The Lost Jewels

by Kirsty Manning

  Essie’s eyes snapped open as she barked, “Well, don’t stop.”

  “I just thought—”

  “Carry on, Katherine,” she demanded imperiously, and Kate obeyed.

  “My great-grandmother’s stories of childhood are rich with colcannon, sticky apple pie, and handfuls of buried treasure plucked from the soil. Yet the scars on her hands and scant details about the people she left behind suggest a different, darker tale.”

  Essie snorted. “A touch dramatic, don’t you think, dear? You get that from your mother.” She waved her hand for Kate to keep reading.

  “I’ve learned that people polish some stories and bury others. As if by burying the past, they can stop trauma from being passed down the line. But I wonder if this recasting of history really helps us find that perfect future.”

  Kate paused, wondering how much more to read . . .

  Essie had straightened and clasped her hands together. When she looked up there were tears in her eyes.

  “Continue, child.”

  “Um, okay . . .”

  “When I go to visit my great-grandmother, I stop and sit on her front stoop and look over to the two statues standing in the park outside her house. I used to play soccer in Louisburg Square with my sister when we were children. We’d climb these statues.

  “Christopher Columbus stands proud, wet, and mossy at the northern end, and Aristides the Just at the other. Men who were unquestionably brave. Men who sought new worlds. But both men also left a trail of mystery, darkness, and deception in their wake.”

  Essie raised a snowy eyebrow and said wryly, “I have no idea where this is going.”

  Kate’s hands were shaking and she found it hard to keep the paper still and read. Her voice strained like a middle-school kid onstage at assembly.

  “There are lots of records of great men. But what about the ordinary women who made new lives in faraway countries? Where are their histories?”

  “Ordinary!” repeated Essie with a humph, and this time Kate ignored her great-grandmother, as she was getting to her main point.

  “I want to immerse myself in the study of history to explore the ways people constructed their lives, their worlds . . . their stories. To compare conflicting tales against the evidence available. I want to study people who have weathered adversity, overcome moral dilemmas, and had the courage to take risks—to follow a different path from the one mapped out.

  “My story is folded into my great-grandmother’s story. One day, I hope to solve the riddles of the past for my future.”

  “Well, that’s quite the essay.” Essie gave an uneasy chortle. “It seems you’ve inherited the Irish gift of the gab. Perhaps you’ll be a writer one day? Have you thought of that? If not, you should. I never realized you were so . . .”

  “Interested?”

  “Nosy, more like it.” Essie laughed. “My bonnie lass, you didn’t believe the fairy tales I told you and Molly, did you?”

  “Well . . .” Kate shrugged, embarrassed.

  “Let me tell you something, Katherine.” Essie was leaning forward. “I’ve had a good life in Boston. Beautiful family—roguish great-grandchildren.” She tapped Kate’s leg. “Your great-grandfather and I managed to make something from nothing—with a bit of . . . luck. Now I’m supposed to say, May the road rise up to meet you and so forth on your eighteenth. I’ve got a whole speech prepared for after dinner, you know?”

  “I don’t doubt it!” said Kate with a touch of nerves. Essie’s speeches were legendary. She always claimed she was making up for lost time.

  Essie stood up, reached for her walking stick with one hand, and put her other over the box in Kate’s hand. “I’ve watched you grow into a thoughtful young woman. That essay . . .” She hesitated, then reached up to touch Kate’s cheek. “I think you are perhaps starting to see that not everything in life is black and white. Now that you’re eighteen, I think I can share with you a little more of my early years . . . Perhaps then you’ll understand why I never returned to London—though it broke my heart to leave. I made a terrible mistake, and I live with that guilt each and every day.”

  Essie’s eyes looked haunted, and her voice quivered as she continued: “In eighty years nobody has ever really asked. Not your grandfather or father—they’ve always had their heads full of shipping lanes and ports.

  “My bones ache with regret, Katherine. But I also know that to turn my back on London forever was the right decision. Both things can be true, my love. It’s possible to live with a heart heavy with grief and loss, but also brimming with love and hope.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Kate, frowning. “Why didn’t you just go? It’s not like you couldn’t get a berth!”

  “I’ll tell you what: how about next time you’re home I’ll fix us some colcannon and I’ll tell you my story. From the very beginning.”

  “Including the man with the green eyes from Cheapside?”

  Essie’s eyes narrowed. “Where’d you get that from? I think you’ve got your folklore in a muddle, my beautiful girl.”

  “But you used to tell those fairy tales when Molly and I were little.”

  Essie’s smile relaxed. “My darling, we all need to believe in something beautiful. A little magic. It’s what keeps us going during the dark times . . .”

  Chapter 8

  Kate

  LONDON, PRESENT DAY

  The DJ picked up the beat in the Livery Room and the crowd started to roar and dance. Kate walked into the oak-paneled drawing room looking for Sophie. As the music reverberated off the marble columns, Kate touched her sapphires. She recognized something of herself in Essie; perhaps a desire to keep her innermost thoughts—her trauma—to herself. Essie had filled her days with work projects and charities. Were all these accomplishments a coping strategy for Essie, too, as she poured herself into a new life on the other side of the Atlantic?

  Kate was sorry that she never did end up hearing Essie’s promised story about why her great-grandmother had left London and never returned. Essie’s secrets were buried with her.

  Standing in the corner, under jasmine vines suspended from the ceiling, Kate opened her notebook and flipped through the pages, before having a peek at the sketch of the button. Could Essie have seen some of the cache of jewels found in Cheapside? She snapped her notebook closed and tucked it into her purse, then went to join Sophie and her husband, George.

  Kate had met Sophie during summer school at Oxford, when they were both preparing for their doctorates in Elizabethan history. They’d bonded over lukewarm beer and a mutual loathing of rugby. Sophie was thin and shared the luminous skin of her Indian mother, with cheekbones that belonged on-screen and a throaty Greta Garbo laugh. After two years roaming Southeast Asia with a backpack, Sophie had ditched the Dutch husband she’d impulsively acquired after a full moon party in Thailand, along with her dreadlocks and a filthy clove cigarette habit. She’d returned home to take over the family’s appointment-only antique jewelry business in an elegant set of rooms just off New Bond Street. Last year, she’d married George Bailey—a diamond dealer based in Hatton Garden and confirmed rugby fanatic.

  “I’m so excited to see you,” said Sophie as she threw her arms around Kate. “You look fantastic.”

  “Love a woman in a tux. Very chic,” said George as he kissed Kate on both cheeks. “Good to see you.”

  “It means so much that you could come, Kate.” Sophie squeezed Kate’s arm.

  “My pleasure. It’s a pity I can’t stay longer. I leave for India in a few days.” She ushered them to the middle of the room, where images of three pieces from the Cheapside collection were flickering on the walls.

  George pointed to the vision of a pomander gliding across the ceiling. “This scent bottle takes the cake.”

  Kate eyed the tiny blooms painted in the enamel then studded with opals, rubies, diamonds, and pink sapphires to give it a vibrant botanical feel. It felt like spring. “Trust you to choose the most precious of all.”
Kate winked at Sophie behind George’s back. “I’d wear this on a long chain today.”

  “So would I,” said Sophie.

  Kate’s chest tightened at the thought of a woman clinging to something so exquisite—clinging to hope—when London’s cobbled streets were blocked with sewage and garbage, beggars, rats, and festering bodies during the Black Death.

  “I wonder if she survived,” said Sophie wistfully.

  “I doubt it! No jewel immunizes against bacteria. But rubies were seen as amulets against the plague. Diamonds protect—I mean they are invincible, right? And opals ease a sore head, apparently.”

  “Good for a hangover,” said George as he collected three fresh glasses of champagne from a passing silver tray and handed one to Kate as the image of the black-and-white diamond solitaire from the Museum of London flashed in multiples around the room.

  Who was it made for?

  “Did you know that’s a Golconda diamond?” Kate asked, pointing to the image.

  “Ah,” said George, eyeing the ring. “So that’s why you’re going to India. I have clients who would pay any price for a Golconda diamond—they’re so rare. The only one I’ve heard of on the market in the past couple of years was just over ten carats. It sold at Christie’s in New York for about twelve million dollars. But now there’s talk that, today, the price could be worth that amount per carat.” He shrugged. “Nobody wants to sell. They stopped mining them in the early eighteenth century.”

  “Wasn’t it Alexander the Great who recorded that the Golconda locals threw chunks of meat down to a valley floor swarming with snakes, then sent eagles to lift the meat back up the mountain, studded with the clearest stones ever seen?”

  “Cheers to tall tales.” George laughed as they clinked glasses.

  “But they’re not always white, are they?” asked Kate, thinking of the legendary Hope Diamond, which was blue and rumored to have been found in Golconda.

  “Correct. But all Golconda gems share a magical quality. It’s like looking into the purest river moving through the stone. Clear water, they called it back in the day. If I did have one to sell, I wouldn’t just sell it to the highest bidder. They’d have to appreciate the beauty . . .”

  Sophie beamed at George. “You old romantic.”

  Kate studied her friends. George looked at Sophie as if he could gaze at her forever. He was proud of his clever wife, and Kate couldn’t help but feel a tinge of jealousy whenever she was around this flamboyant couple. She loved them both dearly, of course. It was just that when she was near them, Kate wondered if she would feel that kind of deep connection ever again.

  They all paused to look at the diamond ring flashing on the wall.

  “Who created this?” Sophie wondered aloud. “The peasecods are exquisite. It took time to make this ring. Whoever it was intended for must have been deeply loved.” She squeezed George’s hand and he leaned in and gave her a tender peck on the lips.

  Kate took a sip of champagne and turned her head. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Marcus talking with Lucia and a circle of men. As if sensing her gaze, he looked over and gave her a wave before returning to the conversation. Kate couldn’t work out what surprised her more: that Marcus had brought a tux to London or that he looked so at ease in it.

  She turned back to her own conversation in time to see Sophie raise her champagne glass and say, “To Golconda. May it surprise you.”

  Chapter 9

  Essie

  LONDON, 1912

  It was Friday afternoon and Essie was kneeling beside a desk in Miss Barnes’s classroom, helping a student with his spelling list—an arrangement Miss Barnes had kindly negotiated with the headmaster the day before so the twins and Gertie could stay in school until the end of term. But, the headmaster had warned, if Essie failed to pay the thruppence a week owed for each girl, they would all have to leave at once.

  When term finished, Gertie would finish school and start at the factory alongside Essie. Ma had agreed to Gertie’s weekly pay and start date in writing with Mrs. Ruben, despite Essie’s protestations that Gertie should stay at school until at least the end of the year.

  “And how would we be paying for that, Essie?” Ma had snapped.

  Essie shifted her weight on her knees as she leaned across the desk to help a little boy remember his alphabet.

  When Essie had approached her manager to request an afternoon off so she could assist at the school, Mrs. Ruben had been initially reluctant. “I’ll be having to dock your pay.” But when Essie suggested that Mrs. Ruben instead pay Essie a little extra to cover her sisters’ schooling, Mrs. Ruben bristled. “This factory is not a charity, young lady. I’ll thank you for not taking advantage of my good nature.” She did, however, agree to the afternoon off.

  Still, Essie couldn’t help thinking that this small concession would not be shared with Mr. Ruben. Mrs. Ruben was a battle-axe to be sure, but she looked after her workers in her own way. Last week, Bridget had found a large remnant of wool felt folded and tucked into her basket. When Bridget asked Mrs. Ruben about it, she was batted away with a stiff, “It was going to be tossed out, so it might as well be fashioned into a baby’s blanket.”

  And so it came to be that Essie had agreed to help Miss Barnes with reading and writing on Friday afternoons in the classroom as part-payment for the girls’ tuition.

  “H,” said Essie softly as the boy nodded and started to scratch the letter with a flourish, trying not to smudge his chalk across the slate.

  “Can you think of three words that begin with an H, Jack?”

  He scratched his head, and his legs jittered so hard they hit the desk.

  “’Istory, miss. And ’orrible—like my dad.” He looked around the room sheepishly in case the teacher had heard. But there was no need as Miss Barnes had moved to a different room.

  “One more,” coaxed Essie.

  “’Appy.” He gave her a gap-toothed grin. “Like you, miss. You always wear your best smile in ’ere. Not like Mr. Morton,” he whispered in a conspiratorial voice before starting to scratch out a row of wobbly I’s.

  “Ah, well.” Essie patted his back as she stood up. “Thank you, Master Wainwright. You are most kind,” she said in a mock-official voice.

  The boy giggled, and Essie gave him a wistful smile. She wished she could keep him at this desk farting, smudging his chalk, and scrawling illegible letters forever. Instead, he’d be turning eleven soon enough and laboring down at the docks with his four older brothers.

  How could Essie prevent her sisters from sharing his fate?

  As she walked to the front of the room Essie counted the children with knock-knees, lame legs, missing teeth, and hunched backs. It was at least half the class.

  Still more had bare feet.

  Essie counted her family’s blessings. Maggie would be fine once she got over her cold. The girls would be much stronger once their leg braces were fitted—when she could find the extra money. At least they all had shoes. That was something . . .

  She pointed to the board where a spelling list ran down the side in Miss Barnes’s immaculate script.

  “When you are finished with your alphabet and your letters, I’d like you to copy this spelling list onto your slates.”

  Over in the back corner a trio of fair-haired boys who spent alternate mornings and afternoons working in the mills were fast asleep. The sun streamed in the window, and a smattering of freckles rained across the face of the youngest. He looked serene, younger than his eleven years. He spluttered a little and lifted his hand to scratch his nose. Essie grimaced. His hands were red and cracked, wrinkled like an old man’s.

  Like hers. She pulled the jar of beeswax and almond oil salve from her apron pocket, given to her by her neighbor Mrs. Yarwood, and tapped the boy on the shoulder. “Here, Jimmy, rub this on your hands. It’ll make them feel better.”

  “Thanks, miss,” said the boy gratefully as he scooped a glob onto his palm and rubbed it into his work-roughened hand
s.

  Essie smoothed her skirts and walked over to where Gertie was working her way through a list. Where all the other children worked on slates, Gertie worked in a book gifted to her by the Yarwoods. The page of her ledger book was divided into three columns. In one column was a list of English words; in the other two columns Gertie would write the translation of each word into both Latin and French. Essie felt a wave of pride, before noticing a glint of gold under Gertie’s sleeve.

  It was the button from last night.

  * * *

  Freddie had arrived home filthy from a day’s digging and gone straight to where the three girls were huddled around the kitchen table. Usually he was weary and wanted a wash and supper before collapsing straight into bed, but today he seemed excited. His arms twitched as his hands remained in his pockets. Essie narrowed her eyes and thought about the handfuls of jewels the men had plucked from the soil over on Cheapside . . .

  Gertie had finished the extra mathematics Miss Barnes had set her and had begun to sketch the twins with their heads together in mischief, braids tumbling down their shoulders.

  Essie stood at the table bruising a handful of ivy leaves with a wooden roller before dropping them into a pot of boiling port and cinnamon. The kitchen air smelled thick, sweet, and woody—like Christmas. Mrs. Yarwood, from next door, had shown Essie how to make the blend. “A draught of the liquor infused with a generous helping of ivy is the speediest cure for too much wine, love.”

  Either way, Ma was in a bitter mood, and a cup of this brew would see her off to sleep until morning. The house was calmer—quieter—when she slept.

  Essie tried to quell her frustration that their mother had spent a day’s spinning wages on half a flagon. More’s the pity there was not a tea that could drain away her sadness.

  The twins were reverently watching Gertie. There was only the mildest pushing and squabbling and bony elbow in the guts as they took turns to pass the ink to their older sister.

  Freddie boomed, “Who wants to play the button game?” Their pa had taught it to Gertie, Maggie, and Flora when a brass button from his dress uniform had fallen off right before he shipped out—before Ma ushered the girls away and carefully stitched the button back on with a tender smile.