The Queen's Dollmaker

by Christine Trent

  “He did? I hardly remember being sick at all. I just remember the Mr. and Mrs. Ashby dolls you gave me afterward.” She actually emitted a small giggle. Claudette threw William an optimistic look.

  “I remember those dolls, as well, although I’m afraid I was much more focused on your mother at the time,” said Nicholas. “Do you still have them?”

  “I do. Our landlady is packing everything up”—Marguerite’s face darkened momentarily—“to be moved here. I will be dividing my time between here and Hevington.”

  “Perhaps I can return here next week to see them?” His voice was hopeful.

  “All right.” Marguerite was noncommittal, but she self-consciously brushed her hair from her face.

  Nicholas returned exactly a week later, his vest and breeches crisply pressed. From a second-story window, William and Claudette watched him hand his horse’s reins to the groom and bound up to the entrance of the house.

  “He’s very well-groomed for a visit to play with dolls, isn’t he?” Claudette laughed from behind the curtain where she was concealing herself.

  “Well, I suppose he will have an easier time of things than I did with you, you stubborn wench.” William caught her about the waist and nuzzled her neck.

  Claudette pretended outrage. “Whatever do you mean, sir? I have ever been a proper lady.”

  “Indeed,” he said drily. “A veritable paragon of womanly acquiescence.”

  Nicholas continued visiting regularly over the next several months, making his interest and intentions toward Marguerite clear. His attentions brought Marguerite’s spirits quickly out of their black depths. She soon spoke of her mother in fond terms rather than in self-pity, and her eyes regained their sparkle.

  38

  Marie Antoinette lived in a suspended state after the death of her husband. Rumors floated to her that she would be exiled, or sent back to her native Austria, but sitting in her cold quarters, she knew the truth: She would never be leaving Paris, and she would never be freed.

  On July 3, her son was taken from her, despite her bitter protestations. According to her jailers, he needed his own quarters so that he could be trained as a man instead of lodging with a bunch of silly women. But night after night she could hear him crying in some distant part of the fortress. No one would tell her anything about him. So she pined away for her lost country, her husband, and her son. She had not seen Alex since the botched flight from the Tuileries, and she hoped he would not foolishly attempt to see her, since her friends tended to meet with ghastly demises. Perhaps he had already returned to Sweden permanently. His safety was more important than her own anymore.

  Her hair went completely white, but there was no one but the princesse royale, Madame Elisabeth, and disrespectful jailers to notice anyway. Her days were spent staring vacantly through a window at a walled courtyard below.

  Marie Antoinette knew that it was just a matter of time before she was brought to an illegal trial with a predetermined outcome, just like her husband.

  The inevitable occurred on August 2. Representatives from the Assembly came to escort her to her third home in under four years: the Conciergerie, a women’s prison on the Ile de la Cité. She was to be housed there to await her trial date, while her daughter and Madame Elisabeth were to remain in the Temple.

  “Of what am I accused?” she demanded of her captors, a small flicker of her old spirit emerging and dying quickly like a match.

  “Treason. Instigating food shortages. Unseemly acts with other women. Take your pick, Widow Capet.” Since Louis’s death, she had become known by this moniker, which referred to Hugh Capet, the first king of France. She shrugged it off as she had had to shrug off every insult and slander heaped upon her.

  She was transferred to the prison without complaint, even when they showed her to one of the worst cells in the prison, located in the basement, with only one small, filthy window so high up on the wall it was impossible to see out of and provided little light. The room contained a cot, a small writing table and chair, and a dressing screen. Behind this screen the queen placed the single valise of personal belongings she had been allowed to bring. She was permitted an attendant by the name of Rosalie Lamorlière, who quickly became devoted to the sad but sweet dethroned monarch.

  “Thank you, my dear,” said the queen graciously when Rosalie first appeared. “But as you can see, my living circumstances really preclude my need for assistance.”

  Still Rosalie chose to tend to her, trying vainly to get the queen to eat hot food, which was mostly rejected, and protecting her modesty from prying eyes. The guards were allowing people to come in and, for a small fee, stare at the jailed monarch as though she were a caged animal. In addition, some of the guards took their instructions to “keep an eye on the Widow Capet at all times” to an extreme, not allowing her privacy to change her soiled personal linens. The dressing screen provided little privacy. Her polite requests for time alone were met with derision.

  At night she had her only solitary peace. The gawking spectators were gone, Rosalie would return to her parents’ home, and the guard on duty would fall asleep at his post.

  The queen sighed as she sat at her rickety, unpainted table, nicked and gouged from years of frustrated prisoners etching names and words of grief in the wood. She was permitted one tallow candle at a time, and she savored the light as she unwrapped some writing paper and dipped her pen in ink to begin writing letters to whatever friends and family she had left. Propped on the table next to her was her de Lamballe doll, which had been a source of comfort to her since the royal family’s confinement had started in the Tuileries. Twice now the doll had nearly been forgotten or left behind, but fortunately she had not lost it. The doll, some writing materials, a change of clothes, and a few trinkets of memorabilia were all she had been able to pack to bring with her to the Conciergerie. Rosalie asked about it.

  “Madame, why do you have the little poupée with you here?”

  “No reason at all, I suppose. It merely reminds me of what was, and is no more.”

  The young girl, unaware of much of what had happened to the queen, looked puzzled, but said nothing else. She seemed to realize, though, that the doll was important to the queen, and ensured that the guards never saw it, lest they deem it a subversive item and take it from her. The queen pulled the doll from her small trunk each night and either propped it up on the table as she wrote letters, or hugged it close to her on her uncomfortable cot each night, putting it away each dawn as a small trickle of sunlight tried to force its way into the room, and prior to the guards and onlookers beginning anew their mental torture of the dethroned queen.

  Paris

  December 15, 1793

  My Dearest Claudette,

  I am so sorry to hear of your dear friend’s illness and subsequent passing. It is always grievous to lose someone you cherish. She had a daughter, did she not? Although presumably she is nearly an adult by now.

  Since I last wrote you, France has passed into what can only be described as terror. In fact, I think the newly installed government intends it to be so. The last year has been so horrifying that probably you will think I have lost my reason when I tell you of it.

  The royal family was removed to the Temple, located near the Tuileries Palace. The queen always hated the Temple, with its imposing walls and rounded turrets. Yet here she was unceremoniously discarded with her family.

  You know that the dear Princesse de Lamballe was executed—should I say brutally murdered—at the hands of the mob while you were both imprisoned at La Force. What you may not know is that that same mob brought her head to me to be dressed. I protested fiercely, but they threatened my life if I did not clean her face and arrange her hair. I was also required to make a wax model of her head. It was far worse than when this happened with the governor of the Bastille. My hands shook so badly that I continuously dropped my tools, and the urge to be sick was overwhelming. I had no idea they were carrying the princesse to the Temple. If I had
, I might have preferred death at their hands than to know the anxiety it was to cause the poor queen. But it all matters not anymore.

  By now you have learned that the king was put on trial for treason against the nation of France. A more ridiculous charge could not have been made, as Louis XVI cared only for the people, however ineffectual he may have been. He went to the guillotine resolutely and confidently. One would think the madness, the craving for blood, would have stopped there, but no.

  They put our dearest friend the queen on trial as well, on October 14. They accused her of the most vile acts, including indecent acts with other women, and, worst of all, with her son. When she stood there, stunned, and did not immediately respond to the charge, she was pressed for a response.

  “Nature itself shudders at such an accusation made to a mother. I appeal to all mothers who may be present!”

  Even the market-women in the courtroom, who have been so vehement in their hate toward our queen, were filled with sympathy. What a heinous lot of beasts to make such an accusation.

  The rest of the trial, which lasted until eleven o’clock on the first evening with only one short break, and all of the next day, produced nothing. The brave queen resolutely refuted anything that was put to her, and, of course, they had no proof of anything.

  She was questioned regarding everything from the flight attempt from the Tuileries to whose locks of hair she had brought to the Conciergerie in little packets. They were from her husband and children. It was a pathetic attempt at defaming an innocent mother and wife who had already been brought so low.

  It was also a disgrace of a trial in that the public learned later that the monster Hébert had already given the Convention a command: “I must have the head of Antoinette.”

  In the early morning hours of October 16, she was declared guilty of a variety of crimes against the nation and sentenced to death. You have probably already read in the English papers of her calm reception of the news, and subsequent bravery before the guillotine. I still weep over the unjust treatment of that poor lady.

  And so now the Convention acts with impunity. If a monarch can be executed with flimsy evidence, what chance does anyone else who goes against their wishes have? You only experienced the beginning of their madness, dear girl. People are now brought to the execution platform in droves, for real crimes or those imagined. What will happen to France?

  Under separate cover I have sent you the de Lamballe doll that you made for the queen. She had her prison attendant take it away with a letter to the princesse royale prior to her execution, asking her daughter to keep the doll safe. The doll was one of the only items the queen took with her in her imprisonment. The princesse came to me with it, and I advised her that the rightful owner of the doll now was you. Please keep it dear to your heart, as a remembrance of our tragic friend and queen.

  Ever your friend,

  Marie Grosholtz

  Several days later, the package arrived. The doll’s gown was in disarray, dirty in spots and torn a bit along the hem. The diamond earrings and other valuable trimmings had been hastily torn off. She was missing a shoe and her hair needed to be arranged, but Claudette could put most of the damage aright.

  Little Josephina, what stories could you tell me about your mistress? she wondered.

  39

  London, October 1794. Marguerite was now accompanying Claudette on buying trips for doll supplies. Claudette enjoyed the young girl’s enthusiasm and verve, and her natural eye for color. Béatrice’s daughter also had a gregarious nature that her mother had never possessed, and she easily learned how to charm vendors and negotiate the best deals possible. They, in turn, loved her engaging personality, and frequently confused her as being Claudette’s sister.

  Claudette was gradually focusing solely on designing custom dolls for a limited number of select clients, and allowing Marguerite to take care of more of the overall operations. Roger was her trusted man in the shop, supervising the daily work schedule.

  No one was surprised when Nicholas proposed marriage to Marguerite, first asking for William’s permission, which was gladly granted. No one, that is, other than Maude Ashby, whose rage reached all the way to Hevington. She sent a letter to Claudette demanding to see her. Claudette courteously invited her to tea at Hevington.

  Maude entered the house and, despite herself, was impressed by its grace and beauty. Remembering her mission, she sat down in the drawing room and opened the discussion.

  “As you must realize, Claudette—”

  “Lady Greycliffe. The king has granted William the rank of baron.”

  Mrs. Ashby reddened. “Lady Greycliffe, then. I am in a most difficult position. Mr. Ashby and I are naturally very pleased that Nicholas should be marrying the ward of so fine a gentleman as William Greycliffe. However, her unfortunate mother’s history suggests that she may not be quite suitable. Plus the girl is involved in such a common trade. That and the fact that William—Lord Greycliffe—has married, well, quite frankly, a bit beneath him. Really, the scandal of it has been quite the talk of society.”

  Claudette smiled slowly. “Mrs. Ashby, the only talk in society is of what a beautiful bride Marguerite will be. We are delighted to welcome Nicholas into our family, despite his harridan of a mother, and we expect that you will welcome Marguerite into yours. Of course, we are looking forward to having the lovely couple at our home for our society events, and since you are so displeased with the marriage arrangement, we will make certain to leave you off the guest lists to avoid offending your sensibilities.” She stood to indicate that the conversation was finished. She could see the other woman making furious mental calculations.

  Maude sputtered, “Well, now, just a moment, I did not think about…certainly I would never wish to…Lady Greycliffe, I am sure Mr. Ashby and I would be honored to be guests at any of your fine soirées.”

  “Indeed, I am sure you would. Good day, Mrs. Ashby.” Claudette left the room, and the housekeeper escorted her guest out. That evening, she and William sent word offering Nicholas the use of their Vauxhall town house as his residence until the wedding, which he gratefully accepted.

  Marguerite strove to learn everything she could about dollmaking. Roger showed her the different types of wood, and how to apply varying levels of carving pressure, depending upon wood softness and the depth of impression to be left.

  Claudette gave her instruction in how to make doll molds, and how to pour wax into them at just the right temperature, leaving them to set until just the right moment to break the mold apart. Working with wax was an ongoing struggle for Marguerite, but a process she was determined to master.

  Together, Claudette and the shop’s seamstress, Agnes, showed her the procedure for clothing design, with Claudette giving over her store of sketches for future reference and Agnes teaching her how to make miniature patterns. Marguerite had already become an expert seamstress under her mother’s tutelage.

  Claudette and the young woman were soon working side by side in the shop, designing new grandes Pandores. Together they would work far into the night together on one of their new creations to be custom built for one of London’s elite.

  In time, Claudette began spending less time working, sometimes feeling almost unneeded, so well run was the shop now. On one occasion, she entered the shop to have Marguerite look up and say, “Why, Aunt Claudette, I didn’t know you were coming today. Honestly, I’m not sure what there is for you to do.”

  She shook her head ruefully, knowing that she had wanted to extricate herself from the daily operations of the shop, but missing the regular thrill of holding up a finished creation and having its recipient gasp with pleasure. How life changes, she thought, in ways we can never expect.

  40

  September 1795. Marguerite had gone on a shopping trip for her trousseau, and Claudette had eagerly returned to run the shop for several days. At the end of one day, she closed the door behind the final customer, and threw the bolt to lock it, breathing deeply. Two eld
erly women, rich and demanding, had tested Claudette’s nerves to the breaking point earlier. They were completely unsatisfied with any samples she showed them, nor could she entice them with rough sketches contained in the shop’s portfolio. The women were sisters, and their great-niece, little Bonnie or Betty or whatever the tiresome child’s name was, simply must have the nicest, most elegant, frankly my dear, the most expensive doll to celebrate reaching her eleventh birthday. Shaking her head at the memory, Claudette finished tidying up the shop.

  As she was stacking up all of the drawings she had hauled out in her attempt to satisfy the aunts, she heard a scratching at the door followed by a loud thump. Knowing that she was alone in the shop, Claudette hesitated, then approached the window next to the door. Huddled outside was what appeared to be an old vagrant woman, her hair long, matted, and dull brown streaked with white. She was wearing a dress that may have once been a mauve silk, but was now filthy, tattered, and entirely too large for the woman’s emaciated frame. Beneath a stained and dirty headscarf, she was shaking violently and attempting to stand up. The effort was too much, and she collapsed back into a heap.

  Claudette unlocked the door’s bolt and cautiously opened the door. The old woman slowly looked up at her, her eyes vacant with near blindness.

  “Claudette? Is that you?” whispered the quivering wraith. Claudette bent down to help the woman up. She was nearly weightless. She brought the old woman into the shop and made her comfortable in a chair. Claudette hurriedly made tea, and brought it, along with biscuits, to her sickly guest, gently putting the cup to her lips, and pressing the food into her hand. The woman ate and drank greedily for a moment, then pushed Claudette away.

  “No, please, stop. I must t-t-talk to you.” The woman looked directly into Claudette’s eyes and offered a familiar, lopsided grin, showing a mouthful of rotting teeth and reddened gums. Beneath her lower lip was an oozing sore caked with dried pus and blood. Claudette drew back at the sudden realization of who this bedraggled, ancient creature was. Lizbit.