To Dream of Snow

by Rosalind Laker

  It was an exclamation of surprise and not a reproach, which in his sensitivity on the matter he supposed it to be.

  ‘No doubt he will be calling on you. So there’ll be plenty of opportunities ahead for both of you to make up for lost time.’

  ‘Jan!’ She was deeply hurt that after such a night as they had shared he should speak so cuttingly, not knowing that it came from his utter despair.

  ‘Farewell, Marguerite.’ He left the room and went across the hall.

  ‘Wait!’ she cried, intending to stop him, but she slipped on the hem of her untied robe and fell to one knee as the outer door closed after him.

  On her feet again, she ran to the window and struggled to open it, but the catch was stiff and would not move. Helplessly she stood with her palms pressed against the glass and watched with overwhelming sadness as he strode away down the street without a backward glance. He had spoken as if he never expected to see her again.

  By the time she had dressed and run almost all the way to the wharf the ship flying the flag of the Netherlands was already on its way down the river. She suddenly realized that as she stood alone in the sparkling morning mist that was drifting off the water the scene was exactly as Jan had captured in his painting. Yet he had never intended it to be the scene of farewell that it had just become. She knew its true meaning now and it was all too late.

  Twenty-One

  Any plans for escape that Marguerite might have settled upon would have had no chance of being carried out as the Empress became difficult to please as never before. She found herself summoned to the imperial presence several times a day over some change of mind as to detail of trimming or colour.

  Then, just as the Neva was beginning to draw in a veil of ice over its surface, Tom arrived from Moscow. By sheer chance Marguerite, who had just left Elisabeth yet again, saw him before he sighted her. He was advancing towards the Palace even as she was leaving it. She stood and waited, knowing this meeting was inevitable and preparing herself for it. Then she was gripped by anxiety, seeing that he was wearing a black cravat, which was a sign of mourning. Perhaps he had lost a parent, she wondered desperately, or maybe someone else close to him. But with a dreadful inner conviction she knew it must be Sarah.

  When he looked up and saw her waiting for him a serious smile touched his lips. ‘My dear Marguerite,’ he said in greeting.

  ‘Not Sarah, Tom!’ she implored in a last faint hope.

  He nodded. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you I lost her at the end of last February.’

  ‘How did it happen? An accident?’

  His voice was quiet, heavy with sadness. ‘No. She caught a severe chill on an exceptionally cold day while playing snowballs with our nephews and nieces. There was no saving her.’ Then he saw how the tears were filling Marguerite’s eyes. ‘I know what a shock this must be to you as it was for all who knew her. I have a letter for you from her at my accommodation, which she wrote shortly before she died. Although at the time neither she nor I knew that I should be returning to Russia she was convinced that one day I would be able to deliver it to you.’

  ‘Sarah was the kindest and gentlest person I’ve ever met,’ she answered in deep distress, her voice choked. ‘There was so much goodness in her.’

  ‘Indeed there was,’ he acknowledged and paused before he spoke again. ‘You have suffered bereavement too. When I asked after you I was told that Count Dashiski had died. My condolences.’

  There was a flat note in his expression of sympathy, which did not surprise her, for she knew he had hated Konstantin from the moment she had told him that they were to marry. Automatically, she inclined her head in acknowledgement.

  ‘I’m to see the Empress this morning,’ he continued, glancing at his fob watch. ‘It’s to discuss the planting of the glassed-in roof garden on the new Winter Palace. May I see you afterwards? I could bring Sarah’s letter to you. Where do you live now?’

  With her thoughts full of Sarah, she told him. In the past she would have been wary of his company, but his drawn face showed that he was devastated by his bereavement. Moreover, she longed to read that last letter from Sarah, and he would have called on her with it sooner or later.

  ‘You may be all day at the Empress’s beck and call,’ she warned, ‘but after some shopping I shall be at home for the rest of the day.’

  ‘I’ll come as soon as I can.’

  It was early evening when he arrived, looking extremely harassed.

  ‘I couldn’t get away before now,’ he declared exasperatedly. ‘I was to and fro between the old Winter Palace and the new. When I gave the Empress a full report on what I had in mind after seeing the finished layout of the roof garden she was not satisfied. She kept sending me back to see if her own idea for a patch here and there would be suitable for certain of her favourite flowers, which I had already incorporated. I could have told her without those futile trips. It was all a waste of time!’

  Marguerite was pouring him a glass of cognac. ‘Sit down and calm down,’ she advised sagely. ‘Tell me, has your original design for the flower beds and bushes been followed?’

  ‘There have been some changes, probably on some whim of the Empress. She doesn’t seem to know her own mind at the moment.’ He took the cognac gratefully. ‘I needed this.’

  ‘Did you see much of the new Winter Palace’s interior?’

  ‘Only from the flights of some very fine staircases to the roof garden, but that was viewpoint enough for me to see from the paintings on the ceilings to all the gilded plasterwork that it is a palace to outshine any other.’

  ‘It is almost finished, I believe. Then all those hundreds of rooms will have to be furnished, many more there than in the old palace, which I’ve heard is to be demolished. I suppose there will be plenty of celebrations when the Empress finally takes up residence.’

  ‘If she lives to do that.’

  Marguerite looked at him sharply. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The change in her since I saw her last is almost beyond belief. All those pointless orders that I followed today did not come from a logical mind. I pity this country in her hands.’

  ‘I know she is leaving all government matters to her ministers, but there is nothing new in that. I’ve been told many times that they have always carried the burden for her. She slurs her speech, but that is because she is still drinking excessively. Sometimes when I visit her with designs she has a glass in her hand and is too incoherent for me to understand what she is saying.’

  ‘A terrible woman!’ he exploded, remembering what else he had heard of her that day.

  Marguerite smiled slightly. ‘It’s fortunate for you that I’m the only one present to hear you say that. Even as a foreigner you could still get imprisonment.’

  He looked across at her ruefully. ‘I didn’t mean to come here and pour out my grievances.’

  ‘I’d like to hear more about Sarah if you don’t find it too harrowing to speak of her. I have missed her letters so much.’

  ‘I know she did write to you. Maybe not as often as she would have wished, but she had a full-time task. She was like another mother to the children, teaching them and playing with them, and then comforting them in their bereavement when their mother died in childbirth. She was so assiduous in carrying out her responsibilities that it was not generally realized that her strength was running out like sand in an hourglass.’ He passed a hand across his eyes and his voice caught in his throat. ‘Had I been home more I’m sure that I would have seen what was happening.’

  Marguerite was silent. She could picture how Sarah, excited by his homecoming, would hide all her troubles and difficulties from him just as she had done when they had lived here in St Petersburg.

  ‘If she had taken care when she first felt ill, maybe all would have been well,’ he continued quietly, ‘but there was the new baby to care for and she gave no thought to herself.’

  ‘Yes, she always would consider others first.’

  They both s
at in silence for a few moments before he spoke again. ‘When a diplomatic communication came from the Empress requiring my services again, it took a little time for me to finish the work in hand, but I don’t intend to stay in Russia for more than six or seven months this time.’ He did not add that originally he had intended to remain permanently, but circumstances had changed through her widowhood and he foresaw a far better outcome.

  ‘I suppose you’ll have orders waiting for your return?’ she was saying.

  ‘Yes, plenty. But I had already decided, even before I received that imperial demand, that the time had come to keep my promise to you that I would return. I had already secured a passage on the first neutral ship that I could take to get here.’

  Too late she realized that she had given him the opening to voice what she did not want to hear. ‘Don’t speak of that now, Tom, or ever again.’

  ‘Forgive me.’ He was truly apologetic in his blunder. He had not intended to say what he had done, but seeing her sympathetic face and being in her sensuous presence again he had been momentarily overwhelmed. Yet his loss of Sarah had been like losing half of himself, making him realize how deeply he had loved her. For the present time her demise overshadowed him as it did this lovely woman, who had been her loyal friend and whom he desired so much. He was determined this time not to rush anything between them, but to build up her trust in him until she would be ready to leave for England with him as his wife.

  ‘Who is helping now to look after the children that Sarah loved so much?’ she was asking.

  He had recovered himself. ‘My mother. She is well organized with nursemaids and governesses. The children are fond of her, but it is Sarah whom they loved.’

  ‘As did we all,’ Marguerite said sadly, closing her eyes briefly on the pain of loss.

  He stood up to leave and took Sarah’s letter from his pocket. ‘I’ll go now,’ he said as he handed it to her. ‘I’m sure you’ll wish to read this on your own.’

  Thankful when the door had closed behind him, Marguerite sat down to break the seal of the letter and read the shaky handwriting. Sarah had written from her bed and, although she had known she was dying, her concern was not for herself, but for those whom she would be leaving. It was a very short letter and, judging by the shaky handwriting, it had been difficult for her to find the strength to hold a pen. It opened with an affectionate greeting and was followed by a single poignant paragraph.

  I had always hoped that one day we should meet again, dear friend, but it is not to be. Tom will miss me more than he would ever suppose at the present time, because you have filled his thoughts and longings ever since we left Russia. I knew almost from the start how he has desired you and if you can find it in your heart to comfort him in his sorrow I should be so grateful. Yet your love has long been elsewhere. Maybe by the time you receive this letter you will have found where it lies.

  Her signature was indecipherable amid a splatter of ink as if the pen had dropped from her hand in her exhaustion.

  Marguerite, deeply distressed, sat for a long time pressing the letter flat against her breasts with both hands.

  By now it had become clear to everyone that the Empress was failing fast. There would be no move to Moscow this Christmas. Although Elisabeth barely had the strength to move about, she had not lost her taste for vodka or handsome men, or her love of beautiful clothes. Her ladies had to dress her in a new gown sometimes four or five times a day.

  Peter rubbed his hands in joyful anticipation. His chance to reign in the country he hated was coming at last and he took a savage delight in constantly taunting Catherine as to how his mistress would supplant her.

  ‘She’ll make a better empress for me than you! It was a great mistake that the old harridan made when she had you brought all the way from Pomerania to marry me! If she had seen my Elisabeth first you would never have been considered. So it’s high time I gave thought to putting the matter to rights in the future.’

  Over past months with control growing lax under Elisabeth’s weakening grip, Catherine had been visiting her son at Oranienbaum. Paul was now eight years old and he had soon lost his shyness of his mother as she came often, bringing little gifts and staying to play with him.

  On 23 December Elisabeth suffered a severe stroke and two days later she died. The glorious new Winter Palace from which she had intended to continue her reign stood ready at last, but now that was not to be. Peter was exultant at her death and would have moved into the Palace that same day.

  ‘It would not be seemly, Your Imperial Majesty,’ his ministers protested. ‘We beg you to wait until after the funeral.’

  ‘Very well,’ he conceded. ‘We’ll see the old bird in her tomb first.’

  They left, shocked by his disrespect. But later that same day they were further appalled and also infuriated to learn that he had sent a peace agreement to Frederick II, whose armies had been about to surrender unconditionally. Not only had he ended the war at entirely the wrong moment, but he had restored to his hero all the captured lands, including the entire German empire, for which thousands of Russians had given their lives. He then installed a Holsteinian regiment to replace the Imperial Guard, who were ordered with every other Russian regiment to wear the hated German uniform, causing rage among them to simmer and burn. Meanwhile Catherine had sent for Paul and had her son with her at last.

  Although Elisabeth’s embalmed body, wearing a gold crown and magnificently gowned, lay in the Palace for six weeks, Peter held celebratory parties where he crowned his mistress as empress and everyone invited had to wear their brightest clothes to dance and drink the night away.

  In contrast Catherine, now in real fear of what her future might hold, realized she must guard her every move from now on and not raise the slightest public criticism. She wore deepest mourning and behaved in an exemplary manner, spending a great deal of time in prayer by the coffin. Afterwards, when the body had been moved to Kazan Cathedral, she appeared every day to kneel for hours beside the catafalque as the public filed past it in respect. Through her constancy she gained the high approval of the bishops, her devout presence emphasizing the fact that Peter had not been near.

  The funeral route was packed with people when the day came, but Peter shocked everybody by laughing raucously and shouting as well as dancing about and pulling faces like a naughty child, both in the funeral procession and at the solemn service itself.

  Peter had not yet given much thought to his coronation, apart from having decided to wear the filigreed gold, bejewelled and fur-rimmed crown of Tsar Ivan the Terrible, which he considered would be quite a joke. Drunk with power, he turned his attention to the wealthy Church, interfering in its affairs and infuriating its bishops, not caring that he was creating new enemies. Inevitably as the weeks went by the tide of opinion began to turn against him. In contrast Catherine was gaining friends and Gregory and his brothers were prepared to give their lives for her.

  The month of May found Catherine living in constant dread. She and Peter had taken up residence in the new Winter Palace. Every part of it delighted her with its beautiful decor that had taken thousands of artists and craftsmen countless hours to complete, but since many of the hundreds of rooms were still empty the choice of furnishings was left to her. Daily she received French cabinetmakers and agents with books and drawings of what they could supply. She saw them all in her own apartment, which was at the opposite end to that of Peter’s in the vast Palace. One of his first acts had been to banish her there.

  ‘It will save me from having to see your face more often than is necessary,’ he had sneered vindictively. ‘I am totally sick of the sight of you. The sooner I’m rid of you the better!’

  As soon as Catherine had moved into her allotted apartment it was announced from there that she had sprained her ankle and had to rest for several weeks. Through Marguerite’s skills she had concealed her pregnancy so far, for Peter would know he was not the father, and now those who came to visit always found her lyin
g on a couch with a silk coverlet over her. Her isolation enabled her eventually to give birth secretly to Gregory’s baby, aided by her loyal maid. The newborn infant was immediately whisked away to foster-parents, who would never know their charge’s true parentage. Nobody in the Palace even suspected that anything untoward had happened.

  Yet Catherine’s fear of Peter never left her. Mercifully she had still been resting with her supposedly sprained ankle when he had given Elisabeth Vorontsova the title of Mistress of the Court and ordered that homage be paid to her. This was deeply resented by the courtiers, particularly the ladies, who already loathed everything about Vorontsova from her ugly facial looks to the way she spat as she talked, showering saliva or, which was worse, bits of food when she laughed while eating. Her new title completely turned her head that evening and, flinging out her arms to all present, she made a foolish declaration.

  ‘In my honour at becoming Mistress of the Court on this auspicious occasion, all gentlemen shall curtsey and all the ladies bow to me!’ She and Peter thought it a hilarious joke, particularly when two elderly courtiers fell, one having to be helped away after breaking his arm. It was reminiscent of the late Empress’s cruel games and filled the courtiers with trepidation.

  At one important social and political banquet when Catherine was present Peter humiliated her most cruelly. He was seated with Elisabeth Vorontsova at his right hand at the long and glittering banqueting table, and she rose with everyone else to drink the loyal toast to the imperial family. As his empress, Catherine also remained in her seat, but as the guests sat down again he sprang up, his face contorted with hatred, and shouted at her, ‘You should have stood for the toast too, you idiot!’

  The shock that prevailed was almost palpable as guests gasped or stared at him. His insult had amounted to a declaration that he no longer saw her as his rightful wife.

  On yet another public occasion he humiliated Catherine even further by demanding in a loud voice that she surrender the insignia of the Order of Saint Catherine. All present knew it was one of the greatest honours in Russia since only tsarinas and the wives of heirs to the Russian Throne could wear it. Catherine had an inherent right to it until the end of her life.