Tussaud Page 4

  She thought of Regington and smiled. No, she was not always obedient, although it suited her to let others believe so. His smile. The touch of his hand on hers at Gunter’s tearoom that morning. She pushed her face into the pillow, savouring the soft darkness against her skin as she recollected it.

  The smell of sugar and coffee at Gunter’s always stroked her senses, and within five minutes of sitting down and placing her order she was sipping her drink and buttering her petite bread roll. And definitely not thinking of the conversation she’d just had with Druce.

  Her usual seat was vacant, and she had begun to compose a letter to her eldest son.

  Dear Joseph,

  I received a letter from your father earlier, demanding money or else he threatens to withdraw you and François from your studies. Do not panic, dearest, it shall not transpire. I do have a plan – however, there has been an unwelcome disruption. Last night’s opening show did not go as I had hoped. It has been most distressing, yet fortune has seen fit to favour me as this morning I received a letter bearing tidings of a fortuitous opportunity for a bespoke commission, which may perhaps prove even more lucrative than the current arrangement. If this transpires, I will have money to send your father within the next few months, enough to keep both you and François at the grandes écoles to complete your studies. I will write to your father immediately and inform him that more money is forthcoming, enough so that even if he squanders some on drink and gambling you are both safe.

  I am pleased with your endeavours in architecture and naturally want to see you succeed in this field. However, I have also wondered if you may be interested in aiding the development of my waxworks show here in London. Perhaps the arrangement may suit us both? I am of the firm belief that my name and my waxworks can be popular amongst the enlightened and generous public of England, who I think will appreciate my talents. But this takes time. And to hurry means mistakes. I am uncertain as to the nature and longevity of this partnership I have entered into with Philidor. I grow increasingly wary of him but will commit to completing this commission if the terms prove agreeable. I may be in London and not close by your side, but you must know that your mother will do whatever necessary to ensure both of you have a chance to succeed in your endeavours and to leave France.

  We go to discuss the commission with the gentleman concerned this very afternoon. I shall write you of the outcome as soon as possible but will write your father directly to stay his hand.

  Your loving mother,

  Marie.

  She sighed and folded the letter into her reticule. She would not send it until she was certain that the opportunity at Welbeck would eventuate. Her new formula for the wax was setting in her workshop; she could do no more now until it cooled and she tried it out. She turned to a fresh page in her notebook. Antoinette’s spectacular disintegration had provided her with the experience of seeing what would make an audience shriek and even faint. How could she use this to her advantage in creating an exhibition of her own, the Chamber of Horrors?

  Intent on drawing, she only dimly registered that someone had taken a seat alongside her on the parallel table. She daren’t risk a glance until they were settled and she could look without being seen. But she didn’t have to, for the gentleman spoke. ‘You appear deep in thought.’

  She glanced up and recognised the smile on that well-groomed face from their encounter only the other day. He was striking: stately and tall, with dark eyes and hair, and minimal whiskers. He wore another perfectly tailored coat. So stylish.

  ‘An accurate observation,’ she replied, returning to her work. What new game was this? If he thought he could assist her, then slight her only a day or so afterwards, and now try to make amends, he was just as foolish as –

  ‘Excuse me for interrupting again, Madame Tussaud but I believe we’ve met before,’ he said. ‘You tripped on the street and lost your reticule, and I —’

  ‘Yes Monsieur Regington, you helped me up and helped me find it,’ she said, still attending to her drawing. ‘And I thanked you at the time and I thank you again now. Please accept this as a final acknowledgement of services rendered.’

  She knew she was being curt, but she was nobody’s fool. It was important that he know that. Important that she give him a chance to end it before it all began.

  ‘May I enquire what you are working on?’ he said pleasantly. ‘My eyesight is poor, you see. My vanity stops me from wearing spectacles.’

  Poor eyesight? A reasonable explanation for why he hadn’t responded to seeing her through the window of this very tearoom the other day; a mere two days after he’d helped her when she had tripped over. Oh, yes, a more-than-reasonable explanation, except she didn’t believe one word of it.

  She looked up and smiled at him. ‘I’m working on some new ideas for a show.’

  ‘You’re an actress then?’

  ‘Not an actress … an artiste.’

  ‘Oh, you paint?’

  ‘I create sculptures … with wax.’

  ‘Really?’ He sipped from his own coffee then placed it steadily back on the saucer. ‘How utterly fascinating. What do you make sculptures of?’

  ‘People. Heads. In Paris, I had my own shop.’

  ‘You ran your own business in Paris? An impressive feat to be sure, for a woman. Although the Frenchwomen do seem to have … how shall I say it? Much more intellectual vigour than their English counterparts.’

  ‘Thank you, monsieur,’ she replied. Strategic flattery.

  ‘Have you seen the advertisements then, for this London show that has just started? It features a wax automaton, so it is reported.’

  ‘That is mine.’

  ‘Oh! I understood it to be this … what is his name? Philidor?’

  ‘So he would have everyone believe.’

  The gentleman raised his eyebrows. ‘As I read in the papers this morning, it appears the event did not go so well.’

  ‘He was careless, extended the show – and the heat, combined with that generated from the inner mechanics, made the wax melt.’

  ‘Most unfortunate.’ He took another sip. ‘He must have got swept up in the glory of the stage – his vanity, you might say – as clearly you are not to blame. I see you’ve finished your coffee. Would you like another one?’

  If she said yes, then he would move to her table. They would appear on intimate terms.

  She was acutely aware of the scent emanating from him as he leant towards her from his table. Cloves and a deeper note of something sharp, exotic. Her cheeks warmed. She affected to glance out the window and discreetly inhale one more breath of him before she answered, then she flushed when she looked back to find his eyes had never left her face. He smiled. And her heart dropped from her chest into her stomach. Another game was about to begin.

  Marie woke warm but confused. A sense of oppression. A cramped space. Darkness. Where was she? She sat up, her senses attuned. No sounds of carriages, voices or the creak of footsteps on wooden floors. No smell of dirty hot air, refuse from the street or years of body odour stored within peeling wallpaper. Then her fingers found the bed curtains.

  She was at Welbeck, the home of the 5th Duke of Portland, William Cavendish and his tiresome list of rules. She wondered what the time was. Felt her stomach, flat and empty. The maid had not woken her, neither had Philidor. Had she been forgotten in this vast house while she slumbered? She rose from her bed and felt her way over to the window, whose curtains were still open from earlier that afternoon, letting the moonlight in.

  After she lit the lamp on her dresser, she saw the time on the clock as eleven – she had certainly missed supper. What to do now? She lifted the window and leant forwards to inhale the cool air. It felt deliciously clean and moist, and she was wide awake now. Wide awake and ready to explore further. She looked out beyond the lawn to the inky thicket of trees, to a pale gleam of a path that seemed to beckon. She made her decision. The duke had forbidden exploring the estate fully, this was true. And she neede
d this commission not just for the establishment of her own fortune, but to secure the future of her sons as well. However, a walk outside in the grounds at night had not been stipulated as a breach. She would disturb no one.

  When she opened her bedchamber door, she stumbled across something at her feet. She picked up a plate, covered with a cloth underneath which lay a wedge of cheese and a hunk of bread. Next to it a jug of wine, which mercifully she hadn’t stepped on. Thankful for Harriet’s thoughtfulness, she returned to her room to eat before setting off.

  Marie headed directly towards the path that had been illuminated from the moon. It wove around a bend, then towards two lights burning brightly atop their respective stone pedestals. She passed between them and instinctively gathered her shawl around her shoulders, although it was not cold.

  At the entrance of the tunnel mouth, her heart beat fast and hard. She felt herself surrendering to the smutty shadows that rose across the curved walls when she lifted her lamp higher.

  She remembered the rules – yes, she was allowed in the tunnel and ballroom but no further. She was not afraid of the dark, and the idea of exploring by herself was enough to spur her on. Away from Philidor, away from Druce, away from this duke and his stipulations, she was unencumbered by the restraint that daytime brought.

  The tunnel was wide and smooth enough for her to walk easily. For a reason she couldn’t explain, she increased her pace. She came out into what she supposed was the ballroom, feeling the height of the ceiling stretch out above her, though her lantern’s reach was only so far. She hurried, again for what reason she did not know, down the path that continued along the side of the ballroom. She passed doors, each locked bar two. Each opened onto an empty room with a long table in the middle and a fireplace. A perfect area for her workshop, she noted.

  At this point she stopped, hovered even, as if at the threshold of some unseen crossing. Should she continue this exploration or retire? Logic determined she should retire, as to explore any further might place her in jeopardy of breaking a rule. But her intuition had a stronger voice than her logic. There was no one else down here, and she was so very careful not to make any noise; surely it wouldn’t hurt to keep going just a little longer. She rounded a bend to find another door.

  An odious smell she recognised. She knelt and sniffed at the bottom of the door. Yes, this was the source. She turned the handle; it gave, but the door did not open. She pushed her shoulder against it and tried again. No movement.

  Her curiosity only heightened her frustration. She rattled the doorknob, heedless now of the noise. It would not open. Yet that smell – that ugly, terrible smell – seemed to urge her onwards. Try again, it murmured on poisonous breath. Try and find us.

  She gave one last push, then stood back panting. It was not to be.

  Then she heard it: the sound of bolts being drawn back on the other side. Her hand flew to her throat. Her pulse throbbed beneath the thin skin there. Someone was opening it – someone was coming. She took a step backwards then inched across the cavern wall. Who was it? What was it? The grating of metal reverberated in her ears and mixed with the blood pounding against her temples, so that she knew not what was outside of her and what was inside.

  She paused. One, two, three, four, five beats. Nothing happened.

  She blinked once, hard. She was ready.

  But the door didn’t open. She released her hand from her throat and took a deep breath. No sound from behind the door. No bolts being drawn back. No one being kept prisoner. Her fancies, again, were reminding her of what had been, not what was. But how could she ever forget?

  CHAPTER SIX

  1794

  Paris

  Marie

  MARIE HAD SHUT her workshop door and bolted it, leaving Joseph and François squalling on the other side. They beat upon it with wails and cries that were fast becoming intolerable. Where was that stupid maid? Late back from running an errand as usual; more than likely having a dalliance with some oaf of an apprentice somewhere. Marie pressed her back against the door and pulled at her hair, loosening the knot she’d wound so carefully this morning. Back when the day was fresh, and she’d thought she could try again. Try to be calm. Try to be patient. Try to –

  The wailing became even shriller, and she turned to face the door, vibrating slightly with the assault of two pairs of little boys’ hands that would not give up. They wanted their mother, they wanted feeding, they wanted amusing, wanted, wanted. All through her days and nights, it seemed, they continually wanted, so that she wanted for nothing but silence. And time to herself to create.

  Now they were kicking the door. The thumps made anger billow past her chest and into her throat. Where once she had vowed to stifle a scream, she let it loose: a cry so loud, so deep, so guttural that it silenced the other side. She leapt at the door and began pounding it with her own fists – and then, finding that pain still registered through her rage, she stopped hitting and began kicking. Thud, thud, thud. Her screaming ceased; her kicking continued.

  Now the thudding sounded different, as if it were echoing somewhere. As if it were –

  She stopped. It was coming from outside, more specifically from the front door. Someone was knocking to be let in. Her blood was hot and filled her cheeks with warmth, surely staining where before it had been white. She took a deep breath and reached for the doorhandle.

  She opened the door upon flushed faces and angry eyes. Joseph and François, three and two years old.

  ‘Someone’s here,’ she said, stepping between them. ‘And what do you mean by making such a racket? I am trying to work, and you kick the door like mules.’

  ‘We didn’t,’ said Joseph, the elder. ‘We just knocked and waited.’

  The thud came again from the front door. Strong. Impatient.

  A thrill ran over the skin of her skull. She had left her window displays untouched because they still drew a crowd, and the time spent on each wax model had been exhaustive. She was proud of her work, proud of her creations, proud of her ability to replicate life where there was none: the King and Queen seated around a dining table, resplendent in gowns and coats with such intricate sewing of pearls and ribbon they alone were worth a small fortune. But the Revolution that had begun with murmurings had grown like a swollen river into shouts and slaughter. She smoothed her skirts. Should she have taken them down? Sealed them up in a dark room to gather dust? No, she was not a royal sympathiser – she was an artiste, removed from politics, wanting only to create and entertain.

  The boys trailed behind her down the hallway. ‘Mama, can we go out this morning for a walk with our hoops?’

  ‘We will see.’ She approached the front door, heard men’s voices, their laughter. There was a group of them. The thudding on the door resumed. She turned and whispered, ‘Boys, back to your bedchamber. Pull up the floorboards I showed you and hide in the cellar. Stay there and be quiet, until you hear your father get home. No matter what you hear, don’t make a sound.’

  ‘Soldiers?’ asked François, his eyes wide.

  She kissed each of their foreheads. ‘Just go,’ she said and stood to face the door, waiting until she heard the boys’ footsteps reach their room and its door close. They would be safe.

  Take a breath, blink once, hard, and be ready.

  She opened the front door. They rushed at her, made bold in their uniforms of blue, red and white, polished boots to their knees with black hats to match and brightly dyed feathers that denoted their station. One grabbing, one restraining, one smashing, while another opened drawers, then cupboards and boxes, looking for evidence of betrayal.

  They accused her of being a sympathiser. And they found the evidence: drawings of the royalty, studies of their faces, and here was one of Versailles! And another one, look, with the aristocrats having supper, growing fat on the flesh of the poor who had wasted away working for them! And here, right in front of them, the wax figures themselves. Aha! Guilty.

  Madness had replaced reason. It was th
e Revolution.

  La Force, Paris

  The stone room was pitiful in size. Naturally it was not designed for the occupant to be lavishly comfortable, but compared to an underground dungeon it was tolerable. She had a straw mattress, a blanket, a bucket for her privations, a round table and a chair.

  She had been inside for twelve weeks. At least she had a window that brought sunlight and fresh air. But it also brought the chants of the crowd, the cries of the guards to open and close the gates, the rumble of carts arriving with terrified aristocrats and the rumble of carts leaving with dead ones.

  She ran her fingers over her head. Early that morning, the gaoler had shorn her in readiness for execution. Her stubble felt soft and smooth. She had no looking glass to see if it suited her, although vanity was not a consideration.

  One step, two, three, four, five. Five steps from the left-hand corner of the room behind the door to the left-hand corner opposite, stop, count to three then turn to the right. One, two, three, four, five. Five steps from the left-hand corner to right, stop, count to three then turn. If she started with her right foot and reached the corner with her left, she would live another day. She knew the sequence. She had to make it work. She had to control her fate.

  She passed the meager dish of peas and beans, and the loaf of bread sitting untouched on the table. It was the right way up; upside down meant bad luck. She finished her round of the room then picked up the loaf. She studied the uneven crust on the top. Inhaled, and her mouth watered. She put it down. Picked it up. Put it down. Yes, yes, yes. Each time checking she’d returned it just so, and each time bringing further good luck upon herself.

  She’d asked the guard about the table as well – the French understood superstitions. Yes, it had been the first object brought into the room, so she was guaranteed good luck with this also. But there must be more. More superstitions, more prayers, more patterns she could acquire to help her survive this Revolution, this prison. Yes, she had prayed. Like all of the prisoners on the platform who’d prayed. It was not a weakness, but God hadn’t intervened. Not for the women or the children. Perhaps the reassurance she felt in her little superstitions and rituals was God’s grace, granting her the strength to endure. Perhaps.