The Queen's Dollmaker (7 page)

Besides Nicholas, the only friend they had in the household was an undersized youth of about eighteen named Jack Smythe. His big personality more than made up for his lack of stature, and he openly welcomed the two French women. Jack did not appear to have any one specific job, although much of his time was spent running errands and delivering messages, since he was small and quick and could move about town swiftly. Jack lived in the basement with the other male servants, but Claudette had witnessed him more than one night creeping out the window at one end of the attic and sliding down the ivy-covered side of the house, off on some adventure. He always made an appearance each morning when he was supposed to, and never seemed to lack for sleep. It was a relief to know there was one servant in the household who wouldn’t happily see them thrown into the Thames.

Each evening, regardless of how exhausted they were, Claudette and Béatrice met in one of their rooms after Marguerite had been put to bed in a trundle on the floor of Béatrice’s room, to talk over their day and give each other comfort. When possible, Claudette would bring up leftover desserts and other scraps to supplement their regular meager meals, taken with the other servants after the family had eaten. Claudette pretended not to notice Béatrice’s raw and scaly hands and flushed face, and Béatrice deliberately ignored Claudette’s noticeable weight loss. They even tried to make light about their existence, each expressing envy over the other’s lot.

“Béatrice, if only I were you and could hide in the laundry, far from the prying eyes of Mrs. Lundy and that horrible little Jassy Brickford, I would just iron all day and make the crispest bed-sheets anyone had ever seen. In fact, I would happily
wear
a bed-sheet to get out of this apron and cap.”

“Don’t be silly! You have the opportunity to see all of the Ashbys’ interesting friends and guests. Just think, soon you might get to meet some of them. Not only that, you have access to all of the dishes, and therefore pose a much better chance of tossing one of those infernal English teacups at Jassy than I do.”

The two women could laugh and cry happily during these moments, returning to their separate beds to fall into a weary sleep until waking up the following dawn to begin again. Usually dreamless, Claudette’s sleep was sometimes punctuated with sharp, dramatic images of Jean-Philippe, whom she had now not seen in nearly a year. In her dreams he appeared in boldly colored clothing in hues of red or turquoise or violet, always reaching out to her with something in his hand. Sometimes a rose, or a book, sometimes the locket she had given him. Always he was whispering her name over and over. Claudette woke from these dreams shaking and damp with sweat. To calm herself, she would pull up the chain from her neck, kiss her betrothal ring, then slide it around so that it rested under her cheek. The discomfort of it distracted her from her troubled thoughts. Usually her mind drifted back to the day Jean-Philippe gave it to her.

Jean-Philippe had become more and more animated on a single topic during their walks together, always talking about what Gamain had to say about the world.

“Do you know, Claudette, Monsieur Gamain says that the American colonists had the right idea. That we in France suffer under the same oppressions as they did. He thinks it is the fault of the king and queen, that they are taxing us outrageously and spending the money frivolously on themselves. He says we should be throwing off the yoke of monarchy.”

“Jean-Philippe, hush. You cannot say that about our sovereigns. It’s, why…it’s treason!”

“Maybe. Is it treason to want justice?”

The two walked more often in silence now, breaking their stride only for surreptitious embraces, or for more exposition on the extraordinary wisdom of Monsieur Gamain. Claudette delighted in having Jean-Philippe’s arms—now growing stronger because of his demanding daily work tasks and even sprouting dark, curly hairs between wrist and elbow—encircling her small waist as they leaned against a tree to nuzzle each other. Even more breathtaking were his professions of love, and his plans for their future together once he was released from his apprenticeship. Claudette’s singular bliss was spoiled only by Jean-Philippe’s periodic return to the subject of the exceptional Monsieur Gamain.

“Did you know that the queen hosts supper parties and loses thousands of francs a night playing cards? Monsieur Gamain says the queen spends money all day long on clothes, jewelry, and gifts for her friends. Also, they say that the queen commits unnatural acts with her friends. She has orgies in the shrubbery at Versailles.”

Laughter bubbled up uncontrollably in Claudette’s throat. “Jean-Philippe, what a ridiculous story. The queen of France, whom we have both met and found to be a picture of innocence, dallying immorally inside some hydrangea bushes! I could no more believe that than if you said she had sprouted wings and was now flying about Paris and landing on trees. I think your employer is toying with you.”

“Monsieur Gamain says the queen has over five hundred servants, and that she even has someone whose special job it is to hand her a glass of water whenever she is thirsty. It’s a crushing burden to those of us in the bourgeoisie—and the peasants—to pay for them. Why do we need to bear the burden for it, Claudette?”

But Jean-Philippe forgot about the people’s burden whenever he held Claudette, and she forgot about the ubiquitous Monsieur Gamain during those moments of tender embraces and soft whisperings of affection.

On a cloudless day in June, the two were on their usual walk and had wandered into the Jardin des Plantes, spending time in its intricate maze. Afterward, instead of seeking a bench ideally positioned to observe the populace, as they typically enjoyed doing, Jean-Philippe guided Claudette farther into the center of the park and spread a blanket under a centuries-old oak tree with a canopy nearly thirty feet across. Once seated, Jean-Philippe awkwardly rambled about his feelings for Claudette. When he became nearly incoherent, she interrupted him. “I know that you love me, and that when we are of age we will be married. Are you trying to tell me something else?”

He paused to gather his thoughts again. “Claudette, I have been saving what little I earn, and I have something for you. It is a poor gift for you, but I hope you will accept it until I can afford one that is more worthy of you.” He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a tiny package wrapped in string.

Claudette opened it. Inside was a small pewter ring. The band was simple, topped with an intricately formed knot. She stared at it for several moments, not quite understanding. Jean-Philippe lifted the ring from her palm and turned her hand over to put it on her third finger.

“Little dove, this ring is my promise of marriage when we are eighteen and I can leave the yoke of my apprenticeship. Will you marry me in two years?”

She stared down at the ring in disbelief that this was happening. She managed to whisper, “Of course.” She reached up and removed her locket—the only piece of jewelry she had owned until now—from her neck, and gave it to Jean-Philippe as a symbol of her return promise. They sealed the betrothal with a kiss and a pledge to keep the engagement a secret until his apprenticeship was finished.

They rose together from the ground, ignoring the blanket. Jean-Philippe took Claudette’s arm in his, patting her hand with his opposite hand as they walked. He whistled happily as they strolled through the park as though it were any other day together, and she blushed furiously, sure that this was what it felt like to be a grown woman out with her devoted husband.

Claudette kept her betrothal secret from her parents, and Jean-Philippe did likewise, knowing that his parents would be furious to know that he was jeopardizing his apprenticeship. Both sets of parents assumed the two were still just childhood playmates, and allowed them to see each other as frequently as ever.

Because Jean-Philippe had a small income now from Monsieur Gamain, their times together consisted of more than just walks and stolen kisses. In addition to picnics in parks, they attended plays and sat in coffee houses. Claudette felt very grown-up to have her first cup of coffee, a bitter brew that she downed anyway because it made her feel sophisticated. Jean-Philippe laughed and praised her brave attempt at liking the popular beverage. Often, though, he remained serious.

“Gamain tells me that the middle class—that’s us, Claudette—is completely shut out of politics. The aristocracy and the priests have all the say in the running of France. We make up most of the population, yet we have no influence. The American colonists are fighting to get control of the government. We should do the same.”

“But Jean-Philippe,” Claudette protested, walking alongside him on the cobblestones down a narrow street of tightly fitted houses with pink and red flowers exploding from window boxes. “Aren’t the colonists trying to establish a separate country, since they are so far away from England? We live right here with our government.”

Jean-Philippe was confused, but only for a moment. “It doesn’t matter; the French people must have a voice. Now, little dove, I have just been paid and must treat you to a custard.”

He took her hand in his arm and lovingly stroked it again. Claudette forgot all about Gamain, the colonists, and the troubles of France. A girl in love has no memory beyond what her beloved has last done for her.

As she lay in her narrow bed now, her memories were blotted out by the dull ache of loneliness and misery that had taken permanent residence in her heart.

As part of Maude Ashby’s ongoing efforts to elevate her family back to the status to which she deemed was her due, she frequently staged parties. At first, she invited neighbors and business associates of James’s, not those who were her true intended target, but a good stepping-stone until her reputation improved. By offering surprise entertainments, such as the time she had a trained monkey performing at one of her social gatherings, she ensured her reputation as a remarkable hostess. Slowly, she was building what she considered her “clientele” at her parties. With each party, she discarded a few people from her invitation list whom she now considered herself having passed by socially, and invited a few new representatives of the elite, whose ranks she desperately wanted to join. Even though she could hardly say that her parties were exclusive and her invitations in great demand, still she kept a restricted invitation list as a way to generate a sense of exclusivity for her events. For several days she had been mulling over an idea for further social advancement, rolling it back and forth in her mind, finally deciding it would be to her advantage, and arranging in her usual fashion to set things in motion.

She went to James in his study, smoothing her skirt and practicing her best smile. “Mr. Ashby, I think it’s time to have another dinner party. Don’t you agree?”

James Ashby looked up from his book in surprise. When had Maude ever consulted him about one of her parties? For that matter, when had she last spoken to him civilly, without the veiled reference to his inadequacies as a husband, father, and provider?

“W-why, yes, my dear, if it makes you happy.”

She sighed, exasperated. “James, it does not make me
happy,
but it does provide me—I mean, you—with an opportunity to mingle with the right sort of people. Not only that, I have an idea that will set us apart as unique members of society.”

As Maude Ashby proceeded to tell her husband of her original idea, certain to gain the respect and admiration of everyone in attendance, James Ashby gazed past his wife at a painting on the wall, already drifting off to thoughts of going to the club the following day with one of his friends, to drink brandy and smoke cigars away from the infernal carping at home.

“She wants you to do
what?”
Béatrice was incredulous. “But Claudette, Mrs. Ashby does not like either of us. Why does she want you to do this after all of these months here?”

“I don’t know, Béatrice. But I suppose I am to do as I am commanded, no matter how ridiculous I will appear. I imagine I will have the opportunity to meet all of those interesting people you are hoping the Ashbys know.”

“If only you could meet someone who could help us get out of here. How I would love to miss just a day of cleaning Nathaniel’s filthy breeches. I believe he purposely wipes bugs and mud on them to make my work especially hard.”

Claudette hugged her friend. “Well, I don’t know that anyone the Ashbys know would be a friend to us, but I do know that Mrs. Ashby is giving me several new dresses in payment for my role, and I plan to share them with you.”

Jassy was furious. How could that little French bitch be getting elevated to the position of lady’s maid? Why, Mrs. Ashby ain’t never had a lady’s maid, and if she was all of a sudden getting that high in society, well then it might as well be Jassy in that position.

After all,
she thought,
I been here almost four years, and I know how to dress hair, I do indeed. Didn’t I always do my aunt Mary’s hair all them years before she passed? If it wasn’t for that French la-di-da and her mousy little friend, I’d now be lady’s maid, and a lady’s maid can catch a better man than a kitchen wench.
Jassy’s eyes narrowed. It weren’t fair, and that stuck-up, high-and-mighty kitchen slut was going to have to reckon with Jassy Brickford before long.

Preparations for the Ashbys’ latest party, now publicized on invitations as “Soirée à la Français,” went on day and night for weeks, sending the entire household into a frenzy. Carpets were beaten, linens aired, and silver polished. James frequently took to staying out at Brooks’s Gentlemen’s Club until late hours to avoid his wife’s incessant grumbling about how these parties are just so
difficult,
but it is all part of her sacrifice to save the family name and fortune, which was just so
unfortunately
lost.

Nicholas and Nathaniel watched with interest all of the goings-on. Nicholas volunteered to carry things down to the laundry, and would mysteriously take an hour at a time to do so. Most of the servants and other family members were too preoccupied to notice. When Nathaniel wasn’t scavenging leftovers from Cook’s trial pastries, he occupied himself with considering what kind of practical joke he could play on one of the guests. A spider in a wine glass? No, too silly—he was getting too old for such baby tricks. Perhaps he could set a small fire outside and panic all of the partygoers. No, his father didn’t get mad often, but a trick like that would ensure the perpetrator would be the recipient of a beating, and he probably couldn’t pass it off as Nicholas’s idea. No, it would have to be simple, yet untraceable.

In her new, temporary designation as lady’s maid, Claudette was given hours of instruction as to how she was to position herself behind Mrs. Ashby (“Always behind my left shoulder, close enough that I do not have to raise my voice to issue you an instruction, but far enough away that I shan’t have you tripping on me. I don’t want to actually sense you are behind me, I just want to know that if I reach behind me to drop my napkin, you will of course be there to catch it”). The lessons went on interminably. When to say something to guests (only when Mrs. Ashby was showing her off), when to smile, when to look serious, when to leave the room, when to say something glowing about her mistress, how to serve wine to her mistress in a humble yet adoring manner, determining the right moment to say something solicitous to her mistress.

The deportment lessons were punctuated with lessons on how to do Mrs. Ashby’s hair (“What if something falls out of place? People will simply
expect
you to take care of me immediately.”). She also received instruction on how to subtly apply rouge and powder to Mrs. Ashby’s face in the event it wore off (“So that I always look my best. It is so important that I look
magnificent
all evening.”)

Mrs. Ashby’s final admonition after weeks of this training was, “Just think—if you do well, I might actually keep you as my lady’s maid. What a splendid promotion for you. And how envious of me the other ladies will be.”

Claudette choked back her internal desire to scream by smiling dumbly at her employer. She comforted herself with the knowledge that she would be getting a small, but new, wardrobe that she could share with Béatrice. During fittings she requested that the garments be made a little more loosely so that Béatrice’s slightly larger frame would fit them. Mrs. Ashby certainly did not allow Claudette to have any fine fabrics, but compared to the uniform she had been trapped in, the clothing—including one actual gown—was heaven-sent. The seamstress had attempted to imitate a French fashion that unfortunately was about ten years out of date. Marie Antoinette was keeping a busy fashion industry even more hectic with drastic changes in acceptable colors and styles every season. The fabrics, though, were more than serviceable and of good quality. They reminded Claudette of the fabrics her father used to dress dolls for customers, and she found herself longing for Paris and its comfortable smells and noisy streets, for her parents and their cozy doll shop, and most of all, for Jean-Philippe. Perhaps dead, perhaps alive. Could she one day get back to France to find him?

The morning of the party was glorious, nature not daring to disobey Mrs. Ashby’s command for perfect sunshine with a slight breeze. The frenzy of the past weeks culminated in one final push of polishing, dusting, and cleaning. A cache of genuine beeswax candles, normally kept stored away, were brought out and placed in the freshly buffed silver candelabra and sconces all over the ground floor. The intoxicating smell of artfully arranged fresh flowers permeated the house as they stood at attention in vases on tables and sideboards. The boys did not escape the household improvements. They were scrubbed until raw, then fitted into matching breeches and jackets, even though they were firmly instructed that they would be spending less than an hour with the guests before being sent to their rooms. Mr. Ashby was dressed in his finest waistcoat as well.

Mrs. Ashby stayed hidden for hours, attended only by Claudette. The other maids were angered by Claudette’s rise in stature, but none so infuriated as Jassy. She vented her spitting rage before any other servant who would listen to her. Something would have to be done about Miss High and Mighty Frenchy, she thought, viciously attacking the brass doorknocker with paste and a rubbing cloth.

Mrs. Ashby spent an hour practicing her entrance down the main staircase with Claudette trailing behind her, not too closely but not too far away. A little to one side, so guests could see her new French lady’s maid, but not so far out that she took the attention away from Mrs. Ashby’s décolletage in her new ballgown, a new design imported directly from Paris. Claudette thought the pea-green color trimmed in silver threads to be particularly ill-suited to Mrs. Ashby’s dark features, but wisely refrained from making any helpful suggestions.

Mrs. Ashby’s entrance before her guests went off flawlessly, and Claudette must have obeyed the impossible instructions sufficiently, for she was not chastised when they reached the ground floor and the hostess began mingling with her guests.

Periodically Mrs. Ashby sought out her husband, ostensibly to mildly flirt with whomever his companion of the moment was, but really just to make sure he wasn’t saying anything too ridiculous or inane. Truly, the man could be so
laughable
as a host.

Once Mrs. Ashby was satisfied that she had approached all of her early-arrival guests at least once, she took up a post in the drawing room, angling herself so that she could see any further guests coming through the door, yet remaining far enough in the room that arrivals would be forced to seek her out to pay court to her.

As Claudette stood just behind Mrs. Ashby, she saw a large, purposeful, perspiring woman striding through the door, barking at someone behind her. Another poor hapless lady’s maid, Claudette thought. Mrs. Ashby turned back and hissed to her, “I knew she would show up. Claudette, pretend you do not know English. Respond to her only in French—it will drive her simply
mad.
”

Turning back to the woman who had now reached her, Maude waved her fan ostentatiously in front of her face and exclaimed loudly, “Why, Mrs. Harrison, I am
so
delighted that you are here. I was just telling James this morning how very
disappointed
I would be if you could not make it. Mrs. Harrison, have you heard about my new lady’s maid, Claudette?” She pulled Claudette forward, and Claudette dipped lightly into a curtsy. “She’s French, you know. I had her brought over from Paris just to serve me. I’ve always said to James that it is so
important
that the boys have some Continental influence. He agrees with me, of course.” Maude sighed deeply, bringing the fan into slow motion, overcome at the thought that her boys were becoming so cultured because of her foresight. “The poor thing doesn’t speak a
word
of English, but I am
quite
skilled at demonstrating what I want, so things have been working very smoothly. Alas, I don’t know if you would be able to do the same, Mrs. Harrison. A shame, really, because it is
incredibly
delightful having a French lady’s maid in the house.”

Claudette picked up her cue. Emily Harrison peered into Claudette’s eyes as though inspecting a new pair of gloves for purchase, then snapped, “I can certainly make my point to anyone I choose. Claudette, fetch me a glass of wine.” She pantomimed taking a glass from a tray and tipping it back into her mouth. It was quite clear, and only an idiot would not have understood her action. Claudette screwed up her eyes slightly, pursed her lips, and shook her head. She began talking to the woman in French, saying whatever popped into her head. “Yes, madam, you do look like a garishly made-up elephant, but I would gladly ride out of here on top of you to get away from my deranged employer.”

Emily Harrison presumed Claudette was expressing her inability to understand what the lady wanted, so she began pantomiming more intensely. Now she was throwing her head back over and over for the drink, her hand clutching tightly at the imaginary glass. Claudette shrugged and looked at Maude, who was positively beside herself with joy. Emily stamped one thick-legged foot, muttered something about the French not having any sense whatsoever, and lumbered back to the front door, shouting for her lady’s maid to call for the carriage.

“Ha! I knew I could get rid of that old harridan if I simply put my good
sense
to the task. Now I can remove her from my invitation list, and the Denbys will come if she won’t be here. If I can get the Denbys, then I am just a few invitations away from an earl or duke from their social set.” Maude was very close to clapping her hands with glee.

These kinds of absurd interactions went on for about an hour, until dinner was ready and Maude went to find James to have him accompany her into the dining room. Claudette used the opportunity to retreat to the library, to sit alone for a while. She felt utterly robbed of breath and dignity. Settled in a chair whose red velvet fabric was worn but whose padding was blessedly plush, Claudette leaned back with her eyes closed in the dark room, gathering strength for the remainder of the evening.

She did not hear the door open again. The flaring of a match startled her to alertness, and she saw a man lighting a lamp picked up from the candle stand next to the door. His face was partially hidden, coming into full view as he picked up the lamp and moved into the room. He was tall, and carried himself like an aristocrat, which, Claudette realized with an inwardly disgusted sigh, he probably was if Maude Ashby had asked him here.