A Royal Likeness (48 page)

In no time, they heard the news from men milling about. A great triumph had been had over the French and Spanish combined fleet, yet woe to England, for their great leader, Nelson, was gone.

“Where is
Victory
?” William demanded of a nearby sailor.

“She’ll be in soon. A few weeks, maybe. She took a lot of damage and had to make a stop at Gibraltar. Torn up terrible she was.” The seaman moved on.

Claudette trembled. “A lot of damage? What do you think that means? I can’t bear to wait weeks to know what happened, William. My nerves are frayed as it is. We must—”

William grabbed her elbow and pointed at the gangway. “Look. Do my eyes deceive me?”

Strolling onto land on the arm of a neatly uniformed officer was Marguerite. Her dress looked like it belonged in a charity box, but other than that, she seemed healthy and whole. She was gazing at the young officer and laughing at some joke he was telling.

“Marguerite! Marguerite!” Claudette couldn’t help shouting across the quay like an ill-bred hoyden.

Marguerite heard her name and turned her head to find the source of the shouting. Seeing Claudette and William standing together, she tugged on the officer’s arm and dragged him over. She dropped his arm to throw herself at them. Claudette grabbed the girl in a mix of tears, hugs, kisses, and laughter. William maintained better composure, and shook the hand of the officer.

Claudette held the young woman out at arm’s length. “Marguerite, we’ve been frantic with worry over you. How in the world did you end up staying on
Victory?
Did you meet Lord Nelson? What a sight for worried eyes you are. Were you frightened much? Did you sail through the hurricane? We’ve got to get you changed into better clothes.”

“Aunt Claudette, I’ve looked far more dreadful than this over the last few weeks, believe me. May I introduce my friend, Lieutenant Brax Selwyn, to you? Lieutenant Selwyn captained the ship that returned me home, and was very good company for my weary soul. Were you not, Lieutenant?” Marguerite looked at the officer fondly.

“My dear Mrs. Ashby, to the contrary, it was
you
who provided the delightful companionship. The voyage was pure bliss with your niece aboard, Lord and Lady Greycliffe. She’s told me much about you, and she is indeed fortunate to have you waiting for her.”

“We thank you, Lieutenant, for taking care of our niece. We are greatly indebted to you. But now it’s time to take her home.” William was swiftly concluding the meeting.

Marguerite offered Brax her hand, and he bent over it gallantly. “Mrs. Ashby, I do hope we have an opportunity to meet again. Will you be going straightaway to Dublin?”

“No. I know Uncle William and Aunt Claudette will want me to spend time at Hevington, and besides, I need a rest before thinking
about another sea voyage, short as it may be from Bristol to Dublin.” Actually, she didn’t plan to return to Dublin at all, and had an idea in mind for how to avoid it, but that could wait.

“Hevington, then Dublin. I’ll remember.” He shook hands warmly with William again and walked away, whistling the national anthem.

“Aunt Claudette, I have so much to tell you, but first I would truly like a genuine bath. One with fresh, warm water. Oh, and I have a letter to post from one of the sailors on
Victory
to his wife. I could have put it in
Pickle’s
mail bag, but I wanted to take care of it personally. I owe the poor soul that.”

Within a week Marguerite was settled back at Hevington as though she’d never left. The servants, glad to see her so confident and in high spirits since the long-past days of her bereavement, welcomed her warmly and fussed about her constantly. The Greycliffe children were in awe of her adventurous tales, which were so fantastic they could not quite believe they were true. Little Bitty followed her around with a sketch pad and pencil to capture a drawing of their very own heroine.

Soon friends and families from neighboring estates heard the news of Marguerite’s escapades, and Hevington was filled every evening with guests hanging on her every word over the dining table. It made the Christmas holiday tolerable, given the nation’s general melancholy over Nelson’s death, and Marguerite’s new status was a far cry from the days when the neighbors considered her a bit of an unfortunate.

It was inconceivable to everyone that she had served practically as a crew member aboard
Victory,
alongside the great but lamented Admiral Nelson. Marguerite’s story soon made its way into local newspapers, and eventually into a tiny corner of the
London Gazette,
next to an article about Napoleon repealing the calendar of the French Republic that had been instituted by Robespierre during the Reign of Terror.

The papers also reported on Nelson’s funeral, which was held on January 9, 1806, with great pomp and circumstance in London. A procession of royalty, nobility, politicians, and military men
stretched all the way from Whitehall to St. Paul’s Cathedral, where he was to be buried. He was carried from Greenwich up the River Thames to Whitehall in the coffin given to him after the Battle of the Nile. At Whitehall the admiral was transferred onto an elaborate, open funeral carriage, carved and decorated to look like the bow and stern of
Victory.

People traveled to London from across the country to line the route to St. Paul’s Cathedral. Many of them, eager to catch a glimpse of the hero’s passing hearse, paid handsomely for viewing positions inside the upper floors of homes along the way.

As was customary, the funeral itself was attended only by men, with not even Nelson’s wife, Frances, nor Emma Hamilton, present.

The nation had already been in mourning for the past month, ever since Lieutenant Lapenotière had arrived in London on November 6 with his sorrowful news. The king declared December 5 to be a national day of thanksgiving for the victory at what he formally declared the Battle of Trafalgar. And although Marguerite and the Greycliffes joined their fellow countrymen in this day of gratitude to the Almighty, it was tinged with grief.

But life in England had to resume, for, after all, Bonaparte was still anxiously sniffing at her shores, despite the thrashing he had received in the open waters.

And Marguerite knew it was time for her own life to resume. Two months had passed since she’d last been held in Darden’s tight clasp, and not a single letter had arrived from him. She wondered if he had attended Nelson’s funeral. Surely Brax had. Was Darden back out to sea? She hadn’t spoken of him at all to her family, even to Claudette, in an effort to keep his memory sealed away in her heart where she wouldn’t have to share it.

She tried to muster up some righteous anger toward Darden for turning her aside so easily, but found she couldn’t. After so many weeks aboard
Victory,
she now understood the man’s passion for duty, and how it could override everything else.

Marguerite sighed and picked up her pen again, looking at the crumpled pieces of parchment on the desk around her. She returned to her fifth try of a letter to Madame Tussaud.

I am happy to tell you that I am well and have no cause for complaint as to my health or constitution. Whatever you have heard in Dublin with regard to the great triumph on the seas by Nelson is probably true. And if I know you well, madame, you already have in mind a tableau to mark his great achievement.

We were able to use the Nelson wax figure to deflect the attention of the Redoubtable’s sharpshooters long enough for Victory’s crew to gather sufficient strength to repulse the enemy entirely after our two ships collided. Captain Hardy said the figure probably preserved Nelson for the nation a little longer, and I am grateful to have performed this small service for England.

As for my return to Dublin, I confess that I am heartily sick of ships, storms, and oceans, and the thought of any of the three is a revolting one indeed.

However, dear friend, I do greatly miss you and my life in wax portraiture. I pray Joseph has been your good assistant, as always, and also that the exhibition continues to do well under your good management. I should like to put forth a proposal to you: What would you think of shipping some figures to me and letting me start a permanent location to display whichever figures you have no current use for? I can send them back to you when you wish to use them again. I can make additional figures by your direction. Both collections would stay fresh and updated, and you could simultaneously collect entrance fees on both sides of the Irish Sea.

What would Marie’s reaction be to her proposal? One thing was certain—Marguerite couldn’t endure another sailing.

The last month had been a bit of a setback for Nathaniel. After returning to port he’d gone home to present his mother with a considerable length of heavily embroidered linen, a plum from the merchant ship. She’d looked at him as though he’d offered her a dead rat.

“No letter of marque and still you took a ship? Nathaniel, had you not been fortunate enough to overpower the other ship’s captain, he could have cut your throat and the Admiralty Board would have looked the other way. Son, you’re behaving without even the sense God gave a rooster. You should be following my guidance and looking for an appropriate young lady to marry.”

Not even Nathaniel’s presentation of the value of his share of the take had impressed his mother, although at least his father ran an appreciative eye over his account book.

Fortunate enough?
Nathaniel fumed later over a glass of port. Why didn’t the woman understand that it was his skill that had landed him the French ship? And that small victory was another divine sign that he was meant for his other, greater purpose.

He had been further taken aback when his mother shoved a newspaper under his nose, and he learned that Marguerite Ashby was a local heroine in Kent, having provided a wax figure of Nelson to the navy, putting it up on deck herself to deflect sharpshooter fire away from the men on
Victory.

How had she gotten aboard a man-of-war?
he wondered. Well, the article explained his mother’s stormy mood.

He read further that Marguerite had returned to her relatives at Hevington.

Wait for me there, my sweet, while I attain my own momentous success. Together we’ll be crowned with laurels and live together in perpetual bliss.

Before departing Ash House, he’d made a quick and satisfying visit to Polly’s room, and afterwards gave her the linen he’d initially intended for his mother. The wench showed proper appreciation by kissing him deeply, which aroused him yet again, so he gave her another hour to continue paying her respects to him.

After docking, it had taken him longer to round up his new crew than he’d thought it would. At least Mr. Watson was loyal. A couple of the men had died in drunken brawls, some were back in jail again on other offenses, while others had simply run away with their take, figuring they’d met their obligation to Nathaniel Ashby.

He and Mr. Watson secured as many of the men as they could, then Nathaniel made another trip to Marshalsea prison. He’d found men by not only paying their debts, but by also convincing
them they’d be following in the footsteps of the lately departed Lord Nelson.

Fortunately, once again no one asked him about his letter of marque.

So now they were stealthily approaching the area between Dunkerque and Calais, looking for an obscure garrison he’d heard was tucked away here. Nathaniel told Mr. Watson that he was actually working secretly for Mr. Pitt, to destroy enemy morale by picking off its smaller garrisons one by one. So carried on the tide of Nelson’s victory against the hated Frogs was Mr. Watson that he never questioned Nathaniel’s story.

See, Mother? My men believe in my great genius for seamanship, and you should have, as well.

Which reminded him that he was several days behind on his journal, the one he planned to show Marguerite when they were finally reunited. It detailed all of his mind’s workings, from his various plans and ideas, to his triumphs over his scoffers. He kept the journal locked up in a secret drawer away from his regular ship’s log. It wouldn’t do for just anyone to come across it. He was saving it for Marguerite, to help increase her devotion to him.

The December night air was frigid as they approached the coastline of France. He could swear the same temperature felt at least twenty degrees chillier out on the sea. His men grumbled a bit, too, but not enough to give him cause for concern.

Surely the freezing weather would assist him in his element of surprise, for the French wouldn’t expect a lone English ship to creep up on them. A surprise ambush had worked perfectly well on the French merchant ship, and so it should work equally well on a poorly manned garrison. And one Englishman was worth ten Frogs, anyway.

Mr. Watson motioned toward what looked to be their target. They stayed hidden in a nearby cove until just before daybreak, then sailed out at full speed toward the garrison’s dock. A lone, rumpled-looking soldier came out to greet them, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

“Bonjour, monsieur
Englishman, ‘ow may I ‘elp you?” the soldier called up to where Nathaniel stood on his top deck.

This was not a proper reaction at all. France and England were at war. Didn’t the fool see
Wax Maiden’s
British colors flying off the stern? Where was his fear? Why weren’t the other soldiers dashing about in panic? Perhaps he’d not heard of their crushing defeat at Trafalgar yet to realize their imminent doom.

The cold air carried Nathaniel’s voice readily, so he barely had to raise his voice as he replied in French. “We’re claiming this garrison for Great Britain. I’m sending a deputation down to accept your captain’s surrender. Do not try to escape. All of our cannon and guns are trained on your barracks, prepared to destroy you if you resist.” There, that was a courageous speech that should show them just who they were dealing with.

Instead, the soldier stood there, blinking as if making a calculation, then threw his head back and laughed in the sarcastic, condescending way that only a Frenchman can.