Tussaud

by Belinda, Lyons-Lee

  He trailed his fingers back under the seam of the lid to the centre and found the catch, pushed it in and slowly lifted the lid. Gaping eye sockets, skin that peeled from glistening bones, maggots crawling out of her mouth – this was what he’d been prepared to see. But what lay before him was anything but that. There was peace in that face, that freckled face that was hers still, hair spread out around her head, her hands resting at her sides, as if she were just reposing for a moment. His heart vibrated with such intensity that he was all moist trembling hands, and he lost orientation of his body. Dizzy. Light-headed. But oh! She was beautiful still. She was alive still. And she wasn’t a girl anymore; she was a young woman. His young woman.

  He reached down to take her right hand. It was cold, and her skin felt solid, not soft and yielding, but this was a trifling detail. She had the necessary parts he specified and he would grow accustomed to the sensation of her skin on his. He had plenty of time to explore. At the moment he just wanted her likeness near him, sitting by him in the armchair of an evening. He planned on occasionally activating her to nod when he spoke or to flutter her fan while he dined, but that was all for now. Every night he would put her back into her coffin until he was ready to see her again. It would be no trouble. In fact, she would be the perfect companion for him, providing in death what she could not possibly have provided in life. She would be housed in the cavern, her bedchamber, where she would remain undisturbed; he could bring her up and down through the secret passage.

  He pushed both hands under her body and lifted her out of the coffin. She was heavy, and his limbs, not having lifted anything substantial for many years, were weak. He stumbled with his load, then righted himself with determination and sat her in the armchair opposite his by the fireplace. The fire was only a weak flame, and she was far enough from the heat not to be compromised. She folded nicely at the hips, her back straight, legs bent in front of her.

  He closed the coffin and sat down opposite. ‘That’s it. There you are. How do you like it there? Are you comfortable? This is your new home. Well, not new to you, really – you remember, dear? From when we were young and snuck in? Father’s study, out of bounds, but we didn’t care, did we? Such fun, such games …’

  Her eyes remained closed, and no answer was forthcoming.

  Would he take the next step?

  He lurched forward, grasped her right hand and pressed a fingertip, then sprang back in his chair, eyes fixed on hers. It took a moment. A long moment. But it happened. She drew her legs in further and crossed them at the ankle. Then she opened her eyes and gazed directly on him.

  ‘Oh my dear,’ he cried, falling at her feet. ‘Can you ever forgive me?’

  The creature made no response. After a moment he sat back up, composed himself and reached for her right hand again. Her head tilted, and she looked down upon him and smiled. And William, for the first time in a long time, smiled back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Marie

  HER FEET PATTERED along the path that same night as she hastened to meet her lover in the forest. She was chastising herself for her earlier loss of temper with Philidor; she must not let that happen again. At the completion of a creation, she was always fatigued. He would use it against her, but more than that – it was a show of her own vulnerability.

  Putting such thoughts aside, she focused on Regington’s imminent arrival. Would he be pleased with her and admire her courage in inviting him to come? He might think her desperate to see him. She’d heard the nightingale call while she walked and knew it to be a sign of good fortune. Fate smiled upon her even as she tempted it by inviting him here. But with the commission finally complete and delivered to the duke’s study, she was released, if only in her own mind.

  Regington looked even more handsome than at their last meeting. He kissed her hand, then leant in to whisper in her ear how much he’d missed her, yearned for her, so that he would have walked right up to the manor and banged on the door if he had been asked to wait another night.

  She allowed him to kiss her then, properly on the mouth. Placing the lantern at her feet, she welcomed his embrace, moved by the urge to touch him and have him touch her. His smell was overwhelming, and as she trailed her fingers along his cheek and down his neck she felt the chain, warm with his body heat.

  ‘And what is this?’ she murmured, hooking it under her little finger to pull it out.

  He paused then relaxed as she examined the rings. ‘They were given to me in gratitude for my services. By Catherine the Great.’ He attempted to divert her attention by kissing her again.

  She let the rings fall without further question, and he tucked the chain away.

  ‘And so you are finished then?’ he asked, as he took off his cloak, laid it over the ground and sat down upon it near the oak tree but far enough away so that she could not smell the flowers.

  ‘Yes.’ She sat beside him with the lamp. ‘The commission is complete, and His Grace has it. Now I must focus on the new show. But Philidor vexes me every time I talk with him. Such a conceited man, he is stubborn beyond measure and thinks only of his own importance.’

  ‘What has he done now?’ Regington asked, stroking the back of her hand.

  ‘The playbill – just a squirt of ink in the corner with my name, while his, the Great Philidor, is in big font coloured red and gold. It is distasteful. And reeks of … of …’

  ‘Arrogance. An arrogant fool.’

  ‘An arrogant fool whom I would like to see humbled, but not yet.

  I must suffer him for a little longer.’

  ‘All great artists suffer,’ Regington said reassuringly. ‘But you do not have to suffer fools like him. Tell me what I can do to the scoundrel.’

  ‘Hush, my love, we must not act in haste.’

  He kissed her again before pulling away. ‘And this commission of the duke’s, what is it exactly? Is it to be part of your show?’

  ‘It is of a more private nature.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I am not permitted to talk of it. Even to my confidante.’ She gently pressed his hand.

  ‘It is an honour that you can unburden yourself to me as you do.’ He moved his fingers further along her arm, running them lightly up and down, up and down so that her skin rose in response. ‘I have an idea,’ he said softly. ‘Let me in. Show me the house, your chambers, and I can perhaps learn for myself something of the habits of this detestable Philidor in order to aid you.’

  What a wonderful idea! And to think he suggested it himself.

  This may work out well indeed, if she could hold her composure.

  She quickly sat up so that his hand fell away. ‘It is too dangerous for us both.’

  He rose and made a show of wiping down his trousers. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m leaving – I cannot endure this any longer. To be separated from you, then to see you again and know I must part from you soon- all the confounded complications and approval of this duke needed-who knows when we may meet again? … I don’t know that you feel as I do. As intensely as I do. To you it seems like my feelings are nothing.’

  ‘Oh.’ She stood up to grasp his hand. ‘You must understand, it’s torture for me too. But to say that you’ll leave me, that I won’t see you again and to doubt my feelings, that is too much. You know I would do anything for you, dearest, anything. But —’

  ‘But what?’ he said mockingly. ‘Do not make claims of affection, my dear, if you cannot substantiate them with action.’

  ‘What do you want of me, then? What can I do to show you?’ ‘Let me inside the house. Let me see where you sleep, my love.’

  He gently kissed her again. ‘And I will carry that memory with me into the cold night.’

  She shuddered. Fear. Anticipation. Danger. They were all real. It was getting more dangerous but so far she had held fast to her

  sensibility. And her plan. She wet her lips. ‘I will take you then,’ she said, her voice low. ‘And may fortune
smile on my face.’

  ‘Philidor is staying in London tonight,’ she whispered, as they made their way out of the forest, taking the path past the grotto and graveyard to the back entrance of the manor. ‘He left early afternoon for the bank and to finalise the playbills. We are safe from him.’

  ‘What about servants?’

  ‘There is only one maid, and she will be in her room. And there is a sole manservant, a valet. But we must be careful of him – he pads around with a light foot.’

  ‘I’m not scared of a valet.’

  ‘Then you are foolish,’ she snapped, and turned on him. ‘He could gather up all he sees and hears, and cause trouble for us.’

  Regington blanched. ‘Forgive me, I spoke hastily,’ he said, pressing her hand. ‘You are right, being seen by anyone could jeopardise your position here. Forgive me.’

  ‘All is forgiven,’ she said in a rush. ‘But we must cease talking until we are completely certain of privacy, and I know of only one place that will ensure that.’ She glided past the stone well in the courtyard and up the steps while he trailed behind her. Inside, their footfalls echoed on the floorboards. They didn’t meet or hear anyone, yet her fingers were still clammy with sweat. She needed to keep a clear head. Calm. Rational. Stay in control.

  Up the stairway, she noticed the portrait hanging askew again.

  She stopped to right it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Regington in a whisper. ‘That is the servant’s job.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied. ‘But it bothers me.’

  ‘It appears they are lax in their duties. They should be dismissed.’

  ‘I imagine it’s difficult to find servants who understand the duke’s requirements.’

  ‘Servants should do as they are told and not think for themselves,’ said Regington, as they continued up the stairs. ‘That is the problem.’ ‘Precisely.’ Marie fumbled with the key to her bedchamber and held the door open for Regington, aware that Harriet had cleaned her bedchamber and made her bed, dusted the bureau and dressing table, and folded her newly washed garments.

  Regington closed her door behind him. She saw him appraise her four-poster bed, expensive linen, well-lit fire, wardrobe door half ajar with hems of dresses peeking out, and dressing table lined with bottles of cream and perfume she was not permitted to wear. And her trinket box.

  ‘My dear, this is your place of rest. And upon my word, I can imagine you here now! Lying upon the bed, your sweet head on the pillow. Here it is you amuse yourself – write in a diary, perhaps?’

  ‘Diaries are for little girls with little lives,’ she said disdainfully.

  ‘This is true,’ he soothed, and walked over to the window, pulling aside the curtain to peer out over the circular drive. ‘What a view it must be in daylight.’

  ‘Quite,’ she said. ‘Have you seen enough?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he replied, and turned to her. ‘I think you should sit down.’

  ‘Sit down?’ she echoed, as he moved towards her purposefully. His hands clamped down on her shoulders, forcing her to sit on the edge of the bed. He stood over her then, his hands still on her shoulders and the shadow of the bed curtain across his face.

  She felt her legs grow warm with a sensation that crept up her knees and over her thighs. It was an old, old feeling.

  ‘There’s so much more to see here,’ he said softly, trailing one finger down her chest to pause above her left breast. She remem- bered seeing a smear of blood long ago that had followed the same path. ‘And this is the perfect place for it. Don’t you think?’

  She stopped herself from swallowing, as that would betray her feelings. Her mouth remained dry. How fickle was the body. How quickly it would surrender. How weak it was compared to the mind. Control.

  She swallowed nevertheless without taking her eyes from his. ‘How dare you?’ she said, and closed her knees with a force that registered in his eyes. ‘You forget yourself, monsieur. You have been too bold.’

  ‘Too bold? You invited me in here, practically begged me to enter your bedchamber – what did you presume was going to happen?’

  Oh, so it was to be her fault. ‘I did no such thing.’

  ‘You are playing false. You said to me just before, “Come up to my bedchamber and let us —”’

  ‘You are implying that I do not know what I have spoken.’

  He caressed her hair. ‘Oh, Marie, your nerves are strained by all of this pressure. You are saying things you do not remember, my dear. You French ladies, always playing the coquette when you want more. Don’t tell me otherwise, your heartbeat tells a different story.’ He stroked under her hair and slid his fingers to rest upon the pulse of her throat.

  Her anger overthrew the desire. But how best to manipulate it? She stood up and slid her hand down to rest lightly between his legs. ‘As much as I might like to take you to my bed, monsieur – and we French ladies, as you say, may know more than a little of the ways of love – now is not the time.’ She pressed her fingers against the fabric, traced the growing outline and saw his pupils widen. ‘You must wait if you want the prize,’ she whispered, and pressed herself closer. She could see him calculating his next move.

  He stepped back and reached for her hand before kissing it. ‘Forgive me, my dear – my desire has overcome my propriety.’ He released her hand. ‘Now, let us visit Philidor’s room. I need to get a sense of this tyrant in order to help you.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said faintly. He had mastered himself quicker than her. A pause. Think. Think. What is the next move to be? ‘I … I don’t think that will be possible. It’s too risky, and —’

  ‘He’s in London, didn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes, but —’ Hesitate. Don’t show eagerness.

  ‘And the maid will hardly be cleaning his bedchamber at this hour.’

  ‘No, but —’

  Regington dropped his voice. ‘But what?’

  ‘I can take you there. But only if you promise not to do anything rash.’

  ‘Such as?’ He smiled, with his hands open. ‘I just want to look, my love, to help you. It’s all about you, my dear.’ And he took her hands in his again.

  She led him down the stairs – relieved to see the portrait still straightened – and along the hallway to Philidor’s bedchamber. She gestured to the door; he turned the handle. Unlocked. He disappeared inside without a backwards glance, shutting it behind him. She stood in the dark hallway, heart beating and ears ringing in the silence. Not a surprising turn of events, but then – what was he doing in there? She put her ear to the door. Nothing. She went to open it when he slipped out, the door closing softly behind him.

  ‘The man has no taste at all,’ he said with a sneer. ‘His wardrobe is filled with cheap suits, and his cologne is dreadful. And no books! Telling indeed. Clearly he is an idiot, madame, although quick with his hands.’

  Marie smiled at him approvingly. If he had stolen something he had hidden it upon his person without a hint of outward change.

  Then his gaze darted over her right shoulder.

  ‘What is it?’ she said, glancing behind her.

  ‘I just saw something,’ he whispered, and she turned to look back down the hallway. ‘A shadow. It flitted across the end of the hallway.’

  ‘Indeed,’ she whispered back. ‘These old houses are full of shadows but no one is living in these quarters except Philidor and I. The maid is in her own bed, remember, unless it’s the valet … but surely he must also be in his own room by now.’

  ‘Are you sure about that? I know what I saw – I need to check.’

  They walked the length of the hallway and stopped at the end.

  To the left ran another hallway, and to the right was the staircase landing. ‘It went down there.’ He pointed along the corridor.

  ‘You want to check every room?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ He was looking back at her, his eyes refocusing as if he were thinking of something else and only now seeing her properly. ‘But
perhaps it is time for me to go.’

  She nodded. ‘I will see you out.’

  When she opened the back door, they embraced before he kissed her once again and pressed further, stronger against her. She could not feel any suggestion of an object secretly hidden on his person.

  She pulled away. ‘Not yet, my love,’ she breathed. ‘We must wait a little longer.’

  ‘Then I bid you goodnight, madame. Think of me tonight in your bed, as I will of you. I await your next message.’ He turned and began walking away.

  She had waited until this moment to ask. Now the time had come. Natural, spontaneous. ‘Oh, you will come to the show won’t you?’

  ‘It is a given my dear,’ he said, his voice soft in the dark. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for anything.’

  ‘Goodnight, my love,’ she said as he strode around the corner of the courtyard.

  He would be there. She shut the door and ascended the staircase.

  In the flickering light, her stomach tightened.

  The portrait was lopsided again.

  She glanced around. Thrust the candle out. Nothing. No one.

  And yet, could she smell something? She righted the portrait once more then retreated to her bedchamber, realising as she turned the knob that for once she hadn’t locked it. Oversights like this could threaten her position. She must pay attention.

  But it didn’t matter, for the man who sat in her chair had his own key.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Philidor

  IT WAS DUSK when he stood behind the trollop and thrust within her, exalting yet again in the superiority of his masculinity over the female form. This woman, initially emboldened with her coloured lips and taunting leer, was now dominated by him. And all it had taken were a few coins. Her addiction to the bottle compelled her to accept; like all of her type, she was using the one asset she possessed that men didn’t.