A Royal Likeness Read online

  The duchess preened at Marguerite’s words. “Thank you, Mrs. Ashby. It’s a bit lonely being exiled this far outside Society. My pets and my neighbors are my only solace. And now we should attend to my portrait, should we not?”

  She personally escorted them to a brick outbuilding about twenty feet square, which she referred to as a painter’s studio. Inside the structure was an assortment of chairs, chests, and other occasional pieces of furniture, jumbled together so that it seemed more like a storage shed than a place where an artist could work. Nevertheless, Marguerite jumped in to help as Marie began systematically moving furniture around to fit her needs. The two women threw open windows and used cloths covering a settee to wipe down a table Marie identified as suitable for applying the plaster cast.

  The duchess protested that she would have servants rearrange the room for the waxworkers, but Marie, already annoyed by the delays, insisted that the little bit of effort to fix the room was not worth calling for help.

  With the studio now set, Marie set about her first task, which was to take measurements of her subject. Spread upon the table were several types of calipers, metal instruments that looked like the pincher devices enthusiastically used by fanatics during the Inquisition.

  Happily enough, their fierce appearances had no relation to the very simple task they performed. Using an outside caliper, Marie gently placed the arms of it around the princess’s ankles, calves, wrists, head, and other extremities to measure their circumferences. Marguerite duly noted these numbers in the large notebook they kept to maintain a log of all their subjects.

  She then used one of her several inside calipers, which measured the internal circumference of a subject, such as the spread inside of a mouth or the distance between the fingers of an outstretched hand. The princess was nonplussed at having to open her jaw as wide as she could, but acquiesced politely.

  Marie then invited Princess Frederica to sit down in a simple wooden armchair whose back was to the table, and asked her to lean all the way back so that her head rested on the table. While the duchess got comfortable, Marguerite arranged the woman’s skirts to ensure she remained as dignified as possible through the process. At the same time Marie spread her case of supplies on the table near the duchess’s head. She handed Marguerite a jar of oil and a wide paintbrush and asked her to spread a thick layer of it over the duchess’s hairline. This, Marie explained, would prevent plaster from sticking to the hair.

  At the same time, Marie draped a large cloth over the front of the duchess and tied it around the back of her neck. The duchess nervously joked that even her husband’s current mistress, Mrs. Clarke, would have pity on her in her present state.

  “Madame,” Marie began, “I must do something that will seem strange, but please do not be alarmed. I must insert one of these in each nostril.” Marie held up a tiny piece of paper she was rolling up into the shape of a tube. “These will help you breathe, as once I apply the plaster to your face, you will not be able to open your eyes or your mouth. Yes?”

  The duchess’s eyes opened wide in the beginnings of fear. “Oh my. Oh. Well, certainly, if you say it’s safe.”

  “Yes, this is safe. I do this all the time in France. Even Napoleon did this.”

  The thought that she was sharing the same experience as the infamous enemy of England heartened the duchess. “If the dreadful old Boney can do it, then what matter is it to even the weakest Englishwoman?”

  Marie turned to Marguerite. “Watch closely.”

  This needed no telling. Marguerite gazed in fascination as Marie placed the tightly rolled paper gently into the duchess’s right nostril, then allowed it to unroll until it filled the cavity. The duchess tensed her entire body at the sensation, then firmly shut her eyes.

  Marie poured some water from a tightly stoppered bottle into a bowl, and added a powdery white mix to it in gradual amounts, stirring after each addition until she was satisfied with the consistency, which was thick yet workable.

  She instructed the duchess to keep her eyes naturally closed, not clenched, but to not open them even the slightest fraction, for it would result in plaster in her eyes.

  “Do you understand this important instruction, Your Grace?” Marie asked. The duchess looked apprehensively at Marguerite, who smiled back at her encouragingly.

  “I do,” she said in a small voice.

  Marie used her hands to spread the gooey mix on the duchess’s skin. Every inch of her face, including her exposed neck to the point where the draping started, was covered with a thin layer of plaster.

  Marie then cut a two-foot section of thread from a ball and placed it from the bottom of the duchess’s neck to the top of her forehead.

  “What is that for?” Marguerite asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  Marie picked up the bowl of plaster again, and this time scooped a much heavier layer of it on the duchess’s face. Marguerite started when the duchess grabbed her hand and squeezed it. She could imagine the woman’s terror at being effectively blinded and muted and relying on two flimsy pieces of paper for breathing. Even the dead would be terrified of such a procedure! Marguerite patted the duchess’s shoulder as reassuringly as possible.

  Marie finished molding the plaster to her subject’s face with her hands. Her fingers moved with remarkable dexterity, pushing the plaster around quickly to conform to every ridge, crevice, and imperfection of her subject’s face before it began to dry. When she was satisfied with her handiwork, Marie poured water from the bottle onto her hands over the plaster mixing bowl and scrubbed them clean. Shaking her wet hands over the bowl, she said, “Now we wait.”

  Knowing the duchess’s terror, Marguerite asked, “Madame, how long will she wait?”

  Marie shrugged. “Not long. We’ll remove it before it cracks.”

  “Madame, are you comfortable? Please squeeze my hand once if yes, twice if no.”

  The other woman’s trembling hand squeezed hers uncertainly once. Marguerite waited for another round of pressure, but it did not come. She left her hand in the duchess’s for reassurance and examined the plaster covering while Marie pulled more tools from her case.

  The plaster was beginning to harden and turn a lighter shade of gray around her mouth, nose, and eyes. Already she could see the outline of a few small wrinkles the duchess had on both corners of her mouth. Marguerite was mesmerized.

  But before it hardened too much further, Marie grabbed both ends of the string at her subject’s chin and forehead and pulled the string evenly up through the plaster, splitting it in two.

  “This makes mask easier to remove. Two pieces are easier than one.”

  “But won’t it affect what it looks like later?”

  “No, we’ll make it perfect back at the workshop.”

  As they waited, the duchess clutched Marguerite’s arm with one hand, while she clenched and unclenched the fist of her other hand on the chair’s arm. Soon the plaster had developed a whitish cast to it, which Marie indicated meant it was fully dried and ready for removal. “Your Grace, I’ll pull mask off now,” Marie said.

  Marguerite heard the duchess utter a low growl of relief from the back of her throat. Marie grabbed either side of the mask and began twisting it off the duchess’s face with practically imperceptible movements.

  The apprentice held her breath as Marie gently pulled each side of the ghostly wrap. The duchess’s fingernails were now firmly embedded in Marguerite’s wrist, but she bit her lip to keep from crying out and thereby startling the customer even more.

  Finally the mask released from the duchess’s face, coming off like a hinged lid from the right side to the left. Marie held up two halves for Marguerite’s inspection.

  “Yes, this is good casting. Mrs. Ashby, you do well with oil. No plaster in the hair.”

  There was no plaster in the duchess’s hair, but the same could not be said for the remainder of her face and neck. Bits of plaster were stuck all over the duchess’s cheeks, eyelids, and lips
.

  “I will wrap the mask. You assist the duchess with her wash.”

  Marguerite hardly knew where to begin. Sensing her indecision the duchess asked, “Am I too terrible a fright? I must have a mirror.”

  Marie’s head came up sharply from where she was working with the mask. “No! I mean, madame, let Mrs. Ashby remove the excess particles so that Your Grace need not be troubled so much.”

  “It’s no trouble. I’ll ring for a servant.”

  “No no, no servants necessary.”

  Seeing the potential for escalating tension, Marguerite grabbed a soft cloth from the top of the pile Marie had placed on the table and dampened it with water from Marie’s bottle. She touched the soft cloth to the duchess’s face as she dropped her voice and began speaking in a soothing tone.

  “Madame, it is my great pleasure to assist you. We know that we’ve put you under great stress, but we know you will be so extraordinarily pleased with the result that this will seem a trifling inconvenience to you. Imagine how thrilling it will be when London society sees your exact likeness in wax. All attention once reserved for the duke and his mistress will be refocused on Your Grace. Everyone will want to see how beautiful and gracious their maligned princess really is.”

  By this time, Marguerite was nearly finished with wiping excess plaster from the duchess’s face.

  “Your Grace, I believe you now just need a cream rinse for your hair, to take out the oil. Is there a hand mirror here in the studio?”

  The duchess lifted her head up from the table. “There’s probably a wall mirror among the covered pieces of furniture over there.” She pointed to a large dusty cloth outlining bumpy objects beneath it in a corner of the room.

  Marguerite lifted the cover and quickly found a small, gilt-edged table mirror on the floor. She wiped the glass clean on a corner of her dress as she took it to the duchess and set it on Marie’s worktable. The duchess turned her chair around to look at herself and promptly burst into decidedly unregal giggles.

  “Why, I am a frightful mess. My poor maid Sally will be hours at my toilette setting me to rights again.”

  “And back at the workshop we will set this to rights.” Marie presented the two sides of the mask, now cradled in cotton inside a sturdy box. The mask was face up so that the Duchess could see what it looked like on her face.

  “Oh, it’s incredible. And you will somehow turn this mysterious lump into a replica of me?”

  “Yes, you come to London in one month, it will be complete.”

  “How positively delightful.” Now that the duchess was no longer consumed by plaster, she was back to her charming self. “You must send the bill to my steward and I will instruct him to pay you right away.”

  “Your Grace.” Marie curtsied deferentially and Marguerite followed suit.

  That evening the two women ate alone in their rooms, but the next morning the duchess was on hand to bid them farewell, kissing each of them on the cheek and wishing them a swift and uneventful journey back to London, and promising to visit the following month.

  As they boarded the duchess’s coach, she lifted her skirts and ran to the still-open door. “I wonder,” she said. “Should we send an invitation to the duke and Mrs. Clarke to visit me in wax at your gallery? I should have smiled during the plaster session so that he would think I am the happiest of women without him.”

  “Never fear, madame,” Marie replied. “Any lady who has her replica made in wax for my gallery is the happiest of women.”

  As they pulled away, Marguerite looked back to see the duchess clapping her hands in great merriment.

  The duchess’s wax figure occupied all of their time in the early mornings and late after the exhibit had closed. Marie did not allow Marguerite to participate in the actual finishing of the figure, but let her watch every step of the process.

  Using a supply of wax bricks that were melted slightly just before use, Marie built the Princess Frederica’s body on an upright stand, using her calipers and noted measurements to ensure it was close to the original. The head was secured to the torso with wire and pins.

  From a stock of arm, hand, and leg molds, Marie selected pieces that most resembled the duchess’s and cast them again, once more measuring for precision and sculpting to refine the figure.

  While Marie worked and Marguerite learned, Joseph sat to one side, sketching a scene of the two women standing before the incomplete figure, with Marie kneeling before it as she scraped at it with a knife, and Marguerite holding the figure steady.

  The final touches, which were the most detailed and complicated to execute, were to paint the head, hands, and other exposed areas to look lifelike. All of this work was meticulous and painstaking, particularly as they did the delicate work of selecting and gluing in the imported glass eyes. Wigs were coiffed and stitched down to the heads, although Marie was experimenting with inserting individual hairs directly to the figures’ scalps.

  The last action was to dress the figure. Sometimes Marie was given clothing by her subject, but if she was sculpting a long-dead person, or if there were other reasons she could not obtain pieces from the subject’s actual wardrobe, she had to make the items herself. Fortunately in this case, the duchess had furnished her own gown, slippers, and paste jewelry, sent after their visit by one of her own servants.

  During the development of the duchess’s figure, Mr. Philipsthal was a frequent visitor. He appeared in their back workroom with regularity, either with foolish questions about what time the exhibit was opening on a given day, which was met with Marie’s terse “We open as we always do,” or how many figures the gallery now had, or how many people were stepping through the exhibit each day.

  Sometimes he insisted that Marie stop what she was doing to speak with him in private, backstage at the Phantasmagoria. She returned from these private sessions blustery and irritated, snapping at both Marguerite and Joseph the remainder of the day.

  But Madame Tussaud was the consummate professional before her visitors, and no one could see that she was anything other than a happy waxworker. Her typical daily dress was simple, consisting of a long, paint-and wax-stained apron over a demurely tinted gown. It was intended to show the public exactly who she was: a hardworking businesswoman. Her flaxen hair was her only indulgence, set up high with ringlets curling about her neck and topped with a white cotton cap.

  Marguerite copied her mentor, having brought mostly plain dresses from Hevington anyway. She sewed both an apron and a cap to resemble Marie’s, but did not go so far as an indulgence with her coiffure, opting instead for a simple pulled-back style appropriate for a widow. In her brusque way, Marie gave her approval to Marguerite’s garb.

  “You are beginning to look like a waxworker. This is good. But you are still a young woman. Dress your hair, rouge your cheeks a little. Young men will notice a pretty girl like you.”

  Marguerite shook her head. There would be no more young men for her. Instead, wax would be her life. Her apprenticeship had started very slowly in the first few weeks, but now she was beginning to visualize the art of it and that art was at least comparable to dollmaking if not more invigorating. To be able to recreate life so realistically, and then witness as visitors gasped in amazement … well, doll-shop patrons were never quite that taken with a doll.

  The duchess’s likeness was well received by the public and the duchess herself was ecstatic when she came to visit, again kissing and clasping both Marie and Marguerite in appreciation of the work done to bring her likeness to life.

  “Indeed, I have quite forgotten the masking experience. It was certainly all worth it. Has my dear husband been by to see it?”

  It was certainly worth it to the exhibition, as ticket sales doubled for the first week the duchess was on display. Patrons who had read about the duke’s affairs were titillated by the sight of his jilted wife, and repeatedly asked Marie if she would be adding figures of Prince Frederick and Mary Ann Clarke. Marie had no contact with the duke and it wa
s doubtful that he would ever model for her, but she would merely smile enigmatically at the inquiry.

  One morning Marie, Marguerite, and Joseph arrived at the Lyceum to see that Mr. Philipsthal had posted a new sign.

  NOW UNDER THE PATRONAGE OF THE DUKE AND DUCHESS OF YORK!PHILIPSTHAL’S FANTASTIC PHANTASMAGORIA SHOW A GRAND CABINET OF OPTICAL AND MECHANICAL CURIOSITIESAMAZING INVENTIONS! WONDERS FROM AROUND THE WORLD!COMMUNICATE WITH SPIRITS FROM THE BEYOND.SHOW CLOSING SOON!And once again in small print:CABINET OF WONDERS IN GALLERY TO THE LEFT, INCLUDES FULL-LENGTH PORTRAIT MODELS

  Marie’s eyes narrowed as she read this, then she let off a torrent of French-sprinkled English, cursing about Philipsthal’s perfidy, his low intent, and his general wickedness at claiming patronage by the duke and duchess when it had been she who obtained the custom with Princess Frederica.

  “Madame,” Marguerite asked, “why do you despise Mr. Philipsthal? Is he not your sponsor? Does he not have the right to do this?”

  This was an unfortunate question on Marguerite’s part, as it sent Marie off into another violent flow of deprecations in a dizzy blend of French and English.

  The relationship between the two puzzled Marguerite. Mr. Philipsthal seemed a kind and innocuous man, but Marie was disgruntled at best, furious at worst, each time she met with him. Was she jealous of his show? And Mr. Philipsthal had insinuated that one day she should separate from Marie. Why was that? Did he want to see Madame Tussaud out of business? Hadn’t the two of them shared life’s ups and downs since the Revolution?

  Later that day Mr. Philipsthal came to visit the exhibition once again, this time bowing before Marguerite, who was brushing the plain white busts, great attractors of dust. The exhibition typically had few people in the late afternoon and it was an opportunity to clean up the gallery from the earlier crowds.

  “Mrs. Ashby, it is a delight to have an opportunity to speak with you again.” Philipsthal’s face was strained, his dark eyes dulled with some hidden worry.