Pandora(77)

But Dora has already stepped down from the carriage, the wind a sharp bite on her cheek. With a pointed look at them both that could freeze water, she slams the door hard behind her and turns fast away into the night.



Dear Dora,

There are a great many things I wish to say to you, but I feel it best that I explain myself in person. Please know, however, that you are entirely mistaken in your beliefs. Cornelius has enlightened me as to the precise conversation which passed between you last night. I can only apologise for his behaviour and, of course, for mine. I should have told you what I was writing, and why. I have been a complete and selfish fool. I sincerely wish to set things right between us, and that upon hearing my explanation I might in turn beg your forgiveness. You must understand how much your friendship has meant to me. I sincerely hope it may continue.

We are due to arrive at Lord Hamilton’s this evening for six o’clock. Cornelius has kindly agreed to send a carriage for you at a half past the hour of five, and I implore you to take it and join us there. The party will not be the same without you. I am sure Sir William only invited us for your sake, after all.

Yours,

Edward



Dora sits on the edge of the stool behind the counter, her head buried deep in her hands. Above her on his perch Hermes sleeps, his own head tucked beneath his wing.

It is a quarter to ten, and she has already cleaned and aired the shop by opening the door – has purchased sprigs of lavender from the hawker who stuck her head inside – in a bid to disguise the smell of fermented booze and the subtle stench of Hezekiah’s sodden bandages that have begun to filter their way through from the main house. Out here on the shop floor it is not so bad, but every now and then Dora catches an unsavoury whiff.

Behind her she hears the distant sounds of Lottie clattering in the kitchen. The slice of bread and cheese she pilfered from the larder earlier this morning are not near enough to stem her hunger. Ignoring the grumble in her belly she thinks instead of Edward, and feels a rush of rage.

How could he? To do such a thing behind her back, to risk all she has and is for the sake of his own career, is unpardonable. She did not think this possible of him. After all they have shared together … And yet, what does she know of Edward, really? Dora thinks back on those times she felt he held himself at a remove from her, the things he left unsaid, the shared looks between him and Mr Ashmole the day she visited them at Clevendale. Dora lifts her head from her hands. Oh, how can she have been so hideously misled?

She runs a finger over Edward’s letter on the counter in front of her, and her thoughts turn to Sir William. They barely exchanged words at all. No, indeed, Edward commandeered his attention completely. What was it he spoke to Sir William about? A part of Dora is tempted not to attend the dinner at all, but she knows her absence will achieve nothing, would only serve to torture her. No, she must go. And she must, Dora decides, speak with Sir William alone.

The bell sounds behind her. She need not turn to see who it is – she can smell him already, like a cadaver in a ditch.

‘You returned late.’

Hezekiah croaks the comment and Dora has no sympathy. If he insists on drinking himself into a coma then it is nothing to her.

‘I did,’ she says, not looking at him.

There is a long pause.

‘You cleaned.’

‘Someone had to.’

He grunts, comes full into the shop, leg dragging. Dora folds Edward’s letter, slips it into the pocket of her skirts.

‘And when will her ladyship –’ Hezekiah says this with a sneer – ‘be returning my vase?’

Dora sniffs. ‘It is due this afternoon. I doubt anyone will be awake at this hour. You know what time these things run on ’til.’

‘But I don’t, do I?’ he snaps. He is at the counter now, a beefy hand gripping the edge. ‘I was not invited!’

He slaps his other hand down onto the counter and Dora sighs, looks up at him finally. His eyes are bloodshot. A network of tiny veins pattern his nose like red thread. The gin has hit him hard.

‘You would not be three hundred pounds richer if it were not for me. Uncle.’ Dora adds the last word to annoy him, though he needs no incitement. Hezekiah’s nostrils flair. ‘An agreeable development, considering you already have a buyer lined up to take it off your hands?’ Dora watches his face close up and she knows, then, he has lied about this, too. ‘Isn’t that what you told Lady Latimer? You should be thanking me.’

For years Dora has trodden carefully around Hezekiah; it is not that she feared him, but from the moment he took her into his care he did not treat her as a niece, showed no grief for his brother’s death, and as soon as she came of an age to be useful he utilised her. That was simply the way of things; Dora grew to accept that overnight her life had changed from one of affection and warmth to isolation and coldness, and she learnt to have as little to do with her uncle as possible. But since the arrival of the pithos … It is as if she has woken from a stupor, as if until now there has been a veil that has shielded her from feeling more than she should. It is as if she can, finally, see. Never has she missed her parents more than she misses them now.

Across the counter Hezekiah is glowering at her. His scar shines livid white on the red plane of his face. Dora can tell from the way his fingers shake that he itches to press them into the soft hollow of her neck. The thought almost pleases her.