A Royal Likeness Read online

  Marguerite began to envision Marie sitting in her room each night rubbing her hands together like Midas.

  “Madame,” she said, “if the show is to be completely independent of your partner, perhaps it would be prudent to change the name of it.”

  “Change the name?”

  “Yes. Instead of Dr. Curtius’s Cabinet of Wonders, why not call it Madame Tussaud’s Wax Exhibition? After all, few people remember Dr. Curtius anymore, and the show is yours.”

  Marie pursed her lips in thought. “My name on the show? Hmm. But will the show lose respect with a woman’s name on it?”

  “Hardly. Everyone knows you are the real owner. Besides, what about Patience Wright? Didn’t she have a wax show in London not long ago? I believe she had some success.”

  Marie nodded her head slowly. “Perhaps, perhaps. I guess we try here and then go back to Dr. Curtius’s name in our next city if it doesn’t work.”

  “Next city? Have you already planned another location?”

  “No no.” Marie waved a hand in denial. “But if it doesn’t work here, we go elsewhere. Maybe Liverpool? Big trading center.”

  Dread spiraled slowly in Marguerite’s stomach. Not another sea voyage.

  “Or maybe another city in Scotland? Perth?” Marguerite tried to suggest helpfully.

  “Decide later. But you have good ideas, Mrs. Ashby. You will help me with this, non?”

  And so Marguerite engaged a sign painter for their new salon, who painted “Madame Tussaud’s” and “Wax Exhibition” across two gaily decorated boards that could either be hung in the salon’s windows or be propped up outside.

  She also had a new exhibition catalogue made, this time with an engraving of Marie on the cover to go along with the show’s new name emblazoned across the front.

  For a final touch, Marguerite took out an advertisement in the Glasgow Courier, changing Dr. Curtius’s name to Marie’s, and adding a nod of deference to the citizens of Glasgow:

  Newly revealed for the first time ever For the esteemed audiences of Glasgow only Dr. Curtius’s Cabinet of Wonder is now Madame Tussaud’s Wax Exhibition Having been managed and operated by Marie Grosholtz Tussaud these past nine years Across France, England, and Scotland Engaged in Glasgow for a limited time New character figures

  The great poet Robert Burns, the explorer Sir Alexander Mackenzie, renowned professor Adam Smith, Bonnie Prince Charlie, many more Gruesome death masks of the tragic and infamous Robespierre, Marie Antoinette, Louis XVI of France, and others Curious relics, including an Egyptian Mummy Open to the public six days each week Admission: two shillings Half price for working class Children just threepence

  To enhance the show’s respectability, they scheduled a special showing just for the city’s most esteemed members of society, a list of people given to them by Mr. Colin.

  As in Edinburgh, the audience was agog at the uniqueness of the exhibition. Perfectly mannered ladies stared at the fierce, bearded visage of William Wallace without bothering to bring a gloved hand or fan to cover their open mouths. Five orders for individual figures came in that very night, with two men nearly committing to a duel over whose would be made first. Marie made a great show of disapproval of their behavior, but Marguerite could see the smile hidden behind the frown, suggesting that such fanciful antics were pleasing to her.

  They held another restricted showing for Mr. Colin and the leaders of Glasgow’s guilds, in thanks for his provision of entrée into Glaswegian society.

  Their new location’s success, combined with the absence of Mr. Philipsthal, had a rejuvenating effect on Marie. Each evening after the salon’s closing she bubbled over with new plans and ideas for improving the show, from securing a shirt claimed to have been worn by Henry IV of France, le bon roi Henri, when he was assassinated, to her most audacious acquisition, that of the actual guillotine blade that had severed Marie Antoinette’s head. Marie had known the executioner’s family back in France, and discovered through letters that he still possessed the blade. She quietly conducted the transaction to obtain it, and when the blade arrived, she revealed it to Marguerite in her room late one evening while Mr. Colin was out at a guild meeting.

  Marie said nothing, but merely unfolded the blade from its layers of burlap, a new and durable fabric being employed everywhere for shipping. Marguerite gasped, recognizing instantly what her employer was showing her. The blade was rusted along its sharp edge and had obviously not been cleaned since its last use. Or had it ever seen a scrubbing?

  “Madame, this is remarkable. Imagine the crowds who will come just to see this.” Marguerite reached out and gently touched a heavily caked spot on the blade. Was it blood or rust? Whichever, it had seen its way through many a terrified head. And now it would live on in infamy at Madame Tussaud’s Wax Exhibition.

  Together they developed a plan for their grandest tableau of all.

  Despite creating a historical walk inside the exhibition, they still maintained a curtained-off Separate Room. The guillotine blade became the centerpiece of the isolated area. Together they sketched out the idea to erect a guillotine site in the middle of the Place de la Révolution, where Marie Antoinette was beheaded. They worked primarily from Madame Tussaud’s recollection of this location where hundreds of French citizens were executed. They hired workmen to build steps leading up to a platform four feet off the ground, less than the eight feet of the original, but allowing for accommodation of the room’s ceiling height. The workmen also built an inoperable guillotine model, to which the real blade was affixed and placed on top of the platform. A basket was placed at the chopping end of the guillotine on top of a straw bale, leaving no doubt of its purpose. The walls inside the tableau surrounding the platform were eight feet tall to obscure all but the top of the model guillotine from the crowds in the rest of the exhibit. Joseph helped his mother paint the Tuileries Palace in the background and jeering people in the foreground of the scene.

  The last bit of construction was a tumbrel, a small two-wheeled cart with a simple bench in it for a prisoner to sit on. They positioned their Marie Antoinette figure inside the tumbrel, looking up at the guillotine.

  In her exuberance, Marie wanted to place authentic cobblestones on the floor of the tableau, but Marguerite advised against it, citing the likely damage to the existing floors. As Marguerite had become more and more a confidant in these plans rather than just an apprentice, Marie took this advice readily. So instead they scattered straw and dirt around the confines of the Separate Room.

  The crowning touch was to hire a man to sit on a bench hidden underneath the platform and strike at a block of wood at periodic intervals to imitate the sound of the guillotine crashing against the neckpiece.

  Marguerite could not help but share in Marie’s pride and delight over the public’s reaction to their newly redesigned Separate Room, for which an increased entry fee of sixpence deterred no one. Even battle-worn army soldiers emitted strangled gasps and yelps when the axman gave a resounding blow to his tree stump under the platform. After the initial fright, visitors tittered in relief and then sought to meet the owner of the exhibition.

  Money was flowing in a sweet and steady stream to the show, and their creditors were repaid in just a few weeks.

  Marguerite found a curious visitor—aging, balding, and bespectacled—secreted in a corner one day with Madame Tussaud. She did not interrupt their intense conversation, but instead waited until after the visitor left to see if Madame Tussaud would mention him to her. When no remark was forthcoming, Marguerite knew from her past experiences with Mr. Philipsthal not to ask about someone when Marie was in no mood to have a discussion.

  I may be more than an apprentice, but I am less than a partner, and must remember my place.

  They spent a surprisingly contented Christmas together with Mr. Colin. He invited several guild members who were without family to share in a feast of goose pie, plum pudding, and haggis. Mr. Colin also prepared a batch of rum-laced frumenty, and his long
, planked dining room table bowed heavily under the weight of dishes, wine bottles, and elbows. All of the diners conversed congenially and even sang popular tunes together. Joseph conducted himself in a considerably adultlike way, and was praised effusively by the men there for his proper gentlemanly manners. By the end of the evening he was drowsing on the hearth next to a crackling fire lit to ward off the outside bracing wind, an unfinished sketch of the Christmas diners dangling from his lap and Mr. Colin’s terrier, Angus, curled up next to him.

  By the time Mr. Colin’s guests rose to depart, the tallow candles around the room had burned down to sputtering stubs and only dregs were left in the bottles of rich elder wine. Joseph was sprawled out on the hearth, using Angus as a pillow.

  “Well, Mrs. Ashby, I think it’s time to get my Nini to bed. You look peaked, too. You need sleep.”

  Marguerite covered a yawn with her hand. “I can’t remember the last time I feasted so well. Mr. Colin, thank you for your generosity.”

  Their landlord, who was brisk in manner but very good-humored under his curt exterior, wished them glad tidings and offered them both a selection of fresh pastries from his shop if they would care to visit the following day.

  “Oh, Mr. Colin, right now I’m as full as that fruit-stuffed gingerbread we had tonight, but undoubtedly we’ll wake up in great need of sweets tomorrow, is that not so, madame?”

  But before Marie had an opportunity to weigh in on the desirability of pastries in the morning, the front door banged open and the sound of strident boot steps crossed to the dining room doorway. All thought of comfortable companionship and succulent dining fled their minds.

  There before them stood Paul de Philipsthal.

  He removed his brown cloak and tossed it carelessly onto a chair in the corner of the dining room. Marguerite, fearing a ferocious battle between him and Marie, jumped up quickly.

  “Why, Mr. Philipsthal, may I introduce you to Mr. Colin, who is the finest pastry cook in Glasgow and quite close to a burgess of the city.”

  The two men shook hands, Philipsthal wary and Mr. Colin perplexed. Marie remained in her seat on the bench at the far end of the table away from Philipsthal, her face murderous.

  But Philipsthal was not interested in Marie for the moment and instead focused on Marguerite. “Mrs. Ashby, I have been an utter wretch of a man looking for you. You departed Edinburgh without so much as a word left behind. It was not easy to locate you, you know.”

  Marguerite kept her hands folded before her, hoping it covered her mildly protruding, sated belly. Would that she could keep from retching her entire Christmas meal because of this unexpected arrival.

  “But found us you have. Perhaps you would like some supper? We probably only have dried-up remains left, but I’m sure Mr. Colin would not mind if you sat down for something, would you, Mr. Colin? And the Three Foxes Inn down the street probably has some ale for sale—” She was chattering uncontrollably but unable to stop herself.

  “Mrs. Ashby! I’ve searched for you both for weeks. You only left behind a sign saying you had gone to Wales, which was a falsehood. I had a devil of a time finding you. Why the deception? Why have you hidden from me?”

  Why, Marguerite wondered, are you directing these questions to me?

  She glanced over at Marie in time to see her rising to respond to Mr. Philipsthal. She cut in before Marie said anything antagonistic.

  “Mr. Philipsthal, we simply changed our minds while en route to Wales, deciding to return and try our luck in Glasgow for a short time. We fully expected to be back in Edinburgh before you returned, but the show has been quite successful here.” She kept her head held high and hoped he wouldn’t notice her trembling. Deception was awfully difficult work.

  “It was inexcusable for you to leave without at least sending word to me.”

  “May I remind you that your brief note to us on your departure provided no address where you would be staying. Writing to you would have been quite impossible.”

  “Yes, well, what’s important is that I’ve found you again and we can join our shows together once again. I’ve made some decisions, but they can wait until morning. I’m staying at an inn nearby and will return in the morning to discuss our future plans. Good evening to you both. Mr. Colin.” He nodded his head to all of them, grabbed his cloak, and was gone swiftly in a swirl of brown wool.

  Mr. Colin exited from the rear of the dining room to give the women privacy. Marie’s elbows were on the table, her face buried in both hands. “Ruined,” she mumbled. “He’s determined to ruin me. He wants to send me packing back to France. If only I’d the nerve.”

  Marguerite sat across from Marie and reached a hand out to cup one of Marie’s elbows. “The nerve? The nerve to do what?”

  “To kill him. Like he deserves.”

  10

  March 1804. Philipsthal gave Marie a wide berth, much as a rat will do for a stalking cat, to avoid a confrontation. What worried Marguerite, though, was what would happen if the cat backed the rodent into a corner. Which one would come out still breathing?

  Late one afternoon a gentle snow was falling and many of the show’s visitors were disappearing back to their homes in case the snow should become fierce. The curious little man with the spectacles was closeted in a corner again with a wildly gesticulating Marie.

  Marguerite shrugged. It was none of her business. And there were other, more pressing matters for Marguerite personally.

  Philipsthal was avoiding Marie, but lurking about to catch Marguerite alone during off-hours of the exhibition. She was uncrating an order of wax bricks to be used in a special order for one of Mr. Colin’s guild member friends when Philipsthal appeared from nowhere.

  “Oh! Mr. Philipsthal, you startled me,” Marguerite said, nearly dropping the ledger book she was using to record her inspection and inventory of the wax.

  “My apologies, Mrs. Ashby. I will disturb you only briefly. I was wondering if you would care to join me in shopping for a special clock I intend to use in my show. You have excellent taste and would advise me well, I know. And this time there will be no gifts, I assure you.”

  Marguerite cringed inwardly at his obsequiousness, but despite that she saw no harm in him. Yes, he had shown up quite unexpectedly and much to Marie’s dismay, but wasn’t it right that he should know where his partner had gone? He was very heavily invested in the wax exhibit after all. And he had never done anything disrespectful toward her personally.

  First ensuring that Marie and Joseph were not inundated with customers, she stepped into the cold winter’s air with him. Philipsthal hired a hackney to take them around to three clockmakers until a suitable longcase clock could be found and a slightly modified version ordered. He did not share with Marguerite his exact plans for it, only saying that it would astound his new Glasgow audiences. Then he directed the driver to take a turn through Glasgow Green.

  “Just for conversation between friends,” he claimed.

  As the carriage wound its way through the park, now just a depressing landscape without its summertime blooms and foliage, Marguerite became exceedingly nervous.

  There was no purpose to riding through the park at this time of year. What was he planning?

  It took just moments to find out.

  After a long preamble in which he declared his utmost satisfaction with their friendship and his desire to ever be her benefactor and fellow showman, Philipsthal finally came around to his point.

  The man simply could not stay away from the idea of marrying her.

  “As I’ve said, my esteem for you is boundless, and I entertain the conceit that you are not wholly displeased with my own countenance.”

  “You have been a kind friend to me, yes.”

  “But I can offer you so much more, more than is actually within your grasp of understanding at the moment.”

  “What are you saying, sir?”

  “I would be the happiest and most prosperous man alive if you would be my wife. And you will find
that it will be for your own great happiness, too.” He brought Marguerite’s hand up to his lips, and she could have sworn his eyes were moist with emotion. She repressed a shudder.

  “What is it that I don’t understand?”

  “Ah, my sweet Mrs. Ashby. You don’t know the ways of the world, and are ignorant of how life is a series of compromises. You see, I am so desirous of a marriage with you that I would be willing to give up something else that is very precious to me. And may prove to be very precious to you, as well.”

  Something precious to both of them? What did Philipsthal own beyond his phantasmagoric equipment?

  “Mr. Philipsthal, I beg you to speak plainly to me.” She withdrew her hand, which was still clutched in his.

  “Of course. As you know, Madame Tussaud has had an unfortunate time in living up to her financial agreement with me. Terrible mismanagement of the wax exhibition, really. But I’ve been quite patient with her, and have never called in her debt, which would bankrupt her completely. And that would be a tragedy for everyone, would it not?”

  “It would. Madame Tussaud is very dear to me.” Why did she feel a prickle of alarm at her neck?

  “Yes, she’s dear to me, too. So, you see, it would be best if I never called in that debt. In fact, I could be persuaded to be generous enough to tear up her contract altogether.”

  “And what would cause you to—oh.”

  Philipsthal clasped her hand inside his once again. “I see that you understand me. Marry me, my lovely one, and I will throw the contract onto any fire of your choosing.”

  Marguerite was so overwhelmed by his suggestion that she was unable to form a coherent response. What was the man saying?

  He resumed his cajoling. “Just think. Not only could we live in the happiest of states together, but your friend would no longer be connected to me and free to do as she wishes. And I’m willing to make this sacrifice because of my great adoration of your person.”