A Royal Likeness (29 page)

After working together in three previous locations, Marguerite, Marie, and Joseph had now established a fluid method for setting up the show in the least amount of time possible. Marie quickly took inventory of what damages had occurred during shipment—an onerous task after this voyage—and made initial notes on what tableaux to set up. Marguerite ensured their living quarters nearby were suitably furnished, hired a tutor for Joseph, and ordered whatever supplies would be needed in the coming months. Joseph, with his advancing lettering and drawing skills, worked on broadsheets and other advertisements for the exhibition, which either Marie or Marguerite would review and take to a local printer for reproduction.

The opening of their new location was delayed by the work required to repair the many damaged figures that had been rescued from the chilly waters of the Irish Sea. This time they had a large workroom in the back of the exhibition area, providing them with plenty of space to start remaking several characters at a time.

Marguerite had never been busier and she was glad for it, relieved to be too preoccupied to give Paul de Philipsthal much thought.

One of their first visitors was Marie’s solicitor in Glasgow, Mr. Curran. He had heard of their planned arrival but refrained from coming round to the exhibition until they opened their doors.

“The
Freeman’s Journal
mentioned a shipwreck with a number of ‘false bodies’ come ashore, so I knew it had to be Madame Tussaud come to Dublin.” Curran’s eyes blinked owlishly behind wire frames. “Mrs. Philipsthal, is your husband, er, here?”

Marguerite kept her hands clasped in front of her. “No, he was lost at sea.”

“Humph, well, I see. Rather an interesting development then for you, isn’t it?”

“Rather. We’ve been too busy since our arrival to pick up a newspaper. What did the reports say?”

“About a hundred on board, only half made it. The captain of the
Earl Moira
was rumored to be drunk and so was blamed for sailing in bad weather. He went down with the ship so there’s no way to know, is there? Some of the bodies were found neat and tidy on the Wharf Bank, some floated in to shore, and some were lost to the depths. There was also an article about your scheme to get the survivors ashore, madame. Very clever. You may find many Dubliners wanting to get a look at them.”

Marguerite could see Marie’s mind working furiously behind her eyes as she asked, “Yes? You think we should not repair them? Leave as they came out of water?”

Curran seemed startled to be asked an opinion on it. “I don’t know. I suspect they will be fascinating under any conditions.”

“Marie, what if we reserved some of the damaged ones that are still not repaired and made a special tableau of the shipwreck? I’d like to do a new model of Joseph for it.”

“Of Nini? Yes, yes, that is fine idea. That’s what we do. Thank you, Mr. Curran, for suggestions.”

Marguerite smiled at the lawyer’s confused countenance as Marie escorted him out of the building so she could get to work straightaway on planning her newest tableau.

HMS
Victory,
off the coast of Toulon, June 1805.
“Hastings, what the deuce is this?” Lord Nelson was waving an official-looking dispatch as Darden walked into the admiral’s cabin.

“Sir?”

“Mr. Pitt wants me to have myself modeled by one of those ridiculous waxworkers. By a—” He squinted at the paper with his one good eye. “By a Marie Tussaud. Except she isn’t in London and he isn’t sure where she is. Not only does he expect me to have it done, he expects me to find her from the middle of the seas! This is a preposterous task for a vice admiral of the white. What is the man thinking? Reclaiming his prime minister’s post has addled his brain.”

“My lord, you
are
a hero to the British people. It seems natural that the government should want you memorialized.”

“Memorials are for dead people, not the living. Anyway, I’m assigning you to find this waxworking creature. Didn’t you visit Madame Tussaud’s exhibit in Edinburgh?”

“Yes, sir, at the castle while I was examining fortifications of the port at Edinburgh.”

“But she’s not still in Edinburgh?”

“No, my lord, the exhibition appears to have left about a year ago to whereabouts unknown.”

“Well, when we return to Portsmouth find her for me, will you?
I think I’ll have her come to Merton to do the model. Perhaps I can convince Pitt to pay for one of my Emma.”

Darden coughed politely. “Do you think he will … extend such an invitation, my lord?”

“No, I suppose not. Although the woman who is the source of all sustenance and life for me should be considered a national heroine.” Nelson shook his head. “No, you’re right of course. For Emma may be the wife of my heart, but to the world she’s just a mistress. And mistresses don’t get recognition beyond what is gossiped about behind cupped hands. Forget what I just said, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Pitt has finally conceded to giving me a bit of leave, so I’ll be at Merton beginning in August. If you can find this Tussaud woman soon enough, bring her to me there.”

“I’ll begin looking for her straightaway, my lord, and will escort her personally.”

As Darden left the admiral’s cabin, Nelson muttered softly, “Ridiculous, making a wax caricature of a vice admiral of the white. I suppose it will at least be amusing for my little girl, Horatia.”

But Darden hardly heard him. What unbelievable luck. Pitt had followed up on his earlier, delicately placed suggestion, and now he had an instruction to spend time finding Madame Marie Tussaud. Which really meant finding Mrs. Ashby once again.

The exhibition had succeeded well with the Irish people, particularly since the two women had employed the same strategy they had in Scotland, using national heroes as their main attractions. Writer Jonathan Swift, scientist Robert Boyle, and an imaginative St. Patrick drew crowds into the exhibition. The shipwreck tableau was also very popular.

Marguerite was cleaning paintbrushes with spirits of turpentine, the fumes making her queasy and threatening to dislodge a cluster of pain to the front of head, when Joseph burst in to where she was working on painting some backdrop scenery that Marie had sketched in pencil.

“Maman wants you, Mrs. Ashby.” It was unspoken among the
three of them that the name Philipsthal should not be mentioned again, so for the past year in Dublin, Marguerite had returned to her previous name.

The boy was gone again before she could ask why. She carefully wrapped the half-cleaned brushes in a cloth to keep them damp and went to find Marie, since Joseph had also disappeared without telling her where Maman was.

She found Marie near the entrance of the exhibition, talking to a patron whose back was to Marguerite. Approaching Marie, she said, “I’m here. Joseph said you wanted—” She stopped and the patron turned around.

“You.” Marguerite blinked stupidly.

“You seem disappointed, Mrs. Ashby.” Lieutenant Darden Hastings gave her a small bow.

“What are you doing here?” She knew she sounded snappish, but the shock had removed her ability to think properly.

“I’m on Lord Nelson’s business with Madame Tussaud. The prime minister wants a wax figure made of the vice admiral, and sent me to find your exhibition. It wasn’t easy. You’ve been moving about quite secretively, it seems.” His statement sounded largely like a question, but a small quirk of his lips told Marguerite that he was not entirely displeased with the chase. She turned her attention to Marie.

“So you are commissioned to model Lord Nelson? Why, madame, this might be your best commission ever. Imagine how a figure of the admiral would draw customers to the exhibition.”

Marie’s hands were clasped in front of her and she smiled slyly.

“I think I’ll remain here. I’ll send you to London instead.”

“Me? Alone? Without you?”

“Not alone. Lieutenant Hastings will take you. You visit admiral at his home to take casts and make figures there.”

“But … but we have no workshop in London. Where will I make the figure?”

“I will arrange a location,” Lieutenant Hastings cut in flatly. “One that meets with your approval, of course.”

“But I need a place to stay. I cannot sleep on the floor among chisels and wax bricks.”

“I will find you suitable rooms, most likely with a widow so that you may have quiet and be in respectable company.”

“Madame—” She turned to Marie, desperately casting about for a reason why this plan was unfeasible. “What of the expense? Surely we cannot afford such extravagance, even if it is for a figure of the esteemed admiral.”

She felt like a hare who has been caught in a trap and is about to be nabbed by the farmer for his cook pot.

“His Majesty’s government will cover the cost,” Hastings continued in his even way. “Please, I beg you not to worry, Mrs. Ashby.”

“I am not worried in the least, Lieutenant,” she retorted, more sharply than she intended. “You will forgive me if I keep my employer’s interests in mind at all times. My concerns were merely a business matter.”

“Of course.” He bowed again, and when he rose Marguerite could see that his lips were compressed in a thin, white line. Had she angered him? Well, what of it? He was here to take her away, when she’d only just survived a shipwreck a year ago?

Oh, Lord. Not another sea voyage. Not so soon. No, no, no.

“Lieutenant, what would be our routing back to London?” she asked.

“Why, I suppose a ship through the Irish Sea and into the channel to Bristol, and from there we will hire a coach to London.”

“And how long a sea journey would that be?” Marguerite fought to remain calm.

“How long? A few days at most. What is the point of this questioning? I assure you that I am trustworthy and you will not be ill-used on the journey.”

Marguerite flamed with embarrassment. How scarlet her cheeks must be! “My apologies. I have discovered that I am a poor sailor, and would prefer if we could keep our sailing to a minimum of time. Could we not cross to Wales and go overland from there?”

“Wales? Mrs. Ashby, we would have to traipse all through the hills of that country. It could take us weeks to reach London. A sailing to Bristol is far better. From there it is only a two-day coach ride to the city.”

“Nevertheless, I prefer hilly ground beneath my feet to the interminable
dipping and cresting of the water, especially of the wicked Irish Sea. The less time spent there, the better.”

“But what you suggest is lunacy. I have to return to my post. And Lord Nelson expects that I will escort you to him with all speed, not take you on the grand tour first.” He brought his hands up in supplication, palms in the air, and looked to Marie for help with his unreasonable passenger.

Marguerite was irritated that Marie did indeed intervene for the hapless lieutenant.

“Marguerite, by doing this you will greatly enhance the exhibition. We no longer have … the other problem … and this will now make us famous. I’m certain. And you get to meet Lord Nelson! The lieutenant will take you there quickly and safely. You do this for me and for the waxworks.”

“But surely you would like to meet the admiral yourself?”

Marie shrugged. “Eh, I meet Bonaparte years ago. Your turn to meet a famous military man.”

So Marie was against her in this, too. She sighed. “As you wish, but I shall despise every minute of it.”

Merton Place, Surrey, August 1805.
Marguerite had to admit to herself that the journey had been uncomplicated, despite her terror of boarding a ship once more, and Lieutenant Hastings had been as affable a companion as could be hoped for. Not that she had ever indicated her appreciation to him. Solicitous after her comfort in his brusque way, he had somehow ensured a minimum of distress and worry for her while at sea. He had also arranged a private coach to take them from Bristol to London. They made one overnight stop in Newbury at a clean, comfortable coaching inn, and he had bowed graciously over her hand before depositing her in her own small but private room. How much it all must have cost!

True to his word, he had secured pleasant lodgings for her in London with a Mrs. Penny, a widow whose husband had been lost in the Battle of the Nile, and he had even gone through her trunks himself to ensure all of her equipment and supplies had arrived undamaged. After giving her until noontime the day following their arrival to rest and recuperate from their journey, he called on her for their visit to Merton, which he said was about six miles away in Surrey. His uniform was crisp and fitted him handsomely. How had he managed to look so impeccable after their long journey? She glanced down at her own gown, an old gray work dress that was dirty around the hem.

She received his bow, which she had to admit she was starting to look forward to.

“Mrs. Ashby, you look refreshed. I hope that you might find meeting Lord Nelson to be particularly enjoyable.”

He held out his arm to take her to yet another waiting coach. This young naval officer seemed a marvel at managing the movement of her and her possessions. No wonder he was valued by the admiral. Drat it all, he had been kind to her and she had been as aloof as possible. Perhaps now was the time for a small concession.

“Lieutenant Hastings, I’m afraid there’s something I must tell you regarding my name.”

Inside their carriage, she told him everything regarding her short and disastrous marriage to Paul de Philipsthal, from his cloying way of courting her, to his devious marriage proposal, to the tragic geggy performance which made her realize his deficient moral fiber, to finally their catastrophic voyage to Dublin. Hastings’s eyes blinked furiously.

In an attempt to grasp her serious lack of judgment, she assumed.

“And you say this man had already relinquished his interest in Madame Tussaud’s exhibition when he made his arrangement with you to do so, if you would marry him?”

Marguerite nodded morosely. “Is there a greater fool than a woman thinking she is undertaking a rescue?”