The Queen's Dollmaker (34 page)

London, October 1794
. Marguerite was now accompanying Claudette on buying trips for doll supplies. Claudette enjoyed the young girl’s enthusiasm and verve, and her natural eye for color. Béatrice’s daughter also had a gregarious nature that her mother had never possessed, and she easily learned how to charm vendors and negotiate the best deals possible. They, in turn, loved her engaging personality, and frequently confused her as being Claudette’s sister.

Claudette was gradually focusing solely on designing custom dolls for a limited number of select clients, and allowing Marguerite to take care of more of the overall operations. Roger was her trusted man in the shop, supervising the daily work schedule.

No one was surprised when Nicholas proposed marriage to Marguerite, first asking for William’s permission, which was gladly granted. No one, that is, other than Maude Ashby, whose rage reached all the way to Hevington. She sent a letter to Claudette demanding to see her. Claudette courteously invited her to tea at Hevington.

Maude entered the house and, despite herself, was impressed by its grace and beauty. Remembering her mission, she sat down in the drawing room and opened the discussion.

“As you must realize, Claudette—”

“Lady Greycliffe. The king has granted William the rank of baron.”

Mrs. Ashby reddened. “Lady Greycliffe, then. I am in a
most
difficult position. Mr. Ashby and I are naturally very pleased that Nicholas should be marrying the ward of so fine a gentleman as William Greycliffe. However, her unfortunate mother’s
history
suggests that she may not be quite suitable. Plus the girl is involved in such a common trade. That and the fact that William—Lord Greycliffe—has married, well, quite frankly, a bit beneath him. Really, the scandal of it has been quite the talk of society.”

Claudette smiled slowly. “Mrs. Ashby, the only talk in society is of what a beautiful bride Marguerite will be. We are delighted to welcome Nicholas into our family, despite his harridan of a mother, and we expect that you will welcome Marguerite into yours. Of course, we are looking forward to having the lovely couple at our home for our society events, and since you are so displeased with the marriage arrangement, we will make certain to leave you off the guest lists to avoid offending your sensibilities.” She stood to indicate that the conversation was finished. She could see the other woman making furious mental calculations.

Maude sputtered, “Well, now, just a moment, I did not think about…certainly I would never wish to…Lady Greycliffe, I am sure Mr. Ashby and I would be honored to be guests at any of your fine soirées.”

“Indeed, I am sure you would. Good day, Mrs. Ashby.” Claudette left the room, and the housekeeper escorted her guest out. That evening, she and William sent word offering Nicholas the use of their Vauxhall town house as his residence until the wedding, which he gratefully accepted.

Marguerite strove to learn everything she could about dollmaking. Roger showed her the different types of wood, and how to apply varying levels of carving pressure, depending upon wood softness and the depth of impression to be left.

Claudette gave her instruction in how to make doll molds, and how to pour wax into them at just the right temperature, leaving them to set until just the right moment to break the mold apart. Working with wax was an ongoing struggle for Marguerite, but a process she was determined to master.

Together, Claudette and the shop’s seamstress, Agnes, showed her the procedure for clothing design, with Claudette giving over her store of sketches for future reference and Agnes teaching her how to make miniature patterns. Marguerite had already become an expert seamstress under her mother’s tutelage.

Claudette and the young woman were soon working side by side in the shop, designing new
grandes Pandores
. Together they would work far into the night together on one of their new creations to be custom built for one of London’s elite.

In time, Claudette began spending less time working, sometimes feeling almost unneeded, so well run was the shop now. On one occasion, she entered the shop to have Marguerite look up and say, “Why, Aunt Claudette, I didn’t know you were coming today. Honestly, I’m not sure what there is for you to do.”

She shook her head ruefully, knowing that she had wanted to extricate herself from the daily operations of the shop, but missing the regular thrill of holding up a finished creation and having its recipient gasp with pleasure. How life changes, she thought, in ways we can never expect.

September 1795
. Marguerite had gone on a shopping trip for her trousseau, and Claudette had eagerly returned to run the shop for several days. At the end of one day, she closed the door behind the final customer, and threw the bolt to lock it, breathing deeply. Two elderly women, rich and demanding, had tested Claudette’s nerves to the breaking point earlier. They were completely unsatisfied with any samples she showed them, nor could she entice them with rough sketches contained in the shop’s portfolio. The women were sisters, and their great-niece, little Bonnie or Betty or whatever the tiresome child’s name was, simply must have the nicest, most elegant, frankly my dear, the most
expensive
doll to celebrate reaching her eleventh birthday. Shaking her head at the memory, Claudette finished tidying up the shop.

As she was stacking up all of the drawings she had hauled out in her attempt to satisfy the aunts, she heard a scratching at the door followed by a loud thump. Knowing that she was alone in the shop, Claudette hesitated, then approached the window next to the door. Huddled outside was what appeared to be an old vagrant woman, her hair long, matted, and dull brown streaked with white. She was wearing a dress that may have once been a mauve silk, but was now filthy, tattered, and entirely too large for the woman’s emaciated frame. Beneath a stained and dirty headscarf, she was shaking violently and attempting to stand up. The effort was too much, and she collapsed back into a heap.

Claudette unlocked the door’s bolt and cautiously opened the door. The old woman slowly looked up at her, her eyes vacant with near blindness.

“Claudette? Is that you?” whispered the quivering wraith. Claudette bent down to help the woman up. She was nearly weightless. She brought the old woman into the shop and made her comfortable in a chair. Claudette hurriedly made tea, and brought it, along with biscuits, to her sickly guest, gently putting the cup to her lips, and pressing the food into her hand. The woman ate and drank greedily for a moment, then pushed Claudette away.

“No, please, stop. I must t-t-talk to you.” The woman looked directly into Claudette’s eyes and offered a familiar, lopsided grin, showing a mouthful of rotting teeth and reddened gums. Beneath her lower lip was an oozing sore caked with dried pus and blood. Claudette drew back at the sudden realization of who this bedraggled, ancient creature was. Lizbit.

“I loved him, Claudette, truly. But it was no use. He never loved me, and I know it now.

“I met Jean-Philippe during one of my visits to see my aunt, before she died. I first saw him making a speech at Luxembourg Gardens. He was a man beyond all others: passionate about his beliefs, passionate in love, strikingly handsome. But you know this. I swear, at first I did not know that he was your betrothed from childhood. But when we realized we had you in common, it was too late. He possessed my soul. I, of course, possessed my aunt’s fortune to help in his cause, and he convinced me that the cause of the revolutionaries was true and just, that the time for monarchs was finished, and that he needed my help. Help him? I would have slit the queen’s throat personally for him.

“We lived together in his apartment. His landlord frowned upon us as an unmarried couple, but what did I care? I loved him so much, and I knew he was going to be a great man in the new government. I would have done anything—
anything
—to make sure he achieved his goals.

“Jean-Philippe became a close confidant of Robespierre. He believed everything Robespierre had to say about his concept of Virtue, and that elimination of the monarchy had to be accomplished through blood and fire. I got swept away with the idea, too. When Jean-Philippe told me you were trying to help Louis and Marie Antoinette get out of the country, I was more than willing to believe it was true.”

Lizbit paused, wiping her grimy face with her grimier sleeve. Claudette offered a handkerchief, but it only resulted in moving dirt around on her face. Lizbit resumed her story, twisting the handkerchief in her fingers.

“Oh, Claudette, what kind of friend was I? How could I think for a moment that you would do such a thing? Even if you had, how demented had I become that I would permit—no, aid—your arrest and imprisonment?

“But that is what I did. I delivered Jean-Philippe’s forged letter from the queen to you. At the time, I was quite ecstatic that you were being punished. Much to my shame, Claudette, please believe me. I cannot dwell on it for long periods—my guilt and anguish are such that I get blinding headaches when I think much about what I have done to you.”

Lizbit brought the knotted handkerchief to her nose and blew, which sparked a coughing fit. The coughing opened the wound beneath her lip, and it seeped a trail of vile liquid while she talked.

“I met Jean-Philippe at our apartment right after you were dragged off to La Force. He was fiery that night. I had never seen him so zealously self-righteous. I thought our relationship was becoming even more passionate. I never equated it to his concealed obsession for you.” Drops of blood followed behind pus, lightly falling onto Lizbit’s lap.

“Jean-Philippe grew in Robespierre’s esteem. Soon, Robespierre had him doing private investigations into suspected enemies of the nation. Jean-Philippe had his own staff of soldiers to do his bidding. His position as a former attendant on the queen’s staff gave him much knowledge of who was doing what, and which people were royalist sympathizers. At night, he would show me his secret lists of names, and I could always count on seeing them on the newspapers’ condemned lists within a few short days. Robespierre forever praised Jean-Philippe’s thorough work at identifying traitors, and I knew that Jean-Philippe would be at Robespierre’s side when that man took total control of the government. Jean-Philippe would always whisper to me deep in the night of the exalted place I would hold as his partner. He never did make reference to me as his wife, but I overlooked it, so in love with him that I couldn’t imagine that he didn’t intend to marry me. I didn’t understand that he was just exacting his revenge on you with me.

“But things went wrong. Robespierre became obsessed with his idea of Virtue, and began eliminating anyone in his way. His enemies began plotting against him, eventually denouncing him and his followers at the Assembly. Some unknown deputy even demanded Robespierre’s arrest.

“Jean-Philippe’s end came with Robespierre’s. They were seized together last July when Robespierre was at the mayor’s house after having delivered one of his speeches to the Convention. There were others grabbed, as well, including that angel of death Saint-Just, and they were imprisoned in the Tuileries. By the time I realized what had happened and could make my way there the following morning, they had both been hauled away to the guillotine. I ran as fast as I could, and got there as they were dragging my beloved up to the platform. He tried to move forward to make a speech to the gathered spectators, but he was quickly drowned out by the shouting and roaring of the crowd. They didn’t care about him; they wanted to see Robespierre. Jean-Philippe was yanked back before he could say his last words, and they put him under that damned, infernal blade. I cannot forget the sound of the blade traveling in the channel as it made its way to its target. It is like a carriage rumbling behind horses, the wheels squeaking and protesting, until it stops with a great ‘whump.’ And then you find that your beloved’s head is detached and his body is spewing blood everywhere, and the crowd enjoys it—no, relishes it. They
cheered
, Claudette, to see his head cut off.” Lizbit was now sobbing. Claudette thought grimly back to her own near execution, and shuddered.

“Jean-Philippe’s body was thrown to the side, and they dragged Robespierre up. Did you know that they don’t clean anything before executing the next prisoner? His head is simply placed on the same stinking, bloodied neckhole that the previous victim was on just moments before. Robespierre’s jaw was bound up and he was screaming. Someone told me later that he had been shot in the face, but I don’t know if he had been shot by guards or had done it to himself. The blade was used as mercilessly on him as it was on my Jean-Philippe just moments before. His body was also tossed aside, as there were more executions to be completed. Spectators ran forward to dip their handkerchiefs in Robespierre’s blood dripping from the platform. I asked for Jean-Philippe’s body later and arranged for a burial. Some ruffians had dragged his head behind a cart, for blocks. I could not bear to look, and paid a gravedigger to retrieve it and bury it with his body.

“I did not think things could get any worse, but my sins run deep, Claudette, and I realize they must be paid with great misery on my part. I returned to our apartment to grieve. For days I just sat there, curtains pulled tight to prevent any light or life from entering. Eventually I decided that it was time to leave Paris and that existence behind, and went through my things—our things—in preparation to come back to England.

“Imagine my surprise,” Lizbit said, her old eyes bunched up in pain, “to find among his possessions a large doll whose head had been broken off. Inside the doll I found a locket with your picture in it, several old letters from you, and a small box containing a ring set with a large emerald surrounded by pearls.” She laughed hollowly. “An emerald—green, the people’s color. A symbol of all he intended for the future. And this ring was for
you
, Claudette, not me. Never me. All of his talk about having me at his side when the citizens would rule was just his consideration for my feelings. Always he had memories of you tucked away nearby. How often do you imagine he thought of you, Claudette? His true love who had forsaken him? He put you in jail, all the while telling me he hated you for your role in serving the queen and not the people. I wonder how he even slept at night while you were rotting away in La Force. And I! Well, what a fine friend I was. A liar, a betrayer, and a fraud.”

Claudette interrupted. “Lizbit, please, it is over and done with. It doesn’t matter to me. Don’t—”

Lizbit pretended not to hear her protestations. “I left Paris and came back to London, where I began my repentance in earnest. Since I had given all my money to Jean-Philippe, I was nearly penniless. I found myself engaged in service with Simon Briggs. You remember him, don’t you? Now I was also a whore. He placed me first in one of the city’s finer brothels, but the customers didn’t like me. I was pretty enough, but I talked back too much and wouldn’t do anything too perverse. Soon the madam threw me out, and Simon had to move me to a lower-class section of town, where the customers didn’t hesitate to clop me across the head if I talked much beyond ‘Aren’t you a handsome one?’ and ‘That’ll be three quid.’ I lost my looks. My hair seemed to go gray overnight, my teeth soon followed, and I’m pretty sure I contracted the French pox somewhere along the way. I took to drink, the only refuge from my slatternly existence. Simon refused to keep up my wardrobe since I did not earn as much as the other sluts, and I was eventually left with just this dress.” She held up the hem. “This was once a fine gown, even if it was just a dress that a customer gave me because his wife didn’t want it anymore.

“When I finally wasn’t even able to attract more than a few customers each week, down on the docks where they aren’t too picky, Simon hauled me to his rooms one day, enjoyed me, then beat me within an inch of my life and pushed me through his bedroom window to the ground below. I still have glass embedded in my arms and legs, and my lip has never healed from the infection I received from the ground glass that got in my mouth. I prayed that God would let me die there, but He must have had other plans for me, because I continued to live. That was when I knew I had to come to you, Claudette, and seek your forgiveness.

“I wandered about for several days, hungry and crazed from lack of wine. I could not remember where you were in the city. I found a convent. The nuns there took me in, and I tried to get better. It was no use; I’m too ill. I left there, and found my way to you here today.”

Lizbit reached out and gripped Claudette’s hand in her own feverish one. “Claudette, Claudette, please forgive me. Forgive me for being so selfish and faithless.” Her eyes, though almost sightless, were becoming bright.

Claudette patted Lizbit’s clutching hand with her free one. “Lizbit, all is well. I forgive you. Please don’t let it trouble you further. What we need to do now is make you better.” She led Lizbit through the workshop to a small room set up for workers who periodically needed to stay overnight. Tucking Lizbit under the quilt, she told her friend, “We don’t need to talk of this again. Promise me you will try to get better. Tomorrow I will send for a doctor.”

Lizbit looked at her again with sightless eyes and pawed at Claudette’s dress. Grabbing hold, she whispered, “It is too late. Too late. What I have done is unforgivable. I have to pay my penance with my life. Here—” Lizbit reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out a small wrapped parcel which she pushed into Claudette’s hand. “This is for you. My sin offering.”

Claudette put the parcel on the nightstand and bent down to wipe Lizbit’s face with a damp cloth. “Lizbit, just sleep now. In the morning things will seem much better. When you’re well, we will go shopping and buy you ten new dresses and satin slippers to match.” She sat and held Lizbit’s hand until her breathing settled into that of the sleeping. From the bed Claudette reached over and unwrapped the parcel.

Inside were the locket and emerald ring.

Early the next morning, Claudette checked in on her once sharp and witty friend. Lizbit was dead.