Pandora(33)

Just before she reaches the glass-panelled door, Dora pauses. Off to her left the corridor veers sharply. Blackness, no windows, no candle sconce anywhere near. For a brief spell she wonders at this dark space but then catches herself and softly she raps on the door with her knuckle.

There is no answer. Behind the glass, a bright golden glow. She thinks she sees Mr Lawrence sitting at his desk, but he has not moved. She knocks a little louder but, once again, there is no answer.

Dora frowns. ‘Mr Lawrence? It’s Dora Blake.’

She hears muttering behind her, furtive giggles. She ignores them for behind the glass there is movement now, a rushing to the door. It is flung open and Mr Lawrence stares at her, almost breathless. His cravat is partially undone, his golden hair has fallen over his forehead. A smudge of brownish-red glistens on his cheek.

‘Miss Blake!’

He appears, for one brief moment, joyful. But then he notices the audience behind her. Dora looks over her shoulder. Mr Fingle now stands in front of them, as curious as the rest.

‘I’m afraid, Mr Lawrence,’ Dora whispers, apologetic, ‘I have caused a commotion.’

Mr Lawrence scowls. It does not suit him.

‘Please,’ he says, taking her elbow gently. ‘Do come in.’

He shuts the door behind them and Dora blinks into bright light; the room is completely filled with candles. Mr Lawrence scoots past her, begins to tidy his desk in a rush.

‘I was not expecting you. I mean,’ he adds, flustered, rubbing at the mark on his cheek, ‘I hoped I might see you again but had not thought it would be so soon.’

‘Nor I,’ says Dora. Then, ‘Oh, please, do not tidy on my account.’

Mr Lawrence pauses, two small oddly shaped tools in his hands. She takes that moment to survey the room, but her eyes struggle to adjust to the light.

‘So many candles …’

‘Yes.’

He seems to disappear into himself then, and instinctively Dora regrets her words. She smiles to distract him.

‘I wanted to show you my sketchbook. I went down to the basement, you see.’

‘You found something?’

Mr Lawrence’s voice and expression are hopeful.

‘I might have. But I need your help.’

She hears a scuffling noise behind her, accompanied by muffled murmuring. Dora turns her attention to the door, to the distorted shadows behind the panes, the laugh-whisper of voices.

Mr Lawrence clears his throat.

‘Let’s go for a walk.’



Mr Lawrence guides her through the crowded bustle of Covent Garden Market, keeping her a little too close to his side. There is a liberty to this, but Dora finds it hard to mind. After all, she is not much familiar with this side of London. The market is a torrent of noise and commotion, and Dora would find it hard to get – let alone keep – her bearings alone.

They walk past a fruit seller, his hat covered in flecks of dirt; a fishmonger selling fried eels and ugly jellied things; a baker next, his red, round face blanched with flour, sweating in his apron even on this cold January morning. Then there are the barrow boys, basket women, flower girls, all jostling for space amid the tiny stalls, wheelbarrows and donkey carts. The smell of vegetables mixes with the almost-sweet stench of horse dung and wet straw, and when they reach a meat vendor Dora has to turn her face away, for even though the air is sharp with frost, flies circle a pig’s head, one disappearing into an ear that looks like a wet shoe left to dry in the sun. There are hunks of pink flesh gleaming on the table, a tableau of raw sinew and fat. As they walk past, the vendor looks up at them, his cheeks ruddy. There is a slop of blood on his apron. Mr Lawrence shields her, steers her down King Street and then onto New.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, offering an arm. ‘I should have found a more seemly route.’

‘It’s no matter.’ Dora takes Mr Lawrence’s arm, an attempt at nonchalance, though her stomach still twists. ‘A revelation, really.’ And it is; she has never needed to go to market herself – it has always been left to Lottie – and Dora finds within a small scrap of respect for the housekeeper, despite her dislike of the woman.

They walk quietly side by side. She is half a head taller than Mr Lawrence. Dora sends a surreptitious glance down at him.

‘Won’t Mr Fingle mind?’

‘Mind?’

‘You leaving.’

There is a beat of silence. A muscle clenches in his jaw.

‘No.’

‘I see.’ Another beat. This is obviously a sore spot for him. ‘Who is Mr Ashmole?’ she pushes. ‘I thought he was Mr Fingle at first when he greeted me, but …’

She trails off and this time Mr Lawrence does not let the silence in.

‘Mr Ashmole is my friend. He purchased the bindery a few years ago, when I …’ He pauses, angling himself around a patch of black ice, guides Dora across it. ‘Like your shop, it was not the business it is now though in this case Cornelius generously restored it and kept Fingle on as he knew the runnings of the place and he wasn’t …’ Mr Lawrence seems to be speaking without breath, as if afraid of the words. He bites his lower lip. ‘Forgive me.’ He looks at her now with a small smile that to Dora appears forced. ‘The history of it is unimportant. But I work there now and I may come and go as I please. I’m what they call a finisher. I work on all the books in their final stages of decoration.’