Page 7 of Pandora

“Now you’re being melodramatic.”

“Says the man who has always been rich.”

Cornelius has no answer to this and the two share a space of quiet, listen to the wind whipping sharply at the windowpane. After a moment Cornelius nudges Edward’s knee with his elbow.

“Do you remember when we were boys and I boasted that I could swim to the folly and back without stopping?”

Edward smiles at the memory. “You got halfway before you started floundering in the reeds and nearly drowned.”

“And you sat right there in the boat beside me and told me to keep going, not to give up, though we both knew I was a damned fool to try.”

So it had always been with them; one would back the other for no better reason than it pleased him to do so, but the two were as different as wine and water. Cornelius was the wealthy to Edward’s poor, the learned to his ignorant, the dark to his fair. Edward was the reticent to Cornelius’ brash, the short to his tall, the unlucky to his fortunate. What a pair they made back then, what a pair they make now, and they chuckle at the memory, though Edward’s laugh is markedly more subdued. Cornelius’ smile wavers, then dies. They lapse into momentary silence once more.

“I truly am sorry, Edward. I don’t know what else to say.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“Except... don’t give up. Though I suppose such platitudes will only frustrate you at this juncture.”

“You suppose right.”

A pause. “You must persevere. I’ll support you where I can, no matter how much it costs, whatever you need. You know I will.”

“Even though I’m a damned fool to try?”

“Even then.”

Edward says nothing; in his embittered state Cornelius’ words feel hollow. How much money has Cornelius already paid out to help him? How much time away from the bindery has he already been allowed? The thought frustrates him, shames him, and Edward stands, runs a hand through his hair.

“I must go.”

Cornelius stands too. “The work can wait, you know.”

“It can’t. I just...” Edward sighs, shakes his head, feels now the hot rush of humiliation like a brand. “I need to go.”

Edward turns away, makes a hasty retreat down the hall and through into the anteroom, Cornelius following close behind. At the top of the vast staircase Cornelius ceases his dogged chase and as he descends Edward feels his friend’s pitying gaze on his back like daggers. Eager to be free of it he picks up his pace, rushes out through the main doors of Somerset House and into the wind, taking refuge in London’s clotted streets, the comforting flow of traffic.

His Studie bends back against itself in the wind. Briefly Edward contemplates chucking it into the nearest gutter but his love of the thing gets the better of him and he wraps the papers in his coat, crosses his arms, presses them against his chest like a shield. On he tramps down the Strand, head down, chin crushed into the folds of his scarf. He keeps his mind blank for now, focuses instead on putting one foot in front of the other. When Edward passes through the wide arch of Temple Bar he is glad to put the bustle of the Strand behind him.

Tired now as much from the bad news as battling the wind full on, he slips into a coffeehouse just off Fleet Street, not because it is the rich aroma of coffee he craves (he would much rather lose himself in a hefty glass of ale) but the warmth; his toes are like icicles and he is genuinely surprised they have not snapped off, that he will not find the fleshy nubs jiggling about at the caps of his boots when he peels them from his feet in the warmth of his lodgings later on.

Edward unwinds the scarf from his neck, finds a cozy corner near the fire, orders a cup. The Studie he keeps hidden beneath his coat. He takes a cautious sip of coffee but it is too hot and so he cradles the cup in his hand, contents himself instead with the comforting smell of aromatic spice, stares unseeing into the grate.

All that time, wasted. Again.

His first attempt he had not expected to succeed—a report mapping his thoughts on the list of the publications he had read (borrowed from Cornelius and Cornelius’ father); the early studies of Monmouth and Lambarde, Stow and Camden, the later works of Wanley, Stukeley and Gough. His grasp of Latin, while deficient in certain areas, was adequate and his interest in the field obvious, but, no—his education was lacking, he did not have enough knowledge; he had no original ideas of his own. So Edward applied himself to further study, chose to focus his efforts on effigies in London churches since there were so many of the damn things. He had been hopeful about that second attempt. But the answer came back that while it was impressively written, it was clear yet again nothing new had been brought forward, and so Edward chose another tack.

When Edward and Cornelius were boys they often explored the Staffordshire countryside surrounding Sandbourne, the Ashmole country seat. The neighboring estate Shugborough Hall—not six miles away, three via the river—was often a source of adventure for them. Edward remembered how one day they had trespassed on the grounds and discovered a monument tucked away in the woodland. It was a spectacular thing, a large and imposing arch with two carved heads protruding from the stone like stern sentinels. Set within was a rectangular panel which depicted a relief of four figures, clustered around a crypt. It was a copy of a Poussin painting, Edward would later learn, but with alterations: an extra sarcophagus, an inscription that referred to “Arcadia.” Yet what had fascinated Edward so completely, even as a child, were the eight letters carved in the blank expanse of stone below the sculpture itself: O U O S V A V V, above and between the letters D and M. On Roman tombs the letters “D M” commonly stood for Dis Manibus, meaning “Dedicated to the shades.” But this was no Roman tomb. A cipher, then. What a perfect specimen to make a study of; what better way to gain entry to the society he had coveted for years? And so, with a letter of introduction from Cornelius and a hefty allowance weighting his purse, Edward was granted permission to stay at the hall and have access to its grounds at leisure.

He contemplated all manner of theories: a coded love letter to a deceased wife, an acronym of a Latin phrase, or mere carvings added after the monument’s construction representing the initials of the current owner—a Mr. George Adams—his wife, and their relations (though Mr. Adams refused to comment on the matter). Edward even pondered how the letters might refer to the coordinates of buried treasure at sea, based on the naval history of the Shugborough estate.

It took four months for Edward to complete his findings which elucidated these different theories, two more months to compile them. No one except Josiah Wedgwood had bothered to take much note of the thing, and that over ten years before, with few recordings of it to speak of. And despite Edward’s accompanying drawings being—as Cornelius had grimly denounced them—“amateur,” his written work far surpassed any study of the monument that came before it. From that alone, Edward had been sure of his success.

But it was not enough. It was not enough.

“Come, lad, can’t be that bad, can it?”

His reverie interrupted, Edward looks up to see the source. In an armchair across from him sits an old gentleman dressed in faded worsted, his white hair and beard worn unfashionably long. Without quite meaning to Edward gives a bitter laugh and, shaking his head, he raises his coffee cup. He takes a sip and grimaces. It is cold. How long has he been sitting here in a stupor?

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