The Lost Jewels

by Kirsty Manning

  These tickets would be the last of the extravagances. She had two boiled eggs and a thick slice of bread wrapped in a handkerchief in her apron pocket for the five-hour train trip. Miss Barnes had written that their destination was a twenty-minute walk from the Cheltenham Spa station.

  “A spa!” Gertie whispered as the stationmaster handed over their tickets. “Are we leaving London? No wonder you made me wear my Sunday dress.”

  Did Gertie think they were going on a holiday to the seaside? There would be time enough to explain once they were on the train. Mrs. Yarwood had brought The Times over that morning to show Essie, her face downcast. “I’m so sorry, love. They’ll be looking for you. Maybe it’s for the best that you leave London . . .” She’d sobbed as she clasped Essie to her bosom. “I just worry about you traveling alone,” she leaned in close so only Essie could hear, “what with your condition . . .”

  Essie had had to stop herself crying with gratitude as she clasped both Mrs. Yarwood’s hands between her rough palms. Ma had seemed to think it was only proper that Essie sail for Boston—to save her the embarrassment of explaining her daughter’s condition to Father McGuire.

  Essie hadn’t breathed a word about her plans to Gertie. Only Miss Barnes and the Yarwoods knew. She hadn’t been sure she’d be able to see her plan through until they had seen Mr. Lawrence. It would have been cruel to get her sister’s hopes up only to have them dashed if Essie couldn’t come up with the money.

  The huge clock on the station wall chimed, and Essie grabbed Gertie’s hand and started to run toward the platform.

  “Hurry, Gertie.”

  Gertie ran beside her, notebook clutched to her chest. They mustn’t miss this train. It would ruin—

  A man in a bowler clipped Gertie’s shoulder and sent her sprawling across the platform. The notebook flew open, and stray sheets of paper she’d torn out because the sketches hadn’t lived up to her intentions fell out and fluttered across the platform like autumn leaves.

  Gertie managed to sit up and retrieve her book, while Essie tried to retrieve all the random pieces of paper just as she always had when Gertie had the urge to throw away a less-than-perfect sketch. Essie would never stand for it when they were at home, and she wasn’t having it now.

  Snatching up the first page, Essie recognized the lined paper from Mr. Yarwood’s accounting ledger, and she thought her heart might break for all the kindness their neighbors had shown them through the years. They nursed their own sorrows but opened their hearts to Essie and the girls. The sketch was such a perfect likeness of the twins laughing that Essie found it difficult to breathe. The next sketch was of Gertie’s button, another of the scoundrel cockerel that scratched up every bit of green in the backyard. Surely that bit of gristle didn’t warrant his own page? But the cockerel looked dignified, his eyes knowing and his comb standing proudly. Gertie managed to make these simple line drawings feel alive . . .

  A businessman carrying a leather satchel stepped on a piece of paper and bent to retrieve it from under his shoe.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Essie as she grabbed it from his hand and tried to wipe away the muddy footprint with her sleeve before hastily gathering the other drawings.

  When she’d collected the last of them, she slipped the pages into her apron pocket, then grabbed Gertie’s hand and yanked her sister onto the train as the guard blew his whistle. They were no sooner aboard than the doors were slammed shut and locked.

  In the years to come, Essie would remember that afternoon in Paddington Station when she sank into her seat beside Gertie and decided not to fish the drawings from her apron pocket. Nor did she notice Gertie’s trembling hand slip a small envelope inside her other apron pocket.

  Once seated beside the window, Gertie flipped open her notebook and started to sketch the crisscross pattern the huge spans of iron made across the roof. The child was lost in another world full of light and shadows and had already forgotten the kerfuffle on the platform.

  Essie needed to soak up the essence of this girl. This moment. Before her family, and her heart, splintered forever.

  Nobody had ever told Essie that doing the right thing could be the most painful act of all.

  Chapter 30

  Kate

  BOSTON, PRESENT DAY

  Kate stood in her study, sipping her hot chocolate and watching the golden leaves outside her window glow in the afternoon light. Marcus stood at her office door, swinging it back and forth to check the hinge, after just having spent the afternoon rehanging it to stop the squeak.

  “I had been meaning to get it fixed.”

  “Sure.” Marcus gave her a warm smile. “Just like the dripping tap in the upstairs shower.”

  Kate opened her mouth to protest, then stopped. She had been meaning to have these things fixed, but she’d never been home long enough to arrange a contractor, or she’d been too busy to care. But the restlessness that had seemed to accompany her everywhere had stilled. Instead, this last week Kate had taken comfort in weeding Essie’s herb beds between finishing off her Cheapside piece and planting seeds she was sure she would be here to see bloom.

  Marcus had delivered his lecture to the Boston Photographic Society, then taken over her great-grandfather’s offices on the first floor of the Louisburg house. His return to Australia for Olivia’s valedictory dinner was looming. He was planning to stay in Sydney for a few weeks to renovate his flat. Liv had promised to help—negotiating half a fare to Europe in exchange for a few weeks of painting and tiling. Marcus had grinned as he told Kate about it. “It’ll be fun. Although I’m not sure about the colors she’s chosen . . . I was thinking Scandinavian-style cool grays and white, while she’s thinking Sardinian summer by the looks of it. It’ll feel like living in a fruit salad!”

  Kate studied Marcus in his green work shirt, and imagined his sandy hair spattered with bright yellow and blue paint. She smiled and blew him a kiss.

  Neither had broached the subject of when, or if, they would next meet up. But now that Marcus was here—quietly making small repairs and cooking her two-course dinners each night—she was regretting that they both had to fly out in another couple of days: Marcus off home to Sydney, Kate briefly to a museum in Amsterdam.

  She’d mentioned when Marcus arrived that she wouldn’t be starting her postdoctoral fellowship at Harvard; instead, she wanted to putter around at home a bit, do some writing, take Emma out for piles of forbidden pancakes and loaded milkshakes.

  “If you’re going to be home more than a week, all these squeaks, drips, and slamming shutters will drive you nuts. Let me help.”

  And so she did let him, while working in her office, putting the final touches to her article, then emailing it off to an elated Jane last week.

  Jane rang her with some feedback—and to engage in some friendly teasing, it seemed. “Best yet, Dr. Kirby. And the pics from Marcus . . . the folks upstairs haven’t stopped raving.” Her voice dropped conspiratorially. “You two make quite the duo.”

  Kate didn’t respond, surprised at her editor’s candor.

  “Kate?”

  “Yes, I’m listening. Thank you.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Goodbye, Jane.” She hung up the phone, rattled. When had she become so transparent?

  * * *

  Marcus wandered over to the desk where she sat sorting life admin into piles, ignoring bills and trying to put off her monthly invoicing. His shoulder nudged a picture frame on the wall, and immediately he set to straightening it, giving it a dust with his sleeve as he went.

  It was the bill of sale for her great-grandparents’ first ship, SS Esther Rose, adorned with the Massachusetts seal, then signed and dated at the bottom with a florid signature.

  Marcus said, “Huh!” as if something made no sense.

  “What?”

  He tapped at the date on the certificate: 1915. “Just seems odd. It must have been hard to find a steamer to lease. There was a war raging in Europe. Didn’t you say your
great-grandmother Essie was poor, and Niall was a sailor? So how could your great-grandfather have afforded to lease a ship on his merchant sailor’s wage just a couple of years after arriving in Boston?”

  “I have no idea. I know the company made money quickly, doing naval yard supply runs . . . I guess the navy contract was secure in those first years. But this has always been here—even though they ended up with an entire shipping line. This first certificate is the only one they kept at home, even though the Esther Rose was decommissioned before the next war.”

  “Can we look it up?” He craned his neck toward the bookshelf. “Where’s the rest of their stuff?”

  “The family donated all the records—logbooks, ledgers, shipping charts, and maps—to the Bostonian Society at the Old State House. I did one of my first research projects there, actually.”

  Kate moved from behind her desk to stand beside Marcus and peered at the certificate. It was as familiar to her as the wrinkles on her great-grandmother’s face and the tiles on her front stoop. It had always hung in this spot—though judging by Marcus’s sleeve it had been a while since anyone had bothered to give it a clean. Kate resolved to take more care.

  The paper had yellowed, the ink faded. The frame also seemed dimmed, the knots of the wood less obvious. She ran her fingers around the edge and then wiped more dust on her jeans. As she stepped to the side and the afternoon light clipped the edge of the frame, she saw a faint outline of something behind the backing.

  A shadow line ran along the bottom corner.

  “Look.” She pointed the shadow out to Marcus.

  “There’s something in there,” he replied as he slipped the frame from the hook and carried it across to her desk. He placed the frame facedown on the desk, then stepped back to make room for Kate.

  Kate reached into her top drawer for her white archival gloves and slipped them on. The back of the frame was sealed with tacks, and she used a scalpel to pry them from the wood. She worked slowly, careful not to tear away any of the wood as she lifted the back of the frame and placed it on the carpet beside the desk.

  Sitting behind the bill of sale was a crinkled handwritten note.

  Receipt

  December 1912

  Marcus read the receipt aloud: “One thousand dollars for the sapphires, rubies, and one diamond, two carat.”

  “A thousand dollars!” Kate placed the receipt gently on her felt mat and turned the frame over so the bill of sale was visible.

  “It’s the same amount,” Marcus noted.

  They looked at each other, and Kate bit her bottom lip. But before she could say anything, Marcus stepped closer and pointed to a tiny corner of paper protruding from the walnut frame.

  “It looks like there’s something else. See? Hidden behind the frame.”

  Kate used tweezers to remove another sheaf of paper folded as tightly as a Chinese fan and wedged tightly into the frame. Someone had intended to keep this hidden.

  She unfolded the brittle paper slowly, so as not to tear it.

  To her surprise, it had nothing to do with shipping or receipts. It was a letter, dated “26 November 1912.”

  Kate swiveled her light to read the cursive ink, written with a neat, youthful hand—vowels rounded. Full of vigor and hope.

  Marcus started to read: “Dearest Essie, I was sitting at the top of the stairs and heard everything . . .”

  As she listened to the gentle timbre of Marcus’s voice reading words from long ago, Kate sank into the sofa and let the words drift around her. They were like a shawl fashioned from gossamer threads that enveloped her, warmed her. Comforted, she thought of the strength and generosity of the Murphy women—despite the sadness that haunted their days—the gold button with missing gemstones on a chain around Bella’s neck, Essie’s sapphire earrings, the sepia photo of a young woman standing with a mix of pride and sadness outside St. Hilda’s, Oxford, a young woman crossing an ocean with a baby in her belly . . . and then, inevitably, her own lost baby with the translucent skin and crimson lips.

  Somehow, all these things were connected.

  Grief and hope threaded through the letter and mingled with Kate’s own so she wasn’t sure where one person’s story ended and the other began. But she sat upright as Marcus finished reading the sign-off. “Your loving sister, Gertie.”

  Chapter 31

  Essie

  TILBURY DOCKS, 1912

  Tilbury Docks was as busy as Paddington Station. Mothers herded toddlers as though they were flocks of ducklings while porters in waistcoats strained to push barrows loaded with trunks. Barrels stood in neat rows, waiting to be rolled up the gangplank by spritely sailors.

  Everyone was dressed in their Sunday best: coats, hats, and gloves. A woman smelling of fresh gardenias and wearing a fox pelt pushed past Essie, soft fur brushing against her cheek. It made a nice change to the scratchy wool and linen she’d been pressed against on the train.

  The imposing RMS Laconda rocked against the jetty, lashed to the dock with thick ropes.

  It was hard to believe that just a few hours from now, when the tide was at its peak, those ropes would be unfurled and cast aside, and with them, Essie’s old life.

  She swallowed and stole a glance at Freddie from under the brim of her hat. Her brother looked so forlorn, so repentant. Overly eager to help.

  They each grieved for the twins—for their broken family—in their own way. She clutched her small suitcase against her legs and refused to let Freddie help her to carry it.

  It was not the going away she’d always imagined. Rather, she wore a dress identical to the one she wore to work in the Rubens’ factory, with a coat she’d fashioned from an old blanket.

  A sailor with pink cheeks and sharp creases in his pants approached.

  “Can I help you, miss?” He gave Essie a warm smile, and she found herself returning it despite herself.

  “My sister is looking for—”

  “Thank you, Freddie.” Essie quickly cut her brother off and gently touched his arm. She had not had a man speak for her in the past, and she wasn’t going to be starting now.

  She shifted her body weight and composed herself. Gertie would be proud. “I’m looking for . . .” She held her ticket out and pointed.

  The young man squinted and leaned over to read the ticket, before straightening.

  “Right you are then. You’ll be downstairs. Up the front.” He paused, and began to say something before stopping and starting again. “Are you the only one traveling today, miss?”

  Essie lifted her chin and looked the sailor directly in the eyes as she imagined Gertie might do. “Yes, just me, thank you.” She felt a flutter in her stomach, as if the little one had heard her and kicked in protest.

  He nodded. “Very well. They’re all shared cabins down in third.”

  Third class. It was like a final kick in the shins. The bastard could not even stump up for a second-class ticket. Still, all she had to do was get on that ship. When she disembarked in Boston, Esther Murphy would be free to be whoever she wanted.

  The breeze caught her skirt, and it billowed a little at her ankles.

  Another sailor had come over and smiled apologetically.

  “Officer Kirby, sorry to interrupt”—he nodded at Essie and Freddie—“but the captain wants to see you, on the foredeck.”

  “Thank you, Smith. I’ll be there just as soon as I’ve finished showing this lady to her cabin.” He turned to Freddie and said, “I’ll escort her to her quarters.”

  Essie put down her bag and embraced her brother. She could feel his ribs and bony shoulders through his thin shirt. He smelled of smoke and hair cream.

  “Goodbye, Freddie,” she said, her voice cracking. She drank in his smell, and his lean frame. Her brother had always seemed younger than her, almost like one of the twins.

  “Goodbye, Es. Take care.”

  She released her brother and took a step backward. “Make sure you write to Gertie and Ma when you move into your new lod
gings. And call in on Mr. and Mrs. Yarwood from time to time, won’t you?”

  “Here, let me carry your bag,” said Officer Kirby. “Just up the gangway, at least.” He looked concerned. “There’s a bit of wind about, and I’d hate for you to slip and the bag to end up in the drink.”

  This young officer was simply doing his duty and offering to help. Edward had always been similarly thoughtful—right up until his cowardly betrayal. Essie was furious with herself for seeing Officer Kirby as anything other than dutiful. Despite Ma’s warnings when Essie bid her final farewell, Essie still refused to believe every man she met had a sinister agenda. She could feel her ears burning as she mumbled her thanks.

  “Righto. Best be boarding.” And Officer Kirby gestured to indicate Essie should precede him.

  She grabbed the cold rails and felt the dappled sun on her face. She took a couple of steps before turning back to see that Freddie had grabbed the officer’s shoulder and was speaking to him urgently.

  The sailor was nodding slowly, and Essie caught the last words on the wind.

  “If you could just look out for her . . .”

  The officer glanced her way and caught Essie’s eye for a brief moment before nodding at Freddie. “Aye. Of course. I’ll keep an eye out for the lass. Though I must say—if you’ll beg my pardon—she has the look of someone who is well able to take care of herself.”

  “That she is.” But Freddie’s chuckle was heavy with sadness.

  “Still, a young woman, traveling alone downstairs . . .” The officer shook his head, and Essie turned away quickly, not wanting the men to know she’d been eavesdropping.

  Her brother was only trying to do the right thing. He blamed himself for not being able to save the twins. And for Edward.

  Her stomach heaved as she recalled the sound of a head cracking on a cobblestone, the squelching of a wheel and a whinnying horse.

  Edward had been a coward, but he hadn’t deserved to die under the wheel of a cart. His death was a dreadful accident—one she’d regret for the rest of her life.