A Royal Likeness Page 10

“Thank you, Mr. Philipsthal.” Marguerite set down her fine-bristled brush and folded her hands in front of her.

  “I thought that if you were not occupied this evening, you might accompany me to supper. For no other purpose than to give a tired man some brief companionship. My Phantasmagoria show is of course successful beyond my wildest dreams, but such success can be quite exhausting. May I have the pleasure?”

  Before Marguerite could think whether or not to accept, Marie came storming across the gallery, her invective arriving before she did.

  “No! No supper! No despoiling of my apprentice. She’s a good girl.” Marie was waving a finger in Mr. Philipsthal’s face with the fury of a countess whose daughter is being courted by a tavern keeper. Marguerite had never seen her this angry before.

  “Madame, please, I am not frightened of Mr. Philip—”

  “You should be. Philipsthal, you are a liar and a cheat. Go back to your Phantasmagoria and leave my apprentice alone.”

  Marguerite thought Mr. Philipsthal looked genuinely distressed and she attempted once more to intervene.

  “Madame, Mr. Philipsthal is a friend and means me no harm. He knows I am still a grieving widow.”

  “Bah. He knows no friend.”

  Mr. Philipsthal’s lips compressed into a thin, controlled line. He gave a slight nod to each woman. “I will take my leave of you now. Madame, Mrs. Ashby. Good day to you both.” He left the room in a swirl of tan cloak.

  Marie picked up the brush and handed it back to Marguerite, her cheeks red with displeasure. Marguerite did not pursue her point.

  The following evening Marie came to Marguerite’s room as she was preparing for bed.

  “I must talk to you.” Her employer’s normally expressive face was bland, as if purposefully so. Marguerite’s senses tightened. Was she in trouble? Had she offended Madame Tussaud with her interference with Mr. Philipsthal, whom she had not seen since their encounter two days ago?

  “Of course, madame.” She sat on her bed and invited Marie to sit at her dressing table. Marie sat only momentarily before jumping up and pacing back and forth in her darting, birdlike way.

  “We must leave the Lyceum Theatre. Mr. Winsor cannot be budged on his plans. No good for the exhibition. I’ve told Philipsthal. He’ll pay for transport and will join us in July.”

  Marguerite was thoroughly confused.

  “Mr. Winsor’s plans? What plans? Where are we to go?”

  “That fool landlord plans to install gas lighting. Throughout the Lyceum. Including the exhibition. No good at all. Dangerous for wax figures.”

  So they were to leave London. “Where are we going?”

  “Edinburgh. We leave in a fortnight. First I must make documents with my solicitor. You will go with me? Tomorrow. Then we have to pack figures for the sea voyage. We will wait to send the Duchess of York’s figure to her.”

  And just as abruptly Marie was gone from her room. Marguerite plumped her pillow up against the wall and sat with her legs crossed under her nightshift to continue reading a book from Mrs. Slade’s bookshelves. She flipped the pages without absorbing a word. Was she ready to leave England? Hevington had been a source of comfort, and London was at least familiar. Over the past weeks she had developed some small sense of comfort in the routine of the exhibition, and was learning the craft quickly. Moreover, she had a sense that if waxworking was not permanently to her taste, she could easily return to Aunt Claudette. What would await her in Edinburgh? Would she lose her sense of security?

  Tossing the unread book aside, she slipped out of bed and went to her knees in childlike prayer. Her prayers were confused, offered to both God and Nicholas. She stayed bent over her bed until her knees ached, seeking a peace that refused to come.

  The next afternoon they once again left a sullen Joseph behind with Mrs. Slade while they went to see Marie’s solicitor, Mr. George Wright. During the hackney ride to his office off Manchester Square, Marie explained what documents she needed drawn up.

  Her husband, François Tussaud, had remained in Paris with her other son while she came to London with Joseph to try to make a success of the exhibition in England. She left François in charge of her Salon de Cire wax exhibition on the boulevard du Temple, a popular tourist area in Paris. She had inherited the exhibition from Dr. Curtius upon his death in 1795 and continued his tradition of creating wax portraits representing the most popular figures of the day. But the exhibition was in financial trouble when she inherited it, so Marie borrowed money from Madame Reiss, a woman who lived and worked at the Salon de Cire for some years. In exchange for a loan of twenty thousand French assignats, Marie agreed to pay her an annuity of two thousand livres. Now that she was in England, it was becoming quite difficult to handle this monetary transaction on her own and she wished to give her husband financial authority over the Salon de Cire as well as a house at Ivry-sur-Seine that she had also inherited from Dr. Curtius.

  “This has been on my mind for some time,” the older woman confided. “Now with another sea voyage ahead of me, I want to be sure my affairs are well in hand.”

  Marguerite pondered whether or not she had affairs remaining to be resolved. After Nicholas’s death, Uncle William had stepped in to ensure their London townhome was shuttered, and gave instructions to Roger and Agnes for ongoing work at the doll shop. Aunt Claudette had ensured refurbishment of the shop and was, as far as she knew, still making periodic trips to London to prioritize orders and make important decisions. Marguerite simply hadn’t given the shop much thought in recent months, but supposed that Aunt Claudette was willing to take it over completely again.

  Their carriage pulled up to Mr. Wright’s offices, located in a narrow town house. Mr. Wright, elderly but competent, prepared the necessary documents giving Marie’s husband full power of attorney over all her property in Paris, and invited them into a back parlor for tea and refreshment afterwards. They returned to their lodging rooms before dark, where a petulant Joseph complained that he was hungry. After securing supper for the boy and themselves, each woman went off to her own rooms, Marie to write to her husband and Marguerite to send a message to Claudette.

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

  July 5, 1803 Hevington

  My dearest Marguerite,

  So you are to quit London for Edinburgh. Fear not, you may trust Marie’s instincts completely. She has an unerring eye for art and theatre. Although the show may be quite successful in the city, you can be sure that she will make it successful anywhere she takes it. Have you made a figure on your own yet?

  Her sponsor, Mr. Philipsthal, sounds like a strange sort. Are you certain he does not have designs on you? If Marie distrusts him, I caution you to also beware. However, I am sorry now to have missed his Phantasmagoria show, which sounds to be quite the fright!

  William sends his love. The children have been pressing leaves and flowers into a scrapbook for you. They constantly ask when you are to return for a visit, but I tell them to be patient and wait for their “cousin” to become a famous waxworker. Edward wants to know if you will model him as a cricketer.

  Farewell. I pray for your safe journey and hope for your return as soon as possibl.

  Affectionately,

  Claudette

  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:

  DUE TO POPULAR DEMAND!! CURTIUS’S CABINET OF WONDERS WILL BE CLOSING IN MERE DAYS FOR AN ENGAGEMENT IN EDINBURGH.DO NOT MISS THE CHANCE TO SEE FAMOUS PEOPLE UP CLOSE.THE LATE ROYAL FAMILY OF FRANCE—COLONEL DESPARD—THE DUCHESS OF YORK—PRESIDENT WASHINGTON OPEN EVERY DAY FROM ELEVEN IN THE MORNING UNTIL TEN AT NIGHTADMISSION: ONE SHILLING

  Marie grumbled con
siderably 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.

  PART TWO

  Edinburgh

  5

  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.