A Royal Likeness (12 page)

“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 was 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.

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.

“Thank you, Mr. Philipsthal.” Marguerite set down her fine-bristled brush and folded her hands in front of her.

“I thought that if you were not occupied this evening, you might accompany me to supper. For no other purpose than to give a tired man some brief companionship. My Phantasmagoria show
is of course successful beyond my wildest dreams, but such success can be quite exhausting. May I have the pleasure?”

Before Marguerite could think whether or not to accept, Marie came storming across the gallery, her invective arriving before she did.

“No! No supper! No despoiling of my apprentice. She’s a good girl.” Marie was waving a finger in Mr. Philipsthal’s face with the fury of a countess whose daughter is being courted by a tavern keeper. Marguerite had never seen her this angry before.

“Madame, please, I am not frightened of Mr. Philip—”

“You should be. Philipsthal, you are a liar and a cheat. Go back to your Phantasmagoria and leave my apprentice alone.”

Marguerite thought Mr. Philipsthal looked genuinely distressed and she attempted once more to intervene.

“Madame, Mr. Philipsthal is a friend and means me no harm. He knows I am still a grieving widow.”

“Bah. He knows no friend.”

Mr. Philipsthal’s lips compressed into a thin, controlled line. He gave a slight nod to each woman. “I will take my leave of you now. Madame, Mrs. Ashby. Good day to you both.” He left the room in a swirl of tan cloak.

Marie picked up the brush and handed it back to Marguerite, her cheeks red with displeasure. Marguerite did not pursue her point.

The following evening Marie came to Marguerite’s room as she was preparing for bed.

“I must talk to you.” Her employer’s normally expressive face was bland, as if purposefully so. Marguerite’s senses tightened. Was she in trouble? Had she offended Madame Tussaud with her interference with Mr. Philipsthal, whom she had not seen since their encounter two days ago?

“Of course, madame.” She sat on her bed and invited Marie to sit at her dressing table. Marie sat only momentarily before jumping up and pacing back and forth in her darting, birdlike way.

“We must leave the Lyceum Theatre. Mr. Winsor cannot be
budged on his plans. No good for the exhibition. I’ve told Philipsthal. He’ll pay for transport and will join us in July.”

Marguerite was thoroughly confused.

“Mr. Winsor’s plans? What plans? Where are we to go?”

“That fool landlord plans to install gas lighting. Throughout the Lyceum. Including the exhibition. No good at all. Dangerous for wax figures.”

So they were to leave London. “Where are we going?”

“Edinburgh. We leave in a fortnight. First I must make documents with my solicitor. You will go with me? Tomorrow. Then we have to pack figures for the sea voyage. We will wait to send the Duchess of York’s figure to her.”

And just as abruptly Marie was gone from her room. Marguerite plumped her pillow up against the wall and sat with her legs crossed under her nightshift to continue reading a book from Mrs. Slade’s bookshelves. She flipped the pages without absorbing a word. Was she ready to leave England? Hevington had been a source of comfort, and London was at least familiar. Over the past weeks she had developed some small sense of comfort in the routine of the exhibition, and was learning the craft quickly. Moreover, she had a sense that if waxworking was not permanently to her taste, she could easily return to Aunt Claudette. What would await her in Edinburgh? Would she lose her sense of security?

Tossing the unread book aside, she slipped out of bed and went to her knees in childlike prayer. Her prayers were confused, offered to both God and Nicholas. She stayed bent over her bed until her knees ached, seeking a peace that refused to come.

The next afternoon they once again left a sullen Joseph behind with Mrs. Slade while they went to see Marie’s solicitor, Mr. George Wright. During the hackney ride to his office off Manchester Square, Marie explained what documents she needed drawn up.

Her husband, François Tussaud, had remained in Paris with her other son while she came to London with Joseph to try to make a success of the exhibition in England. She left François in charge of
her Salon de Cire wax exhibition on the boulevard du Temple, a popular tourist area in Paris. She had inherited the exhibition from Dr. Curtius upon his death in 1795 and continued his tradition of creating wax portraits representing the most popular figures of the day. But the exhibition was in financial trouble when she inherited it, so Marie borrowed money from Madame Reiss, a woman who lived and worked at the Salon de Cire for some years. In exchange for a loan of twenty thousand French assignats, Marie agreed to pay her an annuity of two thousand livres. Now that she was in England, it was becoming quite difficult to handle this monetary transaction on her own and she wished to give her husband financial authority over the Salon de Cire as well as a house at Ivry-sur-Seine that she had also inherited from Dr. Curtius.

“This has been on my mind for some time,” the older woman confided. “Now with another sea voyage ahead of me, I want to be sure my affairs are well in hand.”

Marguerite pondered whether or not she had affairs remaining to be resolved. After Nicholas’s death, Uncle William had stepped in to ensure their London townhome was shuttered, and gave instructions to Roger and Agnes for ongoing work at the doll shop. Aunt Claudette had ensured refurbishment of the shop and was, as far as she knew, still making periodic trips to London to prioritize orders and make important decisions. Marguerite simply hadn’t given the shop much thought in recent months, but supposed that Aunt Claudette was willing to take it over completely again.

Their carriage pulled up to Mr. Wright’s offices, located in a narrow town house. Mr. Wright, elderly but competent, prepared the necessary documents giving Marie’s husband full power of attorney over all her property in Paris, and invited them into a back parlor for tea and refreshment afterwards. They returned to their lodging rooms before dark, where a petulant Joseph complained that he was hungry. After securing supper for the boy and themselves, each woman went off to her own rooms, Marie to write to her husband and Marguerite to send a message to Claudette.