The Queen's Dollmaker (21 page)

When Claudette mustered up the courage to compliment the queen on her simple but striking necklace, Marie Antoinette’s hand fluttered to her throat as she said, “Thank you, Mademoiselle Laurent. It was a gift from a dear friend.” The queen’s cheeks pinked and she changed the subject by asking about the doll’s progress.

She watched with interest as Claudette spent about an hour taking the princesse’s measurements and noting the tiniest details of her hair, eye color, and the shape of her fingers, documenting it all in a small notebook. In response to Marie Antoinette’s questions, Claudette told her that the measurements would help her build a doll that would be completely accurate and to scale, even down to the size of her hands.

“Why, Thérèse,” the queen exclaimed. “The doll will be an absolute miniature of you!” She clapped spontaneously at the thought.

The queen had picnic baskets delivered for their lunch, which they had at the Temple of Love, a rounded gazebo set high atop steps in the landscape of the Petit Trianon. The baskets were gorged with foodstuffs, and Claudette tasted from dishes she had never even heard of before. Stuffed partridges in aspic, eel with truffles, roasted larks in pastry, trout with tomato and garlic sauce, braised goose, and a salad of pike fillets with oysters were presented by liveried servants.

Claudette sampled everything except the eel, which was too richly sauced for her liking. The women finished off their food with a fine Bordeaux.

She thought the meal was over, but the servants merely removed their dishes in order to present desserts of petit fours, peaches with cream sauce, almond cheesecake, and custard.

Claudette was certain the boning in her bodice would snap under pressure. She was duly surprised when the queen, now sitting contentedly on layers of down-stuffed coverlets, commented on the simplicity of the meal.

“What a relief not to be encumbered with
service à la française
,” she sighed, patting her stomach. “I wish every meal was this unpretentious.”

At Claudette’s confused expression, Marie Grosholtz leaned over and whispered, “The court serves in three courses: the entrées, followed by the afters, and then the pastry cook’s creations. Each course may have up to thirty dishes and it takes hours to serve it all.”

Claudette shook her head in disbelief. No wonder the queen had become so stout since the time she traveled to France as a young bride.

As the women digested their food, they laughed together and talked idly until Madame Bertin became weary of “the foolish chatter” and asked for leave to return to her own shop.

The remaining four women continued chattering, mostly gossip about people and events Claudette was unfamiliar with, but it was gratifying just to be there, so she closed her eyes and leaned back against a pillar of the gazebo to listen to the pleasant voices.
How had an orphaned little dollmaker ended up having a picnic luncheon with the most famous queen in Europe?

She sat up with a start. Yes, she had been orphaned, but it was only back in France that she felt that way again. England had become her refuge, her place of success and friendship. And love. It was time to declare where home was.

Home was England.

As she bid good-bye, Claudette promised to begin work on the de Lamballe doll straightaway upon her return to London. The queen responded that she was most eager to receive the doll and have it placed in the Petit Trianon.

As for Claudette, she was just as eager to return to London. Her time in France had been a bucolic retreat, but she realized now that it was neither what she wanted nor what she needed.

She needed William.

Back at her hotel, Claudette prepared for her sailing, scheduled three days hence. Jolie showed up at her room that evening with a fresh vase of cut flowers for the bureau, and saw her recent benefactress struggling to pack all of the gifts that the dark-haired man had given her.

“May I be of assistance to you?”

Claudette stood up from what she was doing and surveyed the chaos around her. “Indeed, Jolie, I am in great need of help.”

In her indomitable way, Jolie set to work repacking Claudette’s pile of belongings. Claudette smiled as Jolie tsk-tsked and shook her head while methodically organizing the great mountain of belongings that now needed to find their way back to London.

On impulse, Claudette asked, “Jolie, what keeps you here in Paris?”

“Pardon?”
The girl looked up from where she was wrapping a bone-handled mirror and matching brush.

“Do you think your uncle would greatly miss you if you left? Would you like to return to England and live with me as my lady’s maid?”

The great orbs expanded. “Madame,” she breathed. “I should be your most devoted servant. You will be the most elegantly dressed lady in London. I will—”

Claudette laughed. “Jolie, I know I can rely on you. Now, I shall pay you a fair wage, and you will have a comfortable bed, and you need never, ever worry that I would lift my hand to you. You will be a welcome member of my household.”

Claudette found that Jolie’s uncle was not quite as enthusiastic about the idea as young Jolie was, since he would be losing his free domestic help. Ultimately, it came down to a cash payment for releasing the girl, which Claudette agreed to gladly. He hardly noticed Jolie’s departure, so intent was he on counting money and bragging of it to his wife.

Claudette’s final task before leaving was to write a very difficult letter, for which she paid a courier handsomely to deliver at once.

William’s most recent letter had been even more distant than the first one detailing his mare’s confinement. Perhaps she had become too sure of his devoted pursuit of her. Any thought of a pleasurable reconciliation with Jean-Philippe paled in comparison to the terrifying notion of William’s possible desertion. Her only concern now was to return home.

To her surprise, Jean-Philippe was waiting outside the hotel to escort them all the way to Calais. Jolie was round-eyed and dazed by Jean-Philippe’s handsome looks and impeccable French manners. Realizing the girl’s awe of him, he went out of his way to be considerate of the new servant, whom Claudette seemed to hold in high regard. The interminable carriage ride was one of uncomfortable silence, with Jolie staring incessantly at Jean-Philippe, and Claudette avoiding his gaze entirely.

Jean-Philippe sent Jolie ahead onto the ship, saying he knew he could count on her to ensure the luggage was delivered aboard properly. The girl obeyed him without question. As soon as she was out of earshot, Jean-Philippe unfolded a piece of paper from his vest and held it out to Claudette, beseechingly.

“Surely you do not mean this?” he asked.

Her lips trembled. “I do. I do mean to return to England for good.”

“This is impossible. Claudette, you belong to me, to France. I understand that you went to England in desperation, but that is a country of nothing but sots and sheep farmers. They have no art, no culture, no manners. How could you possibly wish to spend your life there, away from me?”

She looked down. The guilt was unbearable. “I…I have responsibilities there. Not only to the shop, but to other people—friends.”

“What friends are these?”

“You remember that I mentioned Béatrice, whom I met on the ship to England? She and her daughter live with me, and I help support them.”

“What of it? Either they can come back here with you, or they can find another benefactress in England.”

She met his gaze and kept her voice steady. “I would not ask it of her. In any case, I do not find that I miss France as much now that I have returned for a visit.”

Jean-Philippe blinked at her in disbelief. “What are you saying? That now that you have spent time with me, your betrothed, you find that you are anxious to return to that bleak isle across the Channel?”

“No, I—”

“Is it that English pig you say wants to marry you? No matter, I’ll tear him to shreds with my own hands for daring to lay claim to you. Just say the word, my love.”

“Jean-Philippe, it’s not—”

He grabbed her around the waist with one arm, and, cupping her head with his other arm, pulled her toward him for a violent kiss. Unlike the Jean-Philippe of years ago, his kiss did not thrill her young senses. Instead, it terrified her. He forced her lips apart with his tongue, a battering ram intended to break down her reserves by force. In mere moments he was moaning wildly.

Taken unawares, Claudette did not at first struggle until she realized he did not mean to be gentle with her. She pushed against him but he did not release her, so she kicked him in the shin, which startled him into letting go.

“Claudette,” he whispered from deep in his throat. “I’m sorry. I lost my head.”

“It’s nothing. The whistle is blowing; I have to go.”

“Darling, please, stay here with me. Do not end it this way.”

She turned her back on him and walked toward the gangplank, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth to erase what had just happened.

“Claudette, I do not accept your refusal. You will come back to me one day. We are destined for one another. We will—”

She lost the sound of his voice as she boarded the ship that waited to take her back to England and William.

Claudette enmeshed herself in a new endeavor to clear her mind of what had transpired in France: developing a stamp for her dolls. Her father never put his mark on his merchandise, feeling that his goods were recognizable by their quality and design. Claudette, however, wanted customers to know her fine dolls by an easily-identifiable marking. The silversmiths used these marks—why not a dollmaker?

She browsed through dozens of shops, surreptitiously turning over goods and looking for their marks with a small, bone-handled magnifying glass she purchased expressly for this purpose. She acquired several articles that had interesting maker’s marks, including a silver wick trimmer, a brass candlestick, and an ornate wooden table clock. She spread them out on the writing desk in her refurbished flat to examine them all more closely, and added to them the small pewter betrothal ring Jean-Philippe had given her, which she discovered also had a small marking on it.

After scrutinizing her samples at length, she began sketching her own designs for a mark, finally deciding upon one that was in the shape of a square with rounded corners. The square was divided into quarters, with a “C” and an “L” in the top left and right quadrants, an “FD” in the bottom left section for Fashion Dolls, and a tiny face to the bottom right.

She gave the design to Roger for experimentation in both wax and wood. When both were accomplished to her satisfaction, she instructed all the employees that no doll was to leave the shop without her special identifying mark. Her sample items remained on her writing desk, except for Jean-Philippe’s ring, which she sewed into another small reticule she did not use often, and hid in an armoire.

Secreting the ring away once more was her way of trying to bury the past. William’s greeting when she disembarked from the ship had been cool, and the lips that brushed hers were not enthusiastic to have found their loving mates. He had thawed over the course of a few weeks, as Claudette’s bubbling enthusiasm for her shop and the most important commission she had ever had melted the reserve he had built up during her absence.

The ring had to stay buried. She must never give William reason to doubt her again.

Her mind cleared and, confident that remaining in England with Béatrice and William was the proper course of action, she was now ready to begin work on the de Lamballe doll.

Letters, sketches, and supplies shot back and forth across the Channel, as Claudette, Marie Grosholtz, and Rose Bertin continued on their collaboration. Marie painted a detailed miniature of the Princesse de Lamballe, so that Béatrice had a model from which she could mix paints for the doll’s face exactly. Forgetting Madame Bertin’s earlier command about how the doll should be dressed, Claudette suggested that the couturier select a flattering gown from the princesse’s wardrobe and send it to her for replication. A stern rebuke quickly arrived from the dressmaker.

Claudette raised an eyebrow over Madame Bertin’s imperious missive.

“Do you think the queen knows that her minister of fashion has deemed herself ‘a trusted agent’?” Claudette asked aloud of no one in particular as she folded the letter to lock it away in her desk with the other documents pertaining to the commission. Rose Bertin’s notoriety had become well-known in England as well as France, and some ladies now sought to have her gowns imported from Paris. If the Englishwomen only knew that custom with Madame Bertin entailed hiring a tyrant, they might reconsider.

The most important decision to be made for the doll regarded the overall building material. Wood or wax? A wax doll would be finer to the touch, and more easily resemble human skin, but it was still a relatively new material in dollmaking and its durability was left wanting. Some of the dolls in the queen’s collection at the Petit Trianon already had melted and gouged areas on them. Wood was resilient, but tended to look stiff and its carved faces inexpressive. This doll must be perfect, a flawless example of her craft. After consulting with Roger, she decided that the doll would be made of wood. Since it would be larger than most, they would expend extra effort in the carving to make it just as beautiful as a wax doll.

Eschewing the oak block from which she would typically make a doll, Claudette decided upon a high-grade maple, for its particularly creamy-white look and also because it was nearly impervious to rot and insects, yet easy to handle. This species cost her double what even French oak did, but this was no time for cost considerations.

Roger Hatfield had developed into a master carver, and to him Claudette entrusted the blocks of rough wood to be honed by hand, seasoned indoors for several weeks, then sanded to a fine finish. In a typical doll composition, only the head, arms, and legs would be constructed of wood, and the torso comprised of a linen sack stuffed with sawdust shavings or straw. For the de Lamballe doll, Claudette insisted that the entire body be carved of wood. Roger spent two weeks carving the doll to exacting specifications, ensuring that the miniature princesse was replicated in precise proportions to the real model. The resulting doll was more than two feet tall.

During Roger’s hibernation with the maple block, Claudette wanted him to be left alone to do his carving in private, and relegated him to a small space near a window to work. She herself only checked on his progress every three or four days. On one of her checks, she found twelve-year-old Marguerite at Roger’s feet, peppering the man with questions.

“What will happen to the wood shavings? What if you make a mistake? What color eyes will the doll have? Can I see her hands when you’re done with them?”

Patient soul that he was, Roger tried to answer her questions without losing his own concentration.

“Marguerite!” Claudette said. “Mr. Hatfield cannot concentrate with you pestering him to death. Leave him be.”

“But Aunt Claudette,” the girl protested as she was led from the room. “I just want to
know
.”

She had taken to referring to Claudette as her aunt as a way of expanding her family circle beyond her mother. An orphan herself, Claudette enjoyed the sound of it. It was impossible to stay angry with Marguerite. She had her mother’s beautiful, fragile looks, but she was made of iron. Like Claudette, she had experienced too much tragedy too young, yet had grown independent and self-confident as a result. Béatrice sometimes jested that it was fate that they had met, because Marguerite could have clearly been Claudette’s child, not her own.

And now Marguerite wanted to know about dollmaking. Maybe it was time to think about apprenticing the girl.

“If you’d really like to know, I’ll let you watch and help with the rest of the Princesse de Lamballe doll, but you must promise to leave Roger Hatfield alone.”

Marguerite kissed her cheek. “I promise, I promise, Aunt Claudette.”

So Claudette began to carefully explain every step of how she was making decisions about the manufacture of the doll, and what went into each step of the process. Marguerite’s interest far surpassed that of her mother, who saw dollmaking primarily as income. She clung to every word Claudette said, and her constant questioning transported Claudette back into her own childhood, when she interrogated her father in much the same way. Marguerite was becoming a kindred soul.

In creating the doll’s eyes, Claudette requested, and received quickly from a royal courier, two identical stones of sapphire from the queen’s personal collection. Roger carved out small sockets for the orbs, just large enough in which to tuck the stones under the wax in a depression in the wood. Each jeweled eye was secured in its socket with horsehair glue. Another package delivery revealed a velvet box with a handwritten note from the queen herself, requesting that the enclosed diamond earrings be used on the doll, as they were duplicates of a gift she had given the princesse the previous year.

Béatrice hand-mixed the pigments and thinner for painting the doll’s face, lips, eyebrows, and fingernails. Claudette fretted audibly over the doll’s skin tone, lip color, and cheek blush until in frustration Béatrice finally barred everyone except Marguerite from the workroom until it was finished. The results were exactly what Claudette had hoped for: delicate coloring that accurately reflected the princesse’s own shades.

To the top of the doll’s head Claudette applied the hair, which was cut from her own head, powdered by Marguerite, and sewn to a linen cap before being glued down.

A small trunk arrived two months after Rose Bertin’s letter. The trunk contained a hand-stitched book, inside which were several thick pages, each one titled “Bodice,” “Sleeves,” “Petticoat,” and so on, with fabric and trim samples in shades of pink and cream pinned to each page. Also in the trunk, layered in tissue, were the promised materials for making the doll’s dress. At the bottom of the trunk was Marie’s painting of the princesse in her new gown, done in oil on a rolled-up piece of canvas. Agnes put aside all other doll clothing she was designing to prepare the de Lamballe trousseau. Each evening she would cover her work with muslin sheets to prevent any specks of dust from landing on her exquisite work until it was finished. Once the gown and undergarments were complete, shoes and gloves were cut from kid and sewn firmly onto the doll. As an added touch, Agnes created a tiny lace-edged handkerchief embroidered with the letters “MA” and attached it via a loop to the doll’s wrist. The final activity was to carve Claudette’s mark on the back of the doll’s neck.

The results were breathtaking. The twenty-seven-inch doll, nestled in a splintwood box lined with deep blue velvet, was amazingly lifelike. Claudette, Béatrice, Marguerite, the three shop workers, and little Joseph Cummings stood around the box, admiring their joint creation. The wooden head was topped with a fashionable French hat of pink satin and accented by a band of pale blue with a young-ostrich feather inserted in the band. Claudette’s curly blond hair, now powdered white, was swept up and secured under the hat. The jeweled eyes sparkled mischievously at the group, and the painted lips smiled their approval. Even the diamond earrings seemed happy to be forever resting in their new location.

The de Lamballe doll’s gown, consisting of a pink and cream satin stripe overlay riding on a cream embroidered damask underskirt, was accented everywhere with ribbons and lace—at the neckline, the elbows, and around the bottom of the overlay. Tiny seed pearls had been sewn onto the kid gloves and heeled shoes in a fleur-de-lis pattern.

Claudette tucked into the doll’s box a note to the queen:

The box was tied with a deep blue velvet ribbon to match its lining, and given to a royal courier for delivery directly to Versailles.