The Lost Jewels

by Kirsty Manning

  Afterward, when Essie bid her neighbor good night, Mrs. Yarwood had clapped her hands and said, “Well, Mr. Yarwood and I would love to assist. Now, I meant what I said. No regrets. Only love.”

  And oh, how Essie had loved. She’d been married to a good man—a kind man—for over fifty years. She’d been a poor judge of a man’s character only once.

  And yet . . .

  It had been a shock to see yesterday’s obituary in newsprint—although the family had telephoned the news through some weeks before. Essie was far too old now to travel to London, so was unable to make it to the funeral.

  Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the newspaper clipping she’d carefully cut from the London Times. Her hands were unsteady as she unfolded it. Eventually she flattened the clipping onto her lap.

  OBITUARY

  Ford, Gertrude Mary 1898–1994

  Former City of Westminster Chief Magistrate Gertrude Mary Ford passed away quietly in her South Kensington home, aged 96.

  Mrs. Ford dedicated much of her legal career to the support of women and children who had experienced extreme poverty, disability, or family violence.

  During both the First and Second World Wars, she suspended study to volunteer in schools by day and hospitals by night, and built a fine academic and legal career in between.

  Known as a champion of women’s rights, she was the first to appoint a female head of chambers and long campaigned for more women to sit the bar exams. “I’ll be forever grateful that kind people chose to give me my schooling. I believe everyone needs a second, third, and perhaps a fourth chance.”

  Lord Tony Rushsmith says Professor Ford leaves an indelible mark on the British legal system. “She will be missed as much for her sharp wit as her sage judgments. Many a disadvantaged minor has Mrs Ford to thank for their rehabilitation. She preferred to address the cause of the crime, rather than simply administer punishment.”

  Gertrude Mary Ford (née Murphy) was one of seven children born to Irish immigrants Clementine and Conrad Murphy. Ford was the recipient of scholarships to Cheltenham Ladies’ College and Oxford.

  Not content with a formidable career at the bench, then in academia, Ford held her debut watercolor exhibition, Jewel, at the Serpentine Gallery last year. Each canvas depicted the female form rendered in gemstones. When interviewing Ford for The Sunday Times, art critic Joyce Oxley asked about the consistent use of a particular blue, to which Ford insisted the correct term be used: sapphire. In her opening speech, Ford dedicated this exhibition to her sisters, “who were true treasures.”

  In 1937, Gertrude Murphy married Hubert Ford, a military surgeon who was killed in Normandy during World War II. She lost her daughter to cancer twenty years ago and is survived by granddaughter Mary Scott of Suffolk and great-granddaughter Bella Scott.

  Essie sat on her front stoop and studied the photo of Gertie in her academic gown and mortarboard, the university insignia embroidered at the chest. Mr. and Mrs. Yarwood stood proudly on either side.

  Gertie’s letter was tucked safely in a wooden frame in her study. It seemed only natural to keep the essential papers together. One day—when Essie was gone—perhaps one of these sparky girls might read them.

  By then the sediment would have settled, and they wouldn’t be dragged into the muck. Although she was tempted to pull Gertie’s letter from its hiding place just to press it against her cheek—to have proof that her sister lived—she knew she wouldn’t. Besides, she’d read it so often until it almost tore along the fold lines.

  Essie knew every word by heart.

  Her memories were interrupted by shouts from Kate and Molly, who had spotted Essie on the steps. She poured them each a glass of lemonade from the jug and watched them gulp it down and put their hands out for another.

  “Tell us a story, Granny Essie,” said Molly.

  “Ple-ease!” added Kate. “Tell us the one about the jewels. That’s my favorite.”

  Essie looked at the disheveled girls sitting at her feet.

  “All right, but we’ll have to be quick. Mrs. Mackay will be out soon enough to fetch us for lunch. Your father will have turned the steak to cinders by now. I’ll have to take my teeth out to eat it!”

  Molly exploded with giggles. Kate looked between her sister and great-grandmother, as if gauging how much she should laugh.

  “All righty. Do you believe in buried treasure? A long, long time ago, in London’s Cheapside, buckets and chests of jewels were pulled from a pile of rubble. The men who found it were so shocked, one of them tripped over backward and fell into a hole.”

  More giggles from Molly.

  “What was in the bucket?” asked Kate, always one for detail.

  “I’m getting to that bit. Rubies and an emerald as big as your fist, strings of pearls, bags of diamonds. Brooches, fine necklaces that looked like daisy chains. When they held up a clump of dirt as big as your soccer ball it dripped with gold, sapphires, rings, and buttons. I swear, you never did see so much sparkle in your life.”

  Molly gasped. “What did they do with the treas—”

  “Did you touch it?” interrupted Kate.

  Essie paused, taken aback.

  “Who’s telling this story? No questions until the end, please. Now, where was I? Nobody was allowed to touch the jewels. But there was a man, with eyes as green as emeralds. He cast a spell on me.” She tickled Kate’s tummy.

  “Was he the handsome prince?” said Molly in disgust. “Why does every fairy tale have to have a prince?” She frowned.

  This one was definitely going to be an attorney. Heaven help the person who crossed Molly.

  Essie chuckled. “Well, if you let me get to the end of the story, Little Miss Impatient, I think you’ll find—”

  But before Essie could continue, Mrs. Mackay appeared at the front door. “Time for lunch,” she said. “You girls help your great-grandmother, now.”

  The girls jumped up and raced to be the first to assist Essie, each yanking her arm a little too exuberantly. She wished the girls were here every lunchtime to bicker and tug her arms all the way to the lunch table. She missed this energy, this human touch.

  As Essie walked down the hallway between the girls to where the rest of her family waited in the backyard, her heart swelled.

  Sunny Banks be damned; she belonged here in Louisburg Square with her family. This old house needed to be filled with laughter, children, and food. They’d have to carry her out of here in a box.

  The smell of grilled corn and sweet star jasmine wafted inside.

  She leaned in close. “The point of the story is this, girls: don’t be dazzled by the sparkle—green eyes, diamonds, or emeralds. The real treasure is right here.” She squeezed their shoulders tight and clasped them to her chest.

  “Where?” said Molly, eyeing Essie’s sapphire earrings—still looking for actual treasure.

  But Kate squeezed back, as if to say, I know exactly what you mean.

  Essie smiled at her youngest great-granddaughter and whispered in her ear, “And may you never forget it, my love.”

  Chapter 35

  26 November 1912

  Dearest Essie,

  I was sitting at the top of the stairs and heard everything.

  It was all I could do to stop myself from tearing downstairs. It broke my heart to hear you promise Ma and Mrs. Yarwood that you would leave London.

  But if I came downstairs and fled with you, I’d have only been a burden. I understand.

  You’ve spent all your years raising us, loving us as much as any parent. Now you need to parent your own little one.

  I’ll be forever grateful that you arranged for me to go to school. I’ll honor your promise and work hard. I will make you so proud.

  My kind Essie, I enclose a parting gift for you. After we visited Mr. Lawrence for the last time and he gave me back the button, I prized the stones from it for you, me, and Ma.

  But now I understand that you have given mostly everything to us, and lef
t nothing for yourself.

  Check your hems. It seems only fitting to give you precious stones, some of them the color of the sea.

  I shall think of you every day on the other side of the ocean. My love for you could fill the Atlantic.

  Your loving sister,

  Gertie xxx

  Essie was shocked to find that Gertie had stitched gemstones into the hem of her skirt.

  She’d told Niall about the gemstones on their wedding night, as they lay with his strong body curled protectively around hers, stroking her protruding belly. Their legs were intertwined, skin sticky and warm from a long night of shy, tender lovemaking.

  Essie told him that very first night that if Niall was serious about leasing a ship, she would sell the gemstones to use as the deposit.

  He’d nuzzled his face into her curls and hugged her tighter. “They are yours to do with as you wish. I already have my treasure, Mo stóirín.” He’d held her close until the waves rocked them both back to sleep.

  As it happened, a gemologist from Tiffany & Co. who was returning from a purchasing trip to London had the cabin next to theirs in first class. He acted as a buyer for collectors in the United States, in particular a prominent New York–based banker, J. P. Morgan.

  His eyes had widened at the sapphires, and again as he examined them under his looking glass. “Superb,” he breathed. “You say you got these in London?” Essie nodded and swallowed. No more questions were asked as the merchant took in her worn shoes and Sunday dress with a brisk nod.

  “One day, I promise I shall buy you some more, Essie,” Niall had whispered when they were back in their cabin, check tucked away in the captain’s safe. “Sapphires—to match your eyes. And our sea.”

  “I don’t—” Essie started to protest, but he’d lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it before slowly removing her dress and undergarments and kissing his way down to her belly, and all her words melted away.

  Epilogue

  Kate

  BOSTON, PRESENT DAY

  Kate sat curled up on her peacock sofa, laptop perched on her gigantic belly. Two cups of hot chocolate steamed on the coffee table on top of an embossed save-the-date notice for a special evening at the Museum of London in six months’ time. The cardboard was so thick Kate had taken to using it as a coaster.

  It had been Lucia who had insisted on pushing back the gala until Kate and Marcus might be in a position to travel. She’d even written a note on the back:

  Looking forward to seeing you. Might I suggest this would be the perfect location for your next project’s launch?

  Over the past eight months Kate’s breath had caught at times, when she and Marcus started to make plans for their future, but Marcus always held her gaze and wrapped his arms around her belly until her breathing steadied. He never tried to brush away her hurt. He cradled her fear, along with her ballooning belly.

  “I understand. I’m here.” He’d whispered it over and over until her fear was replaced with something new, something . . . calmer.

  The baby grew, along with her excitement—though the dread never dissipated entirely. How could it?

  It was Essie who’d shown Kate how to carry a heart full of sorrow and joy.

  And just like Essie, Kate started to rearrange her life around those she loved. She’d relished a recent road trip from Los Angeles to Salt Lake City with Liv and Marcus, stopping at the Grand Canyon, where father and daughter rode partway down on mules while Kate had a much-needed massage and mud body scrub. Liv had flown home afterward, with promises to come back and stay for a month when her new sibling was born. “Trust me, I’m the baby whisperer,” she’d said wryly. “Just look how calm my brothers are!” She’d giggled, and Kate couldn’t resist reaching out to give her a grateful hug. She couldn’t wait to be tripping over Liv’s backpack and a corridor full of fermenting travel clothes again soon.

  After the baby was born and settled, she and Marcus planned a trip to London to see Bella donate her button pendant back to the museum, then an autumn spent squirreling around in Louisburg Square with Emma, Jessica, and Molly, with their bundled-up newborn strapped and snuggled into Marcus’s chest. In the new year Kate would start up a board position with the Old State House and a mentorship program for young historians.

  She wiggled her feet and poked Marcus in the thigh with her big toe. “I think I’ve just finished the last chapter. Your friend Natalya from J.P. Morgan was super helpful. She tracked down Essie’s receipt and emailed it through. Confirmed J.P. Morgan did indeed buy the gemstones that launched a hundred ships.” She twisted her sapphires in her ears, relieved that the receipt from J.P. Morgan proved that these earrings were indeed just a gift from a doting husband to his beloved wife.

  “Great.” Marcus looked over the top of his own laptop and smiled. “So can I read the last chapter?”

  “Sure.” She jumped up, took his laptop, and placed it gently on the table, replacing it with her own before snuggling in beside him.

  “You’re seriously going to stare over my shoulder while I read?”

  “Maybe!”

  The Cheapside Jewels

  A memoir of jewels and family

  “I’ll sit right here and let you read while I drink my hot chocolate.” She leaned her head against his shoulder as he started to read.

  My work as a jewelry historian has taken me deep into tragedies of the past.

  But sometimes tracing the stories and the line of a jewel—the light bouncing off a diamond, the hue of an emerald, the floral detail set into champlevé enamel, solder marks on the back of gold buttons—has shown me that, just like jewels, people can be transferred to a new setting and have a different kind of life . . .

  My great-grandmother Essie Kirby wasn’t from wealthy stock. She was an Irish lass who sailed from England to Boston with one suitcase and arrived in America with a clean tunic, a starched apron, a spare petticoat, a new husband, and a baby in her belly.

  We knew the provenance of the baby, my grandfather Joseph—or so we thought.

  My great-grandfather Niall Kirby was a merchant seaman who made his money in shipping out of Boston. The custom-made sapphire earrings were his gift to Essie on their fiftieth wedding anniversary.

  He died quietly in his sleep not long afterward, with a smile on his face and traces of smoke and his favorite Caribbean rum on his breath. So my family never heard the story of where the sapphires came from—but I suspected from their velvety blue that they were picked up for a song in Sri Lanka back when the Brits called it Ceylon.

  My father, Joseph Jr., was a scrap of a child neatly tucked into shirts and long pants at his grandparents’ anniversary dinner. But for as long as I can remember, he loved to spin the tale of how his grandpapa’s eyes sparkled as he handed the earrings to his beloved Essie Rose—the old man’s smooth Irish lilt whispering: “Mo stóirín.”

  My treasure. My love . . .

  “So?” Kate studied Marcus’s face, the cup warming both hands as she clenched it a little too tight.

  “So . . . it’s wonderful. It’s the story of you, Essie, and Bella. Who’d have thought a buried bucket of jewels would unearth your own family tale of heartbreak, loss, and—”

  “Murder?” Kate winced. “Too much?”

  Marcus chuckled and tickled her belly. “I was actually going to say love. Unconditional and crazy bighearted love.” He kissed her nose, then her lips. He tasted of chocolate, cinnamon, and hope.

  “Wait! I just have one more bit to add before I email it off to my publisher.”

  Kate put down her cup, elbowed herself upright, and grabbed her laptop. She found the title page and typed her dedication:

  For Essie, who showed me what to look for.

  And Marcus, who helped me find it.

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the Author

  * * *

  Meet Kirsty Manning

  About the Book

  * * *

  Author’s Note


  Reading Group Guide

  Read On

  * * *

  Further Reading

  About the Author

  Meet Kirsty Manning

  KIRSTY MANNING grew up in northern New South Wales. A country girl with wanderlust, her travels and studies have taken her through most of Europe, the east and west coasts of the United States, and pockets of Asia. Kirsty’s first novel was the enchanting The Midsummer Garden, published in 2017. Her second book, the bestselling The Song of the Jade Lily, was published in 2018. Kirsty is a partner in the award-winning Melbourne wine bar Bellota and the Prince Wine Store in Sydney and Melbourne. She lives with her husband and three children amid an old chestnut grove in the Macedon Ranges, Victoria.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  About the Book

  Author’s Note

  The Lost Jewels is a work of fiction inspired by the true story of the Cheapside Hoard, dug up in a Cheapside cellar in 1912, which now forms a significant collection at the Museum of London, and also at the British Museum and the Victoria & Albert Museum.

  While the Cheapside Hoard is one of the most famous caches of jewels in the world, it is also the most mysterious. How could someone neglect to retrieve five hundred precious pieces of jewelry and gemstones? Why did nobody claim it in the subsequent years? Who were the workmen who actually discovered the jewels in 1912?

  These questions remain unanswered.

  The Lost Jewels is my imagined tale woven between the facts. Timelines have been massaged and altered to fit the plot. My Museum of London is a fictional version, as are the jewels I describe.

  The Cartier workshop is also fictional, based on the workshop displayed at the Cartier exhibition at the National Gallery of Australia, Canberra, in 2018.