A Royal Likeness

by Christine Trent

  Soon friends and families from neighboring estates heard the news of Marguerite’s escapades, and Hevington was filled every evening with guests hanging on her every word over the dining table. It made the Christmas holiday tolerable, given the nation’s general melancholy over Nelson’s death, and Marguerite’s new status was a far cry from the days when the neighbors considered her a bit of an unfortunate.

  It was inconceivable to everyone that she had served practically as a crew member aboard Victory, alongside the great but lamented Admiral Nelson. Marguerite’s story soon made its way into local newspapers, and eventually into a tiny corner of the London Gazette, next to an article about Napoleon repealing the calendar of the French Republic that had been instituted by Robespierre during the Reign of Terror.

  The papers also reported on Nelson’s funeral, which was held on January 9, 1806, with great pomp and circumstance in London. A procession of royalty, nobility, politicians, and military men stretched all the way from Whitehall to St. Paul’s Cathedral, where he was to be buried. He was carried from Greenwich up the River Thames to Whitehall in the coffin given to him after the Battle of the Nile. At Whitehall the admiral was transferred onto an elaborate, open funeral carriage, carved and decorated to look like the bow and stern of Victory.

  People traveled to London from across the country to line the route to St. Paul’s Cathedral. Many of them, eager to catch a glimpse of the hero’s passing hearse, paid handsomely for viewing positions inside the upper floors of homes along the way.

  As was customary, the funeral itself was attended only by men, with not even Nelson’s wife, Frances, nor Emma Hamilton, present.

  The nation had already been in mourning for the past month, ever since Lieutenant Lapenotière had arrived in London on November 6 with his sorrowful news. The king declared December 5 to be a national day of thanksgiving for the victory at what he formally declared the Battle of Trafalgar. And although Marguerite and the Greycliffes joined their fellow countrymen in this day of gratitude to the Almighty, it was tinged with grief.

  But life in England had to resume, for, after all, Bonaparte was still anxiously sniffing at her shores, despite the thrashing he had received in the open waters.

  And Marguerite knew it was time for her own life to resume. Two months had passed since she’d last been held in Darden’s tight clasp, and not a single letter had arrived from him. She wondered if he had attended Nelson’s funeral. Surely Brax had. Was Darden back out to sea? She hadn’t spoken of him at all to her family, even to Claudette, in an effort to keep his memory sealed away in her heart where she wouldn’t have to share it.

  She tried to muster up some righteous anger toward Darden for turning her aside so easily, but found she couldn’t. After so many weeks aboard Victory, she now understood the man’s passion for duty, and how it could override everything else.

  Marguerite sighed and picked up her pen again, looking at the crumpled pieces of parchment on the desk around her. She returned to her fifth try of a letter to Madame Tussaud.

  I am happy to tell you that I am well and have no cause for complaint as to my health or constitution. Whatever you have heard in Dublin with regard to the great triumph on the seas by Nelson is probably true. And if I know you well, madame, you already have in mind a tableau to mark his great achievement.

  We were able to use the Nelson wax figure to deflect the attention of the Redoubtable’s sharpshooters long enough for Victory’s crew to gather sufficient strength to repulse the enemy entirely after our two ships collided. Captain Hardy said the figure probably preserved Nelson for the nation a little longer, and I am grateful to have performed this small service for England.

  As for my return to Dublin, I confess that I am heartily sick of ships, storms, and oceans, and the thought of any of the three is a revolting one indeed.

  However, dear friend, I do greatly miss you and my life in wax portraiture. I pray Joseph has been your good assistant, as always, and also that the exhibition continues to do well under your good management. I should like to put forth a proposal to you: What would you think of shipping some figures to me and letting me start a permanent location to display whichever figures you have no current use for? I can send them back to you when you wish to use them again. I can make additional figures by your direction. Both collections would stay fresh and updated, and you could simultaneously collect entrance fees on both sides of the Irish Sea.

  What would Marie’s reaction be to her proposal? One thing was certain—Marguerite couldn’t endure another sailing.

  The last month had been a bit of a setback for Nathaniel. After returning to port he’d gone home to present his mother with a considerable length of heavily embroidered linen, a plum from the merchant ship. She’d looked at him as though he’d offered her a dead rat.

  “No letter of marque and still you took a ship? Nathaniel, had you not been fortunate enough to overpower the other ship’s captain, he could have cut your throat and the Admiralty Board would have looked the other way. Son, you’re behaving without even the sense God gave a rooster. You should be following my guidance and looking for an appropriate young lady to marry.”

  Not even Nathaniel’s presentation of the value of his share of the take had impressed his mother, although at least his father ran an appreciative eye over his account book.

  Fortunate enough? Nathaniel fumed later over a glass of port. Why didn’t the woman understand that it was his skill that had landed him the French ship? And that small victory was another divine sign that he was meant for his other, greater purpose.

  He had been further taken aback when his mother shoved a newspaper under his nose, and he learned that Marguerite Ashby was a local heroine in Kent, having provided a wax figure of Nelson to the navy, putting it up on deck herself to deflect sharpshooter fire away from the men on Victory.

  How had she gotten aboard a man-of-war? he wondered. Well, the article explained his mother’s stormy mood.

  He read further that Marguerite had returned to her relatives at Hevington.

  Wait for me there, my sweet, while I attain my own momentous success. Together we’ll be crowned with laurels and live together in perpetual bliss.

  Before departing Ash House, he’d made a quick and satisfying visit to Polly’s room, and afterwards gave her the linen he’d initially intended for his mother. The wench showed proper appreciation by kissing him deeply, which aroused him yet again, so he gave her another hour to continue paying her respects to him.

  After docking, it had taken him longer to round up his new crew than he’d thought it would. At least Mr. Watson was loyal. A couple of the men had died in drunken brawls, some were back in jail again on other offenses, while others had simply run away with their take, figuring they’d met their obligation to Nathaniel Ashby.

  He and Mr. Watson secured as many of the men as they could, then Nathaniel made another trip to Marshalsea prison. He’d found men by not only paying their debts, but by also convincing them they’d be following in the footsteps of the lately departed Lord Nelson.

  Fortunately, once again no one asked him about his letter of marque.

  So now they were stealthily approaching the area between Dunkerque and Calais, looking for an obscure garrison he’d heard was tucked away here. Nathaniel told Mr. Watson that he was actually working secretly for Mr. Pitt, to destroy enemy morale by picking off its smaller garrisons one by one. So carried on the tide of Nelson’s victory against the hated Frogs was Mr. Watson that he never questioned Nathaniel’s story.

  See, Mother? My men believe in my great genius for seamanship, and you should have, as well.

  Which reminded him that he was several days behind on his journal, the one he planned to show Marguerite when they were finally reunited. It detailed all of his mind’s workings, from his various plans and ideas, to his triumphs over his scoffers. He kept the journal locked up in a secret drawer away from his regular ship’s log. It wouldn’t do for just anyone to come acr
oss it. He was saving it for Marguerite, to help increase her devotion to him.

  The December night air was frigid as they approached the coastline of France. He could swear the same temperature felt at least twenty degrees chillier out on the sea. His men grumbled a bit, too, but not enough to give him cause for concern.

  Surely the freezing weather would assist him in his element of surprise, for the French wouldn’t expect a lone English ship to creep up on them. A surprise ambush had worked perfectly well on the French merchant ship, and so it should work equally well on a poorly manned garrison. And one Englishman was worth ten Frogs, anyway.

  Mr. Watson motioned toward what looked to be their target. They stayed hidden in a nearby cove until just before daybreak, then sailed out at full speed toward the garrison’s dock. A lone, rumpled-looking soldier came out to greet them, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

  “Bonjour, monsieur Englishman, ‘ow may I ‘elp you?” the soldier called up to where Nathaniel stood on his top deck.

  This was not a proper reaction at all. France and England were at war. Didn’t the fool see Wax Maiden’s British colors flying off the stern? Where was his fear? Why weren’t the other soldiers dashing about in panic? Perhaps he’d not heard of their crushing defeat at Trafalgar yet to realize their imminent doom.

  The cold air carried Nathaniel’s voice readily, so he barely had to raise his voice as he replied in French. “We’re claiming this garrison for Great Britain. I’m sending a deputation down to accept your captain’s surrender. Do not try to escape. All of our cannon and guns are trained on your barracks, prepared to destroy you if you resist.” There, that was a courageous speech that should show them just who they were dealing with.

  Instead, the soldier stood there, blinking as if making a calculation, then threw his head back and laughed in the sarcastic, condescending way that only a Frenchman can.

  “Oh, oui, monsieur, we tremble like petites filles tied to their mothers’ apron strings over your—what is it, five?—great cannon. I shall wake my commander instantly to let him know that the entire British navy has arrived to secure its prize.”

  The soldier turned casually on his heel back to his commander’s quarters.

  The insolence, the utter cheek, Nathaniel thought angrily.

  He heard some of the crew on deck begin to mumble uncertainly about their mission. He curtly told them to keep their silence until he had negotiated the garrison’s surrender.

  He didn’t have to wait long for the soldier to return. He did so along with his commanding officer and ten other soldiers armed with carbine rifles.

  The commanding officer was even more haughty than his subordinate.

  “Mon capitaine, I am le commandant here. My lieutenant says you’ve arrived to capture our humble little camp. Is this really true?”

  The men with him sniggered.

  Nathaniel raised himself up to full importance.

  “It is indeed true. And you would do well to watch your impertinent tone before a representative of the British navy.”

  The garrison commander rubbed his chin as though considering Nathaniel’s words.

  “I see, I see. Tell me, mon capitaine, does the British navy give its ships such fierce and battle-worthy names as Wax Maiden? For we French do have a way with soft and supple ladies. Are you sure you’re not carrying a shipment of—what do you English say—doxies, to visit us?”

  The men behind the commander now burst fully into laughter. This was not going according to plan. Not at all.

  “I’ve no time for your brilliant Gallic wit, sir. Do you plan to surrender peacefully, or should we take you by force?”

  “By force, monsieur? And how do you and your dainty ship and your equally effeminate crew propose to do this?”

  “Are you perchance blind? Do you not see my ready cannon waiting to fire upon your garrison?”

  The French commander slowly turned to look at his quarters, then turned back just as leisurely toward Nathaniel’s ship.

  “Perchance it is not me who is blind. What do you have there, measly little six pounders? You could hardly hit us standing here, much less reach all the way to the buildings. However, mon capitaine“—the commander gave a signal to the men around him—”these soldiers are highly skilled sharpshooters, and at my command they will each pick one man off your deck. I suggest that you run along home now, and leave fighting to real military men.”

  The commander’s soldiers raised their guns in unison, rested them on their shoulders, and peered down the length of the barrels.

  Without waiting for Nathaniel’s orders, Mr. Watson instructed the men to turn the ship around and flee.

  No, this had not gone according to plan at all.

  28

  Marguerite’s filthy clothing from Victory was ceremoniously burned on Hevington’s front lawn, and now her room at Hevington was filled with new dresses, hats, gloves, and shoes. Claudette had insisted on providing her niece with a yet another whole new wardrobe, rather than asking Marie Tussaud to ship her things to Kent.

  “Besides,” Claudette told her, “you deserve a reward for what you’ve done and what you’ve been through.”

  After hours spent with dressmakers, who plied her with bolts of exotic fabrics, making her nostalgic for her dollmaking days, she and Claudette decided upon designs for several day dresses, a negligee, and two fancy dress gowns, as well as an assortment of hair ribbons, hats, and chemises. Claudette was insistent on the ball gowns, certain that Marguerite would be much in demand in London when she returned.

  For Marie Tussaud had approved her plan to start a new exhibit there, sending her letter after letter of instructions on what to do in setting up a new location. Marguerite shook her head bemusedly, for hadn’t she helped Marie with the setup of Dublin? Nevertheless, it was Marie’s property, and she followed her mentor’s directions exactly.

  Marguerite sat at the chinoiserie desk in her room, which was stacked with piles of papers and plans regarding the new exhibit. The desk’s messiness complemented the heaps of clothing bursting forth from trunks and her armoire and hanging from every available hook in the room. A multitude of apparel bags and boxes, some filled and some empty of their garments, were scattered across the floor.

  Claudette’s personal maid, Jolie, tapped on the door and entered, her disapproval of Marguerite’s disheveled quarters plain on her face. “Mistress Marguerite, Lady Greycliffe sent me to find you. She’s in the parlor, entertaining a visitor she wants you to meet.”

  “Thank you, Jolie.”

  Jolie lingered at the door, fidgeting. “Mistress, may I help you?”

  “Help me? I’m not sure what you mean.” Marguerite knew exactly what she meant. Jolie was meticulous in maintaining Claudette’s wardrobe, one of the primary reasons Claudette had hired the maid away from her previous position at a hotel in the city of Versailles prior to the Revolution.

  The condition of my room must be making her deranged.

  “Your room, madame, is very … ah … is in some disarray. Your lovely gowns should be wrapped in tissue. Perhaps I can tidy up for you.”

  “Is it that bad? I hadn’t noticed, Jolie. But I suppose if it really bothers you, I could really use the help.” She winked at the maid. “Besides, I’ll be leaving for London soon so I suppose I need to put an eye toward packing.”

  Marguerite left her room in Jolie’s competent hands to organize while she hurried to the ground floor to find Claudette. As she entered the parlor, she saw Claudette talking to a man in a uniform. A dark blue and white uniform. The sight of the uniform with its gleaming brass buttons momentarily blinded her, and sent her stomach fluttering.

  Darden? she thought tremulously.

  “Mrs. Ashby, how delightful to see you again,” said a warm, familiar voice.

  Not Darden’s.

  It was Brax Selwyn bending over her hand.

  “You seem disappointed to see me. I hope that’s not true.” Brax was at his charming best. “
I should have to jump into the River Medway if I thought the sight of me caused you distress.”

  Marguerite mentally quelled her jellied innards and produced a weak smile. “No, of course not, Lieutenant. How lovely of you to visit. I suppose you and Aunt Claudette have gotten reacquainted?”

  Claudette’s face was pensive, as though she were trying to figure out the state of things without revealing her own confusion.

  “Yes, Lieutenant Selwyn was just telling me about Lord Nelson’s funeral, which he attended. I suppose he’ll want to tell you about it himself. Edward! Darling, no! Not in the house.”

  Her son came scampering into the room, a trail of mud tracks behind him and one of the family’s bullmastiffs at his heels.

  “But, Mama, look what Cicero found!” The boy pointed at the dog’s jaws, which held a wildly frightened squirrel in them. The dog sat down and thumped his tail, pleased to present his gift.

  “We don’t allow wild animals in the house. You know that. Take Cicero outside.”

  At that moment Little Bitty entered to see what all the commotion was about. At the sight of Cicero’s trophy, she emitted a screech at a volume with which only little girls are gifted.

  “Mama! That’s my pet squirrel, Baby! He’s hurting him!” The girl burst into loud, noisy tears. Edward tried to deny it over her sobs. Cicero looked confused.

  Claudette had gone from elegant lady of the house to harried governess in mere seconds. With a quick apology to Marguerite and their guest, she hastened out of the room with children and dog to resolve the crisis outdoors.

  With the door closed, Marguerite was alone in utter silence with Brax. Even the floor clock’s subdued ticking seemed clamorous in the stillness between them.

  Brax cleared his throat. “Lovely children. How many do the Greycliffes have?”

  “Three. It’s not always like this. Wait, what am I saying? It is actually always like this. Hevington is a home of great joy and … enthusiasm.”