Evangeline

Jennifer Smythe was good at this. Good at being interested in something without appearing to be interested. It was a skill she had honed during more than thirty years of poking through attics and garage sales and attending auctions. With just a hint of a flared nostril, a downturned lip or a disappointed sigh, she could shatter expectations and lower hopes. She had carefully built her reputation as an expert appraiser of antique dolls and had even appeared on the Antiques Roadshow and a BBC documentary about the dolls of Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret at Windsor Castle. She had made a lot of money and a good life for herself by pretending not to be interested.

Jennifer lifted the doll from the shop’s shelf and ran her fingers over its hand.

“I call her Amelia,” said the wheelchair-bound owner of Dottie’s Dollies. “She’s an authentic Armand Marseille, made in Germany in 1910—”

“Koppelsdorf,” murmured Jennifer, inserting her expertise into their negotiation like a fine stiletto, maintaining the upper hand while avoiding appearing to be condescending. “Mold number 365, also known as the Princess Charlotte. A very popular model.” Jennifer was careful to say “popular” rather than “common.” After all, she was still in the priming phase of the deal.

The hopeful seller coughed violently, replaced the oxygen cannula into her nostrils, and continued undaunted. “The wig is a replacement, obviously, but her eyes and eyelashes are original.”

Jennifer returned the doll to its place. “On the Princess Charlottes issued in 1908 through 1911, the pinkie finger extends outward from the other fingers. What you have here is a quality replacement body in good condition and from the same manufacturer, but it is not original to the doll. I’m afraid that lowers the value of the item considerably.” She looked up, smiled, and said, “You have such a beautiful collection, Dottie. It’s a shame you have to sell them.”

The shopkeeper’s face reflected her shock, but Jennifer acted as if she hadn’t noticed and pretended to be inspecting the kid-leather shoes on the feet of a large Floradora, but her eyes were on the doll seated next to it. Could it be?

It was a life-sized baby doll, 22 inches tall, wearing a pale-blue silk dress with ecru lace around the neck. Authentication indicators clicked through Jennifer’s brain like numbers through an old-fashioned adding machine: parted lips, four teeth, dimple on right cheek, separated pinkie fingers, original mohair wig. The olive-green eyes, and especially the eyebrows made of individually laid and glued human hair, were hallmarks of the creations of Gustav von Froedrich.

Von Froedrichs are rare to begin with. One in good condition—and this one appeared excellent—could bring an extraordinary price! Jennifer was acquainted with four von Froedrich models—the Rosalind, the Baby Dewdrop, the Lady Grace, the Arabella—but this doll was none of those. Could this be the rumored fifth model? The Evangeline? Rarer than rare.

Jennifer paced herself. She examined a few other dolls—a pre-war composition Patsy with the original shoes, a Simon and Helbig model 410, a couple of Victorian china heads—before reaching for the von Froedrich.

“That one’s not for sale,” said Dottie.

“But I understood that you’re selling your collection because of your health.”

The woman again looked stricken. Obviously, that had been a secret she’d not wished to share. “It’s true. I’m liquidating my personal collection,” said Dottie, “all but this doll. I can’t sell her. She’s like my own child.”

Jennifer had to consider what to do next. Was Dottie shrewder than she appeared? Was she holding out for more money? The woman wasn’t stupid, though she apparently had not been smart enough to know that approximately 15 percent of original Princess Charlotte dolls produced by Armand Marseille in 1910 did not have the upturned small finger. Dottie’s doll’s body was most likely completely authentic, and even more valuable for having the more rare type of hands. Still, Jennifer felt she was dangerously close to the negotiation tipping point. Her usual tack of pointing out tiny flaws in hopes of getting to a price that was advantageous to her, might not work with Dottie.

“Is she a von Froedrich?”

Dottie blushed.

“I’m sure you are aware of how rare they are,” said Jennifer.

“I am.”

“May I?”

Dottie nodded, and Jennifer lifted and carried the doll to the workbench in the corner of the shop, where amid tools, paints and pots of melted beeswax, she was able to better examine it under Dottie’s strong work lights. She carefully turned the doll over to look for the maker’s mark on the back of its neck. Goosebumps rose on her arms when she read the inscription:

Evangeline

F. von Froedrich

M-1904

“Oh, my God!” said Jennifer, forgetting herself. “The Evangeline really exists! Did she require restoration?”

“Nothing but general cleaning and restringing, of course, and one of her thumbs was missing. I modeled a new one.”

Jennifer scrutinized the doll’s hands. “I can’t tell which one! The shape is perfect, and I don’t see the faintest hint of the join!”

Dottie leaned in, smiled, and whispered. “The secret is talc. Talc mixed with gum Arabic. It micro-fills the join. Of course, it must be perfectly color-matched.”

Jennifer sighed. “I could have used a talented restorer like you before the big doll expo in Ann Arbor last month.” She thought it was too damned bad that Dottie had stage-four lung cancer and wouldn’t be around to help her prepare for the doll expo in Washington DC in the spring. A flawless antique doll is worth much more money than a repaired one—but one with repairs as undetectable as these? “Tell me, Dottie, have you ever designed your own doll?”

Dottie grinned. “Of course. On that lowest shelf there. The one with the lavender hair ribbons. I call her Cynthia.”

Jennifer picked up the doll, about the same size as the Evangeline. If she had not known its true age, she would have sworn it was over a century old. She ran her fingers across the miniscule cracks in the surface of the doll’s face. “How—?”

“Talc and beeswax. Extreme cold causes the crazing.”

Jennifer realized that Dottie was a master artist and perhaps, a master manipulator, too. It was entirely possible that the Evangeline was a beautiful, perfect forgery, but Jennifer had been fooled and others could be fooled, too. Jennifer knew she had to have the doll, whatever the cost. She gave up all pretenses of trying to make a deal.

“Your collection is among the most complete I have ever seen! It belongs in a museum. I’ll tell you what. I’ll buy everything in your shop, right now. Name your price!”

“I can sell you all of them, except Evangeline.”

“But Evangeline is a part of the whole! It would be a tragedy to separate the pieces! Your collection is your legacy! Without Evangeline—”

“She isn’t for sale. You obviously know what it is to love dolls. Some are special. Evangeline is my baby.”

“But you’re very ill!” said Jennifer, with exasperation. “Wouldn’t you rather know that she’ll be in good hands? That your legacy will live on? I can take delivery after you’re gone. You can keep her until the end.”

“No. I’ve made arrangements for Evangeline to be cremated with me.”

“Are you insane?” Jennifer sputtered. Her frustration at the stubborn, emaciated woman in the wheelchair welled up in her throat like bile. “I’m offering to help you! Don’t you understand, you stupid fool? You’re dying! You can’t take it with you!”

Dottie’s expression turned cold. “I’m sorry. I think you should leave now.”

Jennifer erupted into a rage she had never before experienced. “You fool! You ass!” she screamed. “You would burn a von Froedrich? What’s wrong with you?” She pushed over the helpless woman’s wheelchair and left her sprawled on the floor like a ragdoll. “You want to burn with your dolls? Here! Burn with your dolls!”

Jennifer turned to the workbench and flung the pot of melted wax into Dottie’s face. The woman cried out in pain but Jennifer was too possessed by her rage and frustration to care. She tossed the Bunsen burner at Dottie. A low blue flame caught the wax and spread like oil across the floor, crawling up the legs of the shelving, catching fire to mohair and old silk. On the floor, the flame engulfed Dottie’s housecoat and then, her body and oxygen tank.

Ignoring Dottie’s screams, Jennifer strode through the fire to the shelf where Evangeline sat. She picked up the doll and ran from the tiny shop to the parking lot. As she did, she noticed that her shoe was on fire. She tried to put out the flame as she ran, and in the process, stumbled. In horror, she watched the priceless doll fly through the air and crash to pieces on the asphalt.

Later, Jennifer remembered everything as a slow-motion movie. She saw the doll’s shoulder fracture, the separated left leg skitter across the pavement, the head hit the surface and crack open. The beautiful face split across the nose, and the skull of the mummified infant encased within rolled to a stop against the tire of her car.