Pandora(35)

Mr Lawrence worries his inner cheek.

‘If I discover the pieces are fakes, what do you intend to do with the knowledge?’

Dora sighs. A dog barks at a squirrel across the other side of the field, pulling at its owner’s leash, and she watches the smaller creature’s scampered escape up a tree before answering.

‘If the items are forgeries, then that will be that. I will do nothing.’

A pause. ‘Forgive me, Miss Blake, but why?’

Dora tries to choke down a bitter laugh. She does not quite succeed, and her companion looks at her in surprise.

‘Because, Mr Lawrence, I can do nothing. I rely entirely on my uncle’s generosity. If I were to report him I risk my own livelihood as well as his, and until I have the means to be free of him then I must keep my silence. Perhaps,’ she continues, ‘my uncle merely keeps them down there because he is not yet ready to bring them onto the shop floor. At least if you can confirm them to be forgeries I shall know, for my own peace of mind. But …’ Dora pauses, rubs the bridge of her nose. ‘I cannot help thinking there is something more to it than that. He has been acting so strange of late.’

Beside her Mr Lawrence takes a measured breath. ‘And what if they are genuine?’

‘I …’

Dora presses her fingers against the sketchbook. For as long as the shop has been under his jurisdiction, Hezekiah has not sold one legitimate article beyond what was already there when it passed on to him. Certainly, if he has, she has never been aware of the fact. If the vase is genuine, why does he have it?

Maybe there is an innocent explanation. Indeed, he may intend to restore the shop, just as she has always hoped. But no … did he not intimate he might sell? Dora is so busy troubling over the matter that when Mr Lawrence speaks again she must ask him to repeat himself.

‘What if he is already selling them?’

Dora frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

Mr Lawrence shifts, adjusts the scarf he wears. ‘If they are genuine,’ he says carefully, as if afraid of saying the words, ‘then based on his current behaviour, it is possible that he might be peddling on the black-market.’

For a dreadful moment the words pool between them, and Dora’s stomach clenches at the possibility. This, this, did not occur to her, and she feels now desperately foolish for her naivety. Forgeries are one thing. Illegal still, yes, though harmless to those who have no inclination to care. But if Hezekiah has been trading in contraband all this time, and from within the shop no less … That changes things.

For him.

For her.

Dora’s hand goes to her throat. She can almost feel the rope tightening around her neck. She turns to look at Mr Lawrence; he watches her, face pitying.

‘Miss Blake. Are you all right?’

She has not the words. She wants to cry out, to tell Mr Lawrence that her uncle would never dare stoop to such a thing – why would he risk so much? – but now that the thought has been placed in her mind Dora finds the notion impossible to deny.

‘There may be nothing to worry about,’ Mr Lawrence says in a rush. ‘I am probably mistaken. But I must see them for myself first to be sure.’

‘Then you will come?’

Dora cannot keep the fear from her voice. She came to him with hope, thought only of her jewellery designs, her means to escape. And now … now, it seems, her very life may depend on what Mr Lawrence might impart. If Hezekiah is trading in stolen goods and he is caught, then Dora will face the noose with him, for who would ever believe she was not aware of such dealings when she herself has knowingly been selling forgeries on the shop floor for years?

‘Yes,’ he says gently. ‘I will come.’

‘You will come tonight?’

‘I shall.’

‘Thank you.’

He smiles at her. His eyes, Dora notes, are grey.

‘May … may I see your sketches, Miss Blake?’

‘Of course.’

It is a distraction, at least. With shaking fingers Dora opens the sketchbook, turns to her preliminary drawings of the vase.

‘Here,’ she says, trying for stoicism. ‘It is a scenic representation of the Pandora myth. This –’ she trails her finger across her sketch of Zeus and Prometheus – ‘depicts how man was given the gift of fire.’ She points to another sketch a little further down the page. ‘And here is a quick outline of the vase itself. It stands to just below my shoulders. Could you date it, do you think?’

Their heads are bent over the sketchbook. Dora can hear his steady breath, smells the rich scent of leather on his clothes.

‘Your drawings … They are extraordinary.’ He raises his head. Their faces are so close now their noses almost touch. ‘You have a gift. If you were to see mine …’ Mr Lawrence’s lip twists slightly. ‘Well, mine are nothing at all in comparison.’

‘Thank you, Mr Lawrence.’

‘You’re welcome, Miss Blake.’

They say nothing for a moment, only look at each other until Mr Lawrence seems to catch himself and, blushing, Dora looks away. As one they sit back on the bench. The cold air that comes between them is like new breath.

‘What of Hermes?’ he asks suddenly, and the change in tide makes her blink.

‘What of him?’

‘You said he had been panicked.’