her vulnerability, just as one would to a helpless child or a dependent kitten? I was captivated by her when we married, but it was not long before I realized that I had made a terrible mistake. That’s why I sought work abroad, wanting to get her away from her dominating mother and hoping that we could build up a good relationship, but it was not to be.’ He flung out his hands despairingly. ‘Sarah suffocates me with her cloying, unrealistic devotion! Even if you had not come into my life I could not have gone on much longer in these circumstances.’
In her own mind Marguerite felt intense pity for him and for Sarah that they were such a mismatched couple, but there was nothing she could do to solve the matter for either of them.
‘How you settle the crisis in your marriage is entirely between you and Sarah,’ she said, managing to keep an even tone in her voice, ‘but my life is my own and you can have no part in it. I was attracted to you, because you reminded me so much – and still do! – of someone I loved and lost before I left Paris. In you I was seeking the past, refusing to see that it had gone for ever.’
‘But I can be your future instead!’
She shook her head firmly, tortured by the decision she had made. ‘No, Tom.’
‘No matter what you say I’ll not be turned away! There is nothing in this world that can stop me making you my own. You and I belong together for the rest of our lives!’ He was moving towards her, wholly confident that he had only to take her into his arms and all her resistance would melt away. ‘My dearest love!’
‘But I’m going to marry Konstantin Dashiski!’
The words were out almost before she realized it. He halted, rooted by shock, total disbelief in his eyes. She saw his face drain white before his colour flooded back, rising up from his crisp cravat to flood up his cheeks in crimson-hued rage. He swung up his hand as if to strike her, but almost at once he let it fall again to his side. Then, to her sorrow, she saw a terrible sadness sweep over his whole face and he sank into a nearby chair, his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging down limply, his head bowed in abject misery.
‘I don’t know how to bear this,’ he said very quietly.
She had never seen a man so devastated. This breakdown into such terrible despair was dreadful to see. He looked utterly broken.
‘Don’t, Tom,’ she pleaded, dropping to one knee beside him. ‘I’ve never wanted to hurt you, but it has to be.’
After a few moments he raised his head abruptly and looked at her with a rallying fierceness she had not expected to see. ‘I’ll not give up! I’ll have to see you wed before I’ll ever accept losing you!’ Then he seized her face between his hands and devoured her mouth passionately in a long kiss that she could not escape. She remained kneeling, shocked and distressed, as he stood up abruptly and went from the room.
When Isabelle came looking for her she had not moved.