The Queen's Dollmaker (32 page)

Claudette laughed at the memory, as well, but it reminded her of more serious issues. “But this is what I mean. I am like no highborn Englishwoman. I am in a trade. I am a foreigner. Until I met The Baccelli at Knole, I did not think I could truly move into your social set. Giovanna helped me to see that maybe I could.”

“Indeed, The Baccelli is unconventional as well as a good friend. She should have an honored place at our wedding.”

Claudette looked at him in surprise. “Do you still mean to marry me? After all that has happened? And my pitiful state?”

“I am enchanted by your pitiful state, and more determined than ever that this never happen again to Mistress Greycliffe. But for now, we need to find our way back to England. By now there will be search parties looking for us, and at some point the farmer I visited will hear of a female escapee and her driver and probably be able to put together that I was that driver, given that I sold him a horse and cart belonging to La Force.”

In her painfully thin condition, Claudette could pass for a young boy. They found trousers and a loose shirt for her to wear, and covered her butchered hair with a farmer’s cap. If anyone questioned them, they would say they were brothers heading to a nearby market to buy some sheep on behalf of their father. They headed toward the sun, always keeping to narrow paths and slipping into the forest when possible to avoid all contact with other people. At the end of the first day of walking, Claudette remembered her old friend Jacques, who said he was joining relatives in the town of Versailles after the fire. Upon her suggestion, they shifted direction slightly to head there for rest, more food, and assistance in getting passage back to England.

Paris, September 21, 1792
. The daily criers were still the royal family’s only source of news, other than occasionally smuggled messages, but most materials for note writing had been taken from them, and even such essentials as sewing scissors and shaving soap had been removed from their rooms. In contrast, they were still served elegant meals on silver salvers, and given fine wines to drink, of which only the king partook.

On September 21, the criers announced something incredible in a year full of inconceivable events. Not only was the king deposed, but the monarchy itself was hereby abolished. To give further weight to this declaration, the calendar was officially overhauled, making September 22 the first day of the year, and the names of the months were reconfigured to be named after seasons and nature, such as “Fructidor” (fruit) and “Thermidor” (heat). The new year of the French Republic began with the month of “Vendémiaire,” meaning vintage.

This new year resulted in fresh attacks and dissent among the various factions in the Assembly. Robespierre began gaining prominence as the head of the Mountain, a new group that had taken over the Jacobin Club, and so named because they sat on the highest benches in the Assembly. They wanted a strong central government based on the Parisian point of view, and their central leaders were Robespierre, Danton, Saint-Just, and the followers of Marat and Hébert, who were known as
enragés
, or maniacs. The Mountain concluded that the republic could not move forward unless the previous monarch was eliminated, for good.

Thundering from inside the Assembly, Saint-Just stated that “Louis cannot be judged, he is already judged. He is condemned, for if he is not, the sovereignty of the Republic is not absolute.”

Robespierre added convincingly that Louis had already condemned himself, not for what he had done, but for what he was.

The Assembly did not require convincing. A trial would be held for Louis XVI.

Kent, October 1792
. Claudette and William were married on the sweeping lawns of Hevington on a perfect autumn day, attended only by the local rector, William’s parents, Béatrice, Marguerite, Jolie, the doll shop workers, and the Earl of Pembroke and his highly-prized mistress. Giovanna had insisted upon providing Claudette’s wedding gown, a flowing concoction of pink silk dupion with ivory-laced sleeve flounces trimmed in pearls. A matching veil fluttered down the length of the dress. Giovanna had helped her dress inside the country house and exclaimed, “Sweet signorina, you have done it! You have achieved the matrimonial state. Ah.” Her eyes rolled back. “Now if only you would have some children to play with my John Frederick.”

The teenage Marguerite found much to entertain her at Hevington in the form of one of William’s young grooms. While he was preparing the horses and carriage for the newlywed couple’s honeymoon trip, Marguerite, who was completely uninterested in horsemanship, was apparently enthralled by every word he had to say on the subject. She reappeared in the wedding party only when cake and punch were to be served.

The gift table, laden with presents from well-wishers, was dominated by a crate so large it had to be placed on the floor next to it. Inside, the couple found a spectacular wax replica of Claudette sculpting a doll, an unexpectedly generous gift from Marie Grosholtz. Marie had also managed to get a secret message to the queen regarding the nuptials, so even Marie Antoinette had sent a letter of congratulations, though the letter was tinged with her regrets that Claudette suffered because of her association with the queen. Accompanying the letter was a scented lace handkerchief, a fleur-de-lis design embroidered around the edges in gold thread, the best gift the queen could provide under her reduced circumstances. Claudette later told William it was her most treasured wedding gift.

While William spent time with the earl and Giovanna, Claudette used the opportunity to talk with Béatrice. Her friend’s red-rimmed eyes spoke of her deep happiness intermingled with heartbreak over Claudette’s marriage, which would necessitate her move from their town house.

Claudette kissed Béatrice’s cheek. “All will be well, my dearest friend. Here, I have a wedding gift for you. Take it.”

“A wedding gift for
me?
” Béatrice took the proffered document, which was folded and sealed. Opening it, she found it to be a legal document, granting her the lease of the town house for £1 per annum for the remainder of her life.

Béatrice’s puffy eyes flowed accordingly. Amid protestations and snuffles of thanks, she declared her devotion to her “friend unto death.”

After a round of good wishes, lengthy good-byes, and admonitions to produce many Greycliffe children, the couple was escorted to their carriage. More tearful declarations of affection, accompanied by frantic waving, escorted them down the long drive of the home.

William and Claudette spent time traveling along the coast of Cornwall, enjoying the exhilarating spray of water along its rocky shoreline, savoring each other’s company, and relishing Claudette’s newly found freedom.

She had regained her figure and some of her hair’s length and fullness following her flight from prison. She never again spoke of Jean-Philippe and his mistreatment of her at La Force, and William did not press for details.

After two weeks together in Cornwall, William wanted to return to Hevington for an extended honeymoon, but Claudette insisted that they go back to London. They returned to check on the shop, Claudette assuring herself that things were being well run. The newlywed couple then purchased a spacious, comfortable town home in Vauxhall Lane and sold William’s other London residence, which had been intended for Lenora’s convalescence. They spent much of their time in supervising renovations to their new home: replacing wallpaper, hanging new drapes, reconstructing fireplaces in the popular Georgian style, and making general repairs.

Claudette went to the doll shop periodically to oversee operations and to encourage Béatrice to be more assertive in her handling of the shop. At the same time, Marguerite’s skill as a carver and designer was increasing with astonishing speed.

One early morning, Claudette opened the shop to find a note under the door.

Claudette sighed. So that was how it happened. Whatever Count Fersen had been sending to the queen had been discovered by Jean-Philippe and was deemed a threat to the new government. And Jean-Philippe would have recognized the dolls as being from her shop, particularly with their special insignias engraved on them.

Poor Joseph, he didn’t need to run away; he was just a child caught up in a dangerous game. As soon as someone else arrived at the shop to take care of customers, she would go out and look for the boy and offer him back his job as her apprentice.

Roger Hatfield arrived at the shop, breathless, a few minutes later. “Miss Claudette, er, I mean, Mrs. Greycliffe…is it Lady Greycliffe?” He scratched his curly-haired head.

Claudette smiled. “Roger, let’s just keep it Miss Claudette between us, shall we? What’s your news?”

“Bad news, I’m afraid. Remember little Joseph Cummings? He was just found washed up under Battersea Bridge. Looks like he took his own life. His mother died last week. Must have sent him off his head. Poor mite. Good little worker, too.”

No
, Claudette thought.
Not another life sacrificed to the insatiable beast of the Revolution
. She closed her mind to the thought of the young boy afloat in the murky Thames River. “Does he have any family left in the area? If so, we need to help them. And we need to give him a proper burial, too.”

Under Claudette’s guidance, Béatrice was eventually able to handle the store properly on her own, although she frequently called on her daughter for assistance. Marguerite now spent many hours helping her mother with the administration side of the business, but the young woman enjoyed dollmaking best. Béatrice’s only child had long ago lost any French accent she had had, and with her pert nose and auburn hair arranged fashionably around her face, she looked like any young woman descended from good English stock. When she was comfortable with some of the more mundane management tasks, Claudette easily convinced Béatrice that her teenage daughter should be brought to the front of the store to interact with customers. Her winsome smile only added to her charming exchanges with patrons.

Marguerite’s engaging personality meant that she heard gossip, most of it tales of the House of Hanover—King George’s episodes of madness, the prince’s extravagant spending on his foppish friends and mistresses, and Queen Charlotte’s stifling management of her daughters. But occasionally the gossip had to do with other dollmakers. Some customers would drop hints about other shops as a way to try to elicit discounts.

One woman alluded to better deals to be found elsewhere. “I’m sure I could get this much less expensively at Dunstan and Hegman’s shop. They’ve gotten into trouble with creditors and now all of their merchandise is at discount.”

Claudette responded with a firm “We do not price our goods based on the misfortunes of others, madam,” and ushered her out of the shop.

Other regular patrons were genuinely fascinated by the French dollmaker, and if they dropped information, it was because they had seen another doll or puppet shop elsewhere, and wanted to be sure to let the proprietress of C. Laurent Fashion Dolls know of the competition.

One dollmaking rival, the infamous Pierotti family who had once tried to rob her, did give Claudette some concern. Mr. Henry Pierotti had inherited the business from his father, Domenico, who had brought his family and doll business to London from Northern Italy in 1770. She heard from other customers that this family was also making wax dolls that were of such high quality that they felt like they had real skin. Had the sack of parts she had sent back to them actually been enough for them to not only copy, but improve upon? From beneath a wide country hat that concealed her face, Claudette surreptitiously visited the shop without mentioning it to Béatrice. She surveyed the dolls, which were indeed realistic to the touch. However, the dark beeswax being used made the dolls look stained and streaky. Satisfied that her own techniques were superior, and in any case her clothing was far more exquisite, Claudette returned to her own shop, relieved, but knowing she would have to constantly stay alert for new techniques and fashions in dolls.

Paris, December 1792
. The King of France, now just simply Louis Capet, citizen of France, was brought before the Convention on December 11 to be tried. The National Convention was comprised of the Constitutional and Legislative assemblies and now held executive power in France.

For three hours, Louis sat bravely and answered his accusers’ questions without flinching. His only emotional response was to the accusation that he had caused the blood of Frenchmen to be spilled.

“No, sir!” he cried. “I have never shed the blood of Frenchmen.” He was led away, tears coursing down his face.

The king’s defense was presented on December 26. Few attorneys were willing to serve the disgraced sovereign, but, at last, a seventy-year-old retired attorney named Malesherbes, and a young lawyer named de Sèze, stepped forward courageously. They were given only ten days to examine the documents from the iron chest, which Robespierre had intentionally jumbled into total disarray before handing them over, to ensure the lawyers would have a very difficult time mounting a defense. Ultimately, their defense was pinned on the hope that the Convention could not try the king at all, since it was not a recognized judicial body.

Their strategy failed, since the Mountain had predetermined to offer the king as a sacrifice to the Revolution. The king’s fate was debated for twenty-four days. Those who had assumed the king would be deported were to be appalled by his sentence. An overwhelming majority found Louis Capet guilty. By a hairsbreadth vote, he was condemned to die.

Louis received the news calmly on January 20, 1793. He asked for three days to prepare himself, but was refused this courtesy. He was allowed a visit from an Irish priest, the Abbé Edgeworth, and also permitted a visit with his family. He talked frankly with his wife, whom he had grown to cherish in their shared troubles, despite her transferred affections, which he was aware of but chose to ignore.

“It was inevitable, madame. They are determined to eradicate any vestiges of a king in this country. And what more of a reminder than the king himself?”

It was no use reminding Louis what might have been done by a less stubborn, more decisive king. Besides, in her own way, Marie Antoinette had grown very fond of her husband as well while in captivity.

“Your family will be bereft without you. This is the worst thing that could happen, to us and to France. Oh, why must we be so cursed?” Abandoning all display of royalty, she threw herself into her husband’s arms.

Louis patted her awkwardly as both of their children looked on. “There, there, madame, courage! We are sons and daughters of the royal houses of Bourbon and Hapsburg. You must be both father and mother now, and make sure that the Dauphin successfully makes it back to the throne someday. He must make the Bourbon dynasty great again, to undo what I have wrought.”

She looked up at him through teary eyes. Throughout her marriage, she had learned many things about Louis XVI: his shyness, his abnormal fascination with mechanical things, his irrational obstinacy, and his general slow-wittedness. But this was something new, this calm in the face of death. Dare she say she had never seen her husband so brave?

“Dear husband, I am sorry for anything that has ever been wrong between us.” She put her face to his expansive chest.

“I know. Think nothing of it. You have always been an elegant queen, more than I could have asked for. I have never been displeased with anything you have done, nor with any of your choices of friends.”

The children were becoming distraught watching the unusually tender interchange between their parents. Young Louis Charles burst into tears, with the princesse royale close on his heels. Marie Antoinette wiped her face with her hands, no longer having dainty, lace-edged linens to use, and addressed them both.

“Children, we have a great hardship to endure. Your papa is to be taken away from us permanently. But he will come back to say good-bye once more in the morning, will you not, monsieur?” She looked at Louis, using the name of respect for him that she had throughout her marriage.

“Yes, yes, of course I will return tomorrow morning.” He signaled to the guard that he was ready to leave and turned to the queen one more time.

“Remember to do everything you can to protect our children and to return Louis Charles to the throne one day. Hopefully they will have accomplished all they want by taking me. They will not hurt you, you are just the queen. You must be valiant and endure.” He stepped over to the dressing table and picked something out of the heap of writing papers, clothing, and books strewn upon it.

“Here. Remember this? The little
poupée
of your cherished friend, the Princesse de Lamballe? You must hold her to you like you did that dreadful night. It was a source of comfort to you, wasn’t it?”

Marie Antoinette nodded dumbly. It was, but how was it that she needed that comfort again so soon?

“Sleep well, madame, and I will return in the morning.”

But Louis did not return in the morning. He declined a final visit to his family to spare them yet another parting. Instead, he had eaten a hearty dinner the previous evening, spent time in prayer, slept well with a clean conscience, and in the early hours of January 21, prepared himself as though planning to hold an audience with his advisors.

He was escorted to the scaffold, where he calmly attempted a speech before a stilled crowd. “My people, I die innocent…” he began, but at a prearranged signal a group of drummers sprang to life and drowned him out in their thunder. Moments later, the former king’s head was held up with the cry, “The king is dead; long live the Republic!”

The queen heard the cheers from inside her rooms in the Temple. What did this really mean for the rest of the royal family?

London, January 1793
. Claudette and William pored over the newspaper articles announcing the king’s death and all of the details associated with it. She gripped his hand tightly as he read from the latest account of the execution. Always rivals with the French anyway, English newspapers were unanimously outraged at France’s actions against its sovereign.

William shook his head as he finished the article. “At the bottom of the page is a statement from King George condemning the murder of a reigning monarch. The French have no more regard for their sovereign than they do putting down a lame horse. But what will they do now? They have no real plan for a system of government. They’re just a bunch of vultures trying to pick each other off. There is no rule of law, citizens are beheaded indiscriminately for trifles. It is plain anarchy.”

“But the queen, William, the poor queen. What will happen to her? Do you think she still stands a chance of being exiled?”

“I don’t know. The revolutionaries’ thirst for blood may not be slaked so easily. They seem to have a taste for it, as you well know.”

Claudette was unsettled for weeks, wishing there were some way she could comfort the queen of France. But that dear lady was swept into events beyond anyone’s control. Claudette resolved not to look at any more newspapers and would not even let William read to her from them. Yet still she spent her days in troubled thought.

“Aunt Claudette, we are completely out of gesso. Wasn’t more ordered?” Marguerite’s eyes reflected her concern. At Claudette’s insistence, the doll workroom was always fully stocked with supplies to prevent delayed deliveries.

“Hmm?” Claudette had pulled Joseph Cummings’s letter out of a drawer where she had locked it up after initially reading it. She was lost in contemplation about the poor boy’s senseless death. Just last week his headstone had been erected at St. George the Martyr’s:
JOSEPH CUMMINGS
, 1780–1792,
BELOVED SON AND APPRENTICE
. Claudette purchased very expensive pink marble for the stone, and oversaw its placement herself. She thought to herself that death was really a very exhausting business.

“Claudette, did you hear me? Last month we ran out of wax and now there is no gesso. Is Roger not ordering supplies?”

Claudette forced herself back to the present. “What? Oh, Marguerite. No, your mother took over ordering from Roger. She felt it was something she had a better aptitude for.”

“Where is Mama?”

“I don’t know. I have not seen her yet this morning. Did she leave your lodgings ahead of you?”

“I thought she had, but I did not check. Since we took over your flat as well, we keep our own separate spaces for privacy.”

Leaving the shop in Roger’s capable hands, Claudette and Marguerite walked rapidly to the lodging house still run by Mrs. Jenkins. All was quiet in Béatrice’s side of the flat. They peeked into her bedchamber, and saw her moving restlessly under the blankets. Marguerite rushed to her side.

“Mama, what’s wrong? Are you ill?”

Claudette approached the bed and could see that Béatrice was ill, indeed. Her face was in high color and she was shivering violently beneath the blanket.

Béatrice smiled up weakly at her daughter. “It’s nothing, darling. I’m just a bit tired.”

“Tired? Mama! You’re burning up with fever!”

Marguerite turned wild eyes to Claudette. “Did you know about this?”

“Certainly not. Your mother has never complained of anything to me.”

“Ohhhh,” Béatrice moaned in pain, rolling to one side.

“Mama, what is it?”

“Just a little pain in my side. It only hurts when I breathe deeply. I am sure it’s just a little tightening of my muscles.” Béatrice’s teeth began to chatter.

Claudette ran down a flight of steps. “Mrs. Jenkins! Please, we need a doctor right away. Mrs. du Georges is very ill.”

A physician appeared shortly, with Mrs. Jenkins on his heels. While the doctor examined Béatrice, Mrs. Jenkins fussed over her, fluffing pillows and giving her sips of water. The doctor came out of the bedchamber after an hour, shaking his head gravely, and delivered the bad news: an advanced state of pleurisy. He recommended a bleeding, as large a one as the patient could tolerate. After that, she should be made to rest and to drink warmed barley-water with a little honey or jelly of currants mixed with it. This was done with expediency, but with no improvement in her condition. In fact, she seemed weaker.

Claudette hired a watcher to sit with Béatrice during the day while she was at the shop, then she and Marguerite took turns at the bedside each night. Claudette caught the woman pilfering through Béatrice’s belongings and fired her on the spot. Another watcher she employed showed up dead drunk most mornings. Mrs. Jenkins volunteered to sit with Béatrice after that, and did so sacrificially, becoming pale and wan herself as the days dragged on and she disregarded her own basic needs to serve her patient.

William had his own family physician visit Béatrice, but the verdict was worse: no chance for recovery. Béatrice began quickly slipping away, sleeping most hours of the day and waking because of thirst. One evening she sat up in bed, more alert and responsive than on any other day since they had found her. She called Claudette and Marguerite to her side.

“Dearest Claudette, you have been such a friend to me these past years. After Alexandre died, I did not think I could survive, but you have been my savior.” She clutched her friend’s hand inside her own hot and dry one. Claudette, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, demurred.

“No, you must listen to me. Claudette, I love you second only to Marguerite. I would die a happy woman if I thought that she would go into your keeping. Swear to me that you will treat her as your own. Bring her into the doll shop as you brought me.” Béatrice’s eyes were becoming glazed. She gripped Claudette’s hand tightly. “Swear it!”

“Dear friend, you need have no worries on that score. Marguerite is like a daughter to me, and she will have everything you might have ever wished for her. In fact, I shall make her the inheritress of the shop.” Claudette brushed back the hair from Béatrice’s face and kissed her forehead. “Now rest and get well, so that we need have no more of this talk.”

Béatrice closed her eyes to sleep, a peaceful smile on her face and the lines of worry erased from around her eyes. She awoke only two more times over the next few days, once in a delirium in which she asked for more soap to finish the laundry, and then once more, crying out for Alexandre. She passed away quietly on April 10, 1793.

Béatrice was buried on an achingly beautiful day, in a grave next to Joseph Cummings. Blinking into the sunshine as Reverend Daniels droned on at the grave site, Claudette thought that it was just the sort of day Béatrice might twitter on about—the warmth of the sun, the smell of honeysuckle wafting in the air, the happiness of children playing in the parks. How Claudette would miss that irritating twittering. William felt her shudder, and pulled her close.

Next to her, Marguerite stared dully into space, hearing and seeing nothing. She would not allow Claudette to touch her, and took little food, having remained secluded in the room Claudette and William gave her in their town home. Mrs. Jenkins, also present at the funeral, along with all of the doll shop employees, was in the process of packing Béatrice and Marguerite’s belongings so they could be brought to her new home.

Jolie had thrown up her hands in frustration. “Madame, she will not allow me to dress her, or even comb her hair.”