Page 8 of Pandora

The man raises two fingers in the air, beckons a maid. “Another pot if you please,” and to Edward: “Won’t you join me?”

“I’m not much fit for company.”

“Nonsense, I insist.”

Edward hesitates, relents. He did not intend to be rude, but disappointment has made him harsh. The gentleman, Edward considers, only means to be kind.

“Thank you, sir.”

The coffee pot is duly brought. The old man pours.

“So then,” he says. “Why is it you look so crestfallen?”

His voice is strong, belies his age. What is he—seventy? eighty? Edward looks at him, torn. Should he confide in a stranger? But as soon as he thinks it he feels compelled to throw caution to the wind; it hardly matters any more.

“My third and final application to the Society of Antiquaries has been rejected,” he explains. Edward opens his coat, slaps the Studie on the table between them. It falls with a heavy thud, its papers fluttering. “There. My latest failure.”

The old man’s eyes—a striking shade of blue, Edward notes—trail the curve of copperplate. His eyebrows lift. “Indeed? A setback perhaps, but not the end of the world, surely? Why is it you say ‘final’?”

“Because I cannot dedicate myself to a fourth go of it.”

“What prevents you?”

“Money, sir. And time.”

“Ah.”

There is a pause. Edward feels more is required. “I work as a bookbinder. It’s a modest living and it does not engage. It does not thrill me.” He shakes his head, hears the self-pity in his voice but he has started now and cannot stop. “I grew up in the grounds of a manor house, spent my childhood digging the earth, collecting trinkets. My friend and I spent hours excavating the woodlands pretending we were great explorers the likes of Columbus and Raleigh.”

The gentleman nods sagely. “And what happened?”

“My friend was shipped off to Oxford and I to London and the bindery.”

Edward takes a quick sip of his coffee before the memory has a chance to unfurl. He replaces the cup on its saucer. The gentleman regards him in silence. After a moment Edward says, “My friend advises I keep going.”

“I would heed him.”

“Charity,” Edward sneers. As grateful to Cornelius as he is he cannot abide it, this reliance on someone else. He feels less of a man, more a green boy, the groom’s lad still.

The old man tilts his head, seems to contemplate this bitter rejoinder. “If he is happy to give it why scorn such an offer? Many would give their soul to the Gods for such a benefactor.”

“I know, it is just—”

“A blow to your pride.”

“Yes.”

Another pause, a sudden quiet. As if the coffeehouse has stopped midair.

A blow to your pride. Edward is conscious of a great sense of relief that the words are out in the open but they make him feel no better. Oh, what a fool he has been, to act like such a petulant child! He must apologize to Cornelius, he must make amends. Such behavior is hardly befitting a gentleman let alone a fellow of the Society. He hopes Cornelius does not begrudge him his moment of dumbfuddery.

The coffeehouse breathes again. The old man watches him as if he has heard Edward’s every thought. Edward blushes, forces a shamefaced smile.

“You find me quite disgraced, sir. Forgive me my peevishness. I had just set my hopes so high.”

“Might I make a suggestion?”

“By all means.”

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