A Royal Likeness

by Christine Trent

  “What is this?”

  “My freedom, Mrs. Ashby. Mr. Curran likes the show and wants to see it succeed. I tell him my troubles and he agrees to assist me for no fee. I didn’t know he could work so fast. Philipsthal was afraid of him—hah!”

  A small clot of dread lodged itself in her chest.

  “What do you mean, madame? Mr. Curran? What do these documents mean?”

  Laughter bubbled from Marie again. How odd to see her mentor so cheerful!

  Mr. Curran explained. “Madame Tussaud approached me during a visit I made to the exhibition, and told me of her situation with Mr. Philipsthal. Of his unfair contract with her that, had I been her lawyer at the time, I would never have permitted her to sign. You are familiar with it?”

  “In fact, I am not.”

  Marie was apparently too joyous to care whether her apprentice knew all the details. She flapped her arms at Curran so that he would continue the story.

  He removed his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief from his pocket. “Paul de Philipsthal engaged Madame Tussaud under outrageous terms. Under the contract he signed, he loaned her a hundred pounds to transport much of her show to England and set up next to his Phantasmagoria. In return, Madame owed him fifty percent of her show’s profits until she could repay him. Repay him with both principal and interest. With such an arrangement, it was very unlikely that Madame could have ever repaid the loan. In addition, he verbally promised to cover the costs of advertising her show, moving her from city to city, and generally getting her established, none of which he has honored.

  “Last week I visited Mr. Philipsthal at his lodgings. I informed him in no uncertain terms that unless he considered Madame Tussaud’s debt paid in full, based on the excessive amount of her profits she has paid him over the last three years, I would represent her in a lawsuit against him that would surely result in his total ruin.”

  Marie cut in. “He ran like the plagued vermin that he is, Mrs. Ashby. Philipsthal is no match in brains or wits for Mr. Curran. Mr. Curran is an important solicitor in Glasgow.”

  Madame Tussaud’s laughter was infectious, but it transferred only as far as her lawyer. Marguerite felt a throbbing over her right eye, a sure sign that she would soon be taken with a serious headache. The pain was battling for supremacy over the knot of fear continuing to take shape in her breast. Marguerite’s preference was for a headache.

  “Mr. Curran, when did you say you first spoke to Mr. Philipsthal?” she asked.

  “Just over a week ago.”

  “And when did he sign these papers?”

  “Five days ago. I didn’t have a chance to bring them to Madame Tussaud until just this morning.”

  Five days ago. And he agreed to it earlier.

  Five days ago she had not yet committed to marrying him.

  Five days ago he had already signed papers releasing Madame Tussaud from her debt.

  Marguerite, you extraordinary ninny. Have you windmills in your head? How did you allow yourself to be humbugged like this?

  “Mrs. Ashby, are you all right?” Mr. Curran’s face swam before her.

  “Come, my girl. We’ll go to your room. Mr. Curran, she gets headaches, must have one now. I’ll help her. Sir, my show is in your debt.”

  Marguerite was vaguely aware of Mr. Curran leaving the exhibition and Marie escorting her back up to her room, removing her shoes, and urging her back gently on the bed.

  “Madame, I must speak with you.” Her mouth felt dry and she winced at the daylight streaming in through the windows. She shut her eyes to block the strong rays.

  “It can wait, Mrs. Ashby. I will go back to the exhibition while you rest. You need posset?”

  “No no. I must speak with you. Need to tell you something …” Marguerite’s voice was distant and tinny in her ears. Her tongue felt huge and awkward. “Must tell you …”

  The pain above her eye was now radiating across her forehead and was throbbing a regular drumbeat. Heaven preserve her, this was going to be excruciating.

  But not as excruciating as what she had done to herself three days earlier.

  The last she remembered before sinking into oblivion was Madame Tussaud promising to bring her hot soup and some nice pastries later that evening.

  As she suspected it would be, the headache was an agonizing one. She tossed and turned fitfully for nearly a full day and night before the pain subsided enough for her to rise and at least bathe herself. She had to get back to the exhibition. What was she thinking, leaving poor Madame and Joseph there by themselves for so long?

  Once again she dared to sit down and look at herself in the mirror. The dark circles were still there, and she thought she noticed a pinched quality to her face.

  Well, no wonder.

  Her mind raced frantically over the events of the past few days. How had she been so stupid as to think she could somehow rescue her employer by such a foolish act as marriage with someone as repulsive as Paul de Philipsthal?

  Only you didn’t think he was entirely repulsive until the geggy show, did you?

  Then you suspected the truth. And Mr. Curran confirmed it.

  She lay her head down on her arms at the dressing table and wept until she was devoid of tears. Looking up again, she saw a distraught and frightened woman staring back at her from the silvered glass.

  “Well,” she said aloud to herself in the quiet room. “There’s nothing for it now but to tell Madame Tussaud and make the best of the situation. But how long do you think you can avoid going to live with him?”

  She stood and squared her shoulders, determined to put a good face on things with her employer. And to brave out whatever would happen with her new … husband.

  11

  Willow Tree House, London. Nathaniel sat slouched on a settee in the parlor of the Carlson family, where he was waiting to be introduced to their daughter, whom he assumed would be a saggy-breasted, mare-faced spinster, shrill and pathetic.

  At least, he slouched to the extent that one could on this drattedly uncomfortable piece of furniture. A pillow on the floor would be better than this.

  For once he was quite put out with his mother. She had met Mr. and Mrs. Carlson at some blasted party somewhere, and her motherly senses, as finely tuned as those of a spider sitting in her web waiting for a succulent insect to float by, unwary that it is being stealthily watched, had engaged the couple in conversation and learned that they had an eligible daughter whom they despaired of marrying off. They did not present it this way to her, merely hinting that they had increased their daughter’s dowry for the right prospect, but Maude Ashby’s sharpened focus on rising in Society was such that she knew exactly what that meant.

  It meant that Nathaniel needed to pay a visit to secure the girl’s affections.

  So here he was, wondering how much Miss Edwina Carlson would resemble her mother. Perhaps he’d be lucky and she’d look more like her father, who was overweight but at least had the remnants of good looks about him.

  He stood as Miss Edwina entered the room.

  And immediately planned his escape.

  On his return home, in between planning an explanation to his mother and considering whether to visit Mrs. Claire’s for some gentlemanly entertainment that evening, his thoughts drifted to his sister-in-law, Marguerite. If only that had worked out. She would have been a finely crafted sculpture on his arm during the day and a warm filly in his bed at night. How interesting it would be to possess the woman his brother had treasured over treasure itself. That smug, arrogant sibling of his. Always so kind, faithful, and righteous. How nauseating. He probably never even defended himself against the invaders of his shop.

  Whatever had happened to Marguerite once she ran away? Was she still in England or had she fled to the Continent? He’d have to investigate.

  Now that was something pleasant to consider.

  “My girl, no! I should have known Philipsthal would not let me go readily. He always plans evil. What do we do?” Far from
Marie’s joy of two days ago she was now distressed and wringing her hands. “I know. We’ll see Mr. Curran. He will fix this. He’ll fix it.”

  Mr. Curran appeared at the show within an hour of their pressing a message into a courier’s hand. They left Joseph to deal with customers—Marguerite was still amazed at his maturity—and led the solicitor back into Mr. Colin’s parlor.

  “Madame, Mrs. Ashby, what troubles you?” Mr. Curran asked, breathless from his quick trip to the salon.

  Marie spoke up. “It’s Philipsthal.”

  “Again? But I took care of that. You won’t have trouble over that contract again.”

  “No, it’s worse than the contract.”

  In her odd blend of French and poor English that she employed when hot tempered, Marie outlined for Mr. Curran what Marguerite had told her that morning.

  “So you’re saying he asked you to marry him, knowing that he had already signed away his rights over Madame Tussaud’s profits but promising you that he would give up his rights subsequent to your marriage? But this was not a written agreement prior to your marriage? Hmm.” Mr. Curran pursed his lips and rubbed his chin.

  “What has happened in the intervening days since your marriage?”

  “Nothing, really. We went to an outdoor theatre performance.”

  “The one on Glasgow Green? You know the geggy theatre there blew away. Killed a young boy.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Has he been cruel, beaten you? Have you committed adultery during this time?”

  “Of course not! I’m not even living with him yet.”

  “He has permitted you to remain in your present living circumstances with Madame Tussaud?”

  “Yes. I told him I needed time to, er, adjust, to our marriage.” Marguerite reddened. How humiliating to have to discuss these details with Marie’s solicitor.

  “Forgive the indelicacy of this question, but has the marriage been consummated?”

  “The marriage has not … progressed … quite that far.”

  “Yet he wishes to live with you. Truthfully, unless your husband has cause to divorce you—such as through your own unfaithfulness—as long as he desires to live with you, he is free to do so. The most you might be able to effect is a judicial separation if he also wished to live apart from you, but no divorce. My apologies, but this amounts to merely a wife’s unhappiness, which does not entitle you to pursue legal action. I cannot—will not—take your case. I doubt anyone else will, either. I recommend that you make the best of it.”

  The best of what? My life has utterly, completely disintegrated into the wax shavings that litter the floor, and all because of my own foolish decisions. I am a lunatic of the first order. Madame will fire me for certain. Who wants an unfortunate making plaster casts of respectable townspeople?

  She found that she was speechless. And shaking.

  Marie shook her head. “My girl, there are other solutions. You wait here. I’ll show out Mr. Curran.”

  Marguerite sat obediently on one of the few chairs in the room, an uncomfortably hard one in the old Queen Anne style. Marie returned promptly after showing out the solicitor and pulled up a matching chair next to her.

  How ironic, Marguerite thought, that he could so easily save Madame from Philipsthal, but he has to let me drop into the fiery pit.

  Marie reached over and patted Marguerite with her rough hand, calloused from years of plying her trade.

  My hands would be honorably worn like this one day had I not jumped into this foolish marriage. Now I’ll just be Paul’s own personal moll, to do with what he likes. The thought is just too much to bear. It’s too much.

  “Mrs. Ashb—I guess now you’re Mrs. Philipsthal—I have an idea.”

  Marguerite fought the urge to cry, which would have added weakness to her already growing list of ill-advised mistakes.

  “Madame, I believe that I should now like you to simply call me Marguerite.”

  “Yes, I do that. And you call me Marie. After all, we’re friends now, yes?” She gently chucked Marguerite’s chin. “But no crying. I have idea. We’ll go to Dublin?”

  “We? How can I do that? I have to do what my husband wants.”

  “Philipsthal’s an idiot. He’s also terrible businessman and cannot make money without me. So I’ll tell him that I plan to go to Dublin with the exhibition and will pay you double wages to go with me. I’ll tell him we’ll be back in a year.”

  “A year? But why would he agree to it? A year is a long time for a married couple to be apart.”

  Marie shrugged, a distinctively French gesture. “I’ve not seen my François for two years now. Of no matter when there are greater things to be gained. We’ll tell Philipsthal that you make lots of money in Dublin. He’ll like that. Will want you to go. Won’t care that you’re gone.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think he’ll agree.” Was that another headache dimly forming at the base of her neck? “I suppose we can try.”

  By the next morning, Marguerite had worked through her own grief—after all, what was marrying a blackguard when compared to witnessing your dearly beloved murdered in front of you—and was feeling sufficiently angry to want to do battle with her new husband.

  Philipsthal appeared at midmorning, brightly attired in a bright blue and gold embroidered waistcoat that practically sparkled underneath his darker overcoat. Marguerite thought he resembled nothing more than a strutting peacock.

  She was in the process of painting rosy red cheeks on Princess Caroline, now estranged from her husband, Prince George, and in a bitter custody dispute over their daughter. Marguerite felt a strange kinship to Princess Caroline and her problems. She started so badly upon seeing Philipsthal swoop down upon her that poor Caroline ended up with a bright pink band across her nose.

  “Mrs. Ashby,” he boomed. “How do you fare this lovely Scottish morning? Unseasonably warm today, but that’s just the unpredictability of this country, isn’t it?”

  “She knows,” Marguerite said flatly, quickly wiping down the princess’s nose and cheek.

  “She? She knows what?”

  Marguerite lay the cloth down on the portable worktable.

  “Madame Tussaud. My employer. My friend. She knows of our marriage.”

  “She does? Why, that’s just fine. Now we don’t have to pretend, and I can call you my darling Marguerite in public.”

  Marguerite picked the paintbrush back up and pointed it with the brush end toward him.

  “Not only does Marie know about us, but I know about you. You and your concession that predates our wedding—your proposal even—by days.” Her thrusts with the brush resulted in tiny droplets of pink color splattering on his dazzling waistcoat. She hoped it was ruined.

  Philipsthal at least had the decency to look abashed. “So perhaps there may have been a little overlap of a day or so between my proposal to you and my generous relinquishment of Madame Tussaud’s debt. I intended to do both, so certainly I cannot be faulted for some discrepancy in timing.”

  “Discrepancy in timing?” Marguerite slammed the paintbrush back down on the table. She felt a small splotch of paint hit her own chin. “How dare you? You are a cretin of great magnitude, Mr. Philipsthal. Never ask me to call you by your Christian name again. You had already been run aground by Mr. Curran before you made your proposal to me. You offered to forgive Marie’s debt after you had already signed away your claim. You lying, phony swindler. You cheated Marie—and me!—all the while suggesting Marie was an inferior manager. I despise you.” Marguerite was now alternating between a hiss and a shrill tone that she could not even recognize as her own.

  Her new husband replied with the same calm he had exhibited at the geggy performance. “Sweetheart, there is no need to be upset. You fail to see the great benefit you will receive from being my wife. You will be the mistress of two great shows—the Phantasmagoria and the new salon I will allow you to build—and you will have the respectability of marriage with a known entreprene
ur. No more of this prowling from town to town. We will settle down permanently in a city of your choice. Soon you will start having children and your days will be quite full and happy. Which reminds me, I see little reason now for you to continue to live apart from me. Why not pack your things and I’ll have them sent to my own rooms.”

  “Clearly, sir, you have not listened to a word I’ve said. I will never live with you, never share your bed, and never be more than your wife in name only.”

  Two female patrons that had been walking casually by hurried their steps away as they heard Marguerite’s raised voice.

  In contrast, Philipsthal lowered his. Dangerously so. “My dear wife, I’ve been patient with your coyness. And I am perfectly agreeable that you should remain in Madame Tussaud’s employ for the time being. But you will respect my authority as your husband. You have one week to begin residing with me on your own, or I will drag you out of the building myself.”

  Marguerite stopped. She was vaguely aware of breathing heavily and knew her eyes must be flaming. But the spark quickly died. He could indeed insist on his marital rights, couldn’t he? How could she possibly let him touch her? Change your tone, she warned herself. Keep him at bay until you can flee to Dublin.

  “I suppose you’re right that you do have that power over me. Very well, in a week I’ll pack my belongings and bring them round to your lodgings.”

  She turned back around to Princess Caroline, lest she see any look of smug satisfaction on his face.

  But Marie seemed to have rescued her, visiting her room later that night long after closing to tell Marguerite of her own visit to Philipsthal’s lodging.

  “I told him, Marguerite, that the lawyer Curran says there is much fortune to be had in Dublin. Philipsthal, he fears Curran but also respects him. Takes Curran’s word. I told Philipsthal that I want you to come to Dublin with me for a year and I pay you double. You’ll make lots of money to help support his fog-brained show while he stays here to keep it open.”