The Queen's Dollmaker (16 page)

Inside the shop, Béatrice and Roger were just finishing last-minute preparations and readying the shop for customers. Joseph was positioned on the floor next to a round wooden platform by the shop window, both hands on a turning crank attached to the platform. The most fabulous of the creations was on this platform. It took him four cranks to turn the doll one complete revolution, and he was puffing furiously with the exertion.

Together, Claudette and Béatrice pulled open the curtains to a gasp of admiration outside the windows. Patrons began spilling into the store with a ferocious excitement, peppering Claudette and Béatrice with questions about the dolls. Wherever did you find these dolls? Are they really from France? Does anyone else in London have them?

One intrepid woman attempted to lift the skirt of the revolving doll. Seeing this, Roger barged over and hoisted the crouched woman forcibly under both arms and removed her from the store, lecturing her on the improprieties of lifting a lady’s dress. The woman scurried away shamefaced, but returned later in the day with a friend, pointing excitedly through the window at the shop’s amazing offerings.

Throughout the day, they were visited by new customers and old friends. Lizbit Preston, Gerard and Diane Gifford, Jack Smythe, and Nicholas Ashby all arrived at various points to hail the shop’s success.

The introduction of the
grandes Pandores
was an immediate success. The workshop was now receiving commissions from minor nobility, and various liveried servants began rushing in and out of the shop each day, placing orders for their employers. Fashionable women realized that they could be gossiped about quite thrillingly by having at least one of these gorgeous creations in their homes.

Claudette gave the second doll away by lottery, and the gentleman who won it for his wife acted as though he was the recipient of an unexpected fortune.

Orders did not diminish over the following weeks. It seemed that all of London was talking about the “doll companions.” Rumor was brought to Claudette by one of her customers that even Queen Charlotte had heard of them, and looked up interestedly enough from reading to inquire as to how one could possess a doll so large and not have to give it a room of its own.

But even the interest of England’s queen did not move Claudette as much as a note from William Greycliffe, congratulating her success as “heir to the finest dollmaker in all of France.”

She read and reread his letter in private, away from Béatrice’s questioning eyes, and could not resist bringing the thick, cream-colored paper to her face to try to catch his scent on it. She inhaled deeply and was rewarded with the faintest whiff of leather and his strong male fragrance.

Claudette,
she thought.
You are the idiot that Mr. Greycliffe calls you. This can never be. He is a married man, and a gentleman besides. He is not in a position to do more than sport with your affections. Stop this now before he destroys you.

She reluctantly folded the letter again into its small rectangle, noticing the return address in Kent. Word of her growing doll shop had traveled far if he knew about it from there.

Or maybe he was interested enough that he was avidly seeking news of her?

Cease this once and for all,
she told herself sternly.

She dug out the old tool chest she had rescued from her father’s doll shop and used it as a hiding place for the letter. The chest was full of trinkets: broken doll parts, a few coins left over from her manic saving days at the Ashbys, brightly-hued threads, rusty scissors, and a small jar of gesso, among other heaped belongings. She also had Mr. Greycliffe’s previous letter to her from just after her accident with the show birds. Holding both letters in her hands, she made a foolishly sentimental decision. Claudette dashed off to the workshop and returned with a spool of pink ribbon. Removing a long length, she tied the two notes together and buried them at the bottom of the chest. Her hand slid over another ribbon-wrapped stack and she pulled it out. It was her small stack of love letters from Jean-Philippe. She had nearly forgotten them. She sank to the floor on both knees to read them.

His teenage bravado dominated the letters, and she allowed the bittersweet rush of memories of her foolish youth, his headstrong opinions, and their innocent and pure romance to wash over her.

Ah, Jean-Philippe, who knows what might have been had we not been torn apart?

But the pain did not knife through her as it once did. She folded his letters and retied them to return them to the chest. For reasons she dared not think about, she moved Jean-Philippe’s letters to the bottom of the chest, and put Mr. Greycliffe’s at the top where she could more easily find them.

One last time she admonished herself.
Claudette, thoughts of that man will only bring you to ruin!

London, June 1786.
The shop seemed busier than ever, especially since Miss Claudette, as she was now affectionately known to her customers and employees, was offering the
grandes Pandores
to an approving public. The English aristocrats were wild for them, some even going as far as “inviting” their doll companions to tea, or having them accompany them in their landaus when they went calling on their friends. Agnes found this type of doll easier to work with, as her patterns for clothing were of the same dimensions as when she had once worked as a
déshabillé
maker, creating underclothing and loose gowns for women.

Around noon one day, Claudette stepped into the workroom, sighing and pushing a loose tendril into her hair band. She poked aimlessly at the dolls in various stages of completion on the worktable, examining them for flaws. Stepping away from the table, she moved over to the row of
grandes Pandores
in various stages of dress. Agnes asked, “Miss Claudette, can I help you? Is anything wrong?”

“No, I just needed a rest from the customers. It has been a particularly trying day so far with Béatrice sick at home.”

The bell tinkled in the outer room. Claudette straightened, arranged her skirt, patted her hair, and turned to welcome another customer.

Entering the C. Laurent Fashion Doll Shop was an exquisitely dressed gentleman and what could only be described as his entourage. He was the sun around which several people danced, including two women who appeared to be competing for a nod or acknowledgment from him. Claudette took her position behind the counter while the group examined the sample dolls in the shop. From her vantage point she could observe the customer without appearing obvious. He was a handsome man—no, not just handsome, he was actually quite
beautiful
. He was dressed in the French fashion, as were the members of his party. He turned his profile toward Claudette, and she could see his rounded eyes with their long lashes, his aquiline nose, his high-set cheekbones above a strong jaw. Claudette actually felt herself gasp inwardly as the Adonis made his way to her counter. He stopped, imperceptibly snapping to in military fashion, and gracefully made a small bow to her.

“Mademoiselle, I am Count Fersen of Sweden, and a very close friend of the king and queen of France. I should like to requisition several of your creations. They seem to be the talk of London since I have arrived.” He spoke in French! He saw Claudette’s startled look. “Everyone says, ‘You must visit the little French doll-seller on Oxford Street.’ So I assumed that French would be welcome here, although it is not in many circles of England.” His voice was gently teasing. He played with some loose wool on the counter. “I do not see any of these lifelike dolls I hear of,
grandes Pandores
I believe they are called?”

“I am so sorry, but we have none on display. They have been very popular and sell quickly. All we have are partially made samples in the workroom.”

“Then I insist that you allow me to escort you to this workroom immediately.” He held out an arm, and Claudette found herself swept under his spell. Agnes, too, was agog at the handsome count who gallantly swept her a bow upon entering the workroom.

The count spent the better part of an hour appraising the large dolls under construction, examining their birdcage construction and realistic features. He also went back into the display room and looked over various doll styles. His entourage waited to one side, the women shooting daggers at Claudette, unsure what his intentions were with her. Finally he placed an order for three small fashion dolls, to be made in the latest English styles, which he said were a pale imitation of French fashion. He directed that the dolls be delivered to Marie Antoinette, the Queen of France. “She will be utterly amused by them. She is a great enthusiast of dolls, and she will no doubt be delighted in seeing how far behind the English are in their fashions. And you should know that the queen enjoys being a patron of talented artists. You may find that she becomes your benefactor if she likes your designs.”

A small alarm bell sounded in Claudette’s head. She remembered her first benefactress in London, who insisted that as such she did not need to pay for the dolls. All turned out well for Claudette, but could she afford to be supplying the entire royal court of France with dolls with only vague promises of payment and—

“Of course, we have not yet resolved the price for the dolls, and since I will be leaving England soon, it would be best if I paid you in full now, yes?”

So the deal was struck, and Claudette was left with the most important commission she had ever had. How proud Papa would be.

She later received a note from Count Fersen that Marie Antoinette had been delighted with her dolls, claiming them better quality than anything else in her collection. She had Fersen place more orders. Soon thereafter Claudette began receiving orders from a select few members of the queen’s court, those that did not think the dolls foolish. These orders were accompanied by notes saying that the customer found her dolls to be “quaint,” or lovely “conversation starters.” No one other than the queen seemed to value them for their inherent artistic excellence.

Once the English aristocrats realized that the French were interested in Claudette’s
grandes Pandores
as well, their own fascination trebled. Orders were now placed with instructions to make them “more stylish than what goes to the frogs.”

How do I follow such an instruction?
Claudette wondered.

She started making the French export dolls just a tad shorter as a way to establish the English ones as “better” without offending her French clientele.

And so her personal coffers grew. Another trip to Mr. Benjamin resulted in an additional investment, this time in a sugar plantation in Barbados, a faraway place she had never heard of, but which Mr. Benjamin told her would give her lucrative returns. She also opened an account for Béatrice and deposited a substantial sum for her faithful and hardworking friend. How far they had come from their arrival on the London docks with Marguerite and Lizbit Preston.

Claudette was soon presented with another unusual investment. Mrs. Jenkins desired to retire to the ground floor of her building, as she was getting a bit gouty and the work of landlording was too much for her. Would Claudette like to purchase the town house? There was only one other tenant left in the building, who planned to move out soon, and it was his rooms Mrs. Jenkins wished to occupy.

“What do you think?” Claudette asked Béatrice over supper at the Fox and Hounds, a nearby tavern. She explained Mrs. Jenkins’s offer over their spit-roasted ham with Madeira sauce and root vegetables.

“Doesn’t it sound like an enormous risk?” Béatrice asked.

“Not especially. I think Mrs. Jenkins is offering a fair price, and I don’t have to pay her all at once. Just think, we could renovate the entire first floor into two flats, one for each of us, perhaps decorated in the Adams style. Or whatever style you wish!”

“What about Mr. Greycliffe?”

“Mr. Greycliffe? What of him?”

“What if he should divorce his wife and ask you to marry him?”

“Béatrice, where do you get such fanciful ideas? I, for one, entertain no thoughts whatsoever of the man and you shouldn’t either. He is arrogant and selfish and more beast than man.”

“But he saved you from that vicious bird. I think he loves you. He’s very dashing.”

“I won’t hear another word about him. All I want to hear is that you’d like me to buy the town house.”

“Of course! I can hardly wait to begin sewing draperies.”

“Then I’ll see Mr. Benjamin in the morning.”

In short order Mrs. Jenkins had transferred ownership of the town house to Claudette and moved to the recently vacated ground floor. An architect and workmen were hired to redesign and renovate the four first-floor rooms into two flats, with a common sitting room between them at the top of the stairs leading up from the front entrance.

The ensuing dust and mess exacerbated Béatrice’s delicate constitution, making her more prone to coughing paroxysms and sneezing. For several months, her eyes wept a thin mucous. Claudette suggested a visit by a physician, but Béatrice demurred.

“It’s just a reaction to the excitement, is all,” she said.

The architect recommended a cabinetmaker, who provided them with beds, tables, and other necessary furnishings. Claudette even splurged on a fancy tall-case clock for the sitting room. Her father had never had such an extravagant tribute to his success, and Claudette considered the purchase her mark of respect for her esteemed papa.

How she wished he knew that his cherished daughter had thrived against all probability of her doing so.

Paris, 1787
. The trial over the wretched diamond necklace had taken place in May 1786. As further humiliation for the queen, her brother, the Archduke Ferdinand, had arrived for a visit in the middle of the situation. Not only was it discomforting for her to be embroiled in an infamous legal battle upon his arrival, but the archduke himself was a bit embarrassing, thinking it grand to arrive in Paris “incognito” and devise all manner of schemes to travel about in disguises. Her discomfort was increased by the fact that she was heavily pregnant again. What should have been joy at the prospect of another possible son was clouded by her perpetual troubles.

She could not take comfort in Alex, who had run off to England for a visit, and was, according to reports, being fêted everywhere he went. Even the king had left her side, traveling to Cherbourg and other seaports on an eight-day tour.

When Louis returned, the queen was sufficiently excited by his homecoming to greet him on the balcony of the palace with her three children: the Madame Royale, now aged six; the Dauphin, who was five years old; and Louis Charles, the Duc de Normandie, a mere fifteen months old. The entire family wore their finest court attire but with no hint of jewelry, a statement that Marie Antoinette was still the country’s majestic queen, but that she was also sensitive to the suffering in it. The king’s seaport visit had been a great success, and witnesses to the family reunion cheered the royals.

The next day, Louis returned to his normal monotonous routine of hunting, which had been interrupted by his coastal tour. Marie Antoinette was still alone.

Ten days later, she felt unwell. Refusing to believe that she was having labor pains, she continued with her own routine. By late afternoon, she realized that, indeed, her confinement time had arrived early. Servants hastily put together the dreaded, airless confinement room, with its tightly sealed, covered windows and utter lack of privacy. At seven-thirty on the evening of July 9, the queen gave birth to Sophie Hélène Béatrice before a noisy gaggle of courtiers crowding around to watch.

The king was ecstatic, although many others thought it a pity that it was not a third son. In any case, the infant did not flourish. Combined with the Dauphin’s continued illnesses and overall weakness, plus the disgusting outcome of the diamond necklace trial, a pall was cast over Versailles.

On June 19, 1787, just a few weeks shy of her first birthday, the baby Sophie died, having never developed much at all. The queen was bereft. A family portrait in progress by the artist Elisabeth-Louise Vigée Lebrun had to have Sophie painted out of it. Instead, it was replaced by Louis Joseph’s finger pointing toward an empty cradle. The painting depressed the queen further, but not as much as the knowledge that Jeanne de la Motte had escaped La Salpêtrière prison a few days before Sophie’s death, and had made her way to England, where she was now venomously penning her “autobiography.” These supposed memoirs, which detailed a Sapphic relationship with the queen, were enthusiastically received by an English public who loved gossip, particularly if it concerned the hated French.

London, January 1788
. The boy picked his way into the C. Laurent Fashion Doll Shop the way his grandfather had shown him. His hands were shaking badly, and he considered it only very good luck that he had not been seen. He had nearly lost his nerve and run back to his grandfather’s own shop. It was the thought that such an action would probably result in a beating that kept him firmly perched behind an empty vegetable stand across the street in the freezing cold, blowing on hands protected only by fingerless wool gloves and watching until all of the shop’s employees were gone for the evening.

He darted across to the front door with his tools hidden by a folded sack under his arm. Retrieving a couple of implements from the bag, he manipulated the lock until it gave way for him, then slithered in and shut the door quickly behind him.

Here he was, actually standing in the shop belonging to that witch. Grandfather always cuffed him on the ear when he called her that, saying that witches don’t exist anymore, but that Miss Laurent was simply too stiff-rumped to be abided and had to be taught a lesson.

But the boy wasn’t sure. He had seen Miss Laurent on the street and although Grandfather was right, she did carry herself proudly, the boy thought that her natural beauty and ability to acquire so many wealthy customers must be the result of supernatural doings. He hadn’t seen any witch’s marks, but they could have been hidden under her clothing. Maybe she was out right now buying potions and secret herbs to use on an unsuspecting lout. He shuddered and hoped he wouldn’t come across any implements of torture in the shop.

Before anyone passing on the street could see him in the waning hours of daylight, he scurried through the shop seeking his goal. He opened cabinet doors and drawers, careful not to disturb anything that might make the witch—er, Miss Laurent—suspicious later.

Where was it all? He nipped to the back of the shop, opening doors. A small worker’s bedroom, a closet…Ah! This must be it. He stopped in wonder at how neat this workshop was, everything tidied up and placed in bins along the wall. Grandfather’s shop didn’t look like this. The boy would have to tell him about it. This was proof of witchcraft, now wasn’t it? What mortal being could keep a shop this orderly?

He saw the things he was after and began scooping them into his bag, apprehensive that the witch might have a familiar lurking about, watching him and ready to fly off and report to its mistress. What if she turned him into something terrible, like a pig or a calf? The butcher would get hold of him and cut his throat. Then Grandfather would be furious with him.

The sound of the front door creaking split his already fragile wits apart. He banged into a box of tools sitting on the floor before diving headfirst under the counter-high worktable sitting perpendicular to the doorway.

“Béatrice, you don’t look well. I think it’s time to return to the shop.”

The two women stood on a busy London street in frosty twilight. They had gone out late that afternoon to deposit money with Mr. Benjamin, then hired a carriage to take them to the Giffords to pick up some specially ordered bolts of fabric. Normally Claudette would send Joseph out to run such an errand, but these were expensive silks for use in a set of ten fashion dolls for an earl’s daughter, who wanted them to match her wedding trousseau. Aristocracy could be fussy, and the minutest mark on a hidden section of a dress might cause the earl to return the entire set, so Claudette preferred to handle the bolts personally. While at the Giffords, they also selected a few fabrics to have turned into serviceable day dresses for themselves and Marguerite.

Béatrice coughed lightly against a handkerchief. “It’s just the cold. My gloves aren’t warm enough. I keep meaning to purchase another pair.”

Claudette hired a hackney coach for their return trip. Really, she should just purchase her own. There was enough money to buy a small carriage and horse. Perhaps a landaulet? Maybe one day soon she would talk to Jack about what local auction she should attend. Of course, she would then have to hire someone to drive it and keep the horses stabled, groomed, and fed. And then there was the actual storage of the carriage itself. No, she thought. It would be an imprudent purchase, and she had not come this far to end up doing something foolish.

After unloading their bundles in front of the shop and paying the driver, Claudette inserted her key into the front door lock while a gentle snow began floating around them. It was dark inside, as Agnes or Roger must have closed up at least an hour ago and escorted Marguerite to Mrs. Jenkins. As she pushed the door open fully it creaked, and a muffled thump from somewhere in the workshop startled both women, resulting in a small squeak from Béatrice.

They stood paralyzed at the open door, snow gathering lightly at their feet and on their cloaks, and drifting inside.

“Something must have fallen. I hope we haven’t lost any dolls,” Claudette said with more confidence than she felt. Béatrice responded by shivering.

“Come, let’s go clean up before we catch our death standing outside.” They hauled the bolts just inside and Claudette shut the door, groping about on the front counter for an oil lamp and lighting it before leading the way to the workshop with Béatrice trailing right behind her.

At the workshop entrance she held up the lamp but could not see anything unusual amid all of the neat rows of supplies lining the walls. They must have dreamed they heard a noise. Only, two awake people cannot have the same dream at the same time, can they?

Béatrice grabbed her elbow and pointed to a place under the large worktable. Part of a man’s worn leather shoe peeped out.

“Who’s there? Why are you hiding in here?” Claudette tried to keep the tremor out of her voice.

A young man, a boy really, with cropped hair so blond it was nearly white, burst out from under the table carrying a large sack and darted toward the women with one hand shot straight out to act as a battering ram.

The boy clipped Béatrice, who fell against a
grande Pandore
in progress. Both she and the frame went clattering to the floor. Claudette reached wildly for a weapon, and her hand closed around a broom leaning against the wall behind her. With the broom in one hand and the lamp in the other, she was on the boy’s heels. He stumbled with his heavy load, and Claudette used the instant to drop the lamp and begin pummeling him with the broom. Amid his howls of protest, she relentlessly smacked him on the head, at his knees, and on his stomach, circling him like a bird of prey closing in on a rodent.

The boy went to his knees and dropped the sack. All manner of incomplete dolls and their parts spilled out.

Why would anyone steal unfinished dolls? They had no value whatsoever. Why wasn’t he lifting one of the creations from the display shelves?

“Stop, miss, stop! I’m sorry, I am. It had to be done.” The boy was blocking his face with his hands. “Please, I don’t want to be someone’s supper!”

By this time, Claudette was exhausted from her exertion, and Béatrice had rejoined her, rubbing her side in pain from her collision with the iron doll frame.

Still holding the broom threateningly over the boy, Claudette asked, “What’s your name? What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

“I’m Ralph Pierotti, miss. My grandfather owns the Pierotti Fashion Doll Works. He made me do it, I swear to you.” The boy’s pleading eyes rested in a face full of straw scratches. Gray broom dander rose from his head in wispy columns.

“I know of the Pierotti shop. It’s very successful. Why would your grandfather need to steal supplies from me?”

“We’re not so successful as of late. Your shop is taking a lot of his trade with the upper class, miss. He says it’s because you’re uppity. I told him it’s because—” The boy stopped, his eyes darting around the room.

“And so he sends in a child to steal parts from my workroom? Whatever for?”

“To figure out how you do it. What’s so special about your dolls, why is your experimentation with wax so much better than his? He wanted some samples he could examine and copy from, but didn’t want me to disturb your finished pieces. He said that wouldn’t be right.”

Claudette lowered the broom and burst into laughter, throwing Ralph into confusion. Even Béatrice was puzzled by her amusement.

“So, Ralph, stealing my expensive supplies was perfectly acceptable to your grandfather, but lifting a completed doll, well, that was beyond the bounds of propriety. Oh dear.” She shook her head, still smiling.

She made a sudden movement with the broom, which sent Ralph scrabbling away from her, but she motioned for him not to be afraid. Instead, she opened the sack on the floor, swept all of the scattered doll parts back in, and handed it to Ralph.

“Here, Ralph. Give this to Henry Pierotti with my compliments. Tell him that I would be delighted to discuss my doll manufacture with him, and that he doesn’t need to impress his relatives into criminal activity.”

Still terrified, the boy grabbed the sack from her and ran out the door into the frigid night air, the door banging shut behind him.

“Well, my friend”—Claudette yawned contentedly—“I thought we had made our mark when we got Queen Charlotte’s notice. Now I know we are truly famous because we have inspired a great heist. I say we toast our good fortune with Mrs. Jenkins before retiring tonight.”

London, April 1788.
Claudette and Béatrice had just finished having soup together in Claudette’s flat one evening when they heard a carriage come to a stop outside their building and someone knock on the front door. Béatrice went to the window.

“Oh,” she breathed.

“What is it?”

Before Béatrice could respond, they heard a sharp rap on the door of Claudette’s flat, followed by Mrs. Jenkins’s voice.

“Miss Laurent? You have a gentleman caller.”

Claudette looked at Béatrice quizzically, but the other woman turned back to the window.

Realizing that Béatrice was avoiding her, and quickly thinking that it simply could not be
him
coming to see her, not again, she opened the door, and her heart quit beating for an instant before leaping into her throat and making her speechless.

“Miss Laurent, this is Mr. William Greycliffe here to see you.” Mrs. Jenkins was glowing as she gazed up at the handsome gentleman standing next to her.

“Yes, so it would seem,” was all she could articulate.

When Mrs. Jenkins made no move to leave the doorway, William turned to her. “Madam, thank you for your assistance. You have been most kind.”

“Oh my, yes, well, certainly, Mr. Greycliffe, you need only knock should you need anything.” She scurried off downstairs back to her flat.

Claudette and William stared at each other steadily, each waiting for the other to break the silence. Finally, with her wits back in place, Claudette said, “Mr. Greycliffe, to what do I owe this rather unexpected pleasure? I require no dance lessons, I have not been under avian attack as of late, nor do I keep dollmaking supplies here just in case a customer should follow me home.”