“Elizabeth, this is my friend, Béatrice, and her daughter, Marguerite.”
Béatrice recovered enough to nudge Marguerite. “Marguerite, please give your greeting to Mademoiselle Elizabeth.”
“
Bonjour,
Mademoiselle Lizabut…Mademoiselle Bizalit…Zibeth…Lizbit?
Bonjour,
Mademoiselle Lizbit!”
The three women laughed congenially at the child’s mispronunciation of Elizabeth’s name. The newly christened shipmate declared, “Well, if this young lady says I am to be Lizbit, then so shall it be!”
Briggs’s performance now forgotten, the three women continued chatting and sharing stories until a deckhand came down to announce that Captain Briggs wanted all women aboard ship planning to seek employment in England to come topside for instructions.
“Well, my friends, I suppose we depart from each other here. It has been a pleasure to meet you. May we meet again.” Elizabeth, now Lizbit, stood and made an exaggerated curtsy to Claudette and Béatrice, who had stood up to go to the upper deck.
“Now, when we dock, you ladies look your best. The rich folk will come to the dock to see you and decide if they want to take you home.” Briggs was speaking, and periodically poking his tongue in his cheek, as though playing with something loose.
“Monsieur, what will our wages be?” a tiny blond girl piped up.
“Well, now, that just depends on how much your employer thinks you are worth. And you’ll be giving me part of the take, since I’ll be helping you in getting your situations arranged. No more questions. Here are contracts for you to sign.”
Briggs had two younger women sitting near him distribute the contract sheets to the group of women seeking employment, which Claudette estimated to number about forty-five. Most women were quickly scribbling their signatures on the contracts. When she received hers, she glanced down at it, and saw immediately that it was written in English. Surely most of these Frenchwomen could only read French, even if they could speak some English. What were they signing? She peered closely at the paper. Béatrice was about to sign her own contract, but Claudette stopped her. “Wait,” she whispered. “We don’t know what this is.”
Claudette raised a hand to be noticed over the laughter and excitement of the other girls. “Monsieur Briggs! Monsieur Briggs, please, I have a question.”
Captain Briggs looked up from where he was collecting signed contracts. Squinting in Claudette’s direction he replied, “What do you want?”
“What does it mean about a commission of fifty percent?”
The captain shifted uncomfortably. “You can read? Well, well. The commission is what you give me for helping you find employment.”
Claudette pursed her lips and approached him. “You will take fifty percent of my wages for as long as I am employed?”
“Yes, yes, I’m giving you free passage to England, am I not? What, are you one of those learned girls? You think knowing a bit of English makes you better than the rest of the girls here?”
“No, but fifty percent, monsieur, it seems a little high.”
“Then you can just go back to France for all I care. But not on this ship! Find your own passage. I don’t take with ingratitude.”
“Monsieur, I am grateful for your help, but just trying to understand my position. What kind of positions exactly will we have? And we should know what our wages might be.”
Briggs laughed and called over one of his mates. “Hey, Jemmy, get your lazy, barnacled arse over here and listen to this. This chippy thinks she deserves special privileges for her free passage on my ship!” Both men dissolved into laughter.
“What’s yer name?”
Confused by their laughter but not wanting to be played a fool, Claudette drew herself up as tall as she could. “I am Claudette Renée Laurent.”
“Well, Mistress Laurent, you might be playing a great lady, but it’s dead serious work. Now sign here.”
At that moment, a commotion caused by two women vomiting overboard, victims of seasickness, or perhaps the several-day-old fish served at dinner, sent Briggs away, shouting to the other women to move off. He threw the contracts down onto a nearby barrel, and Claudette inserted hers in the middle of the pile without signing it. She signaled to Béatrice to bring her contract over, and placed Béatrice’s unsigned contract in the center of the sheaf as well. With Marguerite in tow, the two women retreated into the ship to seek Lizbit’s counsel. Lizbit was outraged, but refused to say why, merely advising Claudette and Béatrice to leave the ship as soon as possible.
Having been in France a full nine years, Marie Antoinette had learned that royal popularity was easily soured, and, once lost, not easily regained. The public was initially wild about the young archduchess, with her pleasing manner and elegant grace, and delighted to read in the local newspapers about her salons, dinners, and influence on fashion. But when no heir was produced, whispering started that would not stop. A daughter, Marie-Thérèse, later known as Princesse Royale, had finally been born in December 1778, but a son, the long-sought heir in the Bourbon line, was nowhere in sight.
The queen despaired of fulfilling the sole purpose of her life in France. Everyone at court whispered behind closed doors, speculating about her ability to produce a boy. Was it the king or the queen who was infertile? Or was the queen unable to, er,
inspire
the king to his duties?
Her mother, the empress, continued writing letters regarding her intimate life with the king, inquiring about such personal details as the frequency of their bed-sharing, and also the regularity of “Generale Krottendorf’s” appearance. “For if the Generale arrives with regularity each month, daughter, you are certain to get with child soon.”
In reaction to the constant probing and prying about such a delicate situation, the queen developed—in an eloquent fashion—a cultivated private life. Only a very few trusted souls were brought into her inner circle to share in her new private life, the Princesse de Lamballe and Axel Fersen being primary members of this group.
The queen organized, and participated in, theatricals of her own devising as a means of escaping the oppressiveness of everyday court life. These plays were fanciful and silly, but harmless, and she loved escaping her daily life by performing. The king approved and welcomed his wife’s changes, which also included the abandonment of heavy makeup and the adoption of plainer clothes in place of ostentatious court dress. Marie Antoinette could frequently be seen strolling about the sculptured gardens of Versailles without any jewels adorning her neck, fingers, hair, or clothing, and wearing the simplest of muslin gowns with not so much as a stitch of embroidery on them. Many of the senior women of the French court were severely disapproving of this escape from court tradition, and vengefully gossiped that she was guilty of the sin of pride.
Another victim of her new lifestyle was Rose Bertin, the queen’s couturier.
“Majesty.” The Duchesse de Cosse, mistress of the robes, entered the queen’s chamber clutching the wardrobe book and a pincushion. “Would you like to select your outfits for today?”
The queen was expected to select several clothing changes each day. One dress might be for breakfast and taking a short walk afterward. Another might be a horse-riding habit, should she choose to follow the king on the hunt. Yet another change of apparel was required for receiving visitors later in the day, and perhaps a fourth change for a supper party. The queen sat up in her canopied bed topped with ostrich feathers and turned the pages of the well-worn book, each page cataloging a separate outfit with swatches of fabric, lace, and other trims attached. It was her privilege each morning to mark the pages containing selections she wished to see by inserting a sharp pin into the appropriate pages. The mistress of the robes then had the porters bring in taffeta-covered baskets containing the apparel for the queen’s final approval.
The queen flipped past the pages of Flemish laces and East Indian silks, and arrived at the back of the book, which contained newer creations. She marked three pages with pins, and handed the book and pincushion back to the duchesse, thinking that her choices created an ensemble Count Fersen might find flattering on his planned visit that day. The duchesse curtsied appropriately and backed out of the room, her face in a scowl over the queen’s distasteful selection. She knew exactly whom to see before giving the book to the porters.
Twenty minutes later, the queen heard a soft scratching at the door. One of her ladies entered, apologizing for the intrusion, but before she could state her mission, a loud voice behind her drowned the woman out.
“Madame! This is outrageous!” A large, overbearing woman stalked into the chamber, waving the queen’s selections in her hand. The other woman quickly fled the room.
The queen sighed good-naturedly. “What ails you today, Madame Bertin?”
“This.” She held the wardrobe book pages out to the queen. “Surely you wish to wear something more suitable, instead of a peasant’s costume?”
Rose Bertin was one of few people with such familiar access to the queen, who relied on the dressmaker heavily for the creation of extravagant court outfits. Such was Rose’s influence with the queen, and subsequently with all the court ladies, that she was referred to as the Minister of Fashion.
Marie Antoinette ignored the proffered pages. “I have no court business today, so what I have chosen pleases me very much.”
Bertin tamped down her impatience. Really, this simplicity phase of the queen’s was intolerable. Rose Bertin had built her considerable reputation largely on the queen’s patronage. The more extravagant a gown she wore, the more profitable her business, as ladies of the court flocked to her shop to imitate what the queen was wearing. However, no one wanted to wear a commoner’s garb. And there was little profit in outfitting someone who did.
“But it is unseemly for the most important woman in Europe to be dressed so, so…shamefully.”
The queen laughed lightly. “Unseemly for the monarchy, or unseemly for Madame Bertin?”
The couturier reddened, but pressed her case. “Your Majesty,” she cajoled. “The people love to see their queen dressed regally so they can admire her.”
The famous Hapsburg lower lip jutted out, a sure sign of impending stubbornness.
“The last thing the people care for is to see me strolling about in finery. I am pleased with the light blue muslin and straw hat I selected. In fact, I think I should like a pink sash for my waist. Please tell the duchesse this.”
Bertin made no move to leave, her mind still furiously working to concoct a way to convince the queen to abandon her love affair with common garb.
Marie Antoinette prompted her. “You will need to tell the duchesse right away, before the porters have finished gathering my clothing.”
Madame Bertin huffed, but realized she could push the queen no further. She departed with the wardrobe book pages still in her hand, tossing them to the lady-in-waiting posted outside the door. “Tell the Duchesse de Cosse that the Antoinette wants a pink sash to go with the splendid milkmaid’s dress she is wearing today,” she said imperiously, hardly glancing at the woman. The woman gaped at Bertin’s coarseness in referring to the queen just outside her bedchamber. After all, most people talked badly about the queen out of earshot, and in whispers.
As for Marie Antoinette, she could not please the people of her country, no matter how she dressed. Only the birth of a Dauphin could soothe them and return her to a favored place in their affections.
London pier was teeming with every species of life imaginable. The confusion of dock workers, stray animals, and travelers was disorienting, and was comparable to the chaos Claudette had experienced during the fire, less the acrid smell of burning wood. However, the odor of rotting offal that seemed to be everywhere gagged her similarly, and brought her tamped-down memories to life again. Had she just lost Mama and Papa forty-eight hours ago? Did Jean-Philippe and his parents know that her parents were gone? Were they looking for her? She fought back a sob. The sound of Simon Briggs’s voice brought her out of her daze.
“You ladies gather round here,” he directed once they had disembarked. “We’ve got some customers coming up now. Smile, show them how agreeable you are.”
Most of the women, barely out of their teens, had no idea how to demonstrate that they were “agreeable,” and so just smiled and called out inane things like, “Here, sir!” “Pick me, sir!” and “I’m a hard worker!” Their voices were a cacophony of French voices sprinkled with occasional English. Several finely dressed men approached the group, and looked the women over as though appraising thoroughbreds.
Lizbit appeared behind Claudette and Béatrice. “I think it is time to make your exit from this fine company of associates. Follow me.” The three women and Marguerite joined hands and started walking casually away from the congregation, slipping away as the customers began making their selections among the newcomers.
They were about to step into the dusty street at the end of the dock when they heard a shout behind them. “You nasty little sluts get back here! I’ll beat each of your arses until they bleed.” Simon Briggs and Jemmy were running toward them, the other women and customers staring after them. Seeing the trio of women and the small child running away, with their ship’s captain in hot pursuit, the other women began chattering among themselves frantically. Lizbit stopped and turned around. “Run, ladies! They want to soil your virtue!”
Panic ensued among the remaining women, as they attempted to move away from the prospective “employers.” Some of the women ran back onto the ship, while others scattered in other directions off the landing pier. Realizing his situation was completely out of control, Briggs scurried back to reassure his customers, shouting at Jemmy to “Round up them whores or I’ll have your hide as well.”
Béatrice had swung Marguerite up in her arms as the three women continued their escape. Lizbit led them down several roughly cobbled streets and narrow alleyways, until she felt reasonably certain that Briggs was no longer going to pursue them.
“Well! That was simply exhilarating, was it not?” Lizbit’s hair was tumbling out from her hat, and part of the heel had snapped off one of her shoes. She removed the broken mule and held it up. “What a fine remembrance of our escapade. I shall treasure it always.” She laughed, clenching her footwear and shaking it.
Claudette was damp with perspiration and fright. Béatrice was red-faced and panting heavily, with her daughter sniffling miserably at her side. Lizbit said, “My goodness! Did our little adventure knock the wind out of you? I know, let’s stop somewhere for tea and plan what to do with you.”
Lizbit treated the women to a light meal at a nearby coffee house so they could regain their composure, and offered a suggestion.
“You want honest work here in London, right? My aunt would be of no help at all—she keeps her fortune locked up tightly and cannot bear to see a farthing go to anyone other than her precious architect—but I think there’s a better way. Let’s find a church parish that would take you in and help you to find work. They would feed you and provide you with a reference, I’m sure.”
Getting no response from Béatrice other than a pathetic, pleading look for help, Claudette accepted for them both. They trudged through Southwark until they found a fruit vendor who pointed them to St. George the Martyr’s. Amid kisses and embraces of professed friendship at the steps of the church, the three vowed to reunite in the future, after Lizbit became a Woman of Substance and Claudette a Woman of Independence. Privately, Claudette thanked Lizbit profusely.
“Lizbit, I will be ever grateful to you. I will never be fooled by a man like Simon Briggs again.”
“My dear, don’t ever let any man make a fool of you.”
“I promise.” She looked over to where the curate’s wife was chatting gaily to Béatrice and Marguerite about her herb garden. Béatrice understood minimal English but gave the woman her devoted attention. “I have too much responsibility now to allow myself to be deceived by anyone.”
Lizbit followed her gaze. “I fear you will grow up very quickly.”
Versailles, March 1781.
Marie Antoinette had been in mourning since November of the previous year, when a messenger reported that her mother, Empress Maria Theresa, had died following a protracted illness. However, now she hugged herself with a secret: she was certain she was
enceinte.
This time it simply must be a boy.
Perhaps,
she thought,
I should have the new art tutor for the king’s sister, Madame Elisabeth, paint a picture of the country’s queen in glowing health from carrying the nation’s heir.
Such a portrait would require a new gown, one that flattered her emerging condition. And perhaps she should be painted next to the royal cradle. A new one should be purchased in anticipation of the heir, who should not sleep anywhere that another mortal had, even his sister. The cradle should be gilded, as befitting a future king.
She would speak to Louis about the purchases as soon as she shared her secret with him. She wondered fleetingly if a gold-leafed cradle cost a significant amount of money.
Oh bother,
Marie Antoinette thought.
I have no head for money, and the people see how simply I try to live. Monsieur the king will decide.