The Queen's Dollmaker

by Christine Trent

  Jack continued coming by every few weeks to pick up the fancier fashion dolls to pass on to the Giffords and other draper shops in exchange for materials. One day, he entered the shop breathlessly, excited by his latest accomplishment. He had convinced several millinery shops to purchase dolls that would be dressed according to their own specifications. They were exacting in their fashion concepts, and demanded that the dollmaker herself visit them so they could discuss designs.

  Thus Claudette began venturing out to dress shops to personally collect orders and review fashion sketches for the miniature models. The milliners provided the fabrics and trims that they wanted used for their dolls, and Claudette used the scraps from these consignments for dressing the dolls that now Marguerite sold on the street under Béatrice’s supervision.

  Seven-year-old Marguerite was a natural charmer, and knew instinctively how to wink and cajole her way into a sale. Patrons loved the little girl’s fresh boldness, which was just a step from appreciating Claudette’s craftsmanship when Marguerite convinced them to make a purchase.

  Claudette became known locally as the “French Dollmaker in Cheapside’s Lane,” and realized that she needed to formally name her shop. She hand-painted a sign for the window that read:

  C. LAURENT FASHION DOLLS

  FRENCH AND ENGLISH

  C. LAURENT, PROPRIETRESS

  Each morning she put a new doll in the window to interest passersby, but rarely did it interest anyone enough to come into the shop. Her trade was primarily with those who used them as tools for selling their own fabrics and clothing, and secondarily through Marguerite’s efforts in hawking outside the shop.

  One interested visitor was Nicholas Ashby, who had convinced Jack of his genuine concern for the trio and elicited their location from him. When he arrived, Claudette met him outside, having just returned to the shop after delivering a basket of newly-made dolls to a shop specializing in hats and gloves.

  “Nicholas! What a delight to see you. How did you find us? No matter, come inside. Béatrice and Marguerite will be glad to see you.”

  Inside the shop, they encountered Béatrice in a coughing fit over a heap of wood shavings, an unfinished doll torso and knife next to the shavings.

  Claudette rushed to her side. “Béatrice, the wood dust must be filling your lungs.”

  Her friend was covering her mouth with her hand. “No, no, I’m fine. But I think I’ll rest for a while.” She dabbed her lips with a handkerchief from her pocket. “Why, is that Nicholas come to see us?”

  Nicholas bent his head down. “Yes, Miss Béatrice. Jack told me where you were. I just wanted to see for myself.”

  Béatrice reached out to hug him briefly, and he inhaled the combined scent of burnt wood and glues, with a faint background of lavender. Embarrassed, he quickly disengaged himself.

  “Where is your daughter?” he asked.

  “That little scamp can’t seem to leave the bookseller next door alone. She is forever borrowing and returning books from him. One day I expect he will have barred her from his shop, but so far she seems to win over any heart she encounters. Except your mother’s, of course. Oh, I am so sorry, Nicholas, I didn’t mean to say that.”

  He kept his eyes downcast. “I know, ma’am, what my mother is. She was pretty angry when you left.”

  He told them that Maude Ashby had gone fairly apoplectic after their departure, and even now was loathe to hear Claudette’s name mentioned in her presence. Nicholas thought his mother’s primary difficulty was the wounding to her pride when two servants—who should have been completely indebted to her—stalked out of her house. For months she scanned the newspaper each morning at the breakfast table, hoping for news of Claudette’s and Béatrice’s imprisonment in debtor’s prison, “which would only serve those two ungrateful wenches right.” It would have also proved her point that they could not survive without her generosity. James and Nicholas took the brunt of her wrath over the situation, while Jack Smythe had indeed avoided penalty. Nicholas speculated that Jack’s worth as a clever servant led Maude Ashby to affix blame on Claudette, rather than consider that he may have done anything wrong.

  “Jassy Brickford is gone now, too,” he added.

  Claudette stiffened. “Where is she?”

  “Don’t know. She and Mrs. Lundy had a big row, something about a new household position Jassy wanted. Mum wouldn’t hear of giving it to her, and Jassy, well, she sort of lost her mind. Threatened to burn the place down. So Mrs. Lundy fired her, and she ran off with some of our silver plate. Mum was furious at first, but not nearly so mad about Jassy as she was when both of you left.”

  Marguerite returned to the shop, taking little interest in Nicholas’s presence, and the four sat together at the worktable to a light meal consisting of small slivers of meat pie and weak ale. Earlier in the day, Béatrice had picked up a small basket of fresh strawberries from a street vendor, and they all shared them. Nicholas’s adoration of Béatrice was blatant to everyone but Marguerite, who gave a lengthy discourse on Mr. Addleston’s latest tome in the front window, The Life and Opinions of Tristam Shandy, Gentleman.

  “And did you read this all by yourself at your age?” asked her mother.

  “Well, no, but Mr. Addleston told me about it, so I didn’t need to read it,” replied Marguerite, utterly unabashed.

  Nicholas soon had to leave, before his mother noticed his lengthy absence. He had claimed he was going to see his schoolmaster for some tutoring, but by now she would be wondering where he was. He promised to return soon, but they all knew it would be impossible to conceal his visits from the all-knowing Maude Ashby for long.

  As he was leaving, Béatrice pressed a small woolen-clad doll into his hand. “Save this for your first sweetheart,” she said.

  “But—” He tried to hand it back to her, words failing him.

  She pushed it back again. “You will one day find an eligible young woman your own age, and you might like to give her a token of your affection. Good-bye, Nicholas.”

  He looked crestfallen, but pocketed the doll. He left the shop, looking back at them as he went into the busy street.

  Claudette’s heart fairly surged to bursting the day she walked to the Giffords’ shop and Diane told her, “We’ve had an inquiry about your dolls, eh?”

  “An inquiry?”

  “Yes, one of my customers came in with her daughter and the family dressmaker, seeking fabric for a dress for the girl’s natal day celebration. The rich get so carried away with showing off and impressing others. Imagine, that much silk for a ten-year-old to prance around in for a day. Eh, well, it keeps us from starving, so—”

  “Madam,” Claudette interrupted. “About the inquiry?”

  “Eh, oh yes, the mother asked if the dolls in the window were for sale. I told her they were made especially for the shop. She gave me her calling card and asked that the dollmaker present herself at her house to arrange a commission.”

  Claudette felt the earth beginning to shift beneath her, and she suddenly needed great gulps of air to maintain composure. “Someone of wealth wants to see me? To commission one of my dolls?”

  “Don’t look so foolish. Does the world come to a standstill because one of these rich snobs deigns to speak to you? Here is her card.”

  Claudette mulled over her approach to this new customer for the rest of the day. How could she guarantee a sale for herself? She told Béatrice about her potential customer.

  “Have you gone to see her yet?”

  “Well, no,” she said sheepishly. “I wanted to tell you first.”

  “Claudette! You must go as soon as possible. What a wonderful opportunity for you.”

  “Any success I may have would have been impossible without you and Jack.”

  They discussed what samples she would take with her to Lady Helen Parshall. Should she take fabric samples as well? Or just fully-dressed dolls? How could she turn this into a regular commission from Lady Parshall and her friends? How do you i
mpress English society?

  They turned over various ideas and finally Claudette had an inspiration.

  “Béatrice, I know what to do. It would be unique, and would show off the dolls to their best advantage.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to come with me, dressed as one of the dolls.”

  “As what?”

  “It’s perfect. I’ll fashion gowns for both you and the doll, and we’ll present the doll together. These dolls are half your creation, anyway. Here, I’ll need a bit of your hair for a wig.” She opened a drawer and took out a pair of scissors.

  “Claudette! What are you doing?”

  “Just a little from the underside, like this.” She lifted the hair from the back of Béatrice’s neck. “A little snip and I will have plenty. There. You cannot tell a single strand is missing.”

  Béatrice laughed. “I do hope you are able to make a sale before my head is completely thatched.”

  The women worked harder than ever before. Five days later, they walked to the address noted on Lady Parshall’s card. Claudette’s thoughts tumbled together incoherently; she knew she was on the brink of total success or dismal failure. Had Papa ever had a moment like this when he began selling dolls?

  “Oh, Claudette, I’m so nervous. I want this to be perfect for you.” Béatrice was wearing a confection of golden silk and lace. A matching hat was dipped low across her forehead, and a large peacock feather was attached jauntily to one side of it. In Claudette’s arms was a wooden box containing the sample doll, now wearing a wig made from Béatrice’s hair, its eyes painted green, and adorned with a miniature outfit that was an exact replica of what she was wearing, even down to the stylish hat.

  Walking nervously up to Lady Parshall’s door, they knocked lightly. A maid opened it almost immediately. Obtaining their names, she bade them wait in a receiving room, then went to get the lady of the house. Lady Parshall came sweeping into the room, clearly used to being in charge and having her presence respected. She was tall and thin, and dressed in a sunflower yellow gown of embroidered silk, with fine lace dripping from her elbows and protruding profusely from her bosom. Trailing behind her was a small African boy, dressed in the same bright silk, an elaborate turban on his head. The boy did not acknowledge the presence of his mistress’s guests, but gazed up adoringly at her. He carried with him a small fan of snowy white ostrich feathers. It reminded Claudette distinctly of her forced role with Mrs. Ashby. Only at least this poor boy presumably didn’t have to contend with the aristocracy in the same way.

  “So which of you is the dollmaker?”

  “I am,” said Claudette. “I am Claudette Laurent, and this is my assistant, Béatrice du Georges.”

  “They say you are French,” the woman said flatly.

  The women did not respond, unsure if they were being accused of something.

  Lady Parshall stared at them impatiently, and tapped one of her satin-clad feet on the large wool carpet covering the floor.

  “Sit down, sit down,” she commanded, pointing to chairs covered in embroidery. She took one opposite the women, and the small African boy moved to stand next to her chair. He raised the fan and began to slowly wave it on his mistress. Lady Parshall patted his head absentmindedly, much as one would show affection to a dog.

  “Marcel, would you like a treat? Go and see Cook. Tell her I said you are to have a sweet. But just one, Marcel. That’s a good boy.”

  Marcel put the fan on a nearby table, bowed elegantly to his mistress, and scampered out. Lady Parshall looked after him briefly, then turned back to her guests, who had been surreptitiously examining the room. It was dominated on one side by a wall of mirrors, and windows on the opposite wall. The sunlight filtering in through the windows reflected off the mirrors and created a dazzling effect in the room. Claudette knew that King Louis XIV had built an enormous Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. Was this Lady Parshall’s attempt to imitate French style? Two tapestries depicting pastoral scenes dominated a third wall. The numerous pieces of furniture crowding the room were ostentatious, but Claudette could see the quality in every piece, particularly in the carved legs of the chairs. Claudette was emotionally transported back to her father’s workshop, where each day she would be greeted by his booming laugh, the fragrance of freshly hewn wood combined with the exhilarating scents of the parfumerie two doors down, filling her childish mind with happiness. She had learned to distinguish varying kinds of wood just by smelling her father’s calloused hands.

  Seeing her eyes on a gilded writing desk, her hopefully soon-to-be patron said, “You appreciate my furniture, I see.”

  “Yes, my lady. My father was once a cabinetmaker and taught me much about wood. These are fine examples.”

  Lady Parshall was pleased with the praise. “All of the best furniture makers in England want to receive commissions from me. Anyone I patronize becomes well-known and prosperous. In fact, I rarely have to pay for anything because of the prestige I can bring to a business.”

  Claudette felt a prickle on the back of her neck. Was this going to be an unpaid commission with some vague promise of other commissions from Lady Parshall’s friends?

  “Would my lady like to see a sample created especially for this day?” Receiving a curt nod, Claudette whispered to Béatrice, “Pull the doll from the bag and show it to Lady Parshall, holding it close to your face as I told you.”

  Béatrice slowly reached into the bag and drew out the tissue-wrapped doll, as though she were unearthing a great treasure. She spent even more time unwrapping the doll in her lap, as though the treasure was so delicate and valuable it might break at the slightest pressure. The moment it was free of paper, she whisked the doll up next to her cheek, facing out toward Lady Parshall, tilting toward it with a heart-melting smile.

  “Amazing!” exclaimed Lady Parshall. “She has been prepared to look just like your assistant. Her clothing is identical. Give it to me.” She took the doll from Béatrice.

  “This hair. It is identical to yours, soft and fine.”

  “Yes, my lady,” replied Claudette. “I cut a small lock of my assistant’s hair to create the wig, to give it authenticity. Most dollmakers use coarse fibers for a wig, but I am particular with commissions from important patrons. I believe it makes the doll far more superior; would you agree?”

  Lady Parshall ignored Claudette as she began working the doll’s joints, scrutinizing the worth of the clothing, unfastening and refastening hooks, examining underclothing, and running her fingers over the painted face. “It is fantastic quality,” she muttered quietly. She was absorbed several minutes in her task, and seemed to forget that Claudette and Béatrice were still present.

  Finally, she looked up and seemed surprised that they were there. She recovered her brisk attitude and said, “Well, how many will you give me?”

  “Give you, Lady Parshall?” Claudette was now seriously worried.

  “Yes. I wish to have four dolls made, one dressed as myself, and one representing each of my three daughters. I will tell you where to purchase fabric to match particular dresses I am having made for each of us. We will each carry these dolls to an affair being given by the Earl of Boxshire at Cobham Hill, his country house in Surrey, next month. You will give them to me, and I will see that everyone attending knows who made them.” Lady Parshall stood imperiously. Clearly the interview was at an end, and Claudette was to do exactly as instructed.

  Marcel reentered the room, telltale chocolate stains on his ruffled sleeves.

  “Marcel, look.” Lady Parshall handed the boy the doll. He took it tentatively, staring at it as though it were an object dropped from the heavens. He looked up at his mistress for guidance as to how to react.

  “It is a doll. We are going to get several that look like me and the Misses Camilla, Caroline, and Cecily. They will make us the talk of the town, if poor Miss Laurent here is fortunate.”

  Marcel stared back down at the doll, then handed it to Lady Parshall. She turned back t
o Claudette once more.

  “When will you have the dolls to me?”

  “Madame…” She hesitated. “It requires great sums to create such high quality dolls, and I have already invested much in my doll business. Would you not consider a small sum in return for the dolls?”

  “Deliver the dolls to the back entrance in two weeks. I do not wish tradespeople to be seen at the front entryway.” She swept away from the room, completely ignoring Claudette’s request.

  Giving each other long looks, Claudette and Béatrice knew they had no choice but to comply.

  Claudette and Béatrice worked feverishly on the four dolls for Lady Parshall. They made two trips to their new benefactress’s home, via the back entrance, so that they could quickly sketch the three girls’ faces and hairstyles, and inspect the gowns they would be wearing to the earl’s party. Fortunately, all of the fabric for the dresses was to be found at the shop of Gerard and Diane Gifford, who warmly welcomed the young dollmaker back. Diane bustled about, helping Claudette.

  “Yes, yes, Lady Parshall is a trial, eh? She constantly wants fabric given to her, always with a promise that we will see more business than we can handle because of her remarkable connections. I suppose we have seen more customers—careful, eh, this silk is new and delicate—although no one of the stature of the Earl of Boxshire.” She piled bolts of fabric into Claudette’s arms.

  Gerard, meanwhile, was poring through drawers of threads and laces with Béatrice. He said over his shoulder to Claudette, whose head was barely visible behind the tower of material, “My girl, you must not worry about payment until after the dolls are delivered. My wife and I both will help you with Lady Parshall, not because we think she will be of help to you, but because we think your dolls will speak for themselves, and will bring the new customers to our shop for fabric.”

  Claudette impulsively threw the bolts onto a table, put her arms around the proprietor’s neck, and planted a kiss on his cheek. Gerard, embarrassed, harrumphed and patted her head awkwardly, before removing her arms and returning to work.