Claudette and Béatrice listened attentively to the political gossip, as they rarely heard any news while buried in the doll shop day after day. Claudette was about to ask one of the other patrons a question about parliamentary procedure when they heard a commotion. A familiar female voice shot across the busy street to them.
“I will not be civil, sir. This little cretin purposely threw horse dung at me. If you won’t, I will take him to Newgate myself. He can sit there and think about apologizing to me. And I hope he will be beaten every day and fed moldy biscuits.” Laughter erupted from the crowd gathering around the fuss.
The two friends craned their necks to see around the throng. A woman in an enormous feathered hat held a young boy by the ear. Béatrice said, “Claudette, look! It’s Lizbit. Whatever is she doing?”
“I’d say she’s having a battle with a ten-year-old child.”
The crowd began dispersing, and the urchin in question used the opportunity to slip out of Lizbet’s grasp and scurry out of sight. Béatrice waved wildly and caught Lizbit’s attention. Their friend grabbed her skirts in one hand, held her hat with the other, and darted over. The three were reunited at the coffee house table in a great round of hugs and kisses. Lizbit knelt down to Marguerite. “How you have grown! How old are you now?”
“I’m eight years old.” She held up only six fingers.
“Why, soon I’m going to have to look for husbands for both of us.”
“You haven’t found a duke or prince of the blood yet to marry you?” asked Claudette.
“Alas, there are many of them who would marry me, but would I have them is the pertinent question.” A wink at Marguerite. “I simply cannot decide if I like English or French men better. One likes to be loyal to one’s mother country, but the French men are so passionate and fiery. What I could tell you about them…” She looked again at Marguerite. “Perhaps later. But now I insist that I treat everyone to a Punch and Judy show. Would you like that, little one?”
They spent the afternoon together, their lighthearted chatter quickly traversing the years apart. Lizbit had finally inherited her aunt’s fortune, and was splitting her time between Paris and London, redecorating homes she now owned in each city, and immersing herself in the frenetic social whirls of both places.
Claudette asked eager questions about Paris, soaking in Lizbit’s reports of that vital and pulsating city. She wondered if perhaps she could enlist Lizbit’s help in discovering what may have ever happened to Jean-Philippe and his family. But what information did she really have to go on?
The group returned to the doll shop together so that Claudette could show Lizbit her growing venture into dollmaking. As they rode toward Cheapside, the warm sunshine beamed cheerfully on them while their driver spurred his horse on. Sleepy from their happy day together, the warm air, and the rhythmic clip-clop of the horse’s hooves, Claudette was lulled into a light doze.
They came to a halt at a busy intersection so that cross traffic could pass. The horse’s snuffle of impatience brought Claudette out of her nap.
“Have I bored you already?” Lizbit said. “Is my company less preferable to you than your wee wooden babies?”
“Hardly! I was just enjoying—”
Claudette stopped in mid-sentence. Moving through the intersection was a dark red landau with red spoked wheels, far larger than the hackney transporting the four of them. Two sleek black horses pulled it along effortlessly. Its occupants were seated opposite one another, and each stared out to one side of the carriage.
William Greycliffe again.
Claudette’s universe went white and silent as their carriage went by. Mr. Greycliffe was out for a jaunt with his wife, Lenora. Claudette was alarmed by her appearance. The elegant lady who swept into the Ashby home in her fastidiously brushed fur complementing her glossy hair and perfect teeth was now slatternly and unkempt. Her hair was loose, and its tangles and snarls were not even concealed by a hat. Her eyes darted back and forth from her husband to unseen points outside her side of the carriage. Mysteriously, Lenora barked a short laugh at nothing in particular and looked to her husband for approval. He stared straight ahead and did not give it to her. She continued her random visual fixations.
Why did Mr. Greycliffe’s wife look so…neglected? Like an unfortunate just released from Bedlam. Had her husband been mistreating her? Was that likely? Claudette shivered despite the balmy day. Although she refused to care a fig for the haughty Mr. Greycliffe, the possibility that he was behaving harshly toward his wife both angered and distressed her. He couldn’t be guilty of cruelty, he just couldn’t. Something else must be wrong.
She held her breath as Mr. Greycliffe caught her eye. His stare was serious and piercing and she felt that her soul was an opaque window through which he was radiating his own shaft of light. He dipped his head in a fleeting nod to her before his carriage rumbled out of view.
In all, ten seconds must have passed, but to Claudette it felt like she had endured a day’s worth of waking nightmare. Why? Why did that man rattle her so?
“Enjoying what?” Lizbit cut into her reverie.
“What? Oh, yes, of course, I was just enjoying the lovely day we were having together. Look, we’re moving again. I guess our driver found an open spot. It will be wonderful to finally show you the doll shop. There’s so much to show you. The shop has such a variety of doll sizes and styles. I’ll have to give you—”
“Claudette, what in the name of kingdom come is the matter with you? You’re babbling like you’ve gone completely mutton-headed.”
Claudette laughed despite her anxiety. How good it was to see Lizbit again!
Arriving at the shop, the three women walked around while Marguerite scampered off to the bookseller’s. Lizbit was more impressed than Claudette thought she would be.
“These are lovely. You are becoming the independent woman we talked about.”
“Well, we are not quite successful as of yet. Our living accommodations are barely big enough for the three of us to sleep in. And when Marguerite tosses and turns in her trundle while dreaming, there’s no sleeping for anyone. But we’re managing.”
“I’d say you’ve advanced drastically since the day I met a trio of waifs on board that ship bound for England. Now we need to figure out how to marry you well, even though you are in a trade. Has anyone offered for you yet?” Lizbit’s mind never seemed to stray far from the topic of marriage.
Claudette was silent. She had had little time to think of marriage. In three years, she had lost her parents, her home, and Jean-Philippe, her only love. Definitely her only love. She was only nineteen herself but had endured humiliating servitude, and was now struggling to survive as well as caring for Béatrice and Marguerite. What about Jack Smythe? Jack was near her age, and amusing, but too enveloped in his own secrecies. How could she ever trust a husband like that? The only other man she had had any close contact with was William Greycliffe, and he was galling. Too conceited. Too arrogant. And anyway, he was married to the delightful Lenora Radley now, who was not the woman she was before marrying him. Not that it mattered. It truly didn’t.
“Come now, Claudette, where are you again?” Lizbit’s merry voice brought her back to the present. “Do you have so many suitors that you cannot name them all?” Her laughter tinkled through the shop.
“Not at all. I’ve been too busy to even think of it. But what of you? Gentlemen from both England and the Continent pursuing you—it must be thrilling.”
Béatrice interrupted to plead a headache that required a rest in the bedroom. Once they were alone, Lizbit replied, “La, my travels give me so many opportunities to meet eligible young men. However, a woman in my position cannot be too careful with whom she associates. I would not want to fall into the hands of a fortune-seeker. And they exist both here and in France.”
Claudette smiled at her brash friend. “I can hardly imagine you allowing a young man to take advantage of you. I do, after all, remember how you put Simon Briggs
in his place.”
“I did, didn’t I? He deserved much more than the slap I gave him.” Lizbit’s cheerful face turned serious. “But d’you know, I do have to watch out for my person in France these days. Despite its culture and vibrancy we talked of earlier, Paris has changed in the last two years, and not for the better. When I go, I dress shabbily and carry my gowns in trunks that I ship separately. People on the street look askance at others they think might be hoarding wealth.”
“Why is this?” Claudette asked.
“They are furious with King Louis and Marie Antoinette. They think the king and queen are responsible for all of the bad crops and inflation in the country. Their fury extends to anyone they think might be wealthy enough to associate with the royal couple.”
“I had heard this before while still in France. But it’s ridiculous. How can the monarch be to blame for deficient rains and soil conditions?”
Lizbit shrugged. “All I know is the people are unhappy and they grumble loudly. It will get worse if the king does not do something. Their complaints are not entirely without foundation. I hear tell the queen spends extraordinary sums on jewelry and clothing and gifts for her favorites.”
“I have heard this as well,” Claudette said impatiently. “I recall my father telling me that all members of the nobility in Europe do the same thing. Why, even Prinny showers his favorite women with extravagant gifts of land and jewels right here in England. Why is so much abuse heaped upon Marie Antoinette?”
Another shrug. “Perhaps they think the queen simply goes too far. Perhaps she does.”
“I do not believe it.”
“If I were the queen, I would use my fortune to my own ends for certain, but not be so blatant with it. La, let us not argue. We are friends, are we not? What do we care what’s going on hundreds of miles away? It’s getting late. I’ll return tomorrow, and let’s go to Leadenhall Market. They have a man there with the most amazing birds from South America. They talk and perform tricks. Sometimes they even curse in other languages.”
The women agreed to meet the next day and go to see the famous birds together.
Béatrice begged off with illness again the next day. She looked a little flushed and was coughing. “It’s just a touch of the gripe, I’m certain. Enjoy the market.”
Claudette, Lizbit, and Marguerite set off in a hired carriage and were dropped off outside the gate to Leadenhall. The area was teeming with people, and the cacophony from street peddlers and their customers was deafening. Carts and tables were piled high with wares ranging from fruits, vegetables, and fresh slain rabbits, to exotic imports from the Far East. These purveyors of carpets, perfume oils, and cosmetic creams and salves from faraway lands cajoled and flattered passersby into examining their wares. Small wood fires were set in various places where vendors were cooking all manner of meat on sticks for sale. All of the aromas mingled together into one overpowering spicy scent. Claudette had never been to such a large market before and was impressed with all London had to offer. Marguerite was thoroughly dazzled, and the two women each had to hold one of her hands to keep her from wandering off.
“Miss Lizbit! Miss Claudette! Look, it’s the birds.” Marguerite was practically hopping up and down.
A small circle of people had gathered for the performance about to begin. About twenty cages were stacked up in five rows. Each cage held a different brightly-plumed bird. In front of the cages stood their owner and a variety of stands and perches. The man, introducing himself to the audience as Mr. Spively, announced that the people of London were about to observe the most amazing wild animal feats ever witnessed.
He opened one cage and pulled out a gorgeous white bird, with a thick, full, almost fluffy coat, an ebony beak, and an orange crest on his head that the bird lifted for the audience, as though introducing himself.
“Good friends, meet Peaches.” Mr. Spively placed it on a perch and went through a repertoire of words that the sizable bird repeated after him. Peaches clearly enunciated, “God save the king,” “Pour us a pint, love,” and “The rotten napper took your hat!” and received encouraging noises from some of the onlookers. Mr. Spively spied Marguerite edging her way to the front.
“What’s your name, little sprite?” he asked.
“Marguerite du Georges,” she replied, for once shy.
Mr. Spively gave Peaches a quick hand signal, and all of a sudden the bird began rocking back and forth on the perch, shouting, “Marguerite! Marguerite! Marguerite! Du Georges! Du Georges! Du Georges! I want a treat! Give me a sweet! I don’t like meat!”
The small crowd was enchanted with the bird. Lizbit dropped some coins into Mr. Spively’s basket. To Marguerite’s dismay, Peaches was put away, and two more birds brought out and placed on perches. These two were even larger than Peaches, and had long tails. One was a scarlet color, the other was bright blue. They were presented as Ruby and Sapphire. Each bird bowed its head as its name was mentioned.
Mr. Spively whispered a command in Ruby’s ear, and the bird took off, disappearing far into the sky. In a few moments, Mr. Spively gave a long whistle, and soon Ruby came back from seemingly nowhere and landed back on his perch. People cheered and laughed.
Sapphire was now given his own whispered instruction. This bird lifted its wings gently, majestically, and began making low sweeping arcs right over the crowd’s heads. Marguerite clapped delightedly. While Sapphire made his third circle over the astonished gathering, a loose mongrel sniffing around for meat scraps caught sight of him. Agitated by the unusual bird, the dog ran through the crowd and into the open area where the perches were, barking excitedly. Ruby flapped his wings and screeched in protest in his struggle to remain upright as the dog bumped into his stand. Ruby’s unexpected screech and the dog’s insistent barking startled Sapphire in mid-flight, and in a panic he dove into the assembled crowd.
Claudette, still distracted by the appearance of the keyed-up dog, did not see Sapphire falling toward her. The bird landed hard against her shoulder, knocking her down in a tumble of skirts and plumage. Still frightened, Sapphire began beating his enormous wings against her and nipping at her with his large white beak. She cried out and attempted to push him away while keeping her eyes tightly shut to prevent his pecking or clawing at them, but it only agitated the bird further. The crowd and Sapphire’s owner seemed helpless, and Claudette was suffocating under the bird’s attack.
Suddenly she heard a great “whoosh” and Sapphire was gone in a piercing squawk. She didn’t resist as she felt someone pick her up and sharply order others out of the way.
“Look at me,” a man’s voice said. Claudette opened her eyes. She was staring straight into William Greycliffe’s face. She began struggling out of his grasp, but he held her closer.
“Don’t be an idiot,” he said in a low voice. “I’m trying to help you.”
“Lizbit—” she began.
“We’re here with you, Claudette.” She could hear Lizbit’s voice and footsteps behind them. She closed her eyes again. Presently she heard a door open, and looked to see that she was being placed in a large elegant carriage, different than the one she had previously seen him in with Lenora Radley. William climbed in next to Claudette after Lizbit and Marguerite placed themselves across from her. William gave directions to the driver.
“Are you all right?” William asked her.
Lizbit silently handed her a handkerchief, and pointed to her neck. A swipe of the cloth showed Claudette that she was messy with dirt and blood from the bird’s scratches. He had also nipped her hard in the shoulder, and that was beginning to throb.
“I am well enough.” She crossed her arms in front of her in an attempt to seem aloof, but she knew she must look a fright from the bird’s attack. Marguerite’s big eyes confirmed it.
“Good Lord, Claudette,” exclaimed Lizbit. “This gentleman—and I do not believe we have been properly introduced—just rescued you from a savage wild beast with one thrust of his arm that sent it tumbling back
to its owner, and all you say is ‘I am well enough’?”
“You don’t understand,” she mumbled. Forcing herself to look at William, she said, “Mr. Greycliffe, I am grateful for your assistance in my distress.”
“It is my pleasure, Miss Laurent, to be of some service to you.” His eyes were indecipherable, but his voice was light. Drat the man and his sardonic responses.
“So”—Lizbit was brightening considerably—“you know each other. Pray tell how. Claudette has not mentioned you to me. I am Elizabeth Preston, one of her dearest friends.” She held out her gloved hand.
William greeted her politely. “Miss Preston, you have my warmest regards as a friend of Miss Laurent’s. But you say she has not mentioned me before? I am disappointed. I knew that I had made a less than favorable impression upon her, but I had not realized how poorly she considered me, although I hold her in the highest regard.”
Lizbit looked around the carriage, which was fitted with brass trimmings and green velvet seats. “I can see that my friend does not have her own best interests at heart.” Her glance then took in William’s wedding band.
“Ah, there is perhaps one quality you lack.” She said it as a question. William caught the trail of her glance.
“I came to the market with my manservant, Dobry, to purchase a pet finch for my wife. She has a collection of them, but is never pleased with what any of her maids pick out for her. I thought if I came to do it for her she might be satisfied.”
Lizbit cocked her head to one side. “And instead of a finch, you have snared the beautiful swan, haven’t you?”
Claudette flushed, and felt the heat creeping up to her face.
“Alas,” William said. “I never had an opportunity to snare the beautiful swan, and she will always remain out of my reach.”
The Queen's Dollmaker Page 13
