Anatov was regarding the stone in rapt admiration. “What do you want of me?” he asked at last, softly, after what seemed to Josef a very long time.
“Your word that, after I’ve cut and polished it, you’ll help me sell the stone, above board and no questions asked. I’ll want you to substantiate the story that I obtained the stone legally and brought it from Russia with me. I plan to go to London. There I’ll work on the stone. But I need someone of good standing to dispose of it for me.”
Sergei Anatov nodded thoughtfully, turned the stone this way and that, his attention and his connoisseur’s eye totally taken by it. He looked up at last. “Now tell me this. What is to stop me from simply appropriating this and turning you over to the authorities?”
Josef’s voice did not falter; here was the true test of nerve. “The child. The scandal. And your own self-esteem. You may be hard, Sergei Anatov, but I don’t believe you to be cruel. Nor dishonest.” Fair eyebrows quirked at that. “I would of course be perfectly willing to negotiate a commission upon the sale of the diamond.”
“How much?”
“Ten per cent.”
The man barked laughter. “Thirty.”
Josef shook his head, trying not to let the relief that washed over him distract him.
“Twenty-five.”
“No.”
“Well cut and polished it will be worth a fortune.”
“I know.”
“Twenty per cent.”
Josef hesitated. “Twelve-and-a-half.”
“Sergei—” said the woman from the door.
“Fifteen,” her husband said, his eyes intent upon Josef. “Or you find yourself another seller. Fifteen.”
Josef let out his pent breath. “Done.”
“And the money to take you to London—”
“—would be a loan. Oh yes—” Josef added, as he saw the open disbelief on the handsome face. “A loan. I too, believe it or not, am an honest man.” He pushed from his mind the thought of those sickening moments when he searched for the diamond, and of the events that had followed. “I’ll not be beholden to you. And neither will Tanya. Don’t worry – after this transaction is finished you’ll hear from neither of us again.”
Anatov watched him for a long, unnerving moment. “You’re assuming that I’ve agreed to the transaction, that you’ve blackmailed me into helping you.”
“Yes.”
“You really believe that people would take your word against mine in the matter of the child?”
“Yes. In fact,” Josef hazarded a shot in the dark, “I suspect that some would be glad to—”
The woman, who still had not moved from the door said now again, sharply, “Sergei! For heaven’s sake!”
He made a quick, irritated movement. “Supposing I did agree.” He held up the diamond. “How do I know you can handle this? How do I know you won’t ruin it? I’d rather have it prepared in our own workshops—”
“No!” Josef’s voice was sharp. He held out his hand, thumb turned to show the leathery burn mark that was the brand of his craft. “You’ll have to trust me in that. No one is to work the stone but me. I can handle it, I promise you.”
“The cutting?”
“That too. My father taught me well.”
There was a short, nerve-racking silence. “Very well,” Anatov said softly. “Then I agree.” He lifted a hand as Josef began to speak, and continued, his voice brisk. “We’ll feed and clothe you and the child. Tomorrow we will agree a sum to take you to London. It will not, I warn you, be princely. Enough to get you there and to live on for – shall we say three months?” Josef nodded.
“That should give you long enough to prepare the stone for sale. It will also give us time to manufacture some story as to its source – I imagine you have no desire to tell me or anyone else the truth of it.”
Josef remained silent.
“As I thought. It’s South African?”
“Yes.”
“Then it shouldn’t be too hard.” Anatov handed the diamond back to Josef. “If stones like this aren’t exactly two a penny, at least there are enough of them turning up not to create too much fuss. It seems to me that the best thing would be to say that you brought the stone with you from Kiev. The less we lie the better. And if you produce the stone that you promise, it would be impossible, I think, to keep from its buyer the name of the man that worked it.” He turned to the mirror that hung above the splendid fireplace, straightened his white tie meticulously, turned as he caught Josef’s eye in the mirror. “Understand this,” he said, softly, “I want you, the child and the stone out of this house by tomorrow evening, and I want your solemn word that you’ll not bother us again after this business is finished.” He stood for a moment over Tanya, looking down, his face sombre. The child lay, as she had since Josef had put her there, a silent doll. He lifted his head, searched Josef’s eyes. “What in God’s name happened?” he asked quietly.
Josef maintained a bitter silence. Something that would not have happened had you helped us in the first place – he did not say it. What purpose in recriminations now? Relief was giving way to exhaustion. He needed to be alone. To think. To rest – yes, above all to rest.
Anatov stared down at the child for a moment longer, then shrugged and turned away. “Well, Mr Rosenberg – I trust you have no further objection to our rejoining our guests?”
“Rose,” Josef said, his voice tired.
The man turned. “What?”
“Rose. The name will be Rose. In England. An English flower. An English name. I’m not just going to England, you see. I’m going to be English. I’m going to forget everything that has happened, everything that I’ve known. A fresh start. A new name. Rose. Josef Rose.”
“The man’s rambling.” Madame Anatov laid her gloved hand upon her husband’s extended arm. They left the room in silence.
“Josef Rose,” Josef said again softly into the flickering shadows, then walked unsteadily to the sofa, sat beside the silent child, buried his face in his hands and wept as he had not since Charnov Street.
Interlude
LONDON 1876
London, Tanya and Josef were to discover, was as heartlessly indifferent as any large city; friendless they arrived and friendless they remained – at least until the empty rooms above theirs were taken some weeks after they moved in. Not that their solitary state bothered either of them – on the contrary, each for their own reason welcomed it. For Josef there was the diamond – it filled his mind and his dreams. He held it, studied it, all but talked to it. He would sit for unmoving hours in silence as the days lengthened and pale spring crept almost unnoticed through the strange city streets, the stone held before him, gazing at it as if by sheer concentration he would dissolve the adamantine surface with his eyes and enter the crystalline structure of the gem. Many times he took out his tools – cradled the stone in malleable solder, picked up the stick ready-set with the cutting diamond – called a sharp – that he had brought from Anatov’s workshops in Amsterdam, ready to begin the operation. And each time, slowly, he would lay the tools down again. The time was not right. He had not yet discovered the soul of the stone. So the meditation would begin again.
Tanya, for her part, did not seem to notice their isolation from the world. For the first few days after her hideous experience she had been as if struck deaf and dumb. She had neither spoken nor, apparently, heard a word said to her. She had not eaten, neither had she slept and Josef had been distraught, believing her mind and body finally to have broken. But from the day that they had taken the ship from Amsterdam the child had appeared to improve quite miraculously, her usual sweetly docile nature had reasserted itself, submissively she had allowed herself to be fed, she had begun to acknowledge Josef’s presence, to respond when spoken to. During the whole of the crossing she had refused to go below but had stood at the rail, her wide eyes fixed upon the swelling sea with the first signs of understanding or pleasure that Josef had seen. By the time they were s
ettled in their small but quite comfortable room in the Gray’s Inn Road her improvement was remarkable – she seemed almost to have forgotten her brutalization at the hands of van Heuten. Josef, thankfully, accepted the outward appearance of her healing and indulged his preoccupation with the stone upon which their future depended. His plans were made – the execution lay now within his own hands. At last, one late April afternoon, with watery sunshine breaking through the shower-clouds that had dulled the day, he knew, simply and with no doubt, that the time had come. With steady hands he lit the charcoal fire in the hearth to soften the solder, and dragged the solid table to the light of the window. Whilst waiting for the fire to draw he set up the worn scaithe and the small flywheel, bolting them through holes he had made earlier, ready for the operation of grinding and polishing after the stone had been cut to shape. Then, with the solder softened, he took the diamond and cemented it into his cleaver’s stick. He pulled on his leather gloves and flexed his fingers, knowing how brutishly painful the coming task would be, especially for hands so long unused to it. He pushed a small wooden box to the table’s edge to catch the precious chippings. Tanya, her attention caught by the unusual activity, moved from her corner and stood by his shoulder, watching as he picked up the two sticks, the one set with the sharp for cutting, the other with the stone she had seen Uncle Josef handling so often. The sight was enough to arouse even her passive curiosity.
“What are you doing?” She spoke in Russian.
Josef, his building concentration broken, frowned a little. Then, with an effort, he turned to the child, his voice gentle. “In English,” he said.
Her brow furrowed worriedly, white teeth buried themselves in her soft, childish lip. “What – do—” she stopped.
“What – are – you – doing?” he prompted.
“What – are – you doing?”
Speaking the words simply and clearly in English he showed her, pantomiming the actions. “With this—” he held the sharp stick next to the diamond and mimed a vigorous rubbing action “—I will cut this—” he held up the large stone “—to the right shape. Then—” he pointed to the wheel. “You remember? You’ve seen it before, in Kiev.” He stopped. She watched him, impassively beautiful, apparently unmoved. He could not tell for his life what she understood, what she remembered. He pushed the flywheel gently with his finger. It swung easily, turning the scaithe. “Later – you’ll turn the wheel for me?”
She recognized the questioning tone of voice if not the words, looked at him intently, trying to make sense of what he said. Josef pointed, first at Tanya, then at the wheel. “Tanya – will turn the wheel – for Josef?”
This time she understood. Gravely she nodded. “Turn wheel,” she said.
He turned from her, picked up the two sticks again in his gloved hands. Now was the moment. From the split second that he set one stone against the other he was committed – to success or to failure. Beyond the window pale sunshine washed the old brick walls to gold. A hansom clattered by. A flower-seller called.
Josef willed his weakened, unpractised hands to strength and set the stones together.
The nerve-racking operation took the whole of that day and part of the next, during which time Josef ate little, slept less and spoke hardly at all. The child, tending at the best of times to silence, sensed his need and did not interrupt him except to bring him the simple meals she prepared. She watched from her corner as he cut painfully away the uneven corners of the stone, bruising his fingers to the bone even through the gloves. Then silently she stood and turned the wheel when, at last, the harshly laborious job was done and, with the scaithe primed with diamond dust moistened with olive oil, Josef set himself to the skilled task of grinding and polishing the gem to perfect fire.
By the evening of the second day he knew he had done it. The rain had started again, silently drifting along the busy street beneath the window. Drops chased themselves down the small panes of glass. Josef, tired to exhaustion, held the scintillating gem between his fingers. It was a stone of fine make, no one could deny that, and, as Anatov had said, worth a small fortune. Now he could plan – really plan – for the future.
Firelight glimmered in the brilliant-cut stone, speared dazzling spectrum colours to the eye. Tanya let out a small, almost inaudible breath of wonder.
“Here.” Josef lay the stone on a piece of paper, gestured her closer. She looked at it in awe. Rainbow light danced upon her face. Josef tried not to think of another face, brutal, bloody, lifeless. “What do you see?” he asked in English.
Gamely she tried. “Pretty,” she said. “Pretty light.”
“More than that, child,” Josef said, very softly. “Oh, I see more than that. I see a business. A jewellery shop of great repute and great respectability. I see a home. Comfort. I see security.” The child’s shadowed eyes were uncomprehending. He gathered her to him suddenly, rocked her wearily, finding himself unexpectedly and absurdly close to tears. Faces rose in his tired mind: the faces of the dead. Anna. The children. Alexei. He screwed his eyes up painfully. The past was dead. It had, for sanity’s sake, to remain so. His only hope was to look to the future.
As if to encourage him to do just that, Grace Sutcliff and her mother moved into the rooms upstairs three days later.
* * *
They met on the stairs on occasion, passed the time of day politely. Josef liked the plain, rather shy young woman on sight, was attracted to her slow, peaceful smile, her quiet voice. Within a couple of weeks of meeting her and her strong-minded mother he had begun to form the resolution that an alliance would be no bad thing for all concerned. Grace was of impeccably respectable family, good education, sweet temperament and no means at all, her recently dead father having been gulled into investing the family’s money in a fly-by-night money-making venture which had collapsed, leaving him ruined and in debt. However, Mrs Sutcliff, Grace’s mother, was not a woman to allow such misfortune to overwhelm her. She was a person of singularly staunch character, as was her daughter. Josef admired enormously their lack of self-pity, their obstinate determination to keep up appearances no matter how far down in the world they appeared to have slipped. That Grace’s mother saw very quickly in Josef a means to ease the difficulties of their situation he readily accepted – indeed, having already seen those same possibilities himself, he encouraged her to see him so. That Grace was nearly twenty years his junior was no drawback – indeed in both the ladies’ eyes it was a positive advantage. As for Josef – he had a future now and he intended to secure it. He needed a home, and within that home he needed – and very soon would be able to afford – a wife to take care of himself and of Tanya. He courted Grace hardly at all; the delicate negotiations were carried on almost entirely through her mother. This was not, after all, an affair of passion, but a civilized agreement of mutual benefit to all concerned. Nevertheless it pleased him that shy Grace appeared not to be at all averse to the idea. He liked her and he liked her mother. Both of them got on well with Tanya – indeed one of the best aspects of the whole affair was the quiet and unexpected devotion that the child offered to the tranquil Grace almost from the first moment they met. The kiss that Josef bestowed upon his affianced wife’s cool cheek upon the day that Mrs Sutcliff acceded graciously to his request for her daughter’s hand was the first they had ever exchanged. A month later they were married, quietly and with no fuss. On the day before the wedding Josef received the news from Amsterdam that the diamond had been sold for a little under twenty thousand pounds, to the elderly Count Nic Shuvenski as a bride-present for his new and very lovely young Countess.
Grace Rose neither had such a present nor missed it; on the day following the wedding she and Josef were inspecting the premises of a small shop in Hatton Garden, and Grace, with gentle guile, was allowing Josef to believe that in this, as in the recent matter of their wedding, the decision was entirely his.
PART TWO
LONDON, 1885-1898
Chapter Four
An
na Amelia Rose – small, tow-haired, twig-thin and nearly eight years old – surveyed with a regrettable lack of remorse the dirty tidemark inflicted by the mud of the pond bank upon her shiny black buttoned boots and then, with equal disregard for the voluminous velvet tiers of her flounced skirt, dropped to her knees in the damp grass the better to observe the lovely insect she had been pursuing. The dragonfly, settled for a transient moment upon a narrow leaf, quivered wings that were like gossamer in the September sun. Its body glimmered an iridescent green-blue that reminded the child of the gems she had seen last week during her much-anticipated birthday visit to Papa’s workshop in Hatton Garden. Emeralds and aquamarines, and turquoise and topaz – the child loved the very sound and colour of the words.
The dragonfly’s head, too, gleamed like a precious stone. Its narrow, elegant wings, veined with gold in the sunlight, looked too fragile to carry that metallic, shining body.
“Anna! An-na!”
She ignored the call, not even turning her head. One of the very best things about the new house, after the overcrowded rooms above the workshop in which they had lived for as long as Anna could remember, was the garden which, miraculously, although it was not really very big, had corners to hide in. Corners like this one, that encompassed the small, overgrown pool that she and her brothers had christened rather grandly ‘the pond’ – much to her Papa’s amusement. He, in his funny accent, called it ‘the puddle’. Anna put out a thin, tentative finger to the dragonfly. It quivered, but did not fly. For a moment it seemed that the insect would allow her to touch it. Utterly absorbed, she moved her grubby finger a little closer—
“Anna!”
Her brother’s voice was a bellow in her ear; she almost fell over in shock. The dragonfly lifted and swooped across the water into the darkness of undergrowth on the other side.
“Alex! You beast! You frightened it away!”
The Rose Stone Page 7