CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

His Grace William Cavendish,
5th Duke of Portland

FIVE NIGHTS LATER and the carriages were coming up the drive in a long, slow procession of blinking lights. He watched from the window, estimating the number of people inside each one as they veered away from the house and towards the tunnel entrance. It was a pretty sight, like that of ships bobbing off the horizon as the night swept in – except that they were docking in his estate for the evening. So many of them, stinking with perspiration and darting eyes and pink forked tongues.

‘I can’t do anything about it, my love,’ he said, addressing the woman who sat in the armchair, her hand fluttering a fan while she stared somewhere past his shoulder. ‘It’s opening night. They must be allowed to come, it was part of the agreement.’ He let the curtain fall back but remained where he was, watching through the thin veil of lace. ‘Even so, their presence makes me itch. It’s a slight on my name, to have my grounds let out to these people, you know – people who I’m sure are slovenly and lewd. Perhaps I was too quick to strike a bargain, my dear, in my haste to see you again.’

The woman continued to fan herself in silence.

‘I was too eager – I fear I have brought ruin on us. The two of them were tolerable, just. They kept to themselves and obeyed the rules … but now this, this stream of people descending upon us and snaking down into the bowels of my home, and who knows what sort of destruction they could do there? What if there’s a riot? Or a stampede. That damn Constable Trickett would need to be called. Perhaps the house would be barricaded. What if they approach? What if they want to take over?’

He turned from the window and sat opposite her, his left hand clenching and unclenching as his right wiped the perspiration forming on his creased brow.

‘They will not be content with seeing the show. No, they will want to speculate, meet the owner, or even break in to steal the silver. And what use is one valet against them? No, it isn’t right, my dear, as you say. It isn’t safe. But what to do?’

William leant over and touched a fingertip to the lady’s right hand, then sat back. Her head swivelled to face him, her eyes drawing level with his.

‘I will pay them off,’ he said, and caressed her hand. ‘That’s what I’ll do. I’ll open the coffers and pay them off. I’ll give them three times what they would make from their shows and offer to transport all their goods and contraptions to their next residence. But they must go. Oh, they must go before they kill me with their breathing. I can smell them from here, even though the chicken has been roasting since this morning.’

A small click, then the lady’s hand stopped fluttering and sank into her lap, while her eyes remained fixed on his face.

‘Your brooch looks beautiful, Elanor. I was going to give it to you that night but … but …’ He cleared his throat. ‘You do know what tonight is, my dear? The longest night of the year, the summer solstice, just as it was sixteen years ago. And now you can finally wear it.’ He studied the clear glass oval that held a leaf, dead long ago, from the oak tree in his forest. Where had the past sixteen years gone? Rumbling around in these old rooms, up and down the stairs, up and down the tunnels, up and down from London to Welbeck. Living in the shadows.

An odour caught his attention and broke his reverie. ‘There are more of them arriving – it’s getting worse. What to do? I must be more than generous with my offer to get rid of these two villains and their show. After tonight, they must find another rich man’s cellar in which to stage their performance. We must be alone again.’

He was speaking to her directly, not seeming to care that she did not reply. Impassive and beautiful, she was present. And that was enough.

‘I will dress and go myself to see this abomination. I need to inform them immediately.’

He tried to stand but the trembling started at his fingertips; he knew a hallucination would soon be upon him, the gates opened by his strained nerves. He lay back in his chair but kept his eyes open, hoping this would keep the images at bay. But the soldiers, the English boys, materialised and brought the bang, bang, bang of gunfire, and the short yelps and cries as bullets bit into flesh. They crumpled to the floor, fell over the furniture to land on the rugs. Then came the crimson, or even bright red; it was strange how their blood was so many different shades, blooming and leaking like a macabre watercolour through their shirts.

William braced himself then stood up to push the vision away, doused the fire and shifted Elanor’s seat so she sat closer to the mantelpiece, her feet brushing against the wooden figures on the panels.

‘The fire’s out now so you won’t overheat. But I won’t have you cold, either.’ He faltered. His tongue felt unnatural in his mouth. ‘I won’t let it possess me,’ he said, speaking loudly to conquer the blood pounding in his temples. ‘Not now that you are here. I have to look after you. I …’

He stood rigid as the hallucination fell upon him completely, the boy soldiers upright again, their swords and rifles raised and the glitter of death in their eyes. He went cold. Attack. Defend. Elanor. The estate. His family name. He was trapped, though. No weapons.

Above the mantelpiece. The sword!

He snatched it down and raised it into the air. ‘Not this time,’ he said. ‘I will chase all you demons from hell out of my house.’

A slight sound. He blinked and looked down upon Elanor, and his eyes cleared for a moment. He touched her hand and felt under her fingertips. She nodded, rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes. Sword still in hand, he went to his bedchamber, dressed in his topper and two overcoats, and pulled up his white collar. He would take the secret tunnel. The fiends would be too busy to notice him sneaking up from the shadows; he would ambush the lot of them and drive them from his grounds.

The doorway was hidden within his cupboard and slid open to reveal a stone-lined darkness. In one hand he held the sword, the other his lamp. ‘Like rats, they need to be slain,’ he mumbled, and carefully began the descent.

There were over fifteen miles of tunnels on the estate, all of which he had carved in his memory. His old valet had known of some but not all; even he was not to be fully trusted. But the son who served William now – well, he had proven himself trustworthy and would soon be shown all the tunnels. A more understanding and subservient fellow William had never met, and he would ensure that the valet was rewarded handsomely for his service. But where was the young man now? William had rung the bell at least ten times but no one had come. He would have to face these invaders alone.

The air cooled as he neared the base of the tunnel, saw the door ahead and pulled on the handle. It creaked, not having been used in some time. But there was no risk of it being overheard: the door led into another sealed room that remained locked, and he alone possessed the key. He stepped through it, pushed open the tapestry that hid the door, and walked into the billiards room, sensing the heaviness of the table and the walls hung with portraits he could not tolerate in the main house. Averting his eyes, he clumsily unlocked the next door and found himself in the main artery leading to the ballroom.

He could smell the general public. Heavens, what a stench!

Immediate nausea. One hand upon the wall to steady himself.

Over the years he had gradually built up his exposure to large crowds, enabling him occasionally to occupy his house in Cavendish Square and to interact with sellers through the Baker Street Bazaar whenever he assumed the identity of Thomas Charles. Still, the image of a seated audience of ghostly boy soldiers, all focused on the stage, made him twitchy. A damned nuisance they were. And they had to be dispelled – immediately.

As he passed through a wide space full of props, he could see the growing light. Then he saw Antoinette seated, waiting to play her part. Why wasn’t she moving? Or rehearsing her actions? There was no noise, no music. But why would there be music? It was a trench, wasn’t it, or a forest? No, this wasn’t a trap, a battlefield or Hegau: it was his home. His tunnels. That’s right, the Phantasmagoria had to be stopped. Had the show not begun yet? Where were they all? Perhaps hiding from him. It must be a trap. He would go a little further then stand back in the shadows to watch.

But hold on, which wall was this? And that door hadn’t been there before, had it?

He drew a hand over his brow, the glint of the sword’s blade close to his eyes. Those cursed renovations Philidor had undertaken – he had destroyed the layout.

Oh, perhaps it was a foolish thing to walk straight into the lair of the enemy without further preparation. He should have brought his pistol, at least.

Should he have waited for the valet? Two of them would stand a chance. But really, he couldn’t rest while all these people trampled over his grounds. The stupid contract. What a fool he was, blinded by guilt that had followed him around like a black dog for the past fifteen years.

What was he doing here again? Invaders? Soldiers? A show? He blundered ahead, his lamp knocking against the wall, his forehead wet and the tips of his collar like daggers against his cheeks. His fingers lost their grip on the handle of his lamp. With a crash it fell to the floor, the glass shattering and the light extinguished.

He righted himself and forged ahead, arms outstretched either side, sure he would soon come upon the next cavern, wide and cool – but no, what was this? Fabric? A curtain? Where was the stage? What had they done with his beautiful ballroom? Tearing the fabric away he stepped forward, sword raised in front of him.

He was exposed on centre stage in front of an audience of hundreds.

‘It’s him! Thomas Charles again! Now what’s he doing here?’ a familiar voice screeched from the front row. Surely not Druce. Oh, devil be damned. Druce and Elanor at his home together. His worlds colliding. Disaster. Then he knew no more.