A Royal Likeness (23 page)

Little minx? Is there anything remotely devious about me? Marguerite wondered. Well, I suppose I might try something less than sincere.

She gazed up and gave him her best attempt at a winsome smile. “Paul, you are my future husband, so of course I can trust you to do as you suggest. But I do have one more request.”

“Anything, my love, just say the word.”

“You once told me that we were friends and that some of the finest marriages have been born out of great friendships.”

“Yes, we are the best of friends. And we will be rich and happy together. So very prosperous. Lovely Marguerite. My dear wife. You’ll abandon Tussaud as soon as you see how successful you can be on your own. You’ll enjoy being my partner in the Phantasmagoria, too. My delightful partner.” Philipsthal’s words were cascading out as a rushing stream of water in his excitement over having finally secured his goal. He was once again grabbing for her hand, this time taking them both in his now sweaty palms.

“It would make me very happy indeed if our marriage might proceed at a slower pace than normal.”

“Slower? What do you mean by slower?”

“With our very short overall acquaintance, don’t you think it would be a bit unseemly to engage fully in our marital commitment?”

Philipsthal’s dark eyes narrowed. “My love, we will be man and wife. Exactly what marital commitments do you propose avoiding?”

She took a deep breath. Careful, here. You must appear earnest about the marriage.

“Naturally I don’t wish to avoid anything. You will be my husband, and a fine one, I’m sure. It’s just that I was an innocent maid when I married my previous husband and know little about the ways of a more experienced man such as yourself. I would wish for you to give me time to adjust to the idea of sharing a marital bed with so … knowledgeable … a husband. You must understand my fears of disappointing you.”

The subterfuge made her ill. Just imagine if I were one of those lady spies I’ve read about in novels. I would be snared and in a French dungeon in seconds!

But to her great surprise the flattery worked. His eyes brightened and he was once again the ardent suitor.

“Sweetheart, of course I understand. I forget that just because you were once married it does not mean you are a woman of the world. You must forgive my devotion, which probably seems like overzealous passion to someone who has lived as sheltered a life as you have until now. We will wait a few weeks until consummating so that you have time to prepare. But I assure you the experience will be delightful.” His eyes were full of amusement at his own cleverness.

Marguerite bit back a retort. She was getting her way and a caustic tongue would cost her everything. She simpered gratitude to the best of her ability.

“I knew you would understand my reticence and come immediately to my rescue. Perhaps I can continue to live in my rented rooms until I let Madame Tussaud know of my new arrangements.”

“Continue living in your rooms? But how will you grow accustomed to our marriage, living apart from me? I am a patient man, my love, but also an eager husband.”

She pictured once again his mouth wetly exploring her body, which only Nicholas had ever seen, and envisioned him rolling toward her deep in the night, seeking—no, demanding—her acquiescence in whatever activities he thought would be of pleasure to himself. She could not imagine that he would be gentle, but that he would be anxious and therefore clumsy. And being such a large
man he would probably end up crushing her in his eager and amorous embrace. She shook her head to erase the depressing thought.

“No, Paul, of course you are right. I am entirely too selfish, when you are making me such a generous offer. You will prove to be a most competent husband, helping me to chart a proper course.”

He softened once again under flattery. “You will learn that I am the most generous of men. On second thought, I see no harm in you staying with Marie a few weeks longer. After all, we have an entire lifetime together, don’t we?”

An entire lifetime, indeed. What a revolting thought.

Unfortunately for Marguerite, their marriage was to be conducted in haste, since Scotland did not require the reading of banns, which would have at least delayed things a short while.

After only three days all was in order and she was duly pronounced Mrs. Paul Philipsthal. She dropped the gold band into her reticule the moment they left the church, promising sweetly to put it back on the moment she moved in with him. She did agree to wear the silver luckenbooth brooch, a traditional Scottish symbol of love, which he gave her as a wedding gift. How she would explain it to Marie if she asked, heaven knew.

The next day he cornered Marguerite at the exhibition, a lovesick expression on his face.

“My love,” he whispered softly. “Since we have no opportunity for a real wedding trip right now, I will try to give you outings in snatches. Let’s attend a geggy performance tomorrow afternoon. They sound to be quite amusing.”

“A geggy performance, Mr. Philip—Paul? What is that?”

“My innkeeper told me about it. They’re usually only held alongside the Glasgow Fair, but this troupe has been wandering the countryside for months giving shows. Say you’ll come with me and see for yourself. As my dearest friend in public, of course, Mrs. Philipsthal. Besides, I am still quite put out by your disappearance from Edinburgh and my temper can only be improved by a liberal application of your delightful company.”

“The delight of my company may be a matter of debate, sir, but
I am certainly interested in this geggy performance you speak of. I believe Madame and Joseph can do without me for a few hours.”

“Excellent! I will come around for you around two o’clock.”

The following day’s frigid temperature was made more dismal by dark, cloudy skies that threatened some sort of unpleasant precipitation. Marie grumbled that the heavens should just do their worst and get it over with so visitors would come back to the exhibition.

But by two o’clock it was several degrees warmer and the skies had cleared without ever releasing a drop of moisture. Marie groused anew, this time that Marguerite was running off just as the exhibit would become crowded again.

“Madame, I shan’t be gone too long. After all, it will be dark shortly. Please don’t worry about my outings with Mr. Philipsthal. I assure you he means me no harm, and just seeks some … innocent companionship. And anyway, is it not in the best interest of the exhibit to maintain friendly relations with its investor?”

“Investor? Hah! Scoundrel, more like.” But Marie’s face softened slightly. “I am too hard on you, my girl. Maybe you’re right. You keep Philipsthal calm. Maybe you’ll even save exhibit one day,
non?”

Marguerite smiled as she pulled her wrap around her and tightened the ribbons of her hat to keep it on securely. “I hardly think I shall ever be as important as all that.”

As Marguerite passed through the doors of the salon, she came upon the little man Marie had been conversing with secretly.

“Good afternoon, miss.” He greeted her politely, but with no recognition of who she was.

“Good afternoon, sir. Are you here to visit the exhibit?”

“What? No. Ah, yes, yes I am. Quite remarkable entertainment, dinna you think so? I trust you enjoyed your own visit.”

“Yes, it was a lovely visit.” If he did not plan to reveal himself to her, neither would she return the favor. “Good afternoon, sir.”

Philipsthal waited for her nearby with a rented hackney. He wore a sturdy gray coat and thick gloves against the unpredictable Scottish weather. They rode only a short way before Philipsthal had the driver stop at the west end of Glasgow Green.

“Paul, such a short distance. Surely we could have walked here.”

“Nonsense. I won’t have you catching chilblains out here in the elements. Besides, it will be cold enough where we’re going.”

He escorted her to a large tent pitched in the middle of the field a few hundred feet away. About fifteen feet tall, the tent was made from faded canvas on a wooden frame, of an indistinguishable color, but looked sturdy enough. People in costumes milled about a large open flap in the center of the tent, and strains of music wafted out clearly through the chilly air. Numerous bonfires leaped merrily up in the air on the grounds surrounding the tent, and food and ale sellers hawked their offerings nearby. Several drunkards sang lustily.

Marguerite shuddered. Drunken men meant mischief, as she well knew. Philipsthal put an arm around her and led her away. The air was suddenly windy, an unsurprising event in the fickle Scottish climate, causing the bonfires to shift dramatically and singeing a few performers loitering too close to the flames. A chorus of yelps resulted in laughter from others milling about on the grounds.

“Would you care for another meat pie, Marguerite? I remember how much you enjoyed them in Edinburgh.”

Marguerite blushed to recall her greedy consumption of that delightful treat. “You remember it kindly, sir. And since you choose not to recollect my appalling manners from that time, I feel less embarrassed to say that I would very much like one.”

They took their piping hot treats with them in through the tent flap, with Philipsthal tossing the attendant two pennies for their entry fee. Inside the tent, Marguerite was initially blinded by the darkness, but quickly grew accustomed to the dim lighting. The interior was acrid from the charcoal fires burning in round metal
braziers in several places, but it was at least warmer than it was outside. A wooden stage was set up along the opposite side of the tent, and walls along the back edge of the stage had been painted to resemble the interior of a palace. The stage was devoid of any other decoration or prop. Musicians, not uniformed but dressed in simple country clothing, sat to one side playing the lively tunes Marguerite had heard as they approached the tent. As the rising wind outside started to muffle the music, the troupe played with more gusto. Several rows of decrepit wood benches, hardly enough to fill the audience area, were positioned at angles to the stage. Beyond that, the tent contained little other than more costumed performers meandering about with cups of ale in their hands, either muttering lines to themselves or conversing with patrons.

A young boy, no more than Joseph’s age, came running up to them. “Dinna you want chairs for you and the lady, sir?” he asked, his teeth already blackening in tempo with his filthy clothes. His wool gloves looked cast-off and were moth-eaten. “Only a penny each.”

Philipsthal gave the boy the requested amount and he scurried off, returning in two installments to deliver the battered but clean chairs and setting them up about forty feet from the stage.

“Boy, we’d like to be closer to the performance,” Philipsthal said.

“Oh, kind sir, the seats near the stage, they cost a bit more, don’t they? It would be just a shilling apiece to put your chairs up nice and tight to the stage. Much better viewing there. Tonight’s the last show before we pack up for Dumfries.”

Philipsthal tossed another few coins to the child, who, true to his word, placed their chairs near the center of the stage where viewing could not help but be optimum. As they sat and waited, a few other guests joined them in rented chairs, but most of the people filing into the tent were content to sit on the benches, stand, or find a spot on the ground. Sitting with no activity gave rise to more chill and Marguerite rubbed her arms to warm up while they waited for the performance to start. They did not have to wait long.

A man fashionably attired in buckskin breeches, jackboots, and
a wool, camel-colored tailcoat with a black top hat gracefully leaped up the three stairs on one side of the stage. He held up both hands in some kind of signal to stagehands unseen. Immediately sounds of “Hush now” rippled through the crowd, and those who could still find bench seating sat down quickly.

“Welcome, kind friends of Glasgow. I am Tavis Baird, the proprietor of this show. Thank you for visiting our humble performance on such a frightful afternoon. We trust that you will not be disappointed by what you see today. No, in fact, your senses will be awash in great emotion. From soaring heights of happiness to bottomless pits of despair, concluding with hilarity and jocularity, all in mere minutes, all only to be found inside this unpretentious pavilion. Today, you have discovered the purest form of entertainment and learning to be had in all of Great Britain. And we bring this to all Glaswegians, from the most elevated of Society to the lowest clerks and shopkeepers and even the meanest of warehousemen.” He made a flourish with his arm and bowed to the audience.

Marguerite looked over at Philipsthal. He was grimacing and rolling his eyes. She leaned over to whisper to him.

“Is his introduction too preposterous even for a Phantasmagoria show?”

He bent his head down toward her and whispered back, “My dear wife, I cringe at the man’s parody. I would never allow such pomposity at the Phantasmagoria.”

“No? I seem to recall a certain stuffed tiger …”

He squeezed her hand, just a little too hard. “My love, we’re missing the start of things.”

“… and now, ladies and gentlemen, I offer you now a reenactment of that most noble and tragic of lives, one that every Scotsman should have imprinted upon his heart. Prepare your minds and souls as you gaze upon that rightful queen, Mary of Scotland!”

Their host scrambled down a set of stairs on the opposite end of the stage from where he had gone up. A set of wildly made-up and costumed actors entered where Mr. Baird had done minutes earlier.

Each actor brought a prop up on stage, among which were a
chair that was presently demonstrated to serve as a throne, a long-handled ax, and a stuffed dog. After the pieces were set, the actors stood at specific points around the stage. Within moments, a woman richly clad in black velvet ascended the stairs regally. Even without the high ruff and frizzed red hair, Marguerite knew they were being introduced to Queen Mary. The musicians began playing a rousing Scottish air. First she entered a dance with one of the actors dressed in pre-Revolution French court garb. Mary whirled around happily with him. Then the actor pantomimed illness and death while Mary wept over his body. The musicians played on, and Mary caught herself up in another dance, this time with trepidation on her face before her snakelike suitor. He, too, ended in death, but this time other actors illustrated his murder by strangling, while Mary left the stage. She reentered, dressed in luxurious robes of state and a babe clearly swelling underneath her gown.