Pandora(64)

She cannot help it. It is not because she craves Edward’s touch. No, indeed – the smell from Mr Coombe’s wrist is almost overpowering; even with the wind at its zenith the rancid stench finds a way to itch her nostrils. She tries not to stare at it but her attention is drawn again and again to the stained bandages, the bruised skin of his hand. They ride in silence to begin with, but Mr Coombe happens to catch her looking when directing the horse down onto High Holborn and he grimaces.

‘I’m sorry, miss. I bind it every few hours, but the wound still weeps.’

Dora blushes, ashamed. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.’

The wagon bounces. Edward glances at Mr Coombe, seems to notice the wrist for the first time.

‘How did it happen, sir? If I do not presume too much.’

The man snorts, flicks the reigns. The wagon takes a slow turn.

‘No need to stand on ceremony with me. Sir! As if I had the honour.’ He shakes his head. ‘How’d it happen, you ask? That damn cargo happened.’

Dora blinks. ‘The pithos?’

‘Aye, if that’s what you wish to call it. Retrieved it myself I did, my brothers and me, but I wish to God I had never agreed to such a deed.’

Edward leans closer. ‘So it was you who acquired it?’

From behind them, a cough. ‘Coombe,’ the man Tibb says, voice raised in warning. ‘I would watch yourself.’

‘And why should I?’ Mr Coombe throws back. ‘This girl is Blake’s niece, Jonas. She ought to know—’

‘Know what?’ Dora cuts in, but Mr Tibb has raised himself, one hand on the pithos – the sheet that covers it bunching – the other clamped on Mr Coombe’s shoulder. ‘You will do best to keep your mouth shut.’ Then, to Dora, ‘My apologies, Miss Blake, but it is not our place to divulge. You must understand … it is nothing against yourself. There are just some things that I’d prefer not to be a party to.’

‘Are you not already a party to it?’ Dora asks, twisting in her seat.

Mr Tibb inclines his head. ‘I am, I suppose. But I’ll not be the one to confide in such matters.’

‘But—’

Mr Tibb turns his back, resumes his perch on some ship’s tackle piled on the floor of the wagon. Dora looks at Mr Coombe; he faces front, attention fixed on the road, his thick jaw tightly set. She exchanges a glance with Edward. His eyebrows raise but he gives a small, ever-so-slight shake of his head, and so Dora sits back, losing herself in troubled thoughts.



Lady Latimer’s townhouse – nothing short of a villa – overlooks a wide berth of water, and is approached via a cobbled crescent surrounding a green of immaculately cut lawn in which a large ornate fountain sits bubbling away in the middle. If Dora thought Cornelius Ashmole’s Clevendale were grand, then this is altogether a palace. Reached by a pair of iron gates the house looms before them, a splendour of blinding white. Large Roman columns flag the vast double doors which are opened almost instantly by two liveried footmen.

As Edward helps Dora down from the wagon, she notes the beauty of them. Tall young men, pretty men, almost doll-like, dressed exactly as Horatio and this morning’s footman had been, top to tail in sage green. Lady Latimer, it seems, delights in ornamenting herself with more than just fine gowns and jewels.

Horatio himself emerges from the open doorway, a silver platter balanced perfectly on his fingers. He proffers a small bow.

‘Miss Blake, welcome. My esteemed ladyship wishes you to read this letter, and to give your answer before you leave.’

This is the first time Dora has heard Horatio speak, and as she takes the note from the platter she blinks into his perfectly smooth, handsome features.

‘You and your companion are to come inside while the shipment is safely transported to the ballroom.’

Horatio’s over-formality, his lilting-soft voice – so poised and cultured – has quite distracted her. Dazed, she turns to address Edward but finds he is not at her side. She looks behind her to see him deep in conversation with Mr Coombe.

‘Edward?’

He looks up. His face flushes. Then he is tucking his black notebook and a pencil away, hurrying to join her.

‘My apologies,’ Edward says. He smiles, but to Dora’s mind it seems uncharacteristically tight. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yes,’ Dora answers. She shall question him later, she decides. ‘We have been invited to wait inside.’

Horatio inclines his fine head. ‘If you will both follow me.’

They are escorted into a grand entrance hall, tiled in white marble, polished to such a shine Dora can see her reflection. She chances a glance at Edward but he seems entirely indifferent, as if such riches were a commonplace thing. The footman reaches a pair of glass doors, flings them open with a flourish.

‘The adornment is to go there,’ Horatio says, gesturing into the cavernous room. In the middle of it Dora spies a large circular plinth set low to the ground, covered with a sheet of midnight-blue velvet. ‘Her ladyship has grand plans for your cargo – it will be decorated to delightful perfection. But come,’ he adds, gesturing now to a pair of mahogany high-backed chairs. ‘If you wait here, I shall furnish you with some refreshment.’

Dora sits, mute, watching his retreat. Horatio fascinates her. What command of language! She is used to the commonplace brogue of London’s trade, not flowery words delivered in a sugared tongue. Beside her Edward stares into his lap, a deep frown on his face.