He noticed a shabby red bonnet that looked familiar. The head on which it sat turned around, mouth open mid-sentence. He met her eyes.
‘Thomas Charles! Baker Street Bazaar! Now what on earth are you doing here?’
Blast that woman. He hurried straight back to the Bazaar, where he drank more wine than usual while reading. When he woke early in the morning at Cavendish Square and tried to recall the rest of the night, his mind met a wall. A blank. Nothing but glimpses of memory – or of conjured-up memories, like the spectre of Antoinette.
After reading the review of the Phantasmagoria in The Morning Post, he quickly managed to get a letter hand delivered to the office requesting the address of Philidor. Given that the editor there must have corresponded with Philidor to print his statement, William was certain the editor would divulge the information to a duke such as himself without hesitation. Upon receiving a reply with the necessary address, he realised with a start that Philidor and his accomplice, whose name he had just read was Madame Tussaud, actually occupied the premises next door to his on Baker Street. Oh, that would make them the couple who he had seen watching him from their respective windows in that dreadful scene with Druce. He shuddered and prayed that they had not seen enough to recognise him. William addressed his letter to ‘The Proprietors of the Phantasmagoria’ then took his carriage back to Welbeck.
As he waited for Philidor and this Madame Tussaud to arrive, he stroked the book that sat in his lap, tracing the gilded indentations of lettering: About Automata by Hero of Alexandria, written in 1589. He had long been fascinated by this book, and seeing a human-sized automaton in person had ignited in him an idea.
There was much to be considered and arranged, and the two of them would have to agree. But what he could offer he was certain they couldn’t refuse. Of course, it would cost him, considerably – not in money, but in encroachments on his way of life. Interactions. Surprises. Situations in which he would have to make decisions instantaneously. More communication. But it might all be worth it. For he wanted to see if what he’d dreamt about all these years was possible; he wanted to look once more upon her face. A bespoke commission of sorts. He had drawn her features over and over again, from many angles and in many poses.
He heard the soft tap at the door and knew their carriage had pulled up. His valet would go down to meet them. He watched from the window, just a step back from the glass. The woman, probably French he would guess by her title, was dressed well. She was tight, though, in the face and in her movements, ready to unleash a well- measured cutting remark at the first provocation, he imagined. Philidor, it seemed, was always the showman, with a golden voice that could be heard from up here, deep and rumbling, and a smile designed to disarm an entire theatre of their wits. They were an odd couple.
Why Philidor had requested that Marie attend their meeting, William hadn’t quite understood. Women had no part to play in business affairs. She’d presumably made the wax exterior, but the difficult bit – by far the most arduous part, requiring the superior skill and intellect – was the mechanics. Still, perhaps Philidor had his reasons.
William returned to his seat, the desk with its quill and a stack of paper were positioned so that he could lean forward to push his letters through the slot into the box without getting up.
His heartbeat was already rising with the fear that these newcomers might try to open his door. He had slid the inner bolt across just to be safe. But what if Philidor declared that the whole thing was a charade and insisted he speak to William in person, face to face? What if there was … a scene?
No, such a thing was not tolerated. William’s valet would take charge of the situation; that’s why he was paid what he was.
Footsteps approached down the hall, accompanied by muffled voices.
‘Please sit here,’ said the valet, and shuffling noises indicated they had.
William stretched back in his chair and closed his eyes, let out a deep breath, then leant forward to post his correspondence.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Marie
1810
AFTER THE SUCCESS of the night spent at Welbeck and the mutual signing of documents agreeing to the conditions of the commission, Marie turned her thoughts to the task ahead; that of informing Druce that they would be vacating immediately and stuffing her hand with a bag full of coins. A satisfying prospect indeed. Druce’s mouth opened and shut like that of a codfish while her head tipped back so that Marie could see up her mottled nostrils.
‘But you need to be here, close to the theatre,’ she spluttered.
‘And the rooms are big, and I haven’t bothered you and —’
‘We have found lodgings more suitable to our tastes,’ bit back Marie, just waiting for the woman to ask where.
‘Where?’
‘Welbeck,’ Marie said levelly, and watched the woman’s face go from animated to still.
‘Ooooh, you don’t say? And how did you manage that?’ She leant in confidentially, and Marie felt a thrill of something akin to power.
‘We have connections,’ she said.
‘And your husband?’
‘What of him?’
‘Will he be leaving as well?’
‘Didn’t you just hear what I said?’
‘But what about my … my arrangement with him?’
‘What arrangement?’
Druce plucked at the neckline of her dress.
‘Your services, if that is what they were, are no longer needed,’ said Marie.
‘Oh, I won’t let him get away without paying for it – like another one I know who doesn’t pay on time and left me with a brat to raise.’
‘I care nothing for your vulgar implications, and you will not be paid anything. I very much doubt we will see you again. Goodbye.’
Marie shut the door behind her and smiled. Philidor! Depravity indeed to be seeking the services of Druce. But now to her next appointment. It wouldn’t do to keep Regington waiting at Gunter’s, as patient as he was.
He was sitting in their usual spot and had already ordered her coffee and a pastry.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and took the first sip. Always to be savoured.
‘My pleasure,’ he said, and drank from his own. ‘You are moving, and this may be our final meeting here.’
‘But this needn’t be the end of …’
A woman sat down at the table next to them. Her purple silk dress and well-coiffed light hair set off her amethyst necklace. Marie glanced away.
‘Us,’ Regington finished, and was so bold as to lean across the table and enfold her hand. ‘It would grieve me terribly if you were to say it was.’
The woman beside them shifted in her seat and stared without pretence at Regington. Marie turned back to smile into his brown eyes as she caught the scent of him again. It aroused something in her that had long remained dormant; she pushed it back down.
‘I’m afraid I can’t receive visitors at Welbeck,’ she said, as she closed her hand over his a little tighter. ‘His Grace is very particular about privacy, and until the commission is complete we are to have no contact with anyone, aside from letters.’
‘I see.’ He pulled his hand back an inch, but she held on, noting again the smooth white skin with small indentations across the base of each finger.
The woman next to them coughed.
‘Please don’t take offence,’ Marie said, lowering her voice, ‘it’s not my doing but his. We have to abide by his rules, at least for the moment.’
‘I do not like this “we” you talk of. You and this Philidor. He treats you badly, and yet you stay with him. I believe you are fond of him.’
‘The whole notion is absurd. He is nothing to me but a business partner.’
‘Are you quite sure?’
‘Please listen, I must finish this commission and get the show ready to perform. Then the duke has agreed that once he is advised of the details, I am free to receive visitors. Then you can come, and we —’
‘But that could be months.’ He looked down and slipped his hand cleanly out of hers. Was he really upset? Was he going to leave? A strategic move of his, indeed.
‘Please lower your voice, monsieur. We have a listener who cannot take her eyes from you.’
‘I care not for what others think,’ said Regington, not bothering to acknowledge the woman, whose face paled. ‘I care only for you and our separation.’
‘And I for you. I have already ordered what I need, and Philidor also. I will work night and day on this commission and the show, and then you can call upon me.’
‘I am busy,’ he said perfunctorily, and her jaw locked with trepidation. ‘I need to visit a few places in order to collect some paintings, deceased estates and the like. France. Italy. I shall not have time anyway.’
The woman in the necklace stood up hastily; with a tsk and a push of the chair, she left. Still, Regington did not acknowledge her existence.
Marie allowed herself a show of vulnerability by wetting her lips with her tongue. It was important he note it. He was withdrawing. She had disappointed him, and he wanted her to believe it was over. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, tentatively reaching for his hand. ‘I was wrong to put another man’s wishes ahead of my own, of yours even. I will find a way for you to visit, as I cannot leave the grounds myself. I will send you a letter. Say you’ll visit me there?’
He gave a faint smile and extended his fingers across the table to touch hers. ‘I would be delighted to.’
‘Only it may be at night, when we have less chance of being seen.’
‘Perfect.’ He gave her a full smile that surprisingly caught at the back of her throat. Only then did he glance behind to see the light- haired woman retreating from Gunter’s. He turned back to Marie. ‘I do so adore darkness.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Philidor
AFTER HIS FIRST night’s sleep at Welbeck, a note and a leather volume were delivered by the valet from the duke.
I trust you found your respective bedchambers to your liking. Please convey this volume to Madame Tussaud in order for her to understand the requirements of the proposed commission. Your workshops will be ready for inspection today, after which the affair of the contract will need to be decided upon. In this and every particularity I will correspond with you solely as it is not fitting to discuss business affairs with a woman. I am agreeable to proceeding with the contract and if you are both also, the responsibility falls to you, then, to ensure that the rules I laid out upon the commencement of your stay are strictly adhered to by Madame Tussaud, or our contract will be terminated immediately.
Philidor looked at the leather volume, he was to pass it on to Marie but couldn’t resist a flick through. The first page was scrawled across with a single name: Elanor. The following pages contained drawings to be used to create the likeness for the commission. They began with a young girl, front on, then her profile, then from the rear. As he flicked through them, she aged. Her freckles remained while her eyes widened, her cheekbones rose and her nose elongated; in short, she went from a scraggly girl of ten to a girl of sixteen, who – stop. This drawing of her looked almost identical to one of the glass slides Marie had painted in London for the Phantasmagoria. He turned the page; the girl was now a young woman, eighteen? That was the age the duke wanted the commission to resemble. But the final drawings were of her perhaps at twenty-five.
But who was Elanor? And what was her connection to the duke?
He had obtained from Cavendish the necessary measurements of the girl. He’d also sorted through his trunks and boxes yesterday that he’d prudently brought with him. They held the left over parts of Antoinette which, once emptied, had created quite the mess in his bedchamber. Upon inspection he found he had ample material to begin Elanor’s construction today. If they went ahead with the proposed agreement that was.
Standing up to stretch after eating his breakfast in bed (which he had advised he wanted sent up), Philidor pushed back the curtain covering the window. Aside from Versailles, he’d never before seen such luxury and space; such a grand ancestral home on such a scale. Not even the home of the baroness compared. And to think that he had free rein, that he could create here, that this was the venue for his show. He was now living in the stately home he’d always imagined as a boy.
He washed, dressed, took the volume of drawings and climbed up one flight of stairs to Marie’s floor. The house was unusual, like its owner; aside from the paintings on the staircase, there were no decorations: no vases or china figurines, nothing to bear testament to the wealth of this duke. All the hallways and all the rooms Philidor had seen so far were pink – a soft, salmon pink, like flesh.
He knocked, once, twice, there was no answer. He tried the handle, it would do no harm to see inside but no, it was locked. Where was she? In such a vast estate he hoped she wasn’t going to take to wandering around at whim, making it tiresome to find and fetch her when needed. Suddenly the door opened. Marie looked composed and judging by the satisfied set of her lips, she was in an amiable mood. This was good; she would need to stay amiable in order to produce this commission as well as rebuild Antoinette for the show. A demanding process. But why hadn’t she opened when he’d first knocked? Should he say something and risk souring her mood?
‘Let’s inspect the workshops – they have been opened for us, apparently.’
She nodded and together they descended the front steps. ‘You are happy, yes?’ he offered.
‘I am. My bedchamber is most comfortable. And yours?’
‘The same.’ He handed her the volume as they stepped onto the lawn. ‘He left these for me to give to you.’
‘Why did he not give them to me himself?’
‘He’s stipulated all communication is to be through me.’
‘And why is this?’ she said and halted. He was forced to do likewise, stopping on the gravel path that, further along, cut across the driveway to continue to the tunnel entrance.
‘I suppose because he naturally assumes I will be in charge of the business.’
‘Naturally,’ she murmured, and opened the folio. She paused upon seeing the name Elanor on the front page then continued flicking through its pages. Like him, she stopped at the drawing that bore such a strong resemblance to her own.
‘The likeness is there,’ he said, peering over her shoulder.
‘And I never got to show her to the audience.’ Marie snapped the book shut and continued walking. Her vanity had probably been pricked. He hoped she was not going to cause a fuss. Women! So unpredictable. Perhaps he should try to breach their fractured relationship; make a show of appreciating her efforts or some such nonsense.
‘We really have been gifted a lucrative opportunity here,’ he said. ‘I’m sure, given what I have seen of your skills with Antoinette, that he would be most satisfied with the finished product.’
She said nothing.
‘This is not mere flattery, madame. Your skills are exceptional.’ He made a show of stopping so that she turned back to look at him. ‘I really am so thankful that you agreed to this partnership. Together we will conquer all of England and then Europe, I know it.’
The sun was behind her; he couldn’t see her face.
‘Thank you,’ was all she said, before turning around and walking away.
He hurried to match her step. Whether he had appeased her fickle disposition, he had no idea, but with an ego such as hers surely she was not immune to the power of compliments. Hopefully his would be enough to restore her faith in him.
They approached the tunnel mouth and stared into the dark space that was wide enough for two carriages to travel abreast. In the deepening gloom he could see the first of the wall sconces holding a lantern, and he guessed it was the groundskeeper’s job to ensure they burned day and night. He would make a note to ask the duke to ensure this continued, as both he and Marie would keep irregular hours while they worked.
They stepped inside, and he felt the temperature drop. The
y walked in silence yet the tunnel was filled with their descending steps. The darkness gained weight. As they rounded a bend, the daylight that had so hopefully followed their trail was extinguished, and he wondered why the duke had these tunnels made in the first place. An underground ballroom when the man was a recluse? The air that had rushed through the opening with them now also surrendered, and was replaced with a quietly breathing blackness ahead, splintered only by the flailing lights.
Further and further they went, steeper and deeper into the earth so that the feeling of so much soil above them pressed upon Philidor the image of a grave. He pushed the thought away and concentrated on how this same sensation would strike his audience as they arrived – a more fitting stimulation of the senses before experiencing the supernatural could not be hoped for. Perhaps he should ask for every second light to be extinguished to add to the gloom.
The tunnel bent again, and there it was. The cavern looked as if it had been lifted straight out of a castle: a ballroom with floorboards, chandeliers, seats around the perimeter and a stage for the orchestra. He noted the well-placed air shafts that would draw out the smoke from the braziers used in the performance, as well as the heat from a breathing audience. The domed ceiling was painted with a sunset, whose pinks, oranges and reds glowed in the dancing light. Even a madman was capable of appreciating beauty. They inspected each of their workshops and found them satisfactory, before returning again to the ballroom. The sunset in the dome seemed brighter still after the darkness of the cavern tunnels. He felt as if it heralded a new dawn about to rise upon him. His career.
‘We’ll sign the contract then?’’ he said.
‘Yes.’
Yes indeed, Philidor thought. This will do me and my show very nicely.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Marie
WHEN MARIE FIRST arrived back at Welbeck with her belongings, after settling matters with Druce and Regington, she found her own way to her bedchamber, the maid being otherwise occupied. Marie did not want her help anyway as she withdrew each of her dresses, set her brush, comb, jewellery and bottles upon the dressing table, and grew accustomed to what was to be her home. Her initial pleasure in this experience was marred however, when she opened the door to her bedchamber and immediately smelt the flowers again. Her eyes flicked to the painting on the wall then over to her trunk and boxes that were there before her, brought up by the valet, but surely Harriet was responsible for the flowers. And she’d been instructed not to bring them again. Was she simple or just impertinent?
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