As they walked past the front parlor, Essie spotted Mr. Yarwood sitting in his favorite leather chair, smoking a cigar and reading The Times.
Mr. Yarwood quickly lowered his paper and nodded at Essie and her sisters and gave them a warm smile as they passed.
“Hello, Miss Murphy. Hello, young ladies.”
“Good evening, Mr. Yarwood,” Essie replied as she ushered the girls down the hall and into Mrs. Yarwood’s bright kitchen with its buttercup walls and floral curtains. Instead of the Murphys’ dirt floor, the Yarwoods had gleaming floorboards polished with linseed oil.
They sat at a sweet round oak table, already set with soup-spoons and blue linen napkins. Essie unfolded her napkin and gestured at the girls to do the same. Maggie flicked her napkin with a flourish and giggled as she laid it across her lap, spine straight, as if she were dining at the Ritz.
Mrs. Yarwood busied herself ladling soup from a big tureen into blue bowls.
Flora leaned over to smell the soup, and Maggie shot Mrs. Yarwood a quizzical look, not daring to speak.
“Lentil with a few caraway seeds. I thought I’d make up a bit of soup using the cider stock I had left over from the ham,” Mrs. Yarwood said, in answer to their strange looks.
“Well, it sounds delicious,” said Essie, lifting her spoon and nodding at the girls to do the same.
“Wait! Just one more thing,” said Mrs. Yarwood, and she bustled over to her cool box. She produced a jug from which she scooped a dollop of cream into each of the soup bowls and sprinkled them with parsley.
Essie lifted her spoon to her mouth. The soup was thin, slightly salty from the ham and sour from the cider, sweetened and softened by the lentils. The cream thickened the soup, and the caraway seeds left a warm hint of anise on her tongue.
“The caraway’s gone to seed already in my garden.” Mrs. Yarwood pointed to where the plants feathered among the neat lines of carrot tops and tomatoes in her backyard plot. “It’s been so unseasonably warm . . . Here, have some more, Miss Maggie.”
Mrs. Yarwood swooped on Maggie’s empty bowl and refilled it, again adding cream and parsley.
Essie frowned a little at Maggie. “Careful, don’t be greedy—”
“Nonsense! I’ll have none of that. These girls have hollow legs that need filling. Don’t you Gertie, dear?”
Gertie looked up from stirring her soup; she had been lost in a daze, studying the pattern of the cream melting into the broth. “Thank you, Mrs. Yarwood,” she said. “This is better than anything King George is being dished up, I’m sure of it.”
“Eat up, Gertie-girl. There’s plenty more where that came from.” She patted Gertie on the shoulder then leaned over to Essie and whispered, “I put a little extra pinch of the caraway on account of the girls. It’ll warm their heads and their tummies and hopefully help to drive away those nasty coughs.”
Mrs. Yarwood acted as the neighborhood’s unofficial dispensary. Everyone knew that if you were going through hard times and couldn’t afford to visit a doctor or hospital, you could send to Mrs. Yarwood for some thyme and myrrh powder to ease a sore tooth, a licorice and calendula liniment to ease a rash, or a bitter cough syrup sweetened with cinnamon so the little ones would swallow it by the spoonful. Sometimes Mrs. Yarwood would keep the child at her home for a day or two until a fever had passed.
Made lively by the hearty meal, the girls were chattering excitedly around the table. Gertie’s cheeks were flushed as she recounted a ballroom scene from a play she was studying with Miss Barnes, describing the silk ball gown and billowing skirts of Juliet as she linked arms with a dashing intruder and danced at the grandest ball in Verona.
“Can’t you just imagine a place where all the floors and walls are made of marble, and the women can wear silk gowns in any color they like?” she enthused.
“I’d choose a ruby red,” Flora declared.
“I’d choose purple,” said Maggie. “And Essie would choose blue. Bright blue.”
“You know me too well,” said Essie. “But don’t forget my diamond earrings and gold buttons—” Essie stopped. Gertie’s button. What had she done with it? More importantly, what could they do with it? Freddie had mentioned a pawnbroker who did the rounds of the building sites. Stony someone, that was his name. She made a note to ask Freddie as a plan started to form in her mind. It might not lead to silk dresses, but it was a start.
“I’d choose white, with green and purple ribbons,” said Gertie with a set jaw, making Mrs. Yarwood chuckle.
“I’m sure you would, Gertie-girl!”
When they’d had their fill of soup, Mrs. Yarwood carved thick slices of beef and served it with roast potatoes and fresh peas and carrots from her garden. She put another plate aside and covered it with a cloth.
“For you to take home for Freddie. Poor fellow . . . all those long hours he works.”
“Thank you. You spoil us, Mrs. Yarwood,” said Essie, grateful that her brother would not miss out on this delicious treat.
The girls devoured their meals with gusto. When they were done, Essie stood to help clear the plates, but Mrs. Yarwood gently pushed her back into her chair.
“Just you rest your feet now. I’ll take care of this washing-up when you’ve left; it will give me something to occupy myself. Mr. Yarwood will be halfway through his newspaper and won’t thank me for interrupting him before he’s finished!”
Mrs. Yarwood smiled fondly as she gestured up the hallway, and in that moment, she was the same dreamy bride whose likeness graced a silver frame on the wall near the entrance to the kitchen. Mrs. Yarwood caught Essie studying the picture and flushed slightly.
“Thirty years next month. Posting a letter, he was. Right near the Victoria station. We both reached toward the postbox at the same time and, gentleman that he is, Mr. Yarwood stepped back and allowed me to post my letter first. Our eyes locked and, well . . .” Her face was as red as a beet now, and she wiped her hands on her apron.
Flora giggled and Maggie looked up at Mrs. Yarwood from under her long lashes. Mrs. Yarwood reached out and tickled Maggie under her chin.
“It’s not much of a story, I know. Silly, isn’t it? Meeting at a postbox. But I could tell right in that moment that Mr. Yarwood was a good man. A kind man. He came for tea at my parents’ house the following Wednesday. He then came every Wednesday, before he went to his night accounting class. We went on like that for months. Sometimes on a Saturday we’d go out for a walk around the Serpentine, followed by an ice cream. Vanilla. Or strawberry . . .”
Mrs. Yarwood stood and picked up her plate.
“I’m carrying on. We’re no Romeo and Juliet, but we’ve been happy enough. Saved our pennies for a year until we could marry. Made a down payment on this little place, then the garden flat where you rent. We didn’t need all the rooms in the end, since we weren’t blessed with children. So we are pleased enough to see a good family in it.”
Essie would be forever grateful the Yarwoods had rented their garden flat to the Murphys, otherwise they’d be with the rest of their kind in the slums over the lane—or, worse, the workhouse. Both families lived in an old row house, divided into two. The Yarwoods had the bigger half, with the majority of the garden, and the Murphys had the smaller flat with a garden just big enough for a chicken shed and a few rows of vegetables. The sun’s last rays were beaming through the window, bathing the kitchen in golden light. Essie sighed and ran her hands over the neatly pressed tablecloth. Leaning back in her chair, she imagined eating all her meals at a table like this, surrounded by the girls and Freddie. And Ma, of course—when she was sober.
In the mellow light she thought of Edward Hepplestone, the man with the green eyes. The wrinkles around his eyes when he smiled. His full lips. There had been something in the look between them . . . Should she respond to his note?
She was still pondering this question when Mrs. Yarwood placed the last of the dirty plates in the sink with a clatter and turned back to face her guests. “Now, I wonde
r if you little mites have a bit of room in your tummies for cake?”
Maggie’s eyes widened and she looked to Essie to see if this was a trick.
“I have here a little left over from Mr. Yarwood’s afternoon tea: apple cake. His favorite.”
She cut four thick wedges and transferred them onto pretty blue plates with scalloped edges.
As Flora reached for two plates to pass them along, Mrs. Yarwood cried, “Wait!”
The little girl withdrew her hands smartly as if they’d been smacked.
Mrs. Yarwood smiled and produced a small bowl. “You don’t want to be missing the best part. Clotted cream! This won’t keep until tomorrow so you’d best all have a double scoop.”
Essie suspected Mr. Yarwood had been dispatched down to the corner store the minute Mrs. Yarwood walked back in her front door having issued her dinner invitation.
“This will put a little meat on those bones,” she said with just the faintest furrow of her brow. “And one for you, Miss Essie.”
Mrs. Yarwood placed the biggest slice of cake in front of Essie. She wasn’t sure whether she could eat anything more. Her stomach had shrunk along with their circumstances. Still, she didn’t want to appear rude, so she lifted her fork and began to eat, savoring the caramelized apple with just a hint of brandy.
She frowned as Flora pushed a too-big chunk onto her fork with her fingers and wobbled it to her mouth before stuffing it in.
Not to be outdone, Maggie ran her finger over her already-empty plate and lifted it to her lips to lick so as not to waste a drop of the heavenly thick cream.
“Flora! Maggie! Manners!” hissed Essie, remembering back to when her mother used to let her lick the spoon when she was baking. She can’t have been more than eight. Her mother’s belly had been as round and ripe as the Kerry Pippin apples that fell from the tree in their backyard. In fact, Clementine’s belly had been so big that Essie had had to help her tie the apron strings. Oh, how she’d loved it when her mother made apple pie . . . It had been such a long time since she had. Not since Da had died. It seemed to Essie that the Murphy children had lost more than their father to the war; they had lost their mother too. But she was determined that the twins, at least, wouldn’t feel Ma’s absence the way their older siblings did.
* * *
Essie sat in the rocking chair in the corner of their tiny bedroom sewing, oil lamp burning beside her. She was hemming a pair of pants for Freddie that she’d fashioned from an old woolen blanket Mrs. Ruben had folded into her basket when no one was looking. If she steamed the trousers in the morning—and no one studied the stitching too closely—they should be a sturdy enough pair for work.
Essie hadn’t failed to notice Freddie’s foreman’s pristine suit and pressed shirt. What would it be like to wake up to fresh linen every day? She’d noticed his strong hands, too, and she slowed her needlework just for a second as she imagined what it would be like to have one of those hands caress her cheek.
She could feel herself blushing. Had she been trying to impress him just a little yesterday afternoon in Cheapside when she’d lifted her chin and behaved as demurely as a true lady might? She’d been desperate for him to see her not just as a factory worker—a navvy’s sister—but instead as someone at home in a foyer with gilded ceilings, oil paintings, and wide hallways.
She imagined he might have a sister or a mother among the throngs at the Monument in their white dresses.
Her eyes strained as she stitched the last of the hem. She sighed and folded the pants before standing and placing them on the chair. Then she carried the lamp over to her bedside table and climbed into bed beside Gertie. Under her sister’s hand lay the ledger book Mr. Yarwood had given her. Essie prized the notebook from beneath the girl’s hand and placed it on the table beside the lamp.
Essie knew she should turn the lamp off, but she was restless and couldn’t sleep.
On the far side of the bed, the twins lay curled together, arms entwined atop the blanket. She sat up a little and watched their chests rise and fall, observed the dark shadows under their eyes. They were not even a decade old, and yet they wore the weariness of the elderly.
Outside there were shouts and whistles as the public house closed. Irish accents boomed down the narrow streets as their owners staggered to their homes reeking of beer. Essie thought of her mother’s torn stockings. Had she stumbled home just like these men, swaying and sad? Knowing that the morn would bring a day just as miserable as the last? And on that cheery note, she turned off the lamp, pulled the thin blanket up to her chin, and went to sleep.
Chapter 13
Kate
HYDERABAD, INDIA, PRESENT DAY
Kate bounced around in the back seat of the taxi as it bumped over potholes, watching a purple plastic god Shiva bob and rock on the dashboard as Lady Gaga blasted from the stereo. Even the diva’s soaring notes failed to block the constant screech of horns and thrum of engines as the Hyderabad traffic crawled toward the ancient mosque of Charminar. Marcus sat in the front seat with the window down, camera poised. Scooters and motorcycles weaved across the lanes of the road and onto the footpaths, and thick exhaust fumes mixed with tantalizing cooking smells.
They stopped at a traffic light and a knot of skinny children banged against the doors of the taxi and thrust their upturned palms through the window even as Kate started to roll it up. The kids remained brazenly optimistic, running alongside the car laughing, teasing, as the lights changed and the driver moved off. They were desperate, but not angry.
Hyderabad was seething with life. Kate had never experienced such chaos. But, then, she’d never been to India before.
Marcus looked over his shoulder and grinned. “It’s a lot to take in.”
Kate shook her head in wonder. “It’s like . . . it’s like life has exploded.”
Even though she’d been told her first moment in India would be unlike any other travel experience, she’d smugly dismissed it. But outside, women in bright saris and shawls carried baskets with gold bangles layered all the way up their arms. Stately Shi’a women in black burqas and hijabs walked alongside men in open shirts, shorts, and flip-flops, while hawkers in salwar suits peddled their wares on every corner. Lanky youths sporting Coldplay and ripped i hate trump T-shirts sipped chai at tables set on footpaths.
They continued past rows of crumbling concrete buildings, teeming with peddlers and strung with colored tarpaulins as the Charminar appeared on the skyline.
Marcus’s phone rang. As he held it up to see who was calling, Kate saw the name aaa olivia on the screen.
Kate wondered what olivia had done to merit the priority aaa that would lift her to the top of his contacts list. She thought about when she’d last seen Marcus—at the Tiffany anniversary celebrations in New York a couple of months back. The striking woman on his arm dressed in Dolce & Gabbana had definitely not been aaa olivia. Kate tried to recall the woman’s name: Natalya? Natalie? She’d had the steel-blue eyes and straw-colored hair of a Russian supermodel, top of her class from Wharton Business School, and a new top-floor office at J.P. Morgan.
Marcus turned slightly for privacy, speaking in a hushed voice. “Liv, I promise! I’m only here a couple of days, so you can still meet me in Galle . . . Okay, I’ll call you tomorrow. ” He turned and caught Kate’s eye. “Love you too,” he said casually before ending the call and tucking the phone into his shirt pocket.
Kate swallowed, a little thrown. Marcus had spoken the words so lightly—so tenderly—that it had shocked her.
She wasn’t indignant on behalf of the Russian goddess. Natalya/Natalie had looked like she could lead a revolution as she’d outlined her new job overseeing collections and special acquisitions to Kate. She imagined there was a long queue of men vying for a permanent position on that golden arm.
Marcus adjusted the scuffed camera bag on his knees and a lock of hair fell across his face. He briefly lifted his left hand and rubbed his chin, as if he was struggling with a decision.
His hands were large, calloused, and weathered by the sun, a far cry from the fine-boned pale hands of conservators and curators—or Jonathan’s surgeon’s hands.
Kate’s own phone beeped with a message from her sister: Lunch next Friday when you are back in Boston? Just us. Jess working, Em at kinder. Let’s go fancy.
She quickly typed in a response: Sure! Ditch kinder and bring Emma. Can’t wait. xx
Bella was right. Kate considered her cousin’s button and the linked sketches and replayed the words she’d been turning over in her head ever since their dinner the night before: The most precious things in life can’t be bought or replaced.
She missed seeing Molly, Jessica, and Emma every week. When Jonathan had first moved out, she’d spent several days a week curled up on their sofa with Emma, watching The Wiggles DVDs, both of them gazing wide-eyed at the people dancing in colored sweatshirts, and clapping along to “Fruit Salad,” “Yummy Yummy,” and “Big Red Car.” Jessica cooked comfort food—spaghetti and meatballs, coq au vin, and lasagna—while Molly managed Kate’s divorce settlement and helped her organize her receipts into color-coded piles before curling up beside her on the sofa and resting her head on Kate’s shoulder, just as she had when they were children.
“Your curls are going up my nose again,” she’d complain as the handsome Red Wiggle shook his index fingers in the air and gyrated his hips.
* * *
The four minarets of the Charminar rose from an ocean of cars and taxis, almost an apparition in the heat and haze. The traffic had all but stalled, so Marcus paid the driver, grabbed his camera bag, and said, “Let’s go,” as he opened his door and stepped out into the maelstrom.
“It’s beautiful,” Kate said, standing stock-still as she admired the peaked arches and Islamic patterns dancing around the corners of the mosque.
Marcus grabbed her hand and pulled her close as they weaved through honking rickshaws and scooters to dart down a lane.
“We need to go straight to the bazaar,” yelled Kate above the noise. “I can’t wait to see the traders—”
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