A Royal Likeness

by Christine Trent

  “My dear, I am not dismissive of any of the men under my command, from the lowest powder monkey to the highest ranking of my officers.”

  Emma rolled her eyes out of Nelson’s view. Then she stood and came over to Marguerite, shaking her hand and kissing her cheek in an overly friendly way.

  “Mrs. Ashby, I’m Lady Hamilton, Lord Nelson’s best supporter and a frequent guest here at Merton. I heard a wax figger was to be made of our dear Nelson and I’ve been nearly bosting at the sides waiting for you.”

  Marguerite felt Darden stiffen. She considered the overly enthusiastic, albeit charming lady before her. Reported to have been a great beauty in her youth, Emma Hamilton was now in her early forties and had largely gone over to fat. According to Darden, she had spent many years in Naples as the wife of the British ambassador, Sir William Hamilton, and had grown excessively fond of the food there. However, there was no denying her exquisite complexion and beautiful mass of hair, accented by a wide, guileless smile that showed off her lovely teeth. Her gown was a clever one, stylish yet loose fitting below the bodice, so that it gave every advantage to her flourishing figure.

  It was in Naples that Lord and Lady Hamilton first greeted Nelson when he came ashore as part of an envoy to discuss the Anglo-Neapolitan treaty in 1793. He and Emma were smitten with one another, and although it had taken them six years to actually enter into an affair, they had burned brightly together ever since. Sir William had even turned a blind eye to it until his death over a year ago, so great was his admiration for the naval hero.

  Although Darden had expressed an immense admiration for Nelson, it had not extended to condoning the admiral’s affair, which he considered an insult to Nelson’s long-suffering wife, Fanny. Marguerite glanced over and saw the pained expression in his eyes. Emma was oblivious.

  “Y’nau, they made wax figgers of me, Sir Willum, and Lord Nelson here, when we was in Naples, to celebrate the first anniversary of the Nile victory. They was on top of tall Roman columns, though, so I couldn’t see them none too well. That’s why I’m fair happy to see you, and I told Nelson, too, that he should be glad for it and not as fretful as he was when Pitt commanded it.”

  “I shall do my best to make figures that please you, Lady Hamilton.”

  Emma Hamilton’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, but I know you’ll make just fine effigies. I’m just bosting to see you get started. Nelson, can’t we show Mrs. Ashby to the room we set up so she can get to work on redoing your fine visage?”

  Nelson, still smitten with Emma after so long, rose immediately to do her bidding, giving a hasty good-bye to his dining companions and urging them to remain and spend the day at cards or sailing on the Nile.

  Emma left the dining room on Nelson’s arm, with Marguerite right behind them. Darden followed at a respectful distance. Merton was a rabbit’s warren of interconnected small rooms surging with activity. In one parlor an older woman thumped away on a pianoforte that badly needed tuning. “That’s me mam,” said Emma proudly as they passed through.

  In the next room a young child babbled along to the music floating in the air, making up her own words.

  Emma stopped to pick up the girl and kiss her. With his good arm Nelson stroked the youngster’s hair.

  “And that’s Horatia, Nelson’s child with Lady Hamilton.” Darden’s quiet voice next to her ear startled her.

  “Did Sir William treat the child as his own?” she whispered back.

  “He was tolerant of the child’s real parentage.”

  Other people—friends, family, Nelson’s cronies—packed every available space of Merton, laughing, gaming, and supping. They finally reached their destination, a sparsely furnished room at the rear of the house. Marguerite was glad to see that it contained several chairs and a rectangular table sufficient for her work. Her two carrying cases had already been brought in here. Lieutenant Hastings had thought of everything.

  Emma Hamilton fluttered around excitedly as Marguerite set up her tools, and even went personally to fetch the water Marguerite needed to mix the plaster compound. While she was off on that errand, Marguerite used her various calipers to measure Lord Nelson, and wrote these important figures down in her notebook. Unlike most subjects, Nelson was completely unperturbed by the sight of the calipers, even when she timidly used them to measure the circumference of his “fin,” which was how he referred to the remaining stump of his right arm.

  Emma returned with the water, which Marguerite added to her plaster mix. Marguerite then invited Lord Nelson to sit in a chair she had pulled up next to the worktable, and told him the steps she would take to create his life mask. Hastings sat in a corner of the room and watched her work intently, nodding as if in approval. Marguerite felt a peculiar sense of pride in having his esteem. Strange how he could be such a sullen man at times, yet such a silent reassurance at others. It was difficult to understand Lieutenant Darden Hastings.

  With Emma chattering excitedly nearby as the admiral was draped, his hair oiled, and breathing pipes gently inserted in his nostrils, Marguerite was ready to begin applying the wet plaster to his face.

  She said to her subject as Marie had taught her, “Lord Nelson, please do not be afraid by what I am about to do.”

  “Afraid?” Nelson wheezed past the paper tubes in his nose. “My dear, I have faced cannon-shot, malaria, an amputation, and near blindness. What do you think you can do that would cause me to be fearful?”

  Marguerite dropped her ladle back into her mixing bowl as she laughed unintentionally at a memory that popped into her head.

  Nelson wheezed again. “Hastings, is this woman daft?”

  Marguerite covered her mouth with her hand to control her amusement, then went back to mixing the plaster one final time to ensure it was of proper consistency.

  “My apologies, sir, it’s just that you reminded me of something Madame Tussaud once told me. About Bonaparte.”

  “Bonaparte! How in the name of all of the saints could that rascal remind you of me?” In his indignation, he accidentally blew out one of his breathing tubes, which Emma picked up and lovingly placed back in his nostril before planting a light kiss on top of his oiled head.

  “When she still had an exhibition in France after the Revolution, she came under the patronage of Empress Josephine.”

  “Empress! Emperor! Self-styled titles, born of the little Corsican’s great ego.” Nelson was getting agitated. Emma knelt next to his chair, cooing in his ear.

  “Yes, sir, of course. But after Josephine had her figure cast, she decided she wanted Bonaparte to do the same. He had no great desire to do so, but invited Madame Tussaud to the Tuileries to do his mask in order to please his wife.

  “She performed the same preparations as I have done today, and said as I just did, ‘Please do not be afraid.’ His reaction was so similar to yours that I could not help my amusement. Please forgive me.”

  As she lifted the ladle to finally apply the plaster, Nelson’s eyes flew open and he reached out and grabbed her arm with his left hand. “Well?” he demanded. “What did that popinjay say?”

  And so once again the ladle went back in the bowl. “Oh, well, after Madame told him not to be afraid, he said, ‘Madame, I should not be afraid if you were to surround my head with loaded pistols.’”

  Emma burst into gales of laughter. To Marguerite’s relief, Nelson also seemed to find it immensely humorous, and joined in with Emma’s hearty barking. Even Darden was shaking silently from his seat.

  “Bonaparte is a braggart, that is true, but I hope to be able to put at least a dozen pistols around his head one day to see what his real reaction would be. I intend to annihilate that braggart, and, praise God, I hope it to be soon. Please continue with your work, Mrs. Ashby.” Nelson finally settled back with his eyes closed.

  Marguerite worked as rapidly as she could to smooth the plaster all over Nelson’s head, face, and neck. When she was finished and told him that he must wait patiently for the plaster to dry, she sat an
d thought about his fin. Should she model him exactly as he was now or, out of respect for his stature in the eyes of the British people, model him as he was before the Battle of Santa Cruz?

  She knew what Marie would say. Cast him as he is. Visitors want to see figures as exact replicas of the people they represent.

  As she sat with an elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, contemplating the making of Nelson’s figure to the exclusion of noticing what else was happening around her, the same servant who had shown them into the house now rushed into the room.

  “Lord Nelson!” the man panted. At the sight of Nelson’s head sheathed in a hardening casing with two small tubes of paper protruding from his nose, the servant started violently. However, as a good member of the staff, he quickly recovered himself and looked to Emma. “Lady Hamilton, Mr. Pitt is here. He just came up the drive. What shall I do with him?”

  From underneath his plaster Nelson emitted a rumbling growl, a noise Marguerite had become accustomed to from her life-mask subjects. He began waving in a way that was senseless to Marguerite, but Emma and Darden seemed to understand him. Darden strode from the room while Emma arranged Nelson’s draping more elegantly around him. As elegantly as could be had for someone who is forced to remain motionless lest his face break.

  Darden returned minutes later with Mr. Pitt. The prime minister looked worn and haggard. At age twenty-four, he had been the youngest man ever to take the office in 1783, when Marguerite was merely six years old. He held this post consistently for eighteen years until surrendering it to Henry Addington, but had recently regained office through a coalition of himself, Charles James Fox, and William Grenville. Now aged forty-four, he had the look of a man well beyond his years. His face was gray and gaunt, and pronounced loudly that he was not well. The shadows under his eyes indicated a man who worried about an invasion by Napoleon Bonaparte even more than the admiral did.

  Nevertheless, Marguerite could scarce believe she was in the same room with these two great men, Pitt and Nelson.

  Emma greeted him effusively, yet as comfortably as an ambassador’s wife would do in such a situation.

  “You caught us at a messy time, Mr. Pitt. Mrs. Ashby here is from Madame Tussaud’s and she’s making up the life mask for Lord Nelson’s figger, just like you wanted.”

  Another growl rumbled from beneath the hardening mask.

  “Yes, so I see. I had hoped to get here in time to witness this. I have important issues of state to discuss, and it seemed more expedient to just come here myself than to ask Lord Nelson to cut his leave short and come to London.”

  “Issues, Mr. Pitt?” Emma inquired.

  “Yes, I’ll talk it over with Nelson. When he’s unburied from his casing.” Pitt moved over to Nelson’s reclined head and peered down with his arms clasped behind his back, as if afraid of accidentally touching the admiral.

  “Hmm, yes, quite interesting. When does he get … released?”

  Marguerite approached Nelson’s head as well and examined the plaster mold for the whitish cast and light crackling that would indicate it had dried.

  “Soon, but not just yet. Lord Nelson, are you all right? Please tap your fingers on the chair’s arm if anything is wrong.”

  Nelson’s only response was a resigned wheeze through the paper tubes. Emma knelt down next to him and put her head in his lap.

  While he finished drying, Pitt peppered Marguerite with questions. How long did it take to complete a figure? How did she and Marie pack the figures for transport from town to town? What sort of heat could the characters take? And so on until Marguerite was exhausted from the rapid-fire interrogation. Fortunately, Nelson’s mask was finally done, and she used it as an excuse to disengage herself from the prime minister.

  As she had now done many times before, although always in the presence of Marie, she began the process of pulling the string and then slowly twisting and lifting, twisting and lifting, until the mask started to slowly release.

  “Fascinating,” Pitt breathed from over her shoulder. “What will you do next?”

  “Next?” Marguerite continued working the mask from his face. “Next I shall wrap the mask and take it back to London so that I can begin working on the entire character. Lady Hamilton, it would be best if you could provide me with some of Lord Nelson’s actual clothing. Perhaps a uniform he no longer wears?”

  Emma looked up from her position on the floor. “Certainly. How about one of your old admiral-of-the-blue uniforms, love?” She patted Nelson on the knee, and he squeezed her shoulder in return, an apparent motion of acquiescence, for Emma then said, “I’ll have it for you before you leave, Mrs. Ashby. D’ya need a wig?”

  Marguerite pursed her lips, thinking about what the final creation would look like. “Maybe. I think perhaps I would like to insert real hair into the figure’s scalp. Ah! There we are.”

  Once again she felt the same thrill she had felt since the first time she had done this on the Comte d’Artois. She held in her palms two perfectly executed halves of a mask that would be used to recreate a living person in wax. Except this time she would be making a wax version of England’s national hero. In keeping with Marie’s attitude toward such things, though, she tried to maintain a nonchalant composure. For Madame Tussaud’s waxworkers did not get dumbstruck by their patrons. Recreating everyone from the most famous aristocrats to the lowliest infamous criminals was to be greeted with the same detached attitude.

  Oh, but I can hardly wait to begin this piece.

  After everyone had admired the plaster mask’s likeness to Nelson’s face, she wrapped it up carefully and set about cleaning the admiral. Relieved to be liberated from the smothering confines of the mask, he talked garrulously with Marguerite as she removed all traces of plaster and oil from his head. In particular, he wanted to discuss the hair for the figure.

  “What is this of real hair for the figure? You want my hair?” Nelson now stood, his face and scalp red from scrubbing and his wet hair thinned and splayed weakly across his skull.

  “Sir, I would not presume to such a thing,” Marguerite said. “We have various types of animal hair that can be sewn in to resemble human hair. Sometimes a subject will give us his own hair that we can blend in with other fibers. We can also use a wig. It is just more realistic when we can insert real hair. But I would not think of requesting it of you.”

  Emma, who seemed to be forever touching Nelson as though to ensure he was still there, grabbed his arm again. “Just think. A real part of our Nelson in London where the people can ‘ave him, while the rest of him is right here at Merton where he belongs. What d’ya think? Should you give her some of your locks?”

  Nelson crinkled his eyes, though whether in disgust or amusement, Marguerite was not sure.

  “I’ll give it some thought, dear Emma. I’ll give it thought.”

  Emma and Nelson exchanged farewell pleasantries with them and left, his good arm around her waist, to return to their guests, while Marguerite returned to packing up her supplies. Darden had moved quietly up beside her and was assisting her without needing direction.

  As their bags were finally loaded on the carriage and they were about to climb in, Pitt stepped outside, using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun as though it intruded on his secret thoughts.

  “Mrs. Ashby, a word if I may. Lieutenant, please hold your driver.” He offered his arm to Marguerite and they strolled over toward Merton’s Nile. The prime minister did not look well, but he still carried himself as every inch the gentleman.

  Pitt spoke quietly, as if the very birds themselves might be listening. “I’m actually on my way to take the waters at Bath. A touch of gout, you know, nothing serious. It fitted my plans to stop here first to see what you do with these masks. Fascinating, really. However, when I return to London next week I should like to stop by your workshop to see your progress. Depending on what I see, I—or rather His Majesty’s government—may need you to create some more figures. Can you remain in London i
ndefinitely?”

  “I’m certain I can. I need to write to Madame Tussaud. The expenses—”

  “Yes, yes,” Pitt said, a trifle impatient. “Your expenses will be covered. Make sure you tell her that.”

  “Then I am at your disposal, sir, for whatever you wish me to do.”

  Nathaniel poured another glass of brandy for Mr. Scroggs, to celebrate their bargain. He couldn’t believe how well things were working out. To have won so heavily at gambling these past few weeks was a divine indication that his carefully thought-out plan was approved by God himself. How else could he have so rapidly amassed the cash required to purchase this ship from Mr. Scroggs? Of course, it needed some repair, but that could be accomplished quickly. And he would have it renamed straightaway. Something appropriate. Like Wax Maiden. Ha! Now that was clever. He smiled inwardly.

  The brandy was warm and encouraging as it slipped down his throat. As Mr. Scroggs blathered on about how the money from the sale of this ship and two others would help set him up in a plantation in the American colonies—and who really cared what the fool planned to do?—Nathaniel gave his own plans further consideration.

  With a sleek little trading ship as was now in his possession, he could be of great use in England’s cause against the French invaders. Especially since he’d thought of what he was sure no one else had. The Royal Navy was so busy already, fruitlessly chasing the French commander Villeneuve from Sicily to Barbados and back again. In addition to scuttling across the Atlantic, the navy had its hands full with patrolling the southeastern coast, where Bonaparte was amassing his forces across the Channel along the seventy-five miles of French coastline around Calais and Boulogne. So who was available to accomplish the heroic thing he was planning? His concept was inspired, really. And that realization further reinforced his recent divine confirmation.

  He narrowed his eyes. Mother dared call him a fool, saying he had no naval experience. How difficult could it be to captain a small ship? The jack-tars did the work; he just needed to set their course and make the important decisions. Simple.