Pandora(9)
Tired now as much from the bad news as battling the wind full on, he slips into a coffee-house 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 cosy 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 neighbouring 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?
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”?’