CHAPTER FOUR

Marie

‘THE ARRANGEMENTS WITH the staffing here are what could best be described as unconventional,’ said the valet, as he showed her to what was to be her bedchamber in the central building on the second floor. ‘There is a housemaid who does most of the cleaning and domestic chores, and the cook, a local woman from the village who comes every day. She refuses to live on the grounds, which suits His Grace and myself well – one less person for me to worry about him meeting unexpectedly. And then obviously myself, whose main concern is the welfare of the duke. While you are staying, the housemaid and I will wait on you both.’

‘It surprises me that there are only three staff, for such a big house.’

‘His Grace never entertains, madame. He has not had guests until now.’

‘I see. I do hope our presence will not tire the cook out needlessly, although I have only a small appetite.’

‘Oh, she will quite enjoy the challenge. It will be good for her to serve a variety of dishes with proper guests here now. One gets so tired of the same meals on rotation.’

‘I’m sure.’

He turned to look at her. ‘You will notice it is a quiet house. We are considerably isolated here, practically self-sufficient, and as you are aware, the duke is most particular about how he wants Welbeck managed. It does not suit everyone.’

‘You oversee his affairs as well?’

‘I assist him with everything. The care of the grounds requires the services of a groundskeeper and staff, and another fellow manages the stables, but they all reside in their own homes in the village. I am kept informed of everything concerning His Grace, including his financial details.’

‘He relies on you heavily then, monsieur.’

‘He finds me indispensable,’ he said with a smile. ‘Now, here is your room.’ He opened the door of her bedchamber. ‘I will leave you now and attend to Mr Philidor. Please ring the bell for the maid if you have any further questions.’

Marie stepped inside and looked straight through the room out the window to the open lawn, which stretched all the way to the forest of oaks. But no time to consider this, as a smell caught at her nostrils. What was it? She walked across the rug to the dressing table. A posy of flowers on a lace doily; only a meagre bunch, not even tied with anything. She picked them up. The bases of the stems were freshly torn. She did not know this flower: a single long stalk but with small sprays off either side, at the end of which were two heart-shaped petals, joined at the bottom to form a well.

She sniffed them and drew back. Yes, it was a curious smell. Subtle, yet something was distasteful about it. She pushed up the sash window to let in the fresh air. It was warm out there, but the smell was nauseating her. She tossed the flowers onto the roof tiles below; they would fast dry out in the sun. The hot wind stung her face, and she breathed out sharply before taking a deep breath. Had the smell evaporated? She would leave the window open and take a turn around the grounds.

A sound behind her.

Marie turned to see a young woman standing there. Eighteen, nineteen perhaps. Dark hair pinned back, large brown eyes, and her face a pearly white. Something about her looked familiar, as if Marie had seen someone resembling her before. How long had she been standing there, watching?

‘Excuse me, madame, the valet sent me up to introduce myself. I’m Harriet, and I’m to look after you while you stay at Welbeck.’ The girl clasped her hands in front of her.

‘Very good. I am pleased to meet you, Harriet. Now, I presume it was you who put the flowers in my room?’

The girl nodded. Her hands, Marie noticed, were discoloured with patches of angry skin that stretched all the way up under the cuffs of her dress. The tips of her fingers were cracked, slits of red pushed out between the wounds. As if sensing her gaze, Harriet moved her hands behind her back.

‘Thank you for doing so, but the fragrance disagrees with me. I prefer lavender, if you have any growing here.’

Was it possible the girl looked surprised?

Her hands were back in front of her now, and she began to pick at the tip of one in the silence, as if deciding something. She raised her head. ‘Elanor asked me to, madame.’

‘Elanor?’

‘She, well, she likes them.’

‘Forgive me, but who is this Elanor?’

‘She’s … she’s, well, she’s like the mistress of the house, I suppose you could say.’

Marie studied the girl’s face for a sign of deception. Was she mad? ‘I was given to understand there is no mistress of the house. That it was just —’

The sound of a throat being cleared, and the valet stepped out from behind the girl. ‘Forgive Harriet,’ he said smoothly. ‘His Grace shows such kindness in employing local villagers, and Harriet, although simple, does her duties well. However she is not used to outside company. Harriet, you may go now,’ he said curtly.

Harriet did not meet Marie’s eyes but dipped her head before leaving.

‘Again my apologies if she disturbed you, madame. Is everything else to your satisfaction?’

‘Thank you.’

‘Excellent. I shall leave you alone then,’ he said, and withdrew.

Marie stood for a moment, letting her observations about

Harriet distil. Generally servants liked to gossip, were idle if not watched and often untrustworthy. It remained to be seen exactly what quality of servant Harriet would reveal herself to be after this initial meeting.

Her eye was arrested by a large painting that hung opposite the foot of the bed. A huddle of oak trees presided over by a full moon. There was something unusual about the way the artist had captured the streaky white light across the foliage of the flowers at the base of a especially large tree in the foreground. Most atmospheric. Marie looked out of the window down at the flowers, already blackening in the sun. Were they the same? She inhaled deeply. Had the smell really evaporated? It was time to explore outside.

As she descended the stairs, she slowed down upon approaching the landing. The lopsided portrait she had glimpsed earlier was righted. She continued on. It would not be wise for the valet or the maid to notice that she had noticed anything unusual. Not yet.

She walked through the kitchen gardens, covering an area of twenty-two acres where they grew roses, lavender and topiary trees with bright green leaves carved into shapes of ancient mythical creatures: the Sphinx, half man half lion; Cerberus, the three-headed dog who guarded the entrance to Hades; and there in the corner was Ladon, the dragon that guarded the golden apples of Hesperides, their foliage winking in the sunshine as if rustling with breath. The fruit trees and vegetable beds were surrounded by old rock walls with indentations within them for braziers to be inserted in order to cultivate the growing and ripening of the fruit. Also on the grounds were stables apparently housing over one hundred horses that the duke never rode but kept in good condition at the ready. And the main riding house, a low building of rough stone, was most impressive, long and wide and lit by four thousand gas jets.

This vast estate was owned by a gentleman seemingly incapable of communicating with anyone in a normal manner. What peace of mind, what freedom all this green would give her as she planned and dreamt up her new life that would begin when she was finished with Philidor. The 5th Duke of Portland was going to provide the means to do it. Her boys. Reunited with her in London at the conclusion of their schooling and finally free from the influence of their father. And her Chamber of Horrors, she could exhibit here in this city. It would be her greatest display yet.

Certainly she would never see this duke. It was most unusual, but then she understood something of what others perceived as madness. For hadn’t she her own fancies? The many years she had spent as a recluse locked up in her tiny shop in Paris seemed like they had happened to someone else. So many days wasted in those cramped, dark rooms, talking to those heads. It didn’t bear thinking about, not now that she had fine dresses again, money, a commission, the ability to create and a chance to build a new life away from the constant reminders of the miserable Revolution. They couldn’t get her here. Couldn’t touch her, even if it all began again. Her fingers curled into her palms, the tendons rising out of the back of both hands above her thin bones.

No one could reach her here – not even their interfering landlady Mrs Druce, who had accosted her this very morning as she’d left for breakfast at her favourite tearoom. Her mind full of the confrontation with Philidor and the catastrophe of the night before, and needing both food and coffee, Marie had forgotten to avoid the second step from the bottom as she’d descended the staircase to the front door. The step that creaked, the one that betrayed her every time, heralding her arrival or departure to Druce.

Sure enough, the door at the bottom of the stairs flew open at the sound. The woman was still in the clothes she’d worn to the Phantasmagoria, her cheap dress shining even in the dimly lit hallway, her rouge smeared to her jawline and her breasts exposed more than was seemly. ‘Morning,’ she said, and smoothed down her hair. The brat’s wails escaped from behind her door. Marie glimpsed a table filled with unwashed plates and a pile of dirty linen.

‘Good morning,’ said Marie, and stepped off the stairs to the front door.

‘Unfortunate event last night – your poor husband must be severely put out.’ Druce’s eyes sparkled with interest.

‘We are remedying the situation.’ Husband! To think that anyone would think she would marry a man such as Philidor was reprehensible. But the deception suited for now.

‘What a sensation! What a mess. I mean, it’s just so horribly ghoulish.’ Druce affected a shudder. ‘That girl fainted, as did half the women in the audience!’

‘An exaggeration,’ said Marie, her hand on the front doorknob, twisting it only to find it locked.

She turned to see a satisfied smile on Druce’s face. ‘Oh! Must have forgot to unlock it, caught up in reading the paper! Naturally it won’t affect your rent, not for the next two weeks. But after that … I assume all will continue as expected?’

‘My husband gave you two front-row tickets in exchange for two weeks’ rent. That was the understanding. If circumstances change, you will be notified in the usual manner. Now, if you please,’ she finished, and stood back from the door.

Druce took the hint and bustled forward with her ring of keys.

Marie stepped down onto the footpath, aware that Druce continued to watch. And aware that this conversation would be churned over for hours by her and her cronies to mine every single sentence for every single hidden meaning. Detestable woman – a plague on her and all her type.

Now, at Welbeck Abbey, Marie had space to think. Space to plan. She turned from where she stood on the front lawn to take in the façade of the house, trying to find her bedchamber window. Ground floor, first floor, second floor – yes, further along, there it was! The breeze drawing the lace curtain in and out of the open window as if the house was breathing.

A pair of white hands on the frame, the window pulled down. A silhouette behind the pane. A shadow, watching her. Was it the maid? Or was it just a trick of the light?

Marie squinted into the sun. The shape seemed taller, stronger, standing in a self-composed manner, compared to the maid, who seemed like such a timid creature. Shielding the sun with her hand, Marie took a step closer. The shadow hovered then evaporated as if it were merely a reflection. Yes, it had probably been the maid. But why then did the skin of Marie’s scalp shiver? She was being fanciful again.

She closed her eyes and saw, unbidden, that portrait hanging at its odd angle. She took another breath of the country air. Then came the image of the flowers on the dressing table, and the smell grabbed at her again. She opened her eyes. No, of course the odour hadn’t followed her out here. Her imagination was overstimulated; her nerves strained with the excitement. Her fanciful notions would vanish after a rest. Oh, but how real the fancies were. And wasn’t that how this whole thing had begun? On a fancy?