“Well! That was simply exhilarating, was it not?” Lizbit’s hair was tumbling out from her hat, and part of the heel had snapped off one of her shoes. She removed the broken mule and held it up. “What a fine remembrance of our escapade. I shall treasure it always.” She laughed, clenching her footwear and shaking it.
Claudette was damp with perspiration and fright. Béatrice was red-faced and panting heavily, with her daughter sniffling miserably at her side. Lizbit said, “My goodness! Did our little adventure knock the wind out of you? I know, let’s stop somewhere for tea and plan what to do with you.”
Lizbit treated the women to a light meal at a nearby coffee house so they could regain their composure, and offered a suggestion.
“You want honest work here in London, right? My aunt would be of no help at all—she keeps her fortune locked up tightly and cannot bear to see a farthing go to anyone other than her precious architect—but I think there’s a better way. Let’s find a church parish that would take you in and help you to find work. They would feed you and provide you with a reference, I’m sure.”
Getting no response from Béatrice other than a pathetic, pleading look for help, Claudette accepted for them both. They trudged through Southwark until they found a fruit vendor who pointed them to St. George the Martyr’s. Amid kisses and embraces of professed friendship at the steps of the church, the three vowed to reunite in the future, after Lizbit became a Woman of Substance and Claudette a Woman of Independence. Privately, Claudette thanked Lizbit profusely.
“Lizbit, I will be ever grateful to you. I will never be fooled by a man like Simon Briggs again.”
“My dear, don’t ever let any man make a fool of you.”
“I promise.” She looked over to where the curate’s wife was chatting gaily to Béatrice and Marguerite about her herb garden. Béatrice understood minimal English but gave the woman her devoted attention. “I have too much responsibility now to allow myself to be deceived by anyone.”
Lizbit followed her gaze. “I fear you will grow up very quickly.”
Versailles, March 1781. Marie Antoinette had been in mourning since November of the previous year, when a messenger reported that her mother, Empress Maria Theresa, had died following a protracted illness. However, now she hugged herself with a secret: she was certain she was enceinte. This time it simply must be a boy. Perhaps, she thought, I should have the new art tutor for the king’s sister, Madame Elisabeth, paint a picture of the country’s queen in glowing health from carrying the nation’s heir.
Such a portrait would require a new gown, one that flattered her emerging condition. And perhaps she should be painted next to the royal cradle. A new one should be purchased in anticipation of the heir, who should not sleep anywhere that another mortal had, even his sister. The cradle should be gilded, as befitting a future king.
She would speak to Louis about the purchases as soon as she shared her secret with him. She wondered fleetingly if a gold-leafed cradle cost a significant amount of money.
Oh bother, Marie Antoinette thought. I have no head for money, and the people see how simply I try to live. Monsieur the king will decide.
6
London, October 1781. Claudette’s stomach was gnawing away irritatingly as she stood at the imposing front door of the Ashby family’s two-story brick residence. Behind her, Béatrice cowered, while her unflappable daughter kept up a steady stream of conversation. “Whose house is this? Why are we visiting? Do you know them, Mama?” Claudette hushed her, then lifted the bronze knocker, a lion’s head with bared teeth and narrowed eyes.
The door was opened by a middle-aged woman, severely dressed in black. Her eyes were tiny pinpoints of gray, devoid of warmth and mostly obscured by a large hook nose. Her hair was pulled so tightly into a bun at the back of her head that the woman’s hairline was white from the pulling. Claudette was certain that stray hairs would not dare to escape without the permission of their owner.
“Yes?” the woman asked.
“I am Claudette Laurent. Reverend Daniels has given me reference to work for Monsieur Ashby and his family.”
The woman held out a great paw of a hand, and Claudette handed over the reference. She glanced down at it, and Claudette thought the woman was unable to read it.
“Seems to be a reference all right. Who are those two?” she asked, pointing her head toward Béatrice and Marguerite.
“This is my friend, Béatrice du Georges. We have recently arrived in England and are seeking employment together.” Claudette nudged Béatrice forward.
“And the brat?”
“This is Béatrice’s daughter, Marguerite. She is a very well-mannered child and can even help with duties. She is no trouble at all and is very quiet.”
“Mrs. Ashby won’t like you bringing a worthless mouth to feed. You’d better be off.” She began to close the door, but Claudette stepped forward and held it open.
“Madame, we are very tired and, quite frankly, very hungry, since we have eaten little beyond pottage and warm ale since arriving here. I was assured that this reference would grant us an interview for work in this home, and I intend to have my interview.”
The servant stood and stared at Claudette for several long seconds, deciding whether to establish her position and dominance in the household over this sassy young woman, or risk the legendary Maude Ashby anger for not admitting two referenced servants into the house. Slowly she stepped back to let the two women and the accompanying energetic child in.
“I am Mrs. Lundy. I am the housekeeper and therefore all other servants are in my charge. You’ll wait here and I’ll see if Mrs. Ashby wants to talk to you.” She held the reference out in front of her with distaste, and left the room.
Béatrice let out a great moan of despair. “Oh, Claudette, that woman does not want us here. It’s Marguerite, isn’t it? She doesn’t like my child. If we don’t find positions here, what will we do?”
“Stop it, Béatrice. We will find employment here. If we don’t, we’ll knock on every door in London until we do.”
Marguerite, who was momentarily cowed into silence by Mrs. Lundy, found her voice again. “Mama, Mama, is this our new house? Who lives here? Are they your friends? Mama, I’m hungry.” Béatrice absentmindedly patted her daughter’s head. “Yes, chérie, these are our new friends.”
After a short wait, Mrs. Ashby arrived. She had clearly been an attractive woman in her youth, and still retained that beauty in a cold, statuesque sort of way, with the help of bold hair dyes, subtle cosmetics, and skin softening lotions. She held the reference in her hand.
“So Reverend Daniels sent you to me. Don’t I line the church’s offering box well enough without him sending me charity cases on top of it all? Surely he knows that I cannot afford…that I don’t require any more servants here at Ash House.” She stared at the threesome for several long moments, tapping the document against the front of her fancy, if slightly ill-fitting, dress. Claudette envisioned nipping the waist in just slightly to emphasize Mrs. Ashby’s slender frame a bit, and adding some lace to the bottom of her three-quarter length sleeves. A doll would have never left Papa’s shop in such poor condition as what she saw here on this wealthy lady.
A dramatic sigh emanated from Maude Ashby. “I don’t suppose either of you have ever done domestic work, have you? Let me see your hands. Humph. As I thought, coddled and pampered your whole lives.”
Béatrice shrank at the accurate description, but Claudette took a step forward. “Madame, I am the daughter of one of Paris’s finest dollmakers. I am well-accustomed to serving customers, cleaning a shop, and all aspects of fine dollmaking. It is my father’s death that brings me to reduced circumstances, but, assuredly, I am used to hard work.” She pulled Béatrice