The carriage pulled up to the shop, and he escorted them to the door. Marguerite burst in and went shouting for her mother to hear of their great adventure. Lizbit followed her in, but William held Claudette back to speak with her outside.
“Miss Laurent, may I send a doctor to attend to you?”
“No, I am perfectly fine.”
“You may have been more badly injured than you imagine. It would set my mind at ease to know that a physician has declared you well.”
Why did it seem as though Mr. Greycliffe always vacillated between sarcasm and kindness? He was really quite awful, but she did now have an aching head, so perhaps a doctor’s visit would be advisable.
“I suppose it would not hurt to see a doctor,” she agreed.
“Splendid. I will ask our family physician, Dr. Crowley, to come round. I will check in on you myself in a fortnight.”
“No! I mean, that will not be necessary. I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Mr. Greycliffe. I must go now, and I am certain your wife wonders why you have not yet returned with her new finch.” She offered him her hand, which he pressed between both of his own, as though trying to prevent her from leaving.
“Miss Laurent, I never had an opportunity to tell you how beautiful the doll was that you created for my mother. She talked of nothing else for weeks after her birthday.”
“We take all of our commissions very seriously, Mr. Greycliffe. I gave it the same attention that I do all of our custom work.”
“Well, yes, I expect that is true. Nevertheless, the quality of the work spoke greatly about the craftswoman behind it. I was particularly impressed with the doll’s blue eyes, so sharp in color that they reminded me of, of—”
He pulled her closer, so that the fabric of their clothing nearly touched. He brought her hand up and kissed the top of it, then turned her palm over to place a feathery kiss on her wrist.
No, Claudette, no, she thought. He is a married gentleman, he does not love you. He deceives you! But his lips make me tremble and I cannot help being drawn to him no matter how dreadful he is. Someone please help me.
When William received no resistance, he bent down and kissed her scratched and bruised forehead twice, once over each eye.
“They reminded me of you, Miss Laurent, and your infernal sass. Why I am in lo—Why I continue to help you I cannot understand.”
He reluctantly dropped her hand. “Until we meet again.” He stepped back into his carriage and rapped on the ceiling for the driver to move on, offering her a nod as he rode past.
Claudette waited until she recaptured her senses before entering the shop to find both of her friends waiting to pepper her with questions.
“Why didn’t you tell me of this Mr. Greycliffe when we talked yesterday?”
“Did you really get attacked by a bird?” Béatrice was a bit glassy-eyed, but looked much better than she had that morning.
“How did you let such a fine gentleman slip through your fingers?”
Claudette threw up both hands. “I will not discuss the faultless Mr. Greycliffe, and the condition of my face should indicate that I did indeed have a tussle with a wild creature that apparently got the better of me.” She moved past them to the bedroom. “If someone were to bring me a cup of tea, I would be most grateful, but I warn you that I will not discuss anything.”
She left them to gossip together, with Béatrice telling Lizbit all she knew about Mr. Greycliffe.
Dr. Crowley pronounced Claudette healthy, despite some lingering bumps and scratch marks. He brought with him a note from Mr. Greycliffe, which instead of immediately burning she put away in a drawer to read once she could be alone.
After supper, Claudette retreated to the bedroom with the letter while Béatrice sat Marguerite at a table next to the fireplace to teach her how to thread a needle.
She turned the envelope over and pried apart the red wax seal.
June 25, 1784
Hevington
Kent
Dear Miss Laurent,
I pray this letter finds you well and in good spirits after your recent distressing accident. It was my own good fortune to have been able to provide some assistance to you. You have only to ask should you require anything further. I cannot impress upon you enough my regret that circumstances beyond my control prevented me from furthering our acquaintance when the outcome of such acquaintance might have resulted in the greatest happiness. However, I shall ever remain,
Your servant,
William Greycliffe
Claudette folded the letter again, and this time decided to place it in her supply box, instead of consigning it to the fire. What circumstances were these? Was the mighty Mr. Greycliffe implying a genuine interest in her?
14
Paris, 1785. This year would prove to be the one that sealed Marie Antoinette’s reputation with the people forever, and all because of a glittering diamond necklace.
Jeanne de Saint-Rémy was born in 1756, the daughter of an impoverished aristocrat who could claim illegitimate descent from Henri II, the last Valois king of France. The Baron de Saint-Rémy taught his children to beg in the streets, saying, “Take pity on a little child who descends from one of our country’s greatest kings.” Jeanne later developed talents as an actress in amateur theatricals, and through them she met an army officer, Nicholas de la Motte.
The couple married quickly, Monsieur de la Motte resigned his commission, and the two began signing themselves as the Comte and Comtesse de la Motte; or, when they wanted extended credit, de la Motte-Valois.
Jeanne became acquainted with Cardinal de Rohan, a good-looking, conceited social climber, who was also a prince. His one desire was to follow in the footsteps of Cardinals Richelieu and Mazarin. Such a position would enable him to direct the very destiny of France. Unfortunately for the cardinal, the queen detested him for a very unwise letter he had written to Louis XV’s mistress, Madame du Barry, in which he made fun of Marie Antoinette’s mother. Madame du Barry read the letter aloud at a dinner party, and news of it traveled quickly to the queen’s ears. With a stroke of his own pen, he had erased any possibility of advancement.
Jeanne was well aware of this situation as she developed her relationship with the cardinal. First, she enlisted de Rohan to secure a position for her husband at Versailles, intimating that with her husband gone, she and de Rohan could become lovers. Instead, she joined her husband at Versailles in an effort to put herself in the queen’s path. When the queen refused, or perhaps just failed, to recognize or receive Jeanne, the ambitious young woman invented other means of achieving her aims, the primary one to have her royal ancestry recognized, which might then lead to a pension.
The “comtesse” employed such antics as fainting in the hallways of Versailles as Marie Antoinette approached. The queen merely stepped around her, fully recognizing a ploy when she saw one. Jeanne would also tell her friends about conversations, all imaginary, that she was having with the queen. Soon she developed a reputation as someone in Marie Antoinette’s inner circle. Meanwhile, the queen did not even know her name.
This was all irrelevant to Jeanne, as she and de la Motte had now devised a perfect plan for securing the currency they needed to establish themselves back into aristocracy. They needed the help of Cardinal de Rohan, who, aware of Jeanne’s “position” with the queen, was willing to help in order to forge his own relationship with Marie Antoinette.
Jeanne had discovered that the crown jewelers, Boehmer and Bassenge, had spent several years creating for Louis XV’s mistress, Madame du Barry, the most magnificent necklace ever seen in Europe, a brilliantly shining array of 647 perfect diamonds. In the purchase of these gems, the jewelers had expended far more than their own fortunes, and the king died before the transaction could be completed, leaving the jewelers in financial straits. They had earlier made lesser masterpieces for Marie Antoinette, and now assumed that she would be enthralled with a piece that could only be described as spectacular. Unfortunately, they did not kno
w that she had lost her fondness for such costly treasures, and was now contenting herself in the novelty of wearing the utmost simplicity in attire and spending time in the pastoral setting of her seemingly simple—but extravagantly expensive—Hameau on the grounds of Versailles.
Boehmer and Bassenge had presented the necklace to Marie Antoinette, but she refused it, considering it too garish for her new lifestyle and also realizing that such a purchase would make her even more unpopular in the country. Desperate to recover their investment, the jewelers were now shopping the necklace with many of the Continent’s wealthiest women.
Using several accomplices, Jeanne approached Boehmer and told him the queen was reconsidering the necklace, but needed to make the purchase a secret, due to her unpopularity with the people. A price of one million six hundred thousand francs was negotiated, a sum lower than the cost of the stones. In his haste to sell the necklace, the jeweler did not question who Jeanne was.
Jeanne then approached de Rohan, telling him that the queen very much desired to purchase this necklace for herself, and would be willing to bring the cardinal back into her inner circle if he would advance the money for the necklace and allow her to pay him back in installments. Anxious to get back into the queen’s good graces, he did not question the plan.
Jeanne and her husband took de Rohan’s money, took the necklace from Boehmer (leaving him a promissory note supposedly in the queen’s own writing), then immediately broke up the exquisite piece of art and sold off individual diamonds.
Soon, though, both the jeweler and the cardinal were asking for their money. In particular, de Rohan was confused because the queen’s attitude toward him did not seem to change after his very generous gesture toward her, and she never wore the necklace in public. When Jeanne was unable to come up with more excuses for the jewelers and de Rohan regarding the payment delay, the duplicity became obvious to both parties. A scandal ensued, and all parties were arrested and tried, with the exception of Nicholas de la Motte, who fled the country at the first sign of trouble. All of the conspirators except Jeanne were released with little or no punishment. The Comtesse de la Motte was sentenced to be publicly flogged, branded above her left breast, and imprisoned.
None of this episode was of Marie Antoinette’s device or desire, but the press and the public laid it squarely at her door. Her already tarnished reputation as a frivolous spendthrift was blackened further, and the French people hated her even more. Her delivery of the royal heir was forgotten in the flood of public ill will.
“Why?” she cried to Axel late at night. “Why do the subjects I love despise me so much?”
He had no answer.
London, October 1785. Jack was in the shop to pick up an order of dolls for a newly opened millinery shop.
“Did you hear the latest gossip about the Greycliffes?”
Claudette stiffened. “No, why should I hear anything about them?” She busied herself with an eye that had fallen out of a doll’s eye socket for the third time.
He tilted his head quizzically at her. “Aren’t you friendly with Mr. Greycliffe? Didn’t he save you from the market birds?”
Claudette did not reply, and continued fiddling with the uncooperative doll’s head.
Jack shook his head. “The poor man, to have such a slut for a wife. She left him in the middle of the night, with his own servant, no less. A footman. She’s pregnant now, going to have the servant’s baby. They’re living with his family, who are none too happy about it. Mr. Greycliffe hired their boy and had been a good employer. Funny enough, they say Mr. Greycliffe doesn’t seem to mind that his wife left. I suppose even a lowly cur like me could one day hope to marry up, if Mrs. Greycliffe is any indication.”
The glass eye fell to the floor again, and this time she did not bother to pick it up. She held the doll tightly so that Jack would not see her trembling.
15
London, March 1786. The crowded workroom was pulsating with activity. Claudette was supervising three workers, one a seamstress, the other two carvers. One carver, simply known as Carpenter Tom, was an ex–cabinetmaker who once swung axes and hammers equally with ease, but was now too aged and stooped for harsh carpentry work. The work of carving dolls suited him, since he could sit comfortably all day at a worktable to do so, and Claudette would let him periodically take home a finished product to a granddaughter or great-niece celebrating a natal day.
The second carver she had hired was Roger Hatfield, an enormous, barrel-chested man, whose voice could be heard resounding through the workshop even when he was whispering. He was the hairiest human being Claudette had ever seen, with not only long black hair curling down the back of his neck and a matching beard down the front, but also long tendrils of hair that dangled from his arms like a heavy growth of twining vines. Really, he seemed quite ferocious at first, with his bushy, wiggling eyebrows and massive arms, but he quickly proved to be Claudette’s and Béatrice’s fiercest protector from unruly customers. He became expert at getting the most doll limbs and parts out of a single block.
Each evening, Claudette would sort out the day’s orders, identifying hair, eye, and lip color for each doll, and sketching out the fashion to be made for it. She snipped scraps of fabric and pinned them to the order, with instructions as to what articles of clothing should be made from each fabric. She then arranged the pile of orders by importance of the customer, and left it on the carving table. Carpenter Tom or Roger, whoever arrived first to the shop, knew to begin work first on whatever order was on top.
After the carvers had spent a day or two on a doll, the carved body was wrapped in paper, along with the order, and handed over to Agnes Smoot, the seamstress, who was distantly related to Roger and whom Claudette had hired at his urging.
Agnes would also work with each doll in the order received, fingering the fabric palette that Claudette had selected and going up to the storage attic to pick out the corresponding bolts of fabric. Much to Claudette’s pleasure, Agnes would frequently add a lace trim or bow or frill to a doll’s costume that Claudette had not thought of, adding immeasurably to the creation’s aesthetic value.
Claudette’s shop hummed busily six days each week, between patrons shopping in front and workers carving, sewing, and assembling in the rear. She had even taken on a young helper, a thin, bedraggled-looking boy named Joseph Cummings who had come in begging for work.
While profits were not substantial, Claudette realized that she needed larger quarters, particularly if she wanted to begin constructing the grandes Pandores her father had made popular in Paris. Claudette knew that England’s elite would love the grandes Pandores, too; not old dour Queen Charlotte, of course, who only spent her time in bearing children and stitching embroidery, but the rest of the court, which was tired of the stilted and boring lifestyle King George and his wife had instituted.
In earlier times, the English court glittered with political intrigues, elaborate balls, and the continual jockeying for position that made being a courtier worthwhile. But in the House of Hanover, George III in particular, court had been reduced to boring games of backgammon, conversations about farming, and the attendance of endless christenings as the monarch and his wife’s only expression of zeal seemed to be in the bedroom.
Claudette’s grandes Pandores were what the aristocracy needed to restore enthusiasm again.
The small bedroom that she shared with Béatrice and Marguerite was now heaped with materials and supplies spilling over from the workroom. They had already blocked off a small area of the display room with a screen to hide small crates of doll parts. The attic was full of fabric bolts wrapped in tissue and corresponding laces and trims.
“I believe I’ve found the perfect place!” Béatrice was breathless from her hurried journey back to the shop. Claudette had sent her and Joseph out each day for the last two weeks on scouting missions for a new location. Until now, Béatrice had gone halfheartedly into the streets of London on these missions, returning each evening dejected
.
“It’s a wonderful shop, Claudette. It has large windows at the front for display, and a huge workroom with a locking door upstairs. The shop is twice as large as this one, and very bright and cheerful. The walls have just been whitewashed and the floors polished, as well.”
The proposed location did not have sleeping quarters with it, which would force the women to seek separate accommodations. However, at first glance Claudette fell in love with the property, located on fashionable Oxford Street in Mayfair proper, and decided that the extra expenses generated would be more than made up by increased sales. She and Béatrice quickly found small but clean quarters. They were adjoining flats in a nearby building, giving each woman some privacy, which Claudette relished. Béatrice was grateful that they would not truly be apart, for she still found London to be a fearful place.
But with this move, Claudette had made an irrevocable decision to take root in England. She still thought of Jean-Philippe, but it was no longer with the intense longing of the past. She relegated him and her parents to a special corner of her mind, and periodically reached in to mentally visit them, to assure herself that they would never be forgotten.
To her own personal fury, Mr. Greycliffe had crept out of the small recess in her mind when she wasn’t paying attention, and managed to lodge himself in a vacancy in her heart she didn’t want to fill. She resolved to evict him the very moment she had time from her frantically busy days. How ridiculous to maintain even a slight affection for a married gentleman! Was she a simpleton?
Their new landlady was a widow, and more than happy to keep an eye on Marguerite when necessary, plying her with sweets, toys, and cast-off clothing from her grandchildren who now lived in far-off Yorkshire. Marguerite flourished under Mrs. Jenkins’s kindness and the more spacious quarters she occupied with her mother. Perhaps England was not so bad for a young girl, after all.
The Queen's Dollmaker Page 14
