Tussaud

by Belinda, Lyons-Lee

  Marie picked up the flowers then opened the window to toss them out. The previous posy lay there still, a withered carcass on the tiles, and she threw this one down beside it. Leaving the window open, she turned back into the room. How strange that the duke, despite his proclamation about his sensitivity to smell and instructions not to wear fragrance, was allowing the stench of these flowers in his house. She would speak to the maid again as soon as she had finished unpacking.

  Arranging her belongings was a pleasant task. With the fresh breeze coming through the window, she enjoyed moving about the room and seeing all her things look enhanced by such luxury. She shook out her dresses and hung them in the wardrobe. It was fortuitous that she had not been forced to return to Paris. That life, that house, those heads – all of it felt like so long ago now. So much struggle alone in that house, her mind rotting like those flowers on the roof. Trying not to think about it, she withdrew her shoes from the trunk and lined them up in the bottom of the wardrobe.

  Once everything was unpacked, she decided to take a walk. It was late afternoon but still fine, and as the day had been set aside for settling in she would stretch her legs. Philidor had begun work with his existing materials, and while he made the mechanical skeleton she would reclothe Antoinette’s head in the new wax that would withstand the heat and agitation longer.

  She had been given a key for her bedchamber and locked it behind her as she left; her privacy needed to be protected. Stepping out into the passageway, she was again struck by just how quiet the house was.

  She went slowly down the staircase, giving herself the oppor- tunity to glance again at each of the pictures. But only one really interested her. She stopped in front of it, free for the first time to study. The frame was wide, the portrait a modest rectangle tucked within. It was the right way up and relatively small, compared to the larger landscapes and battle scenes around it. A sombre portrait, sad almost. The gentleman was seated, the painting focused on his upper body. He had pale skin, an oval-shaped face and a sizeable forehead that ran back well over the top of his skull. His nose was long, his lips devoid of colour. His eyes arrested her attention, though, the lids heavy with folds of skin and unusually large. The artist had captured the pouches under his eyes as well, ones that spoke of fatigue with life and with himself. His hair was grey and worn to his collar, while his white cravat jutted out from under a black coat with heavy brass buttons. It was not a formal portrait, nor did it contain objects or symbols hinting at the sort of man he was or even his title. In fact, he looked like he could be any man sitting in an inn on a Friday night having a quiet drink alone, staring into the fire and wishing he was somewhere else. Perhaps someone else.

  She continued down the stairs, wondering at the valet’s odd behaviour in trying to block this portrait from view. As she passed into the entrance hallway, the maid appeared with cloth and pail from behind one of the open doors. She immediately bobbed a curtsey. ‘Good afternoon, madame.’

  ‘Good afternoon. I need to speak with you about the flowers you left in my bedchamber. I instructed you just the other day that I do not care for them.’

  ‘Forgive me, madame, I don’t mean to displease you, but it’s the only way she can communicate with you.’

  ‘Elanor? But there is no mistress of the house, why are you continuing to pretend that there is?’

  ‘That’s not true – I mean, there hasn’t been a woman in the house, not properly like, since the duke’s mother died. But Elanor is here and it’s her flower, you see.’

  ‘Stop speaking in riddles,’ said Marie, stepping closer. ‘There is only His Grace, Philidor and myself, and you and the valet in residence. Don’t the cook and the grounds staff return to their own homes in the village at night?’

  ‘Correct, there is no one else in residence here,’ said the valet smoothly from behind Marie. ‘Remember Harriet?’ He stood beside Harriet, whose cheeks turned red, and told her, ‘Now go about your work and stop bothering our guest.’

  The maid picked up her pail and continued down the hallway.

  ‘I do apologise again for our maid’s behaviour, madame,’ said the valet. ‘I will personally ensure there are no flowers in your bedchamber.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Marie was holding her own curiosity back. ‘I am going out for a walk now.’ She took the letter she had written in Gunter’s to her son Joseph from her reticule. She had added an extra line advising Joseph on their acceptance of the new commission. ‘Shall I put this on the tray in the hallway?’

  ‘Very good, madame. I will ensure it goes in with the rest of the correspondence.’

  Marie moved towards the front door. ‘Oh, and one more thing,’ she said. ‘The portrait in the corner of the landing, who is it of?’

  ‘The landing,’ replied the valet, his eyes shifting to look above her shoulder as if he recollected something. ‘Ah, yes, the smaller one in the corner is the duke’s father, the 4th Duke of Portland.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Marie. ‘Most helpful.’

  She stepped outside and breathed in. This Elanor was proving to be a mysterious woman, who was she in actuality? She set off on the path towards the forest and soon entered in past the tree line. In a few more minutes she was at a crossroads; the path to her left wended by a stream, while the one to her right wound around the back of the property to the grotto and chapel. The one directly in front of her she did not consider taking – the trees closed in upon it, and a strange reluctance overtook her upon studying it further.

  Curious about the chapel and grotto, she started out to her right. The path skirted along just behind the perimeter of trees so she occasionally caught glimpses of the manor between the branches. Again the buildings gave the impression of being almost a mirage, the muted stone evaporating in the heat. The trees provided the perfect cover from which to study the house; one could stand here and watch for any length of time without being observed. Up ahead a path turned off to the left, and she came upon a grey stone chapel, usual for an estate of this size; she presumed it would be solely for the use of the Cavendish family. She wondered how it would feel to be the Duke of Portland, knowing this place was patiently waiting for his last expulsion of air before he was carried, cold and dead, to the welcoming solitude of the crypt below the stone floor.

  The birches, their green leaves usually such a pleasing contrast with their white and silver trunks, just looked fatigued in the heat. The branches bent low, the leaves shrunken in on themselves, turning a dull orange. The wind whipped cruelly along the gravel path and flung up dirt in her eyes as if to impede her progress. But she pressed on to the rusted gate that barred the entrance to the chapel, a beautiful arched doorway. Three steps down, double wooden doors, not locked. She pushed them open. Inside she was struck by the glow radiating from the bronze lectern up the front, set alight by the sun’s rays pushing through the windows. Such beautiful workmanship; such a lonely, peaceful place. As she made her way up the aisle, she saw the end of each wooden pew was delicately carved with foliage, and the steps and pulpit were all marble. Just behind the altar to the left was another set of steps, presumably leading to the burial vault. She took them, noticing the cooler air on her skin as she descended. Yes, as she’d thought, here was the final resting place of the duke’s ancestors.

  The 4th Duke of Portland

  William Henry Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck

  Died on the 23rd of June in the Year 1800. Aged 60 years.

  Lady Dorothy Cavendish

  Wife of the 4th Duke of Portland

  Who departed this Earth on the 5th of April

  In the year 1780. Aged 30 years.

  In Memory of Charles

  Son of William and Dorothy

  Who died June 18th in 1772

  Aged 1 Month

  In Memory of

  James Cavendish

  Son of William and Dorothy

  Who died Jan 5th 1776

  Aged 4 Years

  In Memory of

  Charlotte C
avendish

  Daughter of William and Dorothy

  Who died September 1778

  Aged 5 months

  The duke’s two older brothers had died before him; he therefore inherited Welbeck by default. And it was possible his mother had died during his birth. The cold, initially refreshing, now felt like a chill. Back up the steps, she passed a single grave, this one well tended with a modest headstone and a fresh bouquet. She knew what the flowers were even as she approached; the smell pervaded the air like a stain. The inscription read:

  In the memory of Elanor Hemmings

  Daughter of Tom and Catherine of Welbeck Estate

  Who went missing on the 25th day of November in the year of

  our Lord 1796. Aged 16 years.

  Elanor the name of the commission, Elanor who Harriet had referred to, Elanor who was buried here. No coincidence, surely. But what of the flowers connected to her? Marie needed to find out more about them. Ah yes, wasn’t there a library in the main house?

  The hallway was empty of the maid and the valet, so too was the library. Across three of its walls there were floor-to-ceiling timber bookshelves, a surprisingly sizeable collection considering there were two other rooms he kept books in. The fourth wall was dominated by windows and had several armchairs arranged in front of it. She glanced behind her, feeling she was being watched. The armchairs? She inspected each one to be sure nobody was curled up within, shielded by the tall wingbacks.

  Here was the botanical section. She pulled out a heavy volume and settled herself in an armchair that looked out into the garden. Yes, there was the section on English wildflowers. She flicked through until she found a drawing that matched:

  Circaea lutetiana

  Commonly called ‘Enchanter’s Nightshade’.

  Flowers June to August. Botanical name after Circe, a witch from ancient Greece who notoriously turned her enemies, including men, into animals.

  Its overall appearance is delicate and miniature. It has one long thin stalk, with small green stem offshoots climbing up either side. At the end of the stalk, two white heart-shaped petals (buds are pink) sit opposite each other; underneath them, pointing downwards to the main stalk, it bears a green and raspberry- pink leaf on either side. Out of the petal flower, two light-pink stamens protrude. It has no scent. Its almost luminescent white flowers can often appear to glow in shady environments, such as woods. This wildflower will grow in a creeping manner like a weed if left unchecked.

  She closed the book softly. No wonder Harriet had looked at her with surprise when she’d said the fragrance disagreed with her. What exactly had she been smelling?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Marie

  LATE THAT NIGHT she dressed quietly even though she knew she was alone, surrounded by airless rooms with no breathing occupants. She wanted to look at the portrait again when there was no chance of anyone seeing her. She lit a candle, wound the blanket around her shoulders and descended the staircase. Her candle’s flame stood straight and tall. There was no stir of air, no sound, no living thing witness to her exploration. But what of the … others? A fanciful notion. She must stop it. She took a step down and felt, then heard, the ominous groan of the timber stair. No matter – Philidor was another floor below, the valet below that again. She stepped deftly down onto the landing, and a thrill of horror caused her hand to shake. The candle’s flame shivered in response.

  The portrait was askew.

  As she stood there, she began to wonder if she was alone. Her skull prickled. And her imagination set to work. Was that a breath on the back of her neck? A cold finger at her cheek? Her name whispered in her ear? She stepped back, the shadows twitching across the sombre face of the 4th Duke of Portland.

  She made a decision. Put the candle down by her feet and righted the painting.

  No roar of disapproval, no clanging catastrophe. No howl from an unseen mouth. What had she expected? She bent and picked up the candle. The duke’s eyes seemed to slide across to meet hers, then away. So sad, they were. Did his son’s eyes hold the same haunted expression?

  She returned to her bed. When she awoke in the morning she dressed hurriedly, eager to see the portrait in the light of day. She glanced at the scene in the woods that hung on her bedchamber wall, depicting the enchanter’s nightshade. Knowing what she did now, the painting seemed to beckon to her to understand its deeper meaning, but what? Arriving at the top of the steps, she saw that the portrait was positioned as she had left it. She descended the staircase, pleased with her findings and resolute that she had thwarted someone’s attempts at intrigue.

  Voices were coming from the downstairs library, the door half opened. She quietly stepped down the remainder of the stairs and along the hallway, then affected to tie her bonnet in case she was seen.

  ‘Stop it, I’m tired of your tricks,’ came the voice of the valet.

  ‘I’m not doing it, I never have.’

  ‘I don’t believe you, you cheeky slut. You were up this morning ahead of me and meddled again to cause trouble.’

  ‘I didn’t, sir. I wouldn’t. I don’t want any trouble, sir.’ A quick gasp and, ‘Oh, please don’t, sir. Not like that, it’s not right —’

  A grunt. ‘Not the right time, you mean. When I come for you properly it will be more than a quick grope.’

  A cry of pain. A sniff.

  ‘You’ll get more than a pinch on the arm if you don’t do as I say. Now leave the portrait alone, and if she asks any questions, about anything, you play dumb. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And if she keeps at it, tell her to speak to me.’ A sound like a wet kiss. ‘There’s more where that’s coming from, you lucky girl.’

  Marie heard his footsteps approaching the library door. She continued to affect tying her bonnet and heard him stop at the doorway. She pulled the bow taut.

  ‘Good morning, madame,’ he said, his smooth manner really quite impressive.

  ‘Good morning.’ She turned around, aware that somewhere behind him, unseen in the library, the maid was listening.

  ‘A number of parcels and boxes have already been delivered early this morning for you and Mr Philidor,’ said the valet. ‘I instructed the driver to take them down into the ballroom. I hope that was the right course of action?’

  ‘Ah, the rest of our supplies. Excellent.’

  ‘So you begin working today, madame?’

  ‘After breakfast.’

  ‘Take a seat for breakfast, madame, and I shall serve you.’

  Marie nodded and made her way to the breakfast room.

  An interesting exchange, to be sure. A valet with an ironed shirt, well-cut black jacket and polished boots in a position of superiority could get practically anything he wanted. And if what he wanted was more than a fondle, then Harriet could be in danger.

  But was it really any of Marie’s concern?

  She went back up to her bedchamber after breakfast to change into her work clothes. Upon opening her door she noticed an anomaly on her bureau: four envelopes lay upon it, each inscribed in wavering black ink. Next to them was a larger brown paper package. She picked up the first envelope and pulled out a thick lock of hair, light brown with a tinge of warmth through it, tied at the top with string. She held it to her nose: scentless. The next envelope she emptied into her cupped hand. A single tooth, the root long, the surface patterned and pearly like the underside of a seashell. It was a creamy white and ground down at the top. She turned it between her thumb and forefinger; held it up to look at it closely. This, then, was to be the colour of Elanor’s teeth. The envelope labelled ‘Lips’ contained a dried rose petal, a beautiful deep red. And from the final envelope she pulled out a piece of glass, green, perhaps from a medicine bottle?

  Marie opened the brown paper package, knowing from its shape and weight that it was clothes. She pulled out a simple light-green dress with a white chemise and a pair of drawers.

  A fourth envelope fell out from between the garm
ents, and she picked it up. ‘Elanor is to be made in every particular a woman. Every particular.’ So His Grace had condescended to communicate directly with her on this one occasion, concerning the particularities of his commission that specifically involved the satisfaction of his bodily parts. How very characteristic of a man.

  She turned away, feeling flushed. Two cavities. He obviously intended on using this wax automaton, on using Elanor, for his own debauched purposes, but how did Marie feel about her creation being subjected to such acts? It felt depraved, but it should really come as no surprise, given what she’d seen Philidor attempt. And the 5th Duke of Portland was clearly an eccentric. She returned each item to its envelope and tied up the clothes to take them down to her workshop. The duke had considerably aided her task by providing her with these samples and directions; she would just have to match them with her own stock and, if not, send to Paris. No shoes, though – an interesting omission.

  In the days it took Philidor to complete the inner parts, Marie would be free to rebuild Antoinette. Her supplies from Ward, the artist’s colourman in Covent Garden were in three boxes while the clay and wax from Wragg, the carver and lay figure maker in Soho were in the remaining boxes. It was a taxing effort to drag each one from the ballroom to her workshop but she refused to ask the valet’s help and certainly did not want to condescend to ask for Philidor’s. To do so would concede he possessed something which she did not. While she admitted her frame was small it was not weak. Years spent picking up blocks of clay and working it had built strength in her slim arms.