Authors: Christine Trent
“I happen to be more selective than you.”
“Selective? Hastings, come, when was the last time you courted a damsel?”
“I’ve courted plenty a lady,” Darden said through clenched teeth. He did not like where this conversation was going.
“And were these ladies aplenty vaporous in nature? I’ve not seen one of them. Perhaps they were the ethereal spirits of real ladies from the past.”
“Perhaps I should soak your head in a butt of malmsey, Selwyn. You annoy me.”
Brax laughed, the sound hearty and affable. The man had the unique, and irritating, ability to infect others with his joy. It now worked as always, silencing the buzzing bees around them as the workers stopped momentarily to find out where the pleasing noise was coming from.
“Honestly, Hastings, you’re such a rigid little prig. I really must take the time to teach you how to live life, not grind your molars through it.”
Brax was spared Darden’s scathing reply by one of Pitt’s clerks, who came to notify Darden that the prime minister would see him now.
Darden nodded curtly to Brax and followed the clerk. He heard Brax call after him, “Hastings, a group of us are going to see
The School for Scandal
at Drury Lane next week. You must come with us. I insist.”
Darden let the door to Pitt’s inner office click behind him without answering.
Marguerite had a sleepless night following the geggy theatre tragedy. She had run all the way back to Ingram Street and secreted
herself in her room without ever emerging for supper or to visit with Madame Tussaud and Joseph, even though she heard them in conversation with Mr. Colin later that evening.
The next morning she saw dark circles under reddened eyes set in the ashen face reflected in the chipped mirror on her dressing table. Well, there was no help for it. She pinched her cheeks to bring some color into them and went down to the exhibition, willing herself to be in good spirits at the same time that she prayed Paul would not show up today. She needed a day or two to compose herself, and then she would demand that he take care of the legalities that would release Marie from her obligation to him. Of her future with Paul Philipsthal she could not think right now.
As she entered the salon, she saw that bespectacled man shaking hands with Madame Tussaud, who was laughing openly with him. She held documents in her left hand. Marie’s hair sported a beautiful cerulean ribbon woven through her curls. Even her coiffure seemed happy this morning. How unusual. And ironic.
Wasn’t it typically Marie who needed cheering up?
Marie caught sight of her. “Mrs. Ashby, come! I introduce you. This is Mr. Curran. He’s a very important lawyer here and he has been helping me. Helping the exhibition. Look.” She handed the documents to Marguerite.
Marguerite shook hands with Mr. Curran before glancing at the papers. They looked very official and had multiple seals and signatures on them.
“What is this?”
“My freedom, Mrs. Ashby. Mr. Curran likes the show and wants to see it succeed. I tell him my troubles and he agrees to assist me for no fee. I didn’t know he could work so fast. Philipsthal was afraid of him—hah!”
A small clot of dread lodged itself in her chest.
“What do you mean, madame? Mr. Curran? What do these documents mean?”
Laughter bubbled from Marie again. How odd to see her mentor so cheerful!
Mr. Curran explained. “Madame Tussaud approached me during a visit I made to the exhibition, and told me of her situation
with Mr. Philipsthal. Of his unfair contract with her that, had I been her lawyer at the time, I would never have permitted her to sign. You are familiar with it?”
“In fact, I am not.”
Marie was apparently too joyous to care whether her apprentice knew all the details. She flapped her arms at Curran so that he would continue the story.
He removed his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief from his pocket. “Paul de Philipsthal engaged Madame Tussaud under outrageous terms. Under the contract he signed, he loaned her a hundred pounds to transport much of her show to England and set up next to his Phantasmagoria. In return, Madame owed him fifty percent of her show’s profits until she could repay him. Repay him with both principal and interest. With such an arrangement, it was very unlikely that Madame could have ever repaid the loan. In addition, he verbally promised to cover the costs of advertising her show, moving her from city to city, and generally getting her established, none of which he has honored.
“Last week I visited Mr. Philipsthal at his lodgings. I informed him in no uncertain terms that unless he considered Madame Tussaud’s debt paid in full, based on the excessive amount of her profits she has paid him over the last three years, I would represent her in a lawsuit against him that would surely result in his total ruin.”
Marie cut in. “He ran like the plagued vermin that he is, Mrs. Ashby. Philipsthal is no match in brains or wits for Mr. Curran. Mr. Curran is an important solicitor in Glasgow.”
Madame Tussaud’s laughter was infectious, but it transferred only as far as her lawyer. Marguerite felt a throbbing over her right eye, a sure sign that she would soon be taken with a serious headache. The pain was battling for supremacy over the knot of fear continuing to take shape in her breast. Marguerite’s preference was for a headache.
“Mr. Curran, when did you say you first spoke to Mr. Philipsthal?” she asked.
“Just over a week ago.”
“And when did he sign these papers?”
“Five days ago. I didn’t have a chance to bring them to Madame Tussaud until just this morning.”
Five days ago. And he agreed to it earlier.
Five days ago she had not yet committed to marrying him.
Five days ago he had already signed papers releasing Madame Tussaud from her debt.
Marguerite, you extraordinary ninny. Have you windmills in your head? How did you allow yourself to be humbugged like this?
“Mrs. Ashby, are you all right?” Mr. Curran’s face swam before her.
“Come, my girl. We’ll go to your room. Mr. Curran, she gets headaches, must have one now. I’ll help her. Sir, my show is in your debt.”
Marguerite was vaguely aware of Mr. Curran leaving the exhibition and Marie escorting her back up to her room, removing her shoes, and urging her back gently on the bed.
“Madame, I must speak with you.” Her mouth felt dry and she winced at the daylight streaming in through the windows. She shut her eyes to block the strong rays.
“It can wait, Mrs. Ashby. I will go back to the exhibition while you rest. You need posset?”
“No no. I must speak with you. Need to tell you something …” Marguerite’s voice was distant and tinny in her ears. Her tongue felt huge and awkward. “Must tell you …”
The pain above her eye was now radiating across her forehead and was throbbing a regular drumbeat. Heaven preserve her, this was going to be excruciating.
But not as excruciating as what she had done to herself three days earlier.
The last she remembered before sinking into oblivion was Madame Tussaud promising to bring her hot soup and some nice pastries later that evening.
As she suspected it would be, the headache was an agonizing one. She tossed and turned fitfully for nearly a full day and night before the pain subsided enough for her to rise and at least bathe
herself. She had to get back to the exhibition. What was she thinking, leaving poor Madame and Joseph there by themselves for so long?
Once again she dared to sit down and look at herself in the mirror. The dark circles were still there, and she thought she noticed a pinched quality to her face.
Well, no wonder.
Her mind raced frantically over the events of the past few days. How had she been so stupid as to think she could somehow rescue her employer by such a foolish act as marriage with someone as repulsive as Paul de Philipsthal?
Only you didn’t think he was entirely repulsive until the geggy show, did you?
Then you suspected the truth. And Mr. Curran confirmed it.
She lay her head down on her arms at the dressing table and wept until she was devoid of tears. Looking up again, she saw a distraught and frightened woman staring back at her from the silvered glass.
“Well,” she said aloud to herself in the quiet room. “There’s nothing for it now but to tell Madame Tussaud and make the best of the situation. But how long do you think you can avoid going to live with him?”
She stood and squared her shoulders, determined to put a good face on things with her employer. And to brave out whatever would happen with her new … husband.
Willow Tree House, London.
Nathaniel sat slouched on a settee in the parlor of the Carlson family, where he was waiting to be introduced to their daughter, whom he assumed would be a saggy-breasted, mare-faced spinster, shrill and pathetic.
At least, he slouched to the extent that one could on this drattedly uncomfortable piece of furniture. A pillow on the floor would be better than this.
For once he was quite put out with his mother. She had met Mr. and Mrs. Carlson at some blasted party somewhere, and her motherly senses, as finely tuned as those of a spider sitting in her web waiting for a succulent insect to float by, unwary that it is being stealthily watched, had engaged the couple in conversation and learned that they had an eligible daughter whom they despaired of marrying off. They did not present it this way to her, merely hinting that they had increased their daughter’s dowry for the
right
prospect, but Maude Ashby’s sharpened focus on rising in Society was such that she knew exactly what that meant.
It meant that Nathaniel needed to pay a visit to secure the girl’s affections.
So here he was, wondering how much Miss Edwina Carlson would resemble her mother. Perhaps he’d be lucky and she’d look more like her father, who was overweight but at least had the remnants of good looks about him.
He stood as Miss Edwina entered the room.
And immediately planned his escape.
On his return home, in between planning an explanation to his mother and considering whether to visit Mrs. Claire’s for some gentlemanly entertainment that evening, his thoughts drifted to his sister-in-law, Marguerite. If only that had worked out. She would have been a finely crafted sculpture on his arm during the day and a warm filly in his bed at night. How interesting it would be to possess the woman his brother had treasured over treasure itself. That smug, arrogant sibling of his. Always so kind, faithful, and righteous. How nauseating. He probably never even defended himself against the invaders of his shop.
Whatever had happened to Marguerite once she ran away? Was she still in England or had she fled to the Continent? He’d have to investigate.
Now that was something pleasant to consider.
“My girl, no! I should have known Philipsthal would not let me go readily. He always plans evil. What do we do?” Far from Marie’s joy of two days ago she was now distressed and wringing her hands. “I know. We’ll see Mr. Curran. He will fix this. He’ll fix it.”
Mr. Curran appeared at the show within an hour of their pressing a message into a courier’s hand. They left Joseph to deal with customers—Marguerite was still amazed at his maturity—and led the solicitor back into Mr. Colin’s parlor.
“Madame, Mrs. Ashby, what troubles you?” Mr. Curran asked, breathless from his quick trip to the salon.
Marie spoke up. “It’s Philipsthal.”
“Again? But I took care of that. You won’t have trouble over that contract again.”
“No, it’s worse than the contract.”
In her odd blend of French and poor English that she employed when hot tempered, Marie outlined for Mr. Curran what Marguerite had told her that morning.
“So you’re saying he asked you to marry him, knowing that he had already signed away his rights over Madame Tussaud’s profits but promising you that he would give up his rights subsequent to
your marriage? But this was not a written agreement prior to your marriage? Hmm.” Mr. Curran pursed his lips and rubbed his chin.
“What has happened in the intervening days since your marriage?”
“Nothing, really. We went to an outdoor theatre performance.”
“The one on Glasgow Green? You know the geggy theatre there blew away. Killed a young boy.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Has he been cruel, beaten you? Have you committed adultery during this time?”
“Of course not! I’m not even living with him yet.”
“He has permitted you to remain in your present living circumstances with Madame Tussaud?”
“Yes. I told him I needed time to, er, adjust, to our marriage.” Marguerite reddened. How humiliating to have to discuss these details with Marie’s solicitor.
“Forgive the indelicacy of this question, but has the marriage been consummated?”
“The marriage has not … progressed … quite that far.”
“Yet he wishes to live with you. Truthfully, unless your husband has cause to divorce you—such as through your own unfaithfulness—as long as he desires to live with you, he is free to do so. The most you might be able to effect is a judicial separation if he also wished to live apart from you, but no divorce. My apologies, but this amounts to merely a wife’s unhappiness, which does not entitle you to pursue legal action. I cannot—will not—take your case. I doubt anyone else will, either. I recommend that you make the best of it.”
The best of what? My life has utterly, completely disintegrated into the wax shavings that litter the floor, and all because of my own foolish decisions. I am a lunatic of the first order. Madame will fire me for certain. Who wants an unfortunate making plaster casts of respectable townspeople?
She found that she was speechless. And shaking.
Marie shook her head. “My girl, there are other solutions. You wait here. I’ll show out Mr. Curran.”
Marguerite sat obediently on one of the few chairs in the room,
an uncomfortably hard one in the old Queen Anne style. Marie returned promptly after showing out the solicitor and pulled up a matching chair next to her.
How ironic, Marguerite thought, that he could so easily save Madame from Philipsthal, but he has to let me drop into the fiery pit.