Versailles, 1783
. The long-awaited Dauphin was now nearly two years old. The child was beautiful, but very fragile from the moment of his arrival on the world stage. His destiny was to be hunchbacked and plagued with persistent fevers and illnesses, worrying his parents constantly.
For now, however, the birth of Louis Joseph recovered Marie Antoinette’s reputation, though she would never regain the worshipful adulation she had experienced when she first crossed from Austria into France.
With her position as wife and mother secure, Marie Antoinette turned her energies to a project she had been contemplating for some time. Summoning the architect Richard Mique, she commissioned an extraordinary building project: that of a pastoral village on the grounds of Versailles. The village contained twelve thatched-roof houses, including a dairy, a fishery, a barn, dovecote, and water mill. The centerpiece of the village was to be the Queen’s House, consisting of two rustic buildings connected by a wooden gallery, ornamented with blue and white earthenware flowerpots with the queen’s initials on them. The house was to contain a dining room, a backgammon room, Chinese room, and both a small and large salon. Later she would add a farm, where she would install a farming couple to supply the queen with eggs, butter, cream, and cheese. The entire village would become known as Marie Antoinette’s beloved Hameau, or Hamlet, and from here she would play the part of a simple shepherdess or farmer’s wife, dressed simply in a white muslin dress and straw hat. Court members learned quickly that while she was at the Hameau, the strict court etiquette that was so firmly a part of life at Versailles was to be abandoned in favor of a more relaxed atmosphere in keeping with the village.
Most of the court hated this, as the severe court etiquette helped establish pecking orders and dominance of status, and it galled many to have someone of lower rank treated equally. Marie Antoinette was firm, though. Life at the Hameau was to be casual and peaceable, and a place where she could retreat with Alex Fersen.
Claudette continued to save money in the little supply box she had rescued from her father’s shop. Even with her new rent and the percentage given to Jack, which was reduced now that she was purchasing her own supplies, she found that by being thrifty she could save even more than she had when living at the Ashbys’. The box began bulging with notes, and she had to secure it with twine to keep it from exploding forth its contents. She casually mentioned to Jack that she might be interested in finding a banker. He introduced her to his banker, a Mr. Benjamin. Claudette was astounded that a servant, particularly one in the Ashby household, should have his own banker, but then, Jack seemed very resourceful about making money. When she asked him about it, he just winked and said, “A man has to look toward the future. I won’t always be a household servant.”
Mr. Benjamin helped her open an account, and also guided her on some investments, proposing that she purchase shares in an American tobacco plantation. Claudette later thanked Jack profusely, for all of Mr. Benjamin’s recommendations became profitable investments, and she was able to reinvest in the shop, and also maintain a decent standard of living for herself, Béatrice, and Marguerite. She even had some new clothing made for the three of them, including pairs of mules dyed to match each of their favorite dresses. The gowns from Mrs. Ashby were sent to a charity box.
That Christmastide they had stuffed capon and roasted vegetables that Béatrice had seasoned with herbs from the garden and cooked in the courtyard oven. They sopped up leftover juices with hot, crusty bread fresh from a nearby baker’s shop. Claudette gave them each gifts: a bottle of rose-scented perfume for Béatrice, and a leather-bound copy of Samuel Johnson’s
Dictionary of the English Language
for Marguerite. The young girl squealed in delight and ran next door to show it to Mr. Addleston, the bookseller, while her mother and Claudette cleaned up from their small feast.
“What do you imagine the Ashbys are eating this evening? Sugared fruits? Pigeon pie? Custard tarts?” asked Béatrice.
“No matter what they are having, it could not be more delicious than what we shared together this evening.”
“To think that two years ago we began toiling for that woman and that awful son of hers. Nathaniel, I mean. Oh, Claudette, what if we had not had your artistic abilities to rescue us?”
“We would have survived. Somehow.”
Claudette had spent the morning in the workshop untangling rolls of wool to be shaped into wigs. So intent was she on the masses of fibers that she did not hear the shop’s bell tinkle. Béatrice ran into the workshop, breathless.
“Claudette, you have a visitor.”
“Who is it?”
“I think you should see for yourself.” She fled the room before she could be questioned further.
Claudette dropped the ball she had been working on and stood up, brushing strands from the front of her skirt before meeting her visitor.
Entering the front of the shop, she froze in shock, and inwardly cursed Béatrice for not warning her.
“Good afternoon, Miss Laurent. I was hoping you could help me select a gift for my mother, who celebrates her fiftieth birthday in a few weeks.” William Greycliffe stood before her, his cynical smile in place as always.
She swallowed a knot of anxiety and offered him a prim smile. “Does your mother currently own any fashion dolls, Mr. Greycliffe? You can select one from our shelves, or we can always make something to her—or your—exact specifications.” She kept her hands clasped together in front of her.
William moved to stand very close to her. She could smell his soap again and she involuntarily breathed deeply. He seemed intent on inhaling her scent as well, and momentarily forgot why he was there.
“Er, yes, yes, I would like to have something special made for my mother.”
“Then please,” she said as she waved him over to a desk with two chairs in the corner of the shop near the fireplace, “let’s discuss the commission.”
Once seated, Claudette picked up a quill pen and slid a sheaf of paper toward her. “Please tell me about your mother’s tastes. For example, would she like a baby doll or an adult doll?”
“Miss Laurent, you are making quite a success of yourself here. You were right when you said you were heir to a great dollmaker.” William’s voice was filled with admiration.
“Yes, Mr. Greycliffe,
I
do not deceive others with my thoughts and intentions.” She felt a protective cold wall building around her.
“Miss Laurent, may I have a private word with you?”
A private word? That could only mean trouble, and she did not intend to have any trouble with this man. She raised her voice slightly.
“Why, sir, a doll commission has never before required a private meeting. I am certain that we may conclude our business right here.”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“Please,”
he said through clenched teeth.
Claudette was defiant. “Have you married Miss Radley?”
“I have.”
“So you are now her devoted husband?”
“I must be. I have to uphold her honor.”
“Oho! So you have sullied her good name by your advances, and now you think to play the gallant. I will not be fooled by you, Mr. Greycliffe, and I most certainly will not become your mistress, as you so obviously intend.”
He looked at her sadly.
She continued in a loud voice, “Now, as you were saying about your mother’s tastes…?”
William stared at her for several moments, then broke eye contact, defeated. He halfheartedly gave her suggestions for a doll his mother might like, and Claudette concluded the transaction by giving him a price to which he immediately agreed.
“Very well, sir, your doll will be ready for you in three weeks’ time. Your mother will be enchanted, I promise you.”
“In three weeks, then, I will return to see you.” He looked at her meaningfully and left the shop.
Béatrice’s eyes were full of questions, but Claudette merely threw her a wry glance and shut herself in the workshop for the remainder of the day.
Claudette worked personally on the commission for Mrs. Greycliffe, not allowing anyone else to see it. She created a doll with curly blond locks and shockingly deep blue eyes. Holding the unfinished body at arm’s length she realized,
Claudette, you silly fool, you have created a miniature of yourself to give that arrogant man
. It gave her an idea.
She dressed the doll in deep blue brocade with wide panniers and a lacy bodice. A wide-brimmed hat adorned with a matching band of brocade and trails of lace sat atop the doll’s hair.
There, Mr. Greycliffe! That’s what I would look like if I moved in your circle. But I don’t; I’m a tradeswoman, and I will never look like this
.
As an added spite, she carved a very tiny doll, only a few inches tall with a simple cotton sack dress, but wearing more of Claudette’s hair. She glued this second doll into the main doll’s hand.
As she wrapped the finished doll in tissue paper to await its pickup she said aloud to the walls, “In case you should forget my rank, Mr. Greycliffe.”
On the appointed day, Claudette avoided being in the shop at all, telling Béatrice she had some shopping to do. The other woman pursed her lips, but said nothing. When she returned later that evening, Béatrice handed her a folded note.
“It’s from Mr. Greycliffe. He seemed quite distressed that you were not in the shop when he arrived.”
Claudette took the note and threw it into the fireplace before succumbing to the temptation to read it. “Please do not mention him to me again.”
Béatrice shook her head and went to bed with her daughter without saying good night.
London, June 1784.
Claudette, Béatrice, and Marguerite finished up a particularly busy week in the doll shop and walked several blocks to a coffee house to treat themselves to a raisin pudding. They had just finished eating at an outdoor table and were listening to the latest news being spread in and out of the coffee house by London’s busiest gossips. Of particular interest was the recent parliamentary election contest between Pitt and Fox. The king, George III, endorsed Pitt, whereas his son the Prince of Wales was a Fox supporter. As if this was not scurrilous tattle enough, the Duchess of Devonshire had been touring the streets and kissing voters to induce them to vote for Fox. Every man in the coffee shop claimed to have been bussed by the beautiful duchess. The Whig Fox was declared the winner, but Pitt’s Tory party was opening an investigation into the election proceedings.
Claudette and Béatrice listened attentively to the political gossip, as they rarely heard any news while buried in the doll shop day after day. Claudette was about to ask one of the other patrons a question about parliamentary procedure when they heard a commotion. A familiar female voice shot across the busy street to them.
“I will
not
be civil, sir. This little cretin purposely threw horse dung at me. If you won’t, I will take him to Newgate myself. He can sit there and think about apologizing to me. And I hope he will be beaten every day and fed moldy biscuits.” Laughter erupted from the crowd gathering around the fuss.
The two friends craned their necks to see around the throng. A woman in an enormous feathered hat held a young boy by the ear. Béatrice said, “Claudette, look! It’s Lizbit. Whatever is she doing?”
“I’d say she’s having a battle with a ten-year-old child.”
The crowd began dispersing, and the urchin in question used the opportunity to slip out of Lizbet’s grasp and scurry out of sight. Béatrice waved wildly and caught Lizbit’s attention. Their friend grabbed her skirts in one hand, held her hat with the other, and darted over. The three were reunited at the coffee house table in a great round of hugs and kisses. Lizbit knelt down to Marguerite. “How you have grown! How old are you now?”
“I’m eight years old.” She held up only six fingers.
“Why, soon I’m going to have to look for husbands for both of us.”
“You haven’t found a duke or prince of the blood yet to marry you?” asked Claudette.
“Alas, there are many of them who would marry me, but would I have them is the pertinent question.” A wink at Marguerite. “I simply cannot decide if I like English or French men better. One likes to be loyal to one’s mother country, but the French men are so passionate and fiery. What I could tell you about them…” She looked again at Marguerite. “Perhaps later. But now I insist that I treat everyone to a Punch and Judy show. Would you like that, little one?”
They spent the afternoon together, their lighthearted chatter quickly traversing the years apart. Lizbit had finally inherited her aunt’s fortune, and was splitting her time between Paris and London, redecorating homes she now owned in each city, and immersing herself in the frenetic social whirls of both places.
Claudette asked eager questions about Paris, soaking in Lizbit’s reports of that vital and pulsating city. She wondered if perhaps she could enlist Lizbit’s help in discovering what may have ever happened to Jean-Philippe and his family. But what information did she really have to go on?
The group returned to the doll shop together so that Claudette could show Lizbit her growing venture into dollmaking. As they rode toward Cheapside, the warm sunshine beamed cheerfully on them while their driver spurred his horse on. Sleepy from their happy day together, the warm air, and the rhythmic clip-clop of the horse’s hooves, Claudette was lulled into a light doze.
They came to a halt at a busy intersection so that cross traffic could pass. The horse’s snuffle of impatience brought Claudette out of her nap.
“Have I bored you already?” Lizbit said. “Is my company less preferable to you than your wee wooden babies?”
“Hardly! I was just enjoying—”
Claudette stopped in mid-sentence. Moving through the intersection was a dark red landau with red spoked wheels, far larger than the hackney transporting the four of them. Two sleek black horses pulled it along effortlessly. Its occupants were seated opposite one another, and each stared out to one side of the carriage.
William Greycliffe again.
Claudette’s universe went white and silent as their carriage went by. Mr. Greycliffe was out for a jaunt with his wife, Lenora. Claudette was alarmed by her appearance. The elegant lady who swept into the Ashby home in her fastidiously brushed fur complementing her glossy hair and perfect teeth was now slatternly and unkempt. Her hair was loose, and its tangles and snarls were not even concealed by a hat. Her eyes darted back and forth from her husband to unseen points outside her side of the carriage. Mysteriously, Lenora barked a short laugh at nothing in particular and looked to her husband for approval. He stared straight ahead and did not give it to her. She continued her random visual fixations.
Why did Mr. Greycliffe’s wife look so…neglected? Like an unfortunate just released from Bedlam. Had her husband been mistreating her? Was that likely? Claudette shivered despite the balmy day. Although she refused to care a fig for the haughty Mr. Greycliffe, the possibility that he was behaving harshly toward his wife both angered and distressed her. He couldn’t be guilty of cruelty, he just couldn’t. Something else must be wrong.
She held her breath as Mr. Greycliffe caught her eye. His stare was serious and piercing and she felt that her soul was an opaque window through which he was radiating his own shaft of light. He dipped his head in a fleeting nod to her before his carriage rumbled out of view.
In all, ten seconds must have passed, but to Claudette it felt like she had endured a day’s worth of waking nightmare. Why? Why did that man rattle her so?
“Enjoying what?” Lizbit cut into her reverie.
“What? Oh, yes, of course, I was just enjoying the lovely day we were having together. Look, we’re moving again. I guess our driver found an open spot. It will be wonderful to finally show you the doll shop. There’s so much to show you. The shop has such a variety of doll sizes and styles. I’ll have to give you—”
“Claudette, what in the name of kingdom come is the matter with you? You’re babbling like you’ve gone completely mutton-headed.”
Claudette laughed despite her anxiety. How good it was to see Lizbit again!
Arriving at the shop, the three women walked around while Marguerite scampered off to the bookseller’s. Lizbit was more impressed than Claudette thought she would be.
“These are lovely. You are becoming the independent woman we talked about.”
“Well, we are not quite successful as of yet. Our living accommodations are barely big enough for the three of us to sleep in. And when Marguerite tosses and turns in her trundle while dreaming, there’s no sleeping for anyone. But we’re managing.”
“I’d say you’ve advanced drastically since the day I met a trio of waifs on board that ship bound for England. Now we need to figure out how to marry you well, even though you are in a trade. Has anyone offered for you yet?” Lizbit’s mind never seemed to stray far from the topic of marriage.
Claudette was silent. She had had little time to think of marriage. In three years, she had lost her parents, her home, and Jean-Philippe, her only love. Definitely her only love. She was only nineteen herself but had endured humiliating servitude, and was now struggling to survive as well as caring for Béatrice and Marguerite. What about Jack Smythe? Jack was near her age, and amusing, but too enveloped in his own secrecies. How could she ever trust a husband like that? The only other man she had had any close contact with was William Greycliffe, and he was galling. Too conceited. Too arrogant. And anyway, he was married to the delightful Lenora Radley now, who was not the woman she was before marrying him. Not that it mattered. It truly didn’t.
“Come now, Claudette, where are you again?” Lizbit’s merry voice brought her back to the present. “Do you have so many suitors that you cannot name them all?” Her laughter tinkled through the shop.
“Not at all. I’ve been too busy to even think of it. But what of you? Gentlemen from both England and the Continent pursuing you—it must be thrilling.”
Béatrice interrupted to plead a headache that required a rest in the bedroom. Once they were alone, Lizbit replied, “La, my travels give me so many opportunities to meet eligible young men. However, a woman in my position cannot be too careful with whom she associates. I would not want to fall into the hands of a fortune-seeker. And they exist both here and in France.”
Claudette smiled at her brash friend. “I can hardly imagine you allowing a young man to take advantage of you. I do, after all, remember how you put Simon Briggs in his place.”
“I did, didn’t I? He deserved much more than the slap I gave him.” Lizbit’s cheerful face turned serious. “But d’you know, I do have to watch out for my person in France these days. Despite its culture and vibrancy we talked of earlier, Paris has changed in the last two years, and not for the better. When I go, I dress shabbily and carry my gowns in trunks that I ship separately. People on the street look askance at others they think might be hoarding wealth.”
“Why is this?” Claudette asked.
“They are furious with King Louis and Marie Antoinette. They think the king and queen are responsible for all of the bad crops and inflation in the country. Their fury extends to anyone they think might be wealthy enough to associate with the royal couple.”
“I had heard this before while still in France. But it’s ridiculous. How can the monarch be to blame for deficient rains and soil conditions?”
Lizbit shrugged. “All I know is the people are unhappy and they grumble loudly. It will get worse if the king does not do something. Their complaints are not entirely without foundation. I hear tell the queen spends extraordinary sums on jewelry and clothing and gifts for her favorites.”
“I have heard this as well,” Claudette said impatiently. “I recall my father telling me that all members of the nobility in Europe do the same thing. Why, even Prinny showers his favorite women with extravagant gifts of land and jewels right here in England. Why is so much abuse heaped upon Marie Antoinette?”
Another shrug. “Perhaps they think the queen simply goes too far. Perhaps she does.”
“I do not believe it.”
“If I were the queen, I would use my fortune to my own ends for certain, but not be so blatant with it. La, let us not argue. We are friends, are we not? What do we care what’s going on hundreds of miles away? It’s getting late. I’ll return tomorrow, and let’s go to Leadenhall Market. They have a man there with the most amazing birds from South America. They talk and perform tricks. Sometimes they even curse in other languages.”
The women agreed to meet the next day and go to see the famous birds together.
Béatrice begged off with illness again the next day. She looked a little flushed and was coughing. “It’s just a touch of the gripe, I’m certain. Enjoy the market.”
Claudette, Lizbit, and Marguerite set off in a hired carriage and were dropped off outside the gate to Leadenhall. The area was teeming with people, and the cacophony from street peddlers and their customers was deafening. Carts and tables were piled high with wares ranging from fruits, vegetables, and fresh slain rabbits, to exotic imports from the Far East. These purveyors of carpets, perfume oils, and cosmetic creams and salves from faraway lands cajoled and flattered passersby into examining their wares. Small wood fires were set in various places where vendors were cooking all manner of meat on sticks for sale. All of the aromas mingled together into one overpowering spicy scent. Claudette had never been to such a large market before and was impressed with all London had to offer. Marguerite was thoroughly dazzled, and the two women each had to hold one of her hands to keep her from wandering off.
“Miss Lizbit! Miss Claudette! Look, it’s the birds.” Marguerite was practically hopping up and down.
A small circle of people had gathered for the performance about to begin. About twenty cages were stacked up in five rows. Each cage held a different brightly-plumed bird. In front of the cages stood their owner and a variety of stands and perches. The man, introducing himself to the audience as Mr. Spively, announced that the people of London were about to observe the most amazing wild animal feats ever witnessed.
He opened one cage and pulled out a gorgeous white bird, with a thick, full, almost fluffy coat, an ebony beak, and an orange crest on his head that the bird lifted for the audience, as though introducing himself.
“Good friends, meet Peaches.” Mr. Spively placed it on a perch and went through a repertoire of words that the sizable bird repeated after him. Peaches clearly enunciated, “God save the king,” “Pour us a pint, love,” and “The rotten napper took your hat!” and received encouraging noises from some of the onlookers. Mr. Spively spied Marguerite edging her way to the front.
“What’s your name, little sprite?” he asked.
“Marguerite du Georges,” she replied, for once shy.
Mr. Spively gave Peaches a quick hand signal, and all of a sudden the bird began rocking back and forth on the perch, shouting, “Marguerite! Marguerite! Marguerite! Du Georges! Du Georges! Du Georges! I want a treat! Give me a sweet! I don’t like meat!”
The small crowd was enchanted with the bird. Lizbit dropped some coins into Mr. Spively’s basket. To Marguerite’s dismay, Peaches was put away, and two more birds brought out and placed on perches. These two were even larger than Peaches, and had long tails. One was a scarlet color, the other was bright blue. They were presented as Ruby and Sapphire. Each bird bowed its head as its name was mentioned.
Mr. Spively whispered a command in Ruby’s ear, and the bird took off, disappearing far into the sky. In a few moments, Mr. Spively gave a long whistle, and soon Ruby came back from seemingly nowhere and landed back on his perch. People cheered and laughed.