A Royal Likeness (33 page)

“Gentlemen, I thank you both for your kindness, but I assure you that I will be quite cautious on my journey. Although, Captain Hastings, I do appreciate your suggestion about my cloak and will unpack it now. But then I really must be on my way.”

She put down her reticule and retrieved a heavy woolen cape from her luggage, and the three of them went onto the street where the drayer Marguerite had hired was waiting. Darden took over instructing the man and his crew on loading particulars, while Brax hailed a hackney and helped Marguerite with her personal bags onto it. She planned to go to the nearest carriage stop, where she would pick up a public coach to Portsmouth.

Darden returned, his forehead glistening with perspiration for his efforts, just as Brax was about to hand Marguerite into the hackney.

“Mrs. Ashby,” Darden said, “may I thank you on behalf of Lord Nelson and Mr. Pitt for the service you have done in the war effort?”

Marguerite smiled. Darden was always so stiff and proper. “It was my pleasure and honor, sir, to do this small thing for England. And I pray you will both be safe and well and return to England whole.”

“Oh pish,” interrupted Brax. “You’re such a stuffed hen, Hastings. Mrs. Ashby, I know I will personally slash the throats of a hundred French sailors to hurry the war to a close so that I might see you again. But, alas, you will be far away in Dublin, so after dispatching all of the Frenchmen, I might have to turn my sword on myself in my grief.”

“Indeed, Lieutenant? Then you will have no ability to try to find me, will you?”

“Ah, the lady speaks truth! Therefore I will endeavor to save myself after saving England from the French, so that I might spend the rest of my life searching for my fair maid Marian.”

Brax handed Marguerite into the carriage. Just as it was about to lurch forward, Brax called for it to halt. He opened the door and jumped in, taking the seat opposite her.

“I nearly forgot. I brought this for your journey. Fare thee well, Mrs. Ashby.” He lay the twine-wrapped box on the seat next to her and took her hand, kissing it while looking up at her face with large doe eyes.

He leaped back out just as nimbly, to where Darden remained glowering at the curb.

As she pulled away, she saw Brax offering Darden his hand with a broad grin and Darden turning away to walk in the opposite direction.

Marguerite’s traveling companions changed throughout the day as the coach stopped at various points. At midmorning she finally opened the box Brax had given her. Inside were a variety of biscuits and treats, which she shared with the other salivating passengers. Buried at the bottom of the box was a little parcel, which she unwrapped to find a tiny purple porcelain violet. The flower of lovers’ potions. She hurriedly dropped it into her reticule before any of the other passengers noticed it. As she closed the bag she noticed the corner of an envelope inside. What was this? Had Brax also managed to slip something into her reticule when she wasn’t looking? She pulled out an unsealed letter with her first name written across the front.

What a touching letter. Did he really care so much what she thought, or was he merely seeking correspondence with a woman prior to sailing for war? She had heard it was common for a sailor to find an unattached woman to whom he could pledge his heart, just to give him courage and a reason to survive his trials. But Darden Hastings did not strike her as a desperate man. Well, she might not see him again anyway, so it was best not to worry on it.

By the time her public coach stopped at an inn for the night, just outside of Guildford, she was exhausted and immediately fell into a deep sleep. Her sleep was interrupted in the early morning hours by her bedmate, Mrs. Chudderley, who was in the coach headed for Portsmouth. The woman’s snoring was enough to waken a dead man, despite the fact that the woman was lying on her stomach. Marguerite shook her head. Impossible. Unable to
sleep any longer, she rose and got ready for the day’s journey in the dawn’s light. After brushing her hair and getting dressed again in her green dress from the previous day, she sat at the room’s small table to read a page of a week-old newspaper that someone had left behind. Mrs. Chudderley still rattled the walls.

The paper talked only of Nelson, Nelson, Nelson. The entire hope of the nation was on this man. Would that he have success and beat the French once and for all. She thought of Darden and Brax, too, both on their way to join Nelson’s fleet. She said a quick prayer for their safety and bravery.

Finally, Mrs. Chudderley was rolling over and snorting herself awake. She helped the woman get ready herself, then they joined the rest of the passengers to finish their journey.

Portsmouth, September 15, 1805.
Marguerite was now grateful for her woolen cloak, as drab as it was in faded sepia tones from its once rich chocolate color. It was not only very chilly at the harbor this morning, but it was crawling with every manner of man, some respectful and some leering. She pulled the cloak closer to her. Between it and her three traveling bags surrounding her, she felt some modicum of defense against the dockyard’s assault of noise and stench.

How would she ever find the cart bearing her figures in this chaotic melee?

Before her loomed HMS
Victory,
at least four stories tall and gleaming from fresh bands of paint in ochre and black around the entire hull. The admiral’s pennant flapped gaily from the topsail, a sign that Nelson was here. Atop several other masts waved the Union Jack, the new flag created to recognize the formation of the United Kingdom upon Ireland’s official union with Great Britain.

Hanging down the bow of the ship was a rope thicker than Marguerite’s body, suspended from pulleys. Surely such enormous coils of rope must be connected to an anchor hidden below the surface of the water. Sailors scrambled on and off
Victory,
carrying foodstuffs and barrels of beer and brandy on board, as well as dragging cannonballs, grapeshot, and other materials of war on carts
across the gangplank. From far up in the air, sailors crawled about on the masts like little monkeys, coils of rope in their arms as they unfurled and adjusted sails. The smell of hot tar permeated the air.

Sailors of many nationalities, ranging in age from mere boys to grizzled old men scurried about, dressed in what could hardly be called uniforms, given the extent to which no man’s clothes entirely matched another’s in style or color. They yelled at one another in English, Dutch, Portuguese, and Italian as they sorted through the stocks of supplies on the quay, determining what was to go aboard and where it was to be located. The tense excitement was palpable, and Marguerite shivered.

But she was not the only female at the docks. A few wives and sweethearts had come to say good-bye, and several women had set up lean-tos, selling items that the sailors would not receive from the navy on their journey, like small wheels of hard cheese, and warm blankets. A man of the cloth sought out the faithful and unbelievers alike and pressed Bibles in their hands.

Conversely, a handful of prostitutes sauntered about, offering their wares as well, catcalling to the men hastening about their business. Marguerite watched as one of the sailors threw his arm about one of the prostitutes and led her around the back of a small, orange brick building, returning less than two minutes later, whistling. The woman followed him shortly thereafter, straightening her shabby skirt and calling out to another jack.

Marguerite shivered again.

Who could help her deduce where the wax figures might be? She shielded her eyes from the sun and looked up to the topmost deck of
Victory.
There was practically no chance she’d see Darden up there, so why bother? She could see what looked like officers up there, but it was hard to tell.

“Miss, can I help you with something?” a gentle voice said from behind her.

She whirled around in surprise. It was the minister, a kindly smile on his face.

“No, thank you anyway. Well, maybe you can. A wagon of goods was supposed to arrive here today for loading on
Victory,
and I’m not sure how to go about looking for it.”

“A wagon of goods? Nothing unlawful, I hope?” His smile was still intact, but his voice had a harder edge to it.

“No no, it’s something special for Lord Nelson.”

“Of course it is, my dear. Of course it is. Well, you may want to check over there.” He pointed to the brick building where the sailor and the doxy had just emerged from the back. “Someone at the storehouse should be able to help you with anything that’s been delivered here at Pompey.”

She managed to pick up all three bags herself and take them with her. The inside of the building was another beehive of commotion, except that the stench of too many unwashed bodies in close confinement, with their jabbering and shouting to clerks behind a counter, added a particular urgency to her mission. She managed to jostle her way past a bulk of people up to a counter where a harassed and flustered man with dark circles under his eyes stood over a large ledger with a quill pen in his hand. His fingers on both hands were stained with black ink.

“Yes, miss?” he asked. “Were you next?”

“Yes. No. I mean, I’m looking for a cart that was supposed to be delivering some goods to
Victory
in my name.”

“Which is?”

“Oh. Marguerite Louise Ashby.”

He examined his ledger, flipping pages backward and forward several times and running a blackened finger down the columns. “Here it is. ‘Marguerite Louise Ashby of Madame Tussaud’s.’” He started in surprise. “Madame Tussaud? How do I know that name?”

No need to tell him she was delivering wax figures to His Majesty’s fleet!

“She’s an artist.”

He scratched his head. “Don’t know why I’d know her, then. Well, here you go.” He sketched out a rough map for her. The figures were several blocks away.

She thanked him profusely and scurried as fast as she could with her baggage out of the crowded building.

The wagon and four horses were left untended exactly where the clerk told her they would be. She did a quick visual survey of what was loaded on it. Everything appeared to be there.

Now what? Do I stand here until the driver decides to return, or should I walk this to the gangplank of Victory?

As she stood with one hand against the side of the wagon, debating with herself, the driver came running up, wiping crumbs from his mouth, the smell of beer strong on him.

“Sorry, miss, is this your load? I was getting around to taking your stuff to the ship. Truly I was. My crew’s off somewhere spending money, I ’spect, so there’s no one to help you unload your crates.”

“What about you?”

“Oh no, miss. I’m just a driver, not a laborer.”

Marguerite refrained from muttering an oath, instead saying, “Please, just take me back to the ship as quickly as you can.” She threw her bags on top of the load and climbed up onto the seat next to the driver.

He gave her an appreciative look. “Never did see a woman scramble up here before.”

“Please, sir, I just need to get to
Victory.
It’s very important to Lord Nelson.”

He winked. “Sure it is, miss, sure it is.”

And with a cluck of his tongue he started his horses moving forward.

As they rolled up as close to the ship as possible, Marguerite half slid, half jumped out of the driver’s seat. She didn’t dare look down at what her dress must look like at this point.

“Now, sir, what will it cost to have you help me load these figures?”

The driver opened his eyes wide. “Why, miss, I told you. I’m just a driver.”

“How much?”

He scratched his chin, which was sorely in need of a shave.

“Well now, I s’pose a crown would enable me to help you get everything taken down from the cart. And for another half crown you can have a little cart I’ve got back there. But I’m not going aboard. No, sir. Next thing I know I’ll be pressed on, and I’m not going to be part of no stinking navy and certainly not part of any war with the French.”

“You are kindness itself, sir,” Marguerite replied.

He dropped his reins on the bench as he climbed out himself. “That indeed be true, miss. My mother always said so.”

Twenty minutes later, Marguerite stood alone with a pile of personal belongings, waxworking supplies, and two crates holding the figures of Nelson and Hardy. Supposing that her personal effects and tools would be safe enough on the dock while she loaded the figures—and what choice did she have anyway?—she struggled to lift one of the crates holding a figure onto the wheeled cart the driver had left her. She was soon perspiring mightily from the effort despite the nippy air, but managed to get the crate plus a small bag of tools on it securely enough to walk it to the gangplank. Before stepping on, she looked up one more time, hoping to see Darden on the quarterdeck, but it was no use. With the sun in her eyes it was impossible to see anything, much less identify a specific man in the pandemonium of the upper deck.