Pandora(17)

‘What have you done now?’

‘Don’t question,’ Cornelius responds, sitting back again. He plucks a walnut from his own bowl and pops it into his mouth, bites down on it with a show of teeth. ‘Just open it.’

And Edward does so with a resigned shake of his head, for Cornelius often does things like this – if he has not secreted money in his coat then he is sending food parcels from Mrs Howe to his lodgings, or …

Edward lets his breath out.

‘Cornelius, really.’

In the box, on a bed of cream silk, rests a pair of cufflinks. Circular in shape, made of gold (Edward does not need to ask if his summation is correct, Cornelius would choose nothing else) with a simple emerald set in the middle. The size of a button. Understated but elegant. The jewels glint like tiny eyes.

‘You like them?’ Cornelius asks softly.

‘Well, yes, of course, but—’

‘Stop,’ he cuts in, tone sharp now. ‘I wanted to cheer you.’

Edward wants to scold his friend but Cornelius is not looking at him. Rather, he is examining a walnut between forefinger and thumb. Edward knows from his expression that arguing will do little good, and a ‘thank you’ will only be waved away like a tiresome infant.

Cornelius. He had once called himself Edward’s guardian angel with a wry laugh, but the term would not be far from the truth. If it had not been for him, Edward would not be sitting here today. Charity, Edward thinks again, before he stamps the word down, but it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Will he ever be free of it?

‘After I left you yesterday I met a gentleman in a coffee-house,’ Edward says to change the subject, closing the cufflink box and placing it carefully on the table next to his own chair. ‘He suggested something to me.’

Cornelius looks up from his examination of the walnut. ‘Oh?’

Edward takes a careful sip of his brandy. The taste is sharp, almost hot, and as it rasps down his throat he gives a little shiver. ‘What do you know of the Blake family?’

‘Who?’

‘The Blakes,’ Edward presses, sitting forward. ‘Elijah Blake and his wife ran an antiquities business in Ludgate Street twelve or so years ago.’

Cornelius scoffs. ‘Oh, Edward, twelve years ago we were …’ He stops, seems to catch himself, looks away. ‘Well, how can I possibly know of someone that far back?’

‘But surely you must have heard about them since? They were reputable antiquarians, died tragically, apparently, on a dig. Left behind a shop run by Elijah’s brother. Hezekiah, I think the name was.’

Cornelius is frowning into his glass, but he wears an expression Edward knows well. A faint line has formed between his eyebrows and he rubs his lower lip on the rim of the brandy glass. Something has struck a chord.

‘They specialised in Greek antiquities,’ Edward adds, hopeful.

Cornelius nods slowly. ‘Now you say that, it does sound familiar. Blake … I have heard mention of an artist – Helen, I think her name was – who William Hamilton occasionally employed to sketch his Greek vase collection if Tischbein wasn’t available.’ Cornelius takes a sip of brandy, swirls it around his mouth before swallowing. ‘Perhaps they’re one and the same. Why, anyway?’

‘Well, now, this is the thing. This gentleman –’ here Edward pauses, blushing – ‘asked why I was so downcast. I explained what had happened, and he advised me to seek out their daughter, Pandora Blake, at the antiquity shop in Ludgate Street. He intimated I might find what I’m looking for there, something the Society would look favourably on.’

Cornelius stares. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Edward, are you really going to set store by something a complete stranger told you in a coffee-house?’

The fire spits loudly as if matching its master’s ire. Edward bristles. He cannot help it.

‘I know it sounds mad, but there was something about the man. I can’t explain it.’

‘You can’t rely on the advice of strangers.’

‘Cynical as ever.’

‘Well, really!’

Cornelius swings his leg over the arm of his chair, angles his stockinged feet toward the fireplace, flexes his big toe. Lounging as he is in his state of half-undress and a black curl falling across his forehead, he reminds Edward of a Renaissance painting, a veritable Michelangelo. Cornelius gestures to Edward with his glass.

‘A man you don’t know tells you to seek out the advice of a girl, whose dead parents specialised in Grecian pottery. You know the Society has no interest in Mediterranean art any more. Gough has distinctly said that the Society needs to focus its efforts on British history. The ancient world has been overdone.’

‘Still, it is not without merit.’

‘Of course not,’ says Cornelius with a frown, ‘but—’

‘Consider the recent Roman excavations at Pompeii, after all.’

‘Yes, but there have been substantial finds there. The Society is hardly going to overlook such a monumental discovery as that.’

‘Cornelius,’ Edward says patiently, ‘I hope this girl might have something of value, something worth studying.’

His friend groans in response. ‘Grecian artefacts are not what they want, Edward! If you do this, you’re setting yourself up for another fall.’