A Royal Likeness Page 13

  “Mrs. Ashby, I see you and Madame Tussaud have joined Sir Alexander’s little … gathering.”

  “Lieutenant Hastings, good evening. Have you been here long?”

  “Too long. These soirées are interminable bores.”

  “Why, Lieutenant, if I did not know of your youth, I might accuse you of being an old curmudgeon. Aren’t you supposed to be finding an eligible young woman here tonight?”

  “I’m too busy for such trifles, Mrs. Ashby. We are at war with France, in case you haven’t read the newspapers.”

  Marguerite’s fingers clenched around her punch vessel. Had she not just been standing here minding her own business? What a starched neck the man was.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Hastings, for your well-articulated synopsis of our political situation. I’m sure every Frenchman in the room right now is well aware that France intends to invade England, including my employer, Marie Tussaud. Perhaps you’d care to expand on your other obvious views, such as how pirates have disrupted trade in the Caribbean.”

  Hastings reddened. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to be so impolite. My remarks were well-intentioned, if clearly misconstrued. I am not an ogre, Mrs. Ashby, and do have some sympathy for the displaced French people among us. I do not relish the task that lies before me.”

  “What task is that? You mean ensuring the fortification of Edinburgh?”

  “Yes, among other things.”

  “What other things?”

  He ignored her question. “May I secure you another cup of punch?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Marguerite waited while he took her drained cup with a slight bow and went to fetch a fresh one. What a curious creature, she thought, watching him. Rather unintentionally rude, but actually a kind sort of gentleman. Decent. Might be a good match for a woman who can tolerate long absences from a seafaring husband who possesses only the barest tad of humor.

  He returned with her punch.

  “How long will you be in Edinburgh?” she asked.

  “Things are going well. I suspect I will be finished in a fortnight or so. What of you? Your exhibition travels, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. Thus far it has been quite successful in Edinburgh, so I am sure Madame Tussaud will wish to stay as long as possible.”

  “And so we both wander Great Britain in service to our professions. I’ve not seen the exhibit yet, although the governor raves about it. Quite incessantly, I must say. Perhaps I’ll come to visit before my departure.”

  “We are open most days from eleven o’clock until ten o’clock in the evening. You may find our Separate Room a bit thrilling.”

  “Undoubtedly. If you will excuse me, Mrs. Ashby, I’m afraid I have to pay my regards to others. May I escort you to Madame Tussaud?”

  And, without waiting for a reply, he offered his arm to her and walked her to where Marie was cornered by the governor’s enthusiastic discussion of the city’s cultural offerings.

  To Marguerite’s surprise, Hastings gave her a nearly imperceptible wink and said lightly, “I believe Madame requires your assistance.”

  Marguerite did not see Lieutenant Hastings the remainder of the evening. She soon forgot about him in her quest to extricate Marie from Sir Alexander’s ardent clutches.

  But she remembered Hastings a few weeks later, upon hearing from their now frequent visitor, Sir Alexander, of the lieutenant’s looming departure from Edinburgh for Folkestone to inspect its port fortifications across from Boulogne.

  Lieutenant Hastings had never bothered to visit the salon.

  Marguerite shivered as she entered the warmth of Barnard’s Rooms after shopping for some stationery for a letter she wished to write to Claudette. Did the cold rain never cease in this city?

  “A letter for you, Mrs. Ashby.” Mrs. Laurie held out the wrinkled, smudged, well-traveled parchment as Marguerite came through the front door.

  Marguerite did not recognize the handwriting. She undid her hat as she climbed the stairs to her room, puzzling over who would be writing to her besides Aunt Claudette.

  She hung up her damp hat and cloak and crossed over to her small writing desk under the room’s only window.

  Lyceum Theatre, London August 25, 1803

  Dear Mrs. Ashby,

  Although I have sent a letter to Madame Tussaud separately notifying her of my plans, I flatter myself—perhaps unduly—that you might welcome a direct correspondence from me regarding my arriva.

  My ship departs London on August 31, with an expected arrival about seven days hence. My Phantasmagoria show will be situated in the Corri Rooms next door to the wax exhibition.

  I expect that my show will be a beneficial addition to yours, and that the Edinburgh audiences will be awed by our combination of entertainments.

  Having never been to Edinburgh before, or Scotland for that matter, it is my great hope that you will accompany me for an afternoon as I tour the city to get my bearings.

  Until my arrival I remain—Your devoted friend, Paul de Philipsthal

  Marguerite folded the letter slowly. I suppose there can be no harm in that.

  As the two women were straightening up the Separate Room the following evening after closing, Marie broached the topic after first kissing Joseph good night and sending him to their rooms.

  “Mr. Philipsthal plans to join us in a fortnight,” she said as she worked Marie Antoinette’s wig in her hands to separate its curls.

  “Yes, I know. I have had my own letter from him.”

  “Pardon?” Marie dropped the wig to the floor and stared at her. “Why does he write to you?”

  Marguerite continued at her own task, using a soft brush to remove accumulated lint and dust from the folds of the French queen’s pale yellow gown.

  “Mr. Philipsthal wished me to know personally of his arrival. He asked if I would assist him in learning the city’s landmarks.”

  “What else does he want from you?”

  “Nothing, as far as I can tell. He knows I do not welcome any advances and just seeks my friendship.”

  “Hah! Philipsthal never seeks the simple thing. Always he wants more. I tell my husband in my letters about him. He says I should abandon Philipsthal and England and go back to France, but I think one day I’ll make a successful show here. It is too dangerous to go back to France anyway.”

  Marguerite seized the opportunity.

  “Madame, what is the source of your animosity toward Mr. Philipsthal? He has always been very kind to me and seems to want both our shows to thrive.”

  “He is but a wolf. A wolf who devours innocent sheep in his path. He has devoured me and he will come after you if you allow it. You must stay away from him. Promise me!”

  “I cannot promise such a thing until you tell me what his great sin is.”

  But Marie would say no more. She pressed her lips in a thin line, picked up the fallen wig, and returned to her work.

  Mr. Philipsthal arrived on his scheduled day, one of rare sunshine yet still cool temperature, but without his show trunks and cases. After packing up all his equipment and settling bills with the Lyceum’s owner and his temporary workers, he had entrusted an agent with the drayage and loading of the paraphernalia onto the ship. The agent had stowed it all aboard the wrong ship, a vessel headed for Inverness, and it would be another week before it returned.

  “Therefore I am free to do your bidding, dear ladies, although first I must insist on an escorted tour of this delightful little town.” He looked meaningfully at Marguerite. Marie caught his look and sent her own message to her protégé through a small shake of her head.

  “Madame, may I persuade you to release Mrs. Ashby a few hours early today so she can squire me about?” Philipsthal’s question was both pleading and softly demanding at the same time.

  In response, Madame Tussaud stalked off toward the back of the exhibit.

  Philipsthal offered Marguerite his arm. “I believe we have received as much acquiescence as can be hoped for.”

 
; Marguerite took the proffered arm. What kind of strange relationship is this? Had Madame been involved in an illicit affair with him and been jilted? Why so much ill feeling?

  Inside their hired open carriage, Marguerite suggested that they take Princes Street around the perimeter of Edinburgh Castle and travel downhill on High Street toward the Palace of Holyroodhouse.

  As the castle’s looming presence rose before them, she told Mr. Philipsthal of their visit with the governor and subsequent attendance at a ball.

  “Was the governor interested in backing the show at all?” Philipsthal asked her as they rounded the southwest corner of the castle and proceeded onto Market Street.

  “I believe he was more interested in Marie herself than her show.” Marguerite waited for his reaction, but his face was bland.

  Would neither of these two people let her know what secret history lay between them?

  Their carriage continued downhill on High Street, past St. Giles’ Cathedral with its prominent tower, the old parliament building built by King Charles I, a myriad of thriving churches, candlemakers, booksellers, banks, and drapers, and all manner of taverns and inns. As they neared a pasty seller whose stand was nearly blocking their path, Philipsthal called for the driver to stop. He exited the carriage gracefully despite his towering frame, and returned moments later with three steaming, crescent-shaped, meat-filled pies, one of which he handed to a surprised and grateful driver.

  Marguerite held the warm crust in her hands as they continued on, savoring its doughy aroma before taking a bite. The interior was stuffed with minced lamb, potatoes, mint, and spices. She had never tasted meat quite so savory. She did not speak again until she had finished her entire pie, and was mortified to find crumbs scattered all over her lap. Mr. Philipsthal pretended not to notice as she swept the litter to the floor of the carriage, her only possible course of action.

  “Thank you, Mr. Philipsthal. It would seem the Scots have mastered lamb cookery to the point that it is impossible to talk until one has gobbled down whatever dish has been presented.”

  “Your pleasure is my greatest happiness,” he said. “And now it looks like we are coming upon the palace.”

  Marguerite had not yet seen Holyroodhouse for herself. Whereas the castle grounds soared imposingly up in the air on their bed of ancient volcanic rock, dominating the skyline like a colossal, confused phoenix with its jumble of stone buildings inside ancient walls, the palace was its natural opposite. Situated in nearly a direct line about a mile down the hill from the castle, it lay on flat, bucolic grounds. The palace was shaped as a square surrounding a courtyard, with an enormous gatehouse containing three turrets at either corner of the front side facing the street. Each turret was full of arrow slits, a reminder of days gone by when the Scottish monarch first protected the Crown against usurpers of the throne, and later as a defense against the country’s own internal revolts. And now it was the home of the exiled Charles-Philippe, Comte d’Artois and second in line to the nearly defunct Bourbon line, along with his longtime paramour, Louise de Polastron. King George III had granted apartments inside the palace to him as a residence. Rumors of the comte had reached Marguerite’s ears at the exhibition. It was said that Charles-Philippe, seriously in debt and miserable in exile, stayed mostly within the palace’s walls, gambling at cards with Louise and his entourage, and only ventured out to ride on Sundays, since Scottish law forbade the arrest of debtors on the Lord’s day.

  To the south of the palace lay Holyrood Park, once used for royal hunting and now just an array of pleasure grounds, hills, lochs, and ridges. They ventured down the road nearest the palace, which surrounded the gardens. Other visitors did the same and this perimeter road sometimes became congested and impassable.

  Many faded aristocrats, no doubt more refugees from the revolution in France, strolled the lavish gardens pretending they were still commanding attention at Versailles.

  After the full two hours it took to circle the palace gardens, Philipsthal instructed the driver to return to Barnard’s Rooms. This time the driver took a different route that was on less of a direct incline back up in the direction of the castle. They instead drove past the fashionably grand façades of the New Town area surrounding Barnard’s Rooms.

  Marguerite checked the watch pinned to her bodice as their driver pulled up to their destination. “I believe I have been gone for longer than Madame Tussaud might have liked. I must hurry back in.”

  Philipsthal exited the carriage, paid the driver, and offered a hand to help Marguerite down.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Ashby, for your delightful company. Our ride together was quite refreshing.” He still held her hand.

  “It was no trouble, Mr. Philipsthal. I value our friendship.” She dislodged her captured palm and smiled. “I hope you like what you have seen of Edinburgh. But now I must be back to work.”

  She walked off quickly to avoid further conversation and just barely caught him saying, “Please, call me Paul.”

  The ride left Marguerite even more puzzled. Mr. Philipsthal seemed a perfectly pleasant man and of no threat to anyone. Yet Marie was a shrewd, calculating businesswoman. If she was leery of someone, was it not wise to heed her judgment?

  Philipsthal’s show trunks had been quickly transferred to another ship bound for Edinburgh, and with the help of several hired hands he was ready for his Phantasmagoria show’s opening on September 20.

  Marie held out the newspaper page containing his advertisement over a breakfast of biscuits, jams, and melon with fresh cream.

  “He hires too many people. No eye on profit.”

  Marguerite glanced at the advertisement without taking it, her hands full with the buttering of bread.

  “I suppose the investment in labor helped him get his show started sooner.”

  “Not an investment. He’s lazy. Lets everyone else do the work for him. Humph.” Marie took the paper back, crumpled it, and tossed it into the small fireplace in Mrs. Laurie’s dining room. The previous night’s embers sparked to life as they quickly consumed their own morning meal.

  Marguerite saw little of Mr. Philipsthal during the first two weeks of his show’s opening. He seemed preoccupied with managing all the details surrounding a new location, and Marguerite worked night and day alongside her mentor. Edinburgh had proven to be a great success for them.

  As Marie had hoped, the refugee French aristocrats in this bustling town loved the wax exhibition and most happily paid the extra fee to enter the Separate Room, where they could see castings of fellow aristocrats and royalty who had been less lucky in keeping their heads on their shoulders. In the Separate Room they could also stare at the evildoers who had been responsible for much of France’s destruction and eventually shared in their victims’ fates.

  The locked coin box was filling up daily.

  When the exhibit was not particularly crowded and could be managed by the ever-precocious Joseph, Marie gave Marguerite more instructions in the waxworking craft.

  “You are a good student, Mrs. Ashby, but you must learn to make sketches. We can’t always make masks. For our next portrait I teach you.”

  Their next portrait was not long in coming, for even the Comte d’Artois and his mistress, Madame de Polastron, had heard of the show from their fellow expatriates and ventured out of the palace one Sunday to see what all the grand fuss was about.

  After sweeping through the main gallery and the Separate Room, the comte—whose youthful but dominating presence could be interpreted as nothing less than royal—nearly toppled Marie and Marguerite in his exuberance before remembering that he had royal manners to maintain. He drew himself up to match his height to his own opinion of himself, then gasped in recognition of Marie.

  “You! I remember you! From Versailles. But I don’t recall your position. What was your relation to us?”

  Marie bowed her head deferentially. “Monsieur, I was art tutor to your sister, Madame Elisabeth, for several years. Until the unpleasantness began.” />
  “Ah yes, I recall now that you had apartments next to hers. How our circumstances have changed, no? To be exiled in this city choked with rabid Protestants. It is hard for us good, devout Frenchmen to bear.” He absentmindedly patted his mistress’s hand, which was tucked in his arm. Louise de Polastron’s countenance was serene to the point that the woman seemed to be elsewhere.

  “I am content enough with my circumstances, monsieur,” Marie replied. “I have some success with my little wax exhibition.”

  “Yes, I suppose for the bourgeoisie it is easy enough to earn money using your hands. But I am forced to more gentlemanly pursuits. It is difficult, most difficult. And now that fool Corsican thinks to invade England. We’ll be murdered in our beds by these heathen Scots who think to curry favor with the Crown by getting rid of ‘undesirable’ elements. But we have more agreeable affairs to talk of, yes?”

  Charles-Philippe commanded an immediate sitting for both himself and his pale, quiet mistress, assuring the waxworkers that the cost was of no importance.

  Indeed no, Marguerite thought. Of no importance when one lives off the beneficence of the Crown.

  Whether Marie agreed with her was unclear. The salon’s proprietress set the price at ten pounds for both figures and arranged for a sitting in two days, at which time they would each provide the clothing they wanted their respective figures to wear.

  “This time, Mrs. Ashby, you will learn to sketch as well as assist me with the masks.”

  “I’m afraid I have no innate talent for drawing, madame.”

  “I didn’t, either. No, my little Nini is the natural artist in our merry little group. He needs no teaching. You have seen his drawings since we’ve been here? He is a remarkable boy.”