The Lost Jewels

by Kirsty Manning

  A tear leaked from Essie’s eye, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.

  “I mean it. You’ve all lost so much. Her grief . . .”

  “I’ve told Gertie to meet you and Mr. Yarwood near Piccadilly Circus Station after school. It’s so kind of you to take her to supper. I’m so grateful to you for having her in the afternoons and evenings while I do extra shifts. It’s meant that she could finish this term at school.”

  Well, the extra shifts and the money from the jewels, though of course she didn’t mention those.

  Mrs. Yarwood squeezed Essie’s hand. “It’s been our pleasure to look after Gertie. We love her like she’s our own.”

  As she pulled the coat across Essie’s shoulders and started to help button it, she paused, and pressed a hand to Essie’s cheek. “You look a picture,” she said softly.

  * * *

  Essie stood underneath the awning at Fortnum & Mason, pressing close to the windows to avoid mud being splashed onto her skirts. An endless parade of motorcars and open-topped buses advertising Dewar’s whisky and The Evening News honked and crawled around the fountain at the heart of Piccadilly Circus.

  The chaos and confusion at the junction was matched by the churning in her stomach.

  I have to see you . . .

  Edward’s words were tucked in her pocket, and she traced the outline of the envelope. He longed to see Essie as much as she did him.

  Meet me outside Fortnum & Mason at 6:30 p.m.

  The tight strokes of his penmanship were urgent. Fierce and passionate. He wrote with the same sure hand that had unbuttoned her bodice and guided her onto the table. Strong hands that steadied the oars when they went boating on the Serpentine.

  Hands that had enveloped her own as she grieved in the week after the twins died.

  She shivered as the icy evening breeze picked up and stung her cheeks and ears. Tried to slow her beating heart by imagining Edward pressing his cheek against hers as he greeted her, his sweet breath warming her neck.

  Impatient, she turned her back to the wind and studied the fountain. Normally, Essie would not permit herself a glimpse of the naked statue of Eros set to stride across London. But this evening Essie studied the Greek god of love and remembered blushing when reading Greek myths late into the night by candlelight when Gertie had borrowed some books from Miss Barnes.

  The stories had created the same stirring and tickling sensation along her limbs that she felt this very evening as she took in the line of the statue’s arms, the tensed muscle in his bronze legs as he stood poised to leap, bow and arrow tipped to fire.

  Eros had Essie in his sights.

  Essie’s head swam with emotion. Edward obviously had something urgent to tell her—to ask her.

  I wish to discuss the arrangements in person . . .

  Edward had apologized in the same note for the lack of contact, explaining it had been impossible to find a moment to write since his return from Boston. The flurry of building across Westminster and London were keeping Edward fully occupied. Also, Ma had been watching Essie like a hawk, sending Gertie or Freddie with her on errands as simple as fetching a bottle of peppermint oil.

  It didn’t matter: Edward was on his way right now to meet her. Alone.

  Dusk fell and the electric streetlights flickered awake.

  Essie glanced back at Fortnum & Mason. Inside, wicker hampers overflowing with boxes of tea, cheese, chocolates, and sweets were arranged between vases of pink and white lilies. Essie wondered if these were the same type of hampers the shop had famously sent to the suffragettes in prison who’d smashed these very windows a couple of years back. It had been all over the newspaper front pages at the time.

  She wandered from the window to stand beneath a lamppost. Her feet were sore from the walk across the bridge, but she needed to shake the nerves—and excitement—from her legs, otherwise she’d be twitching at the table all evening.

  Out of the evening mist an image of her twins appeared. Two smiling faces, dimpled and filthy. One slightly fuller in the cheeks than the other.

  She sighed, and her chest tightened. She would give anything for a swift kick in the shins from Maggie as her skinny little legs twitched under the kitchen table while she mopped up her bread and dripping. Closing her eyes, she imagined leaning over Flora and pressing her nose into her curls smelling of sarsaparilla and soap as she sectioned the child’s wayward hair into braids.

  A sharp honk from a passing car startled Essie from her daydream. The giggling twins faded into the mist, leaving Essie’s heart cleaved and aching.

  She never knew when grief would show its hand—or if grief would ever leave. Even in moments of happiness, sadness always seemed to lurk in the shadows just a couple of paces away. Essie closed her eyes, taking the damp London air deep into her lungs. With each breath, her chest loosened a little and her breathing eased.

  Edward would be here soon and all would be well.

  Better than well: it would be perfect.

  Hearing a brisk footfall behind her, she turned, and couldn’t help breaking into a smile when she saw that it was Edward striding toward her.

  He was wearing a new three-piece suit and a bowler hat, but underneath a dark curl had escaped and was stuck to his forehead. He pulled up abruptly two paces short of Essie, and clicked his heels together. His shoes were glossy with nary a scuff.

  Had he worn this new suit to impress her? She wasn’t one whose head was turned by a new outfit. All the same, she felt flattered by the gesture.

  “Edward.” She nodded with what she hoped was a demure smile. She lifted her gaze from his new shoes to his dark eyes. But the brim of his hat cast a shadow over his face. Her eyes searched for his in vain.

  Edward tipped his hat back and looked her up and down, pausing for a beat, before shifting his weight and straightening his shoulders.

  “Hello. Essie, I . . .”

  He took a nervous step toward her and she could almost hear the thud of his heartbeat. His shoulders were pulled tight, and Essie felt her stomach flip when she thought of the smooth skin underneath his shirt, the strong contours of his back. How safe she had felt when wrapped in his arms.

  A familiar stirring started along her limbs, but she shook it off, not wanting to appear distracted.

  Edward’s face was flushed.

  She glanced inside the tearooms, glowing with warmth, and wondered why they hadn’t gone straight inside. But Edward made no move to thread her arm through his—or even to kiss her or take her hand.

  “Thank you for meeting me at such short notice,” he said.

  Essie beamed up at his tanned face, too embarrassed to admit she had waited daily for the note that signaled he was home from Boston, until she could wait no more and wrote herself.

  “I—I have something for you.” Edward thrust his hand into his waistcoat.

  She took a step toward him and held her breath.

  “Can you . . . can you hold out your hand?” he mumbled, a little shyer now.

  Essie removed Mrs. Yarwood’s silk glove, then produced her left hand. Her pale skin looked golden under the lamplight. She felt too shy to speak.

  Beads of sweat dotted Edward’s brow as he said awkwardly, “This . . . this is for you.”

  Edward grabbed Essie’s hand and flipped it over. Her hand shook as he dropped something hard and cool into her palm.

  She closed her hand around the object, not trusting herself to look. The curve pressed into the fleshy part of her palm, and her fingers traced the gemstone.

  A ring.

  Essie hardly dared to breathe.

  Slowly, she held her hand up to the lamplight and unfurled her fingers one by one. Using her right hand, she lifted the ring from the palm of her left. It was painted white on the outside with a string of dainty black flowers and sprigs that danced their way up to a large square clear stone that glinted in the light.

  “A diamond!” she whispered, and she looked at Edward, her heart full.
>
  It was happening: Edward was proposing. All the tension drained from her body as she realized his gruffness had been nothing more than nervous jitters—the same as her.

  Ma was wrong. Essie wasn’t making a mistake. Edward wasn’t a bit like other men.

  Edward had looked beyond her stained hems, scuffed shoes, and rough voice, and seen something special. He loved her—he’d shown her that afternoon in his flat just how much—and now they were going to be a proper family. He’d even called her his rough diamond once, hadn’t he?

  But there was nothing rough about the ring she held in her hand.

  “Oh, Edward!” Essie pictured the lace in the window at Harrods in Knightsbridge that she might be able to fashion into a bonnet for their bonnie boy. A boy—she was certain—with Edward’s wide forehead and ruddy cheeks, dressed in britches and shiny new boots, just like his father. What a pretty sight they would make parading through Cheapside with a baby carriage—a rabbit pie and an apple underneath to deliver to Edward for his lunch. She glanced at the church dome at the end of the street, blue in the moonlight, and imagined stepping inside with clean boots and her baby in new woolen swaddling. Edward standing proudly at her side as they attended mass.

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. She extended her left hand toward Edward, the ring still resting on her palm, and let it hover in the space between them.

  Edward still stood red-faced and glued to the spot. Silent.

  Realizing her beau was feeling a bit awkward—and perhaps a little exposed, standing under the shopfront awning—Essie considered slipping her engagement ring onto her left hand herself. Smiling, she noted he’d done well to find such a small band to fit her slender fingers.

  So thoughtful. He was going to make a fine husband.

  Shifting his weight and clearing his throat, Edward’s hand dived into the inside pocket of his suit and he pulled out a stiff cream envelope.

  He looked almost sad as he handed it to her.

  “This . . . this is also for you.”

  “Thank you!” She quickly slid a finger along the tongue of the envelope and slipped out the piece of paper inside. She held it up to catch the lamplight and strained to read it.

  Edward rocked back and forth on his heels, but stepped no closer. “It’s a steamer ticket to Boston,” he explained.

  Essie’s heart almost exploded. He had been thinking of her the whole time he was away, and now they were going to try their luck in America—together!

  She looked again at the ticket in her hand, then raised her eyes to his, confused. “But there’s only one ticket.” She began to tremble. What did this mean? “So when . . . when will you come? And Gertie?” The Cheapside job was finished; Freddie had told her so just last week. Had Edward taken on another job?

  “It’s all arranged. I spoke with your mother just before I came to meet you.”

  She exhaled with relief as her heart sang and burst with sunshine. Finally, Ma would be proud of her. She tried to imagine him stooped in the front room, folded into their only sitting chair while her mother stood opposite smelling of sour brew, her tight puckered mouth stretching into an involuntary smile. How Essie wished she’d been present when Edward had asked Ma for her hand in marriage.

  “You leave for Boston next week.”

  “But . . .” She didn’t want to start their new life—this adventure—alone. And why must she leave so soon?

  “What about Gertie?” she asked, suddenly agitated. “I can’t leave her behind . . .”

  She pictured Edward in his Mayfair flat as he straddled her body. He had leaned low and lost himself in her breasts, cupping them with both hands and kissing them all over, groaning. Tickling her nipples with his tongue before sliding down to her stomach and—

  Her face burned as her body thrummed with desire.

  Nice girls shouldn’t think such things. But she’d never forget the sweet, sticky tenderness as they had lain together afterward, her head on his chest and him stroking her arm as he promised that one day they would be together.

  Essie looked again at the steamer ticket, at the diamond ring in her palm. “But where will we have the wedding? And when?” A tiny part of her was giddy at the thought of Ma seeing her eldest daughter walk up the aisle and wed this fine young man.

  “The ring—it’s not for that; it’s for the child.”

  Essie leaned against the lamppost to steady herself as her breath shortened. “You’re . . . you’re not coming to Boston with me?” She took a step back, confused. As she gripped the ring it suddenly felt like ice.

  “My parents, they’d never . . . they’d cut me off.” He was looking at his shoes now, unable to meet her eyes. “From the business . . . everything . . . I’m sorry.”

  “But what about Greenwich? You said you came looking for me! And the afternoons in Hyde Park and . . . and in your apartment. What happened between us was special. I felt it. You did too, surely if you explained to them—”

  “I’ve tried,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, Essie, but they’ve made it quite clear: if I marry you, then I lose everything.”

  “We could move to Boston, no one knows us there.”

  He shook his head. “That wouldn’t work; people do know me in Boston.”

  “Somewhere else then. Anywhere . . .” She was begging now.

  “I’d be cut off,” he repeated. “Left with nothing. Do you understand?”

  Essie stiffened and dropped her hands to her side. She did understand how awful it was to have nothing. Edward had only to look at her—and poor skinny Freddie—and see exactly what his life would look like if he were to cut himself off from his wealthy family. And he wasn’t prepared to make that sacrifice.

  She covered her face with her hands. Her chest tightened and she found it hard to breathe. It had turned out just like Ma had said it would. Her shame and humiliation stung far more than the bitter wind lashing her ankles and cheeks.

  “You’ll be able to get a good price for the ring . . .” Edward’s voice hardened a fraction. “Enough to start afresh.” Essie could tell by his tone that he was still trying to convince himself as much as Essie. He spoke in a clipped voice—as if he were in one of the talking pictures they’d seen on the silver screen, not warm flesh and blood standing in the evening drizzle.

  “I’m sorry, Essie,” he said again. “I shouldn’t have made promises I was in no position to keep. My family’s name would be disgraced if this”—he waved at her stomach—“were ever found out. It’s for the best that you leave London. To avoid any, er, confusion . . .” His neck was flushed above his crisp collar. “It’s best to make a proper break.”

  She was just another one of his jobs that needed finishing off. She blinked away the tears that were starting to form and gulped down the sobs that lodged in her throat like a stone that couldn’t be swallowed.

  If she spoke, Essie knew, she might vomit all over his shiny new shoes. A part of her wanted to.

  Edward glanced back over his shoulder, as if he was in a hurry to leave now. If he saw the bronze sculpture of Eros with an arrow, he chose to ignore it.

  When Edward turned back to Essie, he said, “I hope you’re not going to make a scene. I’ve been more than reasonable under the circumstances.” His voice was lower, colder. “I’ve given you a bloody diamond, Essie, for Christ’s sake.”

  Once, Essie recalled, he’d cried her name in ecstasy. She thought she might split apart. Her dashing beau had become a cruel stranger.

  Unreliable. Unpredictable. Selfish.

  Essie could smell the yeasty brew on his breath. It was the drink that made people sour and bitter.

  With that smell came the realization of the ugliness that lay ahead if she were to stay in London. She recalled their high teas taken in shadowy corners, the hats lifted in the street as she was hastily ushered past ladies and gentlemen in expensive silk suits and dresses, never introduced. Edward would never be proud to be seen with Essie. And who could blame him? Essie’s
own cheeks burned with shame on the rare occasion she walked with her disheveled mother to school, or the greengrocer, or to church.

  It was time for Essie to end this pattern of shame.

  Edward started to talk. “When you get to Boston, you can sell the ring—”

  “Stop.” Essie held up her palm. She didn’t want to hear his instructions. She was finished with following everyone else’s rules.

  All her life she’d imagined that, if only she kept to the rules, one day there would be a space for her. A warm bath, buttercup curtains. A clean, happy home filled with enough food for a loving family. Gertie would finish school and it would be the proudest moment of Essie’s life.

  But Ma had been right all along. A lifetime of factory work, ragged clothes, and dealing with the self-serving likes of Father McGuire and Mr. Morton lay ahead. Essie’s life would be no different from the life her mother had.

  Essie wanted to keep her baby, but how? The child growing inside her deserved more. She didn’t want to bring this baby into her world of despair, decay, and death.

  She wouldn’t.

  Essie turned on her heel and started to walk away.

  “Essie! Wait!” cried an indignant Edward as he grabbed her by the wrist. “I just gave you a diamond ring. You could at least say goodbye.”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “Essie!” She swore she could hear her name being called as if from a distance, but it was probably just the drizzle and hiss of the wind. She was imagining it, just like she’d imagined the little faces of the twins . . .

  Several people eyed the pair with curiosity as they scurried past in the rain, but they pursed their lips as they saw Essie’s muddy skirt and old boots. Who cared what business this handsome man had with the bedraggled girl? She didn’t warrant stopping and making a fuss.

  “Let go!”

  Edward dragged her into the shadows around the corner, away from prying eyes. “Essie, you need to understand how sorry I am. It’s not my fault!”

  She refused to meet the coward’s eyes.

  He grasped her chin, trying to force her to look up at him. “I need to hear you say you understand.”