Pandora(71)

‘Edward?’ Dora asks, a thought turning in her head.

‘Yes?’

‘This man, Hamilton …’

‘Forgive me.’ Edward glances at her apologetically. ‘I did not mean to commandeer the evening with talk of work, but—’

‘Do you mean Lord Hamilton? Sir William Hamilton?’

‘Yes,’ he says briskly, ‘the very same.’

Dora stops so suddenly Edward is forced to stop too, and he looks at her with concern.

‘What is the matter?’

Dora’s heart has begun to hammer in her chest. ‘He is your expert? The man you wrote to?’

Ahead, Lady Latimer has reached the ballroom. She turns, beckons them with a flick of her fingers. Reluctant, Dora starts up again. Edward follows.

‘I had not imagined,’ Dora says as they enter the ballroom, ‘that you meant Sir William.’

‘Do you mean to say you know him?’

Dora lets the question hang a moment. ‘He saved my life.’

‘He …’ Edward stops again. Gapes. ‘He what?’

‘Emma, my darling!’

Lady Latimer’s voice cuts across them. With difficulty Dora turns her attention back to their host.

What are the odds?

‘My dear Lady Latimer.’

A tall, extremely beautiful woman dressed as a phoenix is greeting the old woman with a deep and perfectly executed curtsey.

‘How splendid you look!’ Lady Latimer is saying as Dora and Edward join them.

Emma Hamilton tilts her dark bejewelled head in demur.

‘And where is your illustrious husband?’

‘Admiring your centrepiece,’ Lady Hamilton replies with a smile. ‘See, madam, how he cannot detach himself from it!’

Dora turns to look, letting out the long breath she had not been aware she was holding.

The pithos – she had almost forgotten its presence here – is decked beautifully with a garland of ivy to which are attached apples and pears and oranges, all intertwined with gold braiding. It stands, imposing, raised up on the large circular plinth, but now it is all cordoned off by a rope of blue and gold. At the base of the plinth are two steps … and on those steps a man, leaning on a cane.

He is older – much older than she remembers him – but Dora recalls all too well the aristocratic face, that inquisitive tilt of the chin, the kind eyes presently fixed on the third scene of the pithos, that of Hephaestus’ transformation of clay into the first woman: Pandora.

‘Why am I not surprised?’ Lady Latimer exclaims, and she takes Dora’s arm. ‘Come, my dear, let me show you your vase, the crowning glory of tonight’s celebrations!’

Dora’s heart pounds. She wishes to run, she is not ready for this, but there is nothing she can do; Lady Latimer has hold of her and the feeling of inevitability crushes over her like a wave.

‘Lord Hamilton! I have a gentleman here who wishes to make your acquaintance. Mr Lawrence, if you please.’

Sir William looks up; his face is creased in a deep frown but it clears on their approach. He steps down from the plinth, holds out his hand for Edward to shake.

‘Mr Lawrence, how do you do.’

‘Sir,’ Edward is saying, almost breathless. ‘It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.’

‘Finally?’ The diplomat’s eyebrows meet briefly in the middle.

‘I have heard much of you. I am a scholar of antiquities, you see.’

‘Are you, indeed! What is your speciality?’

Edward stands up taller. ‘I don’t have one, as such, sir, but I had hoped—’

Lady Latimer impatiently waves her hand. ‘Oh, that’s quite enough of that. You men can discuss old bones and broken crockery to your hearts’ content once I’m out of earshot.’ She brings Dora forward on her arm. ‘Sir William, let me introduce you to my guest of honour, Miss Dora Blake, the procurer of my masterpiece which I see you admiring. Isn’t it a wonder?’

The instant the old woman speaks Dora’s name, Sir William’s attention snaps from Edward to her. For a long painful moment he stares. Then, very gently, he takes her hand in both of his.

‘Dora.’ He kisses her hand, lingers over it. ‘You are the very picture of your mother.’

‘Sir William,’ she says. Her mouth feels dry. ‘I had not thought to see you again.’

‘No, indeed. It has been … some years.’

‘What is this?’ Lady Latimer looks between them, enthralled. ‘You mean to say you know each other?’

Sir William clears his throat. ‘Miss Blake is the daughter of Elijah and Helen Blake, your ladyship. The Blakes were esteemed colleagues of mine, many years ago. Fellow antiquarians,’ he explains at Lady Latimer’s wide-eyed surprise.

The old woman claps her hands on a laugh. ‘What a happy coincidence! There, my dear,’ she says, patting Dora’s arm. ‘You will be entertained after all. I had worried you would be struck down with boredom. Now if you will forgive me, I ought to mingle.’

In a swirl of lavender scent Lady Latimer disappears into the crowd, and the three – Sir William, Edward and Dora – look at each other, the air between them heavy. Beside them the pithos seems to glow eerily in the golden light of the ballroom. It is Sir William who breaks the silence.