Page 33 of Pandora

“Let’s go for a walk.”

***

Mr. Lawrence guides her through the crowded bustle of Covent Garden Market, keeping her a little too close to his side. There is a liberty to this, but Dora finds it hard to mind. After all, she is not much familiar with this side of London. The market is a torrent of noise and commotion, and Dora would find it hard to get—let alone keep—her bearings alone.

They walk past a fruit seller, his hat covered in flecks of dirt; a fishmonger selling fried eels and ugly jellied things; a baker next, his red, round face blanched with flour, sweating in his apron even on this cold January morning. Then there are the barrow boys, basket women, flower girls, all jostling for space amid the tiny stalls, wheelbarrows and donkey carts. The smell of vegetables mixes with the almost-sweet stench of horse dung and wet straw, and when they reach a meat vendor Dora has to turn her face away, for even though the air is sharp with frost, flies circle a pig’s head, one disappearing into an ear that looks like a wet shoe left to dry in the sun. There are hunks of pink flesh gleaming on the table, a tableau of raw sinew and fat. As they walk past, the vendor looks up at them, his cheeks ruddy. There is a slop of blood on his apron. Mr. Lawrence shields her, steers her down King Street and then onto New.

“I’m sorry,” he says, offering an arm. “I should have found a more seemly route.”

“It’s no matter.” Dora takes Mr. Lawrence’s arm, an attempt at nonchalance, though her stomach still twists. “A revelation, really.” And it is; she has never needed to go to market herself—it has always been left to Lottie—and Dora finds within a small scrap of respect for the housekeeper, despite her dislike of the woman.

They walk quietly side by side. She is half a head taller than Mr. Lawrence. Dora sends a surreptitious glance down at him.

“Won’t Mr. Fingle mind?”

“Mind?”

“You leaving.”

There is a beat of silence. A muscle clenches in his jaw.

“No.”

“I see.” Another beat. This is obviously a sore spot for him. “Who is Mr. Ashmole?” she pushes. “I thought he was Mr. Fingle at first when he greeted me, but...”

She trails off and this time Mr. Lawrence does not let the silence in.

“Mr. Ashmole is my friend. He purchased the bindery a few years ago, when I...” He pauses, angling himself around a patch of black ice, guides Dora across it. “Like your shop, it was not the business it is now though in this case Cornelius generously restored it and kept Fingle on as he knew the runnings of the place and he wasn’t...” Mr. Lawrence seems to be speaking without breath, as if afraid of the words. He bites his lower lip. “Forgive me.” He looks at her now with a small smile that to Dora appears forced. “The history of it is unimportant. But I work there now and I may come and go as I please. I’m what they call a finisher. I work on all the books in their final stages of decoration.”

“Is that why you have so many candles?”

He hesitates. “Yes.” A pause. “It helps.”

Dora senses there is something unsaid here that dares not be pursued, but this time she leaves the matter alone. They continue on.

“Where are we going?” she asks as they squeeze single file down a small alley.

“Leicester Fields,” he answers, his voice easy now, as it was when they first met. When they are through Mr. Lawrence offers his arm once more. “I often sit there, to gather my thoughts. We’ll reach it in a moment.”

Mr. Lawrence soon brings them out into a green square, with sectioned lawns and wide paths littered with benches. In the middle stands an impressive statue—George I on horseback—and Mr. Lawrence is about to draw her in through the iron gates when Dora pulls away.

“Oh, do wait a moment!”

Mr. Lawrence politely stops as Dora darts to a holly bush she has seen peeping through the bars of a private house. She holds out her sketchbook. “Would you?”

Looking perturbed Mr. Lawrence takes it.

“The berries,” Dora blushes, taking a handkerchief from her reticule. “For Hermes. I like to treat him, when I can.”

“Is human flesh not treat enough?”

“Oh, please don’t!” Dora looks at him guiltily but then she sees the wry smile playing around his face and smiles herself. “He became rather panicked last night,” she explains, plucking the tiny ruby berries from their stems. “I’m hoping these will mollify him.”

“Panicked?” Mr. Lawrence asks.

Dora closes the handkerchief, full now, the cotton stained faintly pink. “Yes. Let us sit down and I shall explain.”

Mr. Lawrence guides her to one of the benches in the square. She ties the handkerchief into a parcel, puts it carefully into her reticule. He waits for her to finish but she can sense his impatience in the air between them like the advent of a rainstorm in spring. Taking back her sketchbook, Dora draws a breath.

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