“Marcel, would you like a treat? Go and see Cook. Tell her I said you are to have a sweet. But just one, Marcel. That’s a good boy.”
Marcel put the fan on a nearby table, bowed elegantly to his mistress, and scampered out. Lady Parshall looked after him briefly, then turned back to her guests, who had been surreptitiously examining the room. It was dominated on one side by a wall of mirrors, and windows on the opposite wall. The sunlight filtering in through the windows reflected off the mirrors and created a dazzling effect in the room. Claudette knew that King Louis XIV had built an enormous Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. Was this Lady Parshall’s attempt to imitate French style? Two tapestries depicting pastoral scenes dominated a third wall. The numerous pieces of furniture crowding the room were ostentatious, but Claudette could see the quality in every piece, particularly in the carved legs of the chairs. Claudette was emotionally transported back to her father’s workshop, where each day she would be greeted by his booming laugh, the fragrance of freshly hewn wood combined with the exhilarating scents of the
parfumerie
two doors down, filling her childish mind with happiness. She had learned to distinguish varying kinds of wood just by smelling her father’s calloused hands.
Seeing her eyes on a gilded writing desk, her hopefully soon-to-be patron said, “You appreciate my furniture, I see.”
“Yes, my lady. My father was once a cabinetmaker and taught me much about wood. These are fine examples.”
Lady Parshall was pleased with the praise. “All of the best furniture makers in England want to receive commissions from me. Anyone I patronize becomes well-known and prosperous. In fact, I rarely have to pay for anything because of the prestige I can bring to a business.”
Claudette felt a prickle on the back of her neck. Was this going to be an unpaid commission with some vague promise of other commissions from Lady Parshall’s friends?
“Would my lady like to see a sample created especially for this day?” Receiving a curt nod, Claudette whispered to Béatrice, “Pull the doll from the bag and show it to Lady Parshall, holding it close to your face as I told you.”
Béatrice slowly reached into the bag and drew out the tissue-wrapped doll, as though she were unearthing a great treasure. She spent even more time unwrapping the doll in her lap, as though the treasure was so delicate and valuable it might break at the slightest pressure. The moment it was free of paper, she whisked the doll up next to her cheek, facing out toward Lady Parshall, tilting toward it with a heart-melting smile.
“Amazing!” exclaimed Lady Parshall. “She has been prepared to look just like your assistant. Her clothing is identical. Give it to me.” She took the doll from Béatrice.
“This hair. It is identical to yours, soft and fine.”
“Yes, my lady,” replied Claudette. “I cut a small lock of my assistant’s hair to create the wig, to give it authenticity. Most dollmakers use coarse fibers for a wig, but I am particular with commissions from important patrons. I believe it makes the doll far more superior; would you agree?”
Lady Parshall ignored Claudette as she began working the doll’s joints, scrutinizing the worth of the clothing, unfastening and refastening hooks, examining underclothing, and running her fingers over the painted face. “It is fantastic quality,” she muttered quietly. She was absorbed several minutes in her task, and seemed to forget that Claudette and Béatrice were still present.
Finally, she looked up and seemed surprised that they were there. She recovered her brisk attitude and said, “Well, how many will you give me?”
“
Give
you, Lady Parshall?” Claudette was now seriously worried.
“Yes. I wish to have four dolls made, one dressed as myself, and one representing each of my three daughters. I will tell you where to purchase fabric to match particular dresses I am having made for each of us. We will each carry these dolls to an affair being given by the Earl of Boxshire at Cobham Hill, his country house in Surrey, next month. You will
give
them to me, and I will see that everyone attending knows who made them.” Lady Parshall stood imperiously. Clearly the interview was at an end, and Claudette was to do exactly as instructed.
Marcel reentered the room, telltale chocolate stains on his ruffled sleeves.
“Marcel, look.” Lady Parshall handed the boy the doll. He took it tentatively, staring at it as though it were an object dropped from the heavens. He looked up at his mistress for guidance as to how to react.
“It is a doll. We are going to get several that look like me and the Misses Camilla, Caroline, and Cecily. They will make us the talk of the town, if poor Miss Laurent here is fortunate.”
Marcel stared back down at the doll, then handed it to Lady Parshall. She turned back to Claudette once more.
“When will you have the dolls to me?”
“Madame…” She hesitated. “It requires great sums to create such high quality dolls, and I have already invested much in my doll business. Would you not consider a small sum in return for the dolls?”
“Deliver the dolls to the back entrance in two weeks. I do not wish tradespeople to be seen at the front entryway.” She swept away from the room, completely ignoring Claudette’s request.
Giving each other long looks, Claudette and Béatrice knew they had no choice but to comply.
Claudette and Béatrice worked feverishly on the four dolls for Lady Parshall. They made two trips to their new benefactress’s home, via the back entrance, so that they could quickly sketch the three girls’ faces and hairstyles, and inspect the gowns they would be wearing to the earl’s party. Fortunately, all of the fabric for the dresses was to be found at the shop of Gerard and Diane Gifford, who warmly welcomed the young dollmaker back. Diane bustled about, helping Claudette.
“Yes, yes, Lady Parshall is a trial, eh? She constantly wants fabric given to her, always with a promise that we will see more business than we can handle because of her remarkable connections. I suppose we have seen more customers—careful, eh, this silk is new and delicate—although no one of the stature of the Earl of Boxshire.” She piled bolts of fabric into Claudette’s arms.
Gerard, meanwhile, was poring through drawers of threads and laces with Béatrice. He said over his shoulder to Claudette, whose head was barely visible behind the tower of material, “My girl, you must not worry about payment until after the dolls are delivered. My wife and I both will help you with Lady Parshall, not because we think she will be of help to you, but because we think your dolls will speak for themselves, and will bring the new customers to our shop for fabric.”
Claudette impulsively threw the bolts onto a table, put her arms around the proprietor’s neck, and planted a kiss on his cheek. Gerard, embarrassed, harrumphed and patted her head awkwardly, before removing her arms and returning to work.
The dolls were delivered carefully wrapped in tissue and tied with bows in colors to match each doll’s gown. Lady Parshall’s three daughters squealed with delight as Claudette presented the dolls, swathed in colorful silks and laces, to their mother.
“I shall be the most sought-after girl there!” gushed Camilla, a dark-eyed girl who would be quite beautiful except for an alarming case of pimples.
“You will not! My doll looks more like me and I shall be asked to dance by every gentleman there.” Her sister, Cecily, a plump blonde, challenged her.
“Mama, please, can I have my doll now? I want to practice holding her for my entrance at Cobham Hill.” Caroline was the most solemn of the three girls, if any of them could be termed solemn.
Lady Parshall ushered the girls out of the room with their dolls and turned to instruct Claudette and Béatrice. “I shall expect that you will not make such dolls for anyone else until after I visit the earl’s home next week. If I hear that you are making dolls like this for anyone else in London—and I do mean anyone—I will find out about it, and I will destroy you. I will not have our special night ruined by lowly tradespeople who think they have a right to interfere with the social activities of their betters.”
The woman clapped her hands, and almost instantly a maid appeared. Lady Parshall informed her that Claudette and Béatrice were not to be permitted back in the house unless they had been summoned. With that, she turned with great purpose and swept out of the back hallway, which was as far as the two women had been allowed to go. The maid escorted them out, and they stood at the back door for several moments, each wondering if they had made the biggest mistake of their lives in agreeing to this folly.
But it was not folly. Three weeks later, at wit’s end because she felt too terrified to produce any dolls whatsoever, much less any that might fall into the hands of Lady Parshall’s friends, Claudette stopped by the Giffords’ fabric shop, and was greeted with delighted laughter. “Eh, Miss Claudette, we’ve been worried because we haven’t seen you. Look at these fabric orders we have from dressmakers all over London.” Diane held up a sheaf of papers. “And many of them have instructions for dolls in matching fabrics!”
Claudette could not believe her ears. Were there actually this many orders coming in? Why such a large quantity?
Diane explained that a special entertainment was being held by the royal family at Queen’s House, and everyone now wanted to copy the fashion set by Lady Parshall.
“You have much work ahead of you, my dear, but you may have helped us all make our mark in London. Imagine if we could obtain trade with the king!”
King George III was not known for extravagance, but he did have a bevy of children. Would his daughters like dolls? Could the Laurent name be one day associated with the king of England?
By October of that year, Claudette realized that they would have to move to bigger quarters. The odors of paint, gesso, hemp, and other materials were a noxious blend. Béatrice was coughing more frequently behind her hand, but refusing to take any rest. Not only that, they were producing more and more dolls for selling to the upper class, and their one-room dwelling was becoming intolerably crowded.
Claudette turned to her one ally, Jack Smythe, to discuss the problem.
“How much do you have saved?” he asked.
“About ten pounds.”
“Don’t know if anyone will rent a decent place to a woman. You may need a backer.”
“I will not need a backer. I shall either do this on my own or not at all. My coppers are as good as anyone’s.”
Jack, who already saw his financial future tied up in Claudette’s, was more than willing to seek new quarters for her if it meant more profits. He found them in the form of a three-room building on Old Bond Street, on the edge of the fashionable district of Mayfair. The structure contained a front shop twenty feet long with a wide brick fireplace on one end and soot covering much of the ceiling, backed by two rooms of ten feet square each. The women could use one room as a bedroom, and the other as a workshop. The workshop had a narrow set of steps leading to a small, unused attic. The bedroom contained a window that overlooked an overgrown garden, which Béatrice promised to put to rights immediately. She ticked off the varieties of medicinal herbs and flowers she would plant to ensure Marguerite would always have a ready treatment should she fall ill again. A shared brick oven was set off to one side of the garden, used by the occupants in four buildings surrounding the courtyard.
The exterior of the building showed that it was at least two centuries old, with its steeply-pitched thatched roof and half-timber construction. All in all, it was old, and would require a great deal of effort to make it habitable, and Claudette loved it.
After Claudette signed the lease—the building had been sitting empty for a year and the landlord would have signed it over to a cart donkey if it had had the ability to pay—the trio moved in with Jack’s help. He found them a cart, which they heaped with what few personal belongings they had and their mountain of dollmaking supplies, and walked the twenty blocks to their new address.
Leaving the cleanup of both the garden and the interior of the building to Béatrice, Claudette worked at setting up the workshop efficiently and arranging the shop’s window to attract customers. Her strategy in her new location was to pack the window view with as many dolls as possible, both the fashion type and little baby dolls. She longed to be able to hire a blacksmith to create a frame for a
grande Pandore,
but she had once again depleted her entire savings relocating. The metal work and extensive fabrics needed for the mannequin doll were financially impossible for the moment. The workshop was also too small to accommodate construction of more than one at a time, and a
grande Pandore
crowding the workshop would preclude any other doll work. Claudette put it out of her mind and instead focused on a new commission for one of Lady Parshall’s friends.
This particular assignment required a doll dressed in a bridal trousseau. Several weeks of work produced one of the finest dolls Claudette had ever made, one she thought would have made her papa proud. She showed it to Béatrice. The doll’s dress of ice-blue satin had a layered collar and gathered waist. A small frill of lace peeped out from under the collar and at the bottom of both long sleeves. The pulled-in waist gave the lower skirt a bell shape. Complementing the doll’s dress was a reticule made of cream-colored brocade dangling from one arm, and a veil made of the same brocade with lace edging.
“Truly, Claudette,” Béatrice gasped. “You are a superb artisan.”
Lady Parshall’s friend apparently agreed, and soon even more orders were pouring in. By the beginning of the following year, Claudette had doll parts, wigs, fabric bolts, and other supplies stacked tall on every available floor and table space.
A new dream was beginning to emerge: that of finding nicer housing accommodations separate from the shop, where she and Béatrice could have their own private rooms. But Claudette tamped down that particularly traitorous dream. How could she possibly think of wasting her savings on establishing permanence in England, when her real dream was to return to France and find Jean-Philippe?
Except Jean-Philippe’s face was getting fuzzy in her recollections, and the memory of his strong arms around her did not comfort her as in the past, now that she had a growing trade to occupy her every waking moment. And there was that intriguing, infuriating William Greycliffe who, despite his engagement—or was he married now?—had taken permanent residence in a small corner of her mind.
Oh, Papa, what should I do?