CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Philidor

HE PLACED the playbill beside her spot at the breakfast table then returned to his seat. He had slept poorly the night before, his fingertips still tingled from touching Elanor’s skin and try as he might to banish the thought of her from his mind, the image of her naked made it impossible for him to rest easy beneath his sheets. Although he made a show of being absorbed in the newspaper, his ears were attuned to the approach of Marie’s footsteps. He almost missed them but for a whisper of silk, and there she was, sliding into her seat and reaching for the bread knife to butter her roll. Her eyes flicked over the playbill while she took a small bite, then she brushed her hands on the linen napkin spread across her lap.

She picked up the playbill by its corner. ‘What is this?’

‘What it says it is.’ He looked at her over the top of the paper. ‘The playbill for our next show.’

‘Our next show?’

‘Who else’s would it be?’

She let the paper fall to the table and looked up at him before taking another bite of her roll, chewing slowly and swallowing deliberately.

His anger seethed at this performance, and his eyes blurred on the black print before him. There must always be a drama with her. These pauses, double meanings and insinuations that he had to decipher like a damned code. She was impossible. He must find a way to be rid of her soon.

‘These are not our playbills, any more than this is our show. The clue is in the size of the font, monsieur, for your name is large, in red and gold, while mine is where … Oh, yes, I see it now, tucked away like a little black mouse in the bottom corner.’ Her voice rose as she pointed the butter knife at him. ‘This is about you. All about you. You and your big name, monsieur, when it is I, I who have given life to Antoinette, and it is I who have done the same with Elanor,’ she hissed. The name echoed in the room, and she held the knife towards him for another moment, then put it back on the table and smoothed her skirts.

‘You will kindly keep your voice down and remember your manners,’ he said, his voice low in warning. ‘You will give the servants something to talk about, and besides, it was an oversight. A simple mistake. You have been locked up in your workshop for weeks and I had to prepare the advertisements myself. You are the one who instructed me you were not to be disturbed! And now you complain!’ He paused to see if his words would turn her anger at him into a contrite admission that this was her own fault. But she remained focused on running her hands across her skirts, the sound of fabric being rubbed making him further irritated.

He pressed on, ‘The fellow printed it without showing me a draft. I can advise him of the changes and have a new one made with your name enlarged, perhaps not quite the same size as mine, for we will not fit all the information on the page if that is so. But still, your name, underneath mine, perhaps half the size and in red and gold as well?’

In truth Philidor had designed the playbill himself in this manner on purpose, but she didn’t need to know that. He would not have her name the same size as his – how ridiculous! He was the creator, the designer, the magician of this whole venture. The audacity of the woman to try to elevate herself alongside him again. But then, he had to remind himself, she was just a woman. Even though she seemed to have long periods of sanity, she was clearly prone to hysterics, as he’d just witnessed. Threatening someone with a knife was more than enough grounds for admittance to an asylum. But he would have to placate her for now, so that she kept on using her skills to his advantage.

‘You will tell this printer all this,’ she declared. ‘He will make a new one, and I will see it before you order the final run. Madame Tussaud will not be tucked away again.’

‘Of course. I’m going to London this afternoon – I have an appointment with the bank, then I shall go directly to the printers and demand the new copy to be ready tomorrow.’ Just another task to complete while she sat around and applied lip paste to the commission; as if he didn’t have enough to worry about with the bank manager wanting a second appointment to discuss the loan when it had already been dispensed. A perplexing request and one that did not bode well.

She swallowed the last of her roll, took a final sip of her coffee and announced, ‘The commission is finished.’

‘Excellent.’

‘You will come down, and we will test all her functions, yes? Before you go to London and see this printer in person. He must be made to understand.’

He nodded. ‘In half an hour.’

‘And if our test goes well, then what? When will he come down to see her?’

‘I will consult with the valet to ascertain what His Grace intends.

And perhaps I will arrive in the ballroom at eleven o’clock?’

‘That will be fine.’ Marie paused. ‘I think, monsieur, that this new creature is … the extraordinaire, as they say. She has something that Antoinette does not.’

‘What, you think she is a superior model?’

‘She has not the grandeur of Antoinette, but she possess something indefinable. Perhaps it is my execution of her skin, her features. She possesses … How can I put it? A certain bewitching quality, although you will have to see her to judge for yourself.’

His mouth felt unnaturally dry. He reached for his tea and swallowed. ‘Well, I found it easier to assemble her parts after my experience building Antoinette. I tightened joints where I knew they would wear, added extra oil, and used smaller cogs and gears so that her movements will be more fluid.’ He paused. ‘It seems a shame, as you say then, that our best creation so far is for someone else.’ He felt the stirring of desire again, this time mixed with something else: jealousy. Elanor was bewitching – that was exactly the word for it. It was her purity. Her innocence. He wanted to possess it. Possess her. She needed protecting from whatever the duke planned on doing with her. To her.

‘I didn’t say she was superior to Antoinette, only that she was … different,’ said Marie, rising to her feet. ‘I will await your arrival in the ballroom.’ She left the room with her head held high.

Philidor continued with his breakfast, the bacon fat shiny and congealing as it lost its heat. He pushed it aside and finished his toast. The idea of giving up the creature to the duke was abhorrent; a dirty man didn’t deserve her. She was Philidor’s. His creation. He owned her. He remembered the feel of her skin, the way the lamplight caught her eyes and the beat of her heart against his as he had pressed against her. His fingertips tingled as he thought of the dark holes they had explored. When could he see her again?

The sound of other footsteps, and the valet slid into the room. ‘Everything to your satisfaction, sir?’

‘Yes, the best news is that Madame Tussaud has announced that the commission should be ready for His Grace to view early this afternoon – all being well once I conduct the final tests this morning.’

‘The duke has decided that he wants the commission moved to his study upstairs once deemed complete, sir.’

‘The study?’

‘His Grace does not have to give his reasons.’ The valet paused.

‘You will need to be patient with him, sir. He has always had his ways, but since the war he has been more exacting in them.’

Philidor ignored this. ‘How is she to be moved?’

‘He has had a box made for her.’

‘But it would have to be as big as her, and … well, it would almost have to be like —’

‘Precisely, sir,’ replied the valet. ‘A coffin.’