Authors: Christine Trent
By the time Mr. Colin’s guests rose to depart, the tallow candles around the room had burned down to sputtering stubs and only dregs were left in the bottles of rich elder wine. Joseph was sprawled out on the hearth, using Angus as a pillow.
“Well, Mrs. Ashby, I think it’s time to get my Nini to bed. You look peaked, too. You need sleep.”
Marguerite covered a yawn with her hand. “I can’t remember the last time I feasted so well. Mr. Colin, thank you for your generosity.”
Their landlord, who was brisk in manner but very good-humored under his curt exterior, wished them glad tidings and offered them both a selection of fresh pastries from his shop if they would care to visit the following day.
“Oh, Mr. Colin, right now I’m as full as that fruit-stuffed gingerbread we had tonight, but undoubtedly we’ll wake up in great need of sweets tomorrow, is that not so, madame?”
But before Marie had an opportunity to weigh in on the desirability of pastries in the morning, the front door banged open and the sound of strident boot steps crossed to the dining room doorway. All thought of comfortable companionship and succulent dining fled their minds.
There before them stood Paul de Philipsthal.
He removed his brown cloak and tossed it carelessly onto a chair in the corner of the dining room. Marguerite, fearing a ferocious battle between him and Marie, jumped up quickly.
“Why, Mr. Philipsthal, may I introduce you to Mr. Colin, who is the finest pastry cook in Glasgow and quite close to a burgess of the city.”
The two men shook hands, Philipsthal wary and Mr. Colin perplexed. Marie remained in her seat on the bench at the far end of the table away from Philipsthal, her face murderous.
But Philipsthal was not interested in Marie for the moment and instead focused on Marguerite. “Mrs. Ashby, I have been an utter wretch of a man looking for you. You departed Edinburgh without so much as a word left behind. It was not easy to locate you, you know.”
Marguerite kept her hands folded before her, hoping it covered her mildly protruding, sated belly. Would that she could keep from retching her entire Christmas meal because of this unexpected arrival.
“But found us you have. Perhaps you would like some supper? We probably only have dried-up remains left, but I’m sure Mr. Colin would not mind if you sat down for something, would you, Mr. Colin? And the Three Foxes Inn down the street probably has some ale for sale—” She was chattering uncontrollably but unable to stop herself.
“Mrs. Ashby! I’ve searched for you both for weeks. You only left behind a sign saying you had gone to Wales, which was a falsehood. I had a devil of a time finding you. Why the deception? Why have you hidden from me?”
Why, Marguerite wondered, are you directing these questions to me?
She glanced over at Marie in time to see her rising to respond to Mr. Philipsthal. She cut in before Marie said anything antagonistic.
“Mr. Philipsthal, we simply changed our minds while en route to Wales, deciding to return and try our luck in Glasgow for a short time. We fully expected to be back in Edinburgh before you returned, but the show has been quite successful here.” She kept
her head held high and hoped he wouldn’t notice her trembling. Deception was awfully difficult work.
“It was inexcusable for you to leave without at least sending word to me.”
“May I remind you that your brief note to us on your departure provided no address where you would be staying. Writing to you would have been quite impossible.”
“Yes, well, what’s important is that I’ve found you again and we can join our shows together once again. I’ve made some decisions, but they can wait until morning. I’m staying at an inn nearby and will return in the morning to discuss our future plans. Good evening to you both. Mr. Colin.” He nodded his head to all of them, grabbed his cloak, and was gone swiftly in a swirl of brown wool.
Mr. Colin exited from the rear of the dining room to give the women privacy. Marie’s elbows were on the table, her face buried in both hands. “Ruined,” she mumbled. “He’s determined to ruin me. He wants to send me packing back to France. If only I’d the nerve.”
Marguerite sat across from Marie and reached a hand out to cup one of Marie’s elbows. “The nerve? The nerve to do what?”
“To kill him. Like he deserves.”
March 1804.
Philipsthal gave Marie a wide berth, much as a rat will do for a stalking cat, to avoid a confrontation. What worried Marguerite, though, was what would happen if the cat backed the rodent into a corner. Which one would come out still breathing?
Late one afternoon a gentle snow was falling and many of the show’s visitors were disappearing back to their homes in case the snow should become fierce. The curious little man with the spectacles was closeted in a corner again with a wildly gesticulating Marie.
Marguerite shrugged. It was none of her business. And there were other, more pressing matters for Marguerite personally.
Philipsthal was avoiding Marie, but lurking about to catch Marguerite alone during off-hours of the exhibition. She was uncrating an order of wax bricks to be used in a special order for one of Mr. Colin’s guild member friends when Philipsthal appeared from nowhere.
“Oh! Mr. Philipsthal, you startled me,” Marguerite said, nearly dropping the ledger book she was using to record her inspection and inventory of the wax.
“My apologies, Mrs. Ashby. I will disturb you only briefly. I was wondering if you would care to join me in shopping for a special clock I intend to use in my show. You have excellent taste and
would advise me well, I know. And this time there will be no gifts, I assure you.”
Marguerite cringed inwardly at his obsequiousness, but despite that she saw no harm in him. Yes, he had shown up quite unexpectedly and much to Marie’s dismay, but wasn’t it right that he should know where his partner had gone? He was very heavily invested in the wax exhibit after all. And he had never done anything disrespectful toward her personally.
First ensuring that Marie and Joseph were not inundated with customers, she stepped into the cold winter’s air with him. Philipsthal hired a hackney to take them around to three clockmakers until a suitable longcase clock could be found and a slightly modified version ordered. He did not share with Marguerite his exact plans for it, only saying that it would astound his new Glasgow audiences. Then he directed the driver to take a turn through Glasgow Green.
“Just for conversation between friends,” he claimed.
As the carriage wound its way through the park, now just a depressing landscape without its summertime blooms and foliage, Marguerite became exceedingly nervous.
There was no purpose to riding through the park at this time of year. What was he planning?
It took just moments to find out.
After a long preamble in which he declared his utmost satisfaction with their friendship and his desire to ever be her benefactor and fellow showman, Philipsthal finally came around to his point.
The man simply could not stay away from the idea of marrying her.
“As I’ve said, my esteem for you is boundless, and I entertain the conceit that you are not wholly displeased with my own countenance.”
“You have been a kind friend to me, yes.”
“But I can offer you so much more, more than is actually within your grasp of understanding at the moment.”
“What are you saying, sir?”
“I would be the happiest and most prosperous man alive if you would be my wife. And you will find that it will be for your own
great happiness, too.” He brought Marguerite’s hand up to his lips, and she could have sworn his eyes were moist with emotion. She repressed a shudder.
“What is it that I don’t understand?”
“Ah, my sweet Mrs. Ashby. You don’t know the ways of the world, and are ignorant of how life is a series of compromises. You see, I am so desirous of a marriage with you that I would be willing to give up something else that is very precious to me. And may prove to be very precious to you, as well.”
Something precious to both of them? What did Philipsthal own beyond his phantasmagoric equipment?
“Mr. Philipsthal, I beg you to speak plainly to me.” She withdrew her hand, which was still clutched in his.
“Of course. As you know, Madame Tussaud has had an unfortunate time in living up to her financial agreement with me. Terrible mismanagement of the wax exhibition, really. But I’ve been quite patient with her, and have never called in her debt, which would bankrupt her completely. And that would be a tragedy for everyone, would it not?”
“It would. Madame Tussaud is very dear to me.” Why did she feel a prickle of alarm at her neck?
“Yes, she’s dear to me, too. So, you see, it would be best if I never called in that debt. In fact, I could be persuaded to be generous enough to tear up her contract altogether.”
“And what would cause you to—oh.”
Philipsthal clasped her hand inside his once again. “I see that you understand me. Marry me, my lovely one, and I will throw the contract onto any fire of your choosing.”
Marguerite was so overwhelmed by his suggestion that she was unable to form a coherent response. What was the man saying?
He resumed his cajoling. “Just think. Not only could we live in the happiest of states together, but your friend would no longer be connected to me and free to do as she wishes. And I’m willing to make this sacrifice because of my great adoration of your person.”
Great heavens, was she being blackmailed?
“Is there anything else besides marrying me that might compel you to forgive Madame’s debts?” she asked.
“Nothing at all. As I said, this contract—and my relationship with Madame Tussaud, of course—are most precious to me. But you are a jewel far above price.”
The price is my freedom and my own idea of happiness, is it not?
She fought the urge to flee the carriage and run back to her lodgings. Perhaps from there she could have her belongings shipped back to Hevington and withdraw back to the Greycliffe home, her place of retreat.
That would never do. What of Madame? She may have erred a bit in the management of her show, but she was a kind woman, a good mentor, and a dear friend when Marguerite was in despair. Didn’t she owe the waxworker more than fair-weather treatment?
But did she owe her
this?
Even though it was a cold day, Marguerite felt stifled inside the carriage. She needed time for a decision with such far-reaching implications.
Such permanent implications.
“Mr. Philipsthal, your offer is most generous, but I would like a little time to think on it.”
“There is no time! Er, what I mean is that I’m so keen to call you my wife that I will simply expire from anxiety while waiting for your decision. And, after all, how difficult a decision is it? I will be the most generous husband in the world to you. I’ll set you up in your own wax exhibition, and you can run it as you see fit. Few men would be willing to do so.”
Her heart rushed back for a moment to Nicholas. No, Mr. Philipsthal, there was one other man in the world willing to let me work at my heart’s desire.
But would Philipsthal be true to his word? Would he both forgive Madame’s debt and allow her to continue in her new profession? And if so, well, life could be far worse, couldn’t it? He didn’t seem the type to beat or humiliate her in any way. Still.
He just didn’t have the appeal for her that Nicholas did. Even that lieutenant, Darden Hastings, sour as he was, had a rather comforting quality to him that would be attractive as a husband.
Now what in the world made me think of the lieutenant just now?
“Mrs. Ashby? What is your answer?”
What other answer was there? She could never face Madame Tussaud knowing that she held the solution to her never-ending financial problems and refused to use it.
God help me, I have to do th is.
“Yes, Mr. Philipsthal, I agree to your terms.”
A mixture of relief, gratitude, and lust all passed across Philipsthal’s face.
“You have made me the happiest of men, my dear. The happiest.”
“Remember, Mr. Philipsthal, your promise to forgive my employer’s debt. I would also ask you to promise to let me continue my work with the present wax exhibition. I’m not yet talented enough to have my own wax salon, even if I wanted it.”
“My dear lady, once more I insist that you call me by my Christian name, Paul. I am to be your husband now. And I will now call you Marguerite. Lovely, lovely Marguerite.” He still had her hand in his grasp, and he began kissing each finger individually.
Marguerite’s breathing was rapid and shallow, and she knew he was mistaking it for excitement. But she was mostly revolted. His lips on her fingers felt smooth but cold, like a lump of wax before it is heated for sculpting. All of a sudden she was not sure she could endure those same lips on her own or elsewhere upon her body. That thought led to what else would transpire under cover of darkness once she was married to him. Activities that would be his right to demand as often as he liked. This time she could not contain her shudder.
Philipsthal smiled. “My darling, I know. You are as anxious for our union as I am. Why don’t we wed as soon as possible? This very night, in fact.”
Marguerite pulled her damp hand away from his, pretending to be searching for something in her reticule as an excuse for disengaging from him. The first item she touched was a small mirror, and she pulled it out, feigning a surreptitious look at her hair and patting a few strands in place. But Philipsthal was so eager in his adoration he hardly noticed. She determined to maintain her composure while keeping him at bay.
“I’m sure we don’t need to be as hasty as that. I would like to visit your lawyer with you to draw up whatever documents are necessary to release Madame Tussaud from her obligations.”
“Of course, of course. In fact, as an added gesture of my goodwill I will turn ownership of the Egyptian mummy over to her. It’s of considerable value, you know. But I intend to hold you to your promise, you little minx. I insist that we be married now, and I promise we will take care of the legal peculiarities first thing tomorrow morning.”