A Royal Likeness Read online

  William Greycliffe was a man of minor aristocratic connections who had pursued Claudette relentlessly despite her initial disdain of him. Even now Marguerite loved to hear stories of their courtship told for the thousandth time.

  When Béatrice died suddenly, Claudette and William brought the teenaged Marguerite to live with them at their Kentish estate of Hevington and Claudette made Marguerite her de facto heir in the doll shop. As time passed, Claudette turned more and more of the responsibility for the shop over to Marguerite as she became involved in raising her three children and managing the estate with William.

  Nicholas was one of a set of twin boys born to James and Maude Ashby, Claudette’s and Béatrice’s domestic employers upon their arrival in England. Nicholas’s heart burned with youthful passion for Béatrice, who gently refused him. He avidly followed the women’s progress after they left the Ashby home and even visited on occasion. Following Béatrice’s death, Nicholas finally took note of Marguerite and promptly fell in love with her saucy temperament. For Marguerite, Nicholas filled the need for gentle sweetness that her mother’s death had yanked away from her, and the two had been inseparable during the intervening ten years.

  “Oh, Nicholas, let’s go for Shrovetide as Aunt Claudette suggests. We haven’t been to Hevington in months. We even missed the lighting of the Yule log this past year. Besides, Rebecca is probably old enough now for a baby house and we could take one to her as a gift.” In the coziness of the warmly lit workshop, full of the smell of freshly shaved wood, she reached her arms around her husband’s neck and pressed her lips to his.

  He responded in his familiar way, sliding both arms around her waist and burying his face in her neck.

  “Very well, Mrs. Ashby. We’ll leave the shop in the care of Roger and Agnes, and plan for a long visit to Hevington. But before you begin packing trunks, I believe there is some more immediate business that requires your attention,” he said, gently dropping kisses along her exposed neckline.

  “Is that so, Mr. Ashby? Pray, what business could be of such consequence that it calls for my immediate attention?”

  “It’s a very private matter. Come home now, woman, so we can, er, discuss it before it loses the strength of its importance.” He playfully smacked his wife’s bottom and ushered her out of the shop, humming a happy but aimless tune.

  February 21, 1803. The evening before their scheduled departure for Hevington, Marguerite and Nicholas returned to the closed doll shop so she could put together a small box of miniature furniture and other accoutrements for the baby house they had already packed to take to Claudette’s daughter, Rebecca.

  Miniature dolls’ houses, called baby houses, were becoming increasingly popular in England. Claudette had once spoken wistfully about the houses her father carried in his doll shop back in France, which led to an expansion in her own shop’s trade in these diminutive pieces. In addition to offering miniature replicas of tables, chairs, beds, carpets, paintings, and dishes, Marguerite had started designing tiny scale-sized families to inhabit them.

  She rummaged patiently through a box of petite tissue-wrapped dolls, searching for one painted with Rebecca’s cobalt eyes, eyes that defined her as her mother’s child.

  “Marguerite, the hackney will not wait all night for us. Isn’t the house and its furnishings enough for one child?”

  “I suppose so, but I know I painted a baby-house doll that resembles her. I want her to have it. Maybe in this drawer? No, not here. I should look on the fabric shelves. Nicholas, would you go back to the workroom and see if you can find any more boxes of baby-house dolls?”

  While Nicholas retreated to the back of the shop, she continued her search, the sound of her husband’s gentle whistling floating high over the tops of shelves loaded with every manner of elegantly dressed doll. Marguerite’s stock ranged from the little baby-house dolls all the way up to the grandes Pandores, life-sized dolls built on metal frames, which Aunt Claudette had made popular among the aristocratic English. The grandes Pandores were Claudette’s favorite dolls, but Marguerite preferred the nimble skill involved in the tiniest of her creations. Besides, the grandes Pandores required the wax heads that were so dratted difficult to create as flawless pieces.

  A distant shouting from outside overtook the comforting sound of Nicholas’s whistling. She paused from what she was doing to listen, but the noise abated and she returned to her task.

  Nicholas returned to the display room at the front of the shop. “Sweetheart, there are no baby-house dolls in the workroom. I’ll go up to the attic and see if Roger may have stored some up there.”

  “And I’ll continue looking down here. I’m just certain that we have more of these dolls in the shop.”

  Nicholas Ashby’s tall but lanky frame disappeared from view again. He had grown in height as he became an adult, but had never filled out in an obviously muscular sort of way. Still he had the strength of two men, and Marguerite loved watching him haul large planks of wood from delivery wagons into the shed behind the shop. Even Roger, as enormous and barrel-chested as he was, could not out-lift Nicholas Ashby.

  But Nicholas’s interest in the shop stopped with physical duties. He was content to let Marguerite deal with customers and manage the financial affairs of the shop, much as her mother had been happy to let Aunt Claudette do years ago.

  So engrossed was she with her thoughts and her search that when the projectile came through the window on the other side of the shop she was at first confused as to whether the sound had come from outside or the attic. The growing clamor outside on the street settled her confusion.

  “Nicholas? Nicholas! Come quickly!” Marguerite called up toward the attic entrance, but he did not answer. He must have gone into the far reaches of the attic, which spanned the forty-foot length of the shop. She stood up, brushing dust from the sturdy, brown woolen skirt she wore most days when working.

  Ever brash as a child and no less so as a woman, Marguerite marched to the front door of the shop and flung it open. The hackney was gone, and she was stunned to see a group of about twenty men, mostly drunk and on the brink of irrationality. They carried torches and clubs and the occasional pitchfork, and were gabbing loudly about a hanging at Southwark.

  Why were these drunkards marching on respectable Oxford Street, and why in heaven’s name were they congregating outside her shop with obvious ill will?

  “That’s her, Mr. Emmett. She’s the doll lady we told you about, Marguerite Ashby.” Through the smoky haze of the torches Marguerite could not see individual faces well, but the voice was coming from the back of the assembly.

  “Yes, I have that figured out, Reggie. Your assistance is appreciated.” A man who could have been one of any number of different merchants stepped forward so that Marguerite could see him. He was as short as Nicholas was tall but built like a bull. He swept an exaggerated bow.

  “Mr. Emmett at your service, mistress.”

  “Yes, I have that figured out, Mr. Emmett.” Hoots of laughter were interspersed with calls for Mr. Emmett to “get to it.”

  “Well now, mistress, we’ve just heard some disturbing news. News that might have a serious impact on your little trade here.”

  “News? What news?”

  Reggie’s voice rang out again. “She’s a liar, Mr. Emmett. She knows all about it!”

  The other men grumbled their agreement.

  Marguerite stared steadily at Mr. Emmett with her arms crossed in front of her. “Hurry up with what you have to say so I can be about my business. I’m a law-abiding woman running an honorable shop with her husband.”

  “Is that right?” Mr. Emmett stepped closer and his frame filled the doorway. Up close, Marguerite could see that his eyes were bloodshot from drink and hidden rage, and he stank of a laborer’s sweat. She calculated whether or not to scream for Nicholas but was unsure whether he would hear her, and as of yet she was not sure what might infuriate these men further.

  “So is your husband here right n
ow, mistress?” Mr. Emmett’s gaze was thoughtful.

  “He is. Shall I get him for you?”

  “She’s still lying, Mr. Emmett! Ain’t no one else here except probably some spies hiding out.”

  Mr. Emmett’s darting eyes spoke his indecision over whom to believe.

  “C’mon, Mr. Emmett, are we going to do what we came here for? We’re almost out of ale and I’ve a powerful thirst.”

  Marguerite maintained her own gaze. “And what did you come here for?”

  “We’re here to put a stop to the French intrigues coming in through Ireland, and that would include Colonel Despard and his bunch, plus all the French rabble like you.”

  “What French rabble? I’m an Englishwoman. Who is Colonel Despard?” Marguerite was trying desperately to figure out what he was talking about.

  “Not with a fancy name like Marguerite you’re not. A good Englishwoman would be Margaret or Margery. Your name has you dead to rights a lady Frog.”

  Marguerite drew in a breath in an attempt to be patient. What was taking Nicholas so long in the attic? “My mother was French. I have lived in this country all my life and am married to an Englishman. What is this nonsense about French infiltration through Ireland?”

  “Ever since the French peasants started their revolution, the Irish have been hoping for a chance to bring popery back to England. Stinking papists the French and Irish are. They’ve been looking for a way to bring down the right noble house of Hanover so they could bring in French rule and turn us all into foppin’ Frogs. So they found a half-wit in Colonel Despard to do their work. He stole over here from Ireland slippery as an eel and planned to kill our good King George. But the Irish and French are no match for smart Englishmen and he was found out. So today we all went and watched him and his gang swing from the gallows and get their heads chopped off, and now we’re going to help out the Crown by getting rid of the rest of the French influence in England, starting with you, Mrs. Marguerite Ashby. We know all about this shop’s wicked dealings.”

  Mr. Emmett’s speech seemed to momentarily exhaust him, but it reenergized his mob with shouts of “fire the store” and “kill the French whore.”

  “So you see, mistress, we have two choices here. Either you can leave peaceably while we can look for hidden messages and contraband, since we didn’t ’spect to find you here anyway, or if you want to be bothersome we may have to take further measures. And we’re not opposed to those further measures.” He reached out a hand and roughly caressed her right breast.

  Marguerite instinctively slapped his face. A grave mistake. Mr. Emmett’s face was now mottled red to match his eyes over the insult, while his cronies both laughed and urged him on to despoiling her. He grabbed her arm and pulled her close.

  “I’ve half a mind to teach you manners right here, mistress, even though you’ll probably give me the pox.”

  “What the devil is going on here?” Nicholas came striding into the room with a small crate under his arm. He tossed it to one side to confront the group of men.

  “Who are you and what do you want here?”

  Mr. Emmett reflexively dropped Marguerite’s arm to face his new adversary.

  “We’re doing work on behalf of His Majesty, ridding England of what you might call subversive French influences.”

  “I would call it no such thing. And if you’re looking for local French residents to accost, what are you doing here?” Nicholas was cautiously approaching the intruder.

  “Your little wife here was born a Frogette, wasn’t she? We think she’s probably helping ol’ Boney infiltrate England. Wasn’t she once arrested for sending good English coin over to France?”

  “That was her aunt—”

  “No difference. She probably taught your wife how to stuff them dolls, and we mean to inspect them to be sure she isn’t sending money or messages to Bonaparte.”

  Nicholas remained calm, although Marguerite could see one small vein throbbing over his left eyebrow, the only sign that his normally benign temper was on the verge of eruption.

  “My wife’s aunt was falsely accused of these activities, evidenced by her subsequent marriage to Lord Greycliffe, an honorable man.”

  “Maybe that’s so, maybe it’s not, but we’ve walked a long way from the hangin’ and we plan to do what we came to do.”

  “Sir, you and your followers will leave these premises with haste. I will not have my wife plagued and threatened.”

  “We’ll leave when we’ve a mind to. After our mission is finished.”

  “You’ll leave when I’ve a mind for you to do so. Which is now.” Nicholas’s voice was still calm, but his resolve was unmistakable.

  The mood began to alter noticeably among the crowd outside. It was amusing when a defenseless little woman sassed back, but it was an entirely different thing when some coxcomb started making threats, now wasn’t it? The men became restless, pacing like jackals back and forth, waiting for their leader to make the kill so they could each have a share.

  Mr. Emmett moved imperceptibly forward, just enough that Marguerite stepped back reflexively, allowing him fully into the shop. He put a hand forward to move her out of his way and Nicholas reacted instinctively like a lion protecting his pride. But the jackals were waiting for such a move. He stepped forward to push Mr. Emmett away from Marguerite, eliciting a sharp yelp of surprised outrage from the man. It served as the attack signal for the rest of the pack.

  Marguerite was roughly elbowed and jostled as several men lunged into the shop, their eyes full of expectant treachery. Nicholas took several steps backward, knowing he had become prey.

  Marguerite felt, more than saw, the splintering crack that accompanied the connection of a broken wood beam against her husband’s left arm, sending him sprawling to the floor and sliding across the dark oaken surface into a tiered display of fashion dolls.

  The grouping of sixteen dolls had been created as a tribute to King George’s family. On the top tier were the monarch and his wife, Queen Charlotte. On the next tier were his married children, and the bottom shelf displayed his remaining spinster daughters, who were probably destined to retain their single status.

  As Nicholas careened into the display, the dolls crashed into a heap around him. He brought his hands up to protect his face from the descending silk-encased wooden projectiles, but not before the princess Augusta fell against his nose on her way to landing next to him, her head turned toward him as though to survey the damage she had done.

  Mr. Emmett barked at the others and pointed. “That’s just what a French spy would do, boys—hide her traitorous goods inside playthings made up to look like the good king’s family. She’d think that right funny. Those dolls are where we start looking.”

  Nicholas’s nose was askew and bleeding profusely, yet he valiantly brought himself up to one elbow.

  “You will not destroy—”

  Another mob member silenced him by kicking him in the stomach. Nicholas doubled over, groaning.

  Please, Nicholas, Marguerite silently prayed. Show them your secret might and strength.

  As though encouraged by his wife’s silent entreaty, Nicholas rose to all fours, then shakily stood, his waistcoat stained with a mixture of blood and floor dust.

  The jackals were stunned by his fortitude and stopped long enough to watch his progress from the floor to an upright position.

  Between clenched teeth, he fearlessly addressed Mr. Emmett again.

  “You … and your boys … have been warned for a final time. I want you … out of this place of business … now.”

  Marguerite crossed wordlessly over to his side and leaned against him. To the onlookers it appeared that she was showing unity with her husband, but in reality she was supporting him, with one arm around him and the other gently holding his injured arm.

  Nicholas gratefully leaned against her. The interior of the doll shop was now at a taut standstill. The hungry mob, having all slipped inside the premises, still looked to Mr. Emm
ett for orders, ready to pounce when he gave the go-ahead. Mr. Emmett, though, seemed a bit unsure of himself.

  His next words startled Marguerite. “Well, I s’pose we can leave well enough alone, can’t we? No need to rough up a lone shop owner and his wife. After all, they’ve been warned about what happens to traitors in this country, right?” He drew a finger across his neck for emphasis.

  Several of the men protested with moans and grumbles. Reggie spoke up the loudest. “T’isn’t fair, Mr. Emmett. You agreed with us that they were foreigners dressed in English wool and needed some comeuppance. We should be breakin’ up those dolls. Who knows what they might be hiding in ‘em. Why are you turnin’ your mind?”

  “Because, you balmy idiot, it just don’t seem right to rampage on a lady whose husband is standing right here. Maybe we’ll come back some other time if we hear that she’s making an agitation.”

  “Aw, Mr. Emmett, you’re not afraid of her husband now, are you?” Reggie was whining now.

  “I’m not afraid of anything. C’mon, pints of bitters for the lot of you at The Lamb and Flag. Let’s go.”

  The men, now deprived of their quarry, were deflated, but Marguerite did not dare let out her breath yet. To her surprise, Nicholas held out a hand in friendship to Mr. Emmett, and he clasped it in return, softly mumbling an apology for the disturbance. She stayed at Nicholas’s heels as he escorted the men out.

  As the last of the men were leaving, Nicholas shut the door forcefully. An enraged howl burst forth from the other side followed by muffled arguing.