Читать книгу The Queen's Dollmaker - Christine Trent - Страница 13

London pier was teeming with every species of life imaginable. The confusion of dock workers, stray animals, and travelers was disorienting, and was comparable to the chaos Claudette had experienced during the fire, less the acrid smell of burning wood. However, the odor of rotting offal that seemed to be everywhere gagged her similarly, and brought her tamped-down memories to life again. Had she just lost Mama and Papa forty-eight hours ago? Did Jean-Philippe and his parents know that her parents were gone? Were they looking for her? She fought back a sob. The sound of Simon Briggs’s voice brought her out of her daze.

“You ladies gather round here,” he directed once they had disembarked. “We’ve got some customers coming up now. Smile, show them how agreeable you are.”

Most of the women, barely out of their teens, had no idea how to demonstrate that they were “agreeable,” and so just smiled and called out inane things like, “Here, sir!” “Pick me, sir!” and “I’m a hard worker!” Their voices were a cacophony of French voices sprinkled with occasional English. Several finely dressed men approached the group, and looked the women over as though appraising thoroughbreds.

Lizbit appeared behind Claudette and Béatrice. “I think it is time to make your exit from this fine company of associates. Follow me.” The three women and Marguerite joined hands and started walking casually away from the congregation, slipping away as the customers began making their selections among the newcomers.

They were about to step into the dusty street at the end of the dock when they heard a shout behind them. “You nasty little sluts get back here! I’ll beat each of your arses until they bleed.” Simon Briggs and Jemmy were running toward them, the other women and customers staring after them. Seeing the trio of women and the small child running away, with their ship’s captain in hot pursuit, the other women began chattering among themselves frantically. Lizbit stopped and turned around. “Run, ladies! They want to soil your virtue!”

Panic ensued among the remaining women, as they attempted to move away from the prospective “employers.” Some of the women ran back onto the ship, while others scattered in other directions off the landing pier. Realizing his situation was completely out of control, Briggs scurried back to reassure his customers, shouting at Jemmy to “Round up them whores or I’ll have your hide as well.”

Béatrice had swung Marguerite up in her arms as the three women continued their escape. Lizbit led them down several roughly cobbled streets and narrow alleyways, until she felt reasonably certain that Briggs was no longer going to pursue them.

“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.