Pandora(51)

In this time Dora has produced five designs: three necklaces, one bracelet, a pair of earrings. There is, Dora deduced, no need for more than that. This time she will not worry herself over a sample, not when the likelihood of Mr Clements refusing her efforts yet again is worryingly high. No, this time Dora has chosen to be discerning and produce designs limited in number but of a standard that far surpasses anything she has drawn before. Behind the counter she concentrates on a last flourish to the sketch of a choker cast in gold – reminiscent of one of the pithos’ borders – angling her nib at a sharp slant against her thumb to produce the correct pressure for the final flick.

From below comes a frustrated moan, a dull bang.

Dora rests her pencil. While Mr Lawrence – Edward, she remembers to call him – has been so careful in putting everything back where he previously found it, Dora worried her uncle might notice the basement has been disturbed. But not one word has Hezekiah said to her. No indeed, the only sounds she has heard from him are expletives of frustration and wordless grunts of pain.

Over a week has passed since Dora invited Edward to view the contents of the basement, and in that time her uncle’s leg appears to have worsened. He walks now with a pronounced limp – her suggestion that he use a cane was met with fierce rebuttal – and his attitude too, while always unpleasant, has diminished further to a surliness that does not relent. Even Lottie has had to bear the brunt of it. The night before Dora heard raised voices come from Hezekiah’s bedroom. The shatter of glass. Lottie, crying.

Dora knows she should be concerned. She knows that a doctor should be called, for the faint putrid smell of pus has begun to taint the air each time Hezekiah limps past.

Yet.

Let him suffer, a wicked voice whispers in her ear. He has brought this on himself, it says.

Dora’s hands close into fists. The maggot writhes and eats its fill.

Another shout from below, another dull bang, as if he has flung something down on the floor in frustration.

Why does Hezekiah spend so much time below stairs? Why is it, each day, he reappears looking more frustrated than he did the day before? What is it, she wonders, that has Hezekiah so annoyed? Is it the pithos itself? For what must be the hundredth time she asks herself why her uncle has not yet sold it. Surely an artefact of such monumental worth would have his corrupt buyers fighting to own it.

‘Oh, Father, Mother,’ she whispers. Dora leans her elbow on the counter, props her chin in her hand and grimly surveys the dimness of the shop, the splatter of mist-rain on the mottled windowpanes. ‘What must I do?’

Dora pictures them, how they once were, when the shop was at its finest. In her mind’s eye she sees her father arranging the stock – some new acquirements from Venice or Rome, Naples or Athens – in a magnificent window display that would have passers-by stop and stare. She sees her mother, sketching out designs for the advertisements that would entice customers across the threshold, singing under her breath a Grecian folk song in her smooth lilting voice. What were the words? Dora tries to recall, but her memory will not conjure them. Those mirror shards are no more.

Behind her on his perch Hermes squawks, and Dora twists round on the stool.

‘Well, dear heart, do you know what I should do?’ The magpie looks down with unblinking black eyes. ‘No? How unhelpful.’ She picks up the sketch, angles the page up to the bird. ‘What about this? Do you like it?’

This time Hermes cocks his head and Dora smiles. She certainly likes it, would be thrilled to wear such a thing. But would a lady of quality?

It is a broad choker, one that would suit a thicker neck and sit just above the collarbone. The border Dora chose from the pithos was the peacock design, but embellished in her own styling. A gold base of eighteen carat, the peacock feathers would each be filled with lapis-coloured enamel and separated by a square turquoise stone from which would hang a jet-base cameo, linked together by a fine gold chain. The individual shell reliefs would feature a representation of the talents bestowed on Pandora: painting, needlework, weaving, music, gardening, healing. The design is a seamless repeat – except for the cameos themselves – and Dora has sketched the necklace as it might sit around the neck, together with its finer details. Eight drawings for the one design in all, a most impressive offering that Mr Clements surely, this time, cannot refuse.

Dora’s mouth twists as she thinks of Edward’s proposition. She fears now that he wastes his time, cataloguing the crates in the vain hope they still might be lawfully obtained. Edward, however, does not know her uncle, does not know what he is capable of, and without the help of the three brothers – without confronting Hezekiah himself – there is no way to prove it. Yet she wants Edward’s company. It is a lonely task, sketching in the basement alone. But if he cannot publish his paper, if she fails in convincing Mr Clements again …

Her fear of the noose aside, there is still the matter of where she would go if Hezekiah sells the shop. Dora thinks again of his words those nights before, the worrying implication of them. More liberating surroundings. But, he has made no further mention of it. Perhaps she was mistaken.

The bell rings.

Lottie bumbles her way through the front door, closes it behind her with a bang that sets the bell shaking loudly on its spring. Hermes squawks sharply in protest, black-and-white feathers ruffling, and Dora closes the sketchbook. Lottie shakes water off the hem of her frilled cape, keeps her attention fixed to the floor. Dora thinks of her crying the night before and studies the woman with unease.