The Queen's Dollmaker

by Christine Trent

  The dolls were delivered carefully wrapped in tissue and tied with bows in colors to match each doll’s gown. Lady Parshall’s three daughters squealed with delight as Claudette presented the dolls, swathed in colorful silks and laces, to their mother.

  “I shall be the most sought-after girl there!” gushed Camilla, a dark-eyed girl who would be quite beautiful except for an alarming case of pimples.

  “You will not! My doll looks more like me and I shall be asked to dance by every gentleman there.” Her sister, Cecily, a plump blonde, challenged her.

  “Mama, please, can I have my doll now? I want to practice holding her for my entrance at Cobham Hill.” Caroline was the most solemn of the three girls, if any of them could be termed solemn.

  Lady Parshall ushered the girls out of the room with their dolls and turned to instruct Claudette and Béatrice. “I shall expect that you will not make such dolls for anyone else until after I visit the earl’s home next week. If I hear that you are making dolls like this for anyone else in London—and I do mean anyone—I will find out about it, and I will destroy you. I will not have our special night ruined by lowly tradespeople who think they have a right to interfere with the social activities of their betters.”

  The woman clapped her hands, and almost instantly a maid appeared. Lady Parshall informed her that Claudette and Béatrice were not to be permitted back in the house unless they had been summoned. With that, she turned with great purpose and swept out of the back hallway, which was as far as the two women had been allowed to go. The maid escorted them out, and they stood at the back door for several moments, each wondering if they had made the biggest mistake of their lives in agreeing to this folly.

  But it was not folly. Three weeks later, at wit’s end because she felt too terrified to produce any dolls whatsoever, much less any that might fall into the hands of Lady Parshall’s friends, Claudette stopped by the Giffords’ fabric shop, and was greeted with delighted laughter. “Eh, Miss Claudette, we’ve been worried because we haven’t seen you. Look at these fabric orders we have from dressmakers all over London.” Diane held up a sheaf of papers. “And many of them have instructions for dolls in matching fabrics!”

  Claudette could not believe her ears. Were there actually this many orders coming in? Why such a large quantity?

  Diane explained that a special entertainment was being held by the royal family at Queen’s House, and everyone now wanted to copy the fashion set by Lady Parshall.

  “You have much work ahead of you, my dear, but you may have helped us all make our mark in London. Imagine if we could obtain trade with the king!”

  King George III was not known for extravagance, but he did have a bevy of children. Would his daughters like dolls? Could the Laurent name be one day associated with the king of England?

  11

  By October of that year, Claudette realized that they would have to move to bigger quarters. The odors of paint, gesso, hemp, and other materials were a noxious blend. Béatrice was coughing more frequently behind her hand, but refusing to take any rest. Not only that, they were producing more and more dolls for selling to the upper class, and their one-room dwelling was becoming intolerably crowded.

  Claudette turned to her one ally, Jack Smythe, to discuss the problem.

  “How much do you have saved?” he asked.

  “About ten pounds.”

  “Don’t know if anyone will rent a decent place to a woman. You may need a backer.”

  “I will not need a backer. I shall either do this on my own or not at all. My coppers are as good as anyone’s.”

  Jack, who already saw his financial future tied up in Claudette’s, was more than willing to seek new quarters for her if it meant more profits. He found them in the form of a three-room building on Old Bond Street, on the edge of the fashionable district of Mayfair. The structure contained a front shop twenty feet long with a wide brick fireplace on one end and soot covering much of the ceiling, backed by two rooms of ten feet square each. The women could use one room as a bedroom, and the other as a workshop. The workshop had a narrow set of steps leading to a small, unused attic. The bedroom contained a window that overlooked an overgrown garden, which Béatrice promised to put to rights immediately. She ticked off the varieties of medicinal herbs and flowers she would plant to ensure Marguerite would always have a ready treatment should she fall ill again. A shared brick oven was set off to one side of the garden, used by the occupants in four buildings surrounding the courtyard.

  The exterior of the building showed that it was at least two centuries old, with its steeply-pitched thatched roof and half-timber construction. All in all, it was old, and would require a great deal of effort to make it habitable, and Claudette loved it.

  After Claudette signed the lease—the building had been sitting empty for a year and the landlord would have signed it over to a cart donkey if it had had the ability to pay—the trio moved in with Jack’s help. He found them a cart, which they heaped with what few personal belongings they had and their mountain of dollmaking supplies, and walked the twenty blocks to their new address.

  Leaving the cleanup of both the garden and the interior of the building to Béatrice, Claudette worked at setting up the workshop efficiently and arranging the shop’s window to attract customers. Her strategy in her new location was to pack the window view with as many dolls as possible, both the fashion type and little baby dolls. She longed to be able to hire a blacksmith to create a frame for a grande Pandore, but she had once again depleted her entire savings relocating. The metal work and extensive fabrics needed for the mannequin doll were financially impossible for the moment. The workshop was also too small to accommodate construction of more than one at a time, and a grande Pandore crowding the workshop would preclude any other doll work. Claudette put it out of her mind and instead focused on a new commission for one of Lady Parshall’s friends.

  This particular assignment required a doll dressed in a bridal trousseau. Several weeks of work produced one of the finest dolls Claudette had ever made, one she thought would have made her papa proud. She showed it to Béatrice. The doll’s dress of ice-blue satin had a layered collar and gathered waist. A small frill of lace peeped out from under the collar and at the bottom of both long sleeves. The pulled-in waist gave the lower skirt a bell shape. Complementing the doll’s dress was a reticule made of cream-colored brocade dangling from one arm, and a veil made of the same brocade with lace edging.

  “Truly, Claudette,” Béatrice gasped. “You are a superb artisan.”

  Lady Parshall’s friend apparently agreed, and soon even more orders were pouring in. By the beginning of the following year, Claudette had doll parts, wigs, fabric bolts, and other supplies stacked tall on every available floor and table space.

  A new dream was beginning to emerge: that of finding nicer housing accommodations separate from the shop, where she and Béatrice could have their own private rooms. But Claudette tamped down that particularly traitorous dream. How could she possibly think of wasting her savings on establishing permanence in England, when her real dream was to return to France and find Jean-Philippe?

  Except Jean-Philippe’s face was getting fuzzy in her recollections, and the memory of his strong arms around her did not comfort her as in the past, now that she had a growing trade to occupy her every waking moment. And there was that intriguing, infuriating William Greycliffe who, despite his engagement—or was he married now?—had taken permanent residence in a small corner of her mind.

  Oh, Papa, what should I do?

  12

  Versailles, 1783. The long-awaited Dauphin was now nearly two years old. The child was beautiful, but very fragile from the moment of his arrival on the world stage. His destiny was to be hunchbacked and plagued with persistent fevers and illnesses, worrying his parents constantly.

  For now, however, the birth of Louis Joseph recovered Marie Antoinette’s reputation, though she would never regain the worshipful adulation she had experi
enced when she first crossed from Austria into France.

  With her position as wife and mother secure, Marie Antoinette turned her energies to a project she had been contemplating for some time. Summoning the architect Richard Mique, she commissioned an extraordinary building project: that of a pastoral village on the grounds of Versailles. The village contained twelve thatched-roof houses, including a dairy, a fishery, a barn, dovecote, and water mill. The centerpiece of the village was to be the Queen’s House, consisting of two rustic buildings connected by a wooden gallery, ornamented with blue and white earthenware flowerpots with the queen’s initials on them. The house was to contain a dining room, a backgammon room, Chinese room, and both a small and large salon. Later she would add a farm, where she would install a farming couple to supply the queen with eggs, butter, cream, and cheese. The entire village would become known as Marie Antoinette’s beloved Hameau, or Hamlet, and from here she would play the part of a simple shepherdess or farmer’s wife, dressed simply in a white muslin dress and straw hat. Court members learned quickly that while she was at the Hameau, the strict court etiquette that was so firmly a part of life at Versailles was to be abandoned in favor of a more relaxed atmosphere in keeping with the village.

  Most of the court hated this, as the severe court etiquette helped establish pecking orders and dominance of status, and it galled many to have someone of lower rank treated equally. Marie Antoinette was firm, though. Life at the Hameau was to be casual and peaceable, and a place where she could retreat with Alex Fersen.

  Claudette continued to save money in the little supply box she had rescued from her father’s shop. Even with her new rent and the percentage given to Jack, which was reduced now that she was purchasing her own supplies, she found that by being thrifty she could save even more than she had when living at the Ashbys’. The box began bulging with notes, and she had to secure it with twine to keep it from exploding forth its contents. She casually mentioned to Jack that she might be interested in finding a banker. He introduced her to his banker, a Mr. Benjamin. Claudette was astounded that a servant, particularly one in the Ashby household, should have his own banker, but then, Jack seemed very resourceful about making money. When she asked him about it, he just winked and said, “A man has to look toward the future. I won’t always be a household servant.”

  Mr. Benjamin helped her open an account, and also guided her on some investments, proposing that she purchase shares in an American tobacco plantation. Claudette later thanked Jack profusely, for all of Mr. Benjamin’s recommendations became profitable investments, and she was able to reinvest in the shop, and also maintain a decent standard of living for herself, Béatrice, and Marguerite. She even had some new clothing made for the three of them, including pairs of mules dyed to match each of their favorite dresses. The gowns from Mrs. Ashby were sent to a charity box.

  That Christmastide they had stuffed capon and roasted vegetables that Béatrice had seasoned with herbs from the garden and cooked in the courtyard oven. They sopped up leftover juices with hot, crusty bread fresh from a nearby baker’s shop. Claudette gave them each gifts: a bottle of rose-scented perfume for Béatrice, and a leather-bound copy of Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language for Marguerite. The young girl squealed in delight and ran next door to show it to Mr. Addleston, the bookseller, while her mother and Claudette cleaned up from their small feast.

  “What do you imagine the Ashbys are eating this evening? Sugared fruits? Pigeon pie? Custard tarts?” asked Béatrice.

  “No matter what they are having, it could not be more delicious than what we shared together this evening.”

  “To think that two years ago we began toiling for that woman and that awful son of hers. Nathaniel, I mean. Oh, Claudette, what if we had not had your artistic abilities to rescue us?”

  “We would have survived. Somehow.”

  Claudette had spent the morning in the workshop untangling rolls of wool to be shaped into wigs. So intent was she on the masses of fibers that she did not hear the shop’s bell tinkle. Béatrice ran into the workshop, breathless.

  “Claudette, you have a visitor.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I think you should see for yourself.” She fled the room before she could be questioned further.

  Claudette dropped the ball she had been working on and stood up, brushing strands from the front of her skirt before meeting her visitor.

  Entering the front of the shop, she froze in shock, and inwardly cursed Béatrice for not warning her.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Laurent. I was hoping you could help me select a gift for my mother, who celebrates her fiftieth birthday in a few weeks.” William Greycliffe stood before her, his cynical smile in place as always.

  She swallowed a knot of anxiety and offered him a prim smile. “Does your mother currently own any fashion dolls, Mr. Greycliffe? You can select one from our shelves, or we can always make something to her—or your—exact specifications.” She kept her hands clasped together in front of her.

  William moved to stand very close to her. She could smell his soap again and she involuntarily breathed deeply. He seemed intent on inhaling her scent as well, and momentarily forgot why he was there.

  “Er, yes, yes, I would like to have something special made for my mother.”

  “Then please,” she said as she waved him over to a desk with two chairs in the corner of the shop near the fireplace, “let’s discuss the commission.”

  Once seated, Claudette picked up a quill pen and slid a sheaf of paper toward her. “Please tell me about your mother’s tastes. For example, would she like a baby doll or an adult doll?”

  “Miss Laurent, you are making quite a success of yourself here. You were right when you said you were heir to a great dollmaker.” William’s voice was filled with admiration.

  “Yes, Mr. Greycliffe, I do not deceive others with my thoughts and intentions.” She felt a protective cold wall building around her.

  “Miss Laurent, may I have a private word with you?”

  A private word? That could only mean trouble, and she did not intend to have any trouble with this man. She raised her voice slightly.

  “Why, sir, a doll commission has never before required a private meeting. I am certain that we may conclude our business right here.”

  His voice dropped to a whisper. “Please,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Claudette was defiant. “Have you married Miss Radley?”

  “I have.”

  “So you are now her devoted husband?”

  “I must be. I have to uphold her honor.”

  “Oho! So you have sullied her good name by your advances, and now you think to play the gallant. I will not be fooled by you, Mr. Greycliffe, and I most certainly will not become your mistress, as you so obviously intend.”

  He looked at her sadly.

  She continued in a loud voice, “Now, as you were saying about your mother’s tastes…?”

  William stared at her for several moments, then broke eye contact, defeated. He halfheartedly gave her suggestions for a doll his mother might like, and Claudette concluded the transaction by giving him a price to which he immediately agreed.

  “Very well, sir, your doll will be ready for you in three weeks’ time. Your mother will be enchanted, I promise you.”

  “In three weeks, then, I will return to see you.” He looked at her meaningfully and left the shop.

  Béatrice’s eyes were full of questions, but Claudette merely threw her a wry glance and shut herself in the workshop for the remainder of the day.

  Claudette worked personally on the commission for Mrs. Greycliffe, not allowing anyone else to see it. She created a doll with curly blond locks and shockingly deep blue eyes. Holding the unfinished body at arm’s length she realized, Claudette, you silly fool, you have created a miniature of yourself to give that arrogant man. It gave her an idea.

  She dressed the doll in deep blue brocade with wide panniers and a lacy bod
ice. A wide-brimmed hat adorned with a matching band of brocade and trails of lace sat atop the doll’s hair.

  There, Mr. Greycliffe! That’s what I would look like if I moved in your circle. But I don’t; I’m a tradeswoman, and I will never look like this.

  As an added spite, she carved a very tiny doll, only a few inches tall with a simple cotton sack dress, but wearing more of Claudette’s hair. She glued this second doll into the main doll’s hand.

  As she wrapped the finished doll in tissue paper to await its pickup she said aloud to the walls, “In case you should forget my rank, Mr. Greycliffe.”

  On the appointed day, Claudette avoided being in the shop at all, telling Béatrice she had some shopping to do. The other woman pursed her lips, but said nothing. When she returned later that evening, Béatrice handed her a folded note.

  “It’s from Mr. Greycliffe. He seemed quite distressed that you were not in the shop when he arrived.”

  Claudette took the note and threw it into the fireplace before succumbing to the temptation to read it. “Please do not mention him to me again.”

  Béatrice shook her head and went to bed with her daughter without saying good night.

  13

  London, June 1784. Claudette, Béatrice, and Marguerite finished up a particularly busy week in the doll shop and walked several blocks to a coffee house to treat themselves to a raisin pudding. They had just finished eating at an outdoor table and were listening to the latest news being spread in and out of the coffee house by London’s busiest gossips. Of particular interest was the recent parliamentary election contest between Pitt and Fox. The king, George III, endorsed Pitt, whereas his son the Prince of Wales was a Fox supporter. As if this was not scurrilous tattle enough, the Duchess of Devonshire had been touring the streets and kissing voters to induce them to vote for Fox. Every man in the coffee shop claimed to have been bussed by the beautiful duchess. The Whig Fox was declared the winner, but Pitt’s Tory party was opening an investigation into the election proceedings.