A Royal Likeness Read online

Why did Marguerite have the sense that Maude was crouching in the tall grass, waiting to pounce and nip her head off with one sharp bite?

  “You’ve no need to worry, Mother Ashby. I like it here at Hevington. No one bothers me and I have free run of the estate.”

  “Well, I’m sure that cavorting about the horse pastures may seem like an amusing pastime, but I’m sure we all agree that it can be damaging to a delicate woman’s health.”

  Marguerite felt her temper beginning to flare and pressed her lips together to maintain her outward composure before replying.

  “I had no idea you were so concerned for my well-being, Mother Ashby. Especially considering your total disinterest in my affairs since Nicholas died. As I recall, your carriage could not pull away from the funeral quickly enough to get you back to London. Wasn’t there some social event for which you were anxious to return? Did your merry party companions find it odd that you had only spent a single day grieving for your son?”

  Marguerite paused only for a quick breath and to take a moment of pleasure in the look of pure astonishment on Maude’s face. Nathaniel still sat there like a perched chicken with his hands folded over a stomach entirely too distended for a young man of his age. She was startled to see almost a look of—was that approval?—on Aunt Claudette’s face.

  “But now your concern for your daughter-in-law has you racing back to Kent to see of what service you can be, and to pretend that you are now anxious that the bloom may have fallen off the rose of my ruddy good health. Pray tell, what scheme is prowling around in your mind that compels you to take interest in my tragic affairs? Lest it be some wild thought that Nicholas might have some sort of bequest that I am withholding, let me assure you that everything we had together was destroyed in Aunt Claudette’s shop. That shop was our entire life, and now it’s all gone. I don’t wish Nicholas gone, but I certainly do wish you gone, Mother Ashby.”

  Marguerite was shaking. She couldn’t believe it. This was the longest dialogue about Nicholas she had had since his death without breaking into a disheveled heap of weeping. Claudette was slowly nodding her head in encouragement of her tangible fury.

  Maude held up her hand in appeasement. “Why, Marguerite, you misunderstand me. We are absolutely concerned about you personally. Especially since you might be carrying Nicholas’s offspring. Perhaps his son.”

  “But I’m not with child. I’m absolutely certain of it.”

  “Yes, so Lord Greycliffe told me in his return letter to my inquiry. But, child, it’s still early and you might not be showing yet.”

  “My courses started again last month.” She reddened at having to speak so indelicately in front of Nathaniel, but he seemed oblivious to the entire conversation now that it was not focused on him.

  “Again, you might not be showing yet, and we have to be absolutely certain of the truthfulness of your statement, don’t we? After all, any child of Nicholas’s is really an Ashby, isn’t it? And we would want to be sure he grows up in a loving and proper environment with his true family, not out here in some remote village where he’ll never have an opportunity to meet young ladies of breeding.”

  Claudette cut into the conversation. “Mrs. Ashby, are you implying that Lord Greycliffe’s name and connections would not suffice to give Marguerite’s child a good launch when the time came?”

  “But I am not—” Marguerite said.

  Maude Ashby sniffed. “I said nothing of the sort. You’re just simply so far away from the city out here, and the society pages don’t mention you much, which tells me that you don’t come to London often.”

  “Aunt Claudette, you’re letting her—”

  “Mrs. Ashby, you are treading perilously close to the end of my hospitality.”

  “Ah, but I see Marguerite protests that she is not expecting, although you do not. Perhaps I am correct in my suspicions. And as such, I am recommending that you return to London with us, Marguerite.”

  “What?” Marguerite and Claudette gasped in unison.

  “We have a coach large enough to take you with us this very night, once you get yourself packed up. You’ll have a comfortable room and can sit and read or embroider or wander the hallways to your heart’s content until we know undeniably whether or not you are carrying a child. My grandchild. The Ashby name will live on through this child, since Nathaniel may not ever father a successor.” She cut her eyes over to Nathaniel, who appeared to be enjoying the fracas among the women.

  “If you prove to be without child, then I will send you back to Hevington straightaway. Trusting, of course, that you have not taken advantage of my dear Nathaniel’s sensitive feelings by then. However, if you are expecting, you will remain at our home until such time as you bear the child, and then of course we would insist that you leave him with us, to be raised with his true family.” Maude nodded, an indication that she was finished and that all parties were to accept her proclamation.

  Even Claudette was speechless at the woman’s audacity. But now Marguerite found her mettle, much as she had when she went on the offense against the mob in the shop. This felt as much an affront to her as that had.

  “Mother Ashby, have you completely taken leave of your senses? I have told you repeatedly that I am absolutely, positively not with child. But if I were—and I am not!—it is beyond the pale that you would come here while I grieve my husband to suggest that I willingly go as your prisoner to be poked and prodded by doctors for the next month while you make a decision as to whether or not I’m going to produce a grandchild for you to manage and oppress.

  “You’ve already extended past Aunt Claudette’s good graces of hospitality, and you’ve just stepped beyond the bounds of my own goodwill. I recommend that you leave now before this gets any worse, if that’s possible.”

  Maude was unsettlingly serene. “Yes, I can understand your unease now that I have pointed out the obvious. Nevertheless, it shall be as I say. Would you like to come with us now, or perhaps Nathaniel can return for you in a week to let you get your affairs in order?”

  “Mother Ashby, I will never go back to London with you.”

  “But you will.”

  Drat the woman. She practically purred in self-satisfaction.

  “Why in heaven’s name would I do this?”

  “Because it would just be so unfortunate for people to continue thinking that you’re hiding out here waiting to bear someone else’s bastard child. Tongues are wagging, my dear, and I have no reason to correct people’s impression.”

  “But I’ve been in mourning with my relations. Everyone knows what happened to me—it was in all the London papers. The only way they could think I’ve done something illicit is if—oh!” Marguerite shuddered involuntarily. She felt a streak of pain start at the base of her neck and run up behind her right ear. She’d been experiencing blinding headaches since Nicholas’s death.

  “Is if what, dear?” Maude’s eyes narrowed into contented slits.

  “Is if … is if … you were spreading rumors about me.”

  “I? Spread rumors?” Maude rose, as did Marguerite and Claudette, which signaled to Nathaniel that the interview was over and he was to rise as well. He tugged on his waistcoat to ensure it covered his abdomen. As if completely oblivious to what had just happened, he extended a warm farewell.

  “Good to see you, Lady Greycliffe. Next time we’ll bring Father. He always enjoys a good cigar with Lord William. Marguerite, a pleasure. Indeed a pleasure.”

  Marguerite stepped back in revulsion from his attempt to place a brotherly kiss on her cheek. Undaunted, he moved in on an unsuspecting Claudette and planted a moist and loud smack on her right cheek before she had the sense to step away.

  Maude gave her parting shot. “Remember, Marguerite, that I cannot hold on to your good reputation for you forever. You’ll have to make a decision quickly. I’ll send Nathaniel back in one week for you.”

  Maude Ashby held her head high and proud as she left Hevington, as a woman who had successfully co
mpleted her mission of havoc.

  Marguerite sank down on the parlor’s pale green settee that Maude had just occupied, and Claudette sat next to her. “Oh, Aunt Claudette, what a ridiculous situation I am in. What should I do?”

  Claudette’s mouth was a grim line. “We’ll think of something. Maude Ashby is nothing if not utterly predictable in her self-serving conduct. Perhaps William can go to London and bring pressure to bear.”

  “No, I could not stand for him to have to rescue me like that. He’d have to drag the Greycliffe name through the slops in order to clean my own. You’ve both been too kind to me for me to allow that to happen. Perhaps I should leave the country. Surely I can find relatives of my mother’s back in France who will take me in for a while.”

  “No! There will be no traveling to France! William forbids it,” she added.

  Marguerite took her beloved mentor’s hand. “Aunt Claudette, all of that was long ago.”

  “The Terror may be over, but the strife with France goes on and on. William expects that we will declare war on that country any day. I’m not sure we have the strength to stand up to Napoleon. In any case, it would be foolish and dangerous to go there for respite while Maude Ashby’s gossiping settles down.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Nothing good ever comes from dealings with my mother-in-law.”

  “I disagree. I see color in your cheeks, the first I’ve seen in months. And anger has ignited your soul. I’d say Maude’s visit was very good.”

  Claudette lifted Marguerite’s hand to her lips. “Darling girl, I think you may recover yet. And I think this talk of France has given me an idea.”

  Surrey Street, London April 18, 1803

  My dearest Claudette,

  What an age it has been since we last saw one another. I’m happy to know that you found out that I have brought my exhibition to London. I suppose I should have told you myself, but I’ve been so busy with making new wax figures, handling daily receipts, and caring for my boy Joseph that all else simply flies from my mind.

  My condolences on your family’s loss, both your ward’s husband and the destruction of the doll shop. These are indeed fanatical times again, although it doesn’t seem as though they ever stopped, does it? I try to stay personally unnoticeable and let my wax figures promote themselves. I never again want to end up in a prison cell, whether in France or in England. But I guess that’s not a guiding principle I have to recommend to you, is it?

  With regard to your ward’s predicament, I fully sympathize and send my warmest salutations to her. She is more than welcome to join me at the Lyceum Theatre. Her dollmaking skills will be well applied here to waxworking, and it would be a great relief to have more help than my five-year-old son. My partner, Philipsthal, is more concerned with publicity for his Phantasmagoria show than with helping me with my work.

  Please send Marguerite as soon as possible. She should bring along any carving tools, paintbrushes, etc. that she has.

  Fondly,

  Marie Tussaud

  “William, Marie is enthusiastic about the idea.” Claudette brought the letter around to where he was sitting in his old King James Monstrosity with a copy of an American book on chess that had just arrived on a packet from Philadelphia. William had recently become fascinated with the game and was trying to teach it to Edward. This book promised to help the reader master the game quickly.

  He lifted his head from the book for a quick kiss from his wife. “Splendid. How do you think Marguerite will react?”

  “I’m not sure. But I’ve given instructions for a private supper in the small dining room just in case.”

  3

  An unusually cool May drizzle accompanied the coach on the long trip from Hevington to London, but dissipated as they reached the city’s outskirts. Marguerite tensed as the carriage jolted along London’s old cobblestones, fearful that they would be driving past, or near, the doll shop, but Uncle William’s driver seemed to know that he should avoid that neighborhood entirely. William and Claudette sat companionably quiet across from her.

  She started breathing normally again as they entered Westminster and made their way to the Strand. This was not a part of the city Marguerite had ever visited during her entire life in London because of its shabby reputation. Once an area of palatial homes belonging to the great families such as Essex, Northumberland, and Somerset, it had experienced a period of gradual decay. Most of the residences had been demolished and then replaced by low taverns and brothels. Recently it was undergoing rebirth with the construction of circuses, theatres, and other houses of entertainment. The roads here were uncobbled and rutted, but the frenetic energy of building and growth roused excitement even in Marguerite’s fractured heart.

  At Claudette’s urging, Marguerite had discarded her threadbare dresses to which she had become so attached in her misery, and allowed her aunt to send off to London for a set of serviceable work dresses, two aprons, a cloak, and one fancy gown, as well as some new undergarments. They would be delivered shortly to her new lodgings in the same building where Madame Tussaud was staying with her young son, Joseph.

  Marguerite had been more receptive to the idea of joining Marie Tussaud’s traveling wax exhibition than either William or Claudette had imagined she would be. The encounter with Maude Ashby had jolted her out of her melancholy and given her anger and fear to feed on. The anger and fear had given her a sense of purpose and the realization that if she did not do something about her own situation, others would. And it might have had unpleasant results far beyond lying back permanently in the cool stream waters of Hevington.

  The opportunity to meet Aunt Claudette’s old friend Marie Tussaud, of whom she had heard much, was compelling, as was the thought of doing something—anything—other than dollmaking.

  Marie had been the art tutor to King Louis XVI’s sister Elisabeth when Claudette first met her. Claudette’s London doll shop had risen to enough prominence that she began receiving orders from Queen Marie Antoinette, herself an avid doll collector. In 1788, an invitation arrived for her to come to France to meet the queen and make plans for a special doll Marie Antoinette wished to commission. This doll was of her closest friend, the Princesse de Lamballe. During the visit Claudette met Marie Grosholtz, who had not yet married François Tussaud. The two became fast friends, as Marie found many similarities between waxworking and dollmaking. Through the years of the Revolution the two maintained contact, even though Claudette had made her home in England. Both were devoted to the French royal family, although after her own imprisonment Marie learned to conceal any preference for either revolutionaries or monarchs, instead keeping her head down and focused on managing the waxworks exhibition left to her by Philippe Curtius.

  If anyone beyond Aunt Claudette would understand Marguerite’s deep anxieties about death, it would be Madame Tussaud.

  When Claudette had first presented the option to her, Marguerite was surprised at her own acquiescence. The dust-up with Maude Ashby had invigorated her to the point that she no longer strolled the North Bridge contemplating how to do away with herself, but instead paced back and forth in silent conversation with Nicholas, pondering how to outwit her sly mother-in-law. The woman was sorely mistaken if she thought Marguerite was going to let Society be tempted into thinking Nicholas Ashby had been a cuckold. She was even more mistaken if she thought Marguerite was going to live in her clutches again, undoubtedly as little more than a mere servant. No, she had to devise a plan to stay out of the Ashby clutches. For all she knew, when Maude realized Marguerite was not pregnant she would then decide Marguerite should marry Nathaniel, who showed promise of becoming every bit as pompous as his mother.

  And how could she avoid marriage with him if living under that woman’s roof?

  Furthermore, what dishonor would it do Nicholas’s memory for her to go to their home under a cloud of suspicion, if she was pressured into an unwanted marriage with his twin?

  She shivered with distaste.

  “
Is everything all right, Marguerite?” Claudette’s bright blue eyes peered at her in concern. “Are you having regrets?”

  “Not at all. I’m still just coming to terms with the past, I guess. Foolish notions. I’m fine, Aunt Claudette, I really am. And I promise to try very hard to move forward with my life.”

  “I know you’ll do very well under Marie’s tutelage. Just think, William. A renowned waxworker in the family. Why, she’ll be famous!”

  “More famous than you?” William’s voice was full of amusement.

  “Infinitely more famous. Waxworks have been fashionable in Paris for years and you know how you Englishmen are always years behind French styles. You’ll now be up-to-date in your smart entertainments.” Claudette gave William a sly look out of the corner of her eye.

  “Is that right, Lady Greycliffe? I believe we’ll have more discussion about entertainment after seeing Marguerite settled in.”

  They teased just like she and Nicholas once did. How much she admired this couple, still in adoration of one another after nearly a dozen years of marriage, childbearing, and the daily routines of life. Marguerite felt a sudden and sharp pang of longing for her husband. The grief churned and twisted for several moments, then was gone. William and Claudette had not appeared to notice her pain. Heavens, was she finally recovering?

  “Pay no mind to William, Marguerite. He gets more and more foolish the older he gets. Oh, we’re almost there. Would you just look at that!”

  The Lyceum Theatre, where Madame Tussaud had her wax exhibition, was located on Wellington Street, just off the Strand. As the carriage pulled to a stop in front of the building, Marguerite looked up in amazement. The theatre was built to resemble an ancient Greek temple. Six columns perched on black marble bases soared up into the air, supporting an overhang covering a large expanse of portico. Inside the great portico hung four enormous chandeliers, an outdoor extravagance. The building behind rose even higher than the entryway, gleaming from new sand-colored paint.