A Royal Likeness Page 16

  “Mr. Philip—Paul, I’m flattered, but—”

  “Tell me, did you love your husband—Nicholas, I believe his name was—when you first met him?”

  Without thinking, she replied honestly. “No, he was insignificant to me. Actually, he had a boyish infatuation for my mother. It was only later that I—”

  “Aha! You see? You have already experienced what I am talking about. You grew to love him, and you will one day grow to love me. In the meantime, we will combine our respective talents and be rich by anyone’s standards.”

  Philipsthal’s eyes were shining now with his own fevered imagination. He took both of Marguerite’s hands in his and brought them to his lips.

  “Together we will be a force to be reckoned with. We might even be able to enter Society, what with your family connections and my own fame.”

  Marguerite jerked her hands away.

  “Mr. Philipsthal!” Her voice was sharper than she intended it to be. “I am not in the habit of using my aunt and uncle to secure social invitations. Not that I have ever had a care for such things. You presume too much with me.”

  “How I wish I could make you see reason. You are trifling with a most agreeable offer. We’ve arrived. May I see you to your room?” He stepped out and offered her his hand. She took it and stepped out as well.

  “I think not. I’m quite exhausted from the day and wish to just take a posset and lie down.”

  He grabbed her fingers tightly as she sought to disengage her hand from his. He lowered his lips to her ear and spoke in a tone that was nearly inaudible, yet his words reverberated violently in her mind.

  “You may wish to think more on this, Mrs. Ashby. For it is in my power to improve everyone’s lot in life. Marry me, and I will forgive Madame Tussaud’s considerable debt to me. She and her son can go their own way into obscurity, and you and I will build a grand fortune together.”

  Was this an offer of marriage or a disguised form of blackmail?

  She jerked away from him. “Since when does a friend provide such a reprehensible choice? Good night, Mr. Philipsthal.”

  She strode into the building as resolutely as her quaking legs would allow.

  Marguerite asked Mrs. Laurie for a pot of tea for her room, intending to take it with another dose of valerian root. She entered her darkened, blissfully quiet room and heaved a sigh of relief before lighting a lamp.

  She poured the contents of her reticule onto her dressing table with shaking hands, searching for her comb. Made of mother-of-pearl, it had belonged to her mother and was her favorite treasure. A thorough combing of her hair, combined with her tea and medicine, were just what she needed to calm her nerves and purge her of this headache.

  She stared incredulously at the spilled contents. Mr. Philipsthal’s miniature had somehow made its way into her reticule.

  Is he my friend or not? Like Madame, he keeps too many secrets. Secrets that I cannot fathom. I will never marry him. I do not love him, nor would any amount of proximity cause me to love him. But do I love Madame enough to do this for her? Would he truly release her from her debt to him? This debt must be the source of her angst toward him. But again, why? Mr. Philipsthal loaned her money that he has patiently waited for repayment on, and is even still serving as her guide and promoter in whatever city they visit.

  I will talk to Madame tomorrow about this, and will not permit any forestalling or evasion on the matter.

  Thus resolved, she smiled warmly when Mrs. Laurie dropped off a tea tray, and settled down to the more pressing business of relieving her headache.

  By morning she had changed her mind. Surely Mr. Philipsthal’s comments were borne out of a heated frustration and he did not actually mean to barter Marguerite as one does in a treaty negotiation. Her headache must have blinded her into misunderstanding his true intentions. They were friends after all. No, it would be foolish to upset Madame by telling her the events of a badly remembered evening and then demand to know what sinister secrets her employer held.

  Marguerite ate breakfast with Marie and Joseph according to custom but said little. Marie must also have been lost in thought for she did not seem to mind. Joseph sat at the table dripping jam off his piece of toast while he continued working on a sketch of a flower-seller lately camped near the salon. Other than the scratch of pencil and the clinking of silverware, they were a quiet, reflective trio.

  Madame Tussaud never inquired about her outing with Mr. Philipsthal the entire day, so if she was curious she concealed it well. The salon was too busy for much idle conversation anyway. Sir Alexander made another of his regular appearances, bringing along with him Lieutenant Hastings.

  “Mrs. Ashby, I hear you and the good Madame Tussaud have made a figure of John Knox. I’m most anxious to see it. Lieutenant Hastings also wanted to see the exhibition before leaving for the coast, but was unable to do so. He’s rejoined us for a few more days, so I insisted he come with me before leaving again, isn’t that correct?”

  Hastings nodded. Today he was out of uniform, and dressed in a camel-colored coat with contrasting dark brown collar and breeches. Marguerite was struck for the first time that this was actually a handsome man who had an unfortunately grim personality.

  Before she could escort the two men to see the Knox figure, Sir Alexander exclaimed, “Why, there’s Madame Tussaud now. I’m sure she’d like to show me the figure herself. Hastings, keep Mrs. Ashby jovial company for a moment, would you?”

  Hope disappeared into the gallery after Marie before Marguerite could utter a word. She turned to Lieutenant Hastings, who had a distinct scowl on his face. This was promising to be a disagreeable encounter. And she’d had enough unpleasantness lately.

  “Sir, may I show you some of the characters we have on display here? Perhaps you’d like to see our Separate Room?”

  “Briefly. I have pressing business to attend to before my sailing tomorrow.”

  Then why for heaven’s sake did the man take time to visit the salon with the governor?

  But she reacted smoothly. She hoped.

  “Then we will indeed be brief. Please follow me, Lieutenant Hastings.”

  To her surprise, his face softened just slightly and he offered her his arm. Without thinking, she took it. He kept her hand too tightly against his side, though whether it was intentional or just poorly developed manners, she couldn’t be sure. And it did feel rather comfortingly secure.

  Inside the Separate Room she disengaged from him, stepping over to the nearest tableau. “This is Marat in his bath. We’ve tried to make it as realistic as possible, with Charlotte Corday’s knife still in him and his face twisted in agony.”

  Lieutenant Hastings’s scowl had returned as he looked distastefully at the scene of the virulent Parisian writer Jean-Paul Marat in an actual bathtub set against a backdrop painted to look like a bedchamber.

  “Show me another.” His voice was clipped.

  She showed him the various tableaux in the room, including the gruesome, but ever popular, death masks. She explained in detail the history behind each scene. Hastings’s brow furrowed even deeper.

  “Lieutenant? Is something wrong?” Marguerite asked. Most patrons were enthralled with the displays. She’d never experienced such an objectionable reaction before.

  “Does it not strike you, Mrs. Ashby, that this is macabre in the extreme? I think it also serves to whip up sympathy for the French, and we are trying to fight a war with them to prevent Bonaparte’s overrun of Great Britain.” His voice was even, but she sensed the irritation beneath his calm exterior.

  “Lieutenant, our exhibition is simply an entertainment. We produce figures and tableaux that the public enjoys.”

  “But there are some who might think it sends a message of compassion to French émigrés, which you know are aplenty in Edinburgh. Madame Tussaud is one herself, is she not?”

  “I can assure you that no such thing is intended. Everything in the show is purely theatrical. Madame and I are not insurrecti
onists.” Marguerite heard her voice becoming slightly hysterical.

  Lieutenant Hastings stepped closer to her and spoke quietly. “Have no fear, Mrs. Ashby. I am not without commiseration of the situation of the French people. I merely caution you to be discreet in your activities.” His eyes were sending her a message of some intensity, but she could not fathom what it could possibly be. She hardly knew the man. She stood frozen in place by his forceful stare.

  But he must have decided that he had successfully transmitted his communiqué, for he gave her a quick bow and said, “I must find Sir Alexander. It’s time we were about our business. I bid you good day, Mrs. Ashby. Perhaps we will meet again one day if your exhibition returns to London.”

  And in moments he had secured the governor, who had Marie cornered inside a tableau of the arrest of Guy Fawkes, and they left the exhibition.

  Must all men of my acquaintance be so baffling? First Mr. Philipsthal with his eccentric marriage proposal and now Lieutenant Hastings with his peculiar opinion of the exhibition. Why aren’t all men like Uncle William? Or Nicholas?

  The thought of Nicholas dashed through her mind like a butterfly stopping to examine a flower, then fluttering off gracefully to visit other attractions in the garden. Time stopped so that the butterfly could be admired, yet the insect was off again so quickly that contemplation was not possible.

  But the number of strange men in her acquaintance was quickly dropped by one. The following morning Mrs. Laurie brought a letter to her room that had been delivered by Mr. Philipsthal personally. In it, he declared his intention of departing Edinburgh immediately for an undeclared destination, with a return by the end of the year. The note gave no indication of why he was going. It was simply signed “Philipsthal,” with no courteous closing.

  Madame Tussaud had received a similar letter and crowed about it over breakfast. “Good riddance to the vermin. He can take his plague elsewhere. But he not tell where he’s going. Hope he goes to Russia to give Tsar Alexander a performance. The tsar is suspicious and contrary. He’ll throw Philipsthal to the dogs.” Marie held up her teacup in a toast. “Adieu, Philipsthal.” She practically cackled in joy as she put the cup to her lips.

  “But, madame, according to his letter he will return by the end of the year.”

  The cup clattered down into the saucer. “He might. But we won’t be here for him. I have in mind to go elsewhere. Glasgow. I’ve made inquiries, and I think exhibition do well there. This city might not be safe long if the French invade its port. Glasgow is further inland. And maybe Philipsthal will never find us again.”

  Was Madame Tussaud intending to run out on her debt with her business partner? Marguerite tentatively broached the subject.

  “Madame, do we not have obligations to Mr. Philipsthal?”

  “Philipsthal is not an obligation. He is a parasite. I need distance from him. So do you. I see how he pursues you, plays the gallant courtier. I think you are a good girl, a wise girl, and won’t give in to him, but I promised Claudette to care for you, and this I do. I’ll remove you from his clutches.”

  Marguerite flared, a rare occurrence before her mentor. “Madame, I am no child to be ordered about. You are right, Mr. Philipsthal has paid me undue attention, but I am certainly not deceived by him. I do not require your interference.”

  “Hah! If you continue to see him you will be a child to be ordered about. I don’t interfere, I maintain the good of the show. We go to Glasgow!” The teacup banged into its saucer again and a tiny chip from the base of the cup shot across the table, landing on a drawing Joseph had been scribbling on. The boy was poised, openmouthed, with his pencil midair over the page, agog at the vehement discourse between his mother and the mild-mannered apprentice.

  Without another word, Marguerite fled the dining table for her room, ashamed of her infantile behavior but overwhelmingly irritated at her mentor’s seeming irrationality.

  Within a week Marie informed her that she had secured lodgings in Glasgow through an agent with whom she had been corresponding, which told Marguerite that Marie had long been hoping for—and working toward—an escape such as this.

  And so within two weeks they had shuttered the windows of the exhibition, placed a sign outside that they were relocating to Cardiff, Wales, as a feint in the event of Philipsthal’s return, and were waiting for good sailing weather for two women, a young boy, and nearly a hundred wax figures to Glasgow.

  PART THREE

  Glasgow

  9

  October 1803. The exhibition settled in the New Assembly Rooms in Ingram Street. Glasgow was larger, dirtier, and more decayed than Edinburgh, although nothing to compare with London. It was noted for its shipbuilding, which fascinated the sea-loving Joseph, so at every opportunity the three of them strolled down to the ship works to watch ships under construction.

  Marie had taken a different approach to lodgings this time. Rather than focus merely on proximity to the show, she was now concerned with respectability and public approval. She rented rooms for the trio in nearby Wilson Street from a Mr. Colin, who was not only a highly respected pastry cook, but well on his way to being made a guild brother and burgess of Glasgow.

  Mr. Colin encouraged them to participate in the Glasgow Fair the following July.

  “Your keek show will attract plenty of folk, won’t it?” he suggested.

  Marie turned one eye on him in her curious, birdlike way. “Keek show, Mr. Colin?”

  “Yes, you know, where people can get a look at oddities. Sometimes there are giantesses, or strange beasts from the Indies. Once I saw a learned pig there. I never saw but heard about a man who would skin rats with his teeth. Gruesome, isn’t it? It’s every July on the Glasgow Green. Your waxes will be much favored there, won’t they?”

  The Assembly Rooms themselves were their largest location yet. They were bright and cheerful and prominently located at the city center.

  Marguerite engaged another young man to tutor Joseph three days each week, but this time the tutoring would be conducted at the Assembly Rooms so that the boy would be available to help with the exhibit both before and after his learning sessions.

  Although disagreeing with Marie’s decision to essentially run away from Edinburgh and Philipsthal, Marguerite had to admit to the woman’s ruthless efficiency in ensuring that they wasted little time getting the show operating. The three of them worked tirelessly in their new salon setting up the figures, which by now were old friends to Marguerite.

  Columns provided the only room partitioning, and they took advantage of them to set up their tableaux in and around the columns to break up the large expanse into the appearance of smaller rooms. At Marie’s behest, Marguerite and young Joseph worked together to place a single character figure facing the street in each of the room’s eight tall, narrow-paned windows. They closed the cream brocaded curtains behind the figures, both to entice passersby to enter the salon and to prevent heat from the sun from concentrating on the remaining delicate figures inside the exhibition. At night the figures were edged backward and the curtain dropped between them and the windows to discourage any night prowlers who might think it interesting to steal a human replica.

  The resulting excited whispers and shuffling could be heard outside the Assembly Rooms all throughout the day, and handbills announcing the show were literally snatched from the doors by the curious public. Marguerite spent so much time replacing the posted handbills that she made a trip to a local printer to have several hundred pieces printed, and stationed Joseph outside to hand them out. Thank heavens the boy had become so agreeable and willing, his only demand that he be left with his sketching papers and pencils. Via periodic peeks through the draperies, Marguerite made note that the wax figures were attracting both the lower classes and high society. Best to recommend to Marie that they set tiered admission prices.

  The two women spoke at length one day about which tableaux sets to uncrate and have erected, and what kind of workmen they would need to hire
to help. Once that was done, the show would be ready to open. They decided to create a more permanent exhibit that would not be rearranged regularly but would instead provide a more lifelike experience for visitors. Also, instead of arranging their figures in topical tableaux, they decided upon a historical composition, where a visitor would enter at one end of the Assembly Rooms and step through various points of the last two hundred years of European history in chronological order, with an emphasis on Scottish events. From their characters they pulled such figures as John Knox, Robert Burns, and Sir Walter Scott, while also making plans to create new figures of legendary Scotsmen like Sir William Wallace and Robert the Bruce. Many of their figures were developed from old paintings and even their imaginations when they had no real person to work from. Marie decided upon a discreet American tableau as well, to give a prominent place to their Benjamin Franklin figure.

  To enhance the patron’s visit, each tableau was augmented with realistic, mood-evoking accessories, such as straw on the floor for Charles I’s execution scene, and a pebbled pathway to crunch underfoot for those visitors visiting a replica of Sir Francis Drake sailing away in the Golden Hind.

  Because their expenditures ran high in putting together such a sophisticated exhibition in a drastically short amount of time, despite all of the materials already on hand, Marie was forced to seek credit with various local merchants for supplies. Typically one to hold on to every shilling until forced to part with it, Marie was too excited about the new exhibit format to let the want of a few pounds stand in the way of success.

  “We’ll pay it all back quickly. Show will be grandest of all. Very profitable. Very good.”

  Marguerite had simply never seen her employer so relaxed and in such high spirits.

  Marie let out a satisfied sigh as they returned to their new quarters, happy that the setup of most of the figures had been completed in almost no time at all. “We establish show on our own now. Without Philipsthal.”