A Royal Likeness

by Christine Trent

  Marguerite gripped her friend’s hands. How remarkably close they had become over this calamity. “And what did he say?”

  “He agrees. Says you both need money to start your life together. Says he will talk to you about writing him every week.” Marie rolled her eyes. “Once we get to Dublin we’ll figure out next steps. Tomorrow I’ll courier a letter to an agent there to obtain a new salon and lodgings. Mr. Curran is returning to Dublin and will help us.”

  “He wouldn’t help me before—I’m sure he won’t now.”

  “Bah! He couldn’t do anything because he cannot practice real law in Scotland. He’s a lawyer in Ireland. He never even sued Philipsthal, just threatened him. I know he’ll help you once we get to Dublin.”

  Marguerite’s doubt must have shown on her face. “Yes, you trust me, Marguerite. I will not let you be harmed. This reminds me. I know this abominable marriage has not been fully transacted yet, but has Philipsthal … made any demands for your person … yet?”

  “No, but it is uppermost in his mind. He told me this morning that he wanted me to move to his lodgings within a week or he would forcibly move me there. But if he’s agreed to let me go to Dublin, what does that mean? Will he expect me there tomorrow so he can claim me?” Marguerite touched the side of her head above her right ear to quell a small throb just prickling under the surface of her scalp.

  “Tell him that you have your courses.”

  “He won’t believe me. A scoundrel knows a lie when he hears one.”

  “Then I’ll keep you so busy and out of sight that he can’t even find you.”

  What a staunchly loyal friend her employer was turning out to be.

  “Marie, thank you, but I think I must spend tonight adjusting to the fact I will be repenting at great leisure my extraordinarily foolish action. How did I tumble down from such great heights as marriage with Nicholas to bondage with Mr. Philipsthal?”

  Marie could do no more than look at her sorrowfully, hug her, and leave her alone with her thoughts.

  She passed the night restlessly, but fortunately without a headache exploding behind her eyes. The following morning she choked down some dry toast points and two cups of tea before heading down to the salon to resume her work on Princess Caroline. Not thirty minutes had elapsed before Philipsthal was at her side, smiling boyishly at her as though he was once again her ardent suitor and not her new, demanding husband.

  “Marguerite, has Madame Tussaud told you yet?”

  “Told me what?” She did not look up from her work. Hmm, the princess’s forehead seemed a bit too expansive. That would need fixing. She made a mental note to acquire some more horsehair for dyeing and insertion.

  “The silly little pigeon wants to take the show to Dublin for a year. Ordinarily I would say absolutely not. Why would I want my lovely wife removed from my sight? But she proposes to pay you double wages. Think what we could do to improve my show with that money!”

  “Indeed. Your show has been uppermost in my mind as of late.”

  “Splendid. I knew I was marrying a conscientious woman. I agreed to it, then I must confess I had a very sleepless night thinking about being separated from you for so long. It’s not good for a newly married couple to be alienated from one another. Not good at all.”

  Drat, Caroline’s left earlobe was nipped off. Had some prankster done this when no one was looking or did they have a rat problem?

  “And so this morning when I arose, I realized the solution was very simple. I will come with you.”

  This got Marguerite’s attention. Caroline’s ear could stay mangled.

  “Come with us? Why? I mean, how can you do so? What of your Phantasmagoria?”

  He gave her the same French shrug that Marie did, a movement that suggested that such trifles were not so important. “It is far more vital that I be at my wife’s side than that my show be a success in Glasgow. Besides, after Dublin we will establish a permanent entertainment in a city of your choosing. Remember my promise to you?”

  “And how does this promise compare to your promises to Madame Tussaud?”

  His reply was a hideous echo in her ear. “My dear Marguerite, she is nothing. But I have a duty to you.”

  Just like the poor chair boy. Blood roared in her ears. How blind she had been to this man.

  He continued. “And you have a duty to me as well, sweetheart. As such, I will not interfere with your living arrangements as you prepare for Dublin. But upon our arrival in Dublin, that very first night, we will live together as man and wife. Don’t look so downcast, my darling wife. I know you are inexperienced, but I will guide you back into your role as my helpmeet.”

  And so the die was cast. Marie could not change her mind now that Philipsthal had decided to accompany them, without revealing her connivance with her apprentice. Her temper grew short, leaving little camaraderie between her and Marguerite. Even Joseph avoided his mother during their final days in Glasgow.

  The only member of their party who was unaffected by the move to a new town was Philipsthal himself. He popped in periodically to check on progress, chucking Joseph under the chin and kissing Marguerite’s hands, but he always had a bevy of excuses for leaving when implored to assist with moving and packing the figures and tableaux.

  Marguerite asked him to contribute some desperately needed cash for transport of the show, to which he replied, “Dear wife, Madame Tussaud made it perfectly clear that she wanted our partnership dissolved. Now she is spiriting my bride away to Ireland and expects me to cover the expense? Preposterous.”

  Marie’s anger finally gave way to acceptance. “I’ll never get rid of him. He spun a web around me and the harder I try to get out, the more firmly he secures me. I regret, dear friend, that you are involved.”

  The two women hugged one another without tears, which had dried up much like small saplings that are left devoid of moisture when a giant oak covers them with its leafy canopy and saps the surrounding soil of nutrients. Their hope of rejuvenation through transplantation to Dublin was dimming every day as the oak’s branches blocked more and more of the sun and rain.

  PART FOUR

  Dublin

  12

  Great Harbour, Greenock, Scotland, May 1804. The frigid air, swollen by misty rain, was bone piercing. How did it remain so cold in Scotland this late in the spring? Marguerite’s throat hurt from inhaling the freezing vapors every time she opened her mouth to speak. Next to her, poor Joseph’s teeth were chattering as he hugged his arms around himself. She drew him close to her skirts and hugged him. She studiously ignored Philipsthal as he stood on her other side.

  Marie was in deep discussion with the captain, evident by the frosty gusts of air emanating from their mouths. Marie shook hands with the man and gingerly picked her way back across ice patches to where they waited.

  “Captain Alison says weather is not good for crossing. We must stay overnight and leave in the morning. Marguerite will stay in the room with me. Joseph, you stay with Mr. Philipsthal.” Marie’s tone brooked no argument, and Philipsthal seemed too frozen to care.

  So they trudged off to an inexpensive inn near the docks while their six drays’ worth of goods for the wax exhibition and the Phantasmagoria were loaded into HMS Earl Moira’s hold to await better sailing the next day. After the exhausting two days spent in a rattling carriage ride covering the thirty miles between Glasgow and Greenock, now they had to wait to complete their journey. The quartet supped silently and went to their respective rooms, kept awake most of the night by howling winds and the insistent tapping of sleet on the windows.

  They returned the following morning only to be told to return again the next day.

  And the next day.

  And the next.

  In all they waited nearly a week for the weather to settle down enough for the captain to signal for a departure. The women’s nerves were frayed, Marie’s because of the ever-burgeoning expenses of the move, and Marguerite’s as she drew inward in contemplation of wh
at her life was to be in Dublin.

  Ash House, London. Nathaniel’s search for Marguerite had been rather fruitless, but proved to be far more interesting than cozying up to whatever latest bucktoothed, pockmarked young lady of wealth his mother had dredged up from the Society papers. His first act had been to write to Marguerite’s aunt. He’d received a rather curt reply from Lady Greycliffe that she had no idea where Marguerite was off to at the moment, but that she was sure Marguerite would have told him had she wanted him to know.

  Damned impertinent she was.

  He next engaged a private inquiry agent, but the most he learned was that the wax exhibition she was apprenticed to, Dr. Curtius’s Cabinet of Wonders, had left London for Edinburgh, then disappeared. It was supposed to have gone on to Wales, but there was no evidence of it ever having arrived there.

  Hmm. Now what?

  Wouldn’t it be a lark to go himself to look for her? Imagine the surprise on her face to see him there. And that surprise turning to great admiration when she learned how brave and clever he had been to find her. Smarter and more courageous than his idiot brother, for sure. Her shock would be better than the haughty look she had worn as Nicholas’s wife.

  But what would he have to show for his efforts once her initial amazement wore off? He’d need something to demonstrate that he was a better man than his brother ever was. He needed an honor, a medal, a recognition that even she could not deny. Wait—didn’t Mother say something about Mr. Pitt forming a new alliance to displace the prime minister? That would be a jolly intrigue. And one at the top levels of the government. Splendid.

  He rang for a servant to fetch him two bottles of the finest port in the Ashby cellar.

  Marguerite’s level of stunned exhaustion had reached a peak she had not known since the early days of her husband’s death.

  My first husband, that is.

  The group trudged up the plank onto the ship whose tall sails still whipped about in the dying wind as they were set in place. Each carried a valise of clothing and supplies, plus Marie and Marguerite toted aboard an additional box of their most valuable waxworking supplies.

  Had they only known that weather was not to be their only problem.

  They boarded EarlMoira with about one hundred other shivering passengers and a handful of crew. The trip began well enough as they sailed calmly out of the Firth of Clyde and into the North Channel, with brief stops at Rothesay and Brodick to pick up and drop off passengers. Most passengers stayed below deck and out of the cold, but Joseph’s unflinching nerve for sailing demanded that he stay above deck to watch the wind and waves. Marie and Marguerite stayed to keep the boy company, while Philipsthal followed the other passengers down below. “Good riddance,” Marie mouthed to Marguerite as they watched his retreating back. Marguerite didn’t respond, her mind already churning at the realization of what it meant to undergo another sea voyage. She had been so frantic over Philipsthal these last few weeks that she had given little thought to being at sea again. At least the weather seemed to have improved.

  But the voyage’s simple good luck was not to last.

  The captain came to see what hardy souls were braving the chill on deck.

  “It’s my son, sir,” Marie told him, a protective arm around Joseph. “My little Nini, I call him. He’s a very good sailor and doesn’t want to go below deck and miss the activity up here.”

  “Alack! And what of his women folk? You need to consider them, don’t you, my boy?” He removed Joseph’s hat and ruffled his hair. “Don’t one of you have a husband about? I thought I saw a tall man with you.”

  Marguerite spoke up. “Yes, Captain, my husband chose to go below deck.”

  “And leave a beautiful lass like you all alone? Why, you would charm the tail off old Lucifer himself. I ’spect my crew is off right now dueling over who will get to speak to you first. A fool your husband is, if you don’t mind me sayin’.”

  The captain belched, loudly enough to be heard over the sails flailing above and the water slapping against the hull below.

  He put a hand over his mouth. “Mmm, sorry, ladies. Must have been some spoiled beef. You best get below deck soon, though. Son, you’ll take care of them now, d’ye hear me?”

  Joseph nodded solemnly at the uniformed figure before him.

  “Marie”—Marguerite grabbed her friend’s arm as the captain disappeared from sight—”I could swear that man is in his cups. Did you smell the fumes when he blew wind at us?”

  “I did, but thought it was as he said. Foul meat.”

  “I don’t think so. I wonder if he’s fit to pilot the ship. A drunken captain is a dangerous one.” As though the journey itself was not enough to fret about.

  “He’s got crew, though, my girl. They take care of things. Not to worry.”

  But Marguerite was not convinced.

  As the prow headed into the open waters of the Irish Sea the weather became impossibly colder, and so the trio headed into the interior of the ship, much to Joseph’s protests. They did not seek out Philipsthal, but instead found companionship with a family by the name of Callum, consisting of a husband, wife, and three young girls of whom the eldest could not be more than ten years of age. They were traveling to Dublin as well. Mr. Callum was a land surveyor by trade, but had fled the Catholic persecutions in Ireland more than fifteen years earlier. He settled in Scotland, married and had children, and thought to spend his life there. But the toning down of persecution over the last decade, followed by the Act of Union in 1801, convinced him that it might be time to return home. Especially since there was now a profusion of ambitious building projects going on in Dublin that could keep him employed for many years.

  The adults played cards in a common area where many passengers milled about, while Joseph and the Callums’ three girls explored the ship together. Marguerite quickly realized that her innards were far more unsettled down inside the ship than they were topside. She rubbed a hand furtively across her stomach. Please, dear God, don’t let me embarrass myself in front of all these passengers.

  At least she had no headache.

  But soon enough her intestinal focus was replaced by sheer terror.

  In the open sea past the Isle of Man and northeastern tip of Ireland, the weather seemed to worsen. High gusts of wind blew around the ship, rocking her to and fro. Before long the rocking became violent pitching and it was plain that the ship was making no forward progress whatsoever. Silence fell over the common area, except for the scattered cries of children. Joseph and the three girls returned, all to hide inside their mothers’ strong embraces. Leaky vessels, storms, and pirating were all common enough in British waters. What was this ship’s fate today?

  People withdrew into themselves, cards and games forgotten. The Callum family huddled together, with Mr. Callum offering them words of solace and encouragement.

  Marie began muttering. “Figures … knocking about … Philipsthal’s fault … need more wax bricks …”

  Marguerite tried to encourage her. “Madame, we packed the figures as tightly and securely as we could. As long as the ship doesn’t—oh!” The ship listed fiercely to one side then righted itself. “As long as the ship does not go down, they should be safe.”

  Marie raised an eyebrow at her. “Yes, so long as the ship does not go down everything will be perfect.”

  Marguerite could not help laughing, despite her woozy stomach and the odor of fear permeating the ship. It was so rare that her friend showed a sense of humor.

  “I suppose I should go and find Paul. Joseph, would you like to accompany me?” Marguerite stood and held out a hand to him, gripping a nearby beam with her other hand. He eagerly took it.

  “Yes, Mrs. Philipsthal, I will take care of you.”

  And even in the dim interior of the pitching ship, Marguerite could see Marie’s glow of pride in her young son. As she turned to leave, she saw that some of the passengers were making their way up to the deck for air, bitter and dangerous as it may be up ther
e. Others were retching into barrels.

  They found Philipsthal in his cabin, furiously scratching away on a parchment. The room reeked of vomit and a slop bucket in the corner gave full evidence of how he had been occupying most of his time until this point.

  “Whatever are you doing?” Marguerite asked him.

  He turned his ashen face, usually so ruddy and hale, toward her. “I am preparing my last will and testament. I must ensure that I provide for you, sweeting, in case something happens on the ship. What say you to that?”

  Provide what? Without Marie he was as poor as a church beggar. She ignored his question.

  “Wouldn’t you feel better up on deck? We’re going up there next. Many of the passengers are doing so to get out of this reeking place.”

  “They’re all fools to go up. They’ll be washed overboard.” Philipsthal returned to his scribbling.

  Marguerite and Joseph stumbled their way back to his mother, whom they found busy trying to comfort an elderly couple. Marguerite could hear them chattering away in French. She waited for Marie to conclude her ministrations, then proposed to her that they follow the other passengers making their way to the upper deck. Marie grimly agreed that topside was probably the best place to be, and insisted that the old man and his wife accompany them. They clutched hands in a single line with Marguerite leading the way, the old couple behind her, and Marie at the rear with Joseph grasping her skirts.

  It was difficult to even make their way to the narrow stairway with the ship continuing to pitch and roll. Marguerite had to help the wife get up from the deck twice. The woman was reduced to sobbing in French.

  “Mon Dieu, aidez-moi. Dieu nous aide tous.”

  God help us all, indeed.

  But their little ragtag group finally made it up into the open air, edging their way along beams, ropes, or other available surfaces that would help them maintain balance. Most of the passengers were clinging to rails along the outer edge of the ship. It had started raining since Marguerite went below. She and the others were soaked by the downpour in seconds, and the drenching seemed to make even her blood freeze. It was impossible to see very far off the ship at all. The only clear things were the waves, now close to reaching the deck of the ship.