CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

His Grace William Cavendish,
5th Duke of Portland

WHEN HE AWOKE he was not alone. Although he hadn’t yet opened his eyes, he knew another pair was on him. And it wasn’t his father’s. Nor was it the valet’s. His skin goose fleshed at the sensation. Thunder crashed, and lightning flashed through his closed lids. It was still wild outside; how long had he been asleep? The hallucinations had passed, and he felt depleted. He tried to recall what had transpired, but it was as if the memory thread had been ripped from his hands by the gale outside. Another breath then, taking in the smell of old leather, tobacco and unruffled air – yes, he was in his study. His haven. He would open his eyes. One, two –

A face hovered above his. It was Elanor’s.

His throat closed over. Surely he was dreaming, hallucinating all over again.

Her eyes were a dirty green now, smeared with a fluid seeping from each corner and dribbling down her cheeks. He could not move although all his nerves, all his senses, his very organs seemed to jump up within him crying, ‘It cannot be, it cannot be.’

Her hand extended falteringly towards him, and he saw nothing but her white fingers about to touch his face. This spurred him to action. He sat up, and her hand withdrew. He shook his head once, slowly, all he was capable of under the gaze of those green eyes that were awake, moving as if alive.

It couldn’t be real. He needed to call for his valet, who would take care of the situation, clean up the dream and tell William what had happened. He had knocked his head and could feel it throbbing; he reached up to touch the gauze.

She mimicked his action, reaching up with a trembling hand to a non-existent wound on her head. With a quiet rustle of her linen dress and a gentleness that suffocated his instinct to run, she reached for his cheek again, and he submitted, registering the touch of her fingers: cold, thick, firm. It was not the touch of a living being.

‘Who … who are you? What are you?’ he stammered as he stood up, looking around and seeing the two armchairs positioned differently from usual by the mantelpiece.

She blinked and her hand dropped beside her, straight, unmoving, as if it were the stopped pendulum of a clock.

‘You look like her,’ he said, with wonder. ‘But she wasn’t real.

She was made of wax and metal, and you’re – well, you’re —’

She shrank back a step.

It seemed he had wounded her feelings. But what of it? She was a monster, she wasn’t alive, her heart wasn’t pumping blood. Yet something within him smarted at her fear, her hesitation, the green eyes that blinked tentatively to see through the dirty film enshrouding them. This had to be a dream. Surely.

‘But you’re here,’ he said, stepping forward even as she faltered backwards. ‘And you were sixteen when it happened. Do you remem- ber? The forest. But it didn’t go as we’d planned. You were —’

Her hand flew to cover her mouth.

‘When you woke up … were you in that chair, resting against the fireplace?’

She nodded, a slow movement with a sound like a brass doorhandle turning.

‘Your foot was against it?’

She nodded again.

William turned to look at the mantelpiece, and the impish wooden figures grinned at him wickedly.

There came a knock on the door, and the valet entered. ‘You’re up, sir. Well, that’s pleasing. I wonder if —’ But his mouth slackened as he glimpsed the shape in the gloom.

William turned to see Elanor now seated in her armchair. She had not made a sound.

‘Forgive me, sir, I did not know you had … company.’ The valet’s hands shook slightly around a silver tray bearing bread and cheese.

‘Help me,’ William croaked.

‘What would you like me to do, sir?’ the valet asked, placing the tray on the buffet and looking quickly in Elanor’s direction again.

‘Remove me from this place,’ said William. He tried to step towards the door but found his legs contained no strength.

The valet took his arm. ‘Let me escort you, sir. And what is to be done with …’

William averted his face. ‘Give her orders, I don’t want to see her again tonight.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the valet replied.

‘Tell her! Tell her now!’

‘You, stay where you are, madam,’ said the valet, voice raised as he escorted William to the door. ‘I will return once I have the duke settled.’ He ushered William through the door and made to continue down the hallway.

‘Shut it,’ said William hoarsely, and his hand fumbled for the valet’s and squeezed it hard. ‘For goodness sake, she’ll be upon us as we sleep.’ He tottered on the spot as the valet returned to shut the door firmly.

‘She won’t get out, sir. She can’t.’

‘She’s real, she must be, you saw her, didn’t you?’ said William, and leant on the valet’s arm as they began the walk down the corridor. ‘She’d not a, not a —’

‘She’s not a ghost, I saw her.’

‘You locked her in, didn’t you? Am I safe?’

‘The door can only be locked from the inside, sir, and you watched me shut it tight. She can’t escape, she’s not —’

‘You must tell the cook to put more chickens on. Immediately, you understand? That hideous show and its crowd have left their stench behind.’

‘Yes, sir, just as soon as I have you settled I’ll —’

‘I can scarcely believe it myself. My dream now a nightmare. She touched me! She actually reached out to touch me. Her fingers are so cold, but my skin still burns from her touch. Oh dreadful, dreadful day, what have I done?’

The rain beat down upon the roof like the grim roll of a drum.

‘If you’ll pardon my saying so —’

‘It was the lightning, I’m sure of it. Hit the tower, charged straight down the chimney and – Did you hear that? That, that … moan?’

The valet patted his arm. ‘It’s just the wind, sir, just the wind.’

‘Oh, what has become of her?’ William said, and then a little softer as they arrived at his bedchamber door, ‘and what has become of me?’