‘Captain Konstantin Dashiski of the Empress’s own bodyguard, at your service.’ He bowed with a click of his heels. ‘Shall you remember that?’
‘I’m getting used to Russian names.’
‘I’ll certainly remember yours, Marguerite.’
She had already turned away to press down the door handle and re-enter the other room. Instantly Peter jerked her in and slammed the door behind her. She had not realized she still had blood on her cheek from the cut that Peter had inflicted on her and he was viewing it in triumph.
‘Look! Our tenth gunner has been wounded already! What a brave fellow!’ Then he gave her a shove. ‘Get over there! Your place is at that spare cannon.’ He pointed to a container of spills on a side table. ‘Take one of those spills, light it in the candle flame and use it to ignite the wick of the cannon when I give the command.’
She took her allotted place behind a model cannon on the table. Her anger against the Grand Duke strengthened her courage and she followed Konstantin’s advice. ‘Her Imperial Majesty wouldn’t wish me to burn my embroidery fingers!’
Her mention of the Empress had an immediate effect on Peter, who was momentarily taken aback. To her exasperation he did not dismiss her, but hesitated only briefly before snatching up a spare pair of white gloves from a side table.
‘Put these on! You should have had them on in the first place.’
They fitted, and she guessed they were of the size worn by the row of young drummer boys, who stood lined up on a dais beyond the table.
She examined the cannon and saw the protruding wick, which she would have to replace from a bowl of wicks if this objectionable Grand Duke should demand a second volley. Her neighbour showed her what to do.
‘The ends of these wicks have a substance on the end. Be sure not to put two wicks in by mistake,’ he warned, ‘or you’ll blow your hand off.’
She knew this could not be true, having caught the flicker of amused glances that passed along the faces of the menservants. As they stepped forward at Peter’s suddenly barked command she viewed the table quickly. It was laid out realistically in hills and valleys with miniature villages, silvery rivers and winding roads. Battalions of model soldiers and cavalry were in position, stiff little banners representing individual regimental colours showing brightly here and there.
‘Fire!’ Peter roared.
Instantly it was as if chaos had been let loose. The cannons fired with puffs of smoke, the drummers drummed, and all the time realistic screams, groans and yells came from those hidden from view under the table for the realistic sounds of the injured and dying on the battlefield. Strips of brass attached to the table were being shaken, accurately representing the sound of shells exploding. She had fumbled a little in lighting her cannon the first time, hindered by her gloves, but afterwards she was quick enough.
‘Charge!’ Peter almost screamed the command this time, dancing with wild excitement, and the menservants controlled the advance or retreat of the foot soldiers with a wide-ended propelling stick and sent the cavalry in two different directions. Peter himself had a long thin rod with a silver tip in his hand and kept leaning forward to knock down those that he had decided were wounded or killed. Once, when one of the servants made a clumsy move, inadvertently misplacing some cavalry, Peter screamed with rage, slashing down on the man’s hand with his rod and causing blood to burst forth through his white glove, the sight of which seemed to excite Peter still further. ‘On your knees! Traitor! Spy! Coward!’
The man obeyed and Peter beat him forcefully across the shoulders before ordering him out of the room. The mad war game continued unabated, and another hour went by before Peter declared on a raucously triumphant shout that victory belonged to the Holstein battalions.
‘It’s always the Prussians that win,’ Marguerite’s neighbour muttered angrily to her.
The room had filled with smoke and on the table lay the fallen military, but the game was not over yet. Peter drilled the menservants for another half an hour, making them march up and down the long room before he finally halted them. Then the drummer boys received an order to march away. Marguerite, remaining with the other gunners by their cannons, was astonished to see that on the order to ‘Fall out!’ the menservants began to relax, talking amongst themselves as if Peter were no longer in the room; but then the explanation came in his exuberant shout.
‘After such a great victory we must celebrate, my brave warriors! Get out the vodka! Some carousing is in order!’
The footmen, including those playing the part of gunners, were loosening their high-necked collars, some tossing their uniform jackets aside to relax in their shirtsleeves. All started ambling through a far pair of doors into a neighbouring salon with Peter skipping ahead to lead the way. As she watched she saw the men throwing themselves down into the sofas, one hooking his leg over a chair arm where he sprawled, a booted leg swinging. It seemed as if one of the drunken bouts that the Grand Duke enjoyed with his servants was about to take place, although she had heard that he punished them quickly enough if they took liberties he did not condone.
She hesitated no longer and seized the opportunity to slip back into the library. Konstantin Dashiski was no longer there and for a few moments she rested her back against the door as she thought over all she had witnessed. What sort of tsar would Russia have in Peter when the time came? Apart from his eccentric behaviour and his lack of feeling for others, he seemed to care only for war. She feared for the Russian people under his rule and was filled with pity for Catherine being married to such a man.
Abruptly she began throwing off her uniform and when dressed again she left the library to hurry away down the corridor. The gown was still lying where it had been flung and appeared to be unharmed. She gathered it up quickly and continued on her way. Back in her own room she cleaned the dried blood and the grime of the cannon fire from her face. Knowing the smell of smoke must be hanging on to her, she put her garments to be laundered, bathed herself and washed her hair vigorously. She hoped never to be involved in any of the Grand Duke’s war games again.
In contrast, many pleasant sessions followed with Catherine as they discussed future garments. There were other meetings, quite daunting in some ways, with the Empress herself. As at their previous meeting, Elisabeth did not enter into any discussion, but stated what she required, leaving Marguerite to make each garment beautiful and more eye-catching than anything she had worn before.
The peacock gown had been a total and delightful surprise to Elisabeth. She saw immediately what a sensation it would cause. Privately she thought it the most glorious garment made for her since her coronation splendour of silver brocade and gold lace. Immediately she had planned to wear it at a forthcoming great occasion when she would be hosting a grand assembly of foreign dignitaries, including two crowned heads.
When that evening came Agrippina, who had generously praised the finished garment and all the work that had gone into it, showed Marguerite where she could see the Empress enter the gilded ballroom where the glittering assembly was gathering. It was a spy-hole that could be used for watching or listening, which made Marguerite realize how easily the Empress’s spies could discover palace secrets apart from more subtle methods.
She had a splendid view just a little above head height. The gilded room was a magnificent setting with its marble pillars and the shining parquet floor set in an elaborate pattern of many different woods, which was a characteristic feature of all the palace rooms and hallways. The great chandeliers, dripping with crystal, made the jewels and decorations of the company sparkle gloriously and shone on the gold and silver lace that lavishly trimmed the elegant clothes of both sexes. Marguerite could see that this was a highly fashionable event that could equal any royal occasion at Versailles.
Suddenly there came a fanfare from the trumpeters. The doors opened and Elisabeth appeared, looking as proud and beautiful as a peacock herself. Always graceful, she paused to bow her head forward and to the rig
ht and to the left in the Russian way before advancing slowly towards the canopied throne on the dais. The double-headed Russian eagle was emblazoned in gold on the crimson drapery behind it.
Her wide-panniered skirt flowed with the embroidered feathers, the glow of the jewelled eyes echoed in the emerald and diamond fan-shaped Russian headdress she wore at the back of her powdered head. She knew she was a truly magnificent sight and that none present would ever forget seeing her in the glorious gown. There was added satisfaction in glimpsing the Comtesse d’Oinville’s tight-lipped expression.
At the spy-hole Marguerite sighed with satisfaction. She thought of the many hours that she and her companions had spent on the gown – the thousands of long and short stitches, the variety of stem, satin, fly and fishbone ones and the hundreds of French knots. There was also the delicate work with couched gold thread, all of which had created it. Thankfully it had been worthwhile. She knew without doubt that she had established herself as a designer on whom the Empress could rely for an outstanding garment at any time.
As the Grand Duke and Duchess followed the Empress in the procession Marguerite was shocked to see that instead of appearing in Russian uniform Peter was wearing the pale-blue uniform of a general in the Holstein Dragoons. He was the administrator of the German Duchy of Holstein and she had heard how he loved to wear this particular foreign uniform. But tonight it was an insult to the Empress as if he were aligning his loyalty with her enemy Frederick II of Prussia and his German empire in the very heart of Imperial Russia.
Marguerite wondered how Catherine felt about his act of contempt, knowing from how she had talked sometimes that she truly loved her adopted country. Her husband’s disloyal obsession with Prussia was surely a constant irritant to her, although she never showed it.
In Elisabeth’s wake, Catherine smiled in acknowledgement of the rustling curtsies and deep bows given to her and Peter in their turn, but inwardly she was full of sick dread as to what would happen when the Empress saw what her heir was wearing. He had been late joining the procession and as yet his choice of uniform had gone unnoticed by her. He was in one of his good moods, looking forward to the violin recital he would give later to the assemblage, being quite an accomplished violinist, and he only made the occasional grimace at the Empress behind her back. That day he had received a whole new collection of model soldiers from Prussia, the uniforms accurately portrayed, and had promptly donned his present uniform to be in command of them. It was playing with this whole new battalion that had made him late for the procession and he had had no inclination to change his attire for the Empress or anyone else.
Marguerite watched until the Empress had mounted the dais and sat down gracefully with a glorious spread of her skirt on the gilded throne. Then she returned to tell her fellow seamstresses all that she had seen. She missed the moment when Elisabeth’s gaze fell on her nephew for the first time that evening.
Elisabeth, her colour soaring, intense fury blazing in her eyes, threw out her arm to point her finger at him and screeched one word: ‘Go!’
He went happily, totally unembarrassed, and hurried back to his new toys. It was only those among the foreign aristocracy, present for the first time, who felt shocked and uncomfortable. Some wondered momentarily if their eyes and ears had deceived them, for the Empress was treating them to her delightful smile again. It was almost possible to believe that the extraordinary incident had never happened.
Only Catherine guessed that the peacock gown had induced such exultant pride in Elisabeth that it was overcoming all other emotions, even lasting rage.
Marguerite was able to visit Sarah at last. Early one evening when work was over for the day she set off and was passing the Admiralty when she saw that people were crossing the Neva by the bridge. Then she noticed that after four frozen months multiple cracks had at last appeared in the ice and so all foot and wheeled traffic across it had been stopped. Now and again there was a sharp sound like a pistol shot, which startled her until she realized that it was just another splitting of the ice.
She soon found the Warringtons’ house, which was painted a pale yellow. Although it was the Russian custom to dine at two o’clock and the English at five, Sarah had written that dinner would be delayed until she arrived. The door opened promptly at her tug on the bell-pull.
Sarah came running into the hall at her entry, her arms held out. ‘My dear, dear friend!’ she cried in welcome. ‘We meet again at last!’
‘It’s wonderful to see you after all this time!’ Marguerite declared warmly as they embraced, kissed each other’s cheeks and then caught hands, laughing in pleasure at their reunion.
‘I’ve so enjoyed your letters,’ Sarah enthused, ‘but it’s not like being together and chatting together. Come into the drawing room and sit down. Tom sends you his apologies, but he is very busy at the moment and is at a meeting that will keep him until late. Tell me, how have you adjusted to life here? Have you found this winter very long? I know I have! Don’t you think I look well now?’
‘Indeed you do!’ Marguerite declared happily, thinking that Sarah had put on a little weight and did look well, although there was – and probably always would be – a fragility about her and a delicacy of colouring that gave her a vulnerable look as if she were made of porcelain. ‘And this evening I’ve seen that the Neva is beginning to crack, which means that the winter you have found so wearying will soon be at an end.’
‘That’s splendid news! There’s so much I want to ask you and to talk about.’ Then Sarah shook her head slightly and her eyes suddenly brimmed with sentimental tears. ‘After all you did for me I see you as a sister, Marguerite. Say that is how it will always be between us.’
‘I couldn’t wish for anything better.’
‘That makes me so happy!’ Spontaneously she sprang up and gave Marguerite another hug. Then she sat down again, wiped her eyes and, with a smile, chatted on. ‘You must forgive my tears. As you will remember, I do get very emotional at times. Tom is so tolerant. I don’t know how he puts up with my highs and lows. But I don’t want to talk about myself. I heard from a fellow countrywoman next door to us about the peacock gown that the Empress wore at that grand ball. Although my neighbour wasn’t there to see it herself, her daughter was present in the company of a Russian beau and had described how beautiful it was. I told her that I was sure that I knew who had designed it. I’m right, am I not?’
Marguerite nodded, smiling. ‘Yes, you are.’
‘I’m so glad Tom and I will be living in St Petersburg now. I shall be able to hear about all your achievements. He will soon be busy with a new layout for a section of the park at the Palace of Oranienbaum, which is quite a way from here on the shores of the Gulf of Finland. The Empress seems to have palaces all over the place.’
‘I know she has quite a number.’
‘That’s not all,’ Sarah continued excitedly. ‘In Moscow he showed the Empress some designs for a special garden on a section of the roof of the new Winter Palace that is soon to be built. Under glass and with heated stoves in winter a variety of flowers would bloom all the year round!’
‘What a splendid project!’
Before they went in to dinner Sarah showed Marguerite around the house. It was noticeable that, although she had many small objets d’art, which she had bought when living in France, she was happiest in having around her again all the items that were originally from her first home with Tom after their marriage. It had not been far from Windsor Castle, where he had been working and becoming quite well known for his creativeness.
‘You have managed to give this very Russian house quite an English look to it,’ Marguerite commented with interest, ‘even though you’ve only been here a very short time.’
Sarah nodded happily. ‘That was my aim. I wanted this house to look like home. Did you realize that the footman who took your cloak is from England? His former employer recently died. In addition, I’ve an English lady’s maid, who came to me in Moscow, and best
of all’ – she clapped her hands together like a child – ‘I’ve an English cook! Now Tom can have his favourite roast beef which he so enjoys just as if we were really home!’
Over the tasty dinner served with an excellent wine Sarah confessed to suffering agonies of homesickness when they were in Moscow. Even now she was missing her parents more than ever and also her married brother David, who was an officer serving with the Royal Navy. Just speaking of her family made her dab at her eyes.
‘David has such a pretty wife named Alice. She has a baby every time he has shore leave, and I miss seeing the little ones. But now I have you here,’ she added with a brave attempt at a smile again, ‘I’ll not be as lonely as before.’
‘But you always have Tom with you.’
‘He is out so much! In Moscow he was ever at the Empress’s beck and call.’ She sighed. ‘Now he’s going to Oranienbaum and will only get home occasionally.’
When they returned to the drawing room they sat opposite each other as Sarah made tea for them both in an English teapot, adding the tea leaves from a canister before pouring the hot water from a dainty silver kettle on its own stand.
‘I suppose you must have learnt some Russian by now?’ she said inquiringly as she handed a cup to Marguerite.
‘Yes, I have recently increased the number of Russian seamstresses assisting me to eight and I encourage the exchange of languages.’
Sarah sat back triumphantly with her tea. ‘Then I shall teach you English as well! Then when Tom and I are home again some time in the future you shall visit us and I will have found a delightful man for you to marry!’
Marguerite flung back her head and laughed. ‘Then start my lessons at once!’ she joked. ‘What was the name of that English dish we had this evening?’
‘Shepherd’s pie!’
Marguerite repeated the words very accurately before adding with amusement, ‘English shepherds must live very well if that was an example of their diet.’
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