Pandora(60)

‘You may come through.’

Dora is taken through a wide hall, its floor tiled black and white. At the end Mrs Howe pushes open the door into a large room, a library, decorated much like the antechamber but with a hint more ostentation – richer furnishings, dark jewel colours, a deep-set hearth in which roars a fire. Dora has barely taken in the shock of a skinned tiger on the floor before Edward is rushing to her, guiding her into the room, his hand warm on hers.

Mr Ashmole, who has not stood, simply stares. Edward draws up a chair – this one not silk she is pleased to see, but serviceable leather.

‘Forgive me,’ Dora says now to Mr Ashmole as she settles down into the chair’s depths. ‘I did not mean to intrude without invitation, but it is imperative I speak with Mr Lawrence immediately.’ She looks to Edward. ‘I tried the bindery first but Mr Fingle assured me I was more like to find you here.’

‘I am glad you have come,’ Edward answers in a rush, and it does seem he is pleased. His colour is high and Mr Ashmole appears to notice this too, stares at him hard a moment before turning to address Dora directly.

‘Mr Lawrence has spoken much of you, Miss Blake. In fact, you have become quite famous in this house.’ His voice is rich, like satin, but holds within it the edge of dislike.

‘I …’ Dora glances at Edward, then back again. ‘He has spoken of me?’

‘Did I not just say?’

Dora swallows the punch. ‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir,’ she says, though she is yet to find the pleasure in it.

Mr Ashmole watches her. Then: ‘Mrs Howe.’

‘Yes, sir?’

Dora catches herself – she had not realised the housekeeper still loomed at the door. Dora glances at Edward who sends her a small, comforting smile.

‘If you would bring our visitor a glass of wine.’ He strikes an eyebrow at Dora. ‘Are shop girls accustomed to claret?’

‘Cornelius.’ Edward’s tone is low, a warning.

Mr Ashmole laughs humourlessly. ‘Of course. Mrs Howe, if you will?’

Mrs Howe curtseys. The door is closed. Silence engulfs the room.

Dora allows it to stretch for only a moment before saying, ‘Again, Mr Ashmole, please do forgive my intrusion—’

‘It is no intrusion,’ Edward cuts in.

Mr Ashmole looks at him blankly. Then he turns to her and says, ‘Why are you here, Miss Blake?’

Edward’s friend is not what she expected. Dora imagined an elderly benefactor, someone with dove-grey hair, a moustache, perhaps, someone with a cane and kindly smile. This tall, austere man with raven-black hair seems altogether too young to own a bindery, too young to have this much money. And he seems altogether too unpleasant to be friends with Edward. He is, Dora senses, the complete opposite of Edward Lawrence in every way.

‘I …’

Mrs Howe returns, a circular silver tray in her hands on which stands a beautifully cut crystal glass. Dora takes it, thanks the woman who nods once and retreats fast from the room as if she cannot abide being in their presence.

‘Please,’ Edward says, sitting forward in his seat, his face kind. ‘Do continue.’

Dora takes a breath. She begins to speak, addressing Edward and not Mr Ashmole, for his piercing stare unnerves her to the point of distraction.

‘I have come to tell you that the lady who purchased my necklace has managed to convince my uncle to loan her the pithos.’

Edward sits back in his chair, leather creaking. ‘I see.’

‘I confronted him, as you said I should. And … Oh, it is clear my uncle has been trading illicitly, just as I thought.’ Dora pauses. ‘You know, then, what this means. You cannot possibly write your paper now, and I will not be able to finish my sketch of the pithos.’

She thinks of it then, her unfinished progress with its copy – only one scene left! – and is thankful, at least, that she managed to produce the drawings she has. But Edward has not replied. His gaze is fixed somewhere on the stripes of the tiger lying between them.

Is he angry with her? Dora tries to stem her concern, for she has enjoyed her nights with him, has become – without realising it – quite dependent on his company, and for him to be angry with her would upset her deeply.

‘I am so sorry.’

Finally, movement. A look passes between Mr Ashmole and Edward which seems filled with some deeper meaning, something to which she is not privy, but before she can question it Edward leans forward in his seat, smiles, and Dora thinks it forced, awkward.

‘There is no need to be sorry,’ he assures. ‘At the very least you have given me the opportunity to examine a genuine collection of Greek antiquity. I’m most grateful. I can write a paper on something else.’ He pauses. ‘Your drawings. You still have them?’

‘I do.’

Edward appears relieved, and Dora looks between him and Mr Ashmole. Something is amiss, she can sense it, but she has something to ask Edward, something she needs him to agree to and so, on that score, she holds her tongue.

‘I’m afraid,’ Dora says now, ‘telling you this was not my only purpose for wishing to see you. I have a favour to ask.’

‘Another?’

Mr Ashmole, this. Dora feels his hostility – it comes off him like kettle-steam – and it confuses her.