Pandora(53)

The second necklace is more ornate than the first, but not as ostentatious as the peacock choker sketched out on the opposite page. It is made up of a long chain that – if one were to look closely – resembles a set of interlocking snakes, separated by flat oblong links.

‘The chain can be made of whatever material would suit. Pinchbeck, I suspect would work best. This necklace takes its imagery from Mount Olympus, the banquet of the gods. Here,’ Dora says, pointing at the finer detailing on one of the links, ‘an elegant repeat pattern of grapes, you see? These images could either be stamped into the links, or perhaps made up from ivory and painted, or carved.’

Mr Clements gives a small nod. Dora turns to her final offering, the peacock choker. She explains the patterning, what each cameo represents.

The jeweller taps a narrow finger on his chin. ‘The materials?’

‘Gold, enamel, turquoise. Jet and shell for the cameo pendants, or whatever would achieve the look. Ebony perhaps?’ Dora touches her mother’s cameo at her neck. ‘I am not familiar with the construction of cameos as you are.’

Mr Clements is silent. Very slowly he reaches out, turns the pages back and forth then back again. Dora tries to read his expression but it is inscrutable, and she presses her fingers into the glass counter, tries not to let her need, her wanting, show.

I shall be mistress of myself, she thinks.

Finally the goldsmith takes a breath.

‘These are … Miss Blake, I am astonished. They are beautiful. Truly. Truly they are.’

And there it is, the lilt on his tongue that Dora knows to be the beginnings of rejection, yet again.

‘What is the matter now, sir? These are exquisite. You know they are.’

Dora tries not to cringe at her conceit, but there can be no denying the skill of her work, the beauty of these designs. She levels him with a stare that Mr Clements seems unable to meet.

‘They are exquisite. This one, especially,’ he says, and his hand hovers over the sketch of the peacock choker. ‘But … Well, the truth of the matter is I cannot guarantee they would sell.’

‘Why? Why, when you are one of the leading goldsmiths in town, who might guarantee the sale of anything in this shop by reputation alone?’

It is flattery, pure and simple, but Dora will not let this go so easily. She knows what is at stake here: her happiness, her freedom. Dora swallows. Her life. She will not let Hezekiah drag her down with him.

‘Have you not heard? Surely your uncle will be feeling its effects.’

This brings Dora up short. ‘Sir?’

Mr Clements straightens, looks at her now with an expression bordering on pity.

‘At the beginning of the month Pitt introduced an income tax to help fund our war effort against the French. Many are withholding their pocketbooks now, and credit will not be given as freely as it once was. To make matters worse Napoleon has set up his armies in Egypt which has thwarted our access to India. It is difficult now to even procure materials, let alone sell the resulting product. Perhaps, in a few months …’

She cannot help it. Dora’s eyes begin to fill. ‘A few months? Mr Clements, you don’t understand. I—’

But then, the tinkle of the bell. The jeweller looks past her to the door and immediately he pales, his Adam’s apple bobbing vigorously beneath his cravat.

‘My dear Lady Latimer!’ Mr Clements looks at Dora over the half-moons of his spectacles, drops his voice to a whisper-hiss. ‘Miss Blake, you must excuse me.’ He pushes the sketchbook further down the counter and is frantically spreading velvet display cushions on top of the glass before Dora can say a thing.

‘Clements! My design is ready, I trust?’

The voice is all audacious pomp. Dora turns to see who has so rudely interrupted them.

Stares.

Approaching the counter is an elderly woman, trussed up so tightly into a corset that her ample wrinkled bosom near spills from the constraints. On her head (or rather, atop a towering white wig that reminds Dora of a three-tiered cake) is a hat from which protrudes an ostrich feather. A few paces behind her stands a tall effeminate man, decked head to toe in sage green livery, who meets Dora’s gaze ever so briefly before turning his attention full forward, adopting the stance of a soldier at orders.

As the lady presents herself at the counter in a flurry of muslin and fur and smelling overwhelmingly of lavender, Dora shunts herself further down the counter – her upset momentarily forgotten – and tries to make herself inconspicuous.

‘I hope you are ready to impress me,’ Lady Latimer says, and the goldsmith dips his head.

‘Of course,’ he replies, bringing up from below the counter a red box, evidently prepared in expectation of her visit. As Mr Clements fumbles with the latch, the woman taps her gloved fingers impatiently. ‘Here you are,’ he says. ‘As requested.’

The box opens. There is a hush of quiet. Dora angles her neck.

Within is a parure set – a necklace, earrings, brooch, tiara and necklace. A beautiful collection to be sure, made up of diamonds, emeralds and rubies favouring the French design. One of Mr Clements’ own, Dora recognises, and she feels within her chest a stab of satisfaction mixed with jealousy; his designs are nothing to hers, yet it is he who makes a living from them!

‘The stones are of highest quality,’ he is saying, ‘and the filigree detailing is remarkably fine, as you can see. The Duchess of Devonshire herself was much in favour of—’