A pure pleasure of a novel set in Georgian London, where the discovery of a mysterious ancient Greek vase sets in motion conspiracies, revelations and romance. Perfect for readers who loved The Binding and The Essex Serpent.
Samson, The Scilly Isles
December 1798
“He had not allowed for the weight. The cold he anticipated, the water’s
sluggish buoyancy, this too he considered. The darkness? The lantern
does well enough, and his memory allows for shortfalls in sight. But
the weight . . . this is something else altogether.
The lantern itself is manageable. It is bound to his wrist with thick
twine, affording movement in both hands, but it pulls down uncomfortably
on his arm and the salt water stings where the twine has
already rubbed the skin. The ropes looped under each armpit – one
for the salvage, one to raise him again – are cumbersome, but they
help balance his body as he descends. The sinking weights, too,
although bulky, can be endured.
The problem is the harness. Strong tin plate. Domed and airy
around his head, further down it constricts his torso like an unforgiving
corset. On deck it did not feel so heavy. Below the surface,
however, the restrictive leather suit, the iron hoop skeleton that
pinches meanly, together with the pressure of water and the winter
currents . . . He will demand more money once the job is done.
Luck has been with him so far this night. The sky’s inky cradle is
starred, the moon full and fat. During the storm he took careful note
of his surroundings – the ship finally succumbed on the shoals of two
small islands separated by an isthmus, their inlands pitted with stone
ruins. In the moonlight these ruins shone white, a beacon for their
small sailboat, and despite the December squalls the ship’s starboard
beam end is still visible above the waves. No, the wreck was not difficult
to find.
So why is it he feels he has been led here?
Thankfully the ship rests in the shallows. He has not used this
apparatus before and will not venture any deeper than he must. Twenty
feet below the surface. No danger there, he tells himself. And he
knows exactly where to look. Under careful instruction the object he
seeks was safely hidden within the starboard bow, away from the
other shipments tightly packed in the hold, but the ship broke apart
in the storm; he hopes his luck stays true, that the crate has not
strayed too far along the seabed, that no one else has managed to
retrieve it.
The icy water needles his legs and arms. Cocooned in the heavy
suit he descends further, breathing with effort, tasting the sharp taint
of metal. The air pipes leading from the harness to the surface are
long, and he imagines them stretching behind him like a hangman’s
rope. He holds the lantern in front of his body, looks through the eyeglass
of the harness dome, relieved to see the shadow of the ship’s
ribs. Down he goes, then, searching, squinting into the murk. He
thinks he hears a sound below him, something low and plaintive. He
tilts his head, feels his ears pop, continues on.
His feet land. Beneath them, shifting grit. He angles his head and
tries to look down. But carefully. Too sudden a movement, he was
warned, and the water will seep through the harness. Slowly, yes,
slowly. There. The corner of something. Using the ball of his foot he
pushes himself off, back into the current. Then he sinks again, making
contact with the seabed, raising the lantern to eye level. Six feet
or so from the ship’s remains he just makes out the dark corners of a
crate. The blood pulses loudly in his ears. This is it, he is sure. He
edges slowly forward, puts one leg in front of him, then another, his
feet dragging through the water. He jumps as something brushes
against his shins, and lowering the lantern he watches seaweed dance
around his calves.
The crate balances precariously on a large rock. He inches closer,
raises the lantern again. The X he painted on its side when the ship
left Palermo is clear, even in this deep aquatic dark. For a moment he
marvels at how easy all this has been but then the lantern flickers and
dips before flaring once again, and he knows that now is not the time
to dawdle.
“He hears the muffled groan of wood, the sluggish surge of stirring water and, so quietly he believes he has imagined it, the soft, haunting, almost-whisper of a woman, sighing.”
Releasing the twine from his wrist, he places the lantern between
two hunks of wreckage so it will not turn up in the current, then
unhooks one of the ropes from his arms and begins the painstaking
task of securing the crate. He must be careful – there is no room for
error – and the rock is a blessing it seems, for without it he would
have struggled to lift the crate from the seabed at all. As he works
small fish dash and dart about him. At one point he stops, strains to
hear within the tin plates of the harness. Is that singing? No, it is the
water sickness, it must be. Was he not told that staying under too long
can be deadly?
But so soon?
He works fast now, as fast as he is able with the harness weighing
him down. He wraps the rope around the crate four times and though
his fingers are stiff with cold, he ties knots so tight the rope will need
cutting free. When he is satisfied he pulls sharply on it – once, twice
– signalling to the surface. The length jumps, slackens, becomes taut.
Then, triumphant, he watches the crate ascend in a cloud of billowing
sand. He hears the muffled groan of wood, the sluggish surge of stirring
water and, so quietly he believes he has imagined it, the soft,
haunting, almost-whisper of a woman, sighing.
London
January 1799
PART I.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
John Milton
Paradise Lost (1667)
CHAPTER ONE
Dora Blake has been hunched over her desk since dawn. The stool
she sits on is too tall but she has become accustomed to its awkward
height. Every now and then she lays down her pliers, removes her
spectacles and pinches the bridge of her nose. Often she kneads the
knots in her neck, stretches her back until she feels the pleasant
crack of spine.
The attic room is north-facing and offers little light. In frustration
Dora has moved her desk and stool beneath the small window for
this is intricate work, and her lone candle is not fit for purpose. She
shifts uncomfortably on the hard seat, replaces her spectacles and
applies herself once more, doing her best to ignore the cold. The window
is open at its widest, despite the New Year chill. Any moment she
expects Hermes to return with a new treasure, something to crown
this latest creation of hers, and she has opened his cage door in readiness,
the remains of her stolen breakfast scattered beneath the perch
to reward what she hopes will be a fruitful morning’s hunt.
She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, angles the pliers
against her thumb.
To replicate cannetille was ambitious of her but Dora is, if anything,
an optimist. Some might call this optimism mere wilfulness,
but she feels her ambition is justified. She knows – knows – she has
a talent. She is positively convinced it will be recognised one day, that
her designs will be worn all across the city. Perhaps, Dora muses, the
corner of her mouth twitching as she eases a particularly tiny wire
into place, across Europe. But then she shakes her head, tries to
pluck her lofty dreams from the woodwormed beams above her and
concentrate. It will not do to be distracted and ruin hours of work at
the last hurdle.
Dora cuts another piece of wire from the roll hooked over a nail on
the wall.
The beauty of cannetille is that it imitates fine lace. She has seen
parure sets on display in Rundell & Bridge and marvelled at their
intricate designs; a necklace, earrings, bracelet, brooch and tiara
would have been the work of months. Briefly Dora had contemplated
creating the matching pair of earrings from her sketch, but grudgingly
admitted her time was better spent elsewhere. This necklace is only
an example after all, a means to demonstrate her skill.
“It is aquamarine that Dora likes best. It reminds her of Mediterranean skies, the warmth of childhood.”
‘There!’ she exclaims, snipping the excess wire with a pair of fine-
handled clippers. The clasp has been bothering her all morning for it
proved damnably fiddly but now it is done, worth the dark early start,
the strain of back, the numbness of buttock. She lays down the cutters,
blows into her hands and rubs them hard together, just as a flurry
of black and white descends from the rooftops with a furtive caw.
Dora sits back and smiles.
‘Good morning, my heart.’
The magpie sails through the window, lands softly on the bed.
Around the bird’s neck swings the small leather pouch she has sewn
for him. Hermes’ neck is bowed – there is weight to it.
He has found something.
‘Come then,’ Dora says, closing the window tight against the winter
chill. ‘Show me what you’ve scurried up.’
Hermes chirps, dips his head. The pouch strap slackens and the
bird patters back, shaking his beak free. The pouch sags and Dora
reaches for it, excitedly tips the contents on the worn coverlet.
A broken piece of earthenware, a metal bead, a steel pin. She can
use all of these for something or other; Hermes never disappoints. But
her attention is drawn to another item on the bed. She picks it up,
raises it to the light.
‘Ach nai,’ Dora breathes. ‘Yes, Hermes. It is perfect.’
Between her fingers she holds a flat oval pebble, made of glass, the
size of a small egg. Against the grey of the city’s skyline it shines a
pale, almost milky blue. In cannetille designs amethysts are the preferred
stone; the rich purple hue glints brightly against the gold,
enhancing the intensity of the yellow. But it is aquamarine that Dora
likes best. It reminds her of Mediterranean skies, the warmth of childhood.
This smooth piece of glass will do just nicely. She closes her
hand around it, feels its soft surface cool against her palm. She gestures
to the magpie. With a blink of his black eye he hops onto her fist.
‘I think that deserves a nice breakfast, don’t you?’
Dora guides him into his cage. His beak scrapes against the
wooden base as he scrabbles at the crusts of bread she left for him
earlier. Gently she strokes his silken feathers, admires their rainbow
sheen.
‘There, my treasure,’ she croons. ‘You must be tired. Is that not
better?’
Engrossed now in his meal Hermes ignores her, and Dora returns
to her desk. She looks down at the necklace, contemplates her
handiwork.
She is, she must confess, not entirely satisfied. Her design, so
beautifully imagined on paper, is a poor show realised. What should
be tendrils of coiled gold is merely dull grey wire twisted into miniature
loops. What would have been shining seed pearls are instead
roughly hewn shards of broken porcelain.
But Dora never expected it to match her drawing. She lacks the
right tools and materials, the correct training. It is, however, a start;
proof that there is beauty to her work, for despite the crude materials
there is an elegance to the shapes she has wrought. No, Dora is not
satisfied, but she is pleased. She hopes it will do. Surely with this
pebble as a centrepiece . . .
There is a bang, the jangle of a distant bell.
‘Dora!’
The voice that calls up from three storeys below is hard, sharp,
impatient. Hermes chirps irritably in his cage.
‘Dora,’ the voice barks again. ‘Come down and manage the shop.
I’ve urgent business at the dock.’
The statement is followed by the dull thud of a door closing,
another one, far off. Then, silence.
Dora sighs, covers the necklace with a piece of linen, places her
spectacles down alongside it. She will have to add the glass pebble
later, when her uncle has retired to bed. With regret Dora props it
against the candlestick where it wobbles briefly before falling still.
Extracted from Pandora by Susan Stokes-Chapman, out now.
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