A Royal Likeness Page 15

  “No, Mr. Philipsthal, that’s quite—”

  “Paul. Call me Paul.”

  “I only stopped by for a moment to say hello. I need to return to the wax exhibition.”

  “Surely you can stay a few more moments.”

  “Truly I shouldn’t. Madame will be looking for me.”

  “Tell me, Mrs. Ashby, what makes the wax exhibit more successful in Edinburgh than London? Do the Scots like the figures that much?”

  “Actually, it’s the French refugees who enjoy our show the most. So many of them have settled here. You remember our drive past Holyroodhouse? The Comte d’Artois has had his portrait done, which led to many of the other exiled aristocrats doing the same. They love the Separate Room.”

  “Hmm. And Madame is able to fetch a good price for making these figures?”

  Marguerite felt a prickle at the back of her neck. Mr. Philipsthal was looking at her too intently. “Madame does not discuss all of the details with me. I am, of course, just her apprentice.”

  “But you work with her night and day. Surely you know something about how she conducts her business.”

  Marguerite began edging her way out the door. “I’m afraid I know very little. I really must be away now. I wish you success with your magic lanterns.” To her own mortification, she ran quickly away from the room like a rabbit realizing it has been espied by the fox, not even turning back when she heard him call to her, “Mrs. Ashby, wait. I’d like to plan another outing together.”

  The next morning, prior to opening time, Mr. Philipsthal came by as promised to congratulate Madame Tussaud on her show’s success. Marie led him inside the Separate Room, and rehooked the heavy velvet draping that partitioned that room and vestibule from the rest of the exhibition. Nevertheless, Marguerite could hear their muffled voices rising in heat. Minutes later, Mr. Philipsthal stormed out and through the main gallery without so much as acknowledging Marguerite.

  What was the difficulty between these two?

  Marguerite bit her lip as she dressed and fixed her hair in her room. Marie had suggested they go to a nearby inn for a special meal. Marie never splurged on anything not related to her show, so what was this about? Was she to be dismissed for visiting Mr. Philipsthal? Had Marguerite told him something that she shouldn’t have?

  Her stomach spasmed. Life was finally pleasing, and now this. Well, perhaps it was not pleasing, but it was at least satisfying. And challenging. And far away from her old memories.

  What have I done wrong?

  She smiled nervously at Marie as they left their rooms. Joseph was once more in the care of Mrs. Laurie, but he was less upset these days with taking a lesser role to Marguerite now that he had his studies and other pursuits.

  Marie paused at the entrance of Barnard’s Rooms to lightly pat Marguerite on the face. “You are a good girl,” she said.

  Marie’s hand was rough and chapped. Their work was constant, and left little time for the niceties of lotions and creams to keep their skin soft. Marguerite’s insides roiled and she looked down at her own hands. Soon she might be back at Hevington, doing nothing but creaming her hands.

  Have courage, she thought, as they walked silently together.

  Marie frowned at the menu, murmuring calculations softly to herself, yet still purchased a bottle of wine.

  “Tonight is a celebration,” she said as the golden liquid was served to them.

  “It is?”

  Marie laughed, an absolute rarity in such a serious woman.

  “Yes. My financial worries are near their end. Thanks to our success here in Edinburgh, my debt is paid and soon I will have all the rights to my show. You helped me do this. I am grateful.”

  “Why, madame, I am glad of the success, but I am just your apprentice and have had no influence in your triumph.” Marguerite’s heart was fluttering relief.

  “No no, you are more than just an apprentice. You learn fast, you help me, you care for my show as though it was your own. You help me with my English even though I will never speak properly. Claudette was right to send you to me.” Marie held up her full goblet in a toast.

  “But I am the one who should be grateful to you. You saved me from my own wretchedness. I might be dead by my own hand now if not for you.”

  Marie’s laugh this time was loud enough for other patrons to notice. “You are not wretched. You are a fine companion. I write my husband and tell him about you and what I plan to do. But I don’t know if my letters reach him anymore. Communication is difficult now that the treaty is collapsed.”

  “What do you plan to do?”

  “Yes, when I have all my rights back, I will start to share some of my profits with you. You will not be owner—my dear Nini will inherit the show one day—but I will give you more than just apprentice wages. Being an apprentice is not enough for you.”

  “Madame … I am at a loss…. I thought that this evening you planned to … to … well, I did not expect this to happen.” Marguerite took a gulp from her wineglass to steady her nerves, which had become fractured by equal parts fear and relief. Fortunately their goose with prune sauce arrived at that moment to distract her mentor—or was she now just a friend?—from Marguerite’s trembling hand.

  But by the next day it was as if the previous evening had never happened. Mr. Philipsthal arrived at their lodgings as Marguerite was waiting for Marie and Joseph to come out to walk the few steps to the gallery together. After a quick greeting to Marguerite, Philipsthal raised his hand to knock on Marie’s door, but she opened it before his knuckles made contact. She asked Marguerite to take Joseph into the gallery while she spoke to Mr. Philipsthal, ushering him into her rooms while pushing Joseph out, and firmly shutting the door behind her.

  Half an hour later, Marie appeared in the gallery, her hair unusually mussed. She took Marguerite aside.

  “My financial obligations are not over like I thought. You are still an apprentice.”

  “What has happened?”

  “Not for you to worry. I’ll fix this.” Marie’s eyes brooked no further comment.

  “Yes, madame, as you say.”

  Would she never learn what was happening behind the scenes of the exhibition?

  Orders for personal wax models from local citizens continued to come in, and Marie sought out other famous or notorious personalities to model as well. By the end of September, they were working on a half dozen figures simultaneously. Marguerite noticed that their patrons enjoyed inspecting the figures in their various stages of completion almost as much as they did seeing them in their final, lifelike state.

  Soon Marie decided to dedicate certain hours of the day to wax sculpting and to charge an extra shilling during that period. On Thursdays, genteel customers were invited to a special, reserved time to take tea at the salon while having a private viewing of the two women at work.

  Business continued to soar, yet still Marie fussed about money.

  Mr. Philipsthal once again asked Marguerite to accompany him, this time to a jeweler’s shop in Princes Street, to help him select a bauble to send back to his mother in France.

  “I value your good judgment, you see, Mrs. Ashby.”

  “Do you not fear a piece of jewelry being stolen or lost on its way to France? It seems a dangerous thing to do.”

  “Ah, but my esteemed mother deserves something of value.”

  “Then why not a small portrait of yourself?”

  “A wax figure, you mean?”

  “No no, a wax figure would need accompaniment to reach France safely. I mean a painting. Perhaps a miniature she can wear. I would think that less likely to be pinched in its travels.”

  “An excellent idea, Mrs. Ashby. Excellent.”

  Philipsthal approached Marguerite once again while she was alone in the salon. He had an unfailing sense of when Marie would be out.

  “Mrs. Ashby, I found a painter, Sir Henry Raeburn, who has an unparalleled reputation here in Edinburgh. I insist you accompany me to visit him to pic
k up my portrait. I would like your approval on my choice of painters.”

  Marguerite wiped her hands on her apron. She had been practicing inserting hair strands into a nondescript wax head. Together, she and Marie were experimenting further with the insertion of real hair into their characters’ scalps, as a measure of realism against wigs. It was difficult work, not only to obtain hair scraps from hairdressers, but to keep the hair clean, sorted, and stored properly. More complicated than any of this was the actual insertion of hair into the scalp, done by needle using individual strands of hair. Marguerite found that it took days to end up with a head like the one before her now, which merely looked to have wispy, uneven tufts dangling from it.

  Surely she would not deserve the waxworker title much longer with such ridiculous efforts as the wax head she now worked on. She would have to work harder on this poor wretched figure.

  “Mrs. Ashby, will you accompany me?”

  Without looking up from what she was doing, she said, “What? Oh, of course, Mr. Philipsthal, although I hardly think I can offer much opinion. I have little understanding of oils.”

  “Nevertheless, you are certainly an artist. May I tempt you with a light supper after we see Sir Raeburn this evening?”

  Marguerite wrenched her attention away from the dreadfully coiffed wax head. Another outing might provide her with an opportunity to question Mr. Philipsthal about his relationship with Marie Tussaud.

  “Why, yes, I think supper would be lovely.”

  After Mr. Philipsthal’s departure, Marie returned from her own errands and the exhibition became busy. Marguerite had little opportunity to mention her outing to Marie the rest of the day. She finally found a moment to tell Marie of her intention to assist Mr. Philipsthal with the acquisition of his portrait for his mother, and was greeted with Marie’s customary grunt of disapproval. Yet the woman did not try to prevent her from going.

  Sir Henry Raeburn’s studio was located in his home, St. Bernard’s, just at the west edge of New Town. Marguerite was immediately struck by the overpowering mixed odors of paint and turpentine. The fumes tugged at her nostrils. She would not be able to stay long, lest a headache be the result of her visit. The studio itself was jumbled with all manner of half-finished canvases, stools at varying heights, jars of stiff brushes, and containers of paint. Sir Raeburn eyed her much as a buyer inspecting a horse for purchase.

  “I could paint you, dear lady. I don’t have much luck with female portraiture, but I feel quite sure it would be impossible to do wrong by an exquisite specimen such as yourself. Mr. Philipsthal, would you like me to do a portrait of your wife?”

  Before Marguerite could protest, Philipsthal spread his hands, a beam of sunshine radiating underneath his serious expression.

  “Alas, Sir Raeburn, although as lovely and graceful as a goddess, Mrs. Ashby is a widow who does not desire the married state again. She has merely come with me here to pick up my portrait.”

  “Too bad. You would make a marvelous subject.”

  Marguerite remained silent under the excessive flattery, uncomfortable under the gaze of these two men. Once Philipsthal had procured his painting, actually a miniature set inside a round gold frame, they stopped at a nearby inn for the promised supper. Marguerite examined the miniature more carefully at the table as they sipped brambleberry wine while waiting for their meals.

  “In my limited opinion, Mr. Philipsthal, I’d say that Sir Raeburn did a remarkable job. He has captured your expression perfectly.” She handed the tiny portrait back to its owner.

  Mr. Philipsthal pushed it gently back toward her. “Please, it’s Paul. And I must confess that this portrait is not a gift for my mother. I’ve hardly spoken to her in some years. I wanted to give you a token of our friendship, of your own choosing. When you mentioned a portrait, I assumed you would like it.”

  “But, Mr. Philip—Paul, this is an extravagant gift between friends.” She looked back down at the miniature in its gleaming, filigreed setting. “I believe others may be mistaken by its intent. It is more a gift between lovers, don’t you think?”

  She held up the portrait once more. The odor of the lingering fresh oil paint soared sharply upon her senses and simmered under her brow, threatening a headache. She laid the piece down on the middle of the table between them.

  “I’m not certain I can accept this.”

  Philipsthal laid his hand over hers that covered the portrait. “Please, I mean no offense. What must I do to gain your trust? As a friend, I mean.”

  Marguerite studied her dining partner while permitting her hand to remain secured under his. It was time to take advantage of this opportunity.

  “Well, it has always been my belief that true friends don’t keep secrets from one another, and I do sense a secret.”

  Philipsthal’s face was inscrutable. “What do you mean, a secret?”

  She kept her voice steady. She felt like she was about to confront the rioters again. Who knew which way this would go? Would she escape unscathed or would she be attacked? “I mean that there is something … disturbing … between you and Madame Tussaud. She won’t tell me what it is, but I am determined to know. She is somehow resentful of you. Tell me truthfully, Paul. Were you and my employer once lovers? Did you jilt her after she left France to join you?”

  He stared hard at her without speaking and she felt a flush creeping up her modestly exposed neckline. If he does not say something shortly, I will look like a giant radish.

  But Philipsthal was not angry. He offered her a broad smile and patted her trapped hand.

  “My dear Mrs. Ashby. May I call you Marguerite now that we are friends? Er, I see that still makes you uncomfortable. Well then, any resentment on Madame Tussaud’s part is not shared by me. We were never lovers, nor have I any designs as such. I have only ever been her protector since she joined me in England. I loaned her a substantial sum of money, which she seems to have difficulty repaying. However, I’ve not ever called in the loan. In fact, I’ve continued to promote her show and advise her in her business dealings, sometimes to the detriment of my own show. It is my own great faith in her future success that causes me to let her debt mount without question, only offering ideas and suggestions for her as the circumstances warrant. I admit that she does not always take my advice well, but I wish only the best for her. For you, as well. Have my actions been less than honorable toward you or her?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  He leaned forward and spoke quietly. “May I suggest to you that Madame Tussaud does not manage her show properly? Perhaps she is a bit jealous of my own success?”

  Marguerite felt uneasy, as though the earth were shifting beneath her. She retrieved her hand from under his and brought a finger to her brow. The odor of the miniature lingered under her skin. She would have to take a draught when she returned to her rooms. Philipsthal’s explanation seemed reasonable enough, yet her skin prickled. Was Marie really jealous by nature?

  “Mrs. Ashby, are you unwell?”

  “No. Perhaps. I have a small pain behind my eyes. Nothing serious.”

  His response was solicitous and caring. “Obviously my distasteful discourse has caused you suffering. Therefore we shall never speak of Madame Tussaud’s financial calamities again. And I must get you home straightaway.”

  During the carriage ride back to Thistle Street, Philipsthal was mostly pensive, which suited Marguerite’s burgeoning headache well. But as they neared her lodgings, he turned to face her.

  “You know, Mrs. Ashby, I once told you that you might choose to leave Madame Tussaud’s employ when your skill grew great enough. Perhaps with her mismanagement of her affairs, now is the time.”

  His promise not to speak of Madame had lasted all of a few minutes. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Leave Madame Tussaud? First, sir, my skills as a waxworker are in their infancy. And second, I enjoy my work with her. I believe that once her difficulties—whatever they may be—are worked out, she will have a very profi
table show. I am proud to be part of it.”

  Marguerite’s head throbbed, more out of annoyance now than from the odor of paint that had precipitated it.

  Philipsthal held up a hand in supplication. “My apologies. I did not wish to offend. I merely wanted to suggest an alternative to your situation. One that might bring you greater happiness.”

  “I gave up any idea of great happiness upon my husband’s death.”

  “But surely you do not intend to stay shut away in this dreary little city—if it can be called that—for the rest of your days, toiling under Tussaud’s sharp eyes and tongue?”

  Marguerite crossed her arms. “I do not like the direction of this conversation, sir. What are you saying? Please speak plainly.”

  “Very well. I wish to propose an arrangement between us. You know that I have always held you in high regard, and I do not believe I am completely out of my wits when I say that you hold me in some esteem. As a friend, yes, I know. But might not friends enter into a profitable situation that might even result in a felicitous outcome for both parties?”

  He shifted uncomfortably in the seat, as if buying time in order to deliberate on his next words.

  “My dear Mrs. Ashby, you and I together would be a formidable force. You could manage a wax show alongside my own Phantasmagoria, and we would settle down together in any city of your choosing—London, Brussels, Salzburg—name your heart’s desire and I will make it so, provided Bonaparte has not destroyed them all.”

  “Are you suggesting—”

  “Yes, I am offering you the safety, security—and, dare I say, happiness—of marriage with me. Wait—” He held up a hand. “Do not object so quickly. Many people have married for reasons other than love, yet grew to care for each other deeply. Look at Antony and Cleopatra, Mary and Bothwell, even Adam and Eve.”

  “All of whom came to terrible ends!”

  “Perhaps they were not the best examples. But think how many arranged marriages have ended up successful. And with no basis of friendship such as we have.”