The man called Mr. Greycliffe walked over to Claudette, made a small bow, and extended an arm to her. “Mademoiselle?”
She stood and took his arm, but refused to look at him. As they led the Ashbys and the rest of the company into the gallery, Claudette hissed under her breath, “Monsieur, I know nothing of dancing. I am but a dollmaker’s daughter.”
“Oho! How far you have tumbled in so short a time, mademoiselle. Were you not the heir to a great merchant when I last saw you?” When she did not respond, he leaned down. “Never fear, I will guide you.”
When the guests began entering the long room bordered on each side by chairs, the musicians immediately struck up the polonaise. Mr. Greycliffe led Claudette to the front of the room and slid a surprisingly strong arm around her. He whirled her gently through the S-patterns of the dance, showing her silently how to remain on the balls of her feet, with heels rarely touching the floor.
“You are a quick study, Miss Laurent.”
Claudette did not respond. She was thinking of Jean-Philippe. The last time she had been in a man’s arms it was to say good-bye after a walk through a park, not knowing it was to be their last meeting. She felt for her betrothal ring. Still there. This man was taller than Jean-Philippe, and blond, not with the dark hair and eyes she had come to love. He did have a fierce and protective hold on her waist, though. How many women had fallen under the spell of his tightly comforting grip? He smelled clean, with a faint trace of leather behind soap. She inhaled deeply. Jean-Philippe always smelt of soap, but it was a more delicate scent than what this man possessed. She shook off her reverie. Mr. Greycliffe was one of them, a conceited, arrogant Gentleman of Rank. She had no interest in him, and certainly he would have none in a French maiden in reduced circumstances.
The dance ended, and Claudette quickly disengaged herself, still burning where his arms had been. William Greycliffe leaned over her hand and said softly, “Enchanté, Mademoiselle Laurent. Let us hope we can repeat this experience.” His green eyes sparkled at her.
Fearing that he was once again making light of her, she fled the room quickly, feeling his eyes attached to her retreating figure.
Béatrice was not in her room, so Claudette went straight to her own bed, ignoring the knocks of other servants searching for her on Mrs. Ashby’s behalf. Her friend showed up hours later, flush with excitement.
“Where have you been? You will not believe what happened.”
Claudette sat up on her creaky bed, listening.
“I witnessed Nathaniel pulling a despicable prank and ruining Mrs. Ashby’s party. He slipped a snake—some harmless, garden variety—into the gallery. It slid into where the guests were dancing together. It crawled across a guest’s foot as she was waiting her turn in the contredanse. She began screeching and flapping around and wouldn’t calm herself until she knew the snake was captured. The lady’s husband took care of the snake, but everyone was outraged and demanded that something be done about Nathaniel, since it was clear he was the only one who could be responsible. You know Mrs. Ashby—she hugged her precious little boy to her and insisted that he couldn’t possibly have done it, even though everyone knows what a monster he is.”
“So Nathaniel was naughty. What is so unusual about that?”
“You haven’t heard what happened next. One of the guests knelt before Nathaniel and gave him such a sermon about duty and honor that the little brute actually broke down in tears and fled the room crying. I’ve never before witnessed Mrs. Ashby so speechless.”
Claudette almost regretted having left the party, not only because she was surely in for a lecture from Mrs. Ashby for leaving without permission, but for having missed this.
“Which guest was it?”
“A tall man with light curling hair. Quite handsome, really. He did not accompany anyone. I didn’t ask who he was.”
“Hmm,” was all Claudette responded.
8
Versailles, October 1781. It was unbelievable. Finally, the queen’s dream had come true, and she was safely delivered of a baby boy, the heir to the throne of France. If the streets of Paris were wild with joy and pealing bells, the scene inside the delivery chamber was no less chaotic. Attending the queen’s delivery were no less than eight people, not including her accoucheur. The king was not present, but came later to tell her that she had provided the kingdom with a Dauphin, as everyone else in the room had forgotten to do so in the pandemonium following the birth. In the aftermath of delivering France with the longed-for heir, Marie Antoinette was, for a short while, portrayed in newspapers almost spiritually as a perfect mother and wife. It was mild compensation for the years of libel and slander, but she basked in it.
9
Marguerite’s forehead was scorching to the touch, and she had been in and out of consciousness for hours. Béatrice turned to Claudette, her eyes red and weepy. “I am so worried. She has never been ill before. My dear Alexandre died of gall stones. Do you think she could have them as well?”
“She doesn’t appear to have internal pain. Let’s hope it is just a passing fever. Did you bring more cloths from the laundry?”
The two women took turns at Marguerite’s side, applying cold compresses and washing the rags in a basin to refresh and cool them again. After seeing Béatrice secretively bundle up rags in the laundry, Nicholas had quietly followed her upstairs, and saw that the daughter was abed, her eyes glazed with obvious sickness. He periodically crept up to see how the girl was faring, and wondered what he could do to aid Béatrice, the object of his worship.
After a day of slipping upstairs to watch the women caring for the girl, he summoned the nerve to make his presence known when Claudette was not there. “Miss Béatrice?” He cleared his throat.
Béatrice jumped, accidentally kicking the water basin and sloshing water on the floor. “Nicholas! How you frightened me. Whatever are you doing on the servants’ floor?”
He looked down at his shoes and mumbled, “Just seeing what is keeping you up here all the time.”
“My daughter is sick. But please, you mustn’t tell your mother. She would turn us out for certain, and we would have nowhere to go.”
Nicholas glowed inwardly at the opportunity to keep a secret for Béatrice. “No, miss, I would never do that. You can rely on me. You see, I—”
To his chagrin, Claudette showed up.
“Why, Nicholas, why are you up here in the attic? Your mother would cane you if she knew you were dawdling about in the attic with the servants.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His eyes never moved from Béatrice.
Moments passed; Claudette grew impatient. “Nicholas, what can we do for you?”
He pointed to the bed. “Does she need medicine? I can get it for you.”
Béatrice asked, “You can? From where?”
He hedged. “I just can. What do you need?”
Béatrice ticked off on her fingers a decoction of tamarind, ice chips, and also some marshmallow roots so she could make her own soothing drink for her daughter. Claudette chimed in to request more blankets and another pillow, since Marguerite’s had been soaked through with sweat. Nicholas returned in less than an hour with everything, presenting the bundle to Béatrice as though he had slain a dragon and was presenting the trophy to his queen.
Claudette held up the bottle of medicine made from tamarind. “How were you able to get this?”
He did not reply, but gazed at Béatrice, who praised his efforts. “We are indeed indebted to you, Nicholas. How can we ever repay you?”
The boy blushed scarlet and fled the room. However, he returned each evening to check on the women and see what they needed.
On the third day, the child’s fever broke. As she regained strength, she complained of boredom. Béatrice conferred with Claudette. “Do you think Mrs. Ashby would let us ask Nicholas for some of his toys for Marguerite to play with?”
“Never. Besides, his interests are too old for her. We’ll have to think of something to make to
entertain her.”
Claudette was able to find some primer books from the Ashby library, which she stealthily took upstairs for Marguerite, but the girl’s concentration was still low, and she insisted that reading hurt her eyes. Claudette returned the books to the library, pausing to sit in the chair where she had been intruded upon by that dreadful Mr. Greycliffe. The aristocrats were as pompous and self-serving in England as they were in France. To think how hard her papa had worked to build a name for himself, and never a conceited bone in his body, and this Greycliffe fellow with his fine clothing and firm hands just dismisses Papa’s famous creations as nothing. Why, the man never laid his eyes on one of Papa’s justifiably popular grandes Pandores, his baby houses, or his miniature dolls, or his…oh! Of course!
Claudette jumped out of the chair and ran to the attic, nearly toppling over Mrs. Lundy in her haste. Mrs. Lundy yelled at her, but Claudette had no time to stop. She dashed up the narrow back stairs, skirts in hand, until she reached her tiny room. Reaching under the bed, she pulled out her forgotten trunk of dollmaking supplies. Perhaps now she could bring back the spark to Marguerite’s eyes.
With Béatrice’s help, Claudette worked far into the night to fashion two crude dolls for Marguerite, both roughly carved from scraps of stored firewood. One wore black breeches made from a discarded leather glove and the other a muslin dress whose fabric had been snipped from Béatrice’s apron. They crushed bruised strawberries to dye the fabric.
Marguerite was enchanted. “Mama! For me?” She petted the dolls and put them to her face. “These are my new bébés.”
The next evening, after a particularly trying day with Jassy, Claudette checked in on Marguerite. Béatrice was sitting on the side of the bed, listening to her daughter play-act with the dolls.
“Now, Mrs. Ashby, I say you must not be so rude to your servants, especially Madame du Georges, who is much smarter and nicer than you. I shall have to take a switch to you if you cannot behave properly. And you, Mr. Ashby, I expect you would like to be at Brooks’s right now, wouldn’t you?” Marguerite covered Mr. Ashby with her pillow and continued admonishing the Mrs. Ashby doll. Béatrice clapped lightly and hugged her daughter. A soft knock on Béatrice’s door interrupted them.
Their fellow servant, Jack Smythe, entered, delivering a summons for Claudette to attend to her mistress after dinner before she and Mr. Ashby went calling on some friends. Claudette turned away from Jack and rolled her eyes.
The young man saw Marguerite playing with the Mrs. Ashby doll on the bed and asked about it. Marguerite immediately brought Mr. Ashby out from his hiding place to show them both to Jack. “Mademoiselle Laurent and Mama made them for me,” she enthused. “They are my new bébés, although when I grow up I shall have ten real babies of my own.”
Jack touched the dolls speculatively. He looked at Claudette. “Do you have more of these?”
“No, I just put those together to comfort Marguerite. Why?”
“I could sell them at Surrey Street Market. Can you make more by next week?”
“I suppose I could. Does Mrs. Ashby send you to the market regularly?”
“No, that’s my own business on my own time. I’ll split the money we make in half with you.”
“In half! But I have to purchase materials for making the dolls. Wood, paints, fabrics, needles, scissors, that sort of thing. I’ll agree to half, but you have to gather up all of the supplies I need.”
“Agreed.”
So the bargain was struck, and, with Béatrice’s assistance, Claudette got to work on creating a dozen crude dolls for the following week, working far into each night, and wondering exhaustedly each morning how Jack managed to spend his nighttime hours prowling the streets.
Claudette’s work reminded her of her apprenticeship under her father. She knew how to measure and cut small planks of appropriate width, using all available wood as efficiently as possible, and how to sand them to a smooth finish and then bring out the deep grain and color of the wood by wiping the boards with wet cloths. As she practiced her skills she experienced many a cut thumb and splintered palm, until she once again developed the finesse necessary for handling the wood parts. She then spent many nights bent over the tiny individual finished pieces of incomplete dolls, rag and wax in hand, buffing furiously to bring each piece to a final, shiny gloss. What little money she had was rapidly expended on tallow candles to illuminate her midnight work.
But it was truly the carving that required the most concentration. Claudette spent hours carving the rudimentary dolls. From a roughly-hewn block of wood, she used one of the few paring tools available from her father’s box to first shape a round head, followed by long, shaped arms with rounded knobs for hands, a straight trunk with slots in the top and bottom to accommodate limbs, and legs and knobbed feet. She joined the limbs to the torso using twine, to give them range of motion.
She then fashioned wigs out of yarn or narrow strips of cloth, gained from discarded rags she took from the trash bin when Mrs. Lundy was not watching. The paints Jack was able to find were poor quality and looked faded almost as soon as they were applied, but she had Béatrice apply coat after coat of eyes, lips, and cheeks until she was pleased with their appearance.
Each evening, Jack would quietly scratch at Claudette’s door to see what her progress was, almost as excited by the project as the two women were.
The most difficult part of creating the dolls was keeping it secret from the other servants, particularly Jassy, who seemed to have instinctive talent for ferreting out the activities of the entire domestic staff. The girl’s ruthless spying and reporting to Mrs. Lundy had cowed most of the servants, but Claudette refused to succumb to her intimidation.
“So, Miss Frenchy Laurent,” Jassy said as she sidled up to Claudette unexpectedly one day while she was chopping vegetables, part of her normal routine when she was not being elevated to lady’s maid. “I notice you’ve been spending time with Jack Smythe.” Her voice was low and sly. “Would you be needin’ someone to guard your door for you at night? I could make sure no one bothers you.”
Claudette slammed down her knife. “You nasty little chuff. Have you nothing better to do than buzz about tormenting everyone around you like a wasp? For someone of such royal blood, you have no more class than the tomcats I throw scraps to in the side yard. And your temperament is far worse.”
Jassy was momentarily stunned into silence but recovered herself. “So there is something between you and Jack. I’ll find out what it is, and then I’ll make sure Mrs. Lundy knows. Of course,”—she began sauntering away—“if I don’t find out the truth, I’ll just make something up. You should have learned by now not to cross me.”
Claudette returned to her work, chopping and slicing furiously for her employer’s evening meal. Between Mrs. Ashby’s sly servants and her arrogant male guests, Claudette could not find a moment’s peace.
Jack was true to his word, and sold the first three dolls Claudette had given him in less than a week. She now had four shillings in profit, and tried to give half of it to Béatrice, but the other woman insisted that Claudette keep it. “I have no head for money,” she said. “You keep it and use it to help us find a way out of this wretched house.”
Claudette jingled the coins in her hands, elated to have a tiny bit of money that Mrs. Ashby knew nothing about, then tumbled the coins into an envelope stored in her small chest of doll supplies. The chest was kept hidden under her bed.
As Jack found more and more outlets for selling the dolls, Claudette and Béatrice spent many more sleepless nights producing them. They were exhausted, but Jack kept requesting more, and the shillings were piling up in the chest. He never discussed what he was doing with his share of the profits, and the women instinctively knew not to ask. After all, they shared nothing with him, either.
Jassy could frequently be seen lurking outside their doors, eyes opening innocently when caught. She always offered an excuse for her presence—“Mrs. Lundy needs you to g
o with her to the butcher’s,” or “The mistress needs a button sewn”—but was obviously swept away with curiosity as to why Claudette and Béatrice were retreating to their tiny rooms as often as possible.
When she had saved a little money, Claudette gave some to Jack to go out and purchase an additional set of carving and painting tools, so that she and Béatrice could work on two dolls at once. Claudette usually had to help Béatrice through each step. What Béatrice lacked in experience, she more than made up for in enthusiasm and a desire to help. Her chatter while they worked usually centered on saving enough to get their own place. Claudette’s thoughts, kept to herself, stayed firmly focused on saving enough money to return to France and find Jean-Philippe.
Each year at Easter, Maude Ashby brought both her family and servants to St. George the Martyr’s for services. After assisting the Ashby family to their seats, the servants were sent back to a rear pew to bask in Mrs. Ashby’s generosity. The current year was no exception to the routine.
The Ashby household arrived just before services were to start, and all of the servants, Claudette and Béatrice included, walked to the front of the church and waited stoically while the Ashbys settled themselves. At the last moment, Maude signaled to Claudette that she should sit in the high-backed, carved oak pew with the family.
Claudette attempted to settle her trepidation over what was happening. Why wasn’t she released with the other servants? Was this some interesting new form of punishment?
She watched as the other servants retreated to the back under the staring eyes of the good reverend and the congregation. Jassy Brickford, her eyes slitted and stormy, hissed at Claudette as she walked by, “Well ain’t you just the duchess!”
Mrs. Lundy discreetly pinched the girl to move her along, but also shot Claudette a look of derision.
Across from Claudette, Maude leaned over to her husband and whispered, “Did you see, James? Everyone is awestruck by how many servants we have now.”
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