The Queen's Dollmaker (9 page)

Claudette shut that eye, and concentrated on her own request for intervention on her dismal and unpromising circumstances. So intent was she on her own prayers that she only felt the faintest movement of someone moving up the aisle to sit in the pew across from the Ashbys’.

As Reverend Daniels intoned his sermon, she lifted her eyes to take note of the newcomer, who was seated with his profile to her. Obviously a gentleman if sitting in a front pew, tall, blond hair curling at the nape of his neck…why, it was that Mr. Greycliffe. He looked over at Claudette and greeted her with the slightest wink in his otherwise very serious face.

How dare he
, she thought. What was he doing at the Ashbys’ church? Was he a member of this congregation? Or was he simply here to torment her?

Or was the Almighty simply taking an opportunity to mock her?

Claudette nodded civilly to Mr. Greycliffe and then focused on Reverend Daniels, her hands folded together in her lap to keep them from trembling. Maude Ashby was visibly quivering with excitement, and trying—quite unsuccessfully—to discreetly nudge her husband while rolling her eyes toward Mr. Greycliffe. Next to Claudette, Nathaniel was scuffing his feet on the floor and wriggling impatiently, while his brother sat serenely, the only member of the pew actually paying attention to the sermon.

At the conclusion of the service, Claudette stood quickly to leave, but Mrs. Ashby was quicker. She also stood, which was the cue for the rest of her family to stand, thus blocking Claudette’s easy exit from the pew.

“Why, Mr. Greycliffe, what a delight to see you again so soon. I had nearly forgotten that your family attends this church when in London. I’d like to be in more frequent attendance, of course, but my duties as a wife, mother, and society hostess are simply so
demanding,
making it difficult to get away each Sunday. Of course, we always like to make sure we grant the servants at least one visit each year, which is only the charitable Christian thing to do.”

Still behind the pulpit, Reverend Daniels was frowning upon the oblivious Maude Ashby as she worked on ingratiating herself with a respected member of the congregation without bothering to step outside St. George’s sanctuary.

“Yes,” William replied. “Charity begins at home, as the Good Book says. Perhaps I can escort you to the confectioner’s for some iced creams. And let’s continue being charitable and invite along everyone in your party. Your husband and I have some business details to discuss anyway, don’t we, Ashby?”

“Ah, so you’ve decided to move forward on my proposal. Excellent. Why don’t we—”

“Mr. Greycliffe, it certainly is not necessary to invite the servants, as they have had their outing for the day. In fact, I was planning to give them the rest of the day off. Claudette, you may have the rest of the day to yourself, and we won’t expect you back until this evening. Let the others know, will you?”

Humiliated at being condescended to in front of Mr. Greycliffe, she struggled past the family and into the aisle without responding, not caring about the lecture she would receive later for her disrespect.

After passing on Mrs. Ashby’s message to the other household staff—for which even Jassy was willing to part with a small smile toward the detested Frenchy Fifi—Claudette asked Béatrice to spend the afternoon off without her, as she just wanted to be alone. She ignored the questioning look in her friend’s eyes, and fled outside the church to escape what would surely be another painful interaction with the Ashbys and Mr. Greycliffe when they made their way to the door of the church.

She looked around wildly for a place of refuge, somewhere to catch her breath and her nerves while her employers and her tormentor gave their respects to the reverend and prepared to depart. A small cemetery adjoining the church contained a few dozen graves, and in the center of it a large oak tree provided a brand new canopy, its spring leaves bright green from their first unfurling. Under the tree were two benches, one facing the church and the other facing an ivy-covered brick wall that separated the churchyard from the busy street beyond. She had spent time there grieving upon her initial arrival in London. Reaching this bench, Claudette sank down heavily, her chin in both palms and her elbows on her knees as she despaired over her situation.

Was this to be her life until she died? She fit nowhere inside the Ashby household, being considered uppity by the other servants and barely tolerable by Mrs. Ashby.
I have no designs on being a lady, I just want to go back to creating fashion dolls
. She’d never be able to escape her wretched position and get back to France. If only she could—

“Aren’t you worried people might think you’re daft, sitting there muttering to yourself?”

Startled, Claudette turned to find William Greycliffe behind her, one foot up on the other bench, his now customary smirk focused on her. How positively aggravating he was!

“Why are you here, Mr. Greycliffe? Shouldn’t you be stuffing my employers full of sweets and talking about the latest estate you’ve purchased or whatever it is people of quality discuss? Or did you feel a pressing need to plague me before you could enjoy yourself properly?”

He swung his leg back down from the bench and approached Claudette, sitting uninvited and unsettlingly close to her.

“Does your domestic situation trouble you, Miss Laurent?”

“How could it not? You’ve seen for yourself how Mrs. Ashby regards me. If she knew that my father owned one of the finest doll shops in France, patronized by the Bourbon nobility, perhaps she might have been a tad bit kinder. But she would never believe me even if I told her. Of course, to someone like you it probably seems a trifle that I would be distressed.”

“It’s not a trifle to me at all. You see, I understand what it means to be trapped by circumstances.”

“You? You’re an up-and-coming country gentleman without a care. Society ladies probably fall in 1…probably fall for your easy charms, which of course I would never do—”

“I would never expect it of you, Miss Laurent.”

“And you’re probably surrounded by others like me that you can order about and treat like mongrel curs.”

“Do you think so ill of me that you assume I am a cruel master? Do you think my limited association with the Ashbys makes me one of them? Miss Laurent, you have many things to learn about me, and we continue to lose time. Soon it will be too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind.” He shook his head as if clearing his own muddled thoughts.

He shifted his gaze toward the churchyard and Claudette turned hers to follow. The congregation was gone except for the Ashby family, now lingering on the steps in front of the church. Catching William’s glance, Mrs. Ashby waved tentatively to him. But her pained expression told Claudette everything she needed to know about her employer’s opinion of William Greycliffe cavorting about with her among the gravestones.

“Miss Laurent, what do you wish to do most in this world?”

“Become the finest dollmaker in England.”
What? Why didn’t I say that I wanted to return to France?

He gently lifted one of her hands from her lap. “Then that is what you should do.”

He brushed her ungloved fingers with his lips for just an instant, but the gasp escaping Mrs. Ashby caused sparrows in the oak tree to fly off in fright. Claudette herself was alarmed by the tiny seed of warmth that began to grow in her by his move, which had to be due to his proper manners and nothing else. Definitely nothing else.

William stood and bowed courteously to her. “Until we meet again.” He moved off to fulfill his promise to the Ashby family for iced creams.

When Claudette returned that evening, Mrs. Ashby’s shock had transformed into complete denial. She made no mention of Mr. Greycliffe’s display of affection for a mere servant, and as usual none of the other servants were talking to her much at all. Life for Claudette was as it had always been, and soon she began to wonder whether the incident under the oak tree had ever happened at all.

And so the Ashbys began preparing for yet another of their interminable dinner parties. Claudette, who had slipped permanently into her role of lady’s maid—without any of the prestige and grandeur Mrs. Ashby seemed to think would attach to her for it—received a new round of deportment instructions.

While Mrs. Ashby chattered on endlessly, Claudette dreamed of escape. What could she do to free herself from the shackles of this employment?
All of the servants hate me, and my employer thinks I am honored to serve her. I have to consider Béatrice and Marguerite. They could not survive without me. If only I could save enough money to buy passage for the three of us back to France
.

Paris was safe and familiar. London was full of atrocious employers, vile fellow servants, and handsome men by whom she was paradoxically repelled and obsessed. No, it was far too senseless to remain in England. She must return to France. But there was little money between the two women. For the privilege of being housed in their domestic positions, they were paid meager wages. A pair of shoes might cost a week’s pay. Damaged household items always resulted in docked pay, and it was not always the guilty party who was docked. They had saved a little money from Jack’s secret entrepreneurial schemes, but how would they have income if they left the Ashby residence?

She wondered for the thousandth time if Jean-Philippe was still alive in France. Was he looking for her? If he was alive, surely he was still searching. Perhaps she could send a letter. But to whom? Where? Her entire block had been engulfed in flames and its inhabitants scattered. With a resigned sigh, Claudette turned her attention back to her long-winded employer.

The day of this latest dinner party was dreary. Rain slid down the Ashby home in great sheets. Outraged that nature had not complied with her express wishes, Maude Ashby was at her most difficult, terrorizing family and servants alike. Only Claudette seemed impervious to Mrs. Ashby’s temper, calmly replying to the woman’s relentless demands for the impossible. Finally, Mrs. Ashby exhausted herself with finding fault in everything she cast an eye on, and became the Hostess of Good Quality she knew she was destined to be.

Maude positioned herself in the drawing room with Claudette behind her as usual, and the tedious round of guest-greeting began. Claudette stifled a yawn. How tiresome it must be to be a member of English society, she thought. All of these popinjays strutting about, perpetually in a game of rivalry. A small gasp from Mrs. Ashby focused her attentions back to the party.

Mr. Greycliffe had entered, holding an umbrella over a young woman who was clearly a Lady of Quality. Underneath the woman’s dark cape, Claudette saw that she was wearing an emerald satin gown sprinkled generously with embroidered flowers and vines. The dress had a scooped neck designed to display perfect cleavage, a waistline that came down in a point to emphasize her tiny frame, and layers of fine lace dripping from her elbows. She wore her lustrous brown hair swept up and topped with a hat accented with pale green ribbons and dyed ostrich feathers, all tied together with lace that matched her sleeves. As Mr. Greycliffe removed the woman’s cape, a lining of fur momentarily dazzled the room. She looked up at him as he handed the cape and umbrella to Jack, flashing him her brilliant, even teeth. Mr. Greycliffe leaned over to whisper to her, then offered his arm. The Lady of Quality glided across the floor, her hand touching his arm with exactly the right pressure. She looked right and left, murmuring appropriate greetings to faces she recognized, and inclining her head in acknowledgment of anyone else who made eye contact with her.

Claudette hated her instantly.

She was overpowered with an inexplicable combination of jealousy, disdain, and panic. Here was another woman who had never experienced a difficult day in her life. But Claudette should feel sorry for the poor girl, as she was obviously besotted with the inscrutable Mr. Greycliffe. Yet Claudette did not feel sorry for her. To her own bewilderment, she wished she
was
her.

Mr. Greycliffe and the woman were approaching Maude and James Ashby. Claudette plastered on her best smile, for once glad that she could hide behind her role as a servant who spoke only French.

Mrs. Ashby drew an audible breath and brought her fan to her face. She whispered, “He’s brought Lenora Radley with him! I heard from Mrs. Dailey, whose kitchen maid has a sister in Lady Radley’s household, that a gentleman of some means was courting Lenora, and that she was hoping for a match. I had no idea it was William Greycliffe.”

She began waving her fan furiously. “I wonder if he plans to announce his intention soon. We simply must be the first to extend our congratulations by hosting a party for them.”

Claudette froze inwardly, hoping her smile was still visible. A party for that arrogant man and his perfect little milksop.
Of course her hair is glossy and her fingernails exquisitely rounded. She probably has her own lady’s maid to toil away as I do
. All to make herself attractive and desirable for
him
. He paled in comparison to Jean-Philippe anyway. Who could possibly find him a good marital match? His family name might be rising, but he was certainly no gentleman. Really, sympathy is in order for her. Imagine having to suffer his embrace, his lips on your neck, his arms caressing your back, his—

As the couple approached, William’s eyes briefly met Claudette’s, and she saw a darkening in his pupils, which vanished almost at once.

“Mr. Greycliffe, what a delight to see you,” Mrs. Ashby fluttered. “And I see you have brought the lovely Miss Radley with you. Our household is graced by your presence, isn’t it, James?”

The elbow nudge in his side alerted Mr. Ashby. “Er, yes, graced. Lovely. Happy to have you.” Seeming to see William for the first time, he perked up. “Ah, Greycliffe, you must come by soon. I have another investment proposition for you.”

William nodded his assent to Mr. Ashby, murmured greetings to the fan-waving Mrs. Ashby, and guided Miss Radley away. As he did so, he leaned his head toward Miss Radley, and twice patted the hand she had placed back on his arm. Claudette’s frozen heart now rooted her fully in place. The movement was identical to the way Jean-Philippe used to touch her when he wanted to guide their walks together. She suddenly felt suffocated. Maude Ashby was now engaged in conversation with another guest.
I need air,
Claudette thought. Mrs. Ashby and her guest did not seem likely to end their conversation soon. Whispering, “Madame,
pardon,
” she walked quickly out of the room, not caring if anyone noticed her hasty exit from her mistress’s side. Once out of the room, she fled down the hall to the library, and through that room escaped onto the veranda and down into the garden at the back of the house. Too late she realized it was still raining, and now it was dark, the only light coming from the windows of the house, the party continuing on gaily within.