Pandora(66)

‘But I have nothing to wear.’

‘You have something plain and serviceable, surely?’ the old woman scoffs and Dora blushes with shame, for though she does indeed own many a plain and serviceable gown, not one of them is less than five years old.

‘I do, but nothing suitable for a soirée.’

‘I see …’

It is clear Lady Latimer has not thought of this, not considered the divide between their classes as in any way a barrier to fashion, but then Edward steps forward, dips in an awkward bow.

‘If it pleases, my lady, I will make sure Miss Blake has something suitable for the occasion.’

Lady Latimer looks at Edward with sharp, appraising eyes, then back at Dora.

‘Your young man, I take it?’

Edward blinks, begins to stammer. ‘Oh, no, madam. I mean, that is—’

Lady Latimer cuts in with a short laugh. ‘Bring this one along, Miss Blake. He has a timid look about him. I do like that in a man.’ She glances at Horatio who has appeared at her side. ‘They are like not to be rogues then, my dear. The timid ones are malleable, easily guided to our whim. Better we woman have the upper hand in matters of the heart, don’t you think?’

Dora is at a loss for a response, but then she realises there is no need of one; Lady Latimer has seen the pithos. She claps her hands in pleasure, strides toward it with almost childish excitement.

‘How glorious! Yes, yes, it is perfect, utterly splendid. Horatio, you will show our guests out, won’t you?’

This last is thrown over her ladyship’s shoulder, and Horatio loses no time in guiding them to the door. Mr Coombe, Mr Tibb and the two lads are already on the wagon, waiting. When they reach it Mr Coombe reaches down to help her up. Dora straightens her skirts, and Edward settles in the seat beside her.

‘I hope,’ Edward murmurs shyly, ‘you did not find me too presumptuous?’

‘No,’ Dora answers, shy herself, ‘though I confess myself surprised. Surely you don’t mean it?’

‘Of course I do. Mr Coombe, would you be willing to drop us off at Piccadilly?’

‘If you like,’ the large man sniffs, flicking the reins. ‘Makes no difference to me.’

As the cart rumbles away down the drive, Edward clears his throat, straightens his cuff.

‘I am not timid,’ he says.

It is more than a put-out grumble. His voice is pained in its defensiveness and Dora reaches out, gently takes his hand.

‘I know you are not, Edward,’ she says softly.

Edward looks away. He does not pull his hand from hers.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT





Hezekiah cradles his gin against the fleshy plane of his naked chest. He is thankful for the fug alcohol affords, the way his mind fizzes and lulls, how his vision blurs a little when he turns his head. Like that. He takes a long sip from his glass, rests his head back against the headboard, feels the comforting solidness of carved oak.

At his side Lottie wrings out a cloth in a basin. When she started the cloth was white. Now it is stained yellow with a tinge of green-pink, and on the surface of the cloudy water, questionable gobs of something (Hezekiah will not let himself think on it too much) are floating. Soapsuds, he tells himself. Nothing worse than that.

It is not denial. Not precisely. He knows something is not right. But to put it into words … Well, that is something he does not wish to do. To say he is ill, to say he fears his leg has grown gangrenous, that might make it true, and he is not willing to give voice to such an unhappy truth. Not yet.

He hisses as Lottie lays the cloth over the wound, bunches the sodden bed sheet in his fist. Lottie tuts, shifts on the bed. Hezekiah glances at her swollen lip, then away again. He did not mean to hit her, but he was just so damn angry and it was done before he realised it. He had not felt so much anger since …

Since.

In his mind’s eye Coombe’s face looms before him. There is a fine line between coincidence and fate. Is there really something to what the oaf says? Is the vase cursed? Is that why he reacted as he did?

Fool!

Hezekiah dampens the memory down, shifts again on the bed. It creaks under his weight and Lottie adjusts her own position, folds the wet cloth in her hands.

‘How do the Coombe brothers?’ he asks as she wipes the cloth over the tender skin of his thigh. He tries to stop its involuntary shake. Noticing, Lottie gentles her touch.

‘They do not improve, though they do not grow worse.’

‘Does Matthew help you?’

‘He helps turn Sam so I can wash him. He encourages Charlie to take food. There is not much else to be done.’

‘And his own wound?’

Lottie hesitates. ‘Matthew’s wrist looks much worse than this.’

She gestures at the growing hole in Hezekiah’s thigh, the foul-smelling sore that should not be a sore at all but a shallow wound, only. A wound that should have scabbed over days ago.

‘It starts to turn black. I fear …’

She does not say what he knows she thinks, that the skin on his leg – like Coombe’s arm – will soon begin to die. Hezekiah takes another long sip of gin.

‘I am glad,’ Lottie says now, her voice a little brighter, ‘that I no longer need go there. It’s as well you gave Matthew his money so he can fetch a doctor. He was desperate, yesterday. Kept telling me how he would have made things difficult for you. He still might.’