Pandora(25)

Hezekiah knows she is suspicious about the crate. She knows it from the way he studies her when he does not think she is looking. His eyes dart, his tongue wets his lips. It is clear from the way he steps tentatively around her that Hezekiah wonders why she does not enquire about it, but Dora has no patience for games. Too often over the years has she asked him questions only to receive a half-hearted response or obvious falsehoods. Why sell forgeries when her parents had not? How did he know how to make them? And why not spend the money from his sales on repairs for the shop instead of on fripperies for himself? Never has she received a straight answer. No, Dora must discover the truth another way.

The solution came to her easily.

One of her early jewellery designs for a brooch required a duplicate pattern. The first piece she had crudely carved from a small block of wood, but Dora had not the energy to carve a second and so instead she created a mould from wax. The same principle applies here. All she needs is the key that hangs from the chain round Hezekiah’s neck.

Getting to it, however, will not be so easy, even with gin …

Hezekiah shifts heavily in his seat, knocks his plate with his elbow. Dora watches him stretch his leg out from under the table, rub the fleshy pillow of his thigh.

‘It pains you, Uncle?’

‘Of course it does,’ he snaps. His forehead shines. His wig slips. ‘The pain does not let up.’

‘But it was only a scratch, surely?’ she replies with mock patience. ‘Rest will help.’

Hezekiah gives a short laugh, like bellows exhaling air. ‘Rest! Dora, I cannot rest.’

His words carry with them the echo of desperation. There is a brief silence between them in which Dora makes a decision. She discards her unseasoned quail (another of Lottie’s attempts at fine dining gone awry), and rises from the table. With great effort she forces herself up to his end, sits down on the chair closest to him. He blinks at her in surprise. She rests her hand on the table close to his, an attempt to play the part of dutiful, caring niece.

‘Of course you can,’ Dora says softly, soothingly. ‘Rest, Uncle. Take to your bed a day or two. Are you not master here? I can oversee the shop. Do I not do so often enough?’

Hezekiah’s eyes are watery in the candlelight. He hesitates, seems about to say something of import, but then he shifts again in his seat, places a clammy hand on top of hers and awkwardly pats it. It takes all of Dora’s effort not to flinch.

‘I think, perhaps,’ she coaxes, ‘some gin would help. Do we have any?’

They do, of that she made sure when Lottie was fetching beans from the coffee-house next door. Three bottles of the stuff, hidden behind a large bag of grain.

‘What an excellent plan. Why don’t you ring the bell?’

Dora cannot cross the room fast enough.



It does not take Hezekiah long to succumb to the effects of juniper for Lottie, who he insisted join them, has made the exercise far too easy. The housekeeper’s continual refilling of his glass means that Dora need hardly do a thing except wait.

‘Has the pain eased, Uncle?’

Dora keeps her voice low, an innocent caress. This close she can see the tiny network of red veins monopolising his nose.

‘Aye,’ he says, ‘though I’m sure I would feel far better if Lottie were to administer her healing touch …’

Lottie – whose eyelids are already beginning to droop – perks up at this, rests a stockinged foot on Hezekiah’s leg and rubs it lightly with her toes. Hezekiah sighs deeply. Then, through her drink-fug, the housekeeper slides Dora a suspicious look. ‘Why’re you here, missum?’

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ Dora counters, clenching hard the stem of her glass. ‘I’m his niece. I’ve more right to sit at this table than you do, after all.’

For a moment Lottie looks shocked, hurt, almost, and Dora feels a spark of guilt for what she knows was uncharacteristic meanness. But then Lottie’s jaw hardens, a scornful light enters her eye, and Dora’s guilt vanishes as quickly as it came.

‘Now now, Dora,’ Hezekiah says, face rosy, his voice lacking its usual ire. ‘There’s no need for such talk. You too, Lottie. Can we not enjoy a little drink together in peace?’

Lottie pouts. ‘I just want to know what she’s about.’ Her words come slow. ‘She’s never drank with us before. Why now?’

Dora lifts her eyebrows. ‘Perhaps I wanted to try it?’

‘A likely story. You’ve barely had any.’

‘How can I when you’ve drunk the majority?’

To this Lottie says nothing, unsteadily pours herself another glass of gin. Dora looks to the bottle. A third gone. How much longer must she wait? She hides her frustration by holding out her own glass for a refill.

‘Am I not allowed a change of heart and spend a little time with my uncle?’

Lottie snorts but fills Dora’s glass. The gin spills over the rim onto Dora’s fingers.

‘Your heart don’t change, Pandora Blake. It’s as stuck up as your mother’s.’

‘How would you know?’

‘Stop, both of you,’ Hezekiah slurs, raises an appeasing arm. He fumbles for his glass, slides it toward the housekeeper. Lottie fills it to the brim and he knocks it back, holds the glass out once more.

At the mention of her mother, Dora feels a dull familiar ache in the pit of her stomach. Dora does not drink – has never had the opportunity – and she is conscious that with only a few sips the gin has already begun to take hold, her bravado has risen, and it is for this reason she asks, ‘What was she like, my mother?’