The queen organized, and participated in, theatricals of her own devising as a means of escaping the oppressiveness of everyday court life. These plays were fanciful and silly, but harmless, and she loved escaping her daily life by performing. The king approved and welcomed his wife’s changes, which also included the abandonment of heavy makeup and the adoption of plainer clothes in place of ostentatious court dress. Marie Antoinette could frequently be seen strolling about the sculptured gardens of Versailles without any jewels adorning her neck, fingers, hair, or clothing, and wearing the simplest of muslin gowns with not so much as a stitch of embroidery on them. Many of the senior women of the French court were severely disapproving of this escape from court tradition, and vengefully gossiped that she was guilty of the sin of pride.
Another victim of her new lifestyle was Rose Bertin, the queen’s couturier.
“Majesty.” The Duchesse de Cosse, mistress of the robes, entered the queen’s chamber clutching the wardrobe book and a pincushion. “Would you like to select your outfits for today?”
The queen was expected to select several clothing changes each day. One dress might be for breakfast and taking a short walk afterward. Another might be a horse-riding habit, should she choose to follow the king on the hunt. Yet another change of apparel was required for receiving visitors later in the day, and perhaps a fourth change for a supper party. The queen sat up in her canopied bed topped with ostrich feathers and turned the pages of the well-worn book, each page cataloging a separate outfit with swatches of fabric, lace, and other trims attached. It was her privilege each morning to mark the pages containing selections she wished to see by inserting a sharp pin into the appropriate pages. The mistress of the robes then had the porters bring in taffeta-covered baskets containing the apparel for the queen’s final approval.
The queen flipped past the pages of Flemish laces and East Indian silks, and arrived at the back of the book, which contained newer creations. She marked three pages with pins, and handed the book and pincushion back to the duchesse, thinking that her choices created an ensemble Count Fersen might find flattering on his planned visit that day. The duchesse curtsied appropriately and backed out of the room, her face in a scowl over the queen’s distasteful selection. She knew exactly whom to see before giving the book to the porters.
Twenty minutes later, the queen heard a soft scratching at the door. One of her ladies entered, apologizing for the intrusion, but before she could state her mission, a loud voice behind her drowned the woman out.
“Madame! This is outrageous!” A large, overbearing woman stalked into the chamber, waving the queen’s selections in her hand. The other woman quickly fled the room.
The queen sighed good-naturedly. “What ails you today, Madame Bertin?”
“This.” She held the wardrobe book pages out to the queen. “Surely you wish to wear something more suitable, instead of a peasant’s costume?”
Rose Bertin was one of few people with such familiar access to the queen, who relied on the dressmaker heavily for the creation of extravagant court outfits. Such was Rose’s influence with the queen, and subsequently with all the court ladies, that she was referred to as the Minister of Fashion.
Marie Antoinette ignored the proffered pages. “I have no court business today, so what I have chosen pleases me very much.”
Bertin tamped down her impatience. Really, this simplicity phase of the queen’s was intolerable. Rose Bertin had built her considerable reputation largely on the queen’s patronage. The more extravagant a gown she wore, the more profitable her business, as ladies of the court flocked to her shop to imitate what the queen was wearing. However, no one wanted to wear a commoner’s garb. And there was little profit in outfitting someone who did.
“But it is unseemly for the most important woman in Europe to be dressed so, so…shamefully.”
The queen laughed lightly. “Unseemly for the monarchy, or unseemly for Madame Bertin?”
The couturier reddened, but pressed her case. “Your Majesty,” she cajoled. “The people love to see their queen dressed regally so they can admire her.”
The famous Hapsburg lower lip jutted out, a sure sign of impending stubbornness.
“The last thing the people care for is to see me strolling about in finery. I am pleased with the light blue muslin and straw hat I selected. In fact, I think I should like a pink sash for my waist. Please tell the duchesse this.”
Bertin made no move to leave, her mind still furiously working to concoct a way to convince the queen to abandon her love affair with common garb.
Marie Antoinette prompted her. “You will need to tell the duchesse right away, before the porters have finished gathering my clothing.”
Madame Bertin huffed, but realized she could push the queen no further. She departed with the wardrobe book pages still in her hand, tossing them to the lady-in-waiting posted outside the door. “Tell the Duchesse de Cosse that the Antoinette wants a pink sash to go with the splendid milkmaid’s dress she is wearing today,” she said imperiously, hardly glancing at the woman. The woman gaped at Bertin’s coarseness in referring to the queen just outside her bedchamber. After all, most people talked badly about the queen out of earshot, and in whispers.
As for Marie Antoinette, she could not please the people of her country, no matter how she dressed. Only the birth of a Dauphin could soothe them and return her to a favored place in their affections.
5
London pier was teeming with every species of life imaginable. The confusion of dock workers, stray animals, and travelers was disorienting, and was comparable to the chaos Claudette had experienced during the fire, less the acrid smell of burning wood. However, the odor of rotting offal that seemed to be everywhere gagged her similarly, and brought her tamped-down memories to life again. Had she just lost Mama and Papa forty-eight hours ago? Did Jean-Philippe and his parents know that her parents were gone? Were they looking for her? She fought back a sob. The sound of Simon Briggs’s voice brought her out of her daze.
“You ladies gather round here,” he directed once they had disembarked. “We’ve got some customers coming up now. Smile, show them how agreeable you are.”
Most of the women, barely out of their teens, had no idea how to demonstrate that they were “agreeable,” and so just smiled and called out inane things like, “Here, sir!” “Pick me, sir!” and “I’m a hard worker!” Their voices were a cacophony of French voices sprinkled with occasional English. Several finely dressed men approached the group, and looked the women over as though appraising thoroughbreds.
Lizbit appeared behind Claudette and Béatrice. “I think it is time to make your exit from this fine company of associates. Follow me.” The three women and Marguerite joined hands and started walking casually away from the congregation, slipping away as the customers began making their selections among the newcomers.
They were about to step into the dusty street at the end of the dock when they heard a shout behind them. “You nasty little sluts get back here! I’ll beat each of your arses until they bleed.” Simon Briggs and Jemmy were running toward them, the other women and customers staring after them. Seeing the trio of women and the small child running away, with their ship’s captain in hot pursuit, the other women began chattering among themselves frantically. Lizbit stopped and turned around. “Run, ladies! They want to soil your virtue!”
Panic ensued among the remaining women, as they attempted to move away from the prospective “employers.” Some of the women ran back onto the ship, while others scattered in other directions off the landing pier. Realizing his situation was completely out of control, Briggs scurried back to reassure his customers, shouting at Jemmy to “Round up them whores or I’ll have your hide as well.”
Béatrice had swung Marguerite up in her arms as the three women continued their escape. Lizbit led them down several roughly cobbled streets and narrow alleyways, until she felt reasonably certain that Briggs was no longer going to pursue them.
“Well! That was simply exhilarating, was it not?” Lizbit’s hair was tumbling out from her hat, and part of the heel had snapped off one of her shoes. She removed the broken mule and held it up. “What a fine remembrance of our escapade. I shall treasure it always.” She laughed, clenching her footwear and shaking it.
Claudette was damp with perspiration and fright. Béatrice was red-faced and panting heavily, with her daughter sniffling miserably at her side. Lizbit said, “My goodness! Did our little adventure knock the wind out of you? I know, let’s stop somewhere for tea and plan what to do with you.”
Lizbit treated the women to a light meal at a nearby coffee house so they could regain their composure, and offered a suggestion.
“You want honest work here in London, right? My aunt would be of no help at all—she keeps her fortune locked up tightly and cannot bear to see a farthing go to anyone other than her precious architect—but I think there’s a better way. Let’s find a church parish that would take you in and help you to find work. They would feed you and provide you with a reference, I’m sure.”
Getting no response from Béatrice other than a pathetic, pleading look for help, Claudette accepted for them both. They trudged through Southwark until they found a fruit vendor who pointed them to St. George the Martyr’s. Amid kisses and embraces of professed friendship at the steps of the church, the three vowed to reunite in the future, after Lizbit became a Woman of Substance and Claudette a Woman of Independence. Privately, Claudette thanked Lizbit profusely.
“Lizbit, I will be ever grateful to you. I will never be fooled by a man like Simon Briggs again.”
“My dear, don’t ever let any man make a fool of you.”
“I promise.” She looked over to where the curate’s wife was chatting gaily to Béatrice and Marguerite about her herb garden. Béatrice understood minimal English but gave the woman her devoted attention. “I have too much responsibility now to allow myself to be deceived by anyone.”
Lizbit followed her gaze. “I fear you will grow up very quickly.”
Versailles, March 1781. Marie Antoinette had been in mourning since November of the previous year, when a messenger reported that her mother, Empress Maria Theresa, had died following a protracted illness. However, now she hugged herself with a secret: she was certain she was enceinte. This time it simply must be a boy. Perhaps, she thought, I should have the new art tutor for the king’s sister, Madame Elisabeth, paint a picture of the country’s queen in glowing health from carrying the nation’s heir.
Such a portrait would require a new gown, one that flattered her emerging condition. And perhaps she should be painted next to the royal cradle. A new one should be purchased in anticipation of the heir, who should not sleep anywhere that another mortal had, even his sister. The cradle should be gilded, as befitting a future king.
She would speak to Louis about the purchases as soon as she shared her secret with him. She wondered fleetingly if a gold-leafed cradle cost a significant amount of money.
Oh bother, Marie Antoinette thought. I have no head for money, and the people see how simply I try to live. Monsieur the king will decide.
6
London, October 1781. Claudette’s stomach was gnawing away irritatingly as she stood at the imposing front door of the Ashby family’s two-story brick residence. Behind her, Béatrice cowered, while her unflappable daughter kept up a steady stream of conversation. “Whose house is this? Why are we visiting? Do you know them, Mama?” Claudette hushed her, then lifted the bronze knocker, a lion’s head with bared teeth and narrowed eyes.
The door was opened by a middle-aged woman, severely dressed in black. Her eyes were tiny pinpoints of gray, devoid of warmth and mostly obscured by a large hook nose. Her hair was pulled so tightly into a bun at the back of her head that the woman’s hairline was white from the pulling. Claudette was certain that stray hairs would not dare to escape without the permission of their owner.
“Yes?” the woman asked.
“I am Claudette Laurent. Reverend Daniels has given me reference to work for Monsieur Ashby and his family.”
The woman held out a great paw of a hand, and Claudette handed over the reference. She glanced down at it, and Claudette thought the woman was unable to read it.
“Seems to be a reference all right. Who are those two?” she asked, pointing her head toward Béatrice and Marguerite.
“This is my friend, Béatrice du Georges. We have recently arrived in England and are seeking employment together.” Claudette nudged Béatrice forward.
“And the brat?”
“This is Béatrice’s daughter, Marguerite. She is a very well-mannered child and can even help with duties. She is no trouble at all and is very quiet.”
“Mrs. Ashby won’t like you bringing a worthless mouth to feed. You’d better be off.” She began to close the door, but Claudette stepped forward and held it open.
“Madame, we are very tired and, quite frankly, very hungry, since we have eaten little beyond pottage and warm ale since arriving here. I was assured that this reference would grant us an interview for work in this home, and I intend to have my interview.”
The servant stood and stared at Claudette for several long seconds, deciding whether to establish her position and dominance in the household over this sassy young woman, or risk the legendary Maude Ashby anger for not admitting two referenced servants into the house. Slowly she stepped back to let the two women and the accompanying energetic child in.
“I am Mrs. Lundy. I am the housekeeper and therefore all other servants are in my charge. You’ll wait here and I’ll see if Mrs. Ashby wants to talk to you.” She held the reference out in front of her with distaste, and left the room.
Béatrice let out a great moan of despair. “Oh, Claudette, that woman does not want us here. It’s Marguerite, isn’t it? She doesn’t like my child. If we don’t find positions here, what will we do?”
“Stop it, Béatrice. We will find employment here. If we don’t, we’ll knock on every door in London until we do.”
Marguerite, who was momentarily cowed into silence by Mrs. Lundy, found her voice again. “Mama, Mama, is this our new house? Who lives here? Are they your friends? Mama, I’m hungry.” Béatrice absentmindedly patted her daughter’s head. “Yes, chérie, these are our new friends.”
After a short wait, Mrs. Ashby arrived. She had clearly been an attractive woman in her youth, and still retained that beauty in a cold, statuesque sort of way, with the help of bold hair dyes, subtle cosmetics, and skin softening lotions. She held the reference in her hand.
“So Reverend Daniels sent you to me. Don’t I line the church’s offering box well enough without him sending me charity cases on top of it all? Surely he knows that I cannot afford…that I don’t require any more servants here at Ash House.” She stared at the threesome for several long moments, tapping the document against the front of her fancy, if slightly ill-fitting, dress. Claudette envisioned nipping the waist in just slightly to emphasize Mrs. Ashby’s slender frame a bit, and adding some lace to the bottom of her three-quarter length sleeves. A doll would have never left Papa’s shop in such poor condition as what she saw here on this wealthy lady.
A dramatic sigh emanated from Maude Ashby. “I don’t suppose either of you have ever done domestic work, have you? Let me see your hands. Humph. As I thought, coddled and pampered your whole lives.”
Béatrice shrank at the accurate description, but Claudette took a step forward. “Madame, I am the daughter of one of Paris’s finest dollmakers. I am well-accustomed to serving customers, cleaning a shop, and all aspects of fine dollmaking. It is my father’s death that brings me to reduced circumstances, but, assuredly, I am used to hard work.” She pulled Béatrice in closer. “As is my friend.”
Mrs. Ashby rolled her eyes. “I suppose I don’t have much choice, or else next Sunday we’ll be getting a sermon on ‘Helping the Poor’ or ‘Loving Your Neighbor.’ Worse yet, the good reverend may ask us to
give up the Ashby pew at the front of the church, and I have worked entirely too hard and long to get that location to have it taken from me now. How the Harrisons would love to see us lose it so that they could buy it.” Another sigh. “Very well, I’ll take you on, temporarily, but any trouble from you and I’ll toss you back to Reverend Daniels and tell him you are unmanageable. And try not to be so French. You’re in England, for heaven’s sake, not that godless country of iniquity.”
Mrs. Lundy showed them to their living quarters—narrow rooms in the attic painted pale green, smelling strongly of rancid oil, each with a cot and small washstand—and were immediately put to work. Claudette was placed in the kitchen as a serving maid, and Béatrice requested assignment in the laundry. By serving in the laundry, Béatrice could keep out of sight and have Marguerite close to her. But Béatrice’s work was hot and grimy, and utterly ill-suited to her stamina. Her hands quickly became chapped, then swollen, and even sometimes bled from the breaking of her dry skin. She cried often in private, clenching and rubbing together her painful fingers. How did one family create so much dirty linen?
The Ashby family was comprised of James Ashby, his wife Maude, and two twin children, Nathaniel and Nicholas, age twelve. Mr. Ashby was abnormally pot-bellied, with a receding hairline that seemed to belong to a man much older. Years of iron-fisted rule by his wife had resulted in a small stoop, and with his extended abdomen, gave him the appearance of a wispy-haired, hard-boiled egg.
Maude Ashby had come from a modest family whose star had begun to ascend when one of her aunts became the mistress of George II earlier in the century. Maude’s aunt was one in a series of mistresses the king enjoyed following the death of his stoic wife, Queen Caroline. George had presented his lovely mistress with fine gifts of jewels, wine, and silken fabrics, and she in turn presented him with an illegitimate son. At that moment, the king decided he was through with the lovely Matilda Carter, and settled upon her a Yorkshire estate and £500 a year from the privy purse, considering himself especially generous since he had not yet decided to publicly claim the child as his own.
The Queen's Dollmaker Page 5