CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

His Grace William Cavendish,
5th Duke of Portland

HE SAW HER coffin immediately upon entering the study. On his desk lay the instructions on how to operate her. He sat down to read them, his hands trembling in anticipation of opening the lid and looking upon her face again. It appeared that the right hand was the centre of operation for the gears, and each fingertip on it activated a series of movements; if one was pressed, once, twice or even thrice, the movements changed again. It was complicated, she was complicated, but he had plenty of time to unravel the intricacies. He put the instructions aside. It was three o’clock, midafternoon, and he wondered if this was the right moment to unveil her. She had been ready since earlier in the afternoon, but he hadn’t been. He had thought himself ready now, but … should he wait until the morning? Or perhaps tonight, when he could be sure of absolute solitude? Should he say something over the coffin before he opened it – a prayer, an incantation maybe? Light candles? Draw the curtains? He had been imagining this moment, this reunion for so long, yet now that it was upon him, he found all his certainty had fled.

For the sight of the black coffin, its silver handles gleaming in the daylight, had unnerved him. Had taken him straight back to her original coffin, smaller and plainer – much plainer. Her parents hadn’t been able to afford a lavish funeral, and his father had refused to contribute towards the cost, so she’d been buried in a simple pine box. Well, there hadn’t been a body, but there had been a ceremony; an opportunity for the family and the village to say farewell before they started the laborious task of pretending to forget. Not what she deserved, and he felt the guilt of it still.

Now she was lying alone in a sealed case. How could she breathe? He stifled the instinct to throw back the lid and allow her to sit up, gasping for air. But she didn’t need it, he told himself – she didn’t have lungs. Despite what his eyes might tell him when he saw her, she was not alive. It was at best an imitation of her, a doll that could move on its own but had no voice, no mind, imagination or soul. But this was inconsequential; in fact, he preferred it like this. The last thing he wanted was an actual woman to share his rooms, someone who lived and breathed and smelled and wanted to converse all the time. He couldn’t tolerate it, not even with her. Although, he wondered again, as he often did – especially when in London at Cavendish Square – could he have once, if it all hadn’t gone terribly wrong? If he’d never gone to war? If he hadn’t become … like this?

He pulled the curtains over, sat back down again and lit his pipe. The smoke snuck around his eyes, wafting on the breeze of his breath, piling around his head like a grey garland. He would finish the pipe, light his lamp, do some more reading while he dined, light the fire and then, at nine o’clock precisely, he would open the coffin lid. What he did then he would do without any risk of unexpected interruption.

When the clock struck nine o’clock, though, he found himself strangely reluctant to confront the thing. It seemed to him that to open the coffin would be akin to opening a grave. The fear of finding her body in there, decomposed and rotting, had grown in his mind; he was certain he had caught the scent of death seeping through the wood. He had struggled to occupy himself fully while awaiting the appointed hour, always aware, through his puffing, eating, drinking and reading, that someone else was in the room, or perhaps just the imprint of someone else. The black rectangular shape filled the space and only grew bigger, or so it appeared, as the shadows in the corners of the room manifested with a will of their own, arriving where they had no business being. And soon, as he extinguished his lamp and let the light of one candle and the firelight in the hearth remain, the coffin’s silhouette seemed to possess a certain quality that the shadows lacked: it felt alive, waiting, mocking him and his frail nerves.

‘This is what you wanted,’ he said aloud, his voice stretching beyond his small circle of light. ‘You wanted to see her again, and so you shall. You wanted to atone, and you can. You have nothing to fear, you fool.’ He got to his feet and swayed slightly, with too much fortifying liquid and not enough grounding potatoes. After settling his candle on the small table next to the coffin, he ran his hands along the polished lid each way. The funeral parlour was the best in the business; he’d paid handsomely for this casket, with no questions asked as to whose body it was to contain. Money brought certain privileges.

He trailed his fingers back under the seam of the lid to the centre and found the catch, pushed it in and slowly lifted the lid. Gaping eye sockets, skin that peeled from glistening bones, maggots crawling out of her mouth – this was what he’d been prepared to see. But what lay before him was anything but that. There was peace in that face, that freckled face that was hers still, hair spread out around her head, her hands resting at her sides, as if she were just reposing for a moment. His heart vibrated with such intensity that he was all moist trembling hands, and he lost orientation of his body. Dizzy. Light-headed. But oh! She was beautiful still. She was alive still. And she wasn’t a girl anymore; she was a young woman. His young woman.

He reached down to take her right hand. It was cold, and her skin felt solid, not soft and yielding, but this was a trifling detail. She had the necessary parts he specified and he would grow accustomed to the sensation of her skin on his. He had plenty of time to explore. At the moment he just wanted her likeness near him, sitting by him in the armchair of an evening. He planned on occasionally activating her to nod when he spoke or to flutter her fan while he dined, but that was all for now. Every night he would put her back into her coffin until he was ready to see her again. It would be no trouble. In fact, she would be the perfect companion for him, providing in death what she could not possibly have provided in life. She would be housed in the cavern, her bedchamber, where she would remain undisturbed; he could bring her up and down through the secret passage.

He pushed both hands under her body and lifted her out of the coffin. She was heavy, and his limbs, not having lifted anything substantial for many years, were weak. He stumbled with his load, then righted himself with determination and sat her in the armchair opposite his by the fireplace. The fire was only a weak flame, and she was far enough from the heat not to be compromised. She folded nicely at the hips, her back straight, legs bent in front of her.

He closed the coffin and sat down opposite. ‘That’s it. There you are. How do you like it there? Are you comfortable? This is your new home. Well, not new to you, really – you remember, dear? From when we were young and snuck in? Father’s study, out of bounds, but we didn’t care, did we? Such fun, such games …’

Her eyes remained closed, and no answer was forthcoming.

Would he take the next step?

He lurched forward, grasped her right hand and pressed a fingertip, then sprang back in his chair, eyes fixed on hers. It took a moment. A long moment. But it happened. She drew her legs in further and crossed them at the ankle. Then she opened her eyes and gazed directly on him.

‘Oh my dear,’ he cried, falling at her feet. ‘Can you ever forgive me?’

The creature made no response. After a moment he sat back up, composed himself and reached for her right hand again. Her head tilted, and she looked down upon him and smiled. And William, for the first time in a long time, smiled back.