A Royal Likeness (13 page)

Within a week, Marguerite received a return post from her aunt.

The days leading up to their departure were so busy Marguerite hardly had time to think any more about her financial affairs, Marie’s relationship with Mr. Philipsthal, or how much she would miss London when she left. She was astounded by the amount of work required to prepare the exhibition for shipment.

First, Marie erected a competing sign to Mr. Philipsthal’s:

Marie grumbled considerably about the cost of the sign, which she thought was Philipsthal’s responsibility.

Figures were slowly removed from the exhibition so as not to make it seem empty. Marie emphasized that they would try to collect admissions until the last possible moment, so each day one or two more figures were removed for packing and the others moved into different arrangements so as to minimize the look of disruption. The curtained-off area of ghastly heads was removed last, since it had become the most popular section of the exhibit. When the collection was reduced enough that they could no longer legitimately charge admission to see so few pieces, the exhibit was formally closed and the three of them worked furiously to pack the remaining figures, supplies, and furniture into crates for delivery to their ship.

When Marie identified a figure for packing, she and Marguerite would carry it, one at each end, to the workshop, with Joseph supporting the body from underneath. They resembled a bizarre funeral cortege, which fortunately no one else ever saw. Inside the workroom, the figure was placed inside a specially prepared crate, lined with layers and layers of cotton or linen. Gently placing the figure inside its coffin, they inserted wooden dowels of various lengths, topped with padded fabric, between the crate and a range of points on the body. The dowels were not inserted into the body, but sized precisely so that the padded end just touched the body, while the raw wood end was nailed into the side of the crate. Once the figure was surrounded by these dowels, wadded-up bundles of cotton fabric were stuffed between the body and the edges of the crate, and finally several layers were placed between the figure and the lid of the crate, which was nailed firmly in place.

Busts and their pedestals were wrapped securely in fabric and nestled two to a crate, and Marie’s gory death masks were wrapped
in groups of two or three. The three of them hefted each crate into stacks of four, to be loaded onto wagons later by hired helpers.

On the final day of packing up the exhibition, Marguerite was alone, sweeping debris from the gallery floor while Marie was out with Joseph finalizing travel arrangements. It had been her day of greatest exertion yet since starting her apprenticeship, and she was looking forward to finishing her work here so she could return to her lodgings for a blissful soak before packing her personal belongings.

She looked up at the sound of scuffling, and saw that Mr. Philipsthal had entered the exhibition. She rested the broom against the wall and took a quick inventory of herself. She was hopelessly dusty from her skirt hem to her hands and face, and in no condition to receive anyone, much less this kind man who had extended friendship to her.

He stepped farther into the gallery and gave her a small bow. His eyes did not have the strained, hunted look they had the last time she had seen him. “Mrs. Ashby, I am most fortunate to find you here alone.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Philipsthal. I’m afraid you must forgive my appearance. Today we packed up the last of the exhibition and I’m tidying up for our departure. I understand you will be joining us in August.”

“Yes, it will be with great felicitations that I can be with you—the exhibition—in just a short while. My own show must finish up its commitment first.”

“Of course. We will be delighted to see you in August.”

“Is that truly so, Mrs. Ashby? Will you be happy to see me after an absence?”

“We will all be glad to see you, I’m sure, Mr. Philipsthal.” Marguerite wiped a hand across her brow in exhaustion.

He stepped closer to take the hand that had just swept her face. He bent to kiss it and said, “My dear Mrs. Ashby, I was hoping that once we were all settled in Edinburgh that you might let me call upon you.”

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Er, I would like to pay court to you. You are a fine woman and could use a prosperous man to care for you.”

Marguerite withdrew her hand.

“Mr. Philipsthal, I thought I spoke plainly when I said that I still grieve my husband.”

“Yes, yes you did. I thought that perhaps with some passage of time you might reconsider.”

“I’ve only been here a short time! Hardly enough time to give thought to any more than learning my trade, much less a remarriage.”

“Has Madame Tussaud said unkind things about me to color your thoughts?”

“My employer’s opinions have no bearing on my own, which is firm in the notion that I am of no desire to be paid court. I sincerely appreciate your good estimation of me, sir, but I beg you to respect my wishes.”

Philipsthal’s face fell, and Marguerite would have burst into laughter at his boyish look if she didn’t know how earnest he was. He gave her another small bow.

“Very well. I see that for the moment your mind is made up. However, I will not leave you without impressing upon you how earnest my suit is. It is my hope that once we are in Edinburgh you may change your mind.”

“I am deeply flattered by your attentions but remain resolved to maintain my widowed state.”

Marguerite decided it was best not to tell Marie about Philipsthal’s visit when she returned. The journey was to be stressful enough without a choleric episode from her employer.

July 1803.
They had to wait more than a week for the weather to clear up enough for their ship’s departure for Edinburgh. The ten-day journey up the eastern coastline was rough and Marie fretted the entire time about her figures stowed away in the hold. Joseph was a good sailor, whiling away his time either pestering the crew with questions or sketching the vistas from the ship. Marguerite complimented his drawings, which pleased him enough to give her a rare smile.

As for Marguerite, she learned quickly that the sea was no place for her. The rolling of the waves unsettled her stomach for the entire passage and made her irritable. Soon even the slapping of water against the hull annoyed her and she retreated below deck for most of the voyage to sit and cover her ears with her hands. Three storms blew across them during three days of the voyage, and it was with great gratitude and prayers of thanks that they arrived in Edinburgh.

A chilly, misty rain was still with them upon entry into the Port of Leith. As they prepared to disembark, Marie said to Marguerite, “Hah! Did you see my Nini? The crew loved him. The captain wishes he had a child like him to train for the sea. Called him ‘Little Horatio.’ He’s a good boy.”

Joseph preened under his mother’s praise and was so thoroughly delighted with the outcome of his voyage that he even deigned to
take Marguerite’s hand to help her down the ship’s gangway. Marguerite and Joseph remained hand in hand on the dock, shivering under cloaks while Marie went to arrange the debarking of her crates. Within minutes Marie was back, her face a life mask of fury.

“I knew to be wary of Philipsthal! He’s done it to me again. He’s not to be trusted. I’ll have it out with him.” Hair was falling out of Marie’s beautifully arranged coiffure, which she had taken great pains to maintain on the ship.

“Madame, what has happened?”

“He did not make the payment for transport of the figures. I owe eighteen pounds to have them removed from the ship.”

“Do you have the full amount? I can post a letter to Claudette for the loan of the money, if it will help.”

“No, I can make payment. Barely. But Philipsthal
promised
he would take care of it. Promised! He is a liar and a cheat.”

“Perhaps something happened and he was distracted, which made him forget.”

“Fah, he forgets nothing. Intentional.”

The crates were finally transferred from the ship onto several wagons Marie hired, instructing the drivers to go to Barnard’s Rooms on Thistle Street. This new location was just two blocks from the city’s Assembly Rooms, making it convenient and accessible for those affluent patrons to visit the exhibition as well. Marie had earlier booked the exhibition at the Thistle Street address and arranged for quarters behind the salon for £2 per month. Exhausted from the sea crossing and the stress of getting the wax figures to their new location, they did little upon arriving at their new lodgings beyond greeting their new landlady, Mrs. Laurie, and tumbling into bed, soaked and exhausted.

The
Edinburgh Evening Courant
reported that Napoleon was in turn seizing and imprisoning British subjects in France, in response to Great Britain’s declaration of war on France back in May.

Marie looked apprehensively at Marguerite. “I am a French national. Am I in danger by being here and plying my trade?”

It was the first time Marguerite had ever seen Marie express anything remotely akin to fear. Once again Marguerite’s mind was flooded with the memories of how dangerous it could be to be
French—or even perceived as French—in England. She grasped the other woman’s hand in sympathy but had no comforting word to offer. Was she herself safe from marauding bands of “patriots”?

But there was little time to think of it.

When they had finally unwrapped the figures at their new location, they discovered many breakages. Marguerite was relieved to see that the Duchess of York’s wax portrait was undamaged, since it was her first real experience with the process. However, many others had smashed faces or broken limbs and digits. A figure of Martin Luther was ghoulishly impaled through his cheek by one of the padded dowels intended to keep him safe. Some of the crates had been crushed in transit and the figures were identifiable only by the clothing they wore.

Marie stood in the middle of the half-open crates, hands on hips as she surveyed the extensive wreckage.

“We will fix it all and be open in a week.”

“In a week? Madame, the damage …” Marguerite hardly knew how to express her doubt.

“One week. We have to open so we can earn money. You want to learn about waxworking, this week you will learn much. Joseph will be our good helper, won’t you, Nini?” She reached over to cup the face of her beloved boy, who was always in the midst of whatever was going on, although lately he was always present with a sketchbook in his hand.

“Yes, Maman,” Joseph answered, without lifting his eye from his latest pencil drawing of their new salon.

So the two women worked from dawn to dusk each day, repairing gouged spots, freshening skin coloring, rearranging hair, and mending torn clothing.

Many of the aristocrats of the old French regime had emigrated to Scotland. Marie was determined to promote more of her French figures that had been popular back in Paris, so they worked doubly hard to get all of those figures ready for opening day.

In any available spare time, Marie taught Marguerite how to write advertisements for the exhibition and together they developed the handbill to be printed for their opening.

Their new salon consisted of a small vestibule leading into two spacious rooms connected by an octagonal antechamber between them. Each room was approximately forty feet square with far lower ceilings than the exhibition in London. Marguerite estimated the windows at the end of each room to be about twelve feet tall. The walls and floors were decorated in muted golds and creams. The marble flooring had many chips and cracks throughout its surface, but they soon put that to rights by covering blemishes with scattered carpets and figures. Lighting was provided by randomly placed floor candelabra and wall sconces.

Marie much preferred this new arrangement over the one long gallery setup at the Lyceum, particularly since there was not a hint of gas lighting throughout the building. The biggest disadvantage was that they had no separate workroom, and would instead have to either work on new figures late at night, or leave unfinished compositions on the floor where customers parading through could see them. Their agreement with Mrs. Laurie provided for a cache of replacement beeswax candles per month, no small thing for an exhibit that needed to glow with varying levels of light nearly every moment of the day and night.