What had really irritated him was how she characterized his patriotic mission.
“Nathaniel. Son. What you propose to do is foolish. Mr. Pitt has never received you, nor given his approval for such activities. You will end up in grief.” Maude spoke to him as though he were a mere boy.
“Mr. Pitt may have been too busy to receive me personally, but he didn’t rebuff the offer I sent him.”
“He didn’t respond to you at all, Nathaniel, meaning he was ignoring you. Which means that what you are planning is tantamount to piracy without a letter of marque.”
“Mother,” he replied in what he hoped was as condescending a tone. “It’s not piracy if you are doing it to serve your country instead of yourself.”
That silenced her. He took great satisfaction in watching her walk away, head shaking. Of course, she thought his entire plan was privateering. As though he would spend his days trolling for badly armed merchant ships. What glory was there in that? No, his plan was far more … spectacular.
How could she have called him a fool? A pirate? Mother had never used any but the sickliest endearments on him. But that had changed of late. Maude Ashby was becoming a genuine harpy. It was his refusal to take that Edwina Carlson girl, wasn’t it? Mother hated to be thwarted.
Which reminded him of Marguerite, who had soundly thrashed his mother without a single word. An absolute delight she was. He discovered she’d gone to Dublin, but it seemed too much work to travel all the way there to fetch her. No, first he’d make a name for himself at the highest levels of government and Society, maybe even secure a title like Marguerite’s uncle, Greycliffe. Then Marguerite would come dashing to him. Women loved titled men.
He returned his attention to Mr. Scroggs, whose conversation was in the exact same place it was when Nathaniel drifted off.
“I’m delighted, sir, that my offer to you will enable you to make a fresh start in the colonies,” Nathaniel told him. “On what date do you propose to finally quit England?”
15
After completing Nelson’s mask, Marguerite’s first chore on arriving back to her new rooms was to write a letter to Marie, detailing what had happened and explaining the prime minister’s request. She received a quick reply, and marveled at how much better Marie’s writing was than her pronunciation.
Yes, this of course you must do. And since we will be paid for your living expenses there will be no sapping of the exhibition’s coffers. Nini and I will manage here alone. I knew this was a wise endeavor. Be sure to stay in Lieutenant Hastings’s protection.
Marguerite rolled her eyes.
When you return, be sure to send the figures via the longest sea routing that you can, no matter how you return yourself. You know the figures survive water better than overland travel.
Also, you should know that I am parting ways with Monsieur Tussaud. He has heaped many an insult on me by his foolish business transactions, but his most recent dealing leaves my heart dead. I discovered that he took out a 20,000 franc loan last year, and in order to settle part of the debt has now sold the house my uncle Curtius left me. Furthermore, he has taken out yet another loan—for what, I ask you?—and has mortgaged the wax salon at 20 boulevard du Temple as surety. He will undoubtedly end up losing this property for me, as well. It is unforgivable.
I have written and asked him to send our other son, Francis, to me. When my dear boy is with me, I will quit Tussaud altogether.
Marguerite folded the letter thoughtfully. Marie mentioned her husband so rarely that it was easy to forget he even existed, and that he managed her original exhibition back in Paris.
She returned to the construction of Nelson’s figure. Without the worries of the exhibition itself, she was able to work on it night and day, making far quicker progress than on a typical character. She savored the work, laboring happily each day from first light until the final rays of the sun slipped out of the room and returned to their celestial residence.
Her work was interrupted one day by the surprise visit of Darden, who was not alone. Accompanying him was another naval officer in a similar uniform, whom Darden introduced as Lieutenant Brax Selwyn. A man more different from Darden could not be found.
Where Darden was dark almost to the point of swarthiness, and always seemed to have secrets simmering below his stern surface, Brax was all openness, elegance, and light. His broad mouth seemed perpetually poised to laugh, and his bright blue eyes scanned the room as if seeking pleasure in its corners. Lieutentant Selwyn’s hair, blond and unwigged, was tied back in a common queue, yet on him it was somehow more fashionable than on other men. He was of slighter build than Darden, but still showed a well-turned calf. Marguerite guessed he was an excellent dancer.
Even his coloring reflected his carefree bearing. His skin was as pale as any typical Englishman’s, but it had an almost delicate, ethereal quality to it.
An angel sent to bring joy, Marguerite thought.
Were these men actually friends?
Brax’s handsomeness was so great that she found herself looking down sheepishly at her own tattered condition. Her plain dress, although covered with an apron, was splotched with wax globules, paint, and glue. Her hair, gathered up hastily in a bandeau that morning to keep it out of her eyes, was surely as littered with debris as her gown. What a sorry sight she made!
She cleared her throat. “To what do I owe this pleasure, sirs?”
The room was silent. It was Darden’s place to state the purpose of their visit, yet he was staring at Marguerite, his lips a grim line of white.
What have I done wrong?
Selwyn spoke up brightly. “Why, Hastings here has been telling me all about his most unusual assignment: to bring a waxworker to London to have Lord Nelson’s portrait made. When I found out that the waxworker in question was a young lady, I insisted that he bring me to your shop straightaway, so that I could have the honor of watching beautiful feminine hands working in such dedication to the Royal Navy. He tried to deny me, but I can see already that there is to be great reward in my persistence, for it is not often that a poor jack-tar gets to behold such loveliness.”
Darden’s nostrils flared, but he otherwise made no comment.
Marguerite knew Brax was shamelessly flirting with her. After all, how could a man be seriously pursuing a woman as pathetic-looking as she was? But for the first time since Nicholas’s death, she was actually reveling in such frothy attention. She could feel a twinge of her old saucy self rising to the surface.
She tossed her hair as well as she could from under the confines of the bandeau. “Well, Lieutenant, either you are purblind or a bit dim-witted.” She tapped the side of her head for effect. “For clearly what you see before you is a bedraggled mess of a woman far beyond her first blush of youth.”
Selwyn clutched his chest as if in pain. “It cannot be. Surely you seek more compliments about your devastating charms, hence why else would you tell such vicious lies about yourself? For you are unquestionably no more than nineteen. Wouldn’t you agree, Hastings?”
But Darden was no longer part of the conversation, and was instead examining the scattered paints, brushes, needles, rulers, and other supplies of her trade on the worktable.
Selwyn tried again. “What, Hastings? Do you actually find worn tools to be of more interest than the divine goddess who stands before us?” He brought his forefinger to the side of his head as Marguerite had just done, winking exaggeratedly at her.
She giggled, even though she knew he was mocking poor Darden. The sound of her laughter snapped Darden to attention and he responded in a clipped tone.
“I am not eligible to judge the lady’s divinity. It is not our purpose here, and I do not wish to pay so little regard to the completion of Lord Nelson’s wax effigy that I stand about with my jaws flapping oafishly. As an officer of the Royal Navy, you should consider the same.”
Selwyn turned his back to Darden and opened his blue eyes as wide as he could at Marguerite before crossing them
and sticking out his tongue. He looked like an overgrown, naughty boy and she could hardly keep from repressing her laughter again.
Selwyn went to Darden and stuck out his hand. “You’re right, Hastings. My ill-breeding has made me rude and contemptuous. Accept my apology.”
Darden reluctantly took the other man’s hand and shook it.
“For you see,” Selwyn resumed, his attention back to Marguerite, “I was born as a result of the king’s tumble in a back alley with a traveling doxy. She left me in a field to be raised by sheep and so you see before you the result. Hep, hep, what ho, eh, baaaaa.”
Darden slammed a fist down on the table so hard Marguerite jumped. “What the hell are you about, Selwyn? You’re the son of an aristocrat and King George would never—oh.” Too late, Darden realized that Selwyn was teasing. “Damn you, Lieutenant, you’re the worst rascal I’ve ever known. No wonder your father was eager to see the back of you when you wanted to secure a commission.”
Selwyn roared his approval. “Pardon, did I hear just a bit of wit from you just now? There’s hope for you yet, sourpuss.”
“Gentlemen,” Marguerite interrupted before anything untoward happened. “I need to return to my work. May I inquire again as to the true nature of your visit?”
Darden straightened the coat of his uniform. “Of course, Mrs. Ashby. I just wanted to let you know that Mr. Pitt will be coming by later today to check the progress of Lord Nelson here. He may also commission some other figures at that time. I thought you might like to know in advance so that you could be … better prepared.”
So Darden thinks I look unkempt and slovenly. She flushed at the idea that he thought so little of her. But I suppose I do, and should be grateful that he came to warn me.
“Please accept my gratitude for this forewarning of my impending visitor. And now if you will both excuse me, I must return to my task.” She nodded toward the door, and both men took her hint, but not before Selwyn departed from her with great protestations of his admiration for her person and an overly long kiss, inappropriately applied to the underside of her wrist.
Mr. Pitt did indeed return later in the day, and seemed improved by his visit to Bath. After inspecting the Lord Nelson effigy, which was nearly ready except to have hair inserted in his head—a very long task now that she had decided to go this way instead of using a wig—and to dress the figure.
“The likeness is remarkable,” Pitt said. “What good luck that Hastings mentioned such a project to me.”
“I’m sorry? He mentioned what project to you?”
“It was Lieutenant Hastings’s suggestion that I hire Madame Tussaud’s waxworks to create a figure of our national hero for the public to see. But now that I’ve seen the nearly completed work, there is one more figure I want.”
He outlined to her his intent. Nelson would be leading a fleet to intercept Napoleon’s formidable sea force somewhere off the coast of Spain. Pitt was not at liberty to divulge the admiral’s specific plans. However, he had consulted with Nelson regarding his own idea: to create an effigy of one of Nelson’s respected officers, Thomas Hardy, who would be captain of Nelson’s flagship, HMS Victory.
“You will take both Hardy’s and Nelson’s figures on board Victorybefore she sets sail and load them into the admiral’s cabin for storage. You said they couldn’t take extreme heat, so they should be cool there and easily accessible for the quarterdeck. Nelson was not overly keen on having them stored with him, but agreed to it. God willing, they won’t be needed.”
“Needed for what, sir?” Marguerite was unsure what this all meant. Wax figures were for entertainment. What place did they have aboard a man-of-war?
“For decoy, madam. A ruse, a ploy. The French and the Spaniards fear our man Nelson. Should anything happen to him or Captain Hardy, several key officers know to have that man’s figure brought up to the quarterdeck to take the place of the real man, to confuse the enemy into thinking they have not achieved the great triumph of eliminating a key naval leader.”
Marguerite thought Pitt was perhaps imbibing too much port these days. The idea was preposterous.
“But, sir, the wax figures do not move. They will realize that it is just some sort of imitation statue on the deck.”
“Eventually, yes. But it would work long enough for messages to be sent and a handover of authority to occur, enabling our forces to hopefully maintain an upper hand. Providing we have the upper hand at the time.”
“I see.” Although really she didn’t see at all how this would work.
“There’s one more thing. You must have both figures ready for loading the morning of September fifteenth, for the fleet sets sail that day.”
Marguerite gasped. “But that’s less than two weeks away! I haven’t even visited Mr. Hardy yet for his measurements and his mask. It usually takes a month or more to create a figure, particularly if we are inserting real hair.”
Pitt nodded sympathetically. “I know, and I regret the suddenness of my request. I had planned to wait until you were finished with Nelson before sending you off to see Hardy. We only just discovered that the combined French and Spanish fleet is in the harbor of Cádiz off the southeastern coast of Spain. We must intercept Villeneuve and all of those blasted ships before he sets off again. It’s imperative that those figures be on board when Nelson sets sail. Can you do it?”
“Mr. Pitt, for the sake of England I shall endeavor to do my part.”
Mr. Pitt had a package delivered the following morning with exact instructions regarding the delivery of the figures to HMS Victory. Marguerite was surprised that Darden himself did not bring the message, but did not allow herself to linger further thinking about why that disturbed her. Besides, Pitt’s message caused her stomach to knot as she realized that the travel from London to Portsmouth, where HMS Victory now lay, would trim at least another two days from her sculpting time. She took heart from one phrase in his missive regarding the Hardy figure: “It need not be of full Tussaud superiority. Just finish it quickly.”
Accompanying the letter were both a woodcut engraving of Captain Hardy and a small painting of him on a folded piece of canvas. Pitt had scrawled some approximate height, weight, and size measurements on the back of his letter. They were surely not accurate, but would have to do for this hasty mission.
Marguerite’s days and nights became a blur of activity. During every moment that the sun was up, she was molding, carving, painting, and reworking wax mistakes. At night, she sat by candlelight studying her best route to port and writing letters to Marie, Claudette, and a drayer who could haul the figures to Portsmouth. She even had bedding moved from her rooms with Mrs. Penny into the workshop so she would not waste time traveling back and forth. She was grateful there was no mirror in the workshop, certain that her condition was deteriorating daily.
Despite Marie’s admonition about always transporting the figures by sea, Marguerite could find no good way to do so in this situation. The map she examined in her room at night showed no decent river route from London to Portsmouth. To dispatch them out the Thames and through the Channel past the coast of France was unthinkable. Few vessels would be willing to do it, and the risk of her precious cargo falling into the hands of the French was too great. No, it would have to be an overland journey.
Brax Selwyn and Darden Hastings both tried to visit individually, but she was so frantic with her work that she refused them more than mere seconds at the doorstep before shutting the door in their faces again.
But by September 12, she had put the final touches on Mr. Hardy, whom she hoped was a good representation of the man himself, and sent a message to Darden that the figures were ready for transport the following morning. Pitt’s instructions stated that he wanted Darden to personally oversee their loading and to have an understanding of their routing.
Marguerite then set about the task of properly wrapping and packing the two figures. She could hardly wait for her final activity, which was a return to her rooms to bathe and
work out the bits of wax and paint from her tresses.
To her surprise, both Darden and Brax showed up early the next day, with Brax holding a small box wrapped with twine. At least she was finally presentable. Anticipating Darden’s arrival, yet knowing she needed to be dressed for rough travel by coach, she wore a pale green dress with two subtle stripes of pink around the hem. She tucked her now glossy hair up into a straw bonnet also edged in pink, and carried with her a shawl of deep, burnished yellow, almost gold. Over her arm was an embroidered reticule Claudette had given her for her birthday at Hevington two years ago. How long ago that seemed!
Brax’s eyes exclaimed his admiration of her, but Darden’s face was inscrutable and he greeted her stiffly. The man vacillated between kindness and priggishness, didn’t he? Why, then, was she so disappointed that he didn’t seem taken with her fetching outfit today, after the care she had put into her appearance?
But Darden’s attention was upon her workshop, not her. “Mrs. Ashby, if I’m not mistaken, your personal trunks are here, too. Do you intend to leave London for good?”
“My work for Mr. Pitt is complete, so there is no reason for me to stay. I was planning to meet the figures in Portsmouth and arrange them on board Victory, then return to Dublin.”
“Via water from Portsmouth?” Darden asked. “As I recall, sailing is not your preferred method of travel.”
“In fact, Lieutenant, I was planning to return much as you brought me. Overland to Bristol and then I will brave a ship to Dublin.”
“I’m not sure your planning is wise, Mrs. Ashby. You may want to return to London until—”
“Until what?”
Darden pursed his lips and went quiet.
Brax jumped in. “What is all this chatter about travel back to Dublin, Mrs. Ashby? Why, we’ve only just met. Does this mean you won’t be waiting for me when I return?”
A Royal Likeness Page 25
