She went to James in his study, smoothing her skirt and practicing her best smile. “Mr. Ashby, I think it’s time to have another dinner party. Don’t you agree?”
James Ashby looked up from his book in surprise. When had Maude ever consulted him about one of her parties? For that matter, when had she last spoken to him civilly, without the veiled reference to his inadequacies as a husband, father, and provider?
“W-why, yes, my dear, if it makes you happy.”
She sighed, exasperated. “James, it does not make me happy, but it does provide me—I mean, you—with an opportunity to mingle with the right sort of people. Not only that, I have an idea that will set us apart as unique members of society.”
As Maude Ashby proceeded to tell her husband of her original idea, certain to gain the respect and admiration of everyone in attendance, James Ashby gazed past his wife at a painting on the wall, already drifting off to thoughts of going to the club the following day with one of his friends, to drink brandy and smoke cigars away from the infernal carping at home.
“She wants you to do what?” Béatrice was incredulous. “But Claudette, Mrs. Ashby does not like either of us. Why does she want you to do this after all of these months here?”
“I don’t know, Béatrice. But I suppose I am to do as I am commanded, no matter how ridiculous I will appear. I imagine I will have the opportunity to meet all of those interesting people you are hoping the Ashbys know.”
“If only you could meet someone who could help us get out of here. How I would love to miss just a day of cleaning Nathaniel’s filthy breeches. I believe he purposely wipes bugs and mud on them to make my work especially hard.”
Claudette hugged her friend. “Well, I don’t know that anyone the Ashbys know would be a friend to us, but I do know that Mrs. Ashby is giving me several new dresses in payment for my role, and I plan to share them with you.”
Jassy was furious. How could that little French bitch be getting elevated to the position of lady’s maid? Why, Mrs. Ashby ain’t never had a lady’s maid, and if she was all of a sudden getting that high in society, well then it might as well be Jassy in that position.
After all, she thought, I been here almost four years, and I know how to dress hair, I do indeed. Didn’t I always do my aunt Mary’s hair all them years before she passed? If it wasn’t for that French la-di-da and her mousy little friend, I’d now be lady’s maid, and a lady’s maid can catch a better man than a kitchen wench. Jassy’s eyes narrowed. It weren’t fair, and that stuck-up, high-and-mighty kitchen slut was going to have to reckon with Jassy Brickford before long.
Preparations for the Ashbys’ latest party, now publicized on invitations as “Soirée à la Français,” went on day and night for weeks, sending the entire household into a frenzy. Carpets were beaten, linens aired, and silver polished. James frequently took to staying out at Brooks’s Gentlemen’s Club until late hours to avoid his wife’s incessant grumbling about how these parties are just so difficult, but it is all part of her sacrifice to save the family name and fortune, which was just so unfortunately lost.
Nicholas and Nathaniel watched with interest all of the goings-on. Nicholas volunteered to carry things down to the laundry, and would mysteriously take an hour at a time to do so. Most of the servants and other family members were too preoccupied to notice. When Nathaniel wasn’t scavenging leftovers from Cook’s trial pastries, he occupied himself with considering what kind of practical joke he could play on one of the guests. A spider in a wine glass? No, too silly—he was getting too old for such baby tricks. Perhaps he could set a small fire outside and panic all of the partygoers. No, his father didn’t get mad often, but a trick like that would ensure the perpetrator would be the recipient of a beating, and he probably couldn’t pass it off as Nicholas’s idea. No, it would have to be simple, yet untraceable.
In her new, temporary designation as lady’s maid, Claudette was given hours of instruction as to how she was to position herself behind Mrs. Ashby (“Always behind my left shoulder, close enough that I do not have to raise my voice to issue you an instruction, but far enough away that I shan’t have you tripping on me. I don’t want to actually sense you are behind me, I just want to know that if I reach behind me to drop my napkin, you will of course be there to catch it”). The lessons went on interminably. When to say something to guests (only when Mrs. Ashby was showing her off), when to smile, when to look serious, when to leave the room, when to say something glowing about her mistress, how to serve wine to her mistress in a humble yet adoring manner, determining the right moment to say something solicitous to her mistress.
The deportment lessons were punctuated with lessons on how to do Mrs. Ashby’s hair (“What if something falls out of place? People will simply expect you to take care of me immediately.”). She also received instruction on how to subtly apply rouge and powder to Mrs. Ashby’s face in the event it wore off (“So that I always look my best. It is so important that I look magnificent all evening.”)
Mrs. Ashby’s final admonition after weeks of this training was, “Just think—if you do well, I might actually keep you as my lady’s maid. What a splendid promotion for you. And how envious of me the other ladies will be.”
Claudette choked back her internal desire to scream by smiling dumbly at her employer. She comforted herself with the knowledge that she would be getting a small, but new, wardrobe that she could share with Béatrice. During fittings she requested that the garments be made a little more loosely so that Béatrice’s slightly larger frame would fit them. Mrs. Ashby certainly did not allow Claudette to have any fine fabrics, but compared to the uniform she had been trapped in, the clothing—including one actual gown—was heaven-sent. The seamstress had attempted to imitate a French fashion that unfortunately was about ten years out of date. Marie Antoinette was keeping a busy fashion industry even more hectic with drastic changes in acceptable colors and styles every season. The fabrics, though, were more than serviceable and of good quality. They reminded Claudette of the fabrics her father used to dress dolls for customers, and she found herself longing for Paris and its comfortable smells and noisy streets, for her parents and their cozy doll shop, and most of all, for Jean-Philippe. Perhaps dead, perhaps alive. Could she one day get back to France to find him?
The morning of the party was glorious, nature not daring to disobey Mrs. Ashby’s command for perfect sunshine with a slight breeze. The frenzy of the past weeks culminated in one final push of polishing, dusting, and cleaning. A cache of genuine beeswax candles, normally kept stored away, were brought out and placed in the freshly buffed silver candelabra and sconces all over the ground floor. The intoxicating smell of artfully arranged fresh flowers permeated the house as they stood at attention in vases on tables and sideboards. The boys did not escape the household improvements. They were scrubbed until raw, then fitted into matching breeches and jackets, even though they were firmly instructed that they would be spending less than an hour with the guests before being sent to their rooms. Mr. Ashby was dressed in his finest waistcoat as well.
Mrs. Ashby stayed hidden for hours, attended only by Claudette. The other maids were angered by Claudette’s rise in stature, but none so infuriated as Jassy. She vented her spitting rage before any other servant who would listen to her. Something would have to be done about Miss High and Mighty Frenchy, she thought, viciously attacking the brass doorknocker with paste and a rubbing cloth.
Mrs. Ashby spent an hour practicing her entrance down the main staircase with Claudette trailing behind her, not too closely but not too far away. A little to one side, so guests could see her new French lady’s maid, but not so far out that she took the attention away from Mrs. Ashby’s décolletage in her new ballgown, a new design imported directly from Paris. Claudette thought the pea-green color trimmed in silver threads to be particularly ill-suited to Mrs. Ashby’s dark features, but wisely refrained from making any helpful suggestions.
Mrs. Ashby’s entrance before her
guests went off flawlessly, and Claudette must have obeyed the impossible instructions sufficiently, for she was not chastised when they reached the ground floor and the hostess began mingling with her guests.
Periodically Mrs. Ashby sought out her husband, ostensibly to mildly flirt with whomever his companion of the moment was, but really just to make sure he wasn’t saying anything too ridiculous or inane. Truly, the man could be so laughable as a host.
Once Mrs. Ashby was satisfied that she had approached all of her early-arrival guests at least once, she took up a post in the drawing room, angling herself so that she could see any further guests coming through the door, yet remaining far enough in the room that arrivals would be forced to seek her out to pay court to her.
As Claudette stood just behind Mrs. Ashby, she saw a large, purposeful, perspiring woman striding through the door, barking at someone behind her. Another poor hapless lady’s maid, Claudette thought. Mrs. Ashby turned back and hissed to her, “I knew she would show up. Claudette, pretend you do not know English. Respond to her only in French—it will drive her simply mad.”
Turning back to the woman who had now reached her, Maude waved her fan ostentatiously in front of her face and exclaimed loudly, “Why, Mrs. Harrison, I am so delighted that you are here. I was just telling James this morning how very disappointed I would be if you could not make it. Mrs. Harrison, have you heard about my new lady’s maid, Claudette?” She pulled Claudette forward, and Claudette dipped lightly into a curtsy. “She’s French, you know. I had her brought over from Paris just to serve me. I’ve always said to James that it is so important that the boys have some Continental influence. He agrees with me, of course.” Maude sighed deeply, bringing the fan into slow motion, overcome at the thought that her boys were becoming so cultured because of her foresight. “The poor thing doesn’t speak a word of English, but I am quite skilled at demonstrating what I want, so things have been working very smoothly. Alas, I don’t know if you would be able to do the same, Mrs. Harrison. A shame, really, because it is incredibly delightful having a French lady’s maid in the house.”
Claudette picked up her cue. Emily Harrison peered into Claudette’s eyes as though inspecting a new pair of gloves for purchase, then snapped, “I can certainly make my point to anyone I choose. Claudette, fetch me a glass of wine.” She pantomimed taking a glass from a tray and tipping it back into her mouth. It was quite clear, and only an idiot would not have understood her action. Claudette screwed up her eyes slightly, pursed her lips, and shook her head. She began talking to the woman in French, saying whatever popped into her head. “Yes, madam, you do look like a garishly made-up elephant, but I would gladly ride out of here on top of you to get away from my deranged employer.”
Emily Harrison presumed Claudette was expressing her inability to understand what the lady wanted, so she began pantomiming more intensely. Now she was throwing her head back over and over for the drink, her hand clutching tightly at the imaginary glass. Claudette shrugged and looked at Maude, who was positively beside herself with joy. Emily stamped one thick-legged foot, muttered something about the French not having any sense whatsoever, and lumbered back to the front door, shouting for her lady’s maid to call for the carriage.
“Ha! I knew I could get rid of that old harridan if I simply put my good sense to the task. Now I can remove her from my invitation list, and the Denbys will come if she won’t be here. If I can get the Denbys, then I am just a few invitations away from an earl or duke from their social set.” Maude was very close to clapping her hands with glee.
These kinds of absurd interactions went on for about an hour, until dinner was ready and Maude went to find James to have him accompany her into the dining room. Claudette used the opportunity to retreat to the library, to sit alone for a while. She felt utterly robbed of breath and dignity. Settled in a chair whose red velvet fabric was worn but whose padding was blessedly plush, Claudette leaned back with her eyes closed in the dark room, gathering strength for the remainder of the evening.
She did not hear the door open again. The flaring of a match startled her to alertness, and she saw a man lighting a lamp picked up from the candle stand next to the door. His face was partially hidden, coming into full view as he picked up the lamp and moved into the room. He was tall, and carried himself like an aristocrat, which, Claudette realized with an inwardly disgusted sigh, he probably was if Maude Ashby had asked him here.
He moved to a bookcase, raising his lamp to examine titles on the shelves. The light illuminated his profile, which showed a tall, solid man, his light hair curling about his collar. Claudette shrank against the chair, instinctively not wanting to be noticed. The man picked a volume from the shelf and hefted it in his hand. He turned to leave the room and his light brought Claudette into view.
“What the devil? Who’s there?” He held the lamp aloft. In perfect French he said, “Why, you’re Mrs. Ashby’s lady’s maid. What in heaven’s name are you doing in here?”
Claudette arched an eyebrow and replied in English, “I suppose a lady’s maid could not possibly be educated enough to read?”
“I said nothing of the sort. But I would have supposed that a young woman who could not speak a word of English just an hour ago could not possibly have learned to speak it proficiently by sitting in a darkened room full of books for such a short time.”
“You don’t understand, I—”
“I am certain I see well enough. You have some deep, dark secret you want no one to know of. Let us see if we can solve the mystery. Perhaps you are Mrs. Ashby’s long-lost secret daughter.”
“Never! How horrid you are!” Claudette slapped the arms of her chair and stood up.
“No? Hmm, well then maybe you are a spy for the French royal house, seeking to determine whether England can be conquered by infiltrating her citizens’ dinner parties.”
She stamped her foot, hands on her hips. “I am no such thing. How dare you? I am Claudette Laurent, an émigré in the employ of the Ashbys, no matter how humiliating that may be. My father was Étienne Laurent, one of the greatest dollmakers in France. But I am certain, monsieur, you would not understand the meaning of hard work, and greatness achieved through talent.”
The man threw his head back and laughed. “Why, Miss Laurent, I am honored to make the acquaintance of the daughter of so great an entrepreneur. The next time I enter your presence, I shall ensure that I am adequately humbled and deferential.”
Claudette dropped back into her chair, arranging her skirts. She felt her cheeks burning. “Monsieur, you are not a gentleman, and I shall not listen to another word. I cannot understand why Mr. and Mrs. Ashby would have someone so boorish as a guest in their home.”
“Oh, I suspect my family name and connections quite overcome any objections Mrs. Ashby may have to my considerable personal faults.” He tucked his selected book under his arm, and put the lamp back down in its place. “Well, I leave you to your slumber.”
“I am not slumbering—” But the door had already clicked behind him.
Claudette blew a loose tendril away from her eyes. An infuriating man. What absolute nerve to speak to her so. He was certainly not a gentleman nor an intellectual like Jean-Philippe, despite whatever disparity there might be in their social strata. She twisted her betrothal ring, now worn on her right hand, with the thumb and forefinger of her opposite hand, trying to remember Jean-Philippe’s passionate discourses on politics. Yet her mind drifted.
Who was that man?
The tinkling of a bell startled Claudette out of the chair. It was another of Maude Ashby’s endless prearranged signals for Claudette to attend to her. She hurried out from the library to the dining room. Mrs. Ashby motioned for Claudette to pull up a chair behind her. The man from the library was sitting directly across from his hostess, a wine glass in his hand. He leaned back, a hint of a smile about his lips.
“My dear Mrs. Ashby, where have you been hiding your new lady’s maid? She is French, is she not? Give
n how superior they believe they are over the English, it seems that we should show them otherwise. I speak freely since, of course”—he leaned forward conspiratorially—“she knows no English whatsoever.” A small titter of female laughter emanated from somewhere at the other end of the table. For the first time during the evening, Mrs. Ashby seemed a bit unsure of herself.
“Why, Mr. Greycliffe, she naturally knows how to interpret her mistress’s commands. I am quite good at making my wishes known.”
“Yes. Undoubtedly you are. Does your lady’s maid know how to dance the minuet? It would be charming to see it danced by a genuine Frenchwoman. In fact, I would be happy to lead her and our entire assembly.”
Mrs. Ashby snapped open her fan and fluttered it furiously. This was a highly inappropriate suggestion, but should she risk offending a member of the Greycliffe family, who had recently come to royal notice for some particularly effective trade negotiations in the Caribbean? Royal appreciation usually led to a title.
“I was just about to suggest that it was time to retire from dinner and join together in dancing. James,”—she held out a hand—“would you please escort me to the gallery?”
The Queen's Dollmaker Page 7
