A Royal Likeness Read online

  “He is indeed remarkable. But how will I be able to sketch these two important patrons when I am not naturally inclined to drawing?”

  “Did you not sketch dolls before carving them?”

  “Honestly, no. I formed a picture in my head and from there set my hand to the carving knife. Aunt Claudette rarely sketched anything, either.”

  “What of their clothes before cutting fabric?”

  “Sometimes, yes. But we had a very talented seamstress who was gifted at making patterns based on my verbal descriptions.”

  Marie tsk-tsked her wonder at how the doll shop ever produced the quality it had. Marguerite suppressed her amusement. From anyone else the comment would be insulting, but Marie was fast becoming a figure of great importance to Marguerite. Marie was sometimes secretive, and almost always oblivious to anything not concerning her show, but she was also protective of her protégé, a loving mother, and an exceedingly able businesswoman. Not to mention an artist with unparalleled talent in wax modeling.

  Yes, I could have done far worse in my new life without Nicholas.

  With the thought of her husband, now dead nearly a year, she waited for at least one bolt of pain to course through her. It did not come. Instead, it felt like a thin, fluttering ribbon weaving quickly through her heart, gone almost before she noticed it.

  Marie and Marguerite closed up the exhibit early on the day they visited Holyroodhouse. They once again left behind an outraged Joseph, who had been chattering nonstop for two days about what it must be like to be a prince, and once again found himself left out of an exciting event.

  “This is not fair to me, Maman! I am going to be a great and famous waxworker when I grow up. I have to meet the comte if I’m going to be famous.” He crossed his arms and jutted out his bottom lip.

  “Son, you must remain here. I want you to study the spelling book I bought for you.”

  “I don’t need to spell! I speak English like a native. You said so! I want to visit the palace.” His lower lip was now trembling.

  Marguerite, thankful that he no longer aimed his resentment directly at her, felt some sympathy for the boy. Who wouldn’t want to see how royalty lives? And what child can understand being too young for adult company? Especially poor Joseph, whose only playmates were two adult women and a horde of wax people.

  As they finally escaped Barnard’s Rooms with their two bags of supplies, Marie said, “Speaking English is not enough. My boy is getting older and needs good education. Nini needs a tutor. Mrs. Ashby, will you help me find one?”

  “Of course, madame. It would be my pleasure to help you secure a tutor.”

  They proceeded on foot down the mile-long incline of High Street toward Holyroodhouse. Madame Tussaud rarely hired a carriage for any journey. “I can buy a case of wax blocks for the price. Hackney is a stupid expense.”

  The fragrant aroma from the meat-pie seller wafted upon Marguerite before she actually saw him. She made a mental note to treat Madame Tussaud to one of his delectable pasties on their return trip, which would be a welcome stop as they trudged back uphill.

  At the palace gates they were greeted by two soldiers from the castle, who nodded politely to the women and let them through into the front courtyard. A large fountain sat equidistant between the guard gate and the palace’s entrance. The fountain’s sprays were turned off, leaving the impression that it no longer cared about greeting visitors with a happy burst of misty showers.

  Two more uniformed soldiers awaited them at the palace entry. One stepped inside to seek admittance for them, while the other barred their way. The first soldier returned promptly with a servant from the palace, who led them silently through the stately, carved oak door into the palace complex. They were escorted across the inner courtyard and through another door at the back of the palace into a large reception hall flanked by tapestries on three walls and windows on the fourth. The room contained a fine writing table with matching chair, and several plush stools and sofas. The servant clanged the door shut as he left to find his master.

  “Madame, I’m afraid this table is entirely at risk of damage by us if this is where we are to make the masks.” Marguerite brought her voice down to a low murmur as she heard her words reverberating against the walls. The room echoed sound remarkably well, despite the immense Flemish tapestries lining the walls.

  “Yes, we need a worktable. But light from the windows is good here.”

  Moments later the Comte d’Artois entered with an ashen-faced Madame de Polastron leaning on his arm.

  Marie and Marguerite curtsied to the couple. Even Marie, typically unmindful of those around her, could see that the comte’s mistress was unwell.

  “Madame?” Marie asked. “Are you ailing? Have we disturbed you? Should we—”

  “What do you mean, ailing?” interrupted the comte. “My Louise is perfectly well, aren’t you, pet?”

  The woman smiled up wanly at her lover. “Of course, my darling. As you say. I’m just a bit tired.” She coughed discreetly to one side into a handkerchief tied around her wrist.

  While Marie negotiated with the comte to have the elegant writing table replaced with something more serviceable, Marguerite gently took Madame de Polastron’s arm and helped her to the most comfortable seat in the room.

  She whispered to the seated Louise, “Madame, have no fear that you will need to submit to the masking process. Once we have completed the comte’s life mask, I will instead sketch you and make your form later at the salon.”

  “You can do this? I confess I was a bit unsure of what to expect.”

  “Please, be at rest and make yourself comfortable. The only distress you will experience is from the noise of my scratching pencil.”

  Louise giggled and dissolved into another coughing fit before lying back against the settee to await Marguerite’s attentions.

  While Marie helped with the positioning of the table brought in by two uniformed servants at the comte’s command, Marguerite unpacked their bags of supplies. When the table was readied, Marguerite unfurled a length of pristine velvet cloth she knew would be ruined following the portrait sitting. Marie had decided after meeting the comte that he would be more expectant that fine material be used on him, despite its purpose, so Marie had dug some purple velvet out of a trunk to use as a drape across the front of his torso.

  First, though, Marie and Marguerite worked together on gathering measurements from their subject. He reacted in the same mystified way as most people did upon seeing the frightful-looking instruments bearing down upon them. Every inch the royal, though, he quickly assumed an air of disinterest.

  Upon completion of body calculations, Marie gestured to the comte to be seated in similar fashion as they had instructed the Duchess of York. Marguerite lightly spread the velvet over him. Marie gently removed his wig, revealing closely cropped dark stubble underneath.

  The two women worked silently but synchronously together, speaking only to tell their patron what was happening next. This time, though, Marie handed the bowl of creamy paste to Marguerite.

  Today I am to apply the plaster! On such a famous person!

  Marguerite took the bowl with trembling fingers and stared at it. Marie gave her an encouraging nod toward their reclining figure, whose sparse hair had been oiled and whose nose had the requisite papers rolled inside of it.

  As she moved to scoop out her first handful of plaster, the comte’s voice boomed out, nearly startling her into dropping the carefully blended mixture.

  “Louise, my love, come sit near me so I can sense your presence.”

  From across the room his mistress’s voice floated over, small and tired. “Of course, I’ll be right there.”

  “Monsieur le Comte,” Marguerite said, waving to Louise to remain seated, “we must proceed directly to sketching your lovely lady the moment the plaster begins to dry. Might it not be better for her to remain in the position in which we will take her likeness?”

  “But I wish for her comp
any. No one comforts me like she does.”

  “May I promise to send her over the moment we are done with the drawing?”

  “I suppose that would be permissible. Louise, stay where you are for now, but rush to my side when Mesdames are done sketching you.”

  Marguerite caught Marie’s beam of approval out of the corner of one eye, and Louise’s gratitude wafted over to her like a palpable breeze.

  Bolstered by the approval of the two women, Marguerite confidently applied the initial thin layer of plaster to her subject. He started slightly when the first of the cold, wet mixture was applied, but relaxed as she continued the process, talking to him in a low, reassuring voice all the while. She quickly laid the string down the center of his face and scalp, then applied the remaining plaster evenly over the first layer.

  “Monsieur, now we will let your mask set for several minutes, while Madame Tussaud and I create a perfect drawing of Madame de Polastron. Please grab my hand if you hear me and understand.”

  He reached out and did as Marguerite requested. She and Marie then took a drawing pad and several pencils to where Louise still lounged on the settee.

  How will I ever be able to do this without Madame de Polastron realizing I am an incompetent?

  To her surprise, Marie took several sheets of paper and a pencil and returned to the fine writing desk. Marguerite looked at her mentor for guidance, but the woman merely gave her yet another encouraging nod.

  “Please, madame, stay as relaxed as possible. You may even keep your eyes closed if you like.”

  At least then she can’t watch me make a mess of this.

  Louise stayed in her reclined position. The woman resembled a marble statue, so pale and still was she.

  Marguerite sat on a low stool with her drawing supplies. How to begin? Wasn’t Marie supposed to teach me this in advance? She started by attempting to sketch her subject’s face, which was highly elongated.

  Not a bad start.

  Then she drew two eyes. But they were closed. What color were they? Oh, right, green. She wrote “Green eyes” in the bottom right-hand corner of the paper.

  Marguerite’s attempt at drawing a nose was an utter failure, resembling a gnarled tree branch more than anything. She turned over the paper and began again. Her second try was little better, so she added “Long, straight nose, small bump near tip” underneath “Green eyes.”

  Louise started to hum quietly to herself, eventually breaking out into a sweet and mournful tune. With her lips in action, Marguerite was actually able to better capture them than when her mouth was still.

  “Madame, your song is sweet. What is it?” she asked, never taking her eye from her drawing.

  “Ah, just a little ditty I learned while in the convent as a girl. I lived there until my marriage at age seventeen. I loved the convent. The nuns were most kind to me.”

  The Comte d’Artois emitted a low growl.

  “But of course I adore being with my Charles-Philippe so much more. He is the kindest, most generous prince that ever lived.”

  Marguerite was attempting to draw Madame de Polastron’s gown, a simple, cream-colored, high-waisted affair with a navy sash around the bodice. The result was a tent with a dark band drawn through the middle of it.

  I am botching this dreadfully.

  Giving up on actually trying to draw the resting figure, Marguerite resorted to making more notes in the corner of the page. “Ivory gown consisting of diaphanous underlay on matching silk, dark blue sash affixed by diamond closure in front, pink ribbon at neck, pink slippers with one-inch heels tied with matching neck ribbon. High cheekbones, eyebrows at least two inches from bottom eyelid, small dimple in right side of chin.”

  She was so intent in noting her description that she did not notice Marie’s approach. The woman handed her a piece of drawing parchment.

  Madame de Polastron was sketched on it, almost lifelike.

  Marie looked over Marguerite’s shoulder. “Hmm, we make a good pair, do we not? You have noted important features that do not make it into the drawing. Madame de Polastran, would you care to see your sketch?”

  Marie left the drawing in Marguerite’s hands while she went over to check on the comte’s progress.

  “Mrs. Ashby, you will help with the pulling, yes?” Marie called to her.

  Marguerite set down her papers and pencils to assist her mentor. Once again she was surprised by Marie’s easy relinquishment of activities that had been her own.

  Together they started to gently pry the mask from the Comte d’Artois’s face, but as it began to release, Marie stepped away and let Marguerite finish. When the entire mask was fully loosened, she pulled it away and held the two sides in her hands.

  I cannot believe it. I did it. The two halves are perfect. We will be able to create a marvelous figure.

  “Mrs. Ashby,” Marie prodded. “You must finish.”

  “What? Oh, yes, Madame de Polastron, would you care to see the comte’s new face?”

  Louise rose to join them.

  “Show it to me first!” The comte was sitting up, blinking away plaster particles. “And you will make an exact likeness of me from this? How can it be?”

  “It is so,” Marie said, beginning to repack their tools as Marguerite used a cloth to wipe down his face, which he snatched away to use himself. “Your figures will be on display in the salon in two weeks’ time, and we invite you and Madame to be present for the unveiling. We transport the figures to you a month later for permanent residence here.”

  “And my sweet Louise will also have a perfect likeness? Even though she didn’t get a mask?”

  “All will be perfect. Mrs. Ashby?” Marie was already impatient to get away.

  Marguerite finished stuffing the drawing implements into a bag. “I’m ready.”

  The comte rang a bell. A servant appeared instantaneously to escort the women from the palace. They curtsied and backed out of the room, leaving behind a chattering prince and his resigned, consumptive mistress.

  8

  Soon more exiled French were seeking to have their own figures made, most of which Marie and Marguerite created and dispatched immediately to their owners. Marie was gradually releasing more and more responsibility for making figures to Marguerite. Although her mentor tried repeatedly to help her improve her sketching, Marguerite was hopeless at it, so in instances where they could not obtain a mask but had to do sketching, Marie would draw while Marguerite listed the subject’s physical appearance with great detail. On one thing they both agreed: only the most interesting and infamous characters were worthy of display at the exhibition. With the characters Marie had brought with her from France, combined with new creations, the collection had expanded to seventy-five pieces.

  Marie decided that a worthy and interesting figure to display was her own son. Taking on the creation of this figure entirely on her own, Tussaud worked ceaselessly for many nights to create a lifelike representation of her beloved son. When finished, she placed it outside the salon on the street to attract passersby into the exhibition.

  Meanwhile, Marguerite scoured the Edinburgh Evening Courant for advertisements from tutors. She interviewed three of them, and finally recommended to Marie a slight, quiet young man by the name of Mr. Edwards whom she thought appropriate. Marie approved Marguerite’s choice without requesting to meet the young man herself, and so Marguerite hired him to come to Barnard’s Rooms three days each week to teach Joseph spelling, grammar, mathematics, and history.

  To her surprise, Joseph did not struggle long over the hiring of his tutor, and instead seemed to flourish under the example of an older male. Marguerite quickly noticed the boy’s interests turning to other pursuits, such as mathematics and handwriting, although he still maintained a level of devotion to his mother’s business and his own drawing skills.

  Sir Alexander remained a frequent visitor to the salon, claiming he was forever interested in what new and unique offerings the waxwork queen had to offer. His enthu
siasm for the exhibition led many of the men in the garrison to visit to satisfy their own curiosities about what had the governor in such an animated state. Some showed up drunk, and were beaten out by Marie, whose broomstick grip was fierce. She complained of it once to Sir Alexander, but after learning that the men in question were flogged for their actions she told Marguerite, “Better they feel the bristles of my broom than the sting of a lash,” and never reported their misbehavior again.

  More annoying for Marguerite were those soldiers who proposed marriage to her after meeting her long enough to know that she was a widow serving as Madame Tussaud’s protégé. After that she took to frequently wearing her wedding ring again.

  Because of their frantic pace, between taking castings, building characters, rearranging the exhibit floor, and working with customers, the women saw little of Paul de Philipsthal. In fact, Marguerite was not even sure how his Phantasmagoria show was faring. During a rare break in the tempo, Marguerite walked next door to Philipsthal’s. The placard outside announced his next show at eight o’clock that evening, so his makeshift theatre was mostly empty, save for a few workers setting up for that night’s performance. She found him puzzling over one of his magic lanterns, the metal parts spread in pieces on a table in a small back room. The room was crammed with all manner of stage equipment, with hardly enough room for Philipsthal himself to be in it. She coughed lightly from the doorway to let him know of her presence.

  “Ah, Mrs. Ashby, welcome. How fares the wax exhibition?”

  “Extremely well. We have almost more orders than we can fill. Madame says our success here has been greater than in London.”

  “Greater than in London, you say? Well, that is splendid. I’ll be sure to stop by to offer Madame Tussaud my congratulations personally.”

  “And what of your Phantasmagoria show? Is it doing well?”

  “Oh, most certainly. Crowds every night. I can hardly keep up. Which is made worse now that I have a mechanical problem.” He spread his hands over the heap of metal. “But never fear, Philipsthal’s Phantasmagoria will be ready for its adoring audiences this evening. Please, come in. I can remove the useless rubbish from this chair in the corner for you.”