Page 112 of Pandora

“Your position in society—”

“Carried weight, yes, but there were too many complicated factors to overcome. It was safer to let them go.”

Edward releases his breath. “Weren’t you worried Hezekiah might still try to harm her?”

“I feared that, certainly. I even had a man of mine report back to me every now and then, especially during the first year. But when it appeared she was safe in London, still with him...” Hamilton shrugs. “It’s been twelve years. I even began to doubt my original suspicion that he meant Dora ill—that it had simply been coincidence she became trapped in the collapse. She had, after all, only just descended the ladder. How could Hezekiah have known that? But recent behavior seems to indicate otherwise, doesn’t it? The Coombe brothers. Dora’s bird...” Sir William shakes his head. “No, Mr. Lawrence. I am convinced now that Hezekiah has kept her alive all this time for a reason. I just don’t know what that reason is.”

Chapter Forty

Mr. Ashmole has allowed Dora, much to her amazement and against her better judgment, to use the small sitting room at the front of the house for her workshop. A small bureau has been brought in from another room; her jewelry supplies now sit neatly in its drawers, her wire and ribbon and lace reels comfortably arranged on its shelves, with plenty of room for her sketchbook to open at its fullest. She runs her hands over the rosewood, smooth and shining beneath her palms, smells the fresh coat of beeswax on its polished surface. It is the nicest thing she has ever worked at. The chair (one of the silk damasks) is the most comfortable she has sat on whilst creating her designs. Nothing at all to her own tiny desk, the too-high stool. Nothing at all to the shop counter. This new set-up is vastly superior to both.

Yet.

The paper in front of her is empty. The inspiration that took hold of her the day Miss Ponsenby and her kin came through the doors of Blake’s Emporium has disappeared, to be replaced with only a listlessness, a frustrating blank in the space of her mind.

She pushes her spectacles up her nose.

It is not the first time inspiration has thwarted her. Invariably all creative minds dwindle every now and then. But the one thing that would have brought her solace is buried beneath a rosebush in Mr. Ashmole’s garden and so she has nothing to comfort her, nothing to ease her artistic drought.

Absently Dora turns the pages of the sketchbook, looks at her past creations. The most recent sketches are with Mr. Clements—Dora notes she must return to fetch them and the money she is owed—but the others, the cannetille necklace with its glass stone (now mended and hanging around her neck), the three pairs of earrings, the bracelet in pinchbeck and garnet, the two Vauxhall brooches, the ribbon-tie necklace of agate, all the creations that came before.

She flicks to the very back. To the drawings of the pithos.

Here is the outline, the ghost-sketches of the carvings. And here, the carvings themselves. Dora studies them, and deep down she feels pride in the way she has executed the details. There had been four in total, but Dora has managed to draw only three. She thinks about what Lottie told her, that Hezekiah will soon be removing the pithos, that her chance to finish the drawings will be gone for ever.

Is that, she thinks, such a bad thing? She has taken from the pithos what she wanted. She does not need the sketches—only Edward will benefit from them now. Dora shuts her eyes. The anger she feels at his deceit is still there but it has been dampened, as if someone has placed a cool cloth on a burn.

You are entirely mistaken in your beliefs.

And what is it she believes? That he has used Hezekiah’s history of underhand trading for a study to further his career. This, she knows to be true. But what else? What else does he mean to do? Turn her uncle in to the authorities, and she along with him?

That theory simply does not sit right with her. It goes against everything she believes about him as a person. A friend. If not for Edward she would not be here at Clevendale, safe from Hezekiah. If he meant her harm he would have done it by now. Dora sighs, closes the sketchbook. No, she owes it to Edward to finish. She made a promise, after all.

Besides. There is another reason.

Tiredly Dora takes off her spectacles, puts the end of one of the arms between her teeth.

Why, she wonders, has it taken so long for Hezekiah to sell the pithos? What on earth was he doing all that time in the basement? Why was he searching her room? Why kill Hermes? She does not understand. None of it makes any sense. To find out she must go back, and soon.

Dora jumps as the door opens and she turns in the chair, a question on her tongue. Mrs. Howe—who has taken the news that Dora appears to be a houseguest for the foreseeable future with not much enthusiasm—stands at the threshold. Her eyebrows are shooting up so high that Dora fears they may reach her hairline.

“A Lady Latimer to see you, miss.”

“Oh!” Dora stands. “Please,” she says, rather awkwardly, for she is not used to giving orders, “do send her in.”

And in she comes in plumes of periwinkle pink and overbearing lavender scent, her footman Horatio at her side.

“Miss Blake!” the old woman exclaims, white wig quivering precariously. “Why is it I am being sent halfway across town and back again?”

“Madam?”

Lady Latimer sends her an impatient look. “I reach your shop, only to be told by some uncouth woman that you have instructed all customers interested in your designs to come here instead. I assume that since I find you here this is correct.” At Dora’s nod the old woman breezes on. “It is most inconvenient. Do you have any notion, miss, how busy the traffic is at this time of day?”

“I’m afraid I don’t, ma’am.”

“Of course you don’t.” Lady Latimer glances around the room, spies the second damask chair and makes a beeline for it. Horatio follows her immediately. When the old woman reaches the chair the footman bends, lifts a fistful of skirts in his hands. “Down,” Lady Latimer instructs, and as she sinks into the chair Horatio releases them. The pink silk billows before settling at her feet.

Dora must hide her amusement behind her hand, and all a-sudden she feels a wave of gratitude. It is the first time she has smiled in two days.

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