Authors: Christine Trent
Marie reached over and patted Marguerite with her rough hand, calloused from years of plying her trade.
My hands would be honorably worn like this one day had I not jumped into this foolish marriage. Now I’ll just be Paul’s own personal moll, to do with what he likes. The thought is just too much to bear. It’s too much.
“Mrs. Ashb—I guess now you’re Mrs. Philipsthal—I have an idea.”
Marguerite fought the urge to cry, which would have added weakness to her already growing list of ill-advised mistakes.
“Madame, I believe that I should now like you to simply call me Marguerite.”
“Yes, I do that. And you call me Marie. After all, we’re friends now, yes?” She gently chucked Marguerite’s chin. “But no crying. I have idea. We’ll go to Dublin?”
“We? How can I do that? I have to do what my husband wants.”
“Philipsthal’s an idiot. He’s also terrible businessman and cannot make money without me. So I’ll tell him that I plan to go to Dublin with the exhibition and will pay you double wages to go with me. I’ll tell him we’ll be back in a year.”
“A year? But why would he agree to it? A year is a long time for a married couple to be apart.”
Marie shrugged, a distinctively French gesture. “I’ve not seen my François for two years now. Of no matter when there are greater things to be gained. We’ll tell Philipsthal that you make lots of money in Dublin. He’ll like that. Will want you to go. Won’t care that you’re gone.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think he’ll agree.” Was that another headache dimly forming at the base of her neck? “I suppose we can try.”
By the next morning, Marguerite had worked through her own grief—after all, what was marrying a blackguard when compared to witnessing your dearly beloved murdered in front of you—and was
feeling sufficiently angry to want to do battle with her new husband.
Philipsthal appeared at midmorning, brightly attired in a bright blue and gold embroidered waistcoat that practically sparkled underneath his darker overcoat. Marguerite thought he resembled nothing more than a strutting peacock.
She was in the process of painting rosy red cheeks on Princess Caroline, now estranged from her husband, Prince George, and in a bitter custody dispute over their daughter. Marguerite felt a strange kinship to Princess Caroline and her problems. She started so badly upon seeing Philipsthal swoop down upon her that poor Caroline ended up with a bright pink band across her nose.
“Mrs. Ashby,” he boomed. “How do you fare this lovely Scottish morning? Unseasonably warm today, but that’s just the unpredictability of this country, isn’t it?”
“She knows,” Marguerite said flatly, quickly wiping down the princess’s nose and cheek.
“She? She knows what?”
Marguerite lay the cloth down on the portable worktable.
“Madame Tussaud. My employer. My friend. She knows of our marriage.”
“She does? Why, that’s just fine. Now we don’t have to pretend, and I can call you my darling Marguerite in public.”
Marguerite picked the paintbrush back up and pointed it with the brush end toward him.
“Not only does Marie know about us, but I know about
you.
You and your concession that predates our wedding—your proposal even—by days.” Her thrusts with the brush resulted in tiny droplets of pink color splattering on his dazzling waistcoat. She hoped it was ruined.
Philipsthal at least had the decency to look abashed. “So perhaps there may have been a little overlap of a day or so between my proposal to you and my generous relinquishment of Madame Tussaud’s debt. I intended to do both, so certainly I cannot be faulted for some discrepancy in timing.”
“Discrepancy in timing?” Marguerite slammed the paintbrush back down on the table. She felt a small splotch of paint hit her
own chin. “How dare you? You are a cretin of great magnitude, Mr. Philipsthal. Never ask me to call you by your Christian name again. You had already been run aground by Mr. Curran before you made your proposal to me. You offered to forgive Marie’s debt after you had already signed away your claim. You lying, phony swindler. You cheated Marie—and me!—all the while suggesting Marie was an inferior manager. I despise you.” Marguerite was now alternating between a hiss and a shrill tone that she could not even recognize as her own.
Her new husband replied with the same calm he had exhibited at the geggy performance. “Sweetheart, there is no need to be upset. You fail to see the great benefit you will receive from being my wife. You will be the mistress of two great shows—the Phantasmagoria and the new salon I will allow you to build—and you will have the respectability of marriage with a known entrepreneur. No more of this prowling from town to town. We will settle down permanently in a city of your choice. Soon you will start having children and your days will be quite full and happy. Which reminds me, I see little reason now for you to continue to live apart from me. Why not pack your things and I’ll have them sent to my own rooms.”
“Clearly, sir, you have not listened to a word I’ve said. I will
never
live with you,
never
share your bed,
and never
be more than your wife in name only.”
Two female patrons that had been walking casually by hurried their steps away as they heard Marguerite’s raised voice.
In contrast, Philipsthal lowered his. Dangerously so. “My dear wife, I’ve been patient with your coyness. And I am perfectly agreeable that you should remain in Madame Tussaud’s employ for the time being. But you will respect my authority as your husband. You have one week to begin residing with me on your own, or I will drag you out of the building myself.”
Marguerite stopped. She was vaguely aware of breathing heavily and knew her eyes must be flaming. But the spark quickly died. He could indeed insist on his marital rights, couldn’t he? How could she possibly let him touch her?
Change your tone,
she warned herself.
Keep him at bay until you can flee to Dublin.
“I suppose you’re right that you do have that power over me. Very well, in a week I’ll pack my belongings and bring them round to your lodgings.”
She turned back around to Princess Caroline, lest she see any look of smug satisfaction on his face.
But Marie seemed to have rescued her, visiting her room later that night long after closing to tell Marguerite of her own visit to Philipsthal’s lodging.
“I told him, Marguerite, that the lawyer Curran says there is much fortune to be had in Dublin. Philipsthal, he fears Curran but also respects him. Takes Curran’s word. I told Philipsthal that I want you to come to Dublin with me for a year and I pay you double. You’ll make lots of money to help support his fog-brained show while he stays here to keep it open.”
Marguerite gripped her friend’s hands. How remarkably close they had become over this calamity. “And what did he say?”
“He agrees. Says you both need money to start your life together. Says he will talk to you about writing him every week.” Marie rolled her eyes. “Once we get to Dublin we’ll figure out next steps. Tomorrow I’ll courier a letter to an agent there to obtain a new salon and lodgings. Mr. Curran is returning to Dublin and will help us.”
“He wouldn’t help me before—I’m sure he won’t now.”
“Bah! He couldn’t do anything because he cannot practice real law in Scotland. He’s a lawyer in Ireland. He never even sued Philipsthal, just threatened him. I know he’ll help you once we get to Dublin.”
Marguerite’s doubt must have shown on her face. “Yes, you trust me, Marguerite. I will not let you be harmed. This reminds me. I know this abominable marriage has not been fully transacted yet, but has Philipsthal … made any demands for your person … yet?”
“No, but it is uppermost in his mind. He told me this morning that he wanted me to move to his lodgings within a week or he would forcibly move me there. But if he’s agreed to let me go to Dublin, what does that mean? Will he expect me there tomorrow so he can claim me?” Marguerite touched the side of her head
above her right ear to quell a small throb just prickling under the surface of her scalp.
“Tell him that you have your courses.”
“He won’t believe me. A scoundrel knows a lie when he hears one.”
“Then I’ll keep you so busy and out of sight that he can’t even find you.”
What a staunchly loyal friend her employer was turning out to be.
“Marie, thank you, but I think I must spend tonight adjusting to the fact I will be repenting at great leisure my extraordinarily foolish action. How did I tumble down from such great heights as marriage with Nicholas to bondage with Mr. Philipsthal?”
Marie could do no more than look at her sorrowfully, hug her, and leave her alone with her thoughts.
She passed the night restlessly, but fortunately without a headache exploding behind her eyes. The following morning she choked down some dry toast points and two cups of tea before heading down to the salon to resume her work on Princess Caroline. Not thirty minutes had elapsed before Philipsthal was at her side, smiling boyishly at her as though he was once again her ardent suitor and not her new, demanding husband.
“Marguerite, has Madame Tussaud told you yet?”
“Told me what?” She did not look up from her work. Hmm, the princess’s forehead seemed a bit too expansive. That would need fixing. She made a mental note to acquire some more horsehair for dyeing and insertion.
“The silly little pigeon wants to take the show to Dublin for a year. Ordinarily I would say absolutely not. Why would I want my lovely wife removed from my sight? But she proposes to pay you double wages. Think what we could do to improve my show with that money!”
“Indeed. Your show has been uppermost in my mind as of late.”
“Splendid. I knew I was marrying a conscientious woman. I agreed to it, then I must confess I had a very sleepless night thinking about being separated from you for so long. It’s not good for a
newly married couple to be alienated from one another. Not good at all.”
Drat, Caroline’s left earlobe was nipped off. Had some prankster done this when no one was looking or did they have a rat problem?
“And so this morning when I arose, I realized the solution was very simple. I will come with you.”
This got Marguerite’s attention. Caroline’s ear could stay mangled.
“Come with us? Why? I mean, how can you do so? What of your Phantasmagoria?”
He gave her the same French shrug that Marie did, a movement that suggested that such trifles were not so important. “It is far more vital that I be at my wife’s side than that my show be a success in Glasgow. Besides, after Dublin we will establish a permanent entertainment in a city of your choosing. Remember my promise to you?”
“And how does this promise compare to your promises to Madame Tussaud?”
His reply was a hideous echo in her ear. “My dear Marguerite, she is nothing. But I have a duty to you.”
Just like the poor chair boy. Blood roared in her ears. How blind she had been to this man.
He continued. “And you have a duty to me as well, sweetheart. As such, I will not interfere with your living arrangements as you prepare for Dublin. But upon our arrival in Dublin, that very first night, we will live together as man and wife. Don’t look so downcast, my darling wife. I know you are inexperienced, but I will guide you back into your role as my helpmeet.”
And so the die was cast. Marie could not change her mind now that Philipsthal had decided to accompany them, without revealing her connivance with her apprentice. Her temper grew short, leaving little camaraderie between her and Marguerite. Even Joseph avoided his mother during their final days in Glasgow.
The only member of their party who was unaffected by the move to a new town was Philipsthal himself. He popped in periodically to check on progress, chucking Joseph under the chin and
kissing Marguerite’s hands, but he always had a bevy of excuses for leaving when implored to assist with moving and packing the figures and tableaux.
Marguerite asked him to contribute some desperately needed cash for transport of the show, to which he replied, “Dear wife, Madame Tussaud made it perfectly clear that she wanted our partnership dissolved. Now she is spiriting my bride away to Ireland and expects me to cover the expense? Preposterous.”
Marie’s anger finally gave way to acceptance. “I’ll never get rid of him. He spun a web around me and the harder I try to get out, the more firmly he secures me. I regret, dear friend, that you are involved.”
The two women hugged one another without tears, which had dried up much like small saplings that are left devoid of moisture when a giant oak covers them with its leafy canopy and saps the surrounding soil of nutrients. Their hope of rejuvenation through transplantation to Dublin was dimming every day as the oak’s branches blocked more and more of the sun and rain.
Great Harbour, Greenock, Scotland, May 1804.
The frigid air, swollen by misty rain, was bone piercing. How did it remain so cold in Scotland this late in the spring? Marguerite’s throat hurt from inhaling the freezing vapors every time she opened her mouth to speak. Next to her, poor Joseph’s teeth were chattering as he hugged his arms around himself. She drew him close to her skirts and hugged him. She studiously ignored Philipsthal as he stood on her other side.
Marie was in deep discussion with the captain, evident by the frosty gusts of air emanating from their mouths. Marie shook hands with the man and gingerly picked her way back across ice patches to where they waited.
“Captain Alison says weather is not good for crossing. We must stay overnight and leave in the morning. Marguerite will stay in the room with me. Joseph, you stay with Mr. Philipsthal.” Marie’s tone brooked no argument, and Philipsthal seemed too frozen to care.
So they trudged off to an inexpensive inn near the docks while their six drays’ worth of goods for the wax exhibition and the Phantasmagoria were loaded into HMS
Earl Moira’s
hold to await better sailing the next day. After the exhausting two days spent in a rattling carriage ride covering the thirty miles between Glasgow
and Greenock, now they had to wait to complete their journey. The quartet supped silently and went to their respective rooms, kept awake most of the night by howling winds and the insistent tapping of sleet on the windows.