The Queen's Dollmaker. Christine Trent
delicate situation, the queen developed—in an eloquent fashion—a cultivated private life. Only a very few trusted souls were brought into her inner circle to share in her new private life, the Princesse de Lamballe and Axel Fersen being primary members of this group.
The queen organized, and participated in, theatricals of her own devising as a means of escaping the oppressiveness of everyday court life. These plays were fanciful and silly, but harmless, and she loved escaping her daily life by performing. The king approved and welcomed his wife’s changes, which also included the abandonment of heavy makeup and the adoption of plainer clothes in place of ostentatious court dress. Marie Antoinette could frequently be seen strolling about the sculptured gardens of Versailles without any jewels adorning her neck, fingers, hair, or clothing, and wearing the simplest of muslin gowns with not so much as a stitch of embroidery on them. Many of the senior women of the French court were severely disapproving of this escape from court tradition, and vengefully gossiped that she was guilty of the sin of pride.
Another victim of her new lifestyle was Rose Bertin, the queen’s couturier.
“Majesty.” The Duchesse de Cosse, mistress of the robes, entered the queen’s chamber clutching the wardrobe book and a pincushion. “Would you like to select your outfits for today?”
The queen was expected to select several clothing changes each day. One dress might be for breakfast and taking a short walk afterward. Another might be a horse-riding habit, should she choose to follow the king on the hunt. Yet another change of apparel was required for receiving visitors later in the day, and perhaps a fourth change for a supper party. The queen sat up in her canopied bed topped with ostrich feathers and turned the pages of the well-worn book, each page cataloging a separate outfit with swatches of fabric, lace, and other trims attached. It was her privilege each morning to mark the pages containing selections she wished to see by inserting a sharp pin into the appropriate pages. The mistress of the robes then had the porters bring in taffeta-covered baskets containing the apparel for the queen’s final approval.
The queen flipped past the pages of Flemish laces and East Indian silks, and arrived at the back of the book, which contained newer creations. She marked three pages with pins, and handed the book and pincushion back to the duchesse, thinking that her choices created an ensemble Count Fersen might find flattering on his planned visit that day. The duchesse curtsied appropriately and backed out of the room, her face in a scowl over the queen’s distasteful selection. She knew exactly whom to see before giving the book to the porters.
Twenty minutes later, the queen heard a soft scratching at the door. One of her ladies entered, apologizing for the intrusion, but before she could state her mission, a loud voice behind her drowned the woman out.
“Madame! This is outrageous!” A large, overbearing woman stalked into the chamber, waving the queen’s selections in her hand. The other woman quickly fled the room.
The queen sighed good-naturedly. “What ails you today, Madame Bertin?”
“This.” She held the wardrobe book pages out to the queen. “Surely you wish to wear something more suitable, instead of a peasant’s costume?”
Rose Bertin was one of few people with such familiar access to the queen, who relied on the dressmaker heavily for the creation of extravagant court outfits. Such was Rose’s influence with the queen, and subsequently with all the court ladies, that she was referred to as the Minister of Fashion.
Marie Antoinette ignored the proffered pages. “I have no court business today, so what I have chosen pleases me very much.”
Bertin tamped down her impatience. Really, this simplicity phase of the queen’s was intolerable. Rose Bertin had built her considerable reputation largely on the queen’s patronage. The more extravagant a gown she wore, the more profitable her business, as ladies of the court flocked to her shop to imitate what the queen was wearing. However, no one wanted to wear a commoner’s garb. And there was little profit in outfitting someone who did.
“But it is unseemly for the most important woman in Europe to be dressed so, so…shamefully.”
The queen laughed lightly. “Unseemly for the monarchy, or unseemly for Madame Bertin?”
The couturier reddened, but pressed her case. “Your Majesty,” she cajoled. “The people love to see their queen dressed regally so they can admire her.”
The famous Hapsburg lower lip jutted out, a sure sign of impending stubbornness.
“The last thing the people care for is to see me strolling about in finery. I am pleased with the light blue muslin and straw hat I selected. In fact, I think I should like a pink sash for my waist. Please tell the duchesse this.”
Bertin made no move to leave, her mind still furiously working to concoct a way to convince the queen to abandon her love affair with common garb.
Marie Antoinette prompted her. “You will need to tell the duchesse right away, before the porters have finished gathering my clothing.”
Madame Bertin huffed, but realized she could push the queen no further. She departed with the wardrobe book pages still in her hand, tossing them to the lady-in-waiting posted outside the door. “Tell the Duchesse de Cosse that the Antoinette wants a pink sash to go with the splendid milkmaid’s dress she is wearing today,” she said imperiously, hardly glancing at the woman. The woman gaped at Bertin’s coarseness in referring to the queen just outside her bedchamber. After all, most people talked badly about the queen out of earshot, and in whispers.
As for Marie Antoinette, she could not please the people of her country, no matter how she dressed. Only the birth of a Dauphin could soothe them and return her to a favored place in their affections.
5
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