“In trouble? How so?” Claudette’s fists were clenched at her side.
“Ha! I know of your late-night peccadilloes with Jack Smythe, who was a good and honest boy until he got into your clutches.”
“My clutches?” Claudette was still uncertain as to which way this was headed. Had Jassy discovered her doll box? Claudette had not checked on it yet today. Or was she following through on her threat of fabrication?
“Yes, your greedy, grasping clutches. How dare you ensnare him into your bed—the bed I gave you!—to conduct an illicit affair. You know that is strictly against household rules. For all I know you are with child right now.”
Ah, so that was how Jassy had played it.
“Or do you know someone in Haymarket who can take care of any trouble you might get into? What have you to say for yourself, girl?”
Claudette breathed deeply. At least Mrs. Ashby did not know about Jack’s midnight errands to Surrey Street. But these accusations were intolerable.
Should I grovel for forgiveness and save our jobs?
The moments passed, Mrs. Ashby waiting impatiently, Mrs. Lundy’s nose quivering with displeasure. Out of the corner of one eye, Claudette saw Jassy pass through the butler’s pantry and look in, her eyes fairly glowing with anticipation and malice.
“Mrs. Ashby,” Claudette began, “I have tolerated much from you. Poor wages, condescension, and the hatred of your other servants. However, what you accuse me of is not only untrue, it is insulting. I have neither the time nor the inclination for any of these so-called peccadilloes with any of the other household staff. That you would listen to an insipid, lying little six-penny wit like Jassy simply shows how astoundingly stupid and self-absorbed you are.”
Mrs. Ashby’s face was mottled with rage and she spoke in her most dangerous tone, the one that typically sent servants and family alike scattering. “You are nothing but a lowly street creature. You have no prospects beyond employment in my home. Do you realize I hold your entire future in my hands and could ruin you in an instant?” She snapped the fingers on one hand in front of her face to emphasize her power.
Claudette’s mouth curved into a smile. “Madam, you may add ‘foolish’ to my description of you. And you may consider my employment with you terminated.”
Flecks of foam appeared in the corner of Maude’s mouth. “You…dare to say…that
you
terminate…
me?
”
“Indeed, madam, I say
au revoir
to you, your wimpy husband, your obnoxious son Nathaniel, and every vicious servant in your household.” Claudette cut a look over to Mrs. Lundy, so the woman would know that she was included in the list of offenders.
“Nicholas is the youngest and only decent living person in this home, besides Jack.”
Without waiting for her mistress’s leave, Claudette turned on her heel and stalked out of the room through the butler’s pantry, Mrs. Ashby’s threats ringing in her ears. “My connections are prestigious. You will not find domestic employment anywhere else in London. In all of England. I’ll see to it.”
Claudette did not bother to turn around, instead colliding with Jassy, who had returned to spy on the conversation. The other servant scuttled out of the way, fearful of Claudette’s unexpected boldness. From the butler’s pantry, Claudette strode hurriedly upstairs, not noticing Nicholas watching her from the second-story landing. She went to the attic, grabbed her doll supplies and scrawled out a note to leave for Jack, then rushed back down two flights to the laundry.
In the basement, Claudette said simply, “We’re leaving this house. Now.”
Béatrice, not really needing an explanation for a command to leave her post, instantly dropped the sheet she was folding to the floor and picked up Marguerite, hugging the child close as she followed Claudette back up the stairs and out of the house. Nicholas was still observing them from his second-floor vantage point.
London, April 1783
. As she surveyed her cramped shop, marveling over its existence, Claudette could not believe her run of good fortune. From their flight from the Ashby home, she and Béatrice found their way back to Reverend Daniels’s house. Although he and his wife half-heartedly chastised Claudette for her rash behavior, in private they agreed that Maude Ashby was perhaps not the most charitable of the Lord’s kingdom, and perhaps the Harrisons were a bit more deserving of that front pew.
Jack Smythe visited one evening the following week after the rest of the Ashby household had gone to bed, bringing with him whatever of the women’s personal belongings he could find in their rooms. Claudette’s haughty departure was the source of endless chatter and gossip. Mrs. Ashby had announced that she had turned Claudette, Béatrice, and “the sniveling brat” out on their ears. Mrs. Lundy was silent on the matter, but Jassy had elevated herself to mythical status among the staff, bragging of her role in discovering the duplicitous behavior of Miss Frenchy Fifi. Miraculously, Jack had escaped punishment, primarily because he was cast in the role of a seduced young lad. Jassy avoided him entirely, cutting short her bragging when he entered a room.
“So all of my nighttime business activities still go unnoticed,” he said, giving the women a quirky grin.
Claudette was relieved that he had escaped Mrs. Ashby’s volatile temper. In the succeeding days, Jack helped the women find this space, and within a month they were able to bid thanks and farewell to the reverend and his wife. It was small and dark, but it was located in the thriving trade area of Cheapside. Claudette had to give up nearly half of their meager savings to secure it for six months. The three of them shared a bed in a corner of the one-room shop, connected on either side by a chandler and a bookseller. She bartered with the chandler for enough tapers to make the inside of the shop somewhat inviting. The two women and Marguerite would wake each morning, hastily cover the bed, and the child would amuse herself on top of it with her own dolls and some other toys they had procured for her. Claudette and Béatrice would carve and dress modest dolls together on a rough wooden table, then take turns standing outside the shop to sell them to passersby.
“Dollies! Little babies! Who will buy my little babies? Only a ha’penny for a dolly!”
Claudette felt humiliated by this kind of selling after the refinement of her father’s shop in Paris, but it seemed to be a common approach here in London for vendors too poor for a proper shop. Sellers of meat pies, brooms, ribbons, flower bunches, and all other manner of goods would walk the streets with baskets or carts, hawking their wares in a singsong voice.
Jack continued coming by every few weeks to pick up the fancier fashion dolls to pass on to the Giffords and other draper shops in exchange for materials. One day, he entered the shop breathlessly, excited by his latest accomplishment. He had convinced several millinery shops to purchase dolls that would be dressed according to their own specifications. They were exacting in their fashion concepts, and demanded that the dollmaker herself visit them so they could discuss designs.
Thus Claudette began venturing out to dress shops to personally collect orders and review fashion sketches for the miniature models. The milliners provided the fabrics and trims that they wanted used for their dolls, and Claudette used the scraps from these consignments for dressing the dolls that now Marguerite sold on the street under Béatrice’s supervision.
Seven-year-old Marguerite was a natural charmer, and knew instinctively how to wink and cajole her way into a sale. Patrons loved the little girl’s fresh boldness, which was just a step from appreciating Claudette’s craftsmanship when Marguerite convinced them to make a purchase.
Claudette became known locally as the “French Dollmaker in Cheapside’s Lane,” and realized that she needed to formally name her shop. She hand-painted a sign for the window that read:
C. L
AURENT
F
ASHION
D
OLLS
F
RENCH AND
E
NGLISH
C. L
AURENT,
P
ROPRIETRESS
Each morning she put a new doll in the window to interest passersby, but rarely did it interest anyone enough to come into the shop. Her trade was primarily with those who used them as tools for selling their own fabrics and clothing, and secondarily through Marguerite’s efforts in hawking outside the shop.
One interested visitor was Nicholas Ashby, who had convinced Jack of his genuine concern for the trio and elicited their location from him. When he arrived, Claudette met him outside, having just returned to the shop after delivering a basket of newly-made dolls to a shop specializing in hats and gloves.
“Nicholas! What a delight to see you. How did you find us? No matter, come inside. Béatrice and Marguerite will be glad to see you.”
Inside the shop, they encountered Béatrice in a coughing fit over a heap of wood shavings, an unfinished doll torso and knife next to the shavings.
Claudette rushed to her side. “Béatrice, the wood dust must be filling your lungs.”
Her friend was covering her mouth with her hand. “No, no, I’m fine. But I think I’ll rest for a while.” She dabbed her lips with a handkerchief from her pocket. “Why, is that Nicholas come to see us?”
Nicholas bent his head down. “Yes, Miss Béatrice. Jack told me where you were. I just wanted to see for myself.”
Béatrice reached out to hug him briefly, and he inhaled the combined scent of burnt wood and glues, with a faint background of lavender. Embarrassed, he quickly disengaged himself.
“Where is your daughter?” he asked.
“That little scamp can’t seem to leave the bookseller next door alone. She is forever borrowing and returning books from him. One day I expect he will have barred her from his shop, but so far she seems to win over any heart she encounters. Except your mother’s, of course. Oh, I am so sorry, Nicholas, I didn’t mean to say that.”
He kept his eyes downcast. “I know, ma’am, what my mother is. She was pretty angry when you left.”
He told them that Maude Ashby had gone fairly apoplectic after their departure, and even now was loathe to hear Claudette’s name mentioned in her presence. Nicholas thought his mother’s primary difficulty was the wounding to her pride when two servants—who should have been completely indebted to her—stalked out of her house. For months she scanned the newspaper each morning at the breakfast table, hoping for news of Claudette’s and Béatrice’s imprisonment in debtor’s prison, “which would only serve those two ungrateful wenches right.” It would have also proved her point that they could not survive without her generosity. James and Nicholas took the brunt of her wrath over the situation, while Jack Smythe had indeed avoided penalty. Nicholas speculated that Jack’s worth as a clever servant led Maude Ashby to affix blame on Claudette, rather than consider that he may have done anything wrong.
“Jassy Brickford is gone now, too,” he added.
Claudette stiffened. “Where is she?”
“Don’t know. She and Mrs. Lundy had a big row, something about a new household position Jassy wanted. Mum wouldn’t hear of giving it to her, and Jassy, well, she sort of lost her mind. Threatened to burn the place down. So Mrs. Lundy fired her, and she ran off with some of our silver plate. Mum was furious at first, but not nearly so mad about Jassy as she was when both of you left.”
Marguerite returned to the shop, taking little interest in Nicholas’s presence, and the four sat together at the worktable to a light meal consisting of small slivers of meat pie and weak ale. Earlier in the day, Béatrice had picked up a small basket of fresh strawberries from a street vendor, and they all shared them. Nicholas’s adoration of Béatrice was blatant to everyone but Marguerite, who gave a lengthy discourse on Mr. Addleston’s latest tome in the front window,
The Life and Opinions of Tristam Shandy, Gentleman
.
“And did you read this all by yourself at your age?” asked her mother.
“Well, no, but Mr. Addleston told me about it, so I didn’t need to read it,” replied Marguerite, utterly unabashed.
Nicholas soon had to leave, before his mother noticed his lengthy absence. He had claimed he was going to see his schoolmaster for some tutoring, but by now she would be wondering where he was. He promised to return soon, but they all knew it would be impossible to conceal his visits from the all-knowing Maude Ashby for long.
As he was leaving, Béatrice pressed a small woolen-clad doll into his hand. “Save this for your first sweetheart,” she said.
“But—” He tried to hand it back to her, words failing him.
She pushed it back again. “You will one day find an eligible young woman your own age, and you might like to give her a token of your affection. Good-bye, Nicholas.”
He looked crestfallen, but pocketed the doll. He left the shop, looking back at them as he went into the busy street.
Claudette’s heart fairly surged to bursting the day she walked to the Giffords’ shop and Diane told her, “We’ve had an inquiry about your dolls, eh?”
“An inquiry?”
“Yes, one of my customers came in with her daughter and the family dressmaker, seeking fabric for a dress for the girl’s natal day celebration. The rich get so carried away with showing off and impressing others. Imagine, that much silk for a ten-year-old to prance around in for a day. Eh, well, it keeps us from starving, so—”
“Madam,” Claudette interrupted. “About the inquiry?”
“Eh, oh yes, the mother asked if the dolls in the window were for sale. I told her they were made especially for the shop. She gave me her calling card and asked that the dollmaker present herself at her house to arrange a commission.”
Claudette felt the earth beginning to shift beneath her, and she suddenly needed great gulps of air to maintain composure. “Someone of wealth wants to see me? To commission one of my dolls?”
“Don’t look so foolish. Does the world come to a standstill because one of these rich snobs deigns to speak to you? Here is her card.”
Claudette mulled over her approach to this new customer for the rest of the day. How could she guarantee a sale for herself? She told Béatrice about her potential customer.
“Have you gone to see her yet?”
“Well, no,” she said sheepishly. “I wanted to tell you first.”
“Claudette! You must go as soon as possible. What a wonderful opportunity for you.”
“Any success I may have would have been impossible without you and Jack.”
They discussed what samples she would take with her to Lady Helen Parshall. Should she take fabric samples as well? Or just fully-dressed dolls? How could she turn this into a regular commission from Lady Parshall and her friends? How do you impress English society?
They turned over various ideas and finally Claudette had an inspiration.
“Béatrice, I know what to do. It would be unique, and would show off the dolls to their best advantage.”
“What?”
“I want you to come with me, dressed as one of the dolls.”
“As
what?
”
“It’s perfect. I’ll fashion gowns for both you and the doll, and we’ll present the doll together. These dolls are half your creation, anyway. Here, I’ll need a bit of your hair for a wig.” She opened a drawer and took out a pair of scissors.
“Claudette! What are you doing?”
“Just a little from the underside, like this.” She lifted the hair from the back of Béatrice’s neck. “A little snip and I will have plenty. There. You cannot tell a single strand is missing.”
Béatrice laughed. “I do hope you are able to make a sale before my head is completely thatched.”
The women worked harder than ever before. Five days later, they walked to the address noted on Lady Parshall’s card. Claudette’s thoughts tumbled together incoherently; she knew she was on the brink of total success or dismal failure. Had Papa ever had a moment like this when he began selling dolls?
“Oh, Claudette, I’m so nervous. I want this to be perfect for you.” Béatrice was wearing a confection of golden silk and lace. A matching hat was dipped low across her forehead, and a large peacock feather was attached jauntily to one side of it. In Claudette’s arms was a wooden box containing the sample doll, now wearing a wig made from Béatrice’s hair, its eyes painted green, and adorned with a miniature outfit that was an exact replica of what she was wearing, even down to the stylish hat.
Walking nervously up to Lady Parshall’s door, they knocked lightly. A maid opened it almost immediately. Obtaining their names, she bade them wait in a receiving room, then went to get the lady of the house. Lady Parshall came sweeping into the room, clearly used to being in charge and having her presence respected. She was tall and thin, and dressed in a sunflower yellow gown of embroidered silk, with fine lace dripping from her elbows and protruding profusely from her bosom. Trailing behind her was a small African boy, dressed in the same bright silk, an elaborate turban on his head. The boy did not acknowledge the presence of his mistress’s guests, but gazed up adoringly at her. He carried with him a small fan of snowy white ostrich feathers. It reminded Claudette distinctly of her forced role with Mrs. Ashby. Only at least this poor boy presumably didn’t have to contend with the aristocracy in the same way.
“So which of you is the dollmaker?”
“I am,” said Claudette. “I am Claudette Laurent, and this is my assistant, Béatrice du Georges.”
“They say you are French,” the woman said flatly.
The women did not respond, unsure if they were being accused of something.
Lady Parshall stared at them impatiently, and tapped one of her satin-clad feet on the large wool carpet covering the floor.
“Sit down, sit down,” she commanded, pointing to chairs covered in embroidery. She took one opposite the women, and the small African boy moved to stand next to her chair. He raised the fan and began to slowly wave it on his mistress. Lady Parshall patted his head absentmindedly, much as one would show affection to a dog.