Authors: Christine Trent
Sometimes Marguerite and Claudette joined the men for political conversation, but more often they moved into the library to read or embroider. Marguerite refused to be drawn into questioning by Claudette, saying only that Brax had been present to see the Nelson and Hardy wax figures onto a wagon for shipment to Portsmouth, and he had escorted her safely home.
“But, darling,” Claudette protested. Again. “He seems a nice young man. And very taken with you. Are you sure there’s no hope for a courtship with him?”
“Brax is mostly taken with himself, I’m afraid. And I’m certain that all he wants is a flirtation.”
Claudette shook her head once more. “I don’t know. I think he has serious intentions toward you. But you know him best, I’m sure.”
The night before their departure the topic of conversation at the table was Prime Minister Pitt’s death from liver disease at the age of forty-six.
“The man was too liberal with his port glass,” William decided.
“Yes, sir,” Brax said, always deferential to the older man. “But I venture to say that Napoleon’s win at Austerlitz hastened his death. He was counting on the coalition to ensure our nation’s defense against Napoleon. Now we’re vulnerable again.”
The two men stayed up far into the night, discussing who would be declared Pitt’s successor and what it would mean for Britain’s approach to rapidly unfolding world events.
The next morning, clear and crisp with a light remainder of frost on the ground, Hevington’s footmen had piled all Marguerite’s belongings—consisting mostly of her new wardrobe—atop the Greycliffe family’s carriage. William shook hands warmly with Brax, admonishing him to care solicitously for Marguerite, while Claudette used her final moments for one last piece of advice.
“Keep an open mind, dear. See how things progress with the lieutenant. He seems both ambitious and kind. You could do far worse.” They stood together, wrapped in warm capes, while Uncle William and Brax made their good-byes nearby.
“Aunt Claudette, my mind was open to someone aboard
Victory.
But it resulted in nothing. I’m not sure I care to expose my heart again for dissection.”
Claudette’s mouth stood open as Marguerite reached over and patted the older woman’s shoulder.
“Don’t fret for me. I’ll be fine.”
“What do you mean, there was someone on
Victory?
Who? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Marguerite was spared having to answer as Brax came to assist her into the carriage and and sat across from her. The carriage lurched forward, and Marguerite blew Claudette a kiss as she departed for London.
While Marguerite settled into her new location, she gave little thought to national events, Brax, or the Greycliffes. There were walls to be painted, carpets to be laid, tableaux to be designed, and handbills to be printed. The arrival of thirty figures from Dublin kept Marguerite and a hired hand busy for days. Brax stopped by a few times, but she dismissed him quickly, unwilling to waste precious time in a social visit. Even letters from Claudette remained unopened on the writing table in her rooms, located about two blocks away from the exhibit.
A month after her arrival, she was ready to open her doors to Madame Tussaud’s London Wax Exhibition. She settled down in her rooms the night before with a cup of tea and a newspaper, and was surprised to find how much had happened while she remained shut away from the world.
After Pitt’s death, a new Ministry of All the Talents was formed, a coalition between William Grenville, Charles James Fox, and nine others. Grenville became leader of the House of Lords and first lord of the treasury, whilst Fox was made leader of the House of Commons and secretary of state for foreign affairs. Other members of the eleven-man coalition were given plum assignments. Marguerite ran her finger down the list of positions and saw that Charles Grey, Viscount Howick, was named first lord of the Admiralty.
Darden did work for Mr. Pitt. Will he now be on staff for Lord Grenville, or maybe Lord Grey?
And don’t forget that Brax performed services, as well.
Mr. Pitt was laid to rest on February 22, 1806, inside Westminster Abbey, with a public funeral and a monument, despite the opposition to such special treatment by Mr. Fox, Pitt’s political opponent for decades.
How foolish and childish men could be in their political gamesmanship. Hadn’t Pitt saved England’s finances after the American rebellion? Wasn’t he greatly esteemed by the king? Perhaps he was not the hero Nelson was, but surely he deserved recognition in death.
Charles James Fox was the complete opposite of William Pitt in most ways. Where Pitt was a slight and fair-complexioned man, Fox was dark, corpulent, and hairy. Even his father referred to him as a monkey.
Furthermore, where Pitt was well beloved by King George III, Fox was less than enthusiastically received by the sovereign, who blamed Fox for the debauchery and many failings of his son, George Augustus Frederick, one of Fox’s associates. Fox further distanced himself from the king when he attempted to put the king’s son on the throne when the monarch went through a bout of insanity in 1789. Pitt championed the idea that the king’s illness was only temporary and, curses on the man, Pitt was right. Fox’s defense of the bloody revolution in France—again in complete opposition to Pitt’s hostile stance—made him more of a pariah with the king, who would have despised Fox for his dissipation alone.
Indeed, Charles Fox led a notoriously profligate life, in a society known for the licentiousness of its upper classes, as opposed to Pitt’s somewhat more austere mode of living. Now, though, Fox was gratified in his choice of a wife, Elizabeth Armistead, whose steadying hand had been curbing some of his cavalier behavior. No matter that she was previously a courtesan and he hadn’t publicly revealed the marriage in its first seven years.
But he was more like Pitt in his affinity for liquor than he cared
to think. Fox looked at the glass of scarlet liquid in his hand, a port sent to him in a presentation box by some fortune-seeker in London who wanted a letter of marque. The port was probably a fine vintage, but Fox’s palate had lost much of its discernment over the years. He sat back in the tufted leather chair behind his desk and tipped the rest of the glass’s contents down his throat.
A knock on the door was followed by the entry of Charles Grey, Viscount Howick, holding a small packet of papers.
Fox got up and stepped around his desk to greet the first lord of the Admiralty. It was so much easier these days to simply move into the room to shake hands with someone, rather than try to reach over his desk—and his extended belly—to do so.
“Lord Howick, greetings to you, sir. How fares your lovely wife? Just had your—what is it—sixth child?”
“Seventh, actually. Mary and I lost an infant boy a few years ago. But Frederick William is, at six months, full of spit and fire, and I’m sure will take over for his own father at the Admiralty one day.”
“Indeed. The boy can but hope to have his father’s illustrious career.”
The two men sat at a round, inlaid mahogany table on the other side of Fox’s desk.
Grey wasted no time in coming to his point. “I need your sage advice on an idea. No one knows how to maneuver through a difficult political situation like you, eh, Charles?”
“I do admit to some expertise in cunning and daring.” Fox leaned back and folded his hands together over his considerable stomach.
Grey laughed politely at Fox’s self-conceit.
“I’ve come to you with two peculiar issues, Charles,” said Grey.
“Peculiar? Is there anything happening in and outside the government that
isn’t
peculiar?”
“True, but these may be of particular significance.” Grey slid his finger under one of the previously broken seals on the top document, then did the same to the next one, laying the two documents side by side.
“As we already know, with their staggering defeat at Trafalgar,
combined with dismissive treatment by the French, the Spanish are secretly negotiating with us.” He tapped one of the documents. “This was picked up by one of our naval couriers. The Spanish gentleman in question is still interested and requests a meeting with us.”
Fox picked up the document and scanned it. “Excellent. I’ll have this most fortuitous opportunity arranged. But what makes this odd?”
Grey pushed the second paper forward. “This. I suspected that there might be a spy among us who just might ruin our ability to keep these negotiations secret. But I wasn’t sure and didn’t want to be an alarmist.”
Fox put aside the first document and read the second one.
Now Grey had the foreign secretary’s interest. Fox sat up straight.
“Hmm. This seems to confirm your misgivings. How good is your intelligence?”
“Good enough that I’m worried it could be true.”
“Then this is indeed a problem, Lord Grey. I don’t need to remind you that with Spain committed to remaining neutral, we can open a second front against Napoleon, and we can also provide stronger fortifications for our ally, Portugal.”
Fox folded the incriminating document. “This is very serious. We can’t have our plans destroyed by a traitor. Do you have specific evidence linking this purported spy to any revealed information?”
“Only what is described there.” Grey pointed to the folded sheet Fox had just put down.
“What do you propose to do?”
Grey sat back in his chair, elbows on its brown leather arms, and folded the fingers of both hands into a temple in front of his chest.
“I believe our fabled waxwork stowaway may be the locksmith who can make the key to solve our little problem.”
“You mean the woman aboard
Victory?
The one who made the Nelson figure? What could she possibly have to do with this?”
Grey explained his idea, which Fox considered for several long moments. “You know, Grey, I had no insight before now as to how well your mind worked. You’re quite clever, really. And I believe I
could be of some use to you, given my position. I can, shall we say, bring some influence to the parties in question.”
“Which exceeds my highest hopes. I’ll arrange things immediately.”
The two men shook hands over their private agreement.
Marguerite was surprised by two noteworthy visitors to the exhibit a week later: Charles James Fox and Charles Grey. The two men looked like caricatures of one another, with Grey’s tall, lean, and dapper stature in direct contrast to Fox’s short, rotund, and decidedly sloppy appearance. Fox’s breath reeked of spirits, but he was articulate nonetheless.
They made a special point of introducing themselves to her and admiring her collection of figures, stating that her work at Trafalgar was well known to them. Marguerite was flattered but told them frankly that most of the exhibition was part of Madame Tussaud’s collection, currently being shown in Dublin.
A look she couldn’t interpret passed between the foreign secretary and the first lord of the Admiralty. She was even more puzzled when they asked to see what figures she might personally have in progress.
Putting the exhibit in the charge of her new assistant, a young medical student trying to fund his education, who cared for the figures as well as Marguerite did herself, she led her esteemed guests to the workroom.
She showed them her current works in progress, re-creations of both Nelson and Hardy, which she was working on from the mask she still retained from the Nelson sitting and the portraits she’d been given of Hardy.
Fox and Grey circled around the partially completed figures, murmuring their appreciation of the artistry in them.
Fox patted his stained waistcoat. “We know, Mrs. Ashby, that Mr. Pitt engaged you to make these figures originally. I’m no fan of the late prime minister’s, but must admit that he was rather a genius in his decision to employ your talents.”
“I’m deeply honored, sir. My mentor, Madame Tussaud, deserves most of the credit for whatever talent I might have.”
“To the contrary, madam, you clearly have natural skills for this sort of work. Even the facial expressions are so very … accurate.”
Charles Grey brought the tips of his fingers together in front of his chest. “I must echo Mr. Fox’s assessment. No wonder the French were momentarily confused. A pity, almost, that we don’t recognize women’s contributions aboard ships. Thank you, Mrs. Ashby, for an enlightening visit.”
The two men departed with promises to call again at the next available opportunity. Marguerite’s only regret was that they had not commissioned any figures during their visit.
“What do you think, Charles?” Grey asked once they had left the exhibition.
“I think you’ve concocted a brilliant plan. I doubt the slightest suspicions will be aroused regarding our little scheme.”
“Excellent. Care to stop by Admiralty House for a drop of brandy?”
“Yet another masterful idea, Grey. I knew including you in the Ministry of All the Talents was one of my more profound decisions.”
Brax praised Marguerite’s new salon effusively. “A superlative rival to the Dublin exhibition,” he said.
Pure flattery, she knew, since he’d never even seen the Dublin salon.
But Brax had more on his mind than mere flattery.
“Would you honor me with your presence to dine at my parents’ town house this evening?”
“Your parents live in London?”
“Just during the Season. I’ve told them all about my dear friend, Mrs. Marguerite Ashby, the incomparable waxworker, and they’re in an absolute pother over meeting you.”
“Really? Well, I hate to disappoint them with my extreme ordinariness, so perhaps I should decline.”
“And spiral them both into a complete knot? I won’t hear of it. Besides, their cook, Mrs. Kenyon, makes an extraordinary partridge
à la Burgundy. A soul is poor indeed without having tried it in his lifetime.”
“I see. I really did intend to just retire to bed early this evening. I’ll be tired after a long day—”
Once again, Brax assumed his pose of wounded suitor, with one hand over his heart. “Dear lady, I shall not be able to eat another morsel of food myself until I know you’ve had the pleasure of Mrs. Kenyon’s culinary temptations. Do you intend to starve me to death?”