A Royal Likeness (17 page)

“Thank you, Mr. Philipsthal. It would seem the Scots have mastered lamb cookery to the point that it is impossible to talk until one has gobbled down whatever dish has been presented.”

“Your pleasure is my greatest happiness,” he said. “And now it looks like we are coming upon the palace.”

Marguerite had not yet seen Holyroodhouse for herself. Whereas the castle grounds soared imposingly up in the air on their bed of ancient volcanic rock, dominating the skyline like a colossal, confused phoenix with its jumble of stone buildings inside ancient walls, the palace was its natural opposite. Situated in nearly a direct line about a mile down the hill from the castle, it lay on flat, bucolic grounds. The palace was shaped as a square surrounding a courtyard, with an enormous gatehouse containing three turrets at either corner of the front side facing the street. Each turret was full of arrow slits, a reminder of days gone by when the Scottish monarch first protected the Crown against usurpers of the throne, and later as a defense against the country’s own internal revolts. And now it was the home of the exiled Charles-Philippe, Comte d’Artois and second in line to the nearly defunct Bourbon line, along with his longtime paramour, Louise de Polastron. King George III had granted apartments inside the palace to him as a residence. Rumors of the comte had reached Marguerite’s ears at the exhibition. It was said that Charles-Philippe, seriously in debt and miserable in exile, stayed mostly within the palace’s walls, gambling at cards with Louise and his entourage, and only ventured out to ride on Sundays, since Scottish law forbade the arrest of debtors on the Lord’s day.

To the south of the palace lay Holyrood Park, once used for royal hunting and now just an array of pleasure grounds, hills, lochs, and ridges. They ventured down the road nearest the palace, which surrounded the gardens. Other visitors did the same and this perimeter road sometimes became congested and impassable.

Many faded aristocrats, no doubt more refugees from the revolution in France, strolled the lavish gardens pretending they were still commanding attention at Versailles.

After the full two hours it took to circle the palace gardens, Philipsthal instructed the driver to return to Barnard’s Rooms. This time the driver took a different route that was on less of a direct incline back up in the direction of the castle. They instead drove past the fashionably grand façades of the New Town area surrounding Barnard’s Rooms.

Marguerite checked the watch pinned to her bodice as their driver pulled up to their destination. “I believe I have been gone for longer than Madame Tussaud might have liked. I must hurry back in.”

Philipsthal exited the carriage, paid the driver, and offered a hand to help Marguerite down.

“Thank you, Mrs. Ashby, for your delightful company. Our ride together was quite refreshing.” He still held her hand.

“It was no trouble, Mr. Philipsthal. I value our friendship.” She dislodged her captured palm and smiled. “I hope you like what you have seen of Edinburgh. But now I must be back to work.”

She walked off quickly to avoid further conversation and just barely caught him saying, “Please, call me Paul.”

The ride left Marguerite even more puzzled. Mr. Philipsthal seemed a perfectly pleasant man and of no threat to anyone. Yet Marie was a shrewd, calculating businesswoman. If she was leery of someone, was it not wise to heed her judgment?

Philipsthal’s show trunks had been quickly transferred to another ship bound for Edinburgh, and with the help of several hired hands he was ready for his Phantasmagoria show’s opening on September 20.

Marie held out the newspaper page containing his advertisement over a breakfast of biscuits, jams, and melon with fresh cream.

“He hires too many people. No eye on profit.”

Marguerite glanced at the advertisement without taking it, her hands full with the buttering of bread.

“I suppose the investment in labor helped him get his show started sooner.”

“Not an investment. He’s lazy. Lets everyone else do the work for him. Humph.” Marie took the paper back, crumpled it, and tossed it into the small fireplace in Mrs. Laurie’s dining room. The previous night’s embers sparked to life as they quickly consumed their own morning meal.

Marguerite saw little of Mr. Philipsthal during the first two weeks of his show’s opening. He seemed preoccupied with managing
all the details surrounding a new location, and Marguerite worked night and day alongside her mentor. Edinburgh had proven to be a great success for them.

As Marie had hoped, the refugee French aristocrats in this bustling town loved the wax exhibition and most happily paid the extra fee to enter the Separate Room, where they could see castings of fellow aristocrats and royalty who had been less lucky in keeping their heads on their shoulders. In the Separate Room they could also stare at the evildoers who had been responsible for much of France’s destruction and eventually shared in their victims’ fates.

The locked coin box was filling up daily.

When the exhibit was not particularly crowded and could be managed by the ever-precocious Joseph, Marie gave Marguerite more instructions in the waxworking craft.

“You are a good student, Mrs. Ashby, but you must learn to make sketches. We can’t always make masks. For our next portrait I teach you.”

Their next portrait was not long in coming, for even the Comte d’Artois and his mistress, Madame de Polastron, had heard of the show from their fellow expatriates and ventured out of the palace one Sunday to see what all the grand fuss was about.

After sweeping through the main gallery and the Separate Room, the comte—whose youthful but dominating presence could be interpreted as nothing less than royal—nearly toppled Marie and Marguerite in his exuberance before remembering that he had royal manners to maintain. He drew himself up to match his height to his own opinion of himself, then gasped in recognition of Marie.

“You! I remember you! From Versailles. But I don’t recall your position. What was your relation to us?”

Marie bowed her head deferentially. “Monsieur, I was art tutor to your sister, Madame Elisabeth, for several years. Until the unpleasantness began.”

“Ah yes, I recall now that you had apartments next to hers. How our circumstances have changed, no? To be exiled in this city choked with rabid Protestants. It is hard for us good, devout
Frenchmen to bear.” He absentmindedly patted his mistress’s hand, which was tucked in his arm. Louise de Polastron’s countenance was serene to the point that the woman seemed to be elsewhere.

“I am content enough with my circumstances, monsieur,” Marie replied. “I have some success with my little wax exhibition.”

“Yes, I suppose for the bourgeoisie it is easy enough to earn money using your hands. But I am forced to more gentlemanly pursuits. It is difficult, most difficult. And now that fool Corsican thinks to invade England. We’ll be murdered in our beds by these heathen Scots who think to curry favor with the Crown by getting rid of ‘undesirable’ elements. But we have more agreeable affairs to talk of, yes?”

Charles-Philippe commanded an immediate sitting for both himself and his pale, quiet mistress, assuring the waxworkers that the cost was of no importance.

Indeed no, Marguerite thought. Of no importance when one lives off the beneficence of the Crown.

Whether Marie agreed with her was unclear. The salon’s proprietress set the price at ten pounds for both figures and arranged for a sitting in two days, at which time they would each provide the clothing they wanted their respective figures to wear.

“This time, Mrs. Ashby, you will learn to sketch as well as assist me with the masks.”

“I’m afraid I have no innate talent for drawing, madame.”

“I didn’t, either. No, my little Nini is the natural artist in our merry little group. He needs no teaching. You have seen his drawings since we’ve been here? He is a remarkable boy.”

“He is indeed remarkable. But how will I be able to sketch these two important patrons when I am not naturally inclined to drawing?”

“Did you not sketch dolls before carving them?”

“Honestly, no. I formed a picture in my head and from there set my hand to the carving knife. Aunt Claudette rarely sketched anything, either.”

“What of their clothes before cutting fabric?”

“Sometimes, yes. But we had a very talented seamstress who was gifted at making patterns based on my verbal descriptions.”

Marie tsk-tsked her wonder at how the doll shop ever produced the quality it had. Marguerite suppressed her amusement. From anyone else the comment would be insulting, but Marie was fast becoming a figure of great importance to Marguerite. Marie was sometimes secretive, and almost always oblivious to anything not concerning her show, but she was also protective of her protégé, a loving mother, and an exceedingly able businesswoman. Not to mention an artist with unparalleled talent in wax modeling.

Yes, I could have done far worse in my new life without Nicholas.

With the thought of her husband, now dead nearly a year, she waited for at least one bolt of pain to course through her. It did not come. Instead, it felt like a thin, fluttering ribbon weaving quickly through her heart, gone almost before she noticed it.

Marie and Marguerite closed up the exhibit early on the day they visited Holyroodhouse. They once again left behind an outraged Joseph, who had been chattering nonstop for two days about what it must be like to be a prince, and once again found himself left out of an exciting event.

“This is not fair to me, Maman! I am going to be a great and famous waxworker when I grow up. I have to meet the comte if I’m going to be famous.” He crossed his arms and jutted out his bottom lip.

“Son, you must remain here. I want you to study the spelling book I bought for you.”

“I don’t need to spell! I speak English like a native. You said so! I want to visit the palace.” His lower lip was now trembling.

Marguerite, thankful that he no longer aimed his resentment directly at her, felt some sympathy for the boy. Who wouldn’t want to see how royalty lives? And what child can understand being too young for adult company? Especially poor Joseph, whose only playmates were two adult women and a horde of wax people.

As they finally escaped Barnard’s Rooms with their two bags of supplies, Marie said, “Speaking English is not enough. My boy is getting older and needs good education. Nini needs a tutor. Mrs. Ashby, will you help me find one?”

“Of course, madame. It would be my pleasure to help you secure a tutor.”

They proceeded on foot down the mile-long incline of High Street toward Holyroodhouse. Madame Tussaud rarely hired a carriage for any journey. “I can buy a case of wax blocks for the price. Hackney is a stupid expense.”

The fragrant aroma from the meat-pie seller wafted upon Marguerite before she actually saw him. She made a mental note to treat Madame Tussaud to one of his delectable pasties on their return trip, which would be a welcome stop as they trudged back uphill.

At the palace gates they were greeted by two soldiers from the castle, who nodded politely to the women and let them through into the front courtyard. A large fountain sat equidistant between the guard gate and the palace’s entrance. The fountain’s sprays were turned off, leaving the impression that it no longer cared about greeting visitors with a happy burst of misty showers.

Two more uniformed soldiers awaited them at the palace entry. One stepped inside to seek admittance for them, while the other barred their way. The first soldier returned promptly with a servant from the palace, who led them silently through the stately, carved oak door into the palace complex. They were escorted across the inner courtyard and through another door at the back of the palace into a large reception hall flanked by tapestries on three walls and windows on the fourth. The room contained a fine writing table with matching chair, and several plush stools and sofas. The servant clanged the door shut as he left to find his master.

“Madame, I’m afraid this table is entirely at risk of damage by us if this is where we are to make the masks.” Marguerite brought her voice down to a low murmur as she heard her words reverberating against the walls. The room echoed sound remarkably well, despite the immense Flemish tapestries lining the walls.

“Yes, we need a worktable. But light from the windows is good here.”

Moments later the Comte d’Artois entered with an ashen-faced Madame de Polastron leaning on his arm.

Marie and Marguerite curtsied to the couple. Even Marie, typically
unmindful of those around her, could see that the comte’s mistress was unwell.

“Madame?” Marie asked. “Are you ailing? Have we disturbed you? Should we—”

“What do you mean, ailing?” interrupted the comte. “My Louise is perfectly well, aren’t you, pet?”

The woman smiled up wanly at her lover. “Of course, my darling. As you say. I’m just a bit tired.” She coughed discreetly to one side into a handkerchief tied around her wrist.

While Marie negotiated with the comte to have the elegant writing table replaced with something more serviceable, Marguerite gently took Madame de Polastron’s arm and helped her to the most comfortable seat in the room.

She whispered to the seated Louise, “Madame, have no fear that you will need to submit to the masking process. Once we have completed the comte’s life mask, I will instead sketch you and make your form later at the salon.”

“You can do this? I confess I was a bit unsure of what to expect.”

“Please, be at rest and make yourself comfortable. The only distress you will experience is from the noise of my scratching pencil.”

Louise giggled and dissolved into another coughing fit before lying back against the settee to await Marguerite’s attentions.

While Marie helped with the positioning of the table brought in by two uniformed servants at the comte’s command, Marguerite unpacked their bags of supplies. When the table was readied, Marguerite unfurled a length of pristine velvet cloth she knew would be ruined following the portrait sitting. Marie had decided after meeting the comte that he would be more expectant that fine material be used on him, despite its purpose, so Marie had dug some purple velvet out of a trunk to use as a drape across the front of his torso.