The Lost Jewels

by Kirsty Manning

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Molly exclaimed. “Look how red you are!”

  “I’m not . . .” Kate tapped on the text to open it.

  Madness here. Sorry I keep missing you. Here are the best details of the ring. Take a look at the last one. Miss you. xx

  The Champlevé Ring

  THE CHEAPE SIDE, LONDON, 1665

  Aurelia was startled by the knock at the door.

  Mother and daughter were busy in the kitchen, preparing traditional treats for the feast of St. Nicholas, but their guests—the neighbors and her lovely Jacob—were not expected until dusk. It was unlikely to be a customer for the shop, since Papa’s clients were aware that he had embarked on his journeyman Wanderjahr to Amsterdam and Paris. Occasionally a nobleman or merchant—swathed in silk, gold thread, and his own importance—would stop by regardless, only to have Aurelia explain that they would have to come back when Papa returned in spring. “No, milord, I don’t know where Papa stores his stock,” she’d reply—though she always crossed her fingers behind her back as she said it.

  As the knocking grew louder, she said aloud to her mother, “I suppose I’ll have to see who it is.”

  She hurried down the narrow passageway and threw open the door to find Dirk Jenk, her father’s apprentice, on the doorstep.

  “Mr. Jenk! I thought you were still in Amsterdam with Papa?”

  “Aurelia. I’m sorry to intrude . . .”

  His ruddy face paled when Aurelia’s mother bustled down the passage toward them, her belly straining against the apron.

  “What’s all this fuss and—Mr. Jenk! What are you . . . ? Oh!” Mama swayed on her feet. Aurelia and Mr. Jenk both leaped forward to steady her. Together they guided her into the parlor and helped her into a chair.

  No one spoke for several seconds.

  In Mr. Jenk’s tight lips and averted eyes Aurelia read the news he couldn’t bear to utter.

  “When?” Mama’s voice was hoarse.

  “A little over a fortnight ago,” Mr. Jenk replied softly. “He contracted a fever. It was very sudden.” He gestured to a chair. “May I?”

  “Of course,” said Aurelia, though she was barely aware of saying it—her mind had gone suddenly and completely blank.

  “I’m sorry,” the apprentice said, his voice cracking. “He talked of you constantly. He was so looking forward to seeing the new babe when it was born.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe his employer was dead.

  “I brought you this.” He unbuckled his satchel, pulled out a scroll and a letter, and handed them to Aurelia’s mother.

  Mama unrolled the scroll. The document was in Dutch, Aurelia saw, but she recognized the official seal of the Amsterdam Goldsmiths Gilde and her father’s name.

  The accompanying letter had been written in English by Master Goldsmith de Jong. It was a recommendation that the guild admit Papa—now Master Goldsmith—into the Ordinances of the Goldsmiths’ Company.

  As her mama covered her mouth with a hand to stifle a sob, Aurelia felt a fleeting elation. At last, her father—the best goldsmith and jeweler in London—would be recognized as a master. But the feeling vanished and her chest tightened as she realized it meant nothing.

  Papa was dead. His magnificent work—the gold chains, the rings—would never be granted his assay and touch. His pieces buried downstairs in the cellar would remain unmarked.

  As her mother covered her face with her hands and wept, Mr. Jenk shifted his gaze to Aurelia. “He asked that I give this to you.” Reaching into his satchel once more, he withdrew a small leather pouch.

  With a heavy heart, Aurelia took it and loosened the string. Then she tipped the contents into her palm.

  It was a champlevé ring set with the finest of table-cut diamonds.

  “He said it was for your marriage,” Mr. Jenk said somberly. “This is his masterpiece.”

  Chapter 27

  Essie

  LONDON, 1912

  “Was there anything else?” Mr. Lawrence frowned, as if trying to make a decision.

  Essie and Gertie stood before the desk in his shop, shivering, wet, and frightened. They’d presented the antiquarian with the jeweled button Freddie had gifted Gertie all those months before.

  Essie swallowed, then reached into her pocket for the black-and-white diamond ring Edward had given her.

  Mr. Lawrence’s face lit up as he picked the ring up between his thumb and forefinger. The gemstone glinted in the light, and he used his eyepiece to study the diamond.

  “Remarkable! Very clear. Must be almost four carats.”

  Gertie and Essie exchanged a hopeful look.

  Mr. Lawrence continued, “The faceting is exquisite. See these corners here? They’ve been chipped with a scorper.”

  The girls must have looked confused, because he explained, “A scorper is a tiny chisel. They use it when the stone is set, to give it that extra sparkle. This one in particular has a slight angle. See?”

  He held a pencil up and pointed to each side of the diamond, where there was indeed an extra facet. “But this is rather beautiful.” Now he was examining the black-painted enamel flowers and florets on the hoop. “Champlevé. See the pansies and forget-me-nots dancing around the base? Love and death. Was this originally made for a mourning ring, or a betrothal, I wonder?”

  The ring was suspended in a shaft of light coming in through the shop window. As he swiveled it to examine the ring from every angle, the black flowers looked fluid, like ink dropped into water.

  Essie felt dizzy and nauseated. She swallowed and remained expressionless. This ring was a transaction. It meant nothing to her. Yet she was mesmerized by the patterns. The diamond. She’d not permitted herself to slide it onto her finger. Not once.

  “I take it you wish to sell?”

  Essie nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  “And it’s from the same place?”

  “I . . . don’t know.” As she said these words, she realized this ring had never been intended for her. This exquisite ring was intended for another woman’s hand. Edward had not chosen this for her, nor had it made with love. There was no care behind it at all. He’d picked it up out of the dirt and passed it on. Silly of her to place faith in something plucked from the rubbish, even for a moment.

  Essie looked across at Gertie, patted the steamer ticket in her pocket, and knew exactly what she had to do. They’d both be leaving London tonight.

  Mr. Lawrence placed the ring back on the desktop and pushed his chair out from the desk. He left the room via a small door set into the bookshelf and could be heard moving around in the next room.

  Gertie raised an eyebrow and took herself across to the shelf to study the new additions. A leather sandal, a bronze dagger that had seen better days, and some cut-glass vases.

  When the antiquarian returned, he held a thick cream envelope in his hand. The ring and the button sat glistening on the desk in front of him.

  “Here is your payment. I trust you feel this is a fair price.”

  Gertie gasped when she read the huge amount written on the envelope, and Essie’s hand involuntarily moved to her stomach.

  Mr. Lawrence narrowed his eyes a fraction, but said nothing.

  “Thank you, sir,” they said in unison as he handed Essie the envelope. She felt the smoothness of the paper before she slipped it into her pocket. It seemed awkward to count the notes in front of him. She’d do it as soon as they stepped outside.

  Mr. Lawrence said gently, “I believe our business here is done, ladies. Thank you most kindly for thinking of me. I trust you’ll mention it to any of your friends, should they find anything of interest.” He tapped the side of his nose and winked.

  Essie nodded. “Goodbye, Mr. Lawrence. Thank you.”

  The antiquarian must have caught the note of finality in Essie’s voice, and he held her gaze—and hand—for a beat too long. His eyes moved from her reddening cheeks to her swelling bosom and thickening waist.

  A jo
lt of recognition, though not pity. He knew. He understood.

  Mr. Lawrence released Essie’s hand and stepped back. He reached for the button on the desk and handed it back to Gertie. “You may not wear it in your neckpiece ruff like Queen Elizabeth and her consorts, or on a velvet gown to a ball, but I hope it brings you luck. Every artist needs a talisman, no?”

  “Sir! Mr. Lawrence, we can’t accept—” Essie stepped forward to protest.

  “Nonsense!” He gave a slight wave as he coughed. “Quite the clump of clay your boys found.”

  Gertie accepted the button, held it up to the light and watched the rainbow hit a sliver of uncovered wall. “Thank you, Mr. Lawrence,” she said as if in a trance.

  Tears filled Essie’s eyes, and she tried to swallow. She was too scared to speak, lest a torrent of sadness, gratitude, and heart-break spill from her. If she let it out, she might never be able to contain it.

  “I . . . we . . . can’t . . .” Unable to finish the sentence, she shook her head.

  “The button is yours,” the antiquarian said to Gertie. “I insist. My mother once told me that every lass should have a little something sewn into the hem of her skirts.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Gertie.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Lawrence,” Essie repeated and she ushered her sister toward the door.

  She and Gertie stepped out onto the street, but instead of retracing their steps along West Hill, Essie directed Gertie to the nearest underground station. If Essie’s plan was going to work, they had to leave London.

  The Great Fire

  THE CHEAPE SIDE, LONDON, 1666

  Outside, the fire that had blazed across London for days continued to burn, but in the cellar the air was damp and cool as Aurelia began to dig. She’d promised Papa she would look after her mother and brother, but for that she would need his stock.

  A gust of wind slammed the cellar door, sealing her in silky darkness. And still she kept on digging.

  She didn’t notice that, above her, the house had started to burn until it was too late. A flaming joist fell and pinned her to the floor. Her back cracked loudly as she landed. Red and blue flames danced a duet along the wooden beam and licked her skirts.

  Aurelia watched the flames merge and twirl, reminding her of the life and fire in the treasures buried in the dirt below.

  She’d wanted to make Papa proud—to keep her promise to look after Mama and Samuel.

  Her stockings were ablaze, and the thick air turned musky and bitter. She screamed as the fire reached her skirts, but she was helpless, trapped beneath the joist. Soon her throat constricted and she couldn’t swallow. Her breathing grew ragged as her lungs filled with smoke.

  The girl’s head lolled back, and she closed her eyes. Searing heat smothered her body.

  Aurelia counted the faces of those she loved.

  Mama.

  Samuel.

  David.

  George.

  Jacob.

  Papa . . .

  She prayed for the Lord to take her to her father and brothers before the flames swallowed her face. For how would they recognize her otherwise?

  Aurelia recalled her mother’s smile, little Samuel clasping her finger in his fat fist . . . Jacob’s first sweet kiss, tasting of plums. Her last image before the world turned dark and still was of the pretty black-and-white ring her father had made for her betrothal.

  His masterpiece.

  Chapter 28

  Kate

  BOSTON, PRESENT DAY

  Kate plugged her laptop into the second big screen she kept on her desk. She was in a bit of a funk. She hadn’t finished the article for Jane. She was no closer to knowing who had buried the Cheapside jewels, and why.

  This academic low-pressure system came so often after trawling through books and archives, checking dates and studying details of jewels. After she’d pushed herself but failed to come up with something new. There was a hell of a lot of luck involved in historical research. Nobody liked to admit it, but “right time, right place” and all that certainly came into it. But the words of Madame Parsons spurred her on: If you look closely, the ring will reveal itself. The black and white will overlap . . . will penetrate one another, if you like? With champlevé, you have to let time take its course . . .

  Marcus’s oversize images of the champlevé ring appeared on the screen, and she clicked to enlarge them to get a closer look. It was evening, and the velvet curtains were drawn and a heater blasted at her feet.

  The diamond shimmered at various angles, the gold bezel was slightly uneven at each of the corners. Part of the enamel had been chipped, or worn away—definitely stained with what looked like soil. She blew the pictures up further, and now she could see what Madame Parsons had been trying to explain. The white enamel looked almost translucent, and the black did bleed slightly into the white. What appeared so perfect to the naked eye was actually pretty blurry up close.

  She smiled, thinking of Bella’s words at the Serpentine. Life’s full of messy edges.

  So it was.

  An email came up on the screen from Marcus, and she clicked on it immediately. He’d gone straight to Colombia after the New York shows to do a job in a mine there.

  He’d sent images of men hauling trolleys of shale by hand, crouched over rocks, hands black as charcoal on a cutaway mountainside that tumbled away to a lush green valley with a river that flowed to the horizon. Men in waders and polo shirts stood knee-deep in mud, shoveling. The final image was of a hand holding up a chunk of rock, pieces of luminous emerald poking out at all angles. And all of sudden Kate got it. Among the grime and toil and darkness, that handful of translucent green made the heart beat a little faster. It really was magic. No wonder the native Colombians hid their emeralds for years from the Spanish conquistadors. Emeralds were indeed sacred.

  Marcus had sent the email—clearly written after a few beers.

  Check these out! Not far from our watch.

  Just had dinner of rice, beans, shredded chicken, and chorizo with Jesus, my fixer. Call me when you get this!

  Kate dialed his number immediately.

  “Hello!” he exclaimed. “I’ve made a slight change to my travel plans. You home in Boston now?”

  “Sure am. Back to grilled cheese and pasta.” Kate sipped her chardonnay.

  “Thought I might come visit next week, if that’s okay. I’m the keynote speaker at the Boston Photographic Society’s annual lunch next week. The guy they booked can’t make it as he injured himself skiing, so they asked me. Good excuse to visit! I’ll be there Wednesday. I’ll be heading to Sydney a couple of days afterward. I promised Jules and Liv I’d be there for the valedictory dinner. Can’t believe my baby is almost done with school.”

  “I imagine it feels . . . strange,” said Kate.

  “Strange. Exciting. Proud . . . all the things,” said Marcus. “I’ve made so many mistakes, but Liv’s—” His voice cracked.

  “Liv’s amazing! She’s a credit to you . . . and to Julia,” Kate said as her chest tightened.

  “Thanks.” Marcus’s voice steadied. “So, is next week okay with you? To stay, I mean?”

  Kate hesitated.

  She was anxious about her growing feelings for Marcus. He was more than just a shiny distraction for her, and Kate worried about being hurt. She wasn’t sure she had the strength for it.

  “Kate?” His voice was softer now.

  She took a deep breath. “Yes, please come. I’ll be here.” She was giddy with the thought of seeing him—touching him again.

  “Fantastic!”

  When she hung up, she realized she hadn’t thanked Marcus for sending the images of the ring. She zoomed in on the diamond ring yet again . . .

  Then she gasped, peering at it. Was she seeing things, or was there a faint script engraved into the inside of the gold band?

  She’d missed it at the museum; the curatorial staff too; the human eye could pick up only so much with a handheld loupe. Even now, with the ring magn
ified a hundred times, it looked like the merest scratch. It was so delicate; the engraver would have had to have worked with a diamond tip and beat a tiny hammer into the curve of soft gold.

  I GEVE ZOU VIS IN LUIF AURELIAE

  Kate read the words aloud and they echoed around her study. “I give you this in love, Aurelia.”

  And just like that, she felt the words start to flow. She started to type the final section of her article:

  The Champléve Ring

  There is no greater symbol of love—of commitment—than the finger ring. It was the Greeks who developed these tokens of love, and the Romans quickly added their own charm, with secret inscriptions inspired by Ovid quickly becoming the norm . . .

  Kate’s fingers flew over the keyboard, describing the forget-me-nots and pansies, quoting Madame Parsons and detailing the craftsmanship and risk it took to produce a black-and-white enamel ring that would fit on a small finger. She wrote about London’s talented goldsmiths in the seventeenth century, and the trail of trauma—war, plague, and fire—that soured the history books. Stories of grief, betrayal, and death that brought London and her subjects to their knees time and time again.

  This Golconda diamond ring had endured it all.

  Kate gulped the last of her white wine and banged out her final line.

  This ring was made for a woman named Aurelia, and she was loved.

  Chapter 29

  Essie

  LONDON, 1912

  Essie stood at the ticket counter at Paddington Station, Gertie pressed close beside her.

  They were surrounded by noise and movement: whistling locomotives, guards yelling for tickets, the hiss of steam. Excited children circled their parents, tired workers looked for a place to rest their feet. The clatter and chaos of London’s streets was condensed, echoing under the wrought-iron fretwork that arched over the platforms.

  “Two second-class tickets to Cheltenham Spa, please.”

  Essie counted out the coins carefully as Gertie watched, wide-eyed.