A Royal Likeness (8 page)

“Yes, my process has improved. I will teach Mrs. Ashby everything. Now, do you wish to see my secret figures?”

She led them through the rear door of the gallery, which opened into a space that was a jumbled combination of storage, art studio, and exhibit space. It reminded Marguerite of the doll shop’s workroom, except it was larger and contained piles of wax bricks.

“I don’t let visitors back here because it will scare them, but I show you, Claudette.”

She drew them to the rear of the space, where several large crates were stored. Lifting the hinged lid on one of the crates, she motioned for them to look inside. Nestled in the crate was a figure of a woman that lay on a reclining couch, her arm across her forehead in repose. Upon closer examination, they could see that the woman appeared to be breathing. Claudette uttered a spontaneous “Oh my!” and Marie laughed in her sharp, birdlike way.

“Do you like it? This is Madame du Barry, favorite of King Louis XV. She may have met her end at the blade like so many others—oh, sorry, my dear—but she lives on here in wax. My mentor, Curtius, made this about thirty years ago for his salon in Paris. I plan to put up a separate curtained area to display it. For a separate charge.”

William, Claudette, and Marguerite nodded in agreement.

“I have more to display with her. Look over here.” She led them to another crate, opened it and removed one cloth-covered object from several. It was a replica of the guillotined head of Louis XVI. She held it by a wood post inserted through the base of the neck. Made in wax, it had stringy hair sewn into its scalp, and
red paint had been applied around the neckline to give the impression of blood. It was quite theatrical, but the resemblance to the late king was unmistakable.

“Marie!” Claudette shrieked.

“Hah! Too much for your dollmaker sensibilities.”

“Too much for anyone’s sensibilities! Please, put it away.”

“Wait,” Marguerite commanded. “I would like to see it.”

Nodding her approval, Marie handed it over to her new apprentice.

Marguerite held the head at arm’s length, scrutinizing it, then bringing it close to sniff it. She wrinkled her nose.

“It smells dreadful. Is that part of its realism?”

Marie looked confused, so Joseph jumped in to serve as translator for his mother. Marie laughed, or rather barked, in return. “No, it’s just remnants of glues and paints and plaster sitting together for so long in a closed crate.”

Marguerite looked at the face again. “These figures seem gruesome at first, but it seems as though people here in England would want to see what King Louis looked like. I’ve only seen drawings of the late king, but it seems to me that this is a very good likeness.”

“It
is
a good likeness. It’s from his death mask.”

“What is a death mask?”

“I put a plaster mold on his face after his execution to ensure I get all the details.”

“Do you mean … after he was … you went and …” Marguerite held the head back out at arm’s length for Marie to put away.

“Yes, some of the best figures are made from the infamous. The infamous usually get that way by having bad ends. I try to be on hand for these bad ends. It became a habit after revolutionary mobs forced me into it.”

“Are you saying that you attend executions?”

“If it is someone worthwhile, yes. Never just for shock. Always someone famous. Already we have Marie Antoinette, Marat, Robespierre, and the king, and a few notorious Englishmen. We must get the death mask while the subject is still fresh.”

“We?” Marguerite’s voice was barely above a squeak.

Joseph imitated Marguerite’s high-pitched “we” while translating, and was rewarded with laughter all around. Emboldened, he provided his own response.

“Are you frightened, Mrs. Ashby? Mama does not let me go with her to make death masks, but I am not afraid at all. When Maman says I’m old enough, I’ll be the one to go with her, and you can stay home and be afraid.”

Marguerite realized that she had a formidable opponent in the form of her employer’s son.

“I’ve no doubt of your bravery, and I am most happy to see you display your courage in the graveyards of London. I don’t believe I’ll be ready to visit another grave site again in my entire life.”

After concluding the tour of the back room and the outer gallery, Marie Tussaud invited them to tea and cakes at her rented rooms, where Marguerite’s things had already been sent. She closed the exhibition for the day, quietly tutting in French about the loss of income from closing early, and they all went to the Surrey Street lodgings in the Greycliffe carriage. On arrival, Marguerite watched as William had the driver fetch a wrapped package from their luggage before joining the women and Joseph in the entrance hall.

“My driver will take care of unloading your belongings into your rooms, Marguerite, although you’ll have to unpack yourself.”

“I don’t mind at all, Uncle William. It will keep my mind occupied as I get adjusted to being in London again.”

The landlady, Mrs. Slade, greeted them, curtsying hastily upon realizing by William’s dress that an aristocrat stood before her. She showed them around the building, consisting of four apartments, two on the ground floor and two on the floor above, divided by a worn but sturdy staircase.

Marie and Joseph kept their lodgings on the ground floor to the left side of the staircase. Marguerite was shown to her new quarters, located on the upper floor on the other side of the house. Her bedchamber was simply furnished with a quilt-covered bed, a plain oak table and chair for correspondence, and a washstand. An embroidered sampler dated 1765, by someone named Lizzie,
hung over the bed. A small room beyond held hooks for dresses, hats, and other belongings. It was a far cry from her luxurious surroundings at Hevington, and would even be considered greatly reduced circumstances from the townhome she shared with Nicholas, but it didn’t matter. Marguerite had little care for her living quarters as compared to her interest in her new apprenticeship, and said so aloud upon seeing Claudette’s distressed look.

A parlor located behind the staircase on the ground floor was shared by the residents. Its furniture bordered on the shabby side, but it had a serviceable spinet in one corner and a four-shelf bookcase weighed down with well-worn books, mostly on botany, theology, and literature. The books had belonged to her deceased husband, Mrs. Slade told them.

“And now would you like tea?” she asked.

They sat in the parlor while Mrs. Slade bustled off to get their refreshments. The relaxed surroundings soon had Claudette and Marie chattering quite happily in French about their shared experiences, while William and Marguerite took turns listening in and poring over the shelved books. Joseph’s translation skills were not needed, so he amused himself by teasing a spider that had been perfectly content in her web atop a window sash.

The only break in their conversation came when Mrs. Slade returned with a tray of tea and cakes. They praised the landlady’s rich caraway seed cake, and returned to their chat after Mrs. Slade’s lengthy explanation of how the recipe had been handed down through her family.

After Mrs. Slade’s departure, Claudette’s and Marie’s French became so rapid that not even William could follow.

“William, did you bring it in with you?” Claudette’s voice broke back into English, disturbing the cadence of the discourse.

He straightened up from where he had been pulling out a rare French volume on chess. “What? Yes, I did.”

He handed his wife the paper-wrapped parcel that he had set on a table just inside the room. She untied the string securing it.

“Marie, do you remember this?” Claudette held up a large doll with a sweet, narrow face, dressed in a once-elegant dress that was faded by wear and time.

“Ah, yes, the princesse. I am still missing her. I wasn’t able to do her mask. Maybe I will do her figure from memory one day.”

Marguerite recognized the doll as a replica of the Princesse de Lamballe, the close friend of Marie Antoinette and the subject of Aunt Claudette’s most revered commission.

“I miss her as well, Marie,” Claudette said. “Sometimes it’s still too much to think about.”

“No tears, no tears, my girl. Eh, what about another figure of you?”

“Of me?”

“Yes. I’d like to make a tableau of the Revolution. When the public is ready for it. I will put on display my death masks of the king, the queen, Marat … and you, as one who was dear to the queen yet avoided the guillotine.”

Claudette declined. “I have enough unspeakable memories of that interlude without a permanent reminder of my horror set up as a public spectacle.”

Marie Tussaud shrugged. “Well, maybe you change your mind one day. Do you still have the figure I give you for your wedding?”

Marie had shipped a large crate to William and Claudette upon their marriage. Inside they found a life-sized wax figure of Claudette carving a doll. Claudette kept it in a special room back at Hevington, along with the Princesse de Lamballe doll.

“Of course I still have it. The children love it.”

With an exaggerated look at his pocket watch, William pointed out to his wife that it was time to be going. Marie embraced Claudette fervently before departing for her own quarters with Joseph. Marguerite walked with William and Claudette to the front door.

“Remember that you’re always welcome back at Hevington. Anytime.”

“I know, Uncle William. Thank you both for everything.”

Claudette produced a tiny parcel from inside her reticule and offered it to Marguerite. Inside was a watch pin, the casing worked in intricate silver filigree.

“Aunt Claudette, this is beautiful.”

“It’s from William and me, so you can track the time until we
see you again.” Claudette fastened the brooch to the bodice of Marguerite’s dress before clutching her niece tightly.

“We’ll miss you. But I know this is the right thing for you. And, dear”—she released Marguerite enough to put a hand against her face and whispered so no one else could hear—”promise me you might consider finding another young man one day.”

The sharp pain twisted through Marguerite again briefly.

“No, Aunt Claudette. I can’t go through this pain again. It’s too much. I barely survived the first time. I couldn’t endure it a second time.”

Claudette patted her face. “You may eventually change your mind. At least I hope you will, for your own sake.”

Marguerite watched from the entryway as they returned to their carriage. All of her luggage was gone, placed in her room by the driver while they were having tea. She waved furiously as they departed, holding back sentimental tears at seeing her two favorite people left in the world rumble away from her down the dusty street.

She shut the door and rested her head against it. Like the door, her old world was completely closed to her now. Her stomach gave voice in no uncertain terms that she was a cluttered mix of trepidation, excitement, and guilt as to her feelings of anticipation over her new life.

“Nicholas,” she whispered. “If you’re watching, please be happy for my newfound fortune. I miss you, darling, but I have to do something for my sanity and to stay out of your mother’s clutches.”

With that, she straightened her back, turned toward the stairs, and walked deliberately up to her room to begin the task of unpacking.

It was Madame Tussaud’s than a week for the weather morning from her lodgings to the Lyceum Theatre to save on hackney fares. Much of this walk was past the recently completed Somerset House, an enormous complex of government offices on the site of an earlier Tudor palace. Tussaud did not alter her practice with Marguerite’s arrival. During the walk each morning she would discuss what important things had to be done before the exhibit opened for the day, and on the return walk she verbally totaled the day’s receipts and ran through an oral ledger book. Joseph, an extraordinarily mature boy, walked dutifully alongside his mother, on the opposite side from Marguerite.

On her first day as Tussaud’s apprentice, Marguerite was given the first of many sets of instructions as they walked toward the theatre.

“We will help each other—this is good. I teach you waxworks, and you teach me better English. Nini is a good boy, but not patient enough with my language. Did I tell you he’s only here nine months and already he speaks like an
indigène?
”

Marguerite smiled. “I believe you did.”

“Yes, he’s a good boy to his
maman
.”

Based on Claudette’s recollections, Marguerite knew Marie to be at least forty years old, but her face spoke of a much younger woman, despite all of the heavy cares she had already borne in her
life. Her petite frame was quick and birdlike in its movements. She spoke sparingly, as if saving up her words for a winter freeze. Her broken English was interspersed at times with French, particularly when she was upset or angry.

Marguerite asked her new employer about her heritage while sweeping the gallery floors that first morning.

“Yes, I’m born in Salzburg and my mother worked for my uncle Curtius as housekeeper. When he goes to Paris for his patron, the Prince de Conti, he sends for us and we go to live with him. My uncle kept a very popular exhibit in the Palais Royal. Famous everywhere. He teaches me waxworks as I will teach you. Most of the collection here is made from his hands. Here is one I’ve done.”

Marie led her to a figure near the rear of the gallery. Lifeless brown eyes stared at an unknown point in time. His thin face looked haggard and bulges protruded from under his eyes. Wispy stands of curled hair lay lank against his scalp. Instead of the street clothing given to most of the busts, this one was dressed in a uniform with some kind of military sash over one shoulder.

Marguerite studied him. “I don’t know who this is.”

“This was one of my first since I have been in England. You may know about this man. He was very bad. Tried to kill English king and seize the Tower of London. Came to a bad end a couple of months ago. I took a death mask before his friends buried him. Very popular here in the exhibit. I was lucky Admiral Nelson got sentence commuted to hanging and decapitation or head would be in no condition to—what’s the matter?”