The Queen's Dollmaker by Christine Trent Page A

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