Ignoring her remark, he said, “You do look quite a fright with your hair in your eyes, which I recall that, when not swallowed up in the dark, are the most astonishing shade of blue.” He dropped the umbrella and approached her, pulling a handkerchief from a pocket. “Miss Laurent.” He cupped a warm hand around the side of her face and tenderly mopped her soaked face. “Truly you misunderstand me.”
Claudette closed her eyes and let him continue, momentarily taken in by his gentle touch. “What could I possibly misunderstand about you?”
He still blotted her face with the handkerchief, even though she was now dry. His hand slid around to the back of her neck and pulled it gently back. She could feel his breath warm against her neck and knew even in the dark his eyes were staring at her intently.
“You think I’m vain and shallow because I have money, because I’m a rising member of the aristocracy, because I look down upon you as working class. On the contrary, it is you, Miss Laurent, who looks down upon me. You cannot imagine the burden I bear, being the successor to the Greycliffe name and legacy. How I have to give up those things that I want, for that which I do not want. In fact, I have to—”
“Mr. Greycliffe, sir?” A voice floated over the darkness and rain.
Claudette’s eyes flew open at the intrusion. William swore impatiently under his breath. “Yes, what is it?”
“Mrs. Ashby is calling for all of her guests. She says she has an important announcement to make.” Having found his quarry, the servant slithered back to the house to escape the pelting rain.
William removed his hand from Claudette’s neck, pausing only to move a strand of hair over her right ear. “I must go inside, but I have much to say to you.” He bent for his umbrella and strode to the house before she could respond.
She stayed in the pergola long after that.
When Claudette returned to the house, the rain had stopped and the guests were gone. She helped the other servants with cleanup, then retired to the attic, where Béatrice was waiting.
“Claudette, wherever have you been? The most exciting thing happened. That Mr. Greycliffe that you detest so much became engaged to a Miss Radley last week. You may have seen her with him tonight. They are to be married in six months’ time, and Mrs. Ashby announced tonight that she would be throwing an engagement party for the two of them. Miss Radley seemed ecstatic. She is very elegant, don’t you think? I don’t know if Mr. Greycliffe’s family will want an engagement party here, but, oh, can you imagine being so wealthy and important that people actually want to host a party on your behalf?” Béatrice was chattering pointlessly now. “I could never replace my Alexandre, but if I ever did, I should love to have three engagement parties, each with a different theme. And everyone from all of the parties would be invited to my wedding. My veil would be trimmed with real flowers, I should think…Claudette, where are you going?”
Claudette shut the door behind her and slipped into her own room, collapsing on the bed, dry-eyed. William Greycliffe was infuriating. He teased her, taunted her, and just when she thought he was sincere in his manner toward her, he announces to the world that he is engaged to a young lady of society! Not that his engagement mattered. Who cared if he was marrying that spindle-shanked woman? No, she told herself firmly, she was angry only because he treated her as though she were a fool.
Claudette knew then that it was time to leave the Ashby residence, no matter what was required. Being present for—and serving at—William Greycliffe’s engagement party was something she positively would not do. Her parents were gone, Jean-Philippe was lost to her, and Béatrice and Marguerite depended on her. She would put aside dreams of any happiness, and concentrate on making herself independent, bring her father’s marvelous vision back to life, and transform herself into the heir to his dollmaking world.
Claudette tried valiantly to ignore the preparations for the Greycliffe engagement party. Béatrice prattled about it endlessly, but Claudette retreated into her own mind, dreaming of setting up her own doll workshop and working out plans in her mind. Her first need was money, more than she was earning with Jack’s occasional doll sales at Surrey Street Market, which sold more meat and vegetables than household goods.
She discussed with him how they could sell more dolls.
“I’m not sure, Miss Claudette.” Jack scratched his short, bristly hair. “Sounds almost like you’d need to export ’em, and I don’t know how you could go about a big venture like that without Mrs. Ashby finding out what you’re doing. Unless you could find your own shop.”
“A shop!” Claudette laughed without mirth. “Impossible. I barely have enough to keep us in warm stockings. And you’re right, Jassy would ferret out anything like an export business going on. Besides, even if I could hide it all, how could I afford to stock enough fabric and trimmings to create enough dolls to open a shop? There must be another way.”
It was Béatrice who finally came up with the solution. “Didn’t you tell me once that your father sold dolls to some dressmakers to show off their latest designs? Maybe we could do the same thing, in exchange for some of their discarded pieces of cloth.”
Claudette hugged her friend impulsively. “Béatrice! You are brilliant. That is exactly what we’ll do.”
The two women worked even more furiously to put together a tray of dolls. With Jack along as a guide, Claudette slipped away on one of her rare afternoons off, granted while the Ashbys were out visiting, to visit various dressmaking shops and offer to give the proprietors dolls as barter for fabric. The rejection stung. “What? I don’t have enough work to keep me busy, now I have to sew tiny little dresses at night for silly little dolls?” spat one sour-faced crone. “Are my eyes not dim enough without you bringing me this? And you want payment of my fine fabrics for them, as well!” Another door slammed.
Dejected, she sent Jack home and walked into the next alleyway along the street, sat down against the side of a building with her box, and stared at it. How could she get some fabrics right away? She could not resort to stealing. On the other hand, she could not face an interminable existence inside the Ashby household. She sat lost in thought, even dozing awhile, when all of a sudden she bolted upright. Of course! How stupid. She was approaching the wrong people for fabrics.
Claudette picked up her box, and proceeded two streets over to Gifford’s Draper Shop. Inside, a man and his wife were totaling receipts for the day. They looked up in unison as Claudette walked in with her box of wares.
“Sorry, we are not interested in your kittens,” said the wife, a short, portly woman with faded brown hair and a resigned air about her.
“No, madam, I do not have kittens. I have a proposition for you that will help both of our businesses.”
Raising an eyebrow, the man, who was as short and portly as his spouse, asked, “What is this proposition?”
Claudette told the couple that she was a dollmaker in immediate need of fine fabrics to complete a commission for a set of dolls. It was impossible to wait for a shipment to arrive from the Continent. She showed them her box of samples, which they examined, picking up dolls, moving their jointed limbs and running fingers over their painted faces. She offered to give them dolls dressed in their fabrics, if they would give her extra fabric for her own use. She would then have the fabric she needed at no cost, and they would have a way to show off the fine quality of their cloth other than it sitting on a bolt.
“Eh,” said the woman, shrugging her shoulders, unimpressed.
In desperation, Claudette took several dolls to the shop window and showed them how the dolls could be displayed to best advantage to passersby. The couple exchanged a look Claudette could not interpret.
“Hmm, what do you think, Diane?” asked the man of his wife.
“Eh, why not? Give her a few of the bolts that are soiled. She can cut around the stains to get her patterns cut, and we can get use out of bolts that are otherwise of no use to us.” Looking at Claudette critically she asked, “Miss, you seem ver
y young. You say you are already an established dollmaker in London?”
Murmuring quickly that her dolls were known as far away as France, Claudette took her leave, promising to return in two weeks with the finished dolls.
She had Jack find some current fashion plates from local dress shops so that she could copy the latest clothing designs for the dolls. She took up the detailed stitching again as though she had never left her father’s shop. Béatrice preferred the less detailed work of painting faces. Soon they had more than a dozen dolls ready for Jack to deliver to the Giffords, since his absence from the Ashby house would be less noticeable than Claudette’s. He came back to the two women keyed up and animated.
“They took them all, and praised them to the heavens. I probably could have sold them all, and for twice the price I’d get at the market.” He produced a heavy package tied with twine. Inside were generously cut lengths of fabric, plus embroidered ribbons and sequins in a small pouch. Claudette pawed eagerly through her new acquisitions, then had Jack and Béatrice help her unfold the fabrics and roll them up together to avoid their becoming wrinkled beyond repair.
The two women learned to operate on just five hours of sleep each night, working long after the rest of the household was asleep to construct dolls for the London fashion industry. The chest now began to swell with coins, and Claudette began to think that in another year they might be able to leave the Ashby employ. They could sail back to France, and Claudette would finally find Jean-Philippe. And she would finally rid herself of Mr. William Greycliffe’s presence.
Claudette was organizing Mrs. Ashby’s toilette tray one morning when Jassy entered, as sly and secretive as Claudette had ever seen her.
“Mistress wants to see you in the dining room,” she said, a smirk on her face.
Claudette replaced the silver hand mirror she had been polishing and stood up to join Jassy, but the girl had already slipped out of the room.
In the dining room, she found Mrs. Ashby and Mrs. Lundy together. Mrs. Lundy was standing next to the sideboard, her hands clasped tightly in front of her and her mouth turned down disapprovingly. Maude Ashby sat erect at the head of the table, drumming her fingers on the smooth mahogany top.
What now?
At Claudette’s entrance, Mrs. Ashby rose imperiously. “Have you an idea why I have summoned you here?”
“No, madam, I was arranging your toilette tray when Jassy—”
“Never mind what you were doing just now. It is what you have been doing under my nose these past months with which I am concerned.”
“Madam? I do not understand.” Dear God, did she know about the dolls?
“Don’t use your Parisian deceit on me! After all we have done for you, taking you and that half-wit and her chattering brat in, feeding and caring for you like one of the family. All against my better judgment, of course.”
Mrs. Lundy sniffed agreement, while her employer continued her tirade.
“When I think of how I so generously elevated you beyond your station, putting you in a position of trust as my lady’s maid, and you repay me this way. I am simply outraged—no, I am in disbelief—” Maude ranted on, while Claudette stood still, not sure yet of what she was being accused.
“I am so fortunate that Jassy is a proper servant, and has her employer’s best interests in mind. What in heaven’s name might have happened had she not reported this to me? You might have gotten in trouble and embarrassed me.”
“In trouble? How so?” Claudette’s fists were clenched at her side.
“Ha! I know of your late-night peccadilloes with Jack Smythe, who was a good and honest boy until he got into your clutches.”
“My clutches?” Claudette was still uncertain as to which way this was headed. Had Jassy discovered her doll box? Claudette had not checked on it yet today. Or was she following through on her threat of fabrication?
“Yes, your greedy, grasping clutches. How dare you ensnare him into your bed—the bed I gave you!—to conduct an illicit affair. You know that is strictly against household rules. For all I know you are with child right now.”
Ah, so that was how Jassy had played it.
“Or do you know someone in Haymarket who can take care of any trouble you might get into? What have you to say for yourself, girl?”
Claudette breathed deeply. At least Mrs. Ashby did not know about Jack’s midnight errands to Surrey Street. But these accusations were intolerable.
Should I grovel for forgiveness and save our jobs? The moments passed, Mrs. Ashby waiting impatiently, Mrs. Lundy’s nose quivering with displeasure. Out of the corner of one eye, Claudette saw Jassy pass through the butler’s pantry and look in, her eyes fairly glowing with anticipation and malice.
“Mrs. Ashby,” Claudette began, “I have tolerated much from you. Poor wages, condescension, and the hatred of your other servants. However, what you accuse me of is not only untrue, it is insulting. I have neither the time nor the inclination for any of these so-called peccadilloes with any of the other household staff. That you would listen to an insipid, lying little six-penny wit like Jassy simply shows how astoundingly stupid and self-absorbed you are.”
Mrs. Ashby’s face was mottled with rage and she spoke in her most dangerous tone, the one that typically sent servants and family alike scattering. “You are nothing but a lowly street creature. You have no prospects beyond employment in my home. Do you realize I hold your entire future in my hands and could ruin you in an instant?” She snapped the fingers on one hand in front of her face to emphasize her power.
Claudette’s mouth curved into a smile. “Madam, you may add ‘foolish’ to my description of you. And you may consider my employment with you terminated.”
Flecks of foam appeared in the corner of Maude’s mouth. “You…dare to say…that you terminate…me?”
“Indeed, madam, I say au revoir to you, your wimpy husband, your obnoxious son Nathaniel, and every vicious servant in your household.” Claudette cut a look over to Mrs. Lundy, so the woman would know that she was included in the list of offenders.
“Nicholas is the youngest and only decent living person in this home, besides Jack.”
Without waiting for her mistress’s leave, Claudette turned on her heel and stalked out of the room through the butler’s pantry, Mrs. Ashby’s threats ringing in her ears. “My connections are prestigious. You will not find domestic employment anywhere else in London. In all of England. I’ll see to it.”
Claudette did not bother to turn around, instead colliding with Jassy, who had returned to spy on the conversation. The other servant scuttled out of the way, fearful of Claudette’s unexpected boldness. From the butler’s pantry, Claudette strode hurriedly upstairs, not noticing Nicholas watching her from the second-story landing. She went to the attic, grabbed her doll supplies and scrawled out a note to leave for Jack, then rushed back down two flights to the laundry.
In the basement, Claudette said simply, “We’re leaving this house. Now.”
Béatrice, not really needing an explanation for a command to leave her post, instantly dropped the sheet she was folding to the floor and picked up Marguerite, hugging the child close as she followed Claudette back up the stairs and out of the house. Nicholas was still observing them from his second-floor vantage point.
10
London, April 1783. As she surveyed her cramped shop, marveling over its existence, Claudette could not believe her run of good fortune. From their flight from the Ashby home, she and Béatrice found their way back to Reverend Daniels’s house. Although he and his wife half-heartedly chastised Claudette for her rash behavior, in private they agreed that Maude Ashby was perhaps not the most charitable of the Lord’s kingdom, and perhaps the Harrisons were a bit more deserving of that front pew.
Jack Smythe visited one evening the following week after the rest of the Ashby household had gone to bed, bringing with him whatever of the women’s personal belongings he could find in their rooms. Claudette’s haughty departur
e was the source of endless chatter and gossip. Mrs. Ashby had announced that she had turned Claudette, Béatrice, and “the sniveling brat” out on their ears. Mrs. Lundy was silent on the matter, but Jassy had elevated herself to mythical status among the staff, bragging of her role in discovering the duplicitous behavior of Miss Frenchy Fifi. Miraculously, Jack had escaped punishment, primarily because he was cast in the role of a seduced young lad. Jassy avoided him entirely, cutting short her bragging when he entered a room.
“So all of my nighttime business activities still go unnoticed,” he said, giving the women a quirky grin.
Claudette was relieved that he had escaped Mrs. Ashby’s volatile temper. In the succeeding days, Jack helped the women find this space, and within a month they were able to bid thanks and farewell to the reverend and his wife. It was small and dark, but it was located in the thriving trade area of Cheapside. Claudette had to give up nearly half of their meager savings to secure it for six months. The three of them shared a bed in a corner of the one-room shop, connected on either side by a chandler and a bookseller. She bartered with the chandler for enough tapers to make the inside of the shop somewhat inviting. The two women and Marguerite would wake each morning, hastily cover the bed, and the child would amuse herself on top of it with her own dolls and some other toys they had procured for her. Claudette and Béatrice would carve and dress modest dolls together on a rough wooden table, then take turns standing outside the shop to sell them to passersby.
“Dollies! Little babies! Who will buy my little babies? Only a ha’penny for a dolly!”
Claudette felt humiliated by this kind of selling after the refinement of her father’s shop in Paris, but it seemed to be a common approach here in London for vendors too poor for a proper shop. Sellers of meat pies, brooms, ribbons, flower bunches, and all other manner of goods would walk the streets with baskets or carts, hawking their wares in a singsong voice.
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