CHAPTER FOURTEEN

His Grace William Cavendish, the 5th Duke of Portland

IT WAS ALWAYS hard for William when he was at the threshold of his two worlds. The Baker Street Bazaar took enormous energy to run, and there were times when simply arriving and opening the door blew it all away. And he was always mindful of the incessant nosing and snooping and watching and listening of his landlady, the Druce woman. She was a pest, an insect that bumped up against his head, her wings of chatter agitating the fine hairs in his ears and making his skin itch and twitch and prick when he felt her eyes upon him. By nature of the business, his hours were irregular, which should have circumvented her designs. Heaven help him if he ever established a routine, then she’d lie in wait and accost him with pleasantries that would make his throat close over and his tongue swell. He paid the rent regularly but that wasn’t enough to sate her. She had little intellect but plenty of mental space, and she’d decided that he and his Bazaar were just the objects to occupy it.

The Bazaar was run by appointment, his clients writing to him to arrange mutually suitable times. The type of people William dealt with didn’t always keep business hours, arriving as they did from ships all over the world that docked at all hours of the night. He had acquired a sizeable library and collection of interesting artefacts thanks to this arrangement. His areas of interest were wide but included myths, legends, folk stories, superstitions and tales from around the seas, sculptures depicting mythology as well as maps, illustrations and drawings related to the same subjects. He was also, by way of a secondary pursuit, interested in magic, the occult and witchcraft.

Welbeck Abbey was the name given to the manor, grounds and estate he had inherited that stood on the outskirts of London where there were still fields left untouched and woods filled with game. He ensured that silence and solitude reigned at Welbeck, making his life there tolerable.

But to get to Welbeck from Baker Street was becoming increasingly difficult – due in considerable part to Mrs Druce. It was as if she sat by her window, day and night, for the express purpose of sighting then waylaying him. He crept down the narrow staircase from his upstairs room, after having doused his lamp and casting one last eye over his collection. His room comprised a sizable desk and table, two leather armchairs and a rug that softened the wainscoting around the perimeter of the room.

It was comfortable here, filled with old wooden crates, boxes, metal trunks and chests with rusting hinges. The air was charged with the damp salty residue of a sea voyage, combined with the faint tangs of exotic incense and spices. He liked the disordered feel of the room, so deliberately at odds with the way Welbeck was managed. Here, lids were thrown back, abandoned, like his inhibitions when he was safely enclosed in its walls. This was his adventurous, liberated other life; the life he was forced to keep guarded and locked up, literally. If he was honest with himself, this was the life he could have had with her. The person he could have been, damn it, had the great misfortune not transpired. They could have lived together in Cavendish Square in London, gone to the museum, the theatre and the ballet, had picnics in the parks and hosted suppers where she would have presided over the table, proud of her husband. It would have been a life of culture, gaiety, intellectual stimulation, and laughter – free from the shackles of Welbeck, whose chains, though familiar, were heavy with obligation, guilt and remorse.

But the great misfortune had happened. And as his two brothers had died in their infancy, William had been the next in line to inherit. Upon his death a distant cousin who he had never met stood to inherit everything, and William had no plans to change his will or meet the cousin.

If anyone who knew his identity saw this room, they would struggle to comprehend, to reconcile it and the man he was here with the 5th Duke of Portland, owner of Welbeck Abbey and soon to be Peer of the Realm. He’d already had two sittings for his portrait which was to hang in the House of Lords, only one now remained. A difficult experience but a necessary one. Yes as the duke he was so reclusive, so peculiar, so set in his ritual and ways. Refusing even to be looked upon!

But behind these walls of Baker Street, he could become someone else. Or was it just another version of himself? Or, perhaps, who he really was, a truer version. Not that he had a complete change of personality; he was still quiet and reserved, but he was more relaxed within his congenial surroundings. The fears, anxieties and hallucinations did not plague him here. His mind was stiller, calmer, not driven like a team of horses trying to bolt in different directions while the carriage shattered into pieces.

All this aside – whatever it was, whoever he was, he found it hard to leave Baker Street. Metaphorically and literally.

He listened to sailors, merchants, captains, military men who sat across from him in the armchair, smoking a pipe, drinking from crystal glasses whatever alcohol they pleased – for William stocked a vast array – while he asked question after question of their travels: whom they had seen, what they had seen. And he would listen, with the wide eyes and open imagination of a starved and captive man, desperate for the lights, sounds, colours, sights of far-distant shores. Then he would grow tired; the teller of tales would notice his head had tipped against the back of the chair, his eyes had closed, and the teller’s voice would falter and then cease. A moment, perhaps more, of silence when the space between the clock ticks seemed to stretch, then William would rouse himself and say, ‘Thank you.’ He would put his glass on the table and pay his visitor the agreed price for their addition to his collection.

This night, after one such scene, William descended the stairs in darkness with the bundle of books he had just secured tucked under his arm. This was no easy feat, but the light of a lantern or a candle would increase his chance of exposure to Mrs Druce. Although her living quarters were on the ground floor of next door’s apartment, she was ever vigilant. Imagine, he thought, having to sneak past her door as his neighbours must, every time they left the premises. Ghastly.

He opened the front door, turned quickly, retrieved his keys and locked it. He looked up – was someone there, at the first-floor window next door? The second floor? Good gracious, was Druce at her window as well? No, the curtain was pulled over. He was safe.

But as he crossed the road, quieter at this hour, a door slammed behind him.

His stomach tightened. If he could just make it to the carriage door, he might not even have to see her face. The books slipped; he clutched them closer to his chest.

‘Mr Charles!’ he heard her call. ‘Thomas, dear, just a minute.’

Good heavens, how had it happened that he was being called ‘dear’? By this woman? In public?

He was nearly there, stepped up onto the footpath, his hand reaching for the carriage door while his books slipped again from his grasp. He lunged to catch them but they fell to the ground. He was trapped.

‘Thomas,’ said the voice sharply. And there she was before him.

All pink face, bosoms heaving, her lips shiny with spit.

He ran his free hand across his forehead. Not a scene; he hoped she would not create a scene. He bent over and began picking them up. This one’s spine was broken, the corner of this one was squashed, and –

‘You said you were going to come and see me before you went home,’ she accused, stepping in closer so he could smell her. Greasy meat, was all he could think of. And the splotches of sour milk on her dress. The baby. Oh dear! But what were his loins doing in response?

‘I did?’ He righted himself, books safe again in his arms. ‘Pardon me, I remember no such thing. I wouldn’t promise that – I mean, I haven’t seen you since … well, since last week when I paid the rent. And I thought that was for the next month as well, so I needn’t trouble you unnecessarily.’

‘Oh, that’s a lie, that is,’ she said, a fine spray of spit arriving on his lips from hers.

He wiped his mouth, feeling hot. His body was throbbing in a most unusual way.

‘I know you remember last night.’ She reached over to pinch his arm. That big slow eye winked at him in a manner that felt horrifyingly knowing.

‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I dined at Cavendish Square alone, as has always been my custom.’

‘And then?’

‘A … and … and then I came back here to meet someone.’

‘Oh, you met someone, all right – don’t play all high and mighty with me, Thomas.’ Her hands were snaking around his waist. She pressed herself against him; his loins stirred again, moved in response, while his mind, his senses, screamed with revulsion at her touch. And such a vulgar public display of affection.

He stepped back and brushed her arm away, his books dropping to the ground again as a consequence. ‘Look what you’ve made me do,’ he cried, and bent to retrieve them. He stood up, flushed. ‘Do not presume to touch me like that again, madam. It is most unseemly, and I have no recollection as to what you are referring. I hazard to suggest you have mistaken me for some … for someone else.’

‘Oh no,’ she said, her lasciviousness now turning to scorn, ‘it was you, alright. You who took me on that leather armchair you’ve got, you who had me while those stinking candles burned, and you who cried like a baby when you’d had your fill. Like you’ve done every time for nigh on a year now. Why insist with this charade?’

‘But upon my honour, I do not.’ William stepped back to lean against the carriage. ‘I do not know of what you speak, the idea is preposterous. I would never, you are not —’

‘Preposterous, am I?’ she said, and gestured to his crotch. ‘Whatever I am, your body tells a different story. Don’t you know I’m good enough to get two front-row tickets to the grandest show in London, I am.’ She unfurled a playbill from where it had been scrunched in her hand and waggled it in front of his face. ‘And I would have taken you, but I’ve changed me mind. Now I want an extra two pounds by next week, for services rendered. Understand?’

William looked back up at the windows. On the first floor, a glimpse of a pale face, and on the second, the outline of a woman’s silhouette. He had been seen. He wrenched open the carriage door, stepped inside and closed the door after him.

The window was wound down a fraction, and Druce threw the crumpled playbill straight through to hit him on the face. He hurriedly wound up the window and pulled down the green silk blind as she thumped her fist on the closed door. ‘You’ll pay, Thomas – and what’s more, I know you’ll be wanting the same again. You always do.’

William knocked on the roof, the driver flicked the reins, and they pulled away.

William sat back and stared into the dark carriage. He put the blind up momentarily, afraid he’d see Druce’s silhouette sitting opposite him. The carriage flickered with light as they passed the inns and clubs that remained open all hours on Baker Street.

What in heaven’s name had that woman been talking about? She must be mad. To accuse him, to imply that he had been intimate with her! Such a creature! It was impossible. Impossible. He pulled the blind down. And yet in the confines of the gloom … was that a memory? Of a soft warm breast in his hand. A mound of dark hair. A certain smell of meat.

For heaven’s sake, no! He covered his mouth with his hand. It wasn’t true. He must steady himself. He shook out his arms and hands, freeing himself from the illusion of her touch.

But what was this? The playbill she had thrown at him. He put it in his pocket and concentrated on preparing for his return to Welbeck. Who he was. What was required. He must go through his private ritual before he arrived.

His face twitched in replay of expressions he’d made during the day. His head nodding up and down, mouth opening and shutting to mimic speech, while his hands clenched and unclenched as though they were simultaneously gesturing, shaking a phantom hand and reading a book. So that by the time he passed through the two stone pillars that heralded the drive down through the wide, dark tunnel of trees, he was almost free of the contamination of the public.

He was also thinking about the two people who had watched him from the windows: the woman on the second floor and the gentle- man at the window directly below hers. For as long as William had been there, those lodgings had been intermittently occupied; now it appeared a husband and wife had moved in and kept strange hours.

The carriage bent around the circle drive and pulled up at the front steps of Welbeck. As was customary, his blind had remained down for most of the trip; he could not bear seeing humanity in all its depravity along the London streets, juxtaposed against the swagger of the rich. More importantly, he didn’t want anyone seeing him (apart from the valet) or guessing the particulars of his life. William bent forward, ready for the door to be opened. The cook should be in the kitchen, the young housemaid out of sight and the valet in position to meet him, as was always required.

She was troubling though, that young housemaid. On an earlier occasion he’d caught her peering from behind an open door off the entrance hallway, when she’d been specifically instructed that she was not to be seen or to see him. To have eyes on his face at Welbeck without his consent was quite simply detestable and a complete invasion of his privacy. The cook and the groundstaff all understood the requirements, as did all his tenant farmers; if they obeyed the rules they were rewarded, and if not, dismissed. The only reason he’d let the maid stay on was because she was the daughter of one of his deceased tenant farmers to whom he was much obliged to.

The valet opened the carriage door from behind so as not to be in William’s direct line of sight any more than was necessary, while the driver remained on his perch staring straight ahead. It was all in order, the front door opened in expectation of his arrival. He was punctual to the minute at Welbeck, as a life with such specific requirements needed to function like clockwork: gears oiled and keeping time, or else the whole contraption shattered.

He mounted the steps into the cavernous entry way. Directly in front of him lay the staircase, towering above him like a gargantuan waterfall. He closed his eyes and began to mount the stairs, counting each step as he did so, crossing the small landing then up again for the last set. His hand clenched the rail and steadied him as he went; it was imperative he did not trip or stumble, for then his eyes might open and glimpse the portrait. The staircase was the only area he had not stripped of furnishings at his father’s death, for he believed the portraits and landscapes had to remain for convention’s sake, in honour of his family, his ancestors.

When he reached the top, his neck muscles softened. He turned left along the hallway that led to his suite of rooms in the East Wing. He was safe here. The rules were back in place, the rules were followed, and another month would pass before he had to go back to the Bazaar. And Druce, his inner voice whispered. But what to do about her? Sheer strength of will would lock her in a room in his mind and keep her there. Sheer focus. And he had a wonderful hoard of new books in which to immerse himself.

The fire in the grate of his bedchamber was already lit, the water warmed if he chose to wash – yes, the valet had done everything as ordered. Home meant predictability and, more importantly, control. William sat on the edge of his four-poster bed and took off his boots, noting that they needed a polish; he would leave them outside his door for the maid, along with a note specifying this week’s meal requests for her to pass on to the cook. It brought with it such peace of mind, really, to know what one was eating in advance.

He sat at his sombre mahogany desk, there for occasions such as this when affairs of importance needed to be acted upon immediately. His quill and paper were waiting.

Breakfast was straightforward, the same every day, but he had to articulate it nevertheless. A poached egg on a single piece of toast. No condiments – especially no condiments. The last maid had thoughtfully put salt and pepper on the tray, and that had been the last time she’d done that, or anything at Welbeck. Dinner was boiled fish with carrots and beans. Again, no condiments. And supper, either bread, cheese and cured meats or a pie of some sort. This time, condiments accepted. Only a light repast of an evening to help him rest.

With this accomplished, he put his boots out with the note, alongside the used washing water to be replenished. He locked the door and finished undressing. A soft crackle – he pulled the playbill from his pocket and smoothed it out.

PHANTASMAGORIA
Coming every Evening soon at the Lyceum Theatre, Strand. Philidor
Takes the earliest Opportunity of informing his Patrons, and the Public at large that he will have the honour to EXHIBIT his Optical Illusions and Mechanical Piece of Art.
This show will introduce the PHANTOMS or APPARITIONS of the DEAD or ABSENT, in a way more completely illusive than has ever been offered to the EYE in a public THEATRE, as the OBJECTS freely originate in the AIR, and unfold themselves under various Forms and Sizes, such as imagination alone has hitherto painted them. This SPECROLOGY will open the Eyes of those who still foster a Belief in GHOSTS or DIESEMBODIED SPIRITS.

The Mechanical Piece of Art in EVERY respect is the world’s first HUMAN WAX AUTOMATON, endowed with the intuitive Power of attending to the Thoughts of the Company. The world’s greatest magician, mesmeriser and communer with the dead will unveil this Piece of Art for the FIRST time to the London public.

Despite himself, William was intrigued. Very intrigued. But too tired to think upon it now. He scrunched the playbill into a ball again, then pulled back his coverlet and slid between the unrumpled sheets so smoothly that the other side of the bed was undisturbed. He pushed the playbill beneath the pillow, closed his eyes – and thought again of Druce. Could he go to this Phantasmagoria with her? No! Not Druce. Never Druce. Think of something else.

The tree: a massive oak that had survived his father’s sporadic felling of the forest for use as bespoke furniture. The oak’s wide branches had been low enough for a growing boy to grasp and swing on, proud of his developing muscles and strength. All the better when he’d had a playmate who loved climbing as much as he did. The hours they’d spent there, climbing and building; the searches in the woods beyond for branches to construct walls and steps until the tree looked as if it had sprouted a giant dishevelled nest; the feeling of being in the tree, above the ground, legs swinging, and seeing the green grass below his soles had been so very deeply satisfying.

As its boughs creaked and groaned in the wind, and its branches reached for the birds that would perch to twitter amongst them, the trunk – the solid, dependable trunk – was silently rooted into the dark earth. And it was strong. He’d wanted to be like that – to exist as the tree did, not become affected by every sensation that struck his body and mind. And as his short legs had grown longer, his playmate growing alongside him, the oak had changed from their fort to their meeting spot where they no longer built wooden guns but instead shared food he’d stolen from the kitchen, and alternated between shyness and secrets.

Lying in bed, William tried to stop the scenes from gathering speed. He couldn’t start this story without the conclusion reaching out to him, claws elongated by crawling through the years of his mind, hunting him, not allowing him to forget.