A Royal Likeness (16 page)

The day before the scheduled ball at Edinburgh Castle, Marie pulled Marguerite aside.

“I am going to teach you something new. Today you will learn how I find and buy supplies.”

And so while Joseph stayed in the gallery entertaining guests, Marie led Marguerite back to her rooms to review her ordering logs.

Marie’s quarters were hardly larger than Marguerite’s, and a trundle for Joseph took up additional room. Everything was neat, though, other than her desk, which had several piles of letters, forms, and other documents on it. Marie pulled up a second chair to the desk, and addressed each stack of paper.

“Here are letters to suppliers. I hand copy each one to remember what I have ordered. I get paint cakes from Mr. Reeves in London. Glass is custom-made for me in Italy, but Bonaparte’s occupation means I have to be careful. Fabrics and trims I always shop for locally. Always look for best price at draper shops. They get plenty of advertisement when their materials hang on our figures. Good, clean wax is always hard to find and is expensive to ship. Difficult clothing is sent out to seamstresses. One has to
make good judgments about when to do it, as seamstresses are expensive.”

“What is this book?” Marguerite tapped a worn leather journal lying by itself on the corner of the desk nearest her.

“Non,
not for you. Account book, I manage. The exhibition’s finances are too precarious for anyone besides me to supervise.”

“Of course.” Marguerite obediently removed her hand from the forbidden book.

For the next hour she learned more about the internal operations of the wax exhibit, from how to contract for salon space without seeing it first, to managing the transport of the exhibition to new locations. Marguerite’s head became full near to the point of a headache.

Marie also shared with her the concerns she had for her salon back in Paris, which she feared was being badly run by her husband in her absence.

“François has no head for business. Always he is investing in dubious ventures.” Marie shook her perfectly coiffed curls. “Always he is asking me to send him money. Thinks I hide money from him. I say no, I hide nothing, but he must make success of salon at boulevard du Temple. Must work hard. Must be example for our boy Francis.”

“You have another son? You’ve never mentioned him before.”

“Yes, he is younger than Nini. Was too young to come here with me two years ago. I regret this. Wish I had him here with me, too.”

“I’m sure you wish your husband was here, too.”

“Eh.” Marie shrugged her shoulders. “Enough foolish talk. Mrs. Ashby, you look pale. A headache? We finish now. Next week I teach you how to plan a tableau. I think Nini would like to learn that, too.”

Sir Alexander was as good as his word and sent around another carriage to fetch the two women at the appointed time on Saturday evening.

After a long internal struggle, Marguerite decided to leave her wedding ring behind. She had nodesire to meet any gentlemen, so she could not fathom her own behavior. Nevertheless, the bandstayed
on her dressing table. She wore a Grecian-style gown of shimmering copper. With some difficulty she tied up her mass of coiled hair with a matching length of material. She decided that she could pass for the wife of an ancient senator.

Marie’s hair was, as usual, perfect, and topped off with a petite, flat-topped lavender hat Marguerite had not seen before. Marie’s dress, high-waisted and trimmed with pink flowers, was also unfamiliar. Had Marie gone shopping for this event?

As soon as they arrived at the bustling front entrance of the castle, Marguerite knew that Marie had been right to hesitate over coming. She was not ready for this sort of socializing. Not yet.

Why did I leave my ring in my room?

The castle’s banquet hall was populated with a mix of French aristocrats from the ancien régime, soldiers from the castle, and important local Scotsmen to whom Sir Alexander had extended an invitation. The Fourniers were also there, chatting up their fellow refugees. The musicians were just concluding a set as they walked in, so the dancing had stopped and guests were milling about in groups.

Accepting a cup of punch from her host, Marguerite tried to blend into the Chinese wallpaper panels by herself as Marie was whisked away by their host for private conversation.

She stood leaning against the wall, debating whether to approach the Fourniers, when she was disturbed by a gentle throat-clearing next to her.

“Mrs. Ashby, I see you and Madame Tussaud have joined Sir Alexander’s little … gathering.”

“Lieutenant Hastings, good evening. Have you been here long?”

“Too long. These soirées are interminable bores.”

“Why, Lieutenant, if I did not know of your youth, I might accuse you of being an old curmudgeon. Aren’t you supposed to be finding an eligible young woman here tonight?”

“I’m too busy for such trifles, Mrs. Ashby. We are at war with France, in case you haven’t read the newspapers.”

Marguerite’s fingers clenched around her punch vessel. Had she not just been standing here minding her own business? What a starched neck the man was.

“Thank you, Lieutenant Hastings, for your well-articulated synopsis of our political situation. I’m sure every Frenchman in the room right now is
well aware
that France intends to invade England, including my employer, Marie
Tussaud.
Perhaps you’d care to expand on your other obvious views, such as how pirates have disrupted trade in the Caribbean.”

Hastings reddened. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to be so impolite. My remarks were well-intentioned, if clearly misconstrued. I am not an ogre, Mrs. Ashby, and do have some sympathy for the displaced French people among us. I do not relish the task that lies before me.”

“What task is that? You mean ensuring the fortification of Edinburgh?”

“Yes, among other things.”

“What other things?”

He ignored her question. “May I secure you another cup of punch?”

“Yes, thank you.” Marguerite waited while he took her drained cup with a slight bow and went to fetch a fresh one. What a curious creature, she thought, watching him. Rather unintentionally rude, but actually a kind sort of gentleman. Decent. Might be a good match for a woman who can tolerate long absences from a seafaring husband who possesses only the barest tad of humor.

He returned with her punch.

“How long will you be in Edinburgh?” she asked.

“Things are going well. I suspect I will be finished in a fortnight or so. What of you? Your exhibition travels, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. Thus far it has been quite successful in Edinburgh, so I am sure Madame Tussaud will wish to stay as long as possible.”

“And so we both wander Great Britain in service to our professions. I’ve not seen the exhibit yet, although the governor raves about it. Quite incessantly, I must say. Perhaps I’ll come to visit before my departure.”

“We are open most days from eleven o’clock until ten o’clock in the evening. You may find our Separate Room a bit thrilling.”

“Undoubtedly. If you will excuse me, Mrs. Ashby, I’m afraid I
have to pay my regards to others. May I escort you to Madame Tussaud?”

And, without waiting for a reply, he offered his arm to her and walked her to where Marie was cornered by the governor’s enthusiastic discussion of the city’s cultural offerings.

To Marguerite’s surprise, Hastings gave her a nearly imperceptible wink and said lightly, “I believe Madame requires your assistance.”

Marguerite did not see Lieutenant Hastings the remainder of the evening. She soon forgot about him in her quest to extricate Marie from Sir Alexander’s ardent clutches.

But she remembered Hastings a few weeks later, upon hearing from their now frequent visitor, Sir Alexander, of the lieutenant’s looming departure from Edinburgh for Folkestone to inspect its port fortifications across from Boulogne.

Lieutenant Hastings had never bothered to visit the salon.

Marguerite shivered as she entered the warmth of Barnard’s Rooms after shopping for some stationery for a letter she wished to write to Claudette. Did the cold rain never cease in this city?

“A letter for you, Mrs. Ashby.” Mrs. Laurie held out the wrinkled, smudged, well-traveled parchment as Marguerite came through the front door.

Marguerite did not recognize the handwriting. She undid her hat as she climbed the stairs to her room, puzzling over who would be writing to her besides Aunt Claudette.

She hung up her damp hat and cloak and crossed over to her small writing desk under the room’s only window.

Marguerite folded the letter slowly. I suppose there can be no harm in that.

As the two women were straightening up the Separate Room the following evening after closing, Marie broached the topic after first kissing Joseph good night and sending him to their rooms.

“Mr. Philipsthal plans to join us in a fortnight,” she said as she worked Marie Antoinette’s wig in her hands to separate its curls.

“Yes, I know. I have had my own letter from him.”

“Pardon?”
Marie dropped the wig to the floor and stared at her. “Why does he write to you?”

Marguerite continued at her own task, using a soft brush to remove accumulated lint and dust from the folds of the French queen’s pale yellow gown.

“Mr. Philipsthal wished me to know personally of his arrival. He asked if I would assist him in learning the city’s landmarks.”

“What else does he want from you?”

“Nothing, as far as I can tell. He knows I do not welcome any advances and just seeks my friendship.”

“Hah! Philipsthal never seeks the simple thing. Always he wants more. I tell my husband in my letters about him. He says I should abandon Philipsthal and England and go back to France,
but I think one day I’ll make a successful show here. It is too dangerous to go back to France anyway.”

Marguerite seized the opportunity.

“Madame, what is the source of your animosity toward Mr. Philipsthal? He has always been very kind to me and seems to want both our shows to thrive.”

“He is but a wolf. A wolf who devours innocent sheep in his path. He has devoured me and he will come after you if you allow it. You must stay away from him. Promise me!”

“I cannot promise such a thing until you tell me what his great sin is.”

But Marie would say no more. She pressed her lips in a thin line, picked up the fallen wig, and returned to her work.

Mr. Philipsthal arrived on his scheduled day, one of rare sunshine yet still cool temperature, but without his show trunks and cases. After packing up all his equipment and settling bills with the Lyceum’s owner and his temporary workers, he had entrusted an agent with the drayage and loading of the paraphernalia onto the ship. The agent had stowed it all aboard the wrong ship, a vessel headed for Inverness, and it would be another week before it returned.

“Therefore I am free to do your bidding, dear ladies, although first I must insist on an escorted tour of this delightful little town.” He looked meaningfully at Marguerite. Marie caught his look and sent her own message to her protégé through a small shake of her head.

“Madame, may I persuade you to release Mrs. Ashby a few hours early today so she can squire me about?” Philipsthal’s question was both pleading and softly demanding at the same time.

In response, Madame Tussaud stalked off toward the back of the exhibit.

Philipsthal offered Marguerite his arm. “I believe we have received as much acquiescence as can be hoped for.”

Marguerite took the proffered arm. What kind of strange relationship is this? Had Madame been involved in an illicit affair with him and been jilted? Why so much ill feeling?

Inside their hired open carriage, Marguerite suggested that they take Princes Street around the perimeter of Edinburgh Castle and travel downhill on High Street toward the Palace of Holyroodhouse.

As the castle’s looming presence rose before them, she told Mr. Philipsthal of their visit with the governor and subsequent attendance at a ball.

“Was the governor interested in backing the show at all?” Philipsthal asked her as they rounded the southwest corner of the castle and proceeded onto Market Street.

“I believe he was more interested in Marie herself than her show.” Marguerite waited for his reaction, but his face was bland.

Would neither of these two people let her know what secret history lay between them?

Their carriage continued downhill on High Street, past St. Giles’ Cathedral with its prominent tower, the old parliament building built by King Charles I, a myriad of thriving churches, candlemakers, booksellers, banks, and drapers, and all manner of taverns and inns. As they neared a pasty seller whose stand was nearly blocking their path, Philipsthal called for the driver to stop. He exited the carriage gracefully despite his towering frame, and returned moments later with three steaming, crescent-shaped, meat-filled pies, one of which he handed to a surprised and grateful driver.

Marguerite held the warm crust in her hands as they continued on, savoring its doughy aroma before taking a bite. The interior was stuffed with minced lamb, potatoes, mint, and spices. She had never tasted meat quite so savory. She did not speak again until she had finished her entire pie, and was mortified to find crumbs scattered all over her lap. Mr. Philipsthal pretended not to notice as she swept the litter to the floor of the carriage, her only possible course of action.