A Royal Likeness (9 page)

Marguerite blanched and felt the floor shifting beneath her. She reflexively grabbed the top of the bust’s head for support then snatched her hand away as if touching molten rock. This must be Colonel Despard, the traitor that cursed mob complained about, and whose actions so deeply affected her own life. She looked down at the placard, which confirmed it. She took a deep breath.

“Nothing at all. I was just a little light-headed. I should have eaten breakfast.”

“Yes, I tell you at home you need more food than that little bit of toast you ate. Waxworking is hard work.”

“You’re right, of course. I’ll be much more careful.”

Marguerite realized that this apprenticeship might prove to be much more demanding than dollmaking ever was.

During her first two weeks in the exhibition, Marguerite did little more than sweep, dust, and assist Marie with rearrangement of the figures. Her mentor seemed to have an inexhaustible combination of ways to arrange them to make the exhibit seem “different” without actually adding anything new. They rearranged the gallery every couple of days. Sometimes they were lined up as soldiers, as Marguerite had seen them on her first arrival at the exhibition. Sometimes they grouped busts by subject, such as decorated war heroes together in a cluster or perhaps well-known politicians in an arc facing one another, then they put full-length characters together as though they were at a garden party. On other days, Marie might decide to create a visual maze of the busts and figures, forcing visitors through a winding path of wax statues. Each morning Marie would decide whether to make any changes, and the three of them—little Joseph included—would work furiously to change the setting prior to opening the doors at ten o’clock each morning. After that, Marguerite would retreat to the workroom to arrange supplies and clean, coming out only when summoned by Marie for a menial task. Joseph remained at his mother’s side, welcoming guests as Marie collected admission fees.

Each evening after the exhibit closed around eight o’clock, they typically stopped at a street vendor’s cart for bread, hard slices of cheddar, and perhaps some smoked fish or sliced lamb, before walking the few blocks back to their lodging. Marguerite fell into a pleasantly tired, dreamless sleep each night, a welcome relief from the months of nightmares at Hevington. Even her headaches were subsiding.

One morning prior to opening time they were visited by a tall man with deeply recessed eyes and a shock of thick black hair. His looks were not handsome as much as they were arresting. Marguerite estimated that he was taller than even Uncle William, except that this man’s presence was far more imposing, almost regally so. He looked quizzically at Marguerite and gave her a polite nod, but did not question her presence.

“Madame, I have come about your payment for—”

“Shush, do not speak so in front of others.” Marie was visibly agitated. “We will go to the back. Mrs. Ashby, you please finish preparing Sir Francis.” She motioned for the man to follow her to the workroom.

Marguerite returned to smoothing out imperfections on Marie’s latest creation, that of Sir Francis Burdett, a member of Parliament who had visited France during the early years of the Revolution. His wife, Sophia, had encouraged him to visit Madame Tussaud to have his own model made, in honor of his successful efforts at prison reforms. Marie had negotiated for the figure to remain in the exhibit for a week before turning it over to him. Today was to be the first day of his display and it was vital that it look perfect before its final placement in the center of the gallery. While Marguerite used a dampened cloth to press out any lingering rough spots, Joseph used a footstool to reach up and drape a blue velvet cloak around the figure’s shoulders for dramatic effect.

Although Joseph spoke to Marguerite as little as possible, the miniature adult had softened a bit and was at least willing to work alongside her. Since she had arrived, Marguerite had not yet been permitted to collect admissions, interact with customers, or work with wax beyond last-minute detailing. Yet little Joseph went wherever his mother did and had a larger role than the apprentice did thus far, so he treated Marguerite with a magnanimity that was amusing to see in a young boy.

In the early hours of the day the entire theatre was quiet, so when voices rose in the workroom, Marguerite could hear snippets of their conversation. Marie’s voice took on a shrillness and in short order both were quarrelling in French.

“Fifty percent of receipts …”

“Bills are due …”

“The landlord plans to … fixtures …”

“Gas! The man is mad.”

“… have been successful here … successful elsewhere.”

Joseph made a motion as though to join his mother in the workroom, but Marguerite put a cautionary finger to her lips and shook her head.

“Whatever goes on in there is between your
maman
and that gentleman. Who is he?”

“That’s Mr. Philipsthal, Maman’s partner.”

“The man with the show next door? The Phantasmagoria?”

“Yes, Maman came to England so he could make her famous.”

Interesting. There seemed to be a disagreement on the road to fame.

“Have you been to the Phantasmagoria show, Joseph?”

Joseph looked at her with incredulity. “Mrs. Ashby, I have responsibilities here. There is no time to visit his show.” Really, it was difficult to keep from giggling when he became so expressive and adultlike.

“I understand perfectly. I should like to see it, though. After all, don’t you wonder what an invisible girl looks like? Or sounds like, I suppose.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Ashby. I’m too busy with Maman.”

At that moment, Marie and Mr. Philipsthal came out from the back room. Marguerite kept her head bent over her work. As the tiny woman strode by, frizzed hair peeping out from underneath her cap, she spoke without stopping. “Marguerite, I must speak to Mr. Winsor. Today you learn to take admissions. Nini, you show her.”

Joseph’s face was one of dismay, but Marguerite had little thought for him. Mr. Winsor was the Lyceum’s owner. What had happened that necessitated that immediate meeting? But Marie was gone before she could ask.

If Joseph was a mask of disappointment, Mr. Philipsthal’s face was one of great hope. “Madame, I do not believe I have had the pleasure of meeting you, although I was most entranced by your beauty earlier.” He swept an extremely elegant bow. His French accent spoke of culture and grace and manliness. “Now that my business is concluded, I hope we can be properly introduced.”

“I am Marguerite Ashby, Madame Tussaud’s new apprentice. I have been here only a short time.”

“Marguerite.” It rolled on his tongue like a fine wine. “Such a lovely name. Are you a French émigré, too?”

“My mother came to England when I was about five years old. I think of myself as purely English.”

“Miss Ashby, have you been to see my Phantasmagoria show?”

“Mrs. Ashby. I am widowed, sir. No, my time here at the wax exhibit is greatly accounted for and I have little to spare for other activities.”

“My condolences on your loss. Your attire suggests you are no longer mourning. Is that so?”

“Not formally, no.”

“Then as Madame Tussaud’s business partner I insist that you attend the show one evening, and that you permit me the great pleasure of treating you to supper afterwards. Would Friday next be convenient?”

“Oh, I’m not sure that I have time for leisurely pursuits.”

“Nonsense. I’m certain Madame would be happy to see her charming new apprentice enjoy a few hours on her own. Besides, she is a great aficionado of my show. If you are to learn our business, it makes sense for you to see many aspects of it.”

“But thus far I have not done much in the way of—”

“Mrs. Ashby, please do not mistake my intentions. I simply wish to be considerate and … neighborly. You need not fear me.”

But it wasn’t fear she felt. It was sheer terror at the thought of being courted by a man. Was his insistence that he had no designs on her a ruse? Or had she become irrational beyond all reasonable expectations?

Calm yourself. Not everyone has ghastly intentions toward you.

“I suppose that would be fine. Provided Madame Tussaud will not need me that evening.”

“Excellent. I presume you are staying in the same lodgings with her? Very well, I’ll be there promptly at seven o’clock to escort you back here.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Madame Tussaud had responded to Marguerite’s query about taking time to go to the Phantasmagoria show with a snorted “Humph” and a muttered “waste of time it is” but did not try to prevent her from going.

Mr. Philipsthal was as good as his word, and arrived at Surrey Street promptly at seven o’clock. Marguerite was glad Aunt Claudette had convinced her to take one fancy gown. She had not had need to dress elegantly for so long that she found herself actually laughing when she fumbled with pinning a fringed shawl around her shoulders.

Nevertheless, she thought herself presentable when Mr. Philipsthal arrived, and his appreciative eye confirmed it. He, too, had taken care with his appearance, and sported a gleaming gold watch dangling from his waistband.

At the Lyceum Theatre many other carriages were arriving and dozens of well-dressed gentlemen and their laced and feathered ladies stood milling about the entrance. Torches posted near each of the exterior columns blazed, illuminating the street, and the chandeliers under the portico brightly reflected the anticipation of the patrons.

“I’ve not seen such elegantly dressed people here before. Are all of them here for your show?” Marguerite asked.

“Hopefully so. Mr. Winsor let part of the Lyceum to an orchestra, and they may be having a concert tonight. He’s trying to promote the fact that he is slowly installing gas lighting throughout the building. It’s the latest thing and very expensive—just what attracts the upper class.”

Their hackney finally maneuvered into position in front of the theatre and Mr. Philipsthal offered Marguerite his arm as they walked into the building. At the entrance to his show stood a uniformed young man taking admissions. The ticket seller began to say, “Welcome to Philipsthal’s Fantastic Phantasmagoria Show. Seats in the balcony cost—Mr. Philipsthal, sir, my apologies. I didn’t realize it was you.”

“It’s all right, Jack. I’m just escorting Mrs. Ashby to her seat.”

“Yes, sir.”

Inside the darkened theatre Mr. Philipsthal led her to a circular staircase to one side. At the top of the staircase he guided her to a small, empty box of four seats. He took her gloved hand and bowed over it.

“Mrs. Ashby, I will take my leave of you now.”

“Pardon me? I thought we were watching the show together.”

“Alas, I must be on hand to manage certain aspects of the show. I will return promptly at the end to escort you to supper.”

He departed with another small bow. In minutes his small theatre had filled, and a stage worker extinguished candelabra around the theatre. When he was finished, only two multistemmed candelabra on the stage remained lit. The room quieted, and Mr. Philipsthal appeared on stage from behind the hanging gold curtain.

In a low, ethereal voice, quite unlike his own, he intoned, “Gracious ladies and distinguished gentlemen, welcome to my Phantasmagoria show. I am Paul de Philipsthal, the proprietor of this show, and it is my greatest honor to have you here as the very first witnesses of several special oddities, never before seen in England or the Continent. Please prepare yourselves to be thrilled, amused, and yes, even shocked. Ladies, you may need your handkerchiefs to contain your screams. Husbands and fathers will need to keep a strict eye on their women in case they should faint dead away.”

Philipsthal stepped back behind the curtain, while a collective murmur went through the crowd. Even Marguerite found herself sitting forward in her seat.

Appearing next on stage was a man dressed in a Cossack’s uniform, with red baggy pants gathered below the knee, high-top leather boots, and a long red tunic cinched at the waist with a colorful printed sash. On his head perched a bucket-shaped hat adorned with a long white tassel that covered most of his face. He was rolled out on a small platform by a stage worker.

After positioning the Cossack in the center of the stage, the stage worker ran behind the curtain, and for several moments all was deathly still. Then from the orchestra pit in front of the stage began wafting pulsating notes of music Marguerite had never heard before. The Cossack began kicking up his legs and slapping his thighs in response to the tune. His repetitions became faster as the music increased its tempo, and just as the music reached an overwhelming crescendo, sending the man into a speed of movement impossible to sustain, the orchestra abruptly fell silent and the man ceased his dancing.

The audience clapped delightedly to show its appreciation for
the man’s performance, but he did not bow to accept the crowd’s applause. Instead, he stood stock still. Mr. Philipsthal reappeared on the stage and turned the platform around to show the audience that the man was just a mechanical device. His clothing did not stretch completely around him, and his interior workings were quite visible from anywhere in the theatre.

But how did he start moving?
Marguerite wondered. There was no one on stage to manipulate him. It was as if he had indeed danced on his own.

Mr. Philipsthal rolled the Cossack offstage to thunderous applause, and from the other side of the stage entered another worker pulling an enormous wooden cage on wheels. The cage was gloriously painted in reds, blues, and yellow, and swaths of deep blue cloth covered the top of it, draping gracefully down its sides.

Inside the cage was an enormous tiger.

Mr. Philipsthal made his entrance once again and stood next to the door of the cage, placing one hand on its lock. “My dear friends, tonight you are among the first to see Tippoo, a ferocious man-eating tiger, captured by the East India Company, but not before it mauled to death the son of the great General Munro.”

A ripple of recognition dashed through the audience. They knew Sir Hector Munro was a general who had defeated his enemy, Tippoo Sahib, known as the Tiger of Mysore, in a fight of Indian and French forces against the British East India Company just a few years earlier. Munro’s son was attacked by one of Sahib’s tigers and died in agony twenty-four hours later.