Claudette remained crouched at the bottom of the cart, unable to get up without her hands for balance. She could feel the cart swerving into various streets and alleyways, and soon she could look up and tell that they were leaving the center of the city, as trees replaced city buildings in her line of sight. Was the driver insane? Did he intend to do worse to her than the guillotine?
They slowed down after about a half hour of swift progress, and even from her disadvantaged position Claudette could hear the bedraggled horse protesting the hard ride with snorts and snuffles. At this reduced pace she was able to struggle her way back up on the bench. The sun’s position told her they were heading west down what appeared to be a small village lane. The horse was guided into the drive of an abandoned cottage. Now what was to happen to her? Please, God, help me, she breathed.
She braced herself as she heard the driver dismount from the floorboard and smack the horse on the rump with a word of praise. She knew she was powerless, constrained as she was by the rope digging into her wrists. Her arms ached from their awkward positioning behind her back. She shut her eyes. She felt the mobcap snatched from her head and flinched, expecting a blow.
Instead, the man cupped what remained of her hacked hair in his hands. “Look at me,” he demanded.
Instead, summoning what energy she had remaining, Claudette shot up from the seat, ramming her head into the man’s chin and sending him sprawling backward onto the ground. She kept up her forward motion, jumping off the tumbrel and running down the lane away from the cottage. Her bound hands made her gait clumsy and stilted. She was only fifty yards past the cottage and already gasping for breath when she heard her captor, recovering his wits, roar in anger and come after her. In moments he was behind her and grabbing her around the waist.
“Claudette!” the man commanded, spinning her around.
She stared at him, uncomprehending. His hat and greasy, dark, matted hair were both askew on his head, and he looked more ghastly than she did. Was he an escapee from La Force?
“You don’t know me.” His voice was flat. Claudette stood frozen, staring into the stranger’s eyes. There was a familiar glint in them.
“William?” she asked tremulously. “Can it be? How did you find me?”
He swept off his hat and bowed. His false hair was messily glued inside the cap, and now his blond hair framed his face, making her realize that it truly was William.
Tossing both of the now unneeded caps aside, he gently untied the ropes from behind her back, and rubbed her arms to bring circulation back to them. Seeing color return to her arms and face, he picked her up in his arms, astonished at her emaciated state, and carried her to the cottage, kicking open the loosely jointed door. He set her gently on a stuffed mattress next to a fireplace that had probably not seen a flame in ten years or more. After she assured him that she was not particularly ill or injured beyond a serious case of heartache, hunger, and fright, he gave her a swift kiss and promised to return shortly. True to his word, he was back within an hour with kindling, firewood, and some food he had purchased from a nearby farmer.
While he started the fire, Claudette pounced on the crate of food, exclaiming over each item. “Eggs! I have not seen a fresh egg since I have been in prison. I should like to kiss the chicken that produced it. Oh, William, is this actually fresh bread? It must have cost a fortune.”
“The farmer took the horse and cart in payment. He seemed quite happy with the trade.” William also produced a sack of cast-off clothing he was able to purchase from the man. Claudette found a serviceable dress in the sack and discarded her prison garb into the flames, where it joined her cotton cap and William’s makeshift wig and hat.
With the fire crackling comfortably, the pair hurriedly prepared a meal from the ingredients he had purchased, and washed it down with a small bottle of wine the farmer had sold him at twice its value. They sat together contentedly on the mattress, talking as it grew dark outside.
William told her of seeing her name on the La Force imprisonment list in Marat’s newspaper and his subsequent rush to France. Once in Paris, he had continually observed the prison to figure out a way to get in. After discovering that she was to be imminently executed, he knew he had to act without delay.
“But how did you ever take possession of the tumbrel?”
“I made friends with one of the guards in La Force, someone originally from Suffolk who married a French lass and is now making his home here. I convinced him to help me.”
“Convinced him? I never met a single worker in La Force who could be reasoned with!”
“Every man has his motivator. In Mr. Roger Wickham’s case, he had launched a dairy business and failed, and now needed the financial resources to move him and his wife Simone back to England. I provided him with a tidy sum for what amounted to just a few minutes of work on his part, which was to make sure I was the driver of your cart.”
In her turn, Claudette told him that she must have been sent a fabricated letter from the queen, that in actuality she had been made a prisoner upon boarding the ship in England. With some difficulty, she told him about her childhood betrothal with Jean-Philippe, her time spent with him during her first visit to the queen, and his subsequent treachery on this voyage. She omitted details of Jean-Philippe’s attempted abuse of her, despising the memory and knowing William would immediately seek to avenge her honor.
William grew very quiet after this. Resting next to a blazing fire with her stomach full of her first true meal in nearly two months, she fell into a dreamless sleep.
Bright sunshine woke her in the morning. William was already putting the cottage back as they had found it. He silently offered her what remained of the food, then showed her a well in back of the cottage, where she was able to draw water to bathe herself of all the grime and stench of La Force.
Back inside the cottage, William had completely tamped out the fire. He sat her down on one of the two rickety chairs that comprised the sum total of furniture in the dwelling. He looked at her seriously.
“Do you still love him?” he asked without preamble.
“No.” She returned his gaze just as steadily. “I thought I did when I was a child, and I was a little confused about it when I saw him during my trip to see the queen, but I knew even before I left there that my life belonged with you. What I was not sure of was whether or not I could become a proper Englishwoman for you.”
“A proper Englishwoman? You?” William laughed. “I will not hear of it. You are like no woman I have ever met in England. I admire your courage and pluck. I still remember how angry you got at me at the Ashbys’ when you assumed I didn’t think you could read.”
Claudette laughed at the memory, as well, but it reminded her of more serious issues. “But this is what I mean. I am like no highborn Englishwoman. I am in a trade. I am a foreigner. Until I met The Baccelli at Knole, I did not think I could truly move into your social set. Giovanna helped me to see that maybe I could.”
“Indeed, The Baccelli is unconventional as well as a good friend. She should have an honored place at our wedding.”
Claudette looked at him in surprise. “Do you still mean to marry me? After all that has happened? And my pitiful state?”
“I am enchanted by your pitiful state, and more determined than ever that this never happen again to Mistress Greycliffe. But for now, we need to find our way back to England. By now there will be search parties looking for us, and at some point the farmer I visited will hear of a female escapee and her driver and probably be able to put together that I was that driver, given that I sold him a horse and cart belonging to La Force.”
In her painfully thin condition, Claudette could pass for a young boy. They found trousers and a loose shirt for her to wear, and covered her butchered hair with a farmer’s cap. If anyone questioned them, they would say they were brothers heading to a nearby market to buy some sheep on behalf of their father. They headed toward the sun, always keeping to narrow paths and slipping i
nto the forest when possible to avoid all contact with other people. At the end of the first day of walking, Claudette remembered her old friend Jacques, who said he was joining relatives in the town of Versailles after the fire. Upon her suggestion, they shifted direction slightly to head there for rest, more food, and assistance in getting passage back to England.
35
Paris, September 21, 1792. The daily criers were still the royal family’s only source of news, other than occasionally smuggled messages, but most materials for note writing had been taken from them, and even such essentials as sewing scissors and shaving soap had been removed from their rooms. In contrast, they were still served elegant meals on silver salvers, and given fine wines to drink, of which only the king partook.
On September 21, the criers announced something incredible in a year full of inconceivable events. Not only was the king deposed, but the monarchy itself was hereby abolished. To give further weight to this declaration, the calendar was officially overhauled, making September 22 the first day of the year, and the names of the months were reconfigured to be named after seasons and nature, such as “Fructidor” (fruit) and “Thermidor” (heat). The new year of the French Republic began with the month of “Vendémiaire,” meaning vintage.
This new year resulted in fresh attacks and dissent among the various factions in the Assembly. Robespierre began gaining prominence as the head of the Mountain, a new group that had taken over the Jacobin Club, and so named because they sat on the highest benches in the Assembly. They wanted a strong central government based on the Parisian point of view, and their central leaders were Robespierre, Danton, Saint-Just, and the followers of Marat and Hébert, who were known as enragés, or maniacs. The Mountain concluded that the republic could not move forward unless the previous monarch was eliminated, for good.
Thundering from inside the Assembly, Saint-Just stated that “Louis cannot be judged, he is already judged. He is condemned, for if he is not, the sovereignty of the Republic is not absolute.”
Robespierre added convincingly that Louis had already condemned himself, not for what he had done, but for what he was.
The Assembly did not require convincing. A trial would be held for Louis XVI.
36
Kent, October 1792. Claudette and William were married on the sweeping lawns of Hevington on a perfect autumn day, attended only by the local rector, William’s parents, Béatrice, Marguerite, Jolie, the doll shop workers, and the Earl of Pembroke and his highly-prized mistress. Giovanna had insisted upon providing Claudette’s wedding gown, a flowing concoction of pink silk dupion with ivory-laced sleeve flounces trimmed in pearls. A matching veil fluttered down the length of the dress. Giovanna had helped her dress inside the country house and exclaimed, “Sweet signorina, you have done it! You have achieved the matrimonial state. Ah.” Her eyes rolled back. “Now if only you would have some children to play with my John Frederick.”
The teenage Marguerite found much to entertain her at Hevington in the form of one of William’s young grooms. While he was preparing the horses and carriage for the newlywed couple’s honeymoon trip, Marguerite, who was completely uninterested in horsemanship, was apparently enthralled by every word he had to say on the subject. She reappeared in the wedding party only when cake and punch were to be served.
The gift table, laden with presents from well-wishers, was dominated by a crate so large it had to be placed on the floor next to it. Inside, the couple found a spectacular wax replica of Claudette sculpting a doll, an unexpectedly generous gift from Marie Grosholtz. Marie had also managed to get a secret message to the queen regarding the nuptials, so even Marie Antoinette had sent a letter of congratulations, though the letter was tinged with her regrets that Claudette suffered because of her association with the queen. Accompanying the letter was a scented lace handkerchief, a fleur-de-lis design embroidered around the edges in gold thread, the best gift the queen could provide under her reduced circumstances. Claudette later told William it was her most treasured wedding gift.
While William spent time with the earl and Giovanna, Claudette used the opportunity to talk with Béatrice. Her friend’s red-rimmed eyes spoke of her deep happiness intermingled with heartbreak over Claudette’s marriage, which would necessitate her move from their town house.
Claudette kissed Béatrice’s cheek. “All will be well, my dearest friend. Here, I have a wedding gift for you. Take it.”
“A wedding gift for me?” Béatrice took the proffered document, which was folded and sealed. Opening it, she found it to be a legal document, granting her the lease of the town house for £1 per annum for the remainder of her life.
Béatrice’s puffy eyes flowed accordingly. Amid protestations and snuffles of thanks, she declared her devotion to her “friend unto death.”
After a round of good wishes, lengthy good-byes, and admonitions to produce many Greycliffe children, the couple was escorted to their carriage. More tearful declarations of affection, accompanied by frantic waving, escorted them down the long drive of the home.
William and Claudette spent time traveling along the coast of Cornwall, enjoying the exhilarating spray of water along its rocky shoreline, savoring each other’s company, and relishing Claudette’s newly found freedom.
She had regained her figure and some of her hair’s length and fullness following her flight from prison. She never again spoke of Jean-Philippe and his mistreatment of her at La Force, and William did not press for details.
After two weeks together in Cornwall, William wanted to return to Hevington for an extended honeymoon, but Claudette insisted that they go back to London. They returned to check on the shop, Claudette assuring herself that things were being well run. The newlywed couple then purchased a spacious, comfortable town home in Vauxhall Lane and sold William’s other London residence, which had been intended for Lenora’s convalescence. They spent much of their time in supervising renovations to their new home: replacing wallpaper, hanging new drapes, reconstructing fireplaces in the popular Georgian style, and making general repairs.
Claudette went to the doll shop periodically to oversee operations and to encourage Béatrice to be more assertive in her handling of the shop. At the same time, Marguerite’s skill as a carver and designer was increasing with astonishing speed.
One early morning, Claudette opened the shop to find a note under the door.
Mistress Greycliffe,
Im verry sorry about what I did to you to make you be in gaol in Perris. i dint mean to get you in trubble, but lord Fershun set me and me mam up in nice lodgings just to make secret compartmints in the dolls going to the queen in france. He then sent me pakages to stuff in the dolls, but I dint see whot were in them. He swore it werent nuthin, and that it was just a joke he were playing on you and the queen. I culdn’t see no harm in it. He even gave me two shillings extra-like for each doll i fixxed up for him.
Mam dyed of the flux last week, so I dunt need them big lodgings anymore, and plus he quit sending money once you got over to Perris and then i hurd you was in gaol.
Mistress, I hope you forgive me for my sins, and I won’t be any more trubble to you and yours.
Signed from yer servent,
Joseph Cummings
Claudette sighed. So that was how it happened. Whatever Count Fersen had been sending to the queen had been discovered by Jean-Philippe and was deemed a threat to the new government. And Jean-Philippe would have recognized the dolls as being from her shop, particularly with their special insignias engraved on them.
Poor Joseph, he didn’t need to run away; he was just a child caught up in a dangerous game. As soon as someone else arrived at the shop to take care of customers, she would go out and look for the boy and offer him back his job as her apprentice.
Roger Hatfield arrived at the shop, breathless, a few minutes later. “Miss Claudette, er, I mean, Mrs. Greycliffe…is it Lady Greycliffe?” He scratched his curly-haired head.
Claudette smiled. “Roger, let�
��s just keep it Miss Claudette between us, shall we? What’s your news?”
“Bad news, I’m afraid. Remember little Joseph Cummings? He was just found washed up under Battersea Bridge. Looks like he took his own life. His mother died last week. Must have sent him off his head. Poor mite. Good little worker, too.”
No, Claudette thought. Not another life sacrificed to the insatiable beast of the Revolution. She closed her mind to the thought of the young boy afloat in the murky Thames River. “Does he have any family left in the area? If so, we need to help them. And we need to give him a proper burial, too.”
Under Claudette’s guidance, Béatrice was eventually able to handle the store properly on her own, although she frequently called on her daughter for assistance. Marguerite now spent many hours helping her mother with the administration side of the business, but the young woman enjoyed dollmaking best. Béatrice’s only child had long ago lost any French accent she had had, and with her pert nose and auburn hair arranged fashionably around her face, she looked like any young woman descended from good English stock. When she was comfortable with some of the more mundane management tasks, Claudette easily convinced Béatrice that her teenage daughter should be brought to the front of the store to interact with customers. Her winsome smile only added to her charming exchanges with patrons.
Marguerite’s engaging personality meant that she heard gossip, most of it tales of the House of Hanover—King George’s episodes of madness, the prince’s extravagant spending on his foppish friends and mistresses, and Queen Charlotte’s stifling management of her daughters. But occasionally the gossip had to do with other dollmakers. Some customers would drop hints about other shops as a way to try to elicit discounts.
The Queen's Dollmaker Page 31
