Pandora(13)

‘But …’ Dora stops, deflated. Tries again. ‘You promised me.’

Mr Clements removes his spectacles, places them with precision on the countertop. ‘I promised nothing. I merely said I would consider them for my collection.’

Dora stares. Then, very slowly, she puts her hands on the counter and leans in.

‘Mr Clements. You suggested that I produce a portfolio of designs and create some of them to demonstrate their viability. You might not have outright said you would take them but if you did not believe my designs to be of any worth, if you considered them only the charming fare of mere female accomplishment, then why say such a thing and give me false hope?’

The jeweller holds up his hands in an attempt to placate but Dora’s disappointment and frustration cannot be quelled.

‘You have wasted my time, Mr Clements. Mine and yours.’

The goldsmith heaves yet another sigh. ‘Miss Blake. Dora. I did not mean to offend. These designs –’ he gestures to them spread out on the velvet, lingers over the milky blue stone of the cannetille-esque necklace – ‘they really are quite char—’

‘Mr Clements, if you refer to my work as charming again …’

‘Lovely, then.’

‘Is that not the same?’

He purses his lips. ‘You show much skill, that I grant you. What you have done with the crudest of materials really is astonishing. But there is nothing unique about them, nothing that defines your work from that of the men already in my employ. Fashions move on as quickly as colds nowadays and these you’ve given me … Well, they just won’t do. There is whisper now for Grecian styles but next month it could be those of the Orient. I’m sorry, Miss Blake, but my answer is no.’

Dora blinks. ‘Grecian?’

Mr Clements appears to sag as he recognises his mistake. ‘Y-e-s.’ He drags the word over the three syllables.

‘What if I were to produce something in that style?’

‘Miss Blake …’

‘Please, sir, let me speak. You know my lineage, you’re aware of what my parents specialised in. If I were to sketch some new designs for you to consider, surely there is no harm in that? Only a small selection, and if, after that, you still have no liking for them I shall cease in my efforts. You cannot be so cruel as to rob me of one final chance to prove myself?’

‘I …’ The jeweller looks pained but Dora sees the waver in him and deals her final hand. She touches the cameo at her throat.

‘Se iketévo. Please. For my mother’s sake.’

There is a pause. Dora can feel the blood pulse in her ears. Mr Clements heaves a sigh.

‘Miss Blake, you really are most vexing.’ The goldsmith’s expression softens. He shakes his head in defeat. ‘Very well. But I am promising you nothing,’ he warns. ‘Nothing, is that clear?’

‘It is,’ Dora replies, reaching for her sketchbook, closing it with a snap. ‘But I promise you, sir. You won’t be disappointed.’





CHAPTER SIX





Hezekiah, at that very moment, is bright with fury. The three Coombe brothers (who have until now always been so biddable where money was involved), led by the eldest, will not relinquish his most longed-for prize which sits – so tantalisingly close he could touch it – trussed up on a cart, a horse ready to take it home. Ready, if it were not for Matthew Coombe making trouble.

‘You know how much this means to me,’ Hezekiah is saying, quite unable to keep the whine from his voice. ‘After all this time I shall not be thwarted. I’ve lost it twice already, will you deprive me again?’

Matthew shifts heavily on his feet, boots squelching into the muddy sand of Puddle Dock, but he does not answer, and Hezekiah’s throat becomes hot; he must loosen his cravat. ‘You will not keep it for yourselves, you will not—’

‘We don’t want it for ourselves,’ Samuel cuts in, the youngest of the three.

Hezekiah is incredulous. ‘You mean to say you have another buyer?’

How dare they betray his trust?

‘No, sir, that’s not it.’

And now this is altogether too much. He clenches his fists, losing what little restraint he managed to muster.

‘Then what the hell are you playing at?’

At his outburst the horse snorts, its breath pluming the crisp morning air, and Hezekiah can feel the veins popping at his temples. His face must be quite puce, for only now does Matthew flinch.

‘It’s cursed.’

Hezekiah stares. This he had not expected. The outlandishness of the statement deflates his anger somewhat. ‘What utter nonsense.’

‘I’m telling you, there’s something off about it. It shouldn’t be here.’

Matthew scratches at his wrist. Hezekiah notes with distaste a ruddy stain on his cuff.

‘Nonsense,’ Hezekiah says again. ‘You’re addled from lack of sleep, that’s all.’

‘Lack of sleep would be right. We’ve not had one wink since we brought it up.’

And the brothers do indeed look tired – their mouths are pinched tight like dried-out pears, their skin looks grey as silt, but of this he does not care for behind him Hezekiah is conscious of an audience. The dock has come to a standstill; Tibb and his workers have gathered in a small semicircle, the night-soil men lean rapt on their steaming shovels. He watches as two of them – one the same Chinaman as before, Hezekiah is quite certain – exchange a comment, a laugh behind their hands. Bridling with mortification he sidles up to Matthew and clamps his own hand round the man’s strong upper arm. He can smell the raw essence of unwashed skin, the salt pungence of fish and seaweed. It mixes with the noxious stink of excrement and Thames rot, and Hezekiah must use all his self-control not to vomit onto his shoes.