Pandora(54)

‘Really, Clements. I had expected better.’

The old woman’s words fall out bored, flat. The jeweller’s face drops.

‘Better, ma’am?’

A pause, a shift of heavy skirts.

‘Do you know who I am?’ she returns, her voice now laden with scorn, but she does not wait for his response. ‘I am a woman who desires ostentation, to excite my dearest friends and incite envy in those who are not. I need to be the talk of the town, the belle of the ball. It is what I live for!’

Dora tries not to stare; a woman of her vastly superior years could not be further from a belle of any ball than Dora could be a duck. She glances at the old woman’s companion but the footman continues to look straight ahead. There is not even a tic to his perfectly smooth cheek.

‘But, madam,’ Mr Clements is stammering, ‘that’s not the style! The fashions, my lady, as they stand … You wished for exotic and I have created just that, as far as reasonably acceptable, created something the Prince himself would wish to wear.’

‘That buffoon?’ The lady’s fleshy cheeks tremble like jelly. ‘I do not wish to wear something the Prince would wear. I wish to wear something I would wear.’

His skin has paled so much it has taken on the hue of porcelain. ‘But—’

‘I am most displeased, Clements. My custom is clearly not appreciated here, nor my good opinion.’

‘Lady Latimer,’ Mr Clements tries again, but the woman is already retreating. ‘Madam, please—’

‘Ma’am, if I may?’

She cannot help it. The words are out of her mouth before Dora has even realised. As both Mr Clements and Lady Latimer turn their heads to stare – the goldsmith with ill-concealed vexation, and the lady with mild surprise, clearly having only just noticed her pressed resolutely against the wall – Dora’s heart hammers in her throat like a drum.

‘And who, pray, are you?’

The woman looks her up and down with unguarded interest. Dora licks her bottom lip.

Is it not how she always said? All it takes is one person of quality. Just one. Dora’s salvation is now at the tips of her fingers, but only if she is to say something now …

‘I wondered,’ she says, stilted, unable to hide her nerves, ‘perhaps, if you might take a look at one of my designs?’

Lady Latimer’s eyes narrow. ‘Your designs?’

Dora reaches out a shaking hand to move Mr Clements’ cushions out the way of her sketchbook, then slides it along the glass counter. With a frown Lady Latimer spreads her fattened fingers across the drawing of the peacock choker.

‘Oh, yes,’ the old woman breathes after a moment. ‘This. I like this.’

Mr Clements, quite unable it seems to contain his upset, draws himself up to full height.

‘Madam, this is not suitable—’

Her ladyship pins him with a look. ‘It’s a necklace, is it not?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘And quite perfect for my soirée.’

‘Madam, I’m afraid that particular design isn’t part of my—’

‘Clements.’ A note of warning creeps into the woman’s voice. ‘You know I do not like to be disappointed.’

‘I …’ The jeweller stops himself, resigned. ‘No, Lady Latimer.’

Lady Latimer turns back to Dora. ‘Tell me.’ She prods the page.

Dora blinks. ‘Tell you, ma’am?’

‘What materials are used? What stones?’

From the corner of her eye Dora can observe Mr Clements’ piercing gaze and she flushes, pulls the sketchbook back toward her across the counter.

‘Well, my lady, it does entirely depend on Mr Clements and his men, but I had imagined …’

Dora describes the necklace exactly as she had to the jeweller. During her explanations the old woman mmms and sighs, and Dora chances a look into her wrinkled face. She seems completely enthralled. Buoyed by this, Dora turns her attention to the patterning.

‘Forgive me if you are already familiar, my lady, but this is what you would call a meandros border. The Greeks used the design in their architecture, in either friezes or street paving, and it was often a feature in their pottery.’

She stops. Bites her lip. Lady Latimer taps a gloved finger. That over-sweet stench of lavender again. She nods once, twice, before looking at Dora as if she were a piece of pottery herself.

‘And how, my dear, did you imagine such a beautiful design?’

Dora hesitates. ‘I was inspired by a large Grecian vase in my possession, madam.’

‘How large?’

‘Very large, madam.’

Lady Latimer clucks her tongue. ‘What is your name?’

‘Dora Blake, my lady.’

‘Of?’

Dora blinks. ‘Of?’

‘Do you have no establishment?’

A hint of impatience. Disbelief.

‘Not as such.’ Dora pauses, decides to offer up a half-truth. ‘I help run my uncle’s antiquity business. Blake’s Emporium for Exotic Antiquities. It’s on Ludgate Street, ma’am.’

‘Indeed,’ Lady Latimer says. She clears her throat, looks at the goldsmith under the wide sweep of her hat. ‘Clements, I want this necklace. Made up exactly as Miss Blake described. I want it ready by Saturday, you understand me?’