Pandora(34)

‘Is that why you have so many candles?’

He hesitates. ‘Yes.’ A pause. ‘It helps.’

Dora senses there is something unsaid here that dares not be pursued, but this time she leaves the matter alone. They continue on.

‘Where are we going?’ she asks as they squeeze single file down a small alley.

‘Leicester Fields,’ he answers, his voice easy now, as it was when they first met. When they are through Mr Lawrence offers his arm once more. ‘I often sit there, to gather my thoughts. We’ll reach it in a moment.’

Mr Lawrence soon brings them out into a green square, with sectioned lawns and wide paths littered with benches. In the middle stands an impressive statue – George I on horseback – and Mr Lawrence is about to draw her in through the iron gates when Dora pulls away.

‘Oh, do wait a moment!’

Mr Lawrence politely stops as Dora darts to a holly bush she has seen peeping through the bars of a private house. She holds out her sketchbook. ‘Would you?’

Looking perturbed Mr Lawrence takes it.

‘The berries,’ Dora blushes, taking a handkerchief from her reticule. ‘For Hermes. I like to treat him, when I can.’

‘Is human flesh not treat enough?’

‘Oh, please don’t!’ Dora looks at him guiltily but then she sees the wry smile playing around his face and smiles herself. ‘He became rather panicked last night,’ she explains, plucking the tiny ruby berries from their stems. ‘I’m hoping these will mollify him.’

‘Panicked?’ Mr Lawrence asks.

Dora closes the handkerchief, full now, the cotton stained faintly pink. ‘Yes. Let us sit down and I shall explain.’

Mr Lawrence guides her to one of the benches in the square. She ties the handkerchief into a parcel, puts it carefully into her reticule. He waits for her to finish but she can sense his impatience in the air between them like the advent of a rainstorm in spring. Taking back her sketchbook, Dora draws a breath.

‘As I told you, my uncle possesses the only key for the basement. I had a copy made and used it last night.’

Mr Lawrence sits forward, face brightening. ‘And?’

‘I found crate upon crate of Grecian pottery. I also found a Greek vase. I suspect they’re all genuine. But,’ Dora adds, looking at him now, ‘I cannot know for sure.’

Mr Lawrence’s eyebrows rise. ‘You can’t?’

‘Do not sound so surprised, Mr Lawrence. I know what is a fake in the shop because I know the sort of places my uncle gets the wares from. Often they are of his own creation. But I was only a child when my parents died. I am no antiquarian; I cannot be certain the vase is genuine. You, however …’

Mr Lawrence’s expression twists, the excitement in his face now quite gone. ‘Miss Blake, I cannot be considered anything but a bookbinder for now.’

‘I don’t believe that,’ she counters. ‘You understand the field, certainly better than I. You recognised instantly that the contents of my uncle’s shop were not genuine.’ Dora takes another breath. ‘Mr Lawrence, there are things in that basement I suspect are worth something and if they are, I do not understand why my uncle keeps them hidden. There’s no logical reason for it. But you can tell me for sure if what he keeps is authentic or mere tradesmen’s tat.’

Mr Lawrence is looking out across the square, his expression pensive. ‘Yes,’ he sighs, ‘perhaps. But, I must confess … Miss Blake, I have been a student of antiquities – in a manner of speaking – all my life. You are right, I can recognise a forgery, but my pure knowledge of some things is not all I wish it to be. I cannot guarantee the authenticity of a piece. I fear I may disappoint you.’

Hesitant, Dora places her gloved hand on his arm. He flinches, looks down at it as if it were something unnatural. Just as he seems about to soften Dora replaces her hand in her lap.

‘You must understand,’ she says gently, so he might not suspect how much she is relying on his assent. ‘I need to finish my copy of the vase. It’s the inspiration for my new designs. Sir, may I speak plainly?’

Mr Lawrence looks at her. His lip twitches. ‘Aren’t you already?’

His tone has a hint of the playful and Dora stares at him. Mr Lawrence clears his throat as if he believes her patience to be waning, but in reality she is wondering at what a changeable creature he is; reserved and nervous one moment, teasing and excitable the next.

‘Of course,’ he is saying, voice serious now. ‘Please, continue.’

Dora splays her hands flat across the sketchbook. ‘Mr Lawrence, my prime objective is to sketch the vase in full detail so I can replicate the designs into jewellery. I do not know how long I shall have access to it – as we speak, my uncle is doing heaven knows what with the thing. For all I know he could have got rid of it already. What I need to do is spend each night – after he and our housekeeper have gone to bed – sketching it. I don’t have time to look through the crates too. So, here is what I propose.’

Mr Lawrence has half-turned on the bench. His expression is pensive, but his attention is rapt and Dora knows she has him.

‘While I sketch, you are to look through everything my uncle has stored in the basement, tell me if what he hides is something genuine. And of course you may use anything you find down there – including the vase – for your own research.’ Dora touches the tip of her tongue to the roof of her mouth. ‘I do understand that nothing might come of it for you if the items are worthless, but you asked me for your help. This is all I can offer.’