Claudette was soon presented with another unusual investment. Mrs. Jenkins desired to retire to the ground floor of her building, as she was getting a bit gouty and the work of landlording was too much for her. Would Claudette like to purchase the town house? There was only one other tenant left in the building, who planned to move out soon, and it was his rooms Mrs. Jenkins wished to occupy.
“What do you think?” Claudette asked Béatrice over supper at the Fox and Hounds, a nearby tavern. She explained Mrs. Jenkins’s offer over their spit-roasted ham with Madeira sauce and root vegetables.
“Doesn’t it sound like an enormous risk?” Béatrice asked.
“Not especially. I think Mrs. Jenkins is offering a fair price, and I don’t have to pay her all at once. Just think, we could renovate the entire first floor into two flats, one for each of us, perhaps decorated in the Adams style. Or whatever style you wish!”
“What about Mr. Greycliffe?”
“Mr. Greycliffe? What of him?”
“What if he should divorce his wife and ask you to marry him?”
“Béatrice, where do you get such fanciful ideas? I, for one, entertain no thoughts whatsoever of the man and you shouldn’t either. He is arrogant and selfish and more beast than man.”
“But he saved you from that vicious bird. I think he loves you. He’s very dashing.”
“I won’t hear another word about him. All I want to hear is that you’d like me to buy the town house.”
“Of course! I can hardly wait to begin sewing draperies.”
“Then I’ll see Mr. Benjamin in the morning.”
In short order Mrs. Jenkins had transferred ownership of the town house to Claudette and moved to the recently vacated ground floor. An architect and workmen were hired to redesign and renovate the four first-floor rooms into two flats, with a common sitting room between them at the top of the stairs leading up from the front entrance.
The ensuing dust and mess exacerbated Béatrice’s delicate constitution, making her more prone to coughing paroxysms and sneezing. For several months, her eyes wept a thin mucous. Claudette suggested a visit by a physician, but Béatrice demurred.
“It’s just a reaction to the excitement, is all,” she said.
The architect recommended a cabinetmaker, who provided them with beds, tables, and other necessary furnishings. Claudette even splurged on a fancy tall-case clock for the sitting room. Her father had never had such an extravagant tribute to his success, and Claudette considered the purchase her mark of respect for her esteemed papa.
How she wished he knew that his cherished daughter had thrived against all probability of her doing so.
17
Paris, 1787. The trial over the wretched diamond necklace had taken place in May 1786. As further humiliation for the queen, her brother, the Archduke Ferdinand, had arrived for a visit in the middle of the situation. Not only was it discomforting for her to be embroiled in an infamous legal battle upon his arrival, but the archduke himself was a bit embarrassing, thinking it grand to arrive in Paris “incognito” and devise all manner of schemes to travel about in disguises. Her discomfort was increased by the fact that she was heavily pregnant again. What should have been joy at the prospect of another possible son was clouded by her perpetual troubles.
She could not take comfort in Alex, who had run off to England for a visit, and was, according to reports, being fêted everywhere he went. Even the king had left her side, traveling to Cherbourg and other seaports on an eight-day tour.
When Louis returned, the queen was sufficiently excited by his homecoming to greet him on the balcony of the palace with her three children: the Madame Royale, now aged six; the Dauphin, who was five years old; and Louis Charles, the Duc de Normandie, a mere fifteen months old. The entire family wore their finest court attire but with no hint of jewelry, a statement that Marie Antoinette was still the country’s majestic queen, but that she was also sensitive to the suffering in it. The king’s seaport visit had been a great success, and witnesses to the family reunion cheered the royals.
The next day, Louis returned to his normal monotonous routine of hunting, which had been interrupted by his coastal tour. Marie Antoinette was still alone.
Ten days later, she felt unwell. Refusing to believe that she was having labor pains, she continued with her own routine. By late afternoon, she realized that, indeed, her confinement time had arrived early. Servants hastily put together the dreaded, airless confinement room, with its tightly sealed, covered windows and utter lack of privacy. At seven-thirty on the evening of July 9, the queen gave birth to Sophie Hélène Béatrice before a noisy gaggle of courtiers crowding around to watch.
The king was ecstatic, although many others thought it a pity that it was not a third son. In any case, the infant did not flourish. Combined with the Dauphin’s continued illnesses and overall weakness, plus the disgusting outcome of the diamond necklace trial, a pall was cast over Versailles.
On June 19, 1787, just a few weeks shy of her first birthday, the baby Sophie died, having never developed much at all. The queen was bereft. A family portrait in progress by the artist Elisabeth-Louise Vigée Lebrun had to have Sophie painted out of it. Instead, it was replaced by Louis Joseph’s finger pointing toward an empty cradle. The painting depressed the queen further, but not as much as the knowledge that Jeanne de la Motte had escaped La Salpêtrière prison a few days before Sophie’s death, and had made her way to England, where she was now venomously penning her “autobiography.” These supposed memoirs, which detailed a Sapphic relationship with the queen, were enthusiastically received by an English public who loved gossip, particularly if it concerned the hated French.
London, January 1788. The boy picked his way into the C. Laurent Fashion Doll Shop the way his grandfather had shown him. His hands were shaking badly, and he considered it only very good luck that he had not been seen. He had nearly lost his nerve and run back to his grandfather’s own shop. It was the thought that such an action would probably result in a beating that kept him firmly perched behind an empty vegetable stand across the street in the freezing cold, blowing on hands protected only by fingerless wool gloves and watching until all of the shop’s employees were gone for the evening.
He darted across to the front door with his tools hidden by a folded sack under his arm. Retrieving a couple of implements from the bag, he manipulated the lock until it gave way for him, then slithered in and shut the door quickly behind him.
Here he was, actually standing in the shop belonging to that witch. Grandfather always cuffed him on the ear when he called her that, saying that witches don’t exist anymore, but that Miss Laurent was simply too stiff-rumped to be abided and had to be taught a lesson.
But the boy wasn’t sure. He had seen Miss Laurent on the street and although Grandfather was right, she did carry herself proudly, the boy thought that her natural beauty and ability to acquire so many wealthy customers must be the result of supernatural doings. He hadn’t seen any witch’s marks, but they could have been hidden under her clothing. Maybe she was out right now buying potions and secret herbs to use on an unsuspecting lout. He shuddered and hoped he wouldn’t come across any implements of torture in the shop.
Before anyone passing on the street could see him in the waning hours of daylight, he scurried through the shop seeking his goal. He opened cabinet doors and drawers, careful not to disturb anything that might make the witch—er, Miss Laurent—suspicious later.
Where was it all? He nipped to the back of the shop, opening doors. A small worker’s bedroom, a closet…Ah! This must be it. He stopped in wonder at how neat this workshop was, everything tidied up and placed in bins along the wall. Grandfather’s shop didn’t look like this. The boy would have to tell him about it. This was proof of witchcraft, now wasn’t it? What mortal being could keep a shop this orderly?
He saw the things he was after and began scooping them into his bag, apprehensive that the witch might have a familiar lurking a
bout, watching him and ready to fly off and report to its mistress. What if she turned him into something terrible, like a pig or a calf? The butcher would get hold of him and cut his throat. Then Grandfather would be furious with him.
The sound of the front door creaking split his already fragile wits apart. He banged into a box of tools sitting on the floor before diving headfirst under the counter-high worktable sitting perpendicular to the doorway.
“Béatrice, you don’t look well. I think it’s time to return to the shop.”
The two women stood on a busy London street in frosty twilight. They had gone out late that afternoon to deposit money with Mr. Benjamin, then hired a carriage to take them to the Giffords to pick up some specially ordered bolts of fabric. Normally Claudette would send Joseph out to run such an errand, but these were expensive silks for use in a set of ten fashion dolls for an earl’s daughter, who wanted them to match her wedding trousseau. Aristocracy could be fussy, and the minutest mark on a hidden section of a dress might cause the earl to return the entire set, so Claudette preferred to handle the bolts personally. While at the Giffords, they also selected a few fabrics to have turned into serviceable day dresses for themselves and Marguerite.
Béatrice coughed lightly against a handkerchief. “It’s just the cold. My gloves aren’t warm enough. I keep meaning to purchase another pair.”
Claudette hired a hackney coach for their return trip. Really, she should just purchase her own. There was enough money to buy a small carriage and horse. Perhaps a landaulet? Maybe one day soon she would talk to Jack about what local auction she should attend. Of course, she would then have to hire someone to drive it and keep the horses stabled, groomed, and fed. And then there was the actual storage of the carriage itself. No, she thought. It would be an imprudent purchase, and she had not come this far to end up doing something foolish.
After unloading their bundles in front of the shop and paying the driver, Claudette inserted her key into the front door lock while a gentle snow began floating around them. It was dark inside, as Agnes or Roger must have closed up at least an hour ago and escorted Marguerite to Mrs. Jenkins. As she pushed the door open fully it creaked, and a muffled thump from somewhere in the workshop startled both women, resulting in a small squeak from Béatrice.
They stood paralyzed at the open door, snow gathering lightly at their feet and on their cloaks, and drifting inside.
“Something must have fallen. I hope we haven’t lost any dolls,” Claudette said with more confidence than she felt. Béatrice responded by shivering.
“Come, let’s go clean up before we catch our death standing outside.” They hauled the bolts just inside and Claudette shut the door, groping about on the front counter for an oil lamp and lighting it before leading the way to the workshop with Béatrice trailing right behind her.
At the workshop entrance she held up the lamp but could not see anything unusual amid all of the neat rows of supplies lining the walls. They must have dreamed they heard a noise. Only, two awake people cannot have the same dream at the same time, can they?
Béatrice grabbed her elbow and pointed to a place under the large worktable. Part of a man’s worn leather shoe peeped out.
“Who’s there? Why are you hiding in here?” Claudette tried to keep the tremor out of her voice.
A young man, a boy really, with cropped hair so blond it was nearly white, burst out from under the table carrying a large sack and darted toward the women with one hand shot straight out to act as a battering ram.
The boy clipped Béatrice, who fell against a grande Pandore in progress. Both she and the frame went clattering to the floor. Claudette reached wildly for a weapon, and her hand closed around a broom leaning against the wall behind her. With the broom in one hand and the lamp in the other, she was on the boy’s heels. He stumbled with his heavy load, and Claudette used the instant to drop the lamp and begin pummeling him with the broom. Amid his howls of protest, she relentlessly smacked him on the head, at his knees, and on his stomach, circling him like a bird of prey closing in on a rodent.
The boy went to his knees and dropped the sack. All manner of incomplete dolls and their parts spilled out.
Why would anyone steal unfinished dolls? They had no value whatsoever. Why wasn’t he lifting one of the creations from the display shelves?
“Stop, miss, stop! I’m sorry, I am. It had to be done.” The boy was blocking his face with his hands. “Please, I don’t want to be someone’s supper!”
By this time, Claudette was exhausted from her exertion, and Béatrice had rejoined her, rubbing her side in pain from her collision with the iron doll frame.
Still holding the broom threateningly over the boy, Claudette asked, “What’s your name? What in heaven’s name are you doing?”
“I’m Ralph Pierotti, miss. My grandfather owns the Pierotti Fashion Doll Works. He made me do it, I swear to you.” The boy’s pleading eyes rested in a face full of straw scratches. Gray broom dander rose from his head in wispy columns.
“I know of the Pierotti shop. It’s very successful. Why would your grandfather need to steal supplies from me?”
“We’re not so successful as of late. Your shop is taking a lot of his trade with the upper class, miss. He says it’s because you’re uppity. I told him it’s because—” The boy stopped, his eyes darting around the room.
“And so he sends in a child to steal parts from my workroom? Whatever for?”
“To figure out how you do it. What’s so special about your dolls, why is your experimentation with wax so much better than his? He wanted some samples he could examine and copy from, but didn’t want me to disturb your finished pieces. He said that wouldn’t be right.”
Claudette lowered the broom and burst into laughter, throwing Ralph into confusion. Even Béatrice was puzzled by her amusement.
“So, Ralph, stealing my expensive supplies was perfectly acceptable to your grandfather, but lifting a completed doll, well, that was beyond the bounds of propriety. Oh dear.” She shook her head, still smiling.
She made a sudden movement with the broom, which sent Ralph scrabbling away from her, but she motioned for him not to be afraid. Instead, she opened the sack on the floor, swept all of the scattered doll parts back in, and handed it to Ralph.
“Here, Ralph. Give this to Henry Pierotti with my compliments. Tell him that I would be delighted to discuss my doll manufacture with him, and that he doesn’t need to impress his relatives into criminal activity.”
Still terrified, the boy grabbed the sack from her and ran out the door into the frigid night air, the door banging shut behind him.
“Well, my friend”—Claudette yawned contentedly—“I thought we had made our mark when we got Queen Charlotte’s notice. Now I know we are truly famous because we have inspired a great heist. I say we toast our good fortune with Mrs. Jenkins before retiring tonight.”
London, April 1788. Claudette and Béatrice had just finished having soup together in Claudette’s flat one evening when they heard a carriage come to a stop outside their building and someone knock on the front door. Béatrice went to the window.
“Oh,” she breathed.
“What is it?”
Before Béatrice could respond, they heard a sharp rap on the door of Claudette’s flat, followed by Mrs. Jenkins’s voice.
“Miss Laurent? You have a gentleman caller.”
Claudette looked at Béatrice quizzically, but the other woman turned back to the window.
Realizing that Béatrice was avoiding her, and quickly thinking that it simply could not be him coming to see her, not again, she opened the door, and her heart quit beating for an instant before leaping into her throat and making her speechless.
“Miss Laurent, this is Mr. William Greycliffe here to see you.” Mrs. Jenkins was glowing as she gazed up at the handsome gentleman standing next to her.
“Yes, so it would seem,” was all she could articulate.
When Mrs. Jenkins made no m
ove to leave the doorway, William turned to her. “Madam, thank you for your assistance. You have been most kind.”
“Oh my, yes, well, certainly, Mr. Greycliffe, you need only knock should you need anything.” She scurried off downstairs back to her flat.
Claudette and William stared at each other steadily, each waiting for the other to break the silence. Finally, with her wits back in place, Claudette said, “Mr. Greycliffe, to what do I owe this rather unexpected pleasure? I require no dance lessons, I have not been under avian attack as of late, nor do I keep dollmaking supplies here just in case a customer should follow me home.”
Behind her, she could hear Béatrice move quietly into her own quarters, shutting the door behind her.
“Miss Laurent, I am not here to do battle with you. I merely wish to have a civil conversation. After you hear what I have to say, you may decide whether you wish to maintain acquaintance with me. However, I do ask for some indulgence.”
He looked toward the door through which Béatrice had passed and offered his arm to Claudette.
“Might I suggest a quick supper nearby? The roasted pork is excellent at the King’s Head Inn.”
She contemplated him for several moments more and said, “I suppose I might spare you a short amount of time.”
They walked several blocks to the inn, and were shown to a table in a back room. A roaring fire in one corner took the chill out of the early spring evening as they sat together and sipped claret while waiting for their meals. They spoke of innocuous things—the long-lasting winter, the troubles with France, the increasing trade with the Americans, Mr. Pitt’s latest policies. Claudette’s thoughts bubbled and roiled. She had not lain eyes on him in so long, and believed she had relegated him to an untouchable part of her mind. Why did he affect her so much, even after a protracted absence?
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