Authors: Christine Trent
Nevertheless, Marguerite could scarce believe she was in the same room with these two great men, Pitt and Nelson.
Emma greeted him effusively, yet as comfortably as an ambassador’s wife would do in such a situation.
“You caught us at a messy time, Mr. Pitt. Mrs. Ashby here is from Madame Tussaud’s and she’s making up the life mask for Lord Nelson’s figger, just like you wanted.”
Another growl rumbled from beneath the hardening mask.
“Yes, so I see. I had hoped to get here in time to witness this. I have important issues of state to discuss, and it seemed more expedient to just come here myself than to ask Lord Nelson to cut his leave short and come to London.”
“Issues, Mr. Pitt?” Emma inquired.
“Yes, I’ll talk it over with Nelson. When he’s unburied from his casing.” Pitt moved over to Nelson’s reclined head and peered down with his arms clasped behind his back, as if afraid of accidentally touching the admiral.
“Hmm, yes, quite interesting. When does he get … released?”
Marguerite approached Nelson’s head as well and examined the plaster mold for the whitish cast and light crackling that would indicate it had dried.
“Soon, but not just yet. Lord Nelson, are you all right? Please tap your fingers on the chair’s arm if anything is wrong.”
Nelson’s only response was a resigned wheeze through the
paper tubes. Emma knelt down next to him and put her head in his lap.
While he finished drying, Pitt peppered Marguerite with questions. How long did it take to complete a figure? How did she and Marie pack the figures for transport from town to town? What sort of heat could the characters take? And so on until Marguerite was exhausted from the rapid-fire interrogation. Fortunately, Nelson’s mask was finally done, and she used it as an excuse to disengage herself from the prime minister.
As she had now done many times before, although always in the presence of Marie, she began the process of pulling the string and then slowly twisting and lifting, twisting and lifting, until the mask started to slowly release.
“Fascinating,” Pitt breathed from over her shoulder. “What will you do next?”
“Next?” Marguerite continued working the mask from his face. “Next I shall wrap the mask and take it back to London so that I can begin working on the entire character. Lady Hamilton, it would be best if you could provide me with some of Lord Nelson’s actual clothing. Perhaps a uniform he no longer wears?”
Emma looked up from her position on the floor. “Certainly. How about one of your old admiral-of-the-blue uniforms, love?” She patted Nelson on the knee, and he squeezed her shoulder in return, an apparent motion of acquiescence, for Emma then said, “I’ll have it for you before you leave, Mrs. Ashby. D’ya need a wig?”
Marguerite pursed her lips, thinking about what the final creation would look like. “Maybe. I think perhaps I would like to insert real hair into the figure’s scalp. Ah! There we are.”
Once again she felt the same thrill she had felt since the first time she had done this on the Comte d’Artois. She held in her palms two perfectly executed halves of a mask that would be used to recreate a living person in wax. Except this time she would be making a wax version of England’s national hero. In keeping with Marie’s attitude toward such things, though, she tried to maintain a nonchalant composure. For Madame Tussaud’s waxworkers did
not get dumbstruck by their patrons. Recreating everyone from the most famous aristocrats to the lowliest infamous criminals was to be greeted with the same detached attitude.
Oh, but I can hardly wait to begin this piece.
After everyone had admired the plaster mask’s likeness to Nelson’s face, she wrapped it up carefully and set about cleaning the admiral. Relieved to be liberated from the smothering confines of the mask, he talked garrulously with Marguerite as she removed all traces of plaster and oil from his head. In particular, he wanted to discuss the hair for the figure.
“What is this of real hair for the figure? You want my hair?” Nelson now stood, his face and scalp red from scrubbing and his wet hair thinned and splayed weakly across his skull.
“Sir, I would not presume to such a thing,” Marguerite said. “We have various types of animal hair that can be sewn in to resemble human hair. Sometimes a subject will give us his own hair that we can blend in with other fibers. We can also use a wig. It is just more realistic when we can insert real hair. But I would not think of requesting it of you.”
Emma, who seemed to be forever touching Nelson as though to ensure he was still there, grabbed his arm again. “Just think. A real part of our Nelson in London where the people can ‘ave him, while the rest of him is right here at Merton where he belongs. What d’ya think? Should you give her some of your locks?”
Nelson crinkled his eyes, though whether in disgust or amusement, Marguerite was not sure.
“I’ll give it some thought, dear Emma. I’ll give it thought.”
Emma and Nelson exchanged farewell pleasantries with them and left, his good arm around her waist, to return to their guests, while Marguerite returned to packing up her supplies. Darden had moved quietly up beside her and was assisting her without needing direction.
As their bags were finally loaded on the carriage and they were about to climb in, Pitt stepped outside, using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun as though it intruded on his secret thoughts.
“Mrs. Ashby, a word if I may. Lieutenant, please hold your driver.”
He offered his arm to Marguerite and they strolled over toward Merton’s Nile. The prime minister did not look well, but he still carried himself as every inch the gentleman.
Pitt spoke quietly, as if the very birds themselves might be listening. “I’m actually on my way to take the waters at Bath. A touch of gout, you know, nothing serious. It fitted my plans to stop here first to see what you do with these masks. Fascinating, really. However, when I return to London next week I should like to stop by your workshop to see your progress. Depending on what I see, I—or rather His Majesty’s government—may need you to create some more figures. Can you remain in London indefinitely?”
“I’m certain I can. I need to write to Madame Tussaud. The expenses—”
“Yes, yes,” Pitt said, a trifle impatient. “Your expenses will be covered. Make sure you tell her that.”
“Then I am at your disposal, sir, for whatever you wish me to do.”
Nathaniel poured another glass of brandy for Mr. Scroggs, to celebrate their bargain. He couldn’t believe how well things were working out. To have won so heavily at gambling these past few weeks was a divine indication that his carefully thought-out plan was approved by God himself. How else could he have so rapidly amassed the cash required to purchase this ship from Mr. Scroggs? Of course, it needed some repair, but that could be accomplished quickly. And he would have it renamed straightaway. Something appropriate. Like
Wax Maiden.
Ha! Now that was clever. He smiled inwardly.
The brandy was warm and encouraging as it slipped down his throat. As Mr. Scroggs blathered on about how the money from the sale of this ship and two others would help set him up in a plantation in the American colonies—and who really cared what the fool planned to do?—Nathaniel gave his own plans further consideration.
With a sleek little trading ship as was now in his possession, he could be of great use in England’s cause against the French invaders. Especially since he’d thought of what he was sure no one
else had. The Royal Navy was so busy already, fruitlessly chasing the French commander Villeneuve from Sicily to Barbados and back again. In addition to scuttling across the Atlantic, the navy had its hands full with patrolling the southeastern coast, where Bonaparte was amassing his forces across the Channel along the seventy-five miles of French coastline around Calais and Boulogne. So who was available to accomplish the heroic thing he was planning? His concept was inspired, really. And that realization further reinforced his recent divine confirmation.
He narrowed his eyes. Mother dared call him a fool, saying he had no naval experience. How difficult could it be to captain a small ship? The jack-tars did the work; he just needed to set their course and make the important decisions. Simple.
What had really irritated him was how she characterized his patriotic mission.
“Nathaniel. Son. What you propose to do is foolish. Mr. Pitt has never received you, nor given his approval for such activities. You will end up in grief.” Maude spoke to him as though he were a mere boy.
“Mr. Pitt may have been too busy to receive me personally, but he didn’t rebuff the offer I sent him.”
“He didn’t respond to you
at all,
Nathaniel, meaning he was ignoring you. Which means that what you are planning is tantamount to piracy without a letter of marque.”
“Mother,” he replied in what he hoped was as condescending a tone. “It’s not piracy if you are doing it to serve your country instead of yourself.”
That silenced her. He took great satisfaction in watching her walk away, head shaking. Of course, she thought his entire plan was privateering. As though he would spend his days trolling for badly armed merchant ships. What glory was there in that? No, his plan was far more … spectacular.
How could she have called him a fool? A pirate? Mother had never used any but the sickliest endearments on him. But that had changed of late. Maude Ashby was becoming a genuine harpy. It was his refusal to take that Edwina Carlson girl, wasn’t it? Mother hated to be thwarted.
Which reminded him of Marguerite, who had soundly thrashed his mother without a single word. An absolute delight she was. He discovered she’d gone to Dublin, but it seemed too much work to travel all the way there to fetch her. No, first he’d make a name for himself at the highest levels of government and Society, maybe even secure a title like Marguerite’s uncle, Greycliffe. Then Marguerite would come dashing to him. Women loved titled men.
He returned his attention to Mr. Scroggs, whose conversation was in the exact same place it was when Nathaniel drifted off.
“I’m delighted, sir, that my offer to you will enable you to make a fresh start in the colonies,” Nathaniel told him. “On what date do you propose to finally quit England?”
After completing Nelson’s mask, Marguerite’s first chore on arriving back to her new rooms was to write a letter to Marie, detailing what had happened and explaining the prime minister’s request. She received a quick reply, and marveled at how much better Marie’s writing was than her pronunciation.
Yes, this of course you must do. And since we will be paid for your living expenses there will be no sapping of the exhibition’s coffers. Nini and I will manage here alone. I knew this was a wise endeavor. Be sure to stay in Lieutenant Hastings’s protection.
Marguerite rolled her eyes.
When you return, be sure to send the figures via the longest sea routing that you can, no matter how you return yourself. You know the figures survive water better than overland travel.
Also, you should know that I am parting ways with Monsieur Tussaud. He has heaped many an insult on me by his foolish business transactions, but his most recent dealing leaves my heart dead. I discovered that he took out a 20,000 franc loan last year, and in order to settle part
of the debt has now sold the house my uncle Curtius left me. Furthermore, he has taken out yet another loan—for what, I ask you?—and has mortgaged the wax salon at 20 boulevard du Temple as surety. He will undoubtedly end up losing this property for me, as well. It is unforgivable.
I have written and asked him to send our other son, Francis, to me. When my dear boy is with me, I will quit Tussaud altogether.
Marguerite folded the letter thoughtfully. Marie mentioned her husband so rarely that it was easy to forget he even existed, and that he managed her original exhibition back in Paris.
She returned to the construction of Nelson’s figure. Without the worries of the exhibition itself, she was able to work on it night and day, making far quicker progress than on a typical character. She savored the work, laboring happily each day from first light until the final rays of the sun slipped out of the room and returned to their celestial residence.
Her work was interrupted one day by the surprise visit of Darden, who was not alone. Accompanying him was another naval officer in a similar uniform, whom Darden introduced as Lieutenant Brax Selwyn. A man more different from Darden could not be found.
Where Darden was dark almost to the point of swarthiness, and always seemed to have secrets simmering below his stern surface, Brax was all openness, elegance, and light. His broad mouth seemed perpetually poised to laugh, and his bright blue eyes scanned the room as if seeking pleasure in its corners. Lieutentant Selwyn’s hair, blond and unwigged, was tied back in a common queue, yet on him it was somehow more fashionable than on other men. He was of slighter build than Darden, but still showed a well-turned calf. Marguerite guessed he was an excellent dancer.
Even his coloring reflected his carefree bearing. His skin was as pale as any typical Englishman’s, but it had an almost delicate, ethereal quality to it.
An angel sent to bring joy, Marguerite thought.
Were these men actually friends?
Brax’s handsomeness was so great that she found herself looking down sheepishly at her own tattered condition. Her plain dress, although covered with an apron, was splotched with wax globules, paint, and glue. Her hair, gathered up hastily in a bandeau that morning to keep it out of her eyes, was surely as littered with debris as her gown. What a sorry sight she made!
She cleared her throat. “To what do I owe this pleasure, sirs?”
The room was silent. It was Darden’s place to state the purpose of their visit, yet he was staring at Marguerite, his lips a grim line of white.
What have I done wrong?
Selwyn spoke up brightly. “Why, Hastings here has been telling me all about his most unusual assignment: to bring a waxworker to London to have Lord Nelson’s portrait made. When I found out that the waxworker in question was a young lady, I insisted that he bring me to your shop straightaway, so that I could have the honor of watching beautiful feminine hands working in such dedication to the Royal Navy. He tried to deny me, but I can see already that there is to be great reward in my persistence, for it is not often that a poor jack-tar gets to behold such loveliness.”