Pandora(68)

‘You did what?’ Cornelius demanded, breathing his disapproval deeply from his long nose.

‘I gave her the means to buy a gown. There was no time to have one made. After we delivered the pithos I took her to a second-hand shop that would have something suitable. One was adjusted … Dora was thrilled with it,’ Edward finished defensively.

‘The money I give you is meant for you, for your pleasure, not anyone else’s! Certainly not hers!’

‘Buying it for her does give me pleasure,’ Edward countered, watching Cornelius in dismay. ‘And what else am I to spend my money on? You provide me with everything I need,’ he reminded him, and the reminder had made Edward’s gut twist when in that moment he realised he was, without any shred of doubt on the matter, kept.

Why did this not occur to him before? Why had he never tallied the fact that the money he earned at the bindery was paid out as a salary from Ashmole coffers, which in turn paid for his lodgings, the food on his table, the clothes on his back? The handouts Cornelius insisted on slipping into a coat pocket, the pages of a book, they were things his friend did not allow him to refuse. The regular delivery of paper, quills, ink, all these things Edward accepted with gratitude and until now, without thought. To Cornelius Edward has always been – and for ever will be – grateful. But since when did gratitude mean the acceptance of a cage?

The thought had left him breathless, cold, and Edward could not then keep the harshness from his voice.

‘Charity, Cornelius,’ he said, ‘I did it for charity.’

‘You did it out of guilt. Do not try to pretend otherwise.’

‘No,’ he snapped back, though Edward was conscious there was indeed some truth in the words. ‘I did it for charity. It is what you do for me, every day,’ and only then did Cornelius fall silent, a nerve jumping in his jaw.

‘I think I shall come to Lady Latimer’s soirée,’ he eventually replied in a voice over-careful. ‘It will be nothing to solicit an invitation from her. Besides, you’ve never been to an event such as this before. You might need me.’

The turn of tide threw Edward. For a moment they stared at each other across the tiger skin and Edward understood that there was little use in arguing; once Cornelius’ mind was made up there was no chance of changing it, no worldly chance at all.

Now the carriage inches down Fleet Street. Outside, Edward can hear the raucous cacophony of London’s salt, their merriment spilling from alehouse doors and broken windows, skipping along to the strains of a lively violin and laughter fugged with booze. But beneath it, like the whisper-rustle of leaves on autumn air, he hears another less comforting sound, a sound so easily ignored but with which Edward is all too familiar, can identify in an instant.

He looks out the window, searches for its source. It takes him a moment to locate beyond the crowds but then he spies it: a crying child, his naked feet and empty eyes overlooked by passing strangers, his cries a soulful hymn. The sound awakens in Edward a sense of desolation, of pain, and he feels a lump form in his throat that threatens to choke him. But as the wheels of the carriage jostle and judder across the uneven roads Edward loses sight of the child and he takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly.

He will not think of such things tonight. He will push such darkling thoughts to the back of his mind. Tonight he will think only of Dora, of the prospect of meeting William Hamilton. Think of the future, Edward reminds himself. Think only of what is to come.

Across from him Cornelius breathes on his pipe. Edward leans forward.

‘Are you sure he will be there?’

Cornelius blows smoke out the window, watches as if bored a man piss against a lamp post.

‘It’s the height of London’s season, Edward,’ he says with something of his old warmth. ‘Old Latimer won’t miss a chance of inviting him if she knows he’s in town. She likes to be entertained.’

‘Entertained?’

Cornelius turns his attention from outside, quirks a sardonic smile.

‘Hamilton’s wife, Emma. A chorus girl he picked up in Naples, palmed off on him by his nephew. She’s younger than Sir William by some years, but it’s heard she’s now letting Nelson dip his nib. The scandal of it.’ He picks a piece of tobacco from his tongue. ‘Oh, yes, Latimer will enjoy their presence there immensely.’

The carriage picks up speed. The rumble of wheels beneath him has Edward holding on to the leather straps so tightly they pinch his palms.



Edward is relieved to find Dora waiting for them outside the shop.

On the approach Edward notes how lost she looks, how forlorn, then notices how she hugs her elbows, considers how the cold air must bite the soft flesh of her arms, and it occurs to Edward he should have purchased Dora an evening cape, tells her how sorry he is when he helps her up into the carriage and drapes a woollen blanket over her knees. As she settles into the seat beside him she waves the apology away.

‘Oh, please do not worry yourself. You’ve been more than generous. I am most grateful.’

From the corner of his eye Edward notes the way Cornelius purses his lips, wonders if his friend means to make comment, but after a brief cursory glance at Dora he raps on the roof for them to continue, and they vault off once again into the night.

The carriage sways. Dora bumps into Edward’s shoulder and he catches his breath, distracted by the smell of her lily perfume. Dora reaches out a hand to steady herself against the window frame, blushes an apology, clutches tightly at the blanket.