A Royal Likeness (11 page)

“Thank you for coming to see me at my humble little residence. Would you care for some refreshment after your trip?” The duchess rang a small bell and gave instructions to the servant who appeared from nowhere.

Two more servants entered promptly to set a table near the room’s enormous panel of windows set four high and six across, looking out over formal gardens and terraces, barely visible in the fading daylight.

With sharp efficiency, a linen cloth was snapped open on the table and three place settings were arranged. The women were seated and served biscuits with strawberry and apricot jams, peach fritters, nuts, and sweet wine. Two of the Duchess of York’s small dogs sat expectantly at their mistress’s feet and waited for nibbles to be bestowed upon them. They didn’t have to wait long, as she personally slathered jam on bits of biscuit and hand-fed the eager recipients.

Thanks to the duchess’s kindly charm, the three women chatted as though they were old friends reunited after a long absence, although Marie remained the quietest one of the trio. The duchess was surprisingly gentle yet candid. “I do not get many visitors from London here, although the townspeople are quite sympathetic toward me. Everyone knows of my calamitous marriage with the prince, which should have put me in the most awkward predicament. But I find I am happy to be retired here in my little home with my pets to keep me company and the affection of the locals to keep me comforted.” As if on cue, another dog came scrabbling into the room, tongue hanging to one side of its small but inquisitive face.

The duchess laughed at the newcomer. “Please, Cassandra, use a more ladylike entrance before our guests.” Another well-coated biscuit went to the floor.

Next to Marguerite, Marie was rustling with impatience. Marguerite smiled inwardly. She was beginning to really like her no-nonsense mentor, who was clearly becoming irritated with the canine intrusions.

“Ahem, Your Grace, would you like to talk about your model now?” Marie tried turning the conversation toward more important topics.

“Oh no. You’ve had such a long journey, you must be tired. I’ll have you shown to your rooms and we can worry about the model in the morning.”

Thus their introduction to the duchess ended and they were shown to comfortable adjoining rooms. When Marguerite crossed into Marie’s bedchamber to say good night, she was greeted with the woman’s usual staccato observances.

“Foolishness. Waste of time. We should be letting mask set overnight. Too much delay. The exhibition is not taking in admissions while we fritter away time here.”

Marguerite grasped Marie’s hand. “I’m sure that tomorrow morning we will set right to work and be on our way in no time.”

“Bah. Need good light. And no dogs! Animals will spoil the plaster with their hair and drool.”

“I’m sure the duchess will be sensitive to your requirements, madame. We should retire now to be sure we get plenty of rest for tomorrow’s activities.”

The next morning was flooded with golden sunshine and they were invited to take breakfast with the duchess on the lawn just outside the formal gardens, which were dotted with small tombstones along their perimeter. Marguerite counted seven of them. She tentatively ventured to ask about them as they finished their sumptuous morning meal of oatmeal with sweet cream, smoked herrings, and rolls with orange marmalade.

“Your Grace, pardon my rudeness, but may I inquire as to who is buried here?”

“Ah, they are the resting places for my precious ones. My pets that have gone on before me.”

“Your pets?”

“Yes, a couple of my beloved terriers, my rapscallion old cockatoo, Blanche, and others. I buried them here so they could look out over the grounds they loved so much when they were alive.”

Marie was fidgeting at Marguerite’s side again, and accidentally kicked the case of supplies at her feet, spilling the contents. A servant was at her side in seconds to pick up the scattered tools and replace them.

“That was very thoughtful of Your Grace,” Marguerite replied. “I’m sure your kindness is well appreciated by the people of Weybridge.”

The duchess preened at Marguerite’s words. “Thank you, Mrs. Ashby. It’s a bit lonely being exiled this far outside Society. My pets and my neighbors are my only solace. And now we should attend to my portrait, should we not?”

She personally escorted them to a brick outbuilding about
twenty feet square, which she referred to as a painter’s studio. Inside the structure was an assortment of chairs, chests, and other occasional pieces of furniture, jumbled together so that it seemed more like a storage shed than a place where an artist could work. Nevertheless, Marguerite jumped in to help as Marie began systematically moving furniture around to fit her needs. The two women threw open windows and used cloths covering a settee to wipe down a table Marie identified as suitable for applying the plaster cast.

The duchess protested that she would have servants rearrange the room for the waxworkers, but Marie, already annoyed by the delays, insisted that the little bit of effort to fix the room was not worth calling for help.

With the studio now set, Marie set about her first task, which was to take measurements of her subject. Spread upon the table were several types of calipers, metal instruments that looked like the pincher devices enthusiastically used by fanatics during the Inquisition.

Happily enough, their fierce appearances had no relation to the very simple task they performed. Using an outside caliper, Marie gently placed the arms of it around the princess’s ankles, calves, wrists, head, and other extremities to measure their circumferences. Marguerite duly noted these numbers in the large notebook they kept to maintain a log of all their subjects.

She then used one of her several inside calipers, which measured the internal circumference of a subject, such as the spread inside of a mouth or the distance between the fingers of an outstretched hand. The princess was nonplussed at having to open her jaw as wide as she could, but acquiesced politely.

Marie then invited Princess Frederica to sit down in a simple wooden armchair whose back was to the table, and asked her to lean all the way back so that her head rested on the table. While the duchess got comfortable, Marguerite arranged the woman’s skirts to ensure she remained as dignified as possible through the process. At the same time Marie spread her case of supplies on the table near the duchess’s head. She handed Marguerite a jar of oil and a wide paintbrush and asked her to spread a thick layer of it
over the duchess’s hairline. This, Marie explained, would prevent plaster from sticking to the hair.

At the same time, Marie draped a large cloth over the front of the duchess and tied it around the back of her neck. The duchess nervously joked that even her husband’s current mistress, Mrs. Clarke, would have pity on her in her present state.

“Madame,” Marie began, “I must do something that will seem strange, but please do not be alarmed. I must insert one of these in each nostril.” Marie held up a tiny piece of paper she was rolling up into the shape of a tube. “These will help you breathe, as once I apply the plaster to your face, you will not be able to open your eyes or your mouth. Yes?”

The duchess’s eyes opened wide in the beginnings of fear. “Oh my. Oh. Well, certainly, if you say it’s safe.”

“Yes, this is safe. I do this all the time in France. Even Napoleon did this.”

The thought that she was sharing the same experience as the infamous enemy of England heartened the duchess. “If the dreadful old Boney can do it, then what matter is it to even the weakest Englishwoman?”

Marie turned to Marguerite. “Watch closely.”

This needed no telling. Marguerite gazed in fascination as Marie placed the tightly rolled paper gently into the duchess’s right nostril, then allowed it to unroll until it filled the cavity. The duchess tensed her entire body at the sensation, then firmly shut her eyes.

Marie poured some water from a tightly stoppered bottle into a bowl, and added a powdery white mix to it in gradual amounts, stirring after each addition until she was satisfied with the consistency, which was thick yet workable.

She instructed the duchess to keep her eyes naturally closed, not clenched, but to not open them even the slightest fraction, for it would result in plaster in her eyes.

“Do you understand this important instruction, Your Grace?” Marie asked. The duchess looked apprehensively at Marguerite, who smiled back at her encouragingly.

“I do,” she said in a small voice.

Marie used her hands to spread the gooey mix on the duchess’s skin. Every inch of her face, including her exposed neck to the point where the draping started, was covered with a thin layer of plaster.

Marie then cut a two-foot section of thread from a ball and placed it from the bottom of the duchess’s neck to the top of her forehead.

“What is that for?” Marguerite asked.

“You’ll see.”

Marie picked up the bowl of plaster again, and this time scooped a much heavier layer of it on the duchess’s face. Marguerite started when the duchess grabbed her hand and squeezed it. She could imagine the woman’s terror at being effectively blinded and muted and relying on two flimsy pieces of paper for breathing. Even the dead would be terrified of such a procedure! Marguerite patted the duchess’s shoulder as reassuringly as possible.

Marie finished molding the plaster to her subject’s face with her hands. Her fingers moved with remarkable dexterity, pushing the plaster around quickly to conform to every ridge, crevice, and imperfection of her subject’s face before it began to dry. When she was satisfied with her handiwork, Marie poured water from the bottle onto her hands over the plaster mixing bowl and scrubbed them clean. Shaking her wet hands over the bowl, she said, “Now we wait.”

Knowing the duchess’s terror, Marguerite asked, “Madame, how long will she wait?”

Marie shrugged. “Not long. We’ll remove it before it cracks.”

“Madame, are you comfortable? Please squeeze my hand once if yes, twice if no.”

The other woman’s trembling hand squeezed hers uncertainly once. Marguerite waited for another round of pressure, but it did not come. She left her hand in the duchess’s for reassurance and examined the plaster covering while Marie pulled more tools from her case.

The plaster was beginning to harden and turn a lighter shade of
gray around her mouth, nose, and eyes. Already she could see the outline of a few small wrinkles the duchess had on both corners of her mouth. Marguerite was mesmerized.

But before it hardened too much further, Marie grabbed both ends of the string at her subject’s chin and forehead and pulled the string evenly up through the plaster, splitting it in two.

“This makes mask easier to remove. Two pieces are easier than one.”

“But won’t it affect what it looks like later?”

“No, we’ll make it perfect back at the workshop.”

As they waited, the duchess clutched Marguerite’s arm with one hand, while she clenched and unclenched the fist of her other hand on the chair’s arm. Soon the plaster had developed a whitish cast to it, which Marie indicated meant it was fully dried and ready for removal. “Your Grace, I’ll pull mask off now,” Marie said.

Marguerite heard the duchess utter a low growl of relief from the back of her throat. Marie grabbed either side of the mask and began twisting it off the duchess’s face with practically imperceptible movements.

The apprentice held her breath as Marie gently pulled each side of the ghostly wrap. The duchess’s fingernails were now firmly embedded in Marguerite’s wrist, but she bit her lip to keep from crying out and thereby startling the customer even more.

Finally the mask released from the duchess’s face, coming off like a hinged lid from the right side to the left. Marie held up two halves for Marguerite’s inspection.

“Yes, this is good casting. Mrs. Ashby, you do well with oil. No plaster in the hair.”

There was no plaster in the duchess’s hair, but the same could not be said for the remainder of her face and neck. Bits of plaster were stuck all over the duchess’s cheeks, eyelids, and lips.

“I will wrap the mask. You assist the duchess with her wash.”

Marguerite hardly knew where to begin. Sensing her indecision the duchess asked, “Am I too terrible a fright? I must have a mirror.”

Marie’s head came up sharply from where she was working with
the mask. “No! I mean, madame, let Mrs. Ashby remove the excess particles so that Your Grace need not be troubled so much.”

“It’s no trouble. I’ll ring for a servant.”

“No no, no servants necessary.”

Seeing the potential for escalating tension, Marguerite grabbed a soft cloth from the top of the pile Marie had placed on the table and dampened it with water from Marie’s bottle. She touched the soft cloth to the duchess’s face as she dropped her voice and began speaking in a soothing tone.

“Madame, it is my great pleasure to assist you. We know that we’ve put you under great stress, but we know you will be so extraordinarily pleased with the result that this will seem a trifling inconvenience to you. Imagine how thrilling it will be when London society sees your exact likeness in wax. All attention once reserved for the duke and his mistress will be refocused on Your Grace. Everyone will want to see how beautiful and gracious their maligned princess really is.”

By this time, Marguerite was nearly finished with wiping excess plaster from the duchess’s face.

“Your Grace, I believe you now just need a cream rinse for your hair, to take out the oil. Is there a hand mirror here in the studio?”

The duchess lifted her head up from the table. “There’s probably a wall mirror among the covered pieces of furniture over there.” She pointed to a large dusty cloth outlining bumpy objects beneath it in a corner of the room.

Marguerite lifted the cover and quickly found a small, gilt-edged table mirror on the floor. She wiped the glass clean on a corner of her dress as she took it to the duchess and set it on Marie’s worktable. The duchess turned her chair around to look at herself and promptly burst into decidedly unregal giggles.