To Dream of Snow

by Rosalind Laker

  ‘I’ll only be in St Petersburg overnight before escaping from the mosquitoes,’ he said when they had settled in the carriage. ‘Dine with me!’

  She shook her head, smiling. ‘Impossible! I’ve far too much to do when I arrive.’

  He grimaced comically in disappointment, causing her to laugh again. ‘Another time perhaps?’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  A footman, having seen that Major Dashiski was not going to travel in the equipage waiting for him after all, came at a run to transfer a basket of refreshment, for the courier carriage was already moving. Turning the handle, he threw the basket in before slamming the door again. Breathless, he watched it speed away.

  Konstantin pulled the basket into a more secure position. ‘At least you can share a picnic lunch with me. Now you said something about working on the plateau at Oranienbaum. What were you doing there?’

  She told him about the task she had been given and how she had enjoyed it, but all the time she was relating it her thoughts were uncomfortably haunted by Tom, and she changed the subject as soon as was possible.

  As the journey continued Konstantin opened his basket of food to share with her. It had been intended solely for him, but there was plenty for both of them. He unfolded the single napkin on to her lap. Then he poured her wine into the glass while he drank his out of the only other container available, which was the top of his own silver vodka flask that he took from his coat pocket. It was an enjoyable carriage picnic.

  At a fork in the road near St Petersburg when the journey was almost over Marguerite failed to notice another carriage passing in the opposite direction on its way to Peterhof. Its solitary passenger, who was reading with his long legs stretched out in front of him, also failed to glimpse her in the matter of seconds when their windows were level.

  Yet he stirred and put aside his book. Snapping open his fob watch, Jan took note of the time. Not much longer now. On the opposite seat he had some rolled-up paintings in secure coverings. He would give first choice to the Grand Duchess before showing the rest to the Empress. These had all arrived by the second shipment, which had been delayed, and caused him to wait impatiently for it.

  He had expected to spend that time with Marguerite, but had learnt from Jeanne that she was at Oranienbaum. Then yesterday Jeanne had informed him that the Grand Duke and Duchess had moved to Peterhof, which meant that Marguerite, since she was in attendance on the Grand Duchess at the present time, would be there too. This news had coincided with the arrival of the second collection of paintings. During the winter and between business commitments in Amsterdam, he had completed a number of other paintings himself, some of which he also had with him as well as earlier work that previously he had not offered for sale.

  Although he had always had sketching materials with him on his journeys, this time he had also shipped, in a stout wooden box, plenty of powdered colours, oils and brushes as well as his palette. Having started to paint again during the winter he had found that he had taken to the easel again. Just as Dutch painters before him had given their works hidden meanings, he had done the same with his painting for Marguerite, creating a little mystery within it that she must solve for herself.

  His thoughts went back to the night in Riga when he had turned to see her for the first time, her beautiful face aglow with pleasure at the good news she had to tell, her eyes sparkling and the candlelight turning her hair red-gold. She was entirely unaware how she had taken his breath away. He had not known then that Hendrick was acquainted with her until later in the evening, but she had lingered in his mind throughout their business talk over the meal that had been served to them.

  ‘That girl,’ he had said at last, idly twisting the stem of his wine glass with his fingers, ‘the one I was talking to when you sighted me. She was French. You’ve no idea who she is, have you?’

  ‘I didn’t notice her.’

  ‘A beauty in her own way. She mistook me for someone else.’

  ‘That could be the Frenchwoman Marguerite Laurent.’ Hendrick told him why she and her companions had come to Russia and of the care she had taken of Sarah Warrington on the journey. ‘She probably thought you were the Englishwoman’s husband.’ He began looking around for a waiting-maid. ‘Now let’s have another bottle of wine.’

  Jan looked unseeingly out of the carriage window at the passing landscape, which was as flat as the eye could see. That night in Riga had fixed Marguerite in his memory. He had also learned where to find her again. Never before had a woman lingered on in his thoughts as she had done.

  Thirteen

  In the sewing room Marguerite was greeted warmly by her fellow Frenchwomen. Isabelle was particularly glad to see her and eager to show her latest work, which Marguerite studied and praised. Isabelle had all the signs of becoming her best seamstress and embroiderer and was almost certain to rival Jeanne before long.

  ‘You’re doing wonderfully well, Isabelle. I’m very glad to have you in my work team and I’ve a special task in mind for you.’

  The girl glowed with pleasure. Jeanne always checked her work, but never with any encouraging word.

  Marguerite sought out the trimmings she had brought from France. There she found the opaque, opal-hued sequins that she wanted. They were of no intrinsic value, having been bought cheaply on a Parisian market stall, but she intended they should be used to enhance the truly spectacular gown she had designed at Oranienbaum for the most powerful woman in the land.

  ‘There’s a letter from Paris waiting here for you,’ Violette said, fetching it for her. ‘We’ve recognized the writing.’

  Marguerite also saw immediately that it was from Madame Fromont. Although she had written quite regularly to her, knowing how interested she would be to hear about them all, it was the first she had had in return. Sitting down, she read it aloud to them. Their former employer wrote that she had been so pleased to receive two letters, but she could tell from the contents that at least one other had failed to arrive. Although she was housebound she kept up with fashion news and told of new trends. She also gave news of the women still working in her old atelier, two of them being regular visitors, and with her hired companion looking after her she was content. She sent her good wishes to them all.

  There was a little silence when Marguerite finished reading. She looked around at their faces. This voice from Paris had touched each one of them and they all sat motionless with a faraway look in their eyes.

  It was Jeanne who broke the spell. ‘Well, it’s good to know the old lady seems happy enough. Now let’s get back to work.’

  Marguerite was about to leave the sewing rooms when the dressmaker figures of the Empress and the Grand Duchess caught her eye.

  ‘What’s happened to the Empress?’ she exclaimed with a frown. ‘Have her breasts sagged that much?’

  Jeanne nodded. ‘So it seems. We received her new measurements yesterday, hence the extra padding. The courier who brought them told us that not only has she put on weight, but she is not as well as she used to be. But then everybody knows she leads a strange sort of life with all her lovers and her drinking and whatever goes on at her private parties.’

  Marguerite said nothing. Plenty of tales circulated about the Empress’s excesses and debauchery, but how much of it was true she did not know.

  Preparation for the work that she was to take with her took time in the selection of fabrics, the cutting and everything else, but as soon as all was ready she took time to see Sarah on the morning of her departure. She was thankful that her friend would never know of those few brief and dangerous seconds on the plateau when the past had almost overcome the present, for most surely it was Jacques whom she had sought in Tom’s arms, not Tom himself. Yet why did she still have doubts?

  But Sarah was not at home. The housekeeper informed Marguerite that Mr Warrington had taken his wife to Oranienbaum that morning, having promised her some while ago that she should see the results of his work in the park when everything was finis
hed. Marguerite recalled how she had been included in that promise, none of them having known at the time that she would see it for herself.

  ‘When Mistress Warrington returns, please tell her that I called,’ Marguerite said as she left again.

  Back in the sewing room she found Isabelle ready and waiting to accompany her to Peterhof. She had decided earlier that if she took an assistant to get the flower gown completed as quickly as possible she would be able to return earlier to her atelier. At first she had intended to take Rose, but she felt there was always something devious about the girl and decided against it. Isabelle, upon hearing that she had been chosen, had blushed with pleasure. Marguerite thought she was becoming quite pretty in an elfin way.

  The journey to the Palace of Peterhof did not take long. As they passed through the couriers’ gate Marguerite saw at once that Peter the Great’s first country palace was truly beautiful to behold with its amber-hued walls enhanced by white and gold baroque ornamentation, a formal garden spread like a vast and beautiful carpet around it. Gilded statues caught the sun’s blaze and fountains shot arrow-high into the sky, the spray full of rainbows, while terraced waterfalls cascaded in an endless crystal flow. Isabelle was wide-eyed with wonder.

  ‘How splendid it is!’ she exclaimed in awe.

  As soon as they were settled in their rooms Marguerite was told she had been summoned by the Empress and she did not delay in going the short distance to see her at the Summer Palace. She took with her a collection of fashion dolls prepared by Jeanne from the new designs, including one dressed in what she had come to think of as the opal gown.

  When Marguerite rose up from her deep curtsey after entering the Empress’s salon she could see a change in her. Although nothing could dim Elisabeth’s imposing presence and she was still a handsome woman, it was easy to see that self-indulgence and dissipation were showing the first signs of taking their toll. There was a loosening of her face’s firm contours and slight bags under her eyes, but her well-designed stiffened bodice disguised any fault in her figure, her breasts showing plump and firm beneath it.

  ‘All excellent.’ Elisabeth’s voice was slurred by alcohol as she waved aside the fashion dolls, each of which had been held up for her approval. ‘I shall want all of these when I’m in Moscow again.’ Her beringed finger suddenly pointed sharply at Marguerite and she added thickly, ‘But when the time comes you’ll bring the one with those opal sequins to me yourself, Frenchwoman! You’ve done enough running about on behalf of the Grand Duchess, making her fancy capes and other such nonsense. You shall attend me solely from now on. Why else did I bring you here all the way from France? Now get back to St Petersburg today and take up your sewing for me!’

  Marguerite left in dismay. At Peterhof she went immediately to see if she could speak to the Grand Duchess, but without success. She was informed that Catherine was having her first sitting for a portrait by a Dutch artist at the Empress’s instructions and was not to be disturbed.

  Marguerite, about to turn away, stopped on a sudden thought. ‘What is the artist’s name?’

  ‘Jan van Deventer.’

  Marguerite raised her eyebrows. Jan had said he painted when he had the time. Obviously he was more talented than he had led her to believe. It could only mean that the Empress must have seen something of his own work and liked it.

  Isabelle looked up from her stitching and paled when Marguerite broke the news to her. ‘You’re going back this evening? I’m to carry on here embroidering the flower gown all by myself?’

  ‘I have to obey the Empress, but I don’t want to disappoint the Grand Duchess. You did much of the embroidery on the Grand Duchess’s cape and it was faultless. I have every confidence in you, but I shall send Sophie here in the morning.’

  Abruptly Isabelle shook her head and straightened her back. She knew her skills had improved greatly during the past months, which she believed had much to do with feeling safe and unafraid. In addition, Marguerite’s praise had boosted her self-confidence. Her frown cleared.

  ‘No, I want to do the work myself. That should make me a true imperial seamstress when it is done.’

  ‘Indeed it will!’

  Once more Marguerite returned to St Petersburg. She thought the routine of her life had become as restless as that of the Imperial Court, always moving from one palace to another. At least the rest of the summer seemed destined to be peaceful.

  Sarah had not returned from Oranienbaum, but had written that she was staying in Tom’s accommodation. So with the Imperial Court away at Peterhof there was nobody to stop her from watching him at work or prevent her from wandering freely in the park where sometimes she would sit and read.

  With the fading of summer Jan appeared again. Marguerite came downstairs to the domestic hall one evening and found him waiting for her. With his tricorne hat under his arm, which he had doffed at her approach, he seemed taller and broader than she remembered, not having seen him for some time. He gathered both her hands into his and drew her to him.

  ‘You’ve been most elusive! When I arrived you weren’t here at the Winter Palace, but at Oranienbaum. Later when I went to Peterhof where I was told you would be, it was only to find that you had vanished again. Have you been avoiding me?’ It was a challenge thrown out with a lively look in his eyes.

  ‘Of course I have!’ she replied, laughing.

  He shook his head, amused. ‘I have been under pressure of work that has kept me at Peterhof until now. The Empress commissioned me to paint the Grand Duchess’s portrait.’

  ‘Yes, I congratulate you.’

  He inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘That led to one of the Grand Duke and a stream of commissions. But now I’m here again. Let’s begin by having supper together. Before long I’ll be sailing back to Amsterdam. You and I have no time to waste.’

  To her surprise he took her straight to the apartment he had rented in the Dutch quarter of the city. It was on an upper floor and a plump, middle-aged maidservant of his own nationality, named Saskia, bobbed when they entered and took Marguerite’s wrap from her.

  The salon was spacious and well furnished in what Marguerite assumed to be the Dutch style and the tall stove was tiled with blue and white scenes that he said were from Delft. She went to look at the paintings on the wall and Jan came to her side to give her the titles and the artists’ names. There were views of the city of Amsterdam with its busy port, but she found most interesting two of the Van Deventer family home. The house stood with its stained-glass patterned windows overlooking a canal and the second one showed its rear courtyard and a lush garden beyond with flower beds full of tulips. Both had been painted by his brother Maarten.

  Next to these was a painting by another Dutch artist that showed a woman in a dark bodice and rust-red skirt sweeping the black and white tiles of a floor, the whole scene full of light from leaded windows. Marguerite thought it beautiful and lingered before passing on to a portrait of a strong-faced man in his sixties, looking fully out of the frame, a ruby velvet cape over his shoulder. Except for the neatly pointed beard the likeness was unmistakable.

  ‘That must be your father!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘No, it’s a self-portrait by my late grandfather. He painted it just before we received the news that our father’s ship had gone down in a great storm somewhere off the Dutch East Indies.’

  She turned to him sympathetically. ‘What a tragic time that must have been!’

  ‘Sadly we lost our mother soon afterwards. A fever took her. Maarten was only twelve at the time. It was fortunate that Hendrick was already married to Cornelia and she mothered the lad throughout his grief.’ Then he straightened his grandfather’s portrait, which was very slightly askew. ‘I like to have the old fellow with me.’

  ‘You were very fond of him?’ She studied the portrait again. There were the same clear, demanding eyes as his grandson’s, the same experienced, sensual mouth.

  ‘We all were. He was a travelling artist when he was you
ng, but when he became successful he bought the house in Amsterdam that you’ve just seen and a studio with an adjoining gallery where he exhibited the work of other artists as well as his own. Hendrick has no talent for painting and he went to sea for a few years, but Cornelia gave him an ultimatum and he came home to stay. Unless, of course, he obliges me by bringing paintings to me as he did at Riga where you and I first met.’

  ‘Do they live in the family home?’

  ‘No, that was bequeathed to me and the studio and gallery too.’

  ‘I hope your portraits of the Grand Duke and Duchess are hung where I’ll be able to see them.’

  ‘I’ve no idea where they’ll be.’ He had moved to hold a chair out ready for her at a damask-covered table at one end of the room, a three-branched candelabrum on it giving an extra sparkle to the glasses and a glow to the red wine in the decanter.

  It was laid with a cold collation and included many small bowls holding a variety of traditional Netherland side dishes, such as tasty pickles, sliced cucumber in a piquant liquid, and cooked apple dusted with cinnamon. She found it all delicious. As they ate, sitting opposite each other, he told her how he had suddenly found himself commissioned by the Empress to paint the two imperial portraits.

  ‘It was purely by chance. She happened to see a painting of mine that I had no intention of selling her, but I had picked it up with others by mistake.’ He shook his head incredulously. ‘Fortunately before she made any decision I managed to distract her from it by showing her one by Jan Fyt. I reminded her that she already had a still life by him in the Winter Palace, which her father had bought when in the Netherlands on his great tour.’

  ‘Yes, you pointed it out to me. A still life with a dead hare, some fruit and a lively parrot. I remember thinking it a strange assemblage until you told me more about the symbolism in Dutch art of that period. So tell me what happened next.’

  ‘It seems she took a liking to my work and, after asking me several questions, she gave me that double commission.’ He gave a soft chuckle. ‘She took it on trust that I could capture a likeness, because the painting she liked was not a portrait.’