The Queen's Dollmaker by Christine Trent

everything, presenting the bundle to Béatrice as though he had slain a dragon and was presenting the trophy to his queen.
    Claudette held up the bottle of medicine made from tamarind. “How were you able to get this?”
    He did not reply, but gazed at Béatrice, who praised his efforts. “We are indeed indebted to you, Nicholas. How can we ever repay you?”
    The boy blushed scarlet and fled the room. However, he returned each evening to check on the women and see what they needed.
    On the third day, the child’s fever broke. As she regained strength, she complained of boredom. Béatrice conferred with Claudette. “Do you think Mrs. Ashby would let us ask Nicholas for some of his toys for Marguerite to play with?”
    “Never. Besides, his interests are too old for her. We’ll have to think of something to make to entertain her.”
    Claudette was able to find some primer books from the Ashby library, which she stealthily took upstairs for Marguerite, but the girl’s concentration was still low, and she insisted that reading hurt her eyes. Claudette returned the books to the library, pausing to sit in the chair where she had been intruded upon by that dreadful Mr. Greycliffe. The aristocrats were as pompous and self-serving in England as they were in France. To think how hard her papa had worked to build a name for himself, and never a conceited bone in his body, and this Greycliffe fellow with his fine clothing and firm hands just dismisses Papa’s famous creations as nothing. Why, the man never laid his eyes on one of Papa’s justifiably popular grandes Pandores , his baby houses, or his miniature dolls, or his…oh! Of course!
    Claudette jumped out of the chair and ran to the attic, nearly toppling over Mrs. Lundy in her haste. Mrs. Lundy yelled at her, but Claudette had no time to stop. She dashed up the narrow back stairs, skirts in hand, until she reached her tiny room. Reaching under the bed, she pulled out her forgotten trunk of dollmaking supplies. Perhaps now she could bring back the spark to Marguerite’s eyes.
    With Béatrice’s help, Claudette worked far into the night to fashion two crude dolls for Marguerite, both roughly carved from scraps of stored firewood. One wore black breeches made from a discarded leather glove and the other a muslin dress whose fabric had been snipped from Béatrice’s apron. They crushed bruised strawberries to dye the fabric.
    Marguerite was enchanted. “Mama! For me?” She petted the dolls and put them to her face. “These are my new bébés .”
    The next evening, after a particularly trying day with Jassy, Claudette checked in on Marguerite. Béatrice was sitting on the side of the bed, listening to her daughter play-act with the dolls.
    “Now, Mrs. Ashby, I say you must not be so rude to your servants, especially Madame du Georges, who is much smarter and nicer than you. I shall have to take a switch to you if you cannot behave properly. And you, Mr. Ashby, I expect you would like to be at Brooks’s right now, wouldn’t you?” Marguerite covered Mr. Ashby with her pillow and continued admonishing the Mrs. Ashby doll. Béatrice clapped lightly and hugged her daughter. A soft knock on Béatrice’s door interrupted them.
    Their fellow servant, Jack Smythe, entered, delivering a summons for Claudette to attend to her mistress after dinner before she and Mr. Ashby went calling on some friends. Claudette turned away from Jack and rolled her eyes.
    The young man saw Marguerite playing with the Mrs. Ashby doll on the bed and asked about it. Marguerite immediately brought Mr. Ashby out from his hiding place to show them both to Jack. “Mademoiselle Laurent and Mama made them for me,” she enthused. “They are my new bébés , although when I grow up I shall have ten real babies of my own.”
    Jack touched the dolls speculatively. He looked at Claudette. “Do you have more of these?”
    “No, I just put those together to comfort Marguerite. Why?”
    “I could sell