The Chevalier

  He turns back towards us, pointing up the long street away from the bridge. I fear the house we need to visit will not possess the same measure of wealth and solidity.

  We head inland along the Nevsky Prospect, approaching what Monin calls the Fontanka River, and pass a massive wooden edifice that houses a conglomeration of stores and shops. Around it, the houses and their grounds are growing ever larger.

  “What road is this?” I ask, as we swing to the right.

  “Sadovaya Street.” My Lord uncreases the folds upon his map. “It means the street of gardens.”

  I note the Russians can be an admirably literal race. Finally, we come to the biggest garden, house and courtyard of the lot.

  “The Woronzov Palace, my Lord,” Monin shouts down, thereby confounding my gloomy prognostications.

  “Can we drive through the gates?” I ask, while my escort scowls at the main gatekeeper.

  Another dumbshow ensues, in which Monin descends to the ground to negotiate but soon decides distributing coins will be a pointless folly. “They don’t seem too keen to let our carriage pass,” he yells back to us.

  “Have they no respect for foreign visitors?” Lord Douglas is growing irate.

  Monin and the gatekeeper exchange volleys of abuse in different tongues.

  “No, my Lord.”

  “God damn them all,” my protector explodes, “we’d better walk from here.”

  Lord Douglas assists me to the ground, my legs almost numb. I shiver as a strong blast of wind sweeps in from the east. The Palace is extraordinary, a huge frontage of yellow stone, with countless columns picked out in white, supporting a central third floor with a triangular apex, rising above the two stories that suffice elsewhere. The chinking sounds of piece-rate workmen, and the sight of so many others scurrying in all directions, show that parts of it are still taking shape. Its enormous courtyard appears to serve as some sort of paddock for horses to graze in – that, or a cavalry regiment is lodging here.

  So, after careful reconnaissance, my Lord Douglas and I approach the house on foot, picking our way delicately through the ordure. The strong smell of horse droppings reminds me of the more constricted streets of Paris. Finally, we reach the unguarded front door. My escort blows his nose and rings the bell. After a long delay, a servant arrives to open it, regards us with disdain and answers our unspoken question with dismissive haste.

  “The Count is not receiving visitors.”

  “But we’ve come all the way from France,” protests Lord Douglas.

  “You know the way back, then.”

  This is insupportable from a menial. I would have the impudent fellow thrashed and thrown in chains.

  However, my Lord persists: “It’s a matter of great importance.”

  The servant is about to slam the door in our faces when one of the young ladies we saw on the buffs outside the city enters the hallway, unbuttoning her riding habit. It is the smaller of the two, still bubbling with vivacity. I can now verify my earlier assumption that she is really just a girl, around twelve years old, I would guess, with teasing intimations of both womanhood and a certain masculinity.

  “What is the matter, Alexei?” she calls out.

  “Nothing, Princess Katya. These people are just leaving,” our sardonic friend informs her.

  “Can I help you?” she enquires in splendid French with a delightful lilt.

  “Excuse me, Mademoiselle,” I hazard. “Are you Count Woronzov’s daughter?”

  “Niece, actually.” She smiles on me with self-possession way beyond her years.

  “Good.” I unveil my most winning smile in return. “Please can you tell him we have urgent news.”

  She makes as if to study me more closely. “Weren’t you on the hill outside the city this afternoon?”

  “Indeed, we were. We have a letter of introduction to your uncle from the French Court.”

  “Oh, I see. And who are you?” Now she unleashes a glance of some precocity upon my escort.

  “I’m Lord Douglas, a Scottish engineer, travelling to Prague.”

  “Well, I can only say you’re no cartographer, since you are taking such a circuitous route.” My companion forces a sheepish grin. “And you?”

  “Mademoiselle Lia d’Éon de Beaumont. A governess.”

  “Then you’ll do nicely if you’re French.” She showers me with another toothsome smile of dazzling brightness and plucks at the sleeve of my gown. “Elizabeth wants to make it the new fashion.” She gestures to Alexei.

  “Shall I show them in, Princess?” Her servant prepares to surrender the doors.

  “Of course. Come with me,” she says to us. “I want you to meet a friend of mine.”

  Katya beckons, and her servant grudgingly ushers us over the threshold, into the huge hallway and through to a high-ceilinged drawing room, with magnificent gilt panelling and gleaming white walls. She bounds over to take position by the fireplace, now in a young-mannish pose, as we trail in behind her. Lazing on a sofa, the taller of the two riders fixes us with a commanding stare. Her alert, intelligent eyes and long, straight nose stand out against a fine complexion. She is striking: perhaps not beautiful, but certainly intriguing.

  “The Grand Duchess Catherine,” announces Katya. “Catherine, here are two friends arrived from France.”

  “That’s a recommendation?” She is playing at her haughtiness, I can see.

  “Don’t be so stuffy, Catherine.”

  “One of us is really Scottish,” volunteers my Lord.

  Catherine waves the admission aside. “Another race of barbarians.”

  “And this is civilisation?” He spits out the word.

  I think he is about to sabotage my mission before it is even begun. I must act fast. “Lord Douglas is just leaving us,” I say.

  “What?” His confusion is most gratifying.

  “Thank you for escorting me, but I can delay you no longer. Your work in Prague calls.”

  He sits on a nearby chair. “I don’t think a day or two will make any difference.”

  At this point I remember my trump card. I bring out a letter from within my bodice. “Besides, this introduction doesn’t refer to you.” Anything to rid me of him.

  “Let me see that.” My Lord Douglas leaps to his feet and snatches the letter from my hand.

  “It’s for the eyes of Count Woronzov only.” I regard him with a frown of disapproval as he holds it behind his back. I’m close to panic. Douglas is sure to be the ruin of all my schemes. I advance upon him; he backs away toward the fireplace.

  My escort’s unexpected nimbleness is in vain. He has not bargained for a war on two fronts: the lithe Katya is even quicker on her feet. Circling behind him outside his line of vision, she soon whisks the letter from his grasp.

  “I demand you give that back to me,” he storms.

  “Hold on to it, Princess.” I turn to my Lord: “Your escorting duties are over.”

  Katya is now dancing out of his reach behind Catherine’s chaise longue. “On behalf of my uncle, thank you for your services.”

  “Yes, it’s been a pleasure, Lord Douglas,” I say. “Can your man see to my bags?”

  “You little witch…”

  “The Bohemians are waiting.”

  “So we wish you good day.” Katya waves him out. “I’ll send Alexei to assist with the luggage.”

  Catherine’s eyebrows twitch in mild amusement. Alexei shows the supposed Lord Douglas, fuming with ill-concealed rage, to the door.

  * * *

  Outside the palace gates, Monin is loitering by the carriage. He watches as Guerchy crosses the courtyard with a grinning Alexei, but refrains from comment. Scowling, the General points to the governess’s trunk and bags on the carriage roof, and stands aside. The two servants grumble together in a mixture of French and German while they unload them. It starts to spit with rain: Alexei fetches a handcart from the gatehouse and hauls the luggage back into the Palace.

  “What happened, my Lord
?” Monin ventures when the servant’s out of range.

  “Don’t you start, Monin, if you value your life.” Guerchy climbs back into the carriage.

  “Well, I…”

  “The matter is closed – for the moment.” Moving the maps and documents aside, Guerchy sits down. “It seems I am to complete the rest of my assignment.”

  “So? Prague, is it, my Lord?”

  “You must be joking. She won’t get rid of me that easily.” Guerchy slams the carriage door shut.

  Monin prepares to clamber into the driver’s seat. “Where to then, General?”

  “Find some local tavern with a decent table for the night.”

  “Very good, my Lord. I’ve spotted a few. And tomorrow?”

  “Some place in the country, not too far off.”

  * * *

  Katya leads me up the Great Staircase, skipping as I toil in her wake. We cross a vast landing, the young girl accelerating in her eagerness to show me the bedroom. “You will be staying here, Mademoiselle.”

  “I shall consider it a privilege.” Somewhat out of breath, I follow her into a gorgeous chamber, its sky-blue walls and creamy panelling the equal of any such in France.

  “Yes, my room shall be yours.”

  “These are your quarters? I couldn’t possibly take them.”

  “You should, because I’m going to be leaving soon.” She sits back on an embroidered coverlet, hands clasped around her knees. I steal a rapid glance at the bookshelves lined with many of the finest examples of our French philosophers and thinkers. It is a collection whose possession would be rare for anyone, and is unprecedented in so tender a girl.

  “But I don’t quite follow. You are so educated, so free; you live with your uncle who obviously grants you much leeway and every encouragement – and yet you’re moving out?”

  “Of course – I’m going to be married, silly.”

  I find this difficult to credit. “So who is this lucky man, your designated husband?”

  “No one has chosen him for me, I’ve picked him myself. He’s the Prince D’Askov. I’ll be a real princess soon, the Princess D’Askov.” She gives another dazzling smile.

  “Does he know?”

  She thinks a moment. “We-e-ell. He’s aware I’m sweet on him.”

  “But you’re far too young for all this…”

  “Nonsense, it’s so romantic.” She jumps to her feet and twirls around.

  “I’m sorry for you, leaving your youth so early.”

  “Please spare me your concerns. I’m not sorry for myself. And I don’t believe you have met my sister, Elizabeth Woronzova? Mademoiselle Lia d’Éon de Beaumont.”

  An older, taller girl with a plain, somewhat horsey face perched on a full, voluptuous figure emerges from an adjacent bedroom. “How do you do?” She stares at me with equine eyes. The two could not be less alike.

  “Enchanted to meet you,” I dissemble.

  “We call her Lisaveta, so that she does not become confused with the Empress. You see, the Empress Elizabeth will not admit any rivalry.”

  “I understand.” This is ominous.

  “Elizabeth has any woman whipped who she thinks is trespassing on her terrain,” says my young guide with airy insouciance. “You know, copying hairstyles, fashions, gestures, anything at all.”

  Alarmed, I glance at Lisaveta for confirmation. She nods, expressionless.

  Katya giggles. “There is another reason why the Tsarina might wish to flog her.”

  “Be quiet, Katya.” Lisaveta grabs her and stuffs a handkerchief in her mouth, so that the young girl is left helpless, wordless, struggling in her strong sister’s arms. Lisaveta pushes her down upon the bed, face up, and sits astride her, crushing all resistance. Eventually Katya signs that she surrenders. Lisaveta only releases her on sufferance; no further revelations ensue. The ill-matched sisters retire, and I am left to wonder what such a dark reason might be.

  * * *

  Lisaveta does not join us for supper. Nor, despite a place being laid for him at the polished mahogany dining table, one that would not disgrace the Prince de Conti’s Palace, does the elusive Count Woronzov. Servants mill around in the large, sumptuous room, their footsteps echoing on the parquet boards. Catherine is quiet, brooding. Even Katya seems subdued by such over-attention.

  “Where is your uncle?” I enquire at last, fingering the letter couched in my sleeve.

  “There may be matters on which the Empress needs advice,” Katya says. “There often are.”

  “Is he in government?”

  Catherine gives her young friend a warning glance and takes over. “He’s the Vice-Chancellor, so strictly speaking, no. But my mother-in-law finds him more, shall we say sympathetic, than the Chancellor.”

  “And do you not prefer to dine with the Grand Duke?”

  “Not if I can help it. He is too coarse, too infantile, too… Germanic.” Catherine’s abnormally bright eyes cloud over and she shudders a little at the prospect.

  This puzzles me. “I thought you were from Germany yourself?”

  “I am. But there are Germans – and then there are Germans.”

  We are now finishing our meal, which I find most agreeable after several weeks suffering Teutonic and Polish country-inn cuisine. I can see her point.

  “And it’s those Germans in Petersburg who are powerful right now,” says Katya.

  “Then I can assist you here,” I say. “My readings will help the Empress and the Grand Duke to appreciate French thought.”

  “We can’t possibly allow a common traveller into the palace. With all due respect, of course.” Catherine smiles on me with cold superiority, goading me to respond, a temptation I ignore. “Not that my husband would comprehend you anyway.”

  Throwing down her fork, Katya can hold herself in check no longer. “Don’t be so dull, Catherine. There’s too much of that Prussian party at Court. Let’s have some French wit at last.”

  “A female wit?” mocks Catherine. “You intend to enjoy yourself at our expense?”

  “Until I find someone else to pay,” I say.

  Katya bursts out laughing. “You see, Catherine? She’ll be so amusing.”

  Catherine snorts in derision, but she’s unwilling to thwart her young friend. Katya leans forward to address me – my intuition suggests she’s already bewitched by my presence and sees me as a companion. “Rest now, but meet me tomorrow in the wooden Winter Palace – at four, outside the throne room.”

  “What do you mean, wooden?”

  “Elizabeth was fed up with the old one. Said she was feeling the draughts too much. So she’s ordered Rastrelli to redesign and refurbish it completely. That’s why he’s left half our house unfinished.”

  “Meanwhile, he’s thrown up a temporary Winter Palace nearby until the real one’s ready,” says Catherine.

  “So where is it?” I ask.

  “On the corner of the Great Perspective Road, between Malaya Morskaya and Bolshoya Morskaya. Ask anybody the way. Everyone knows it.” Catherine departs, most unwillingly, to attend a party at cards with her husband.

  “Couldn’t you take me there?” I plead with Katya.

  “No chance of that, I’m afraid. We’ll be out riding. Sleep well – and don’t be late.”

  * * *

  Three echoes from nearby church bells reverberate around my room. I glance up to a long clock in the corner for confirmation. Dressed only in my female undergarments, I am sitting at Katya’s dressing table, goose bumps rising on my skin. I start to make up my face, checking each minute touch in the gilded mirror.

  First, I powder a foundation. Next, I line my eyes with a black pencil to bring out their colour and exaggerate the brilliance of the whites. My lips acquire some vermilion, not too much, just enough to show their perfection. Finally, some dabs of rouge highlight the nobility of my cheekbones.

  At last, I’m satisfied. I tie a choker of black velvet round my throat to mask my Adam’s apple: I allow myself a brief sm
ile in the mirror at the effect. I add another layer of upper undergarments, a further judicious padding out of my bosom. I reach for Marie’s best blue dress, the one that will most surely give the impression of a hard-working yet aristocratic governess, and put it on. I make a quick turn and then another, more deliberate, as I check my appearance in the glass.

  Picking up some white kidskin boots with enhanced heels, I slide them onto my stockinged feet and lace them tight from bottom to top. Testing their give, I walk to the far side of the room and, step by slow step, approach the full-length mirror. I look with satisfaction on my increased height.

  Now I must add the final piece to my creation – my wig. It is soft, of whitish grey, and I allow that it is most becoming; I adjust it with utmost care, before I examine it from all angles. Once more, I sashay from across the room towards the mirror. I am content. Anyone can disturb me and take me for a woman.

  There is a quarter hour to spare. I arrange my books in a row on the dressing table, this time according to subject rather than in alphabetical order, then open one at random, and read. However, unusually, the words are not penetrating my mind and I can grasp nothing of their meaning, so I shut the volume, replacing it in its new position. It is necessary that I concentrate. I take up a quill pen and unfurl a scroll. If this bleak lassitude were not afflicting me, I would wish to begin to write. The truth is that my situation is near to overwhelming me. I look through the high windows, fixing my eyes upon the heavens. At last I find the words:

  I am about to venture into the lioness’s lair. Never have I been so close to death, and yet I have never felt more alive. In a few moments, I will face my biggest test, to summon up completely the other half of my being – not just to satisfy my soul but to serve my King. All the actions of the last three months, useful though they have been, were but rehearsals for what must be the greatest performance I can hope to give. It brings a shiver down my spine, the cold chill of potential disaster mingled with the ecstasy of personal fulfilment. Like the progress of the celestial bodies, I feel that I am nearing my zenith. If I do not return, I want the world to know the freedom I have glimpsed.