Pandora(15)

‘Well?’ Hezekiah leans his substantial weight on his elbows. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ he groans. ‘It is smashed, completely ruined. That infernal horse!’ He aims a fist for the mare but it shies away from him with a whicker.

In his anger Hezekiah has missed the look that the three men – brothers, Dora decides – shared between them. She, however, has not. That look was not one of shock, of bemusement. No, it was one of resignation, as if they have expected this, as if they have known all along …

The one called Matthew clears his throat. ‘Intact, sir. I am sure.’

Hezekiah gives a shout of laughter and cups a hand to Lottie’s face, planting a wet kiss on her cheek. ‘Luck is with me, after all! Now, someone get me free of this animal.’

There is a great effort, a pull, a heave. Hezekiah stands and, wincing, plucks a rusty nail from his thigh. The tip of it glistens red.

‘Look at this!’ he cries, flinging the nail onto the street where it lands with a tinny ping. He leans on Lottie for support and she bends under his weight, though she does not look to mind.

An old man with long white hair steps from the crowd, offers Hezekiah his arm. ‘Come, sir, let me assist you inside. You can walk, I trust?’

‘Aye, though it’s a wonder! Did you see? My leg could have been broken.’

‘Indeed it could have been,’ the gentleman murmurs. ‘But as you say, luck appears to be with you. It is only a small wound. Shall we?’

Hezekiah takes the proffered arm, and with the old man on one side, Lottie on the other, he limps into the shop. At the threshold he turns his head to address the three red-headed men:

‘Bring it to the basement. I’ll have Lottie unlock the door.’

From beneath his shirt Hezekiah pulls free a chain from which dangles a small metal key, and now Dora can hold her tongue no longer.

‘Can I help?’

Hezekiah starts. The chain swings from his fingers. Clearly he had not noticed she was there.

‘Dora.’ He slides a look to Lottie, lowering his voice to an undertone. ‘She was meant to be gone.’

Lottie shuffles under his weight. ‘She was.’

So this is why Lottie wanted rid of her!

‘Uncle,’ Dora says now, impatience tipped. ‘What is this thing? What have you bought?’ and she can see Hezekiah’s thoughts flipping over themselves like fish in a creel.

‘Get inside,’ he snaps.

‘Why?’

There is panic in his face, but before Dora can press him on the matter the white-haired man intervenes on Hezekiah’s behalf.

‘Miss Blake, your uncle is in pain and it is cold on the street. Perhaps,’ he says, indicating the growing crowd with a small nod of his head, ‘it would be best to continue this conversation inside?’

Dora opens her mouth then closes it again, and before she can make a second attempt Hezekiah – who refuses to look at her now – is being manoeuvred into the shop. Behind her there is a groan, a creak of wood. Dora turns to watch the three men haul the crate between them.

She steps aside and lets them pass, her eyes narrowed into slits.





CHAPTER EIGHT





It is the attention to detail he likes, the concentration it requires. It helps him forget.

The bookbindery is tucked at the far end of Russel Street, right on the corner where the road bends sharply onto Drury Lane, and Edward’s private workroom backs onto the alley just behind the shop itself. The pocket-sized window is set high up in the wall which affords him little light for his work, but this way he is not disturbed by people tapping on the glass, strangers rudely looking in. So, when he works, he fills the room with candles. An expense the overseer, Tobias Fingle, deems wholly unnecessary.

And it is, Edward concedes. He could get by with half as many; the patterns he works into leather are not done by the delicacy of his fingers but by mere stamps – all he needs do is press them into the right place.

But Edward does not like the dark.

Fingle understands though. He holds his tongue. He and Edward are the only ones left of the original workers, the only ones who know what it was like before. Before, when there was no time to rest, no room to breathe. No time to heal.

Edward presses the fillet into the calfskin, draws the hot metal disk over the binding, leaves a neat double-edged line across its face. His role is reserved for the last stages of book production. It is his task to stain the covers of the books once the pages have been sewn into them, to mark the leather with delicate patterns and grooves. It is an easy job, requiring only a steady hand, an eye for detail. An ‘amateur’ artist he may be, but producing beautiful book covers … in this respect he could outmatch anyone in the trade. Carrow had seen to it.

Setting his jaw Edward lifts the fillet, lays it aside. He picks up a small pallet from the little stove tucked into the corner and used to warm the tools. He turns the pallet to check the pattern – coiling ivy, filigree spindles – and applies himself now to detailing the borders of the book.

Concentrate. Forget.

Thanks to Cornelius, Edward is now free to do what he likes here. He could have left, of course. But what, Edward demanded when Cornelius suggested it, could he possibly do? Where could he go? He – unlike Cornelius who has money to spend and freedom to spare – has to make a living. He is not trained for anything else. And so Edward stayed, doing what he was taught to do best, in comfortable near-silence within a room filled with bright candles that kept the darkness out.