‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I dined at Cavendish Square alone, as has always been my custom.’
‘And then?’
‘A … and … and then I came back here to meet someone.’
‘Oh, you met someone, all right – don’t play all high and mighty with me, Thomas.’ Her hands were snaking around his waist. She pressed herself against him; his loins stirred again, moved in response, while his mind, his senses, screamed with revulsion at her touch. And such a vulgar public display of affection.
He stepped back and brushed her arm away, his books dropping to the ground again as a consequence. ‘Look what you’ve made me do,’ he cried, and bent to retrieve them. He stood up, flushed. ‘Do not presume to touch me like that again, madam. It is most unseemly, and I have no recollection as to what you are referring. I hazard to suggest you have mistaken me for some … for someone else.’
‘Oh no,’ she said, her lasciviousness now turning to scorn, ‘it was you, alright. You who took me on that leather armchair you’ve got, you who had me while those stinking candles burned, and you who cried like a baby when you’d had your fill. Like you’ve done every time for nigh on a year now. Why insist with this charade?’
‘But upon my honour, I do not.’ William stepped back to lean against the carriage. ‘I do not know of what you speak, the idea is preposterous. I would never, you are not —’
‘Preposterous, am I?’ she said, and gestured to his crotch. ‘Whatever I am, your body tells a different story. Don’t you know I’m good enough to get two front-row tickets to the grandest show in London, I am.’ She unfurled a playbill from where it had been scrunched in her hand and waggled it in front of his face. ‘And I would have taken you, but I’ve changed me mind. Now I want an extra two pounds by next week, for services rendered. Understand?’
William looked back up at the windows. On the first floor, a glimpse of a pale face, and on the second, the outline of a woman’s silhouette. He had been seen. He wrenched open the carriage door, stepped inside and closed the door after him.
The window was wound down a fraction, and Druce threw the crumpled playbill straight through to hit him on the face. He hurriedly wound up the window and pulled down the green silk blind as she thumped her fist on the closed door. ‘You’ll pay, Thomas – and what’s more, I know you’ll be wanting the same again. You always do.’
William knocked on the roof, the driver flicked the reins, and they pulled away.
William sat back and stared into the dark carriage. He put the blind up momentarily, afraid he’d see Druce’s silhouette sitting opposite him. The carriage flickered with light as they passed the inns and clubs that remained open all hours on Baker Street.
What in heaven’s name had that woman been talking about? She must be mad. To accuse him, to imply that he had been intimate with her! Such a creature! It was impossible. Impossible. He pulled the blind down. And yet in the confines of the gloom … was that a memory? Of a soft warm breast in his hand. A mound of dark hair. A certain smell of meat.
For heaven’s sake, no! He covered his mouth with his hand. It wasn’t true. He must steady himself. He shook out his arms and hands, freeing himself from the illusion of her touch.
But what was this? The playbill she had thrown at him. He put it in his pocket and concentrated on preparing for his return to Welbeck. Who he was. What was required. He must go through his private ritual before he arrived.
His face twitched in replay of expressions he’d made during the day. His head nodding up and down, mouth opening and shutting to mimic speech, while his hands clenched and unclenched as though they were simultaneously gesturing, shaking a phantom hand and reading a book. So that by the time he passed through the two stone pillars that heralded the drive down through the wide, dark tunnel of trees, he was almost free of the contamination of the public.
He was also thinking about the two people who had watched him from the windows: the woman on the second floor and the gentle- man at the window directly below hers. For as long as William had been there, those lodgings had been intermittently occupied; now it appeared a husband and wife had moved in and kept strange hours.
The carriage bent around the circle drive and pulled up at the front steps of Welbeck. As was customary, his blind had remained down for most of the trip; he could not bear seeing humanity in all its depravity along the London streets, juxtaposed against the swagger of the rich. More importantly, he didn’t want anyone seeing him (apart from the valet) or guessing the particulars of his life. William bent forward, ready for the door to be opened. The cook should be in the kitchen, the young housemaid out of sight and the valet in position to meet him, as was always required.
She was troubling though, that young housemaid. On an earlier occasion he’d caught her peering from behind an open door off the entrance hallway, when she’d been specifically instructed that she was not to be seen or to see him. To have eyes on his face at Welbeck without his consent was quite simply detestable and a complete invasion of his privacy. The cook and the groundstaff all understood the requirements, as did all his tenant farmers; if they obeyed the rules they were rewarded, and if not, dismissed. The only reason he’d let the maid stay on was because she was the daughter of one of his deceased tenant farmers to whom he was much obliged to.
The valet opened the carriage door from behind so as not to be in William’s direct line of sight any more than was necessary, while the driver remained on his perch staring straight ahead. It was all in order, the front door opened in expectation of his arrival. He was punctual to the minute at Welbeck, as a life with such specific requirements needed to function like clockwork: gears oiled and keeping time, or else the whole contraption shattered.
He mounted the steps into the cavernous entry way. Directly in front of him lay the staircase, towering above him like a gargantuan waterfall. He closed his eyes and began to mount the stairs, counting each step as he did so, crossing the small landing then up again for the last set. His hand clenched the rail and steadied him as he went; it was imperative he did not trip or stumble, for then his eyes might open and glimpse the portrait. The staircase was the only area he had not stripped of furnishings at his father’s death, for he believed the portraits and landscapes had to remain for convention’s sake, in honour of his family, his ancestors.
When he reached the top, his neck muscles softened. He turned left along the hallway that led to his suite of rooms in the East Wing. He was safe here. The rules were back in place, the rules were followed, and another month would pass before he had to go back to the Bazaar. And Druce, his inner voice whispered. But what to do about her? Sheer strength of will would lock her in a room in his mind and keep her there. Sheer focus. And he had a wonderful hoard of new books in which to immerse himself.
The fire in the grate of his bedchamber was already lit, the water warmed if he chose to wash – yes, the valet had done everything as ordered. Home meant predictability and, more importantly, control. William sat on the edge of his four-poster bed and took off his boots, noting that they needed a polish; he would leave them outside his door for the maid, along with a note specifying this week’s meal requests for her to pass on to the cook. It brought with it such peace of mind, really, to know what one was eating in advance.
He sat at his sombre mahogany desk, there for occasions such as this when affairs of importance needed to be acted upon immediately. His quill and paper were waiting.
Breakfast was straightforward, the same every day, but he had to articulate it nevertheless. A poached egg on a single piece of toast. No condiments – especially no condiments. The last maid had thoughtfully put salt and pepper on the tray, and that had been the last time she’d done that, or anything at Welbeck. Dinner was boiled fish with carrots and beans. Again, no condiments. And supper, either bread, cheese and cured meats or a pie of some sort. This time, condiments accepted. Only a light repast of an evening to help him rest.
With this accomplis
hed, he put his boots out with the note, alongside the used washing water to be replenished. He locked the door and finished undressing. A soft crackle – he pulled the playbill from his pocket and smoothed it out.
PHANTASMAGORIA
Coming every Evening soon at the Lyceum Theatre, Strand. Philidor
Takes the earliest Opportunity of informing his Patrons, and the Public at large that he will have the honour to EXHIBIT his Optical Illusions and Mechanical Piece of Art.
This show will introduce the PHANTOMS or APPARITIONS of the DEAD or ABSENT, in a way more completely illusive than has ever been offered to the EYE in a public THEATRE, as the OBJECTS freely originate in the AIR, and unfold themselves under various Forms and Sizes, such as imagination alone has hitherto painted them. This SPECROLOGY will open the Eyes of those who still foster a Belief in GHOSTS or DIESEMBODIED SPIRITS.
The Mechanical Piece of Art in EVERY respect is the world’s first HUMAN WAX AUTOMATON, endowed with the intuitive Power of attending to the Thoughts of the Company. The world’s greatest magician, mesmeriser and communer with the dead will unveil this Piece of Art for the FIRST time to the London public.
Despite himself, William was intrigued. Very intrigued. But too tired to think upon it now. He scrunched the playbill into a ball again, then pulled back his coverlet and slid between the unrumpled sheets so smoothly that the other side of the bed was undisturbed. He pushed the playbill beneath the pillow, closed his eyes – and thought again of Druce. Could he go to this Phantasmagoria with her? No! Not Druce. Never Druce. Think of something else.
The tree: a massive oak that had survived his father’s sporadic felling of the forest for use as bespoke furniture. The oak’s wide branches had been low enough for a growing boy to grasp and swing on, proud of his developing muscles and strength. All the better when he’d had a playmate who loved climbing as much as he did. The hours they’d spent there, climbing and building; the searches in the woods beyond for branches to construct walls and steps until the tree looked as if it had sprouted a giant dishevelled nest; the feeling of being in the tree, above the ground, legs swinging, and seeing the green grass below his soles had been so very deeply satisfying.
As its boughs creaked and groaned in the wind, and its branches reached for the birds that would perch to twitter amongst them, the trunk – the solid, dependable trunk – was silently rooted into the dark earth. And it was strong. He’d wanted to be like that – to exist as the tree did, not become affected by every sensation that struck his body and mind. And as his short legs had grown longer, his playmate growing alongside him, the oak had changed from their fort to their meeting spot where they no longer built wooden guns but instead shared food he’d stolen from the kitchen, and alternated between shyness and secrets.
Lying in bed, William tried to stop the scenes from gathering speed. He couldn’t start this story without the conclusion reaching out to him, claws elongated by crawling through the years of his mind, hunting him, not allowing him to forget.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Marie
SHE THOUGHT LATER that perhaps they’d both held their breaths while Philidor turned the spring with the key. Once, twice, thrice. Marie was happy to concede the action to Philidor. She wanted to be the first to see Antoinette’s face animated and, in turn, the first person those glassy eyes blinked upon.
For a moment it looked as if their hours had been wasted. That the life they had both worked to assemble had failed to spark. But then a decisive click, and Antoinette’s eyes opened. A shiver ran through Marie’s body, as if she’d been doused in ice-water.
Philidor stepped clumsily to stand beside Marie, while Antoinette stretched her fingers as if waking from a deep slumber. Her mouth opened and closed uselessly while her eyes moved in staccato jerks, first to Marie. Then Philidor. Marie. Philidor. Marie. They locked on Philidor. He picked up a small oilcan, held it out gently towards Antoinette and slid the funnel deep into her mouth, tipping it up, glug, glug, glug. He held her chin between his forefinger and thumb, pushing her head back, then worked her chin up and down, the oil stringy like a spider’s web between her lips. He blotted it away with his thumb, then took her right hand to his lips as if to kiss it but instead pressed her forefinger’s tip. She began to lower herself into the armchair behind her, while Philidor held her hand protectively, a smile crossing his face as he looked down upon her.
Marie watched all this impassively, before moving in closer.
‘She is beautiful, is she not?’ said Philidor.
Marie nodded, observing his flushed face.
‘Let’s see what else she can do for us,’ he said, and pressed each fingertip of her right hand in succession. Antoinette began a series of movements: shaking her head, nodding, smiling, tipping her head coyly to one side, standing up, sitting down, walking and finally fluttering the fan in her left hand. She paused slightly before each movement, her cogs click, click, clicking with the sound muted by the rustle of her silk gown. Her eyes remained fixed, vacant and unseeing, on a midpoint somewhere in the distance. This was good – the audience had to feel as if she was looking out amongst them, at any of them.
Now seated again, Philidor placed Antoinette’s hand back upon her knee and stepped away. Marie became conscious of a subtle vibration emanating from her.
‘You can hear that?’ said Philidor.
‘A hum – it is the clockwork.’
‘But the audience won’t hear it from where they are sitting. It is nothing.’
‘I am concerned, though, about this noise, for it means the mechanics are agitating. And the heat, it may compromise the consistency of the wax.’
‘Not if we limit the amount of time she is wound up. I will experiment this week.’ He laid the back of his palm across Antoinette’s forehead, paused, then picked up her right hand again. ‘She is perfect. But now I need to work on my act.’
‘Monsieur, this show should go no longer than one hour. Any longer, and I am concerned her wax may be compromised.’
‘An hour is not long enough. My introduction, some card tricks, Antoinette, the Argand lamp – well, I should imagine it will be closer to an hour and a half by the time I am finished.’
‘What is this Argand lamp?’
‘Actually, it’s an improved version of the magic lantern. I will show you how to work it so that I need not hire another hand. Glass slides with drawings on them are projected onto a haze of smoke. My own slides have sufficed until now, but I need new paintings for this new contrivance. The Argand has a stronger, brighter light for a larger audience. I need something that will astonish and horrify and … Can you paint?’
‘For heaven’s sake, what calibre of sculptor would I be if I could not paint?’
‘I was thinking – oh, I don’t know … ghosts, spectres, Death himself, if you like. Something to frighten, but also some everyday images of people, perhaps a young woman and an old man who could be someone’s sister and grandfather. Detailed but not so that the facial features are completely clear, as the audience’s minds need to fill in the rest.’
‘I have some ideas,’ said Marie. ‘If you show me the materials I am to use, I will begin this afternoon.’ She paused. ‘I expect this extra duty will be considered in my share of the earnings.’
Now it was Philidor’s turn to pause. ‘I will think on it,’ he replied evenly.
‘Very well. But this act with the slides, and your card tricks, it cannot all be done in an hour. We need to cut something out. This is a first, monsieur, and we need to consider the temperature in the theatre, the heat when people arrive and sit breathing in a confined space – I am nervous of what could happen.’
‘Yes, yes, all right then.’ He was walking around Antoinette and studying her dress.
‘So, you agree it will be just the hour then?’
‘Whatever pleases you.’
‘You will cut your card tricks or the slides?’
‘Card tricks, consider them gone. Now,’ he said, �
��I need to begin planning the act. You may go.’
Marie shook her head. ‘I require more money.’
‘What for?’
‘Antoinette’s maintenance, as you say. For the act she needs dresses and —’
‘Dresses? She’s wearing a dress!’
‘What, you think one is enough? She cannot perform in the same dress, the same shoes, the same hairstyle at every night.’
‘It won’t be the same people every night.’
‘She is a queen. She meets her audience again every night as if it is her first. If you want the English to believe in her, she needs to be attired fashionably, extravagantly and, above all, exactly like the real Marie Antoinette.’
Philidor paused, frowning.
‘I see you are calculating the pounds, monsieur, but this is no time to skimp. The audience’s perception of reality is everything. They will suspend their belief that the dead are really dead, if she is made to appear otherwise. Her clothes, her presentation as a queen and a Frenchwoman all need to be, as you yourself said, perfection.’
‘I will give you money, then.’
‘I have one more concern to discuss with you.’
‘What is it now, woman? I am trying to begin, and you are unceasing in your demands.’
‘I need to clarify the nature of our arrangement. We do not want there to be confusion.’
He looked at her impatiently. ‘Yes?’
‘I saw you last night. I saw you touch her.’
Looking away, he began fussing with his papers on the table. ‘I was merely checking that everything was in order, that she was ready to go for our experiment today.’
‘You are lying. I told you, and you agreed, that she was not to be touched or interfered with until our test today.’
He turned to face her. ‘But I didn’t —’
‘You gave your word. Which now seems as if it means nothing, monsieur.’
‘Stop being so dramatic, madame.’ Philidor dropped his voice. How slow and calming it could be when he desired; he really was skilled in its modulation. ‘I didn’t harm her or do anything that would jeopardise her operation, I simply wanted to see what she was capable of.’
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