The Queen's Dollmaker Read online

  THE QUEEN’S DOLLMAKER

  THE QUEEN’S DOLLMAKER

  CHRISTINE TRENT

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  For my husband, Jon,

  for loving, coaching, and encouraging me

  through this book

  …but most of all for believing in me

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  No book is written in solitary, and I think I needed more than my share of help. First, I’d like to express my gratitude to the team at Kensington Publishing: from Audrey LaFehr, editor extraordinaire, who decided to take a chance on a fledgling writer; to her wonderfully helpful assistant, Martin Biro; and to my copy editor, Tory Groshong, who has an eagle eye for mistakes and really shaped up my prose. I’m very lucky to be in such professional company.

  The pundits say you should never let your mother edit your work. Those folks never had my mother cheerfully poring over their manuscripts night and day. Thanks, Mom! My thanks also to Diane Townsend and Carolyn McHugh for graciously reading and correcting my manuscript many more times than I deserved. All three of these wonderful women were my champions throughout my entire journey to publication.

  I have the best husband in the entire world. Jon’s unflagging enthusiasm for my efforts is nearly beyond this writer’s ability to describe. He helped me think through plotlines, built me a small writing nook in our home, and let me purchase as many research books as would fit in our library. I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve him.

  I also extend my appreciation to British historical romance author Rosalind Laker, who gave me the first inspiration to write my own book. Rosalind, you taught me that to write about historical events is truly “to dance with kings.”

  Finally, I would like to give humble thanks to my Lord and King. We creatures may nourish, develop, and hone our talents, but we are blessed with them to begin with from our Creator. I am astonished every day that He chose to bless me in this way.

  THE QUEEN’S DOLLMAKER

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  EPILOGUE

  AFTERWORD

  SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  PROLOGUE

  Paris, 1765. Five-year-old Claudette Laurent raced down the street from her father’s doll shop to knock on the door of Charles and Michelle Renaud.

  “Madame Renaud!” she exclaimed when the door was opened. “Is Jean-Philippe here? Papa is taking us to see the Dauphine. Can Jean-Philippe go along?”

  Claudette’s best friend, barely a year older than she at age six, popped his dark head around his mother’s skirt.

  “Claudette?”

  Claudette reached out to grab his hand. “Come, Jean-Philippe, we’re going to see the Dauphine!”

  “What’s a Dauphine?”

  “Papa says she’s a princesse who is coming from a faraway land to marry the king’s grandson. One day, when the king dies, they will become the king and queen.”

  Jean-Philippe’s eyes were round. “Is the king going to die soon?”

  Claudette frowned. “Papa didn’t say. But come, Mama and Papa are waiting.”

  Étienne and Adélaide Laurent, along with their young daughter and her friend, lined the dusty street of St. Denis along with hundreds of other French citizens. The day was unseasonably hot, but the expectant crowd was in high spirits. Some of the crowd was also in high smell, from both the heat and being unwashed, and combined with the odor of various animals roaming the streets it bordered on noxious. Standing in close confinement with so many other people gave the inquisitive Claudette an opportunity to listen to plenty of gossip and hearsay, most of which she couldn’t understand. She overheard two women talking nearby about the new Dauphine.

  “I hear one of the king’s four daughters entered the Carmelite nunnery here, and that’s why they’re visiting here on their way to Versailles.”

  The other woman nodded. “Poor thing will have a time of it. She’s but a child, and undoubtedly old Louis will send her Austrian entourage back right away. She won’t have a soul for a friend.”

  The first woman elbowed her friend. “Better a peasant than a princesse, eh?”

  “Hah! Better to drink imported bourbon than to be in the House of Bourbon.”

  The women laughed uproariously at their own jokes.

  Claudette was still puzzled by part of their conversation. She pulled on her father’s sleeve. “Papa, what is the Dauphine’s entourage?”

  “Eh? Oh, an entourage is a group of other people that surround the Dauphine, either as advisors or servants. Some of them will be French, and some from her native land.”

  “Does she have friends in her entourage?”

  “Well, the people that have come with her from Austria might be her friends, particularly her personal maids. Most members of the entourage, though, have either their own motives, or are under strict orders of the king to watch the Dauphine’s every move.”

  Claudette was puzzled. “What is a motive, Papa?”

  Étienne patted his daughter’s head. “Never mind. Keep watch for the Dauphine.”

  Many children, Claudette and Jean-Philippe included, held flowers at the ready for strewing in front of the Dauphine’s carriage. After several hours of waiting, the crowd could see the stirring-up of dust in the distance, a sure sign that the troupe was on its way. The dust cloud got larger and the sound of hoofbeats louder as the carriages approached. The cavalcade slowed near the town, as the Dauphine’s procession prepared to make a stop to greet its residents.

  Claudette clutched a handful of wilting posies in her hand. She tried to peer around her parents to see the oncoming carriages, but the crowd was too thick. Jean-Philippe took up her free hand and whispered, “Let’s try to get closer.”

  With the young boy in the lead, the two children pushed their way through the throngs of people. A woman swatted at them, chastising them to get out of the way. Jean-Philippe looked up at the woman with a winsome smile.

  “Madame, if you do not let me pass, the Dauphine will miss seeing me.”

  The woman shook her head in exasperation, but smiled and let the children through. Jean-Philippe used his youthful charm to get them past the burly fishwives and their husbands. Finally Claudette burst in front of the crowd. Her flowers were now mostly mangled. Jean-Philippe, still clutching her hand, continued pulling her away from the squeeze of eager spectators.

  “Claudette, let’s go meet the Dauphine!”

  “No, Jean-Philippe, Papa will be mad if we leave.”

  “Follow me!”

  Claudette was swept down the street toward the carriage
procession. In the background she heard her mother shrieking, “Claudette, no! Come back this instant! Étienne, she will be injured.” Her father was also shouting to her, but Jean-Philippe’s grip was secure and their destination exciting. She willingly ran with him, closer to the approaching mass of horses and carriages.

  The man riding the first horse in the procession was dressed in a fancy uniform of white. He was wildly waving at the children to get out of the way, but they stood there, dumbfounded by his finery.

  “Brats! Out of the way! I shall run you through myself!” He put his hand menacingly on the sword belted to his side. From far behind them the children could hear a collective gasp from the crowd, and the faint calling of Claudette’s parents floated distantly through the air.

  Claudette and Jean-Philippe reacted to his movement and stepped quickly aside. However, by this time the entire entourage had slowed down. As horses and their conveyances were brought to a walk, the children got a good look at the riders and the carriage occupants.

  They gaped at the gentlemen and ladies who rode by in an endless pageant of silks, satins, feathers, bejeweled throats and wrists, and ribbons fluttering in the breeze. Near the center of the pageant was the largest and most spectacular carriage of them all. The closed white carriage, shaped like an inverted teardrop, was decorated with gilded wheel spokes and gilded moldings along the top edge. Paintings depicting themes of love decorated all sides of the carriage. From spires on the four top corners of the carriage flew a hodgepodge of colored ribbon streamers, still flapping gaily even though the conveyance was moving at an unhurried pace. It came to a complete halt next to Claudette and Jean-Philippe. A man who had been riding horseback just behind the carriage leapt down, ran to the door and unfurled a small folding stair next to it. Opening the door, the snowy-liveried servant proffered his arm to the occupant.

  Out stepped a young girl only about ten years older than the children on the ground. She was petite and delicate, her fresh features marred only by a lower lip that protruded unpleasantly from her face. She was dressed even more elegantly than anyone the children had seen yet in the procession. Her robin’s-egg-blue gown was stitched with lace and many sizes of pearls, and her tiny feet were adorned with heeled shoes encrusted with a matching pattern of pearls. The sumptuous gown was dusty all along the edges from road travel, and her shoes had splotches of mud on them, but she bespoke elegance, style, and sophistication. In her hand she held a small box tied with a bright white ribbon, a white lily tucked in the loops.

  The beautiful girl called out in very rough French, “Come to me, little enfants, I have a treat for you.”

  Claudette and Jean-Philippe approached cautiously, their earlier bravado having fled completely in the face of this graceful creature.

  She leaned over, holding out the box with one hand, untying it with the other. “Would you like some marzipan candies? Everyone loves sweets. I know I do.”

  They reached into the box and each took a sweetmeat, chewing slowly. The girl giggled delightedly.

  “Do you know who I am?” They both nodded dumbly. “I am the new Dauphine of France, and I have recently met my new husband and now I am being taken to the Palace of Versailles. Do you know where that is?” They shook their heads no, still silent.

  “Well, I am a bit frightened, first of the king, second of the Dauphin, but mostly of this strange new country that is now my home. So next time you are frightened by someone on his big horse waving a silly sword, remember me. Remember that even a princesse has moments of terror.”

  The children’s mouths hung open, showing the Dauphine chewed-up candy. She giggled again and looked expectantly at Claudette. When Claudette did not move, the princesse asked, “Are those for me?”

  Claudette looked down at the drooping flowers in her hand. “Yes, Mama told me I should throw them in front of your carriage. I did not do it. I was too afraid. I am sorry, Princesse.” A tear rolled down Claudette’s cheek. She struggled not to burst into a sobbing bawl and shame herself before this very nice lady who was not even mad at her for interrupting her travel.

  “There is nothing to be sorry for. If you will give them to me now, I shall take them with me as a souvenir of my stop in St. Denis.”

  Claudette handed over the flowers, many of which were matted in her tiny, grubby hand. The princesse acted as though she were receiving a gift of great value.

  “And what is your name, little one?”

  “I am Claudette Laurent,” she said shyly.

  Jean-Philippe stepped forward. “And I am Jean-Philippe Renaud. Claudette is still only a baby. I made sure she got down here to see you.”

  “I am not a baby! I’m almost as old as you.”

  “You’re just a noisy little girl. I’m nearly a man—my father says so.”

  The Dauphine broke into their disagreement. “Well, Jean-Philippe, you are indeed brave. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” With that, the princesse reentered the carriage, and waved to the children as the procession embarked again on its journey through St. Denis.

  1

  Paris, September 1781. After a busy day in her father’s shop, Claudette was deep in a sleep of pleasant dreams.

  “Claudette! Claudette! Up, my child.” Her beloved papa’s grimy face appeared above hers. Why was it so black? “Quickly, il y a le feu. A fire is burning down the street and will be here soon. Get dressed, then join your mother outside. I must go back and help.” As quickly as he had appeared, her father was gone, clattering down the stairs.

  She lay still for several moments, still half asleep, and then she heard the shop door slam shut. The sound brought her more fully awake. Papa never hurried unless he was upset.

  Had she just dreamed that her father, covered in black streaks, had told her there was a fire outside? Surely not. Surely that was part of her dream. She rolled onto her side, resting her cheek comfortably on her long, curly golden hair. The faint aroma of burning wood tickled her nose. Sniffing the air cautiously, she realized it was no dream. Reluctant to leave her cozy bedcovers, Claudette slowly sat up and stretched. She never slept with her hair tied up at night, and a curl from her perpetually unmanageable blond tresses fell forward into her eyes. She brushed it away impatiently. She could hear men shouting in the distance. Throwing back the blankets with a resigned finality, she walked to her bedroom window.

  Pushing up the sash, she could see the glow of a fire less than a mile away. Other neighbors were in the street, carrying lanterns, and discussing the severity of the fire.

  “What do you think, Michel? Is it coming this way?” the butcher across the street said to his friend.

  Squinting his eyes and looking into the fire’s distant glow, Michel responded, “No, I think it’s far away and will burn itself out before it gets here.” The two moved on down the street.

  A merchant talked with his wife. “Well, here we are again. The king does nothing to protect the streets of Paris, and now we have another fire. I promise you there will be no help from old Louis for those poor people losing their homes.” The two walked hastily up the street in the direction of the glow, as though to get a closer look.

  The owner of the Hôtel de Garamond, however, hurried his guests out of the building and into the street. Grumbling and demanding a refund, one portly guest threatened to burn down the inn himself if he was not permitted to reenter and gather his things.

  The crowd in the street grew larger and more unpleasant as neighbors began arguing with each other, then took wagers as to which direction the fire would eventually go. No one seemed to perceive any immediate danger.

  From her second story vantage point, Claudette was aware of a sudden wind shift that the people on the street could not sense. Waving out the window, she called out, “Mes amis, the wind is shifting. Listen to me! The fire might be turning this way.” She was completely drowned out by the noise of the street.

  Turning back into her room, Claudette realized her father was right. She needed to get dres
sed and leave the house immediately. She carefully made the bed, and hurriedly dressed in a plain dress made specially for her tall, willowy figure, and sensible shoes, which she thought suitable for what might amount to a temporary flight out of the city. She pulled her unruly hair back into a knot and ensured Jean-Philippe’s ring was still hidden on the chain around her neck. Claudette found her reticule and packed it with her treasured possessions. She stuffed it with her letters from Jean-Philippe, a comb, a mirror, and a miniature of her parents. Lifting her head, she noticed that the smell of smoke was becoming more intense. She crossed quickly back to the window. The glow was much higher now, and she could hear distant creaking and booming, as though buildings in the fire’s path had protested all they could, and were now succumbing to their fate.

  She also saw that her neighbors were now realizing that the fire was more dangerous than they had thought. Claudette’s mother was across the street, talking frantically with another neighbor. The neighbor looked puzzled. Claudette knew that her mother was probably babbling in a mixture of French and English, as she did whenever she was agitated. Born of an English mother and French father, Adélaide learned both languages growing up, but could not concentrate enough to use one or the other when upset. She had insisted that young Claudette also be taught English, and the girl was fluent in both tongues.