One woman alluded to better deals to be found elsewhere. “I’m sure I could get this much less expensively at Dunstan and Hegman’s shop. They’ve gotten into trouble with creditors and now all of their merchandise is at discount.”
Claudette responded with a firm “We do not price our goods based on the misfortunes of others, madam,” and ushered her out of the shop.
Other regular patrons were genuinely fascinated by the French dollmaker, and if they dropped information, it was because they had seen another doll or puppet shop elsewhere, and wanted to be sure to let the proprietress of C. Laurent Fashion Dolls know of the competition.
One dollmaking rival, the infamous Pierotti family who had once tried to rob her, did give Claudette some concern. Mr. Henry Pierotti had inherited the business from his father, Domenico, who had brought his family and doll business to London from Northern Italy in 1770. She heard from other customers that this family was also making wax dolls that were of such high quality that they felt like they had real skin. Had the sack of parts she had sent back to them actually been enough for them to not only copy, but improve upon? From beneath a wide country hat that concealed her face, Claudette surreptitiously visited the shop without mentioning it to Béatrice. She surveyed the dolls, which were indeed realistic to the touch. However, the dark beeswax being used made the dolls look stained and streaky. Satisfied that her own techniques were superior, and in any case her clothing was far more exquisite, Claudette returned to her own shop, relieved, but knowing she would have to constantly stay alert for new techniques and fashions in dolls.
37
Paris, December 1792. The King of France, now just simply Louis Capet, citizen of France, was brought before the Convention on December 11 to be tried. The National Convention was comprised of the Constitutional and Legislative assemblies and now held executive power in France.
For three hours, Louis sat bravely and answered his accusers’ questions without flinching. His only emotional response was to the accusation that he had caused the blood of Frenchmen to be spilled.
“No, sir!” he cried. “I have never shed the blood of Frenchmen.” He was led away, tears coursing down his face.
The king’s defense was presented on December 26. Few attorneys were willing to serve the disgraced sovereign, but, at last, a seventy-year-old retired attorney named Malesherbes, and a young lawyer named de Sèze, stepped forward courageously. They were given only ten days to examine the documents from the iron chest, which Robespierre had intentionally jumbled into total disarray before handing them over, to ensure the lawyers would have a very difficult time mounting a defense. Ultimately, their defense was pinned on the hope that the Convention could not try the king at all, since it was not a recognized judicial body.
Their strategy failed, since the Mountain had predetermined to offer the king as a sacrifice to the Revolution. The king’s fate was debated for twenty-four days. Those who had assumed the king would be deported were to be appalled by his sentence. An overwhelming majority found Louis Capet guilty. By a hairsbreadth vote, he was condemned to die.
Louis received the news calmly on January 20, 1793. He asked for three days to prepare himself, but was refused this courtesy. He was allowed a visit from an Irish priest, the Abbé Edgeworth, and also permitted a visit with his family. He talked frankly with his wife, whom he had grown to cherish in their shared troubles, despite her transferred affections, which he was aware of but chose to ignore.
“It was inevitable, madame. They are determined to eradicate any vestiges of a king in this country. And what more of a reminder than the king himself?”
It was no use reminding Louis what might have been done by a less stubborn, more decisive king. Besides, in her own way, Marie Antoinette had grown very fond of her husband as well while in captivity.
“Your family will be bereft without you. This is the worst thing that could happen, to us and to France. Oh, why must we be so cursed?” Abandoning all display of royalty, she threw herself into her husband’s arms.
Louis patted her awkwardly as both of their children looked on. “There, there, madame, courage! We are sons and daughters of the royal houses of Bourbon and Hapsburg. You must be both father and mother now, and make sure that the Dauphin successfully makes it back to the throne someday. He must make the Bourbon dynasty great again, to undo what I have wrought.”
She looked up at him through teary eyes. Throughout her marriage, she had learned many things about Louis XVI: his shyness, his abnormal fascination with mechanical things, his irrational obstinacy, and his general slow-wittedness. But this was something new, this calm in the face of death. Dare she say she had never seen her husband so brave?
“Dear husband, I am sorry for anything that has ever been wrong between us.” She put her face to his expansive chest.
“I know. Think nothing of it. You have always been an elegant queen, more than I could have asked for. I have never been displeased with anything you have done, nor with any of your choices of friends.”
The children were becoming distraught watching the unusually tender interchange between their parents. Young Louis Charles burst into tears, with the princesse royale close on his heels. Marie Antoinette wiped her face with her hands, no longer having dainty, lace-edged linens to use, and addressed them both.
“Children, we have a great hardship to endure. Your papa is to be taken away from us permanently. But he will come back to say good-bye once more in the morning, will you not, monsieur?” She looked at Louis, using the name of respect for him that she had throughout her marriage.
“Yes, yes, of course I will return tomorrow morning.” He signaled to the guard that he was ready to leave and turned to the queen one more time.
“Remember to do everything you can to protect our children and to return Louis Charles to the throne one day. Hopefully they will have accomplished all they want by taking me. They will not hurt you, you are just the queen. You must be valiant and endure.” He stepped over to the dressing table and picked something out of the heap of writing papers, clothing, and books strewn upon it.
“Here. Remember this? The little poupée of your cherished friend, the Princesse de Lamballe? You must hold her to you like you did that dreadful night. It was a source of comfort to you, wasn’t it?”
Marie Antoinette nodded dumbly. It was, but how was it that she needed that comfort again so soon?
“Sleep well, madame, and I will return in the morning.”
But Louis did not return in the morning. He declined a final visit to his family to spare them yet another parting. Instead, he had eaten a hearty dinner the previous evening, spent time in prayer, slept well with a clean conscience, and in the early hours of January 21, prepared himself as though planning to hold an audience with his advisors.
He was escorted to the scaffold, where he calmly attempted a speech before a stilled crowd. “My people, I die innocent…” he began, but at a prearranged signal a group of drummers sprang to life and drowned him out in their thunder. Moments later, the former king’s head was held up with the cry, “The king is dead; long live the Republic!”
The queen heard the cheers from inside her rooms in the Temple. What did this really mean for the rest of the royal family?
London, January 1793. Claudette and William pored over the newspaper articles announcing the king’s death and all of the details associated with it. She gripped his hand tightly as he read from the latest account of the execution. Always rivals with the French anyway, English newspapers were unanimously outraged at France’s actions against its sovereign.
London Times
January 25, 1793
The REPUBLICAN TYRANTS OF FRANCE have now carried their bloody purposes to the uttermost diabolical stretch of savage cruelty. They have murdered their King without even the shadow of justice, and of course they cannot expect friendship nor intercourse with any civilized part of the world. The vengeance of Europe will now rapidly fall on them; and, in process o
f time, make them the veriest wretches on the face of the earth. The name of Frenchman will be considered as the appellation of savage, and their presence shunned as a poison, deadly destructive to the peace and happiness of Mankind. It appears evident that the majority of the National Convention, and the Executive Government of that truly despotic country, are comprised of the most execrable villains upon the face of the earth.
William shook his head as he finished the article. “At the bottom of the page is a statement from King George condemning the murder of a reigning monarch. The French have no more regard for their sovereign than they do putting down a lame horse. But what will they do now? They have no real plan for a system of government. They’re just a bunch of vultures trying to pick each other off. There is no rule of law, citizens are beheaded indiscriminately for trifles. It is plain anarchy.”
“But the queen, William, the poor queen. What will happen to her? Do you think she still stands a chance of being exiled?”
“I don’t know. The revolutionaries’ thirst for blood may not be slaked so easily. They seem to have a taste for it, as you well know.”
Claudette was unsettled for weeks, wishing there were some way she could comfort the queen of France. But that dear lady was swept into events beyond anyone’s control. Claudette resolved not to look at any more newspapers and would not even let William read to her from them. Yet still she spent her days in troubled thought.
“Aunt Claudette, we are completely out of gesso. Wasn’t more ordered?” Marguerite’s eyes reflected her concern. At Claudette’s insistence, the doll workroom was always fully stocked with supplies to prevent delayed deliveries.
“Hmm?” Claudette had pulled Joseph Cummings’s letter out of a drawer where she had locked it up after initially reading it. She was lost in contemplation about the poor boy’s senseless death. Just last week his headstone had been erected at St. George the Martyr’s: JOSEPH CUMMINGS, 1780–1792, BELOVED SON AND APPRENTICE. Claudette purchased very expensive pink marble for the stone, and oversaw its placement herself. She thought to herself that death was really a very exhausting business.
“Claudette, did you hear me? Last month we ran out of wax and now there is no gesso. Is Roger not ordering supplies?”
Claudette forced herself back to the present. “What? Oh, Marguerite. No, your mother took over ordering from Roger. She felt it was something she had a better aptitude for.”
“Where is Mama?”
“I don’t know. I have not seen her yet this morning. Did she leave your lodgings ahead of you?”
“I thought she had, but I did not check. Since we took over your flat as well, we keep our own separate spaces for privacy.”
Leaving the shop in Roger’s capable hands, Claudette and Marguerite walked rapidly to the lodging house still run by Mrs. Jenkins. All was quiet in Béatrice’s side of the flat. They peeked into her bedchamber, and saw her moving restlessly under the blankets. Marguerite rushed to her side.
“Mama, what’s wrong? Are you ill?”
Claudette approached the bed and could see that Béatrice was ill, indeed. Her face was in high color and she was shivering violently beneath the blanket.
Béatrice smiled up weakly at her daughter. “It’s nothing, darling. I’m just a bit tired.”
“Tired? Mama! You’re burning up with fever!”
Marguerite turned wild eyes to Claudette. “Did you know about this?”
“Certainly not. Your mother has never complained of anything to me.”
“Ohhhh,” Béatrice moaned in pain, rolling to one side.
“Mama, what is it?”
“Just a little pain in my side. It only hurts when I breathe deeply. I am sure it’s just a little tightening of my muscles.” Béatrice’s teeth began to chatter.
Claudette ran down a flight of steps. “Mrs. Jenkins! Please, we need a doctor right away. Mrs. du Georges is very ill.”
A physician appeared shortly, with Mrs. Jenkins on his heels. While the doctor examined Béatrice, Mrs. Jenkins fussed over her, fluffing pillows and giving her sips of water. The doctor came out of the bedchamber after an hour, shaking his head gravely, and delivered the bad news: an advanced state of pleurisy. He recommended a bleeding, as large a one as the patient could tolerate. After that, she should be made to rest and to drink warmed barley-water with a little honey or jelly of currants mixed with it. This was done with expediency, but with no improvement in her condition. In fact, she seemed weaker.
Claudette hired a watcher to sit with Béatrice during the day while she was at the shop, then she and Marguerite took turns at the bedside each night. Claudette caught the woman pilfering through Béatrice’s belongings and fired her on the spot. Another watcher she employed showed up dead drunk most mornings. Mrs. Jenkins volunteered to sit with Béatrice after that, and did so sacrificially, becoming pale and wan herself as the days dragged on and she disregarded her own basic needs to serve her patient.
William had his own family physician visit Béatrice, but the verdict was worse: no chance for recovery. Béatrice began quickly slipping away, sleeping most hours of the day and waking because of thirst. One evening she sat up in bed, more alert and responsive than on any other day since they had found her. She called Claudette and Marguerite to her side.
“Dearest Claudette, you have been such a friend to me these past years. After Alexandre died, I did not think I could survive, but you have been my savior.” She clutched her friend’s hand inside her own hot and dry one. Claudette, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, demurred.
“No, you must listen to me. Claudette, I love you second only to Marguerite. I would die a happy woman if I thought that she would go into your keeping. Swear to me that you will treat her as your own. Bring her into the doll shop as you brought me.” Béatrice’s eyes were becoming glazed. She gripped Claudette’s hand tightly. “Swear it!”
“Dear friend, you need have no worries on that score. Marguerite is like a daughter to me, and she will have everything you might have ever wished for her. In fact, I shall make her the inheritress of the shop.” Claudette brushed back the hair from Béatrice’s face and kissed her forehead. “Now rest and get well, so that we need have no more of this talk.”
Béatrice closed her eyes to sleep, a peaceful smile on her face and the lines of worry erased from around her eyes. She awoke only two more times over the next few days, once in a delirium in which she asked for more soap to finish the laundry, and then once more, crying out for Alexandre. She passed away quietly on April 10, 1793.
Béatrice was buried on an achingly beautiful day, in a grave next to Joseph Cummings. Blinking into the sunshine as Reverend Daniels droned on at the grave site, Claudette thought that it was just the sort of day Béatrice might twitter on about—the warmth of the sun, the smell of honeysuckle wafting in the air, the happiness of children playing in the parks. How Claudette would miss that irritating twittering. William felt her shudder, and pulled her close.
Next to her, Marguerite stared dully into space, hearing and seeing nothing. She would not allow Claudette to touch her, and took little food, having remained secluded in the room Claudette and William gave her in their town home. Mrs. Jenkins, also present at the funeral, along with all of the doll shop employees, was in the process of packing Béatrice and Marguerite’s belongings so they could be brought to her new home.
Jolie had thrown up her hands in frustration. “Madame, she will not allow me to dress her, or even comb her hair.”
“She will come around. She has just lost her beloved mother. Have patience, Jolie.”
Marguerite emerged from her room only to go to the funeral. Her drawn face was devoid of cosmetics or color, and her dark hair lay limply around her face. She wore a gray dress that looked like a sack around her frame, which hinted of emaciation. In a few more days, Claudette thought, I will have to force her to eat something nourishing.
Claudette tried to return her attention to the minister, who was
talking about God’s infallible grace. She saw a movement just outside her range of vision and turned her head. Standing inside a copse of trees nearby was Nicholas Ashby. He didn’t realize Claudette had seen him. His gaze was intent on Marguerite. What was he doing here? How had he heard about Béatrice? She nudged Marguerite slightly, and nodded in Nicholas’s direction. The girl frowned and shook her head angrily, as though resentful of an intrusion into her misery.
Following the funeral, William, Claudette, and Marguerite returned home and retired to the rear portico to sit in the warm sunshine. Claudette urged Marguerite to take some tea, which the girl did, and the three of them reminisced about Béatrice. An hour later, a house servant appeared to announce a guest, Mr. Nicholas Ashby.
Marguerite bristled again at the sight of him. He joined the threesome for tea, and added his own remembrances of Béatrice to the conversation. He confessed his crush on the former Ashby house servant. His mother had sarcastically mentioned the passing of “the half-wit servant,” which she had heard about from Emily Harrison, who had it from the Radleys, whose housekeeper was a second cousin to one of the Greycliffes’ servants.
When quick-traveling word had reached Nicholas, he made it his business to find out the details of the funeral so he could come and pay his respects.
“Well, we welcome you with pleasure,” said William.
Nicholas blushed at the older man’s acceptance.
Claudette could see Marguerite softening slightly at Nicholas’s admiration of Béatrice.
“So you were in love with my mother?” she asked.
“Well, that was years ago, when I was just a boy. But I have always remembered her fondly.”
Claudette added, “Nicholas was always our ally in the Ashby household. In fact, he was the one who made sure you had medicine when you had that fever.”
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