Pandora(10)

‘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 coffee-house has stopped mid-air.

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 apologise to Cornelius, he must make amends. Such behaviour is hardly befitting a gentleman let alone a fellow of the Society. He hopes Cornelius does not begrudge him his moment of dumbfuddery.

The coffee-house 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.’

The man takes a sip of his coffee, crinkled lips pursing the rim. He licks his mouth, places the cup down on the table with precise care. Then he leans forward, as if ready to divulge a closely kept secret.

‘In Ludgate Street, there is a shop. It belonged to an intrepid couple by the name of Blake. Antiquarians by trade, they made a living excavating tombs in south-eastern Europe, in Greece specifically. I understand the taste for antiquities verges more now on British discoveries but there is money in the ancient world, a curiosity for it still. The couple are long dead, I am sad to say, some twelve or thirteen years now, and the shop … it is not what it once was. Elijah’s brother, Hezekiah –’ and here the old man’s mouth twists – ‘has quite ruined its fortunes, but you might have some luck conversing with the daughter.’

‘The daughter?’

‘Pandora Blake. She was only eight when her parents died but she accompanied them on every excavation they went on, has a taste for the field. The uncle – a cartographer originally – cared for the child after their deaths, moved into the shop, kept her on. If she is anything like her parents then she will prove quite exceptional.’

‘You knew them well, then?’

His companion hesitates. ‘I make it my business to know those in the trade.’

‘You’re a collector, then?’

‘Of sorts, yes.’

He says nothing more. There is a beat, a beat in which a customer enters the coffee-house, bringing in with him the sharp cold air of Fleet, and now Edward is unsure how to press the matter further. They both are silent. The old man raises his cup. It has left a wet ring.

‘How did they die?’ Edward finally asks.

The man takes another sip of his coffee. ‘A tragedy. They were unearthing a Grecian ruin. The walls caved in. Buried alive.’

‘And Pandora?’

‘She was saved, be praised.’

Edward shakes his head. ‘Dreadful.’

‘Indeed.’

The bells of Temple church chime the hour. His cue, Edward thinks, and he digs into his coat pocket, exchanges his Studie for a coin.

‘I’m much obliged to you, sir. Your kindness …’

The gentleman waves him off. ‘Not at all,’ he says mildly, as if it truly was nothing and not, as Edward believes, a cannily timed intervention. ‘It was my pleasure.’

As Edward stands the old man looks up at him, blue eyes clear and piercing: a world in them. He holds out his hand for him to shake.

‘Perhaps we shall see each other again, Mr Lawrence?’

‘Yes,’ Edward says, clasping it. The skin feels papery, a worn-out glove, but the grip is surprisingly firm. ‘Yes, perhaps we shall.’

It only occurs to Edward later that evening – his boots and stockings warming by the fire – that he never asked the old man his name, nor was it offered, and more to the point, Edward never mentioned his own.





CHAPTER FIVE





Hezekiah has left her in charge again, the arrival of a dirty lad bearing a letter having taken him away with unmitigated haste; her uncle bounded up from his half-eaten breakfast and catapulted from the room like a hare before she could blink. Dora had glanced at the clock – twenty minutes past the hour of eight – and wondered what urgent business Hezekiah could possibly have so early with a boy that stank so overpoweringly of something she did not wish to name.