Page 11 of Pandora

She saves the cannetille necklace to last. Under the golden light of the candles she sees how well the blue glass pebble looks in its new setting. Two nights she labored over that pendant, two back-breaking nights on her high and uncomfortable stool, but Dora is inordinately proud of it. With painstaking care she managed to coax the wire to form twenty small spiraled florets, the number of which matched identically on either side. It looks elegant, regal. It is the best work she has ever done.

As Dora produces them the goldsmith turns each piece this way and that, squints at the details over the rims of his spectacles, places them down carefully on the velvet, hums and haws. She is pleased he seems so fascinated, but she is not yet finished.

“I know,” Dora says as she opens her sketchbook, “these are crude in comparison to what would be produced in your shop. But you can see by my sketches what I was trying to achieve. Here,” she adds, turning to the cannetille. “Gold and aquamarine. It would look well in either its pure form or paste, as long as the color is right...” When Mr. Clements does not respond she rushes on. “I am happy to be guided by your expertise, of course. Add embellishments, if you will. Flowers would suit, feathers too perhaps if you were to pare down the—”

“Miss Blake,” he interrupts, the words escaping on a deep sigh.

Dora’s stomach tightens. The pages flutter from her fingers.

“You do not like them.”

“It is not that. My dear...” He pauses, looks uncomfortable. “How might I put this delicately? I entertain you for your parents’ sakes, God bless their immortal souls. But...” Mr. Clements tries for a kindly smile. “Your drawings are, I must confess, quite charming for what they are but charming is all I can attribute to them.”

“But...” Dora stops, deflated. Tries again. “You promised me.”

Mr. Clements removes his spectacles, places them with precision on the countertop. “I promised nothing. I merely said I would consider them for my collection.”

Dora stares. Then, very slowly, she puts her hands on the counter and leans in.

“Mr. Clements. You suggested that I produce a portfolio of designs and create some of them to demonstrate their viability. You might not have outright said you would take them but if you did not believe my designs to be of any worth, if you considered them only the charming fare of mere female accomplishment, then why say such a thing and give me false hope?”

The jeweler holds up his hands in an attempt to placate but Dora’s disappointment and frustration cannot be quelled.

“You have wasted my time, Mr. Clements. Mine and yours.”

The goldsmith heaves yet another sigh. “Miss Blake. Dora. I did not mean to offend. These designs—” he gestures to them spread out on the velvet, lingers over the milky blue stone of the cannetille-esque necklace—“they really are quite char—”

“Mr. Clements, if you refer to my work as charming again...”

“Lovely, then.”

“Is that not the same?”

He purses his lips. “You show much skill, that I grant you. What you have done with the crudest of materials really is astonishing. But there is nothing unique about them, nothing that defines your work from that of the men already in my employ. Fashions move on as quickly as colds nowadays and these you’ve given me... Well, they just won’t do. There is whisper now for Grecian styles but next month it could be those of the Orient. I’m sorry, Miss Blake, but my answer is no.”

Dora blinks. “Grecian?”

Mr. Clements appears to sag as he recognizes his mistake. “Y-e-s.” He drags the word over the three syllables.

“What if I were to produce something in that style?”

“Miss Blake...”

“Please, sir, let me speak. You know my lineage, you’re aware of what my parents specialized in. If I were to sketch some new designs for you to consider, surely there is no harm in that? Only a small selection, and if, after that, you still have no liking for them I shall cease in my efforts. You cannot be so cruel as to rob me of one final chance to prove myself?”

“I...” The jeweler looks pained but Dora sees the waver in him and deals her final hand. She touches the cameo at her throat.

“Se iketévo. Please. For my mother’s sake.”

There is a pause. Dora can feel the blood pulse in her ears. Mr. Clements heaves a sigh.

“Miss Blake, you really are most vexing.” The goldsmith’s expression softens. He shakes his head in defeat. “Very well. But I am promising you nothing,” he warns. “Nothing, is that clear?”

“It is,” Dora replies, reaching for her sketchbook, closing it with a snap. “But I promise you, sir. You won’t be disappointed.”

Chapter Six

Hezekiah, at that very moment, is bright with fury. The three Coombe brothers (who have until now always been so biddable where money was involved), led by the eldest, will not relinquish his most longed-for prize which sits—so tantalizingly close he could touch it—trussed up on a cart, a horse ready to take it home. Ready, if it were not for Matthew Coombe making trouble.

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