innkeeper. Tussaud was indefatigable when it came to her business, and talked of nothing else.
The coach resumed its uncomfortable journey and it was near twilight when it finally arrived at another inn in the town of Weybridge, where the two women were met by another carriage displaying the Hanoverian seal. Their meager belongings were hoisted onto the carriage and they were soon entering the drive leading to Oatlands Park.
They approached the large, drab, gothic-style house in tan brick from the right side. Candles were already burning in many of the mullioned windows. The coach pulled up to the entrance, a stone portico with three sets of columns topped with arches.
“How curious,” Marguerite remarked. “It doesn’t even seem as grand as the Lyceum, and it’s a royal residence.”
“Hah! This is the replacement to the old Tudor house that was here. I hear that was very grand with many towers and courts.”
The women were escorted into a large entry hall by a liveried doorman and were requested to wait. Within a few minutes they heard a sharp clicking noise in the distance, followed by several sharp barks. Three black, mop-haired little dogs came bounding in, stopping short to warn their mistress of the two intruders in their house. Behind them entered the exhibition’s new client, Princess Frederica Charlotte, the Duchess of York and Albany.
The duchess, whom Marguerite guessed to be about Marie’s age, wore an emerald green dress with white trim and a gold sash around the waist. Her matching cap with a purple ostrich feather sprouting from the crest of it covered her curled and frizzed red hair. Her nose was overly long and her eyes almost crossed, giving her a homely look, but her charm was captivating. Marie and Marguerite curtsied before her. In response, she approached both women, giving each a gentle kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you for coming to see me at my humble little residence. Would you care for some refreshment after your trip?” The duchess rang a small bell and gave instructions to the servant who appeared from nowhere.
Two more servants entered promptly to set a table near the room’s enormous panel of windows set four high and six across, looking out over formal gardens and terraces, barely visible in the fading daylight.
With sharp efficiency, a linen cloth was snapped open on the table and three place settings were arranged. The women were seated and served biscuits with strawberry and apricot jams, peach fritters, nuts, and sweet wine. Two of the Duchess of York’s small dogs sat expectantly at their mistress’s feet and waited for nibbles to be bestowed upon them. They didn’t have to wait long, as she personally slathered jam on bits of biscuit and hand-fed the eager recipients.
Thanks to the duchess’s kindly charm, the three women chatted as though they were old friends reunited after a long absence, although Marie remained the quietest one of the trio. The duchess was surprisingly gentle yet candid. “I do not get many visitors from London here, although the townspeople are quite sympathetic toward me. Everyone knows of my calamitous marriage with the prince, which should have put me in the most awkward predicament. But I find I am happy to be retired here in my little home with my pets to keep me company and the affection of the locals to keep me comforted.” As if on cue, another dog came scrabbling into the room, tongue hanging to one side of its small but inquisitive face.
The duchess laughed at the newcomer. “Please, Cassandra, use a more ladylike entrance before our guests.” Another well-coated biscuit went to the floor.
Next to Marguerite, Marie was rustling with impatience. Marguerite smiled inwardly. She was beginning to really like her no-nonsense mentor, who was clearly becoming irritated with the canine intrusions.
“Ahem, Your Grace, would you like to talk about your model now?” Marie tried turning the conversation toward more important
The coach resumed its uncomfortable journey and it was near twilight when it finally arrived at another inn in the town of Weybridge, where the two women were met by another carriage displaying the Hanoverian seal. Their meager belongings were hoisted onto the carriage and they were soon entering the drive leading to Oatlands Park.
They approached the large, drab, gothic-style house in tan brick from the right side. Candles were already burning in many of the mullioned windows. The coach pulled up to the entrance, a stone portico with three sets of columns topped with arches.
“How curious,” Marguerite remarked. “It doesn’t even seem as grand as the Lyceum, and it’s a royal residence.”
“Hah! This is the replacement to the old Tudor house that was here. I hear that was very grand with many towers and courts.”
The women were escorted into a large entry hall by a liveried doorman and were requested to wait. Within a few minutes they heard a sharp clicking noise in the distance, followed by several sharp barks. Three black, mop-haired little dogs came bounding in, stopping short to warn their mistress of the two intruders in their house. Behind them entered the exhibition’s new client, Princess Frederica Charlotte, the Duchess of York and Albany.
The duchess, whom Marguerite guessed to be about Marie’s age, wore an emerald green dress with white trim and a gold sash around the waist. Her matching cap with a purple ostrich feather sprouting from the crest of it covered her curled and frizzed red hair. Her nose was overly long and her eyes almost crossed, giving her a homely look, but her charm was captivating. Marie and Marguerite curtsied before her. In response, she approached both women, giving each a gentle kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you for coming to see me at my humble little residence. Would you care for some refreshment after your trip?” The duchess rang a small bell and gave instructions to the servant who appeared from nowhere.
Two more servants entered promptly to set a table near the room’s enormous panel of windows set four high and six across, looking out over formal gardens and terraces, barely visible in the fading daylight.
With sharp efficiency, a linen cloth was snapped open on the table and three place settings were arranged. The women were seated and served biscuits with strawberry and apricot jams, peach fritters, nuts, and sweet wine. Two of the Duchess of York’s small dogs sat expectantly at their mistress’s feet and waited for nibbles to be bestowed upon them. They didn’t have to wait long, as she personally slathered jam on bits of biscuit and hand-fed the eager recipients.
Thanks to the duchess’s kindly charm, the three women chatted as though they were old friends reunited after a long absence, although Marie remained the quietest one of the trio. The duchess was surprisingly gentle yet candid. “I do not get many visitors from London here, although the townspeople are quite sympathetic toward me. Everyone knows of my calamitous marriage with the prince, which should have put me in the most awkward predicament. But I find I am happy to be retired here in my little home with my pets to keep me company and the affection of the locals to keep me comforted.” As if on cue, another dog came scrabbling into the room, tongue hanging to one side of its small but inquisitive face.
The duchess laughed at the newcomer. “Please, Cassandra, use a more ladylike entrance before our guests.” Another well-coated biscuit went to the floor.
Next to Marguerite, Marie was rustling with impatience. Marguerite smiled inwardly. She was beginning to really like her no-nonsense mentor, who was clearly becoming irritated with the canine intrusions.
“Ahem, Your Grace, would you like to talk about your model now?” Marie tried turning the conversation toward more important
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