CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

1810
His Grace William Cavendish, 5th Duke of Portland
Welbeck Abbey

AT THE PHANTASMAGORIA he witnessed the chaos then lingered until the theatre was empty, so there was less risk of him being noticed. A woman walked on stage to stand before Antoinette; so unnatural was the scene of destruction, yet the woman’s grief as she caressed the melted face was horribly real. He put his topper on quietly and made his way out into the foyer.

Heavens above, they were all still there! A mass of people swelling around him, their high-pitched laughter slicing through his forehead. Druce must have left by now, surely. He tried to quell the rising instinct to push and run, and instead moved slowly, weaving in and out through the throng.

He noticed a shabby red bonnet that looked familiar. The head on which it sat turned around, mouth open mid-sentence. He met her eyes.

‘Thomas Charles! Baker Street Bazaar! Now what on earth are you doing here?’

Blast that woman. He hurried straight back to the Bazaar, where he drank more wine than usual while reading. When he woke early in the morning at Cavendish Square and tried to recall the rest of the night, his mind met a wall. A blank. Nothing but glimpses of memory – or of conjured-up memories, like the spectre of Antoinette.

After reading the review of the Phantasmagoria in The Morning Post, he quickly managed to get a letter hand delivered to the office requesting the address of Philidor. Given that the editor there must have corresponded with Philidor to print his statement, William was certain the editor would divulge the information to a duke such as himself without hesitation. Upon receiving a reply with the necessary address, he realised with a start that Philidor and his accomplice, whose name he had just read was Madame Tussaud, actually occupied the premises next door to his on Baker Street. Oh, that would make them the couple who he had seen watching him from their respective windows in that dreadful scene with Druce. He shuddered and prayed that they had not seen enough to recognise him. William addressed his letter to ‘The Proprietors of the Phantasmagoria’ then took his carriage back to Welbeck.

As he waited for Philidor and this Madame Tussaud to arrive, he stroked the book that sat in his lap, tracing the gilded indentations of lettering: About Automata by Hero of Alexandria, written in 1589. He had long been fascinated by this book, and seeing a human-sized automaton in person had ignited in him an idea.

There was much to be considered and arranged, and the two of them would have to agree. But what he could offer he was certain they couldn’t refuse. Of course, it would cost him, considerably – not in money, but in encroachments on his way of life. Interactions. Surprises. Situations in which he would have to make decisions instantaneously. More communication. But it might all be worth it. For he wanted to see if what he’d dreamt about all these years was possible; he wanted to look once more upon her face. A bespoke commission of sorts. He had drawn her features over and over again, from many angles and in many poses.

He heard the soft tap at the door and knew their carriage had pulled up. His valet would go down to meet them. He watched from the window, just a step back from the glass. The woman, probably French he would guess by her title, was dressed well. She was tight, though, in the face and in her movements, ready to unleash a well- measured cutting remark at the first provocation, he imagined. Philidor, it seemed, was always the showman, with a golden voice that could be heard from up here, deep and rumbling, and a smile designed to disarm an entire theatre of their wits. They were an odd couple.

Why Philidor had requested that Marie attend their meeting, William hadn’t quite understood. Women had no part to play in business affairs. She’d presumably made the wax exterior, but the difficult bit – by far the most arduous part, requiring the superior skill and intellect – was the mechanics. Still, perhaps Philidor had his reasons.

William returned to his seat, the desk with its quill and a stack of paper were positioned so that he could lean forward to push his letters through the slot into the box without getting up.

His heartbeat was already rising with the fear that these newcomers might try to open his door. He had slid the inner bolt across just to be safe. But what if Philidor declared that the whole thing was a charade and insisted he speak to William in person, face to face? What if there was … a scene?

No, such a thing was not tolerated. William’s valet would take charge of the situation; that’s why he was paid what he was.

Footsteps approached down the hall, accompanied by muffled voices.

‘Please sit here,’ said the valet, and shuffling noises indicated they had.

William stretched back in his chair and closed his eyes, let out a deep breath, then leant forward to post his correspondence.