Tussaud

by Belinda, Lyons-Lee

  ‘Antoinette is not capable of the sort of interaction that I suspect you would like to use her for. Do not touch her again.’

  His face flushed as he lost his veneer of calm and slapped the papers onto the table. ‘How dare you suggest such a thing? Remember your place, madame. You do not tell me when I can touch my own creation. You are nothing more than a … than a —’

  ‘A woman, indeed. One who knows how to create waxworks and is the necessary half of the business partnership that will grant you success. I say again, monsieur, do not touch my creations or you will ruin them and, in doing so, bring ruin upon yourself.’

  There was a loud whir and click: Antoinette’s head drooped forwards on her chest.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Philidor. ‘A real lady knows when it’s time to leave.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  His Grace William Cavendish, 5th Duke of Portland

  FROM HIS BEDCHAMBER on the second floor he watched the valet and driver as they unloaded the awkward shape of the bedhead from the carriage. Then they disappeared from view, presumably to navigate up the stairs and along to his study. Before he went to take a look, he waited for the discreet knock to signal the bedhead was in place.

  It was covered with a sheet and illuminated by the dawdling light through half-closed curtains. He rarely let the upstairs study see full sunlight, in order to shield the small number of books housed there. The bulk of his collection was stored in his underground library, safe from people as well as changes in temperature and light, while the remainder were housed in his downstairs library. But although precious, this bedhead was not going to reside underground. In fact, it would begin its new life here as a mantelpiece mounted above the fireplace, once his carpenter had made a few adjustments while installing it this afternoon: an extra panel on each side and a shelf along the top, all stained to match the original wood.

  William tugged the sheet until it fell away, revealing the dark wood covered with figures that bubbled up all over, resembling the leakage of sap. He had seen the bedhead advertised some time ago in The Times, which he read without fail every morning, both in Cavendish Square and at Welbeck. His interest had been piqued by the following description:

  Bedhead for sale. Family antique no longer required as moving. Unique design with story attached.

  He’d written to the address, enquired about this story and found it to be unique indeed. According to the seller, a woman, the bedhead had been in the family for at least four generations and had originated from a castle in the depths of Scotland. It had been made to a design of the original owner of the castle, who’d wanted to sleep under symbols representing fertility and love. The carvings were of nymphs with plump breasts and distended bellies heaving with imminent birth, as well as Celtic motifs of love, lust, health and life. He ran his fingers over each one, wondering about all the nocturnal activities they had borne witness to. His hand trembled; for a moment his expression was one of a half-glimpsed hope. Druce? No, no, no. Why did she insist on popping into his mind?

  The seller was a descendent of the original owner and attributed her own fertility to the bedhead. She had also been conceived and born in the bed beneath. But now, sadly, it was time for her to sell the item, as it didn’t suit her plans for redecoration. The drawing attached, rough as it was, had excited him although the mythology behind it all was what had interested him most. The carvings were magnificent even hundreds of years later.

  He tucked the sheet back over it, picked up the newspaper from his desk then sat in the armchair next to the window. He would read for the next hour, pausing for a cup of tea when it arrived on time. His valet was always so punctual, just like the young man’s father had been until he’d grown stiff and succumbed to his bed. As death had crept into his bones, he’d trained his son, with William’s permission, to be his replacement. William had been amenable to this because he had looked at the father’s face for so long, was accustomed to his voice, his movements, his manner, and so the son’s presence felt familiar and safe.

  Then he saw the advertisement for the Phantasmagoria: ‘This SPECROLOGY will open the Eyes of those who still foster a Belief in GHOSTS or DIESEMBODIED SPIRITS.’ Philidor, the proprietor, purported to be ‘The world’s greatest magician, mesmeriser and communer with the dead’. Was there truth to any of this? It wasn’t the only advertisement he’d read making such claims but certainly the grandest. And this new act, a ‘human wax automaton’, what was it exactly?

  Private gatherings where the occult master promised an encounter with spirits were common; it seemed the public couldn’t get enough of this sort of entertainment. Some of them undoubtedly were charlatans, but others … What if some of them, even just one of them, was genuine? He could apologise for the great misfortune. What would it be like, he wondered as he studied the advertisement again, to finally be at peace, to be forgiven?

  As William tried to read further, his eyes twitched of their own accord back to the shape of the bedhead against the wall. He found it hard to concentrate on his paper after reading that advertisement, even harder on his thoughts, so eventually he refolded the paper and, steepling his fingers, resigned himself to contemplating the concealed bedhead in full. A sheet could cover so many things: a bed, a body or a bedhead. A sheet had been hurriedly stripped from his own bed all those years ago and given to the old valet, who had taken it back into the dark night, snatching at it with his thick fingers and a set mouth. The door had slammed in the wind behind him, while the howls of William’s father had echoed down the stairs. William had stared at the closed door and known he would never see that sheet again.

  Later that evening, William re-entered the study from the secret passage behind one of the bookshelves. There was another just like it accessible from his bedchamber, its entrance in the built-in cupboard, which meant he could go down to his library, museum, billiards room or ballroom without having to see anyone and without anyone knowing he had left his rooms. His nightly ritual was not in any of those ordinary underground chambers, however; it took place in his favourite cavern at the far end of the tunnel, a small room that nobody knew about.

  William walked to his desk and picked up the newspaper, once more reading the confounded advertisement for that show. He could go. It would require an unexpected trip into London, and the housekeeper at Cavendish Square would need to be advised of his arrival. Perhaps he could time it with that fellow who’d written to say he was soon returning to port with a fresh trunk of antiquities from Siam. But would it be possible to avoid Druce? William found himself staring at the newly installed mantelpiece, finding in its deep grooves and shadows a place to rest his eyes while he considered his options. But then his gaze caught on the sword that hung above it, gleaming brightly in the firelight, and he averted his eyes. It could stir up memories best left alone. Still, he had survived the reign of his father; he would not be in fear of it, or him, any longer, therefore the sword was permitted to hang.

  Pushing the paper aside, William picked up the letter that had arrived with the bedhead from its previous owner, reminded again of the ancient mythology embodied in the figures depicted on the bedhead. Such power infused those beliefs, such energy, attention and focus on the careful depiction of each one.

  He narrowed his eyes, seeing the sap-like figures stretch into sinewy bodies. Full faces became all angled, chins and noses grew pointed like quill nibs. The figures began to dart up and down the panelling like demented mice, then clambered up onto the ledge where a sap bubble was pushing out of the wood like a coffin emerging from the earth. The bubble took the form of a tiny body. No. Stop. A fairy? An elf? A face that was perfection in its likeness: Elanor. The rest of the figures formed a circle, joined hands and began to dance – a chaotic, reckless blur of movement, wild and wicked like the imps themselves.

  They stopped when Elanor looked up at him, extending her hand to break the circle. He lurched towards her then blinked, hard, and the imps disintegrated into the wood, and the mantel reg
ained its composure.

  A fanciful vision borne out of nerves, or a portent to give him hope?

  He moved to his desk and wrote a letter to be sent to Cavendish Square immediately, advising his resident housekeeper there of his arrival the following afternoon. Then he wrote a note instructing his valet to secure a ticket for Philidor’s show. Phantasmagoria. It had a certain ring to it.

  He retired to bed. The oak tree. Druce. Elanor. No, he would replace all of them with another memory, just as strong. Something that would push the others aside, at least for a time. Here it was, arriving like a wish granted by a wicked jinn.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  1799

  His Grace William Cavendish, 5th Duke of Portland Stockach Forest, Hegau (modern day Germany)

  THE BOYS JOLTED around him as if hit by lightning that grounded their feet to the earth and sent their bodies into spasms. Their uniforms blurred as if splattered over with red rain. Cries of shock, pain, despair bore down upon him and seemed to unite in one wail that made him clamp his hands upon his ears. What hell was this? No demons with pitchforks but boys with swords and rifles. For what cause? What purpose was the blood leaking into the earth, which swallowed it impassively, impervious to the source of nourishment and impartial to the weight that fell upon it?

  William could bear this no longer. And he was supposed to be captain of this company of British boys. He turned round to see their wide eyes upon him. Pale faces. They were looking to him for guidance. Direction. Strategy. And amidst it all he had nothing to offer.

  ‘Run, run,’ he screamed into the wind, which whipped the word around then cast it adrift.

  The boys stared back at him – had they heard?

  ‘Run!’ one boy called. So they did.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, run while you still can,’ William cried, and lurched towards them to shoo them away like wandering sheep.

  But it was too late. They had already broken cover.

  He fell forwards and sank to his knees, pressing his head into his thighs. ‘They’re not running away. Why aren’t they?’ he said, as they streamed past him and a new wave of sounds ruptured his ears.

  He turned to see a line of black boots, the backs of the soldiers’ legs as they faced the enemy. Then, like a macabre house of cards, each body crumpled to the ground. The white faces were twisted at odd angles. The boys looked confused. Had they got it wrong? Had there been a mistake?

  ‘Make it stop, make it stop!’ William closed his eyes. He tried to burrow deep within himself to find the dark place. The place where he hid away from his father that was warm and safe. He could go there just by closing his eyes; he knew the path well. But today was different. It was too much to bear. Those poor boys, and all because he’d failed to warn them. Failed to communicate to them that –

  A hot bolt tore through his upper arm so that he opened his eyes and gasped. His blood spilled from the wound, saturating his shirt. He clasped his hand to it, keeled over and closed his eyes again. The pain drove further inwards, higher and deeper, and at last he found it – the path to his own place that was dark and safe. Thank goodness the pain had shown him the way.

  He knew no more until he woke in hospital. He could hear men talking at the end of his makeshift bed while he feigned sleep.

  ‘Completely went to pieces. Lost more than half the company, did you hear? Damned incompetent.’

  ‘I heard. Nothing new, though, they’re all like that. Think their money can buy them a badge to take home and show off besides. “Delicate health,” the physician said. Shouldn’t have been sent out here in the first place.’

  ‘Well, he’s been babbling like a baby since he arrived. I heard on the field he just clamped his hands over his ears and lay down like a dog to die. The rest of the company – well, those who weren’t slaughtered – taught those French beasts a lesson and forced that scoundrel Jourdan to retreat to the Black Forest. Word is he’s given command to Ernouf and taken off to request more troops in Paris.’

  ‘Don’t think they’ll be coming anytime soon. And this fellow here is supposed to be a captain, isn’t he? Needs a nurse beside him every blooming minute to bathe his head, hold his hand.’

  ‘He’ll be an embarrassment to his old man, make no mistake. Paid for his position and will be just as likely to pay for his release – and the badge, like you said. Then this weakling will tell the ladies back home of battle and change his part to the hero if I’m not mistaken.’

  Paid for. They were right: his father had bought him the position of captain.

  The voices moved on to the next bed. ‘Knocking at death’s door, this one. But you’d take ten of him over the last one. Twenty years older but fought for his country. Courage. Real proper funeral he’ll have too.’

  William felt the warmth spread between his legs and puddle beneath him. He didn’t want to call the nurse. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. And he didn’t want to wake up. But most of all, he didn’t want to bring any further dishonour on his family name. He knew what it would mean.

  Weeks later, back at Welbeck, he was roused in his own four-poster bed by an instinct that spoke of danger. At first he thought it was another nightmare of soldiers crawling up the drive to find him. Searching for him with drawn faces and necks cocked at unnatural angles. The dead boys, the dead English boys whom he’d failed to protect. They knew that it was his fault, and they were angry. He, the son of a duke, had been given a position of authority in a war that would bring honour to the family name. He’d failed, and his father’s money had ensured his failure would stay a secret.

  But he wasn’t in the presence of a ghost. The moonlight spilled into the room, permitted by a window curtain drawn aside by a human hand. The outline of the intruder pressed against the velvet bed curtain was further evidence that this was a living person who needed light to see.

  A pointed shape, like the tip of a sword, prodded the bed curtain at his feet, then made its way along to the corner of the bed, rounded this corner, and came down its path towards him. It paused. He held his breath; could he move? He clamped his hands over his ears as the blood in his temples began to throb.

  With the flash of a hand, the curtain was jerked aside. A blade thrust towards him, finding his neck unprotected by the sheets. The sharp, icy metal pressed against his throat.

  ‘Dishonour.’ The word was spat down upon him on a breath of whisky.

  His father’s face loomed up behind the sword as the old man leaned down with one elbow across William’s chest and edged the blade like a saw further up his neck.

  ‘Father, stop. You’re hurting me.’

  ‘Dishonour,’ came the breath again, and this time William saw his father’s eyes sink deep into their sockets with a darkness not merely a product of the night.

  William tried to get away but his hands were pinned either side of him by his father’s body across his chest. The blade bit deeper into William’s thin layer of skin; he felt the singing of blood as it rose to the surface.

  ‘You jeopardised the whole mission because of your rambling.

  Wouldn’t shut up, they told me. Nerves. Babble. Gibberish.’

  When William swallowed, he felt the hard metal lodged there. ‘I’m sorry, Father, I’m sorry I brought dishonour on our name. I —’

  ‘Our name? If I could cast you from it, I would. You’re not worthy to bear such a name as mine. You’re a runt. No better than a pup who should have his throat cut or be bagged and drowned. Should I do that, do you think?’

  ‘No, Father, please don’t. I promise it won’t happen again. I won’t ever —’

  ‘I’d end it now if I was sure of getting away with it. I’ve had to pay countless officers off to keep quiet about you and your fragile nerves. The humiliation. The disgrace.’

  William’s eyes filled with tears that wouldn’t stop, despite how much he swallowed.

  His father stood up, black eyes bearing down on him. ‘And still you cry. What a pathetic snivelling c
hild you are.’

  With a deep breath, William made to rise – then noticed the wet patch beneath him.

  ‘And you soil yourself like a baby. You disgust me. What sort of man are you?’ His father flicked the blade to point directly at William’s heart.

  ‘I … I don’t know, Father.’

  ‘Are you even a man?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘Say it again. Speak up.’

  ‘No, Father. I am not a man.’

  The blade tip was buried in William’s nightshirt. ‘If you ever do anything to bring dishonour on my name again, I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget.’

  ‘No, Father. I won’t, I promise.’

  And up until he’d seen the advertisement for the Phantasmagoria, William had been true to his word.

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  1810

  His Grace William Cavendish, 5th Duke of Portland

  Welbeck Abbey

  AT THE PHANTASMAGORIA he witnessed the chaos then lingered until the theatre was empty, so there was less risk of him being noticed. A woman walked on stage to stand before Antoinette; so unnatural was the scene of destruction, yet the woman’s grief as she caressed the melted face was horribly real. He put his topper on quietly and made his way out into the foyer.

  Heavens above, they were all still there! A mass of people swelling around him, their high-pitched laughter slicing through his forehead. Druce must have left by now, surely. He tried to quell the rising instinct to push and run, and instead moved slowly, weaving in and out through the throng.