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, onl
y 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.
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