Tussaud Read online

  There was hardly any impediment in the form of furniture in the room. Should she begin? Would he hear? She slid along the wall to the left-hand corner and settled her back against the cool bricks. She began. One, two, three, four, five, six steps, and then stop. Turn to the right. Pause. Again. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven steps, and then stop. Turn to the right. Pause. Again. Her headache subsided with the rhythm, her breathing slow and deliberate. It was working. She closed her eyes in the third corner, and the calm flowed down her arms into her fingertips. She was nearly ready to deal with Philidor.

  But then came a sound – one that didn’t belong amongst the quiet room and her footsteps. She opened her eyes, her pattern interrupted. Should she move to investigate? Would it stop the luck she was conjuring? Aha, there was the culprit. Something had been slipped under the front door, visible as it opened directly into the parlour.

  She’d missed the warning creak of the second stair from the bottom that led up to their door. Or perhaps their landlady Mrs Druce was getting cunning.

  Philidor was still asleep, so she took the letter. Read it now or later? Now, without him. She sat by the window in one of two armchairs that faced out onto Baker Street.

  The street scene before her filled her with loathing. How dare he bring her here to a hovel such as this? She rubbed at her eyes again, hot and dry. The only relief would be to close them and sleep. But no time now – she must act. The show had been a spectacular failure, and she’d committed to spending the money she had expected from the series of future performances that were now not going to transpire. Was their partnership over? What would she do if it was, pawn some of her jewellery? Or perhaps they could resurrect both Antoinette and the show. But how long would that take? She looked down at her fingers, devoid of rings. Oh, the letter lay forgotten in her hand. It was addressed to ‘The Proprietors of the Phantasmagoria’. That included her. She opened it.

  Dear Sir,

  Forgive my directness but I obtained your details and address from The Morning Post, who I understand you were in correspondence with regarding the Phantasmagoria. I was present last night and witnessed the unfortunate event and share in your assumed embarrassment that your wax automaton marvel, suffered such humiliation. I understand that your show has been cancelled for the foreseeable future as a solution is found, and this matter is the subject of the offer. I wonder if you would humbly consider an invitation to discuss my idea by attending me at my home at Welbeck this afternoon at 3:00 o’clock. If you are agreeable, I will send my carriage up for half past two. I await your response.

  Yours Respectfully,

  His Grace William Cavendish, the 5th Duke of Portland.

  A duke! A country property half an hour’s carriage ride from London. Was this the good luck her handkerchief and her ritual had summoned?

  Hearing movement from Philidor’s bedchamber, she retrieved the newspapers from his workshop and returned to sit in the armchair. He appeared a moment later, hair dishevelled and a dark shadow of stubble across his chin.

  Their eyes met, yet neither broke the silence. He sat in the chair opposite hers by the window, and she passed The Morning Post to him. He read it while his right knee bounced unceasingly. She held her anger in check but could feel the tongues of it licking against the lining of her stomach. Stabs of pain and a hollowness that cried to be filled. With a deep breath, she calculated just how far she could push him. He flung the newspaper down then picked up another from the stack she had lain on the table. She continued to wait. He fumbled in his pockets then drew out a cigar, lit it and breathed out. The sour smell made her throat close over and further irritated her eyes. Still she said nothing.

  ‘Antoinette was a triumph last night.’ He rubbed his hand back and forth across his forehead and took another suck on the cigar. ‘She has the whole of London talking. “A feat of mechanics that has never been seen before,” one of those reviews said.’

  ‘Except in a peacock,’ said Marie quietly.

  ‘How the deuce can a mechanical peacock compare to Antoinette? And what’s your point?’ He scowled. ‘I am trying to focus on our successes, while you are trying to further my humiliation.’

  ‘It was not just you, monsieur, who suffered the humiliation. I am just careful not to boast. Fate has ears and is not often kind to those who tempt it.’

  ‘Bah! I care nothing for fate. I have learnt,’ he said, leaning towards her, his stale breath hitting her nostrils, ‘that every man should take what chance he gets to become the master of his own fate.’ He sat back in his chair and blew another gust towards her.

  Marie paused. ‘Last night’s humiliation was directly caused by your prolonging of the act with that vile girl Miss Greythorne.’

  ‘My show goes for as long as I want it to – I never agreed to be bound by a time.’

  ‘But we discussed it, I don’t know why you’re pretending that we didn’t. I thought we understood each other. That’s why you cut my slides for the Argand lamp in the first place. You knew the act was going too long.’ Her mouth felt dry with another betrayal, even though she knew he had played false from the moment she’d first met him. She swallowed and found her tongue clumsy in her mouth; she had to regain her composure.

  ‘You are mistaken in this assumption, madame. The schedule of the show has always been at my discretion. If anything, you and your inferior wax have brought this upon us.’

  ‘How dare you suggest such a thing?’

  ‘The wax needs to be more durable. I thought I made it clear what was required.’

  Marie stood up. Her temples lurched into a thud in response, and her stomach twisted in agitation. ‘You are trying to blame me for this when it was you and your vanity. You cut my slides then invited Miss Greythorne onto the stage. Her pretty head made you lose reason, Philidor. The show is not a chance for you to flirt with a girl, it’s about Antoinette.’

  ‘This show is about whatever I say it’s about, Madame Tussaud.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And you forget who is paying your wages. Show some gratitude.’

  Marie stilled. The arrogance of such a man – he was making no effort to disguise his real self now. Her stomach twisted again. But she must hold her anger in. Hold it all within and use it to her advantage. ‘I would like a higher percentage of the takings.’

  ‘Impossible. After everything I’ve done for you, you are still not content! And you haven’t even delivered satisfactorily.’

  ‘I want what is rightfully mine. Although I find it tiresome to discuss figures, I am, as you well know, familiar with running my own business.’

  ‘In France,’ puffed Philidor. ‘We English do it a little differently.’

  ‘So it appears. However, for this show to continue I must insist that we divide the takings equally. I am content to keep the existing arrangement as seventy–thirty for the first two weeks after we open again, in order to reimburse your initial outlay. But after this, we share the profits equally.’

  He closed his eyes, as if calculating the cost, and tapped out the end of his cigar. Particles of ash drifted to the floor.

  Marie continued, ‘I am the only one who can rebuild and maintain Antoinette, and considering she is the spectacle that is recognisable through my skills, my services are necessary. As for the slides with the Argand lamp, I do that as an extra, and I remind you that I will be paid for it.’

  ‘You overvalue your services,’ said Philidor, opening his eyes and sucking his cigar. ‘Even a servant girl would know how to dress a doll such as Antoinette.’

  ‘She’s more than a doll. And a servant girl has no sense of the techniques required to preserve the wax so that it stays clean and malleable. But suit yourself. If you will not pay me fairly, I will leave and take her with me.’

  ‘She’s not yours to take. And you are not in a position to leave, madame. You need me.’

  ‘No, monsieur, you need me. Without Antoinette, you are nothing but an amateur magician.’

  ‘Without Antoinet
te, you are nothing but a madwoman stuck in a house of heads.’

  They measured each other in silence as each insult found its weak spot.

  ‘We are stronger together,’ Philidor eventually said, rubbing his forehead again. ‘And you know this. I will consent to halving the profit, after I have made all my money back. But it will take more than two weeks, I can assure you. You will agree this is fair and reasonable.’

  ‘Do you give your word, monsieur?’

  ‘I said I would do it, and it shall be done.’

  ‘Your word was once important to you – the reason I came with you in the first place.’

  ‘A noble sentiment, to be sure. I repeat myself, madame, it will be as I have said. That will be enough.’

  Her eyes never left his. ‘Yes,’ she said, as if she’d been asked a question seeking her consent rather than told a fact. ‘This will be enough for the time being.’

  ‘And what is your solution then, to this disaster? When can you have her cleaned up and ready to perform? In a few nights?’

  ‘Still you do not understand what is involved,’ she said, and handed him the letter from the Duke of Portland, ‘I will not start on her immediately.’

  ‘Why not?’ He took the letter then looked up at her when he’d finished reading. ‘Be ready to leave at half past two.’

  ‘Whatever happens at this meeting, whatever opportunity is presented to us, our agreement still stands.’

  Philidor blew a final cloud of smoke that for a moment obscured his face from her sight. ‘We shall see if this can benefit us both.’

  She nodded. For now, she would obey. But he was running out of chances.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Marie

  THE CARRIAGE RIDE from Baker Street to Welbeck was smooth, mainly due to the interior lined with plush velvet and cushions piled so high that it was impossible to bump against anything that would bruise a delicate frame. Marie was relieved to be free of the warm fetid stench of the Thames that pervaded the city like a soiled tablecloth.

  They passed through the tall iron gates, a stone lion atop a pedestal at each side, each mouth frozen in a roar that did not exactly exude a welcome. The elm trees lining the driveway were covered with a rippling canopy of green that felt fresh and cool. As they pulled up to the front entrance, she noted the pale stone of the house: an apparition hovering above the grass, not fully committed to materialising in the bright glare of the sun until Marie had properly arrived and called it into being. The long central building had ground, first and second floors, while each wing to the side tapered off into two levels, punctured evenly all the way along both floors with thin rectangular windows. The grey slated roof was in good condition and edged with a line of turrets, from behind which a number of chimneys sprouted. A small portico reached over the front door, built of stone and framed with two large columns. Its roof, like that of the main house, was lined with turrets so that it reminded her of a medieval fort.

  The carriage door was opened by the valet. Average height, light hair parted to one side and combed so that it pressed down tightly upon his head. He was clean-shaven – which, upon closer scrutiny, may not have been a wise choice, for his chin crept forward in its eagerness to make itself known. His blue eyes compensated for this, however, and she imagined that he would be well received amongst the girls of his class. Fortunate fellow. He must be paid very well. As he took her hand to assist her down the carriage steps, she glanced to the right and noted an additional wing of the house that jutted out at a right angle to the main building; it was considerably reduced in size and length, although it retained the turret along the roof façade as if to convince the viewer that it belonged. From its centre rose a rounded tower that would afford a most pleasing view of the grounds. The valet smiled at her, and she nodded. He was unfailingly polite, but she saw something in his eyes that she didn’t like, or trust. He needed watching.

  Up the steps and over the threshold into the entrance hall. Tolerably cooler inside. She paused to take it in. A grand staircase, a wide hallway lined with floorboards, doors leading from it either side and a chandelier hanging in the centre. She followed the valet and Philidor, who were approaching the staircase. The valet explained, ‘The manor follows the typical layout of a house of this proportion. Off this hallway either side is the drawing room, breakfast room, dining room and the duke’s downstairs library, just one of three places His Grace stores his books, while towards the back further down the hall is the flower room, butler’s pantry, housemaid’s room, kitchen, scullery, larder, lavatory. The ballroom, a bigger library, billiards room and museum are elsewhere, as I’m sure you will find out directly.’

  ‘Most impressive,’ said Philidor.

  Marie listened while she noted that the walls either side of the stair- case were lined with portraits of gentlemen, battle scenes and a few grey landscapes. She slowed down to absorb each one as they climbed.

  ‘Can I assist you, madame?’ the valet enquired. He was looking down at her from the landing.

  She looked up at him; his pose was awkward, his back pressed against the wall in the corner.

  ‘Madame?’ The valet raised his eyebrows, and Philidor’s brow creased with his usual show of impatience.

  Marie stepped up to the landing. ‘Forgive my slowness – I was just studying the pictures.’

  ‘Very well,’ the valet replied. He shifted his position, his body shielding something. His face remained impassive yet there was a very slight creep of colour above his shirt collar. ‘All of the portraits are of the duke’s ancestors. The landscapes are mostly of local sights. If you would like more information, I would be happy to discuss them in detail on another occasion. It will not do to keep His Grace the Duke of Portland waiting.’ He met her eyes and gestured for her and Philidor to walk ahead of him up the stairs. ‘If you’ll just follow me again, please.’ He turned left down the hallway with Philidor now walking beside him.

  Marie stalled, glancing back down the staircase. Nearly in the corner of the landing, exactly where the valet had positioned himself, hung a small gilded frame and, judging by the look of it … She took a step or two further along to get a better angle. Yes, it was a portrait. Hanging lopsided.

  ‘Madame,’ came the raised voice of the valet from the end of the hallway. ‘May I remind you that the duke is waiting?’

  Marie coughed and reached for her handkerchief. ‘My apologies,’ she said. ‘I just needed a moment to catch my breath.’ The valet continued to watch her steadily as she walked towards them. They then set off together, passing one, two, three closed doors either side before stopping outside one with a curious contrivance attached to it.

  ‘This is how His Grace conducts his business,’ said the valet. He pointed at each of the two little brass boxes on the outside of the door. ‘One is for ingoing messages, which His Grace receives privately behind this, his study door. The other is for outgoing messages that he wishes to communicate.’

  A pause.

  ‘That is how this meeting will be conducted. You are not permitted to talk to him in person, at any stage. Do you agree to these conditions?’

  ‘Very good,’ said Philidor, just a trifle too quickly.

  ‘Madame?’ enquired the valet.

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Please sit here.’ The young man gestured to the two faded chairs. The rounded back was comfortable, yet the cushion beneath was thin. Between the chairs was nestled a narrow table with paper and a quill.

  Marie settled herself and smoothed down her skirt. She sniffed – dust and a faint smell of vinegar. The hallway with its rows of closed doors stretched out either side of her, and she felt the chill of the vast empty space. It was so very quiet. She looked at Philidor; his complexion was flushed – excitement and over consumption of alcohol, no doubt.

  A soft drop in the outgoing box as the first letter arrived. The duke must have prepared it earlier. A rustle as the valet retrieved the letter then handed it to Philidor, who read
it then passed it to Marie.

  Dear Sir and Madame,

  Thank you for attending the meeting today. I trust the carriage ride was comfortable. Welcome to my ancestral home, Welbeck Abbey, a monastery until my family made it their residence in 1607. Although you have just arrived and seen nothing of it, I’m sure you can appreciate the size and facilities such an estate offers. I divide my time between here and my London home in Cavendish Square. I am pleased to say that my farmers and villagers are satisfied with their duke; however, I am particular in my demands. But more of that later.

  In short, I would like to make you an offer. I have a certain commission I would like you both to consider, and in return I can offer you a way out of your current plight.

  Philidor did not wait to confer with her but took a sheet of paper and the quill and composed the reply. A scratching for a minute, a cursory read by her, before he folded it in two and slid it into the incoming letterbox.

  Dear Sir,

  Thank you for your invitation and for providing the carriage. It was most comfortable. We are intrigued by your proposition and anticipate hearing the details.

  Marie moved her chair closer to Philidor, and together they read the duke’s reply.

  Excellent. I wish to employ you to make me a wax automaton. Similar to the one you call Antoinette but according to my specifications and my own drawings. My reasons for this are private and will remain so. It is enough that I want it done and I assure you the automaton will not be for public display but for my private use.

  I assume you, Philidor, will work out the mechanics while Madame Tussaud will be under your supervision and responsible for the aesthetics. I will finance the materials, and it must be kept secret. Secrecy is of the utmost importance. I am a man of extreme habits and particularities, and I do not come and go from my home with ease. Therefore, you both living and working here is imperative for the duration of the work in order to ensure complete privacy and security of the commission, which brings me to my offer. In return for this, I offer you the use of one of my carriages, the drive, tunnel and underground ballroom. If reports are to be believed, your last show was adversely affected by the extreme weather, combined with the exhalation of the crowd. My ballroom is underground and is thus considerably cooler and maintains its temperature for longer than a room aboveground. It is also well ventilated. The tunnel of a thousand yards that leads to the ballroom is well lit. Rail tracks have been laid that travel from the ballroom back up to the house, enabling carts to ride up and down with food and building supplies as needed.