Page 65 of Pandora

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Dora tries the bindery first. Mr. Fingle is apologetic, informs her Edward has left early and is like, he says, with a knowing sort of look she does not understand, to be with Mr. Ashmole. He gives Dora the address of both his employer’s and Edward’s lodgings, bows his head, shows her back out onto the narrow street and points her in the direction of Bedford Square.

She must assume this is where Mr. Ashmole lives, for a bookbinder could not possibly live in an area so fine, and so Dora decides to try her luck there first. But these are streets she does not know; at first she follows the route through Covent Garden Edward took her that morning she had asked for his help, but when she finds herself lost she stops to get her bearings, recalculates the way. By the time she arrives at the foot of the white stucco steps of an imposing-looking house named Clevendale (having asked directions twice more, from a redcoat who looked her up and down like meat on a skewer and an orange seller with crescent moons of black wedged deep beneath her fingernails), her dress sticks to her back and her petticoats are two inches deep in London muck.

Dora smooths down her skirts, tucks a damp curl behind her ear, and with a deep breath she lifts the ornate lion-headed knocker. She shuffles on her toes, clenches and unclenches her hands. Presently the door is opened by a steel-haired woman with too little chin and too much nose.

“Hawkers round back,” she says tartly, but before the woman can close the door Dora steps forward.

“I am so sorry to disturb you,” she says, tongue tripping over her nerves. “Are you Mrs. Ashmole?”

The woman’s thin eyebrows rise. “I am Mrs. Howe, Mr. Ashmole’s housekeeper. Is it the master you wish for?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Lawrence. I was told he might be here.”

Mrs. Howe looks Dora up and down, and Dora knows how she must appear in her dated gown and shabby bonnet with its fraying ribbons. A maid. A beggar, perhaps. A nobody.

With a sniff the housekeeper shows Dora into a small sitting room, tells her to wait, indicates two damask chairs for her to sit on, but Dora feels too afraid to sit in either of them. She can see even from where she loiters near the door, without having to touch them, that they are silk. Expensive. New.

Dora looks around.

Though small it is a fine room, a pleasant antechamber for waiting visitors. A narrow bookshelf holds within it ornate volumes on philosophy, the natural world, Milton’s Paradise Lost, even a novel or two—Dora spies Richardson’s Pamela and wonders at the fancifulness of it.

But it is the rosewood cabinet that attracts. Within—lined from smallest to largest—are a set of antique globes, their spheres made from smoked glass to polished wood to shining marble. She thinks of Hezekiah’s globe, thinks how much he would covet these ones for they are far finer than his, and Dora’s fingers itch to spin them on their axes.

A large window overlooks the street which gives a grand view of a little park filled with trees that Dora imagines will sprout forth some beautiful foliage in the spring. She smiles wistfully. How lovely, she thinks. What a gift to be able to look at nature at leisure from one’s windows, from such sumptuous surroundings as this. She wonders then, absently, if Mr. Ashmole is an idle sort and it strikes Dora as odd that Edward should know such a person, when he himself is so industrious.

The door opens. Mrs. Howe again.

“You may come through.”

Dora is taken through a wide hall, its floor tiled black and white. At the end Mrs. Howe pushes open the door into a large room, a library, decorated much like the antechamber but with a hint more ostentation—richer furnishings, dark jewel colors, a deep-set hearth in which roars a fire. Dora has barely taken in the shock of a skinned tiger on the floor before Edward is rushing to her, guiding her into the room, his hand warm on hers.

Mr. Ashmole, who has not stood, simply stares. Edward draws up a chair—this one not silk she is pleased to see, but serviceable leather.

“Forgive me,” Dora says now to Mr. Ashmole as she settles down into the chair’s depths. “I did not mean to intrude without invitation, but it is imperative I speak with Mr. Lawrence immediately.” She looks to Edward. “I tried the bindery first but Mr. Fingle assured me I was more like to find you here.”

“I am glad you have come,” Edward answers in a rush, and it does seem he is pleased. His color is high and Mr. Ashmole appears to notice this too, stares at him hard a moment before turning to address Dora directly.

“Mr. Lawrence has spoken much of you, Miss Blake. In fact, you have become quite famous in this house.” His voice is rich, like satin, but holds within it the edge of dislike.

“I...” Dora glances at Edward, then back again. “He has spoken of me?”

“Did I not just say?”

Dora swallows the punch. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir,” she says, though she is yet to find the pleasure in it.

Mr. Ashmole watches her. Then: “Mrs. Howe.”

“Yes, sir?”

Dora catches herself—she had not realized the housekeeper still loomed at the door. Dora glances at Edward who sends her a small, comforting smile.

“If you would bring our visitor a glass of wine.” He strikes an eyebrow at Dora. “Are shop girls accustomed to claret?”

“Cornelius.” Edward’s tone is low, a warning.

Mr. Ashmole laughs humorlessly. “Of course. Mrs. Howe, if you will?”

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