A Royal Likeness (7 page)

“William, Marie is enthusiastic about the idea.” Claudette brought the letter around to where he was sitting in his old King James Monstrosity with a copy of an American book on chess that had just arrived on a packet from Philadelphia. William had recently become fascinated with the game and was trying to teach it to Edward. This book promised to help the reader master the game quickly.

He lifted his head from the book for a quick kiss from his wife. “Splendid. How do you think Marguerite will react?”

“I’m not sure. But I’ve given instructions for a private supper in the small dining room just in case.”

An unusually cool May drizzle accompanied the coach on the long trip from Hevington to London, but dissipated as they reached the city’s outskirts. Marguerite tensed as the carriage jolted along London’s old cobblestones, fearful that they would be driving past, or near, the doll shop, but Uncle William’s driver seemed to know that he should avoid that neighborhood entirely. William and Claudette sat companionably quiet across from her.

She started breathing normally again as they entered Westminster and made their way to the Strand. This was not a part of the city Marguerite had ever visited during her entire life in London because of its shabby reputation. Once an area of palatial homes belonging to the great families such as Essex, Northumberland, and Somerset, it had experienced a period of gradual decay. Most of the residences had been demolished and then replaced by low taverns and brothels. Recently it was undergoing rebirth with the construction of circuses, theatres, and other houses of entertainment. The roads here were uncobbled and rutted, but the frenetic energy of building and growth roused excitement even in Marguerite’s fractured heart.

At Claudette’s urging, Marguerite had discarded her threadbare dresses to which she had become so attached in her misery, and allowed her aunt to send off to London for a set of serviceable work dresses, two aprons, a cloak, and one fancy gown, as well as some
new undergarments. They would be delivered shortly to her new lodgings in the same building where Madame Tussaud was staying with her young son, Joseph.

Marguerite had been more receptive to the idea of joining Marie Tussaud’s traveling wax exhibition than either William or Claudette had imagined she would be. The encounter with Maude Ashby had jolted her out of her melancholy and given her anger and fear to feed on. The anger and fear had given her a sense of purpose and the realization that if she did not do something about her own situation, others would. And it might have had unpleasant results far beyond lying back permanently in the cool stream waters of Hevington.

The opportunity to meet Aunt Claudette’s old friend Marie Tussaud, of whom she had heard much, was compelling, as was the thought of doing something—anything—other than dollmaking.

Marie had been the art tutor to King Louis XVI’s sister Elisabeth when Claudette first met her. Claudette’s London doll shop had risen to enough prominence that she began receiving orders from Queen Marie Antoinette, herself an avid doll collector. In 1788, an invitation arrived for her to come to France to meet the queen and make plans for a special doll Marie Antoinette wished to commission. This doll was of her closest friend, the Princesse de Lamballe. During the visit Claudette met Marie Grosholtz, who had not yet married François Tussaud. The two became fast friends, as Marie found many similarities between waxworking and dollmaking. Through the years of the Revolution the two maintained contact, even though Claudette had made her home in England. Both were devoted to the French royal family, although after her own imprisonment Marie learned to conceal any preference for either revolutionaries or monarchs, instead keeping her head down and focused on managing the waxworks exhibition left to her by Philippe Curtius.

If anyone beyond Aunt Claudette would understand Marguerite’s deep anxieties about death, it would be Madame Tussaud.

When Claudette had first presented the option to her, Marguerite was surprised at her own acquiescence. The dust-up with
Maude Ashby had invigorated her to the point that she no longer strolled the North Bridge contemplating how to do away with herself, but instead paced back and forth in silent conversation with Nicholas, pondering how to outwit her sly mother-in-law. The woman was sorely mistaken if she thought Marguerite was going to let Society be tempted into thinking Nicholas Ashby had been a cuckold. She was even more mistaken if she thought Marguerite was going to live in her clutches again, undoubtedly as little more than a mere servant. No, she had to devise a plan to stay out of the Ashby clutches. For all she knew, when Maude realized Marguerite was not pregnant she would then decide Marguerite should marry Nathaniel, who showed promise of becoming every bit as pompous as his mother.

And how could she avoid marriage with him if living under that woman’s roof?

Furthermore, what dishonor would it do Nicholas’s memory for her to go to their home under a cloud of suspicion, if she was pressured into an unwanted marriage with his twin?

She shivered with distaste.

“Is everything all right, Marguerite?” Claudette’s bright blue eyes peered at her in concern. “Are you having regrets?”

“Not at all. I’m still just coming to terms with the past, I guess. Foolish notions. I’m fine, Aunt Claudette, I really am. And I promise to try very hard to move forward with my life.”

“I know you’ll do very well under Marie’s tutelage. Just think, William. A renowned waxworker in the family. Why, she’ll be famous!”

“More famous than you?” William’s voice was full of amusement.

“Infinitely more famous. Waxworks have been fashionable in Paris for years and you know how you Englishmen are always years behind French styles. You’ll now be up-to-date in your smart entertainments.” Claudette gave William a sly look out of the corner of her eye.

“Is that right, Lady Greycliffe? I believe we’ll have more discussion about
entertainment
after seeing Marguerite settled in.”

They teased just like she and Nicholas once did. How much
she admired this couple, still in adoration of one another after nearly a dozen years of marriage, childbearing, and the daily routines of life. Marguerite felt a sudden and sharp pang of longing for her husband. The grief churned and twisted for several moments, then was gone. William and Claudette had not appeared to notice her pain. Heavens, was she finally recovering?

“Pay no mind to William, Marguerite. He gets more and more foolish the older he gets. Oh, we’re almost there. Would you just look at that!”

The Lyceum Theatre, where Madame Tussaud had her wax exhibition, was located on Wellington Street, just off the Strand. As the carriage pulled to a stop in front of the building, Marguerite looked up in amazement. The theatre was built to resemble an ancient Greek temple. Six columns perched on black marble bases soared up into the air, supporting an overhang covering a large expanse of portico. Inside the great portico hung four enormous chandeliers, an outdoor extravagance. The building behind rose even higher than the entryway, gleaming from new sand-colored paint.

What must the interior be like? she wondered.

As if reading her mind Claudette said, “I hear that the inside is large enough to hold a circus. I certainly hope there isn’t one in there now. I don’t think the smell of animal droppings is quite fitting with Marie’s elegant creations.”

The three of them climbed out of the carriage and smoothed the wrinkles out of their clothes. William instructed the driver to return in an hour, then they went in to find Madame Tussaud’s exhibition, still known as Curtius’s Cabinet of Wonders, even though Curtius had been dead for nine years.

The interior was as glamorous as the entry suggested it might be. Crystal chandeliers dangled in resplendent brilliance from the lofty ceiling painted in various Greek allegories. The bright red carpet had a random pattern in it, done to look as though crystal baubles had dropped from the chandeliers and shattered on the floor. It was breathtaking.

After several inquiries of passersby, they learned that Tussaud’s exhibition was located next to Philipsthal’s Fantastic Phantasmagoria
Show. They climbed a wide set of steps to another floor in a wing off the center of the building.

Here they discovered the entrance to Philipsthal’s show. They were greeted by a large sign proclaiming:

“Communicating with spirits? Does Marie’s partner claim to be a medium?” William asked Claudette.

“I don’t know. She didn’t mention much about him.”

“Curious that his sign makes so little mention of her exhibit.”

“Uncle William, let’s go find Madame Tussaud.” Marguerite was impatient to meet her new mentor and get a glimpse of what a wax exhibition looked like.

They parted the curtains covering the doorway located several steps to the left of the Phantasmagoria show. Marguerite gasped at what she saw.

Beyond the curtain lay a gallery nearly forty feet long, with no other patrons in sight. The sparkle-infused carpeting of the hallway continued the length of the gallery. At five-foot intervals were double-armed sconces high up on the pale blue damask walls. The walls met ceilings adorned with plaster friezes surrounding more crystal chandeliers.

Candles burned brightly in each sconce, their wax dripping onto glass catch plates fixed at the base of each sconce, throwing a comforting glow over the room’s inhabitants. Beneath each sconce
stood a gilded Greek column about three feet in height. Atop each column was a bust of some famous figure of English society. Each bust faced either right or left, and had a regal draping carved into its base and covering its shoulders. A placard on the wall under the sconce provided a visitor with the name of the historical figure and a brief biographical sketch. Some had been typeset, and some were written in a loose scrawl.

Interspersed randomly throughout the gallery were life-sized figures, bewigged and clothed as if real human beings. Marguerite was reminded of nothing more than the
grandes Pandores
of the doll shop.

In the center of the exhibition hall sat a raised platform. Atop the platform was a glass-encased sarcophagus. Were the contents of that real or wax? Marguerite wasn’t sure she was ready to know.

At the end of the gallery lay a door to some unknown room. It sprang open and a petite woman in a plain dress and lace cap bustled out.

“Sorry, friends, I am working in my closet. Admission to the Cabinet of Wonders is—”

The woman stopped and took in who her visitors were. Then covering the distance still separating them, she burst into a torrent of French.

“Claudette! I didn’t realize you were arriving this exact day. This must be your William. Very pleased, sir, very pleased. And this is Mrs. Ashby. Lovely girl. Happy you are here. There’s much to learn.”

Marguerite tried to keep up with the barrage of dialogue. Her mother had taught her French as a child, but she hadn’t used it much since her mother died. After the execution of Marie Antoinette, doll orders from France had declined rapidly and eventually disappeared altogether while Claudette still ran the shop, so there had been little reason for Marguerite to practice it. She had just figured out that Marie Tussaud was welcoming her, mostly because the woman was grasping her hand and pumping it up and down, when the Cabinet’s proprietress turned around and called back to the rear door.

“Joseph! Nini! Come, boy, I need you.”

The door opened again and out came a young boy, walking with an intent and purpose of a much older young man.

“How may I be of service to you?” The child spoke in precise English and executed a very elegant bow before his guests.

“This is my boy, Joseph. I call him my Nini. He’s a good boy. Only here nine months and knows English. Soon he will be a native, won’t you, Nini?” Marie placed a hand on Joseph’s head.

Joseph was dressed in a miniature uniform resembling that of a soldier. His heavily lashed, inquisitive eyes were the color of cocoa, and were obscured by his hair, which swept across his forehead in a determined march down into his dark pools of vision.

“Yes, Maman. Do you need me to take admission?” The boy switched back and forth from English to French easily.

“No, no, these are your
mamans
friends. These are Lord and Lady Greycliffe. Lady Greycliffe was your
mamans
friend in France. And this is Mrs. Ashby, Lady Greycliffe’s former ward. She’s to be our new apprentice. You like that, eh, Joseph?”

The boy frowned, unsure. “What will the new apprentice do?”

“She’ll learn wax modeling. She’ll help your
maman
with the exhibition.”

“But that’s what I do.”

“Yes, son, but
maman
needs another adult to help, too.”

“Oh.” Joseph cut his eyes over to Marguerite. “As you wish, Maman.”

Before a threatening cloud of silence could envelop them, Claudette changed the subject.

“Marie, my friend, you have quite a collection of marble busts here. Show them to us.”

“Marble! No, not stone. Wax. All wax. Come, look.” She led them to a column near the center of the gallery. “See?” She tapped the figure on the shoulder. “Voltaire in wax.”

They crowded in to examine the French philosopher’s figure. His wax portrait was of him near the end of his life.

“Madame Tussaud, did you sculpt him from life?” Marguerite asked.

“Yes, I do life mask of him before he died.”

“Life mask?”

“Yes, I will teach you.”

They wandered through the gallery looking at other wax portraits such as that of the American Benjamin Franklin, a favorite of both the French and the English. Marguerite and Claudette were impressed by the casting of the figures, which was much sharper and better defined than what they had been able to do with their wood molds, and they said so to Madame Tussaud.