CHAPTER TWO

Marie

SOCIETY DARLING FALLS ILL AT PHANTASMAGORIA SHOW GONE WRONG Last night’s performance of the much anticipated Phantasmagoria came to an abrupt halt as the marvel literally melted in front of the audience’s eyes. Miss Greythorne was in the audience accompanied by her mother and father, who witnessed the wax automaton’s degeneration as first the cheeks, then nose, chin and hair disintegrated at Miss Greythorne’s touch. Perhaps the uncommonly high temperatures that London has been experiencing caused the catastrophe. Or was it simply that this show, like those of many performers who make bold claims, is nothing more than an amateur attempt at entertainment?

Philidor, the creator of the Phantasmagoria, has sent in a statement assuring all audience members that they can attend the next performance at no further cost to themselves on provision of their ticket; however, he regrets to inform them that the Phantasmagoria has been suspended until further notice. He expresses his deepest and most sincere apologies.

MARIE’S GRIP ON the newspaper tightened. She held it for a moment longer then put it on the table on top of the others. Her eyes felt as if they were filled with soil, itchy and gritty from so few hours of sleep. She pressed her hands into them and leant forwards, resting her head. There was an ache somewhere in the middle of her spine. Through the night she’d been experimenting with a new recipe for wax that would withstand the warmer temperatures and extended length of operation. She’d written it all down in her notebook as well, fuelled with the energy borne out of humiliation and desperation. When morning broke the fatigue had arrived, and she had succumbed; she’d put the buckets and bottles aside, doused the fire and dressed for a confrontation with Philidor. She had also wanted to read the Morning Post’s review ahead of him.

He had not kept to their agreed time of an hour for the show. It was his fault. But her masterpiece, her creation, had been the victim, thereby implying that she, Marie Tussaud, was an amateur and had made an inferior product. One could not expect wax to withstand what real skin could. But that stupid, stupid man had not paid heed, and now her name was besmirched. If it was mentioned at all – according to this article, she did not even exist. How much longer would she endure this slight?

The remains of Antoinette were seated in the chair in Philidor’s workshop, as he’d refused to carry her upstairs to Marie’s workshop the night before. She could salvage the automaton; in the clear light of day, she could see it was mainly the head that was damaged. She reached up to her own temples and massaged them, the pain arcing across her forehead. Yes, she could make another one, but the new recipe would take some time. She would need to test it out. And time was not something that Philidor would be pleased to hear was required.

She needed a coffee, needed to escape the confines of this room. The shared parlour was the only option. She moved to stand in its doorway, calculating the number of steps from one corner of the room to its opposite. Her fingers found the handkerchief buried within her corset, and she felt the dried blood still there. Good luck. She needed it.

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 Antoinette, 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.