Pandora(78)

The shop bell jangles on its coil, the moment between them broken. Dora looks up to see a tall woman enter the shop. Her pinstripe-patterned dress hints at money, her over-large bonnet at vanity. Hezekiah recognises this and approaches her with his usual salesman’s preen.

‘How may I help you, miss?’

‘I am looking for—’

‘Ah, let me guess!’ Hezekiah holds up a finger, waggles it, his attempt at tradesman’s flirtation. ‘A piece of Renaissance furniture? Or perhaps a Rococo chair for …’ But he trails off as the woman wrinkles her nose – she must smell him, Dora thinks – and tosses her head.

‘No.’ Her tone is conceit personified. ‘I have no interest in anything like that. I am here to see Miss Blake.’

Hezekiah draws up short. ‘Miss Blake,’ he echoes.

‘Yes, indeed, I—Oh, there you are!’ The woman brightens as she spies Dora behind the counter. She sweeps past Hezekiah; he looks after her in dismay. ‘You did say to come to this address, did you not?’

‘Miss,’ Hezekiah tries, simpering. ‘My niece knows precious little of antiquities. You would do best to speak with me.’

‘Antiquities? Good heaven, I have no use for those. I am here to discuss a jewellery commission. That is still possible, isn’t it, Miss Blake?’

Dora releases the breath she has been holding.

Someone has come! They said they would but she had not been sure, did not dare to hope. Dora takes up her sketchbook, slips from behind the counter.

‘Yes, of course, Miss … Ponsenby, isn’t it? Do come in and take a seat.’

‘Wonderful!’ The lady sweeps past Hezekiah again, ensconces herself in the green velvet armchair.

‘Jewellery?’

Hezekiah almost spits the word, and as Dora goes to join her client (the word thrills her), she notes with satisfaction that his face is now puce.

‘Yes, Uncle,’ Dora replies, seating herself very deliberately in the chair opposite. ‘Lady Latimer was very kind last night. I had such a lot of interest in my designs.’

It is unlike Dora to be spiteful but she simply cannot help herself. It serves him right, she thinks, for underestimating her.

‘Did you,’ Hezekiah says, tone cold.

It is not a question. His eyes are narrowed. His jaw tics.

‘Oh, yes,’ Miss Ponsenby enthuses, looking up haughtily at Hezekiah. ‘Miss Blake produced such a beautiful piece for Lady Latimer – she was positively raving about it! I have no doubt I will not be the only one of Lady Latimer’s guests to visit Miss Blake today.’

There is a moment of silence. Hezekiah clenches his fists. Then he is striding – as best he can with his injured leg – toward the door. He flings it open, sending the bell rattling loudly on its spring. It slams shut behind him and the bell swings and swings in a tinny dance. Hermes – woken by the noise – ruffles his feathers in protest. It is not until silence descends once more that Miss Ponsenby speaks.

‘What a disagreeable man,’ she says, then, catching herself, she reaches out to touch Dora’s arm. ‘But he is your uncle! Forgive me, I—’

‘There is nothing to forgive, Miss Ponsenby. You are quite right in your assessment.’ Dora opens the sketchbook to a blank page, poises her pencil. ‘Now, then,’ she smiles. ‘What was it you were looking for?’

And as Miss Ponsenby enthusiastically describes a tiara, Dora begins to sketch.



Six more ladies and two gentlemen pass through the doors of Blake’s Emporium to ask for a jewellery commission, and Dora’s pencil cannot move fast enough across the pages to accommodate them. At one point she is interrupted by an old man with a long white beard who hovers a little too long near the forged Ming dynasty porcelain, but after asking some cursory questions as to the origin of a bowl which has a series of bulls painted in blue around its rim, he made himself scarce without purchasing it. Hezekiah would be near apoplectic if he had seen.

As for Hezekiah, he has not come back from wherever he stormed off to, not even to oversee the return of the pithos, delivered by Mr Tibb and three other of his faecal-fragrant helpers (no Mr Coombe this time, Dora notices) at three o’clock. At four, Dora draws the bolts of the shop door.

Her head is spinning with the commissions she has received. Never before has she been so busy in the shop, and on account of her own doing, too! If she could have stayed open she would have, but since Mr Ashmole’s carriage is to arrive soon she must prepare. With Hermes on her shoulder Dora has just placed her foot on the bottom step of the stairs when she hears a loud shattering noise come from the kitchen. Almost immediately the noise comes again, and Dora stares at the panelled door. Porcelain. Unmistakable. Brow creasing, she rushes down the hall, pushes open the kitchen door.

It is a small space, but it does well enough for Lottie since it is only she who works in it. Dora wondered at first if the housekeeper were killing something in here – a chicken, perhaps – and there is indeed evidence of feathers, the smell of poultry in the air, but Dora is unprepared to see Lottie sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by broken crockery, sobbing into her hands.

‘Lottie!’

Dora rushes to her side, but the housekeeper waves her off.

‘Are you hurt? You—’ The words catch in Dora’s throat.