Pandora(8)

When the doors eventually open Edward stands, clutches his Studie close to his chest. Cornelius Ashmole, his oldest (his only) friend, is making his way toward him, parquet creaking beneath the tread of heel to toe. Edward risks a hopeful smile but he can see from Cornelius’ face that the news goes badly. When he reaches him, Cornelius gives a small apologetic shake of the head.

‘Only two votes.’

Deflated, Edward sinks back onto the window seat, holds his Studie loosely between his knees.

‘My third try, Cornelius. I was so thorough …’

‘You know what Gough’s methods are. I did warn you. Something less cryptic, more grounded in antiquarian scholarship.’

‘When the facts aren’t there, Cornelius, sometimes conjecture is all there is!’ Edward raises his papers, brandishes them in his friend’s face. ‘I thought this would be enough. I truly did. The detail I went into. My drawings …’

‘“Amateur” is the word they used, I’m afraid,’ Cornelius responds with a grimace. ‘They’ve been spoilt by the likes of Stukeley. If it’s any consolation, they said you showed great promise. The depth of your descriptions really was extremely impressive.’

‘Hmph.’

Cornelius, being so very tall, sinks down on his haunches.

‘Many,’ he says gently, ‘do not gain entrance into the Society until much later. Some only when they are nearly decrepit.’

Edward lances his friend with a look. ‘Do you think that makes me feel any better?’ Then, ‘You are thirty!’

‘I experienced the joys of the Grand Tour. I spent my summer desecrating Italian tombs and when I returned could devote all my time to scholastic interests at leisure. Besides, my father is on the board.’ Seeing Edward’s crestfallen expression he lays a comforting hand on the younger man’s shoulder. ‘I don’t mean to rub my good fortune in your face, but it is a fact that these things made all the difference. Think how much better you will feel having achieved a fellowship on your own merit. No shortcuts, pure mettle.’

But Edward is shaking his head. ‘How much easier it is for those with money to achieve what those without it cannot.’

‘Now you’re being melodramatic.’

‘Says the man who has always been rich.’

Cornelius has no answer to this and the two share a space of quiet, listen to the wind whipping sharply at the windowpane. After a moment Cornelius nudges Edward’s knee with his elbow.

‘Do you remember when we were boys and I boasted that I could swim to the folly and back without stopping?’

Edward smiles at the memory. ‘You got halfway before you started floundering in the reeds and nearly drowned.’

‘And you sat right there in the boat beside me and told me to keep going, not to give up, though we both knew I was a damned fool to try.’

So it had always been with them; one would back the other for no better reason than it pleased him to do so, but the two were as different as wine and water. Cornelius was the wealthy to Edward’s poor, the learned to his ignorant, the dark to his fair. Edward was the reticent to Cornelius’ brash, the short to his tall, the unlucky to his fortunate. What a pair they made back then, what a pair they make now, and they chuckle at the memory, though Edward’s laugh is markedly more subdued. Cornelius’ smile wavers, then dies. They lapse into momentary silence once more.

‘I truly am sorry, Edward. I don’t know what else to say.’

‘There’s nothing to say.’

‘Except … don’t give up. Though I suppose such platitudes will only frustrate you at this juncture.’

‘You suppose right.’

A pause. ‘You must persevere. I’ll support you where I can, no matter how much it costs, whatever you need. You know I will.’

‘Even though I’m a damned fool to try?’

‘Even then.’

Edward says nothing; in his embittered state Cornelius’ words feel hollow. How much money has Cornelius already paid out to help him? How much time away from the bindery has he already been allowed? The thought frustrates him, shames him, and Edward stands, runs a hand through his hair.

‘I must go.’

Cornelius stands too. ‘The work can wait, you know.’

‘It can’t. I just …’ Edward sighs, shakes his head, feels now the hot rush of humiliation like a brand. ‘I need to go.’

Edward turns away, makes a hasty retreat down the hall and through into the anteroom, Cornelius following close behind. At the top of the vast staircase Cornelius ceases his dogged chase and as he descends Edward feels his friend’s pitying gaze on his back like daggers. Eager to be free of it he picks up his pace, rushes out through the main doors of Somerset House and into the wind, taking refuge in London’s clotted streets, the comforting flow of traffic.

His Studie bends back against itself in the wind. Briefly Edward contemplates chucking it into the nearest gutter but his love of the thing gets the better of him and he wraps the papers in his coat, crosses his arms, presses them against his chest like a shield. On he tramps down the Strand, head down, chin crushed into the folds of his scarf. He keeps his mind blank for now, focuses instead on putting one foot in front of the other. When Edward passes through the wide arch of Temple Bar he is glad to put the bustle of the Strand behind him.