A Royal Likeness

by Christine Trent

  Brax laughed. “So I see. You must take pleasure in living here.”

  Marguerite sat down, inviting Brax to sit in a nearby chair.

  “I’ve always thought of Hevington as a retreat. A place to clear my mind during the more tumultuous periods of my life.”

  “And is this one of those times? Even with Trafalgar behind you?”

  “It was, but soon I’ll be heading for London.”

  “London? Not Dublin?”

  “No, Madame Tussaud and I have agreed to establish a second waxworks, which I will operate in London.”

  A smile slowly spread across Brax’s face. “Well, that is just splendid, indeed. How fortuitous for me that I will be posted at the Admiralty while waiting for my promo—while waiting for my next posting. My heart can barely contain itself to know that you will be nearby. Already it’s as if I’m floating on air.”

  Marguerite permitted a small smile in return. “Brax the Lighthearted, I suppose?”

  “From your lips, any name sounds sweeter than the mellowest of wines, madam.”

  She shook her head and changed the subject. “What brings you to Kent, sir? Have you Royal Navy business here? On your way to Dover, perhaps?”

  “Alas, no, I am a free man on leave at the moment. I went to my parents’ estate near Chichester since I haven’t seen them in some months, and remembered you mentioning your own family’s estate. Since we spent so much companionable time together on Pickle, I didn’t think you’d mind a visit.”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  “But more importantly, I was rather hoping you might be happy to see me.”

  “And I am, Lieutenant.”

  “Brax, please.”

  “And I am happy to see you, Brax.”

  He pursed his lips. “Your eyes said something else entirely when you first saw me.”

  “Don’t be silly. I was merely surprised to find you at Hevington.”

  “All right, I accept your explanation, mostly because I want desperately to believe you are enraptured by my arrival, and not because I’m actually convinced by your explanation. No no”—he held up his hands against her protest—”please, no more clarification necessary. We’ve far more important matters to discuss.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as when do you plan to depart for London, and have you yet secured an escort for your trip? Someone who understands and appreciates your fine artistry? Who would personally run through any greedy highwaymen?”

  “Well, I hadn’t realized I needed an escort, since I was planning to go by public coach if Uncle William did not have time to take me. But you’re perhaps suggesting that I need a personal bodyguard who appreciates my person as well as my safety. Would you happen to know where I can find such a man?”

  Brax stood and placed his right hand over his heart. “Madam, I am your most devoted servant. Never will you find a man more willing to lay down his life to protect your exquisite and charming perfection.” He made a bow with his hand still over his heart, adding a flourish with his left hand.

  “Nor, Sir Brax the Lighthearted, will I find one more passionately absurd.”

  He looked up from the bowed position he still held. “It is your presence that makes me so.”

  How difficult it was not to like this man! Full of mirth and not a care in the world. And his attentions were obviously exaggerated and thereby not intimidating. Unlike Paul de Philipsthal’s professions of love. She shuddered inwardly.

  Of Darden she refused to think.

  “Sir Brax, I accept your offer. However, I don’t plan on departing for London for another week. Will you still be available for service then?”

  Brax stood up. “My dearest Mrs. Ashby—may I call you Marguerite now that we are to travel together once more?—at your command I will ask the Royal Navy to cease all its maritime maneuvers against Bonaparte, until all assistance can be rendered for your own personal mission.”

  “How highly the first lord of the Admiralty must think of me.”

  “Yes, of course he does. You must hold this in the strictest confidence, but I’ve been told that he thinks more of you than he does his own mother.”

  “Well, that makes me highly regarded indeed. Tell me, Sir Brax, since you plan to serve as my personal knight, have you found any lodgings in town?”

  “Not yet, but I’m sure there’s an inn nearby, run by a lonely widow who will have pity upon a poor officer of the Royal Navy. Especially one who has seen such recent action with Lord Nelson.”

  “She won’t be able to resist your considerable charms, I’m sure.”

  “Alas, it is only the dear person before me now who seems immune to my earnest supplications.”

  Before Marguerite could respond, the door to the parlor banged open again. Claudette entered, mud spattered on the front of her dress and tendrils of hair falling from her coif. “Edward, I told you I wouldn’t—oh! Lieutenant, I didn’t realize you were still here. My apologies.” Claudette attempted to prod some of her unruly curls back under her hair ribbon. “It does seem to be getting on in the afternoon, doesn’t it? Lieutenant, won’t you stay for supper? I’m sure my niece would be pleased with your company, if she hasn’t asked you to dine with us already?” Claudette looked at Marguerite expectantly.

  Marguerite bent her head and bit her lip, trying not to laugh at her aunt’s obvious attempt to discern what her relationship was with Brax.

  “No, Aunt Claudette, I’d not gotten around to it yet.”

  Brax piped up brightly, “I’ve no doubt that was where our conversation was turning next, Lady Greycliffe, and I accept your kind offer with great happiness.”

  And so Brax supped with the Greycliffes that night, and every night until Marguerite was ready for departure. Brax’s utterly charming nature even won over William, and each night the two men would leave the women after dining, to retreat to his study for brandy and to discuss Napoleon’s troop movements against Russia and Austria, which had culminated in his recent decisive battle victories against both countries at Austerlitz. Great Britain was part of an alliance involving these two nations and Sweden, and the defeat meant the collapse of their coalition.

  Sometimes Marguerite and Claudette joined the men for political conversation, but more often they moved into the library to read or embroider. Marguerite refused to be drawn into questioning by Claudette, saying only that Brax had been present to see the Nelson and Hardy wax figures onto a wagon for shipment to Portsmouth, and he had escorted her safely home.

  “But, darling,” Claudette protested. Again. “He seems a nice young man. And very taken with you. Are you sure there’s no hope for a courtship with him?”

  “Brax is mostly taken with himself, I’m afraid. And I’m certain that all he wants is a flirtation.”

  Claudette shook her head once more. “I don’t know. I think he has serious intentions toward you. But you know him best, I’m sure.”

  The night before their departure the topic of conversation at the table was Prime Minister Pitt’s death from liver disease at the age of forty-six.

  “The man was too liberal with his port glass,” William decided.

  “Yes, sir,” Brax said, always deferential to the older man. “But I venture to say that Napoleon’s win at Austerlitz hastened his death. He was counting on the coalition to ensure our nation’s defense against Napoleon. Now we’re vulnerable again.”

  The two men stayed up far into the night, discussing who would be declared Pitt’s successor and what it would mean for Britain’s approach to rapidly unfolding world events.

  The next morning, clear and crisp with a light remainder of frost on the ground, Hevington’s footmen had piled all Marguerite’s belongings—consisting mostly of her new wardrobe—atop the Greycliffe family’s carriage. William shook hands warmly with Brax, admonishing him to care solicitously for Marguerite, while Claudette used her final moments for one last piece of advice.

  “Keep an open mind, dear. See how things pro
gress with the lieutenant. He seems both ambitious and kind. You could do far worse.” They stood together, wrapped in warm capes, while Uncle William and Brax made their good-byes nearby.

  “Aunt Claudette, my mind was open to someone aboard Victory. But it resulted in nothing. I’m not sure I care to expose my heart again for dissection.”

  Claudette’s mouth stood open as Marguerite reached over and patted the older woman’s shoulder.

  “Don’t fret for me. I’ll be fine.”

  “What do you mean, there was someone on Victory? Who? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Marguerite was spared having to answer as Brax came to assist her into the carriage and and sat across from her. The carriage lurched forward, and Marguerite blew Claudette a kiss as she departed for London.

  While Marguerite settled into her new location, she gave little thought to national events, Brax, or the Greycliffes. There were walls to be painted, carpets to be laid, tableaux to be designed, and handbills to be printed. The arrival of thirty figures from Dublin kept Marguerite and a hired hand busy for days. Brax stopped by a few times, but she dismissed him quickly, unwilling to waste precious time in a social visit. Even letters from Claudette remained unopened on the writing table in her rooms, located about two blocks away from the exhibit.

  A month after her arrival, she was ready to open her doors to Madame Tussaud’s London Wax Exhibition. She settled down in her rooms the night before with a cup of tea and a newspaper, and was surprised to find how much had happened while she remained shut away from the world.

  After Pitt’s death, a new Ministry of All the Talents was formed, a coalition between William Grenville, Charles James Fox, and nine others. Grenville became leader of the House of Lords and first lord of the treasury, whilst Fox was made leader of the House of Commons and secretary of state for foreign affairs. Other members of the eleven-man coalition were given plum assignments. Marguerite ran her finger down the list of positions and saw that Charles Grey, Viscount Howick, was named first lord of the Admiralty.

  Darden did work for Mr. Pitt. Will he now be on staff for Lord Grenville, or maybe Lord Grey?

  And don’t forget that Brax performed services, as well.

  Mr. Pitt was laid to rest on February 22, 1806, inside Westminster Abbey, with a public funeral and a monument, despite the opposition to such special treatment by Mr. Fox, Pitt’s political opponent for decades.

  How foolish and childish men could be in their political gamesmanship. Hadn’t Pitt saved England’s finances after the American rebellion? Wasn’t he greatly esteemed by the king? Perhaps he was not the hero Nelson was, but surely he deserved recognition in death.

  29

  Charles James Fox was the complete opposite of William Pitt in most ways. Where Pitt was a slight and fair-complexioned man, Fox was dark, corpulent, and hairy. Even his father referred to him as a monkey.

  Furthermore, where Pitt was well beloved by King George III, Fox was less than enthusiastically received by the sovereign, who blamed Fox for the debauchery and many failings of his son, George Augustus Frederick, one of Fox’s associates. Fox further distanced himself from the king when he attempted to put the king’s son on the throne when the monarch went through a bout of insanity in 1789. Pitt championed the idea that the king’s illness was only temporary and, curses on the man, Pitt was right. Fox’s defense of the bloody revolution in France—again in complete opposition to Pitt’s hostile stance—made him more of a pariah with the king, who would have despised Fox for his dissipation alone.

  Indeed, Charles Fox led a notoriously profligate life, in a society known for the licentiousness of its upper classes, as opposed to Pitt’s somewhat more austere mode of living. Now, though, Fox was gratified in his choice of a wife, Elizabeth Armistead, whose steadying hand had been curbing some of his cavalier behavior. No matter that she was previously a courtesan and he hadn’t publicly revealed the marriage in its first seven years.

  But he was more like Pitt in his affinity for liquor than he cared to think. Fox looked at the glass of scarlet liquid in his hand, a port sent to him in a presentation box by some fortune-seeker in London who wanted a letter of marque. The port was probably a fine vintage, but Fox’s palate had lost much of its discernment over the years. He sat back in the tufted leather chair behind his desk and tipped the rest of the glass’s contents down his throat.

  A knock on the door was followed by the entry of Charles Grey, Viscount Howick, holding a small packet of papers.

  Fox got up and stepped around his desk to greet the first lord of the Admiralty. It was so much easier these days to simply move into the room to shake hands with someone, rather than try to reach over his desk—and his extended belly—to do so.

  “Lord Howick, greetings to you, sir. How fares your lovely wife? Just had your—what is it—sixth child?”

  “Seventh, actually. Mary and I lost an infant boy a few years ago. But Frederick William is, at six months, full of spit and fire, and I’m sure will take over for his own father at the Admiralty one day.”

  “Indeed. The boy can but hope to have his father’s illustrious career.”

  The two men sat at a round, inlaid mahogany table on the other side of Fox’s desk.

  Grey wasted no time in coming to his point. “I need your sage advice on an idea. No one knows how to maneuver through a difficult political situation like you, eh, Charles?”

  “I do admit to some expertise in cunning and daring.” Fox leaned back and folded his hands together over his considerable stomach.

  Grey laughed politely at Fox’s self-conceit.

  “I’ve come to you with two peculiar issues, Charles,” said Grey.

  “Peculiar? Is there anything happening in and outside the government that isn’t peculiar?”

  “True, but these may be of particular significance.” Grey slid his finger under one of the previously broken seals on the top document, then did the same to the next one, laying the two documents side by side.

  “As we already know, with their staggering defeat at Trafalgar, combined with dismissive treatment by the French, the Spanish are secretly negotiating with us.” He tapped one of the documents. “This was picked up by one of our naval couriers. The Spanish gentleman in question is still interested and requests a meeting with us.”

  Fox picked up the document and scanned it. “Excellent. I’ll have this most fortuitous opportunity arranged. But what makes this odd?”

  Grey pushed the second paper forward. “This. I suspected that there might be a spy among us who just might ruin our ability to keep these negotiations secret. But I wasn’t sure and didn’t want to be an alarmist.”

  Fox put aside the first document and read the second one.

  Now Grey had the foreign secretary’s interest. Fox sat up straight.

  “Hmm. This seems to confirm your misgivings. How good is your intelligence?”

  “Good enough that I’m worried it could be true.”

  “Then this is indeed a problem, Lord Grey. I don’t need to remind you that with Spain committed to remaining neutral, we can open a second front against Napoleon, and we can also provide stronger fortifications for our ally, Portugal.”

  Fox folded the incriminating document. “This is very serious. We can’t have our plans destroyed by a traitor. Do you have specific evidence linking this purported spy to any revealed information?”

  “Only what is described there.” Grey pointed to the folded sheet Fox had just put down.

  “What do you propose to do?”

  Grey sat back in his chair, elbows on its brown leather arms, and folded the fingers of both hands into a temple in front of his chest.

  “I believe our fabled waxwork stowaway may be the locksmith who can make the key to solve our little problem.”

  “You mean the woman aboard Victory? The one who made the Nelson figure? What could she possibly have to do with this?”

  Grey explained his idea, which Fox considered for several lon
g moments. “You know, Grey, I had no insight before now as to how well your mind worked. You’re quite clever, really. And I believe I could be of some use to you, given my position. I can, shall we say, bring some influence to the parties in question.”

  “Which exceeds my highest hopes. I’ll arrange things immediately.”

  The two men shook hands over their private agreement.

  Marguerite was surprised by two noteworthy visitors to the exhibit a week later: Charles James Fox and Charles Grey. The two men looked like caricatures of one another, with Grey’s tall, lean, and dapper stature in direct contrast to Fox’s short, rotund, and decidedly sloppy appearance. Fox’s breath reeked of spirits, but he was articulate nonetheless.

  They made a special point of introducing themselves to her and admiring her collection of figures, stating that her work at Trafalgar was well known to them. Marguerite was flattered but told them frankly that most of the exhibition was part of Madame Tussaud’s collection, currently being shown in Dublin.

  A look she couldn’t interpret passed between the foreign secretary and the first lord of the Admiralty. She was even more puzzled when they asked to see what figures she might personally have in progress.

  Putting the exhibit in the charge of her new assistant, a young medical student trying to fund his education, who cared for the figures as well as Marguerite did herself, she led her esteemed guests to the workroom.

  She showed them her current works in progress, re-creations of both Nelson and Hardy, which she was working on from the mask she still retained from the Nelson sitting and the portraits she’d been given of Hardy.

  Fox and Grey circled around the partially completed figures, murmuring their appreciation of the artistry in them.

  Fox patted his stained waistcoat. “We know, Mrs. Ashby, that Mr. Pitt engaged you to make these figures originally. I’m no fan of the late prime minister’s, but must admit that he was rather a genius in his decision to employ your talents.”

  “I’m deeply honored, sir. My mentor, Madame Tussaud, deserves most of the credit for whatever talent I might have.”