‘Ma’am.’ Edward removed his cream Panama hat to reveal a neat part and stepped forwards under a streetlamp with his hand outstretched. ‘Edward Hepplestone. I’m pleased to meet you.’ He beamed with the easy confidence of someone who was welcomed wherever he went.
‘Mrs Murphy,’ Ma grunted stiffly. ‘It’s after ten thirty. And I’ll thank you not to be keeping my daughter outside.’ Clementine reached forwards and wrapped her fingers around Essie’s wrist, squeezing tightly. ‘Good evening, Mr Hepplestone.’ She nodded haughtily.
‘Evening, ma’am.’ He tipped his hat in farewell. ‘Esther. I’ll see you—’
But Essie didn’t get to hear where and when he would next see her, because Ma had whipped her inside and slammed the door.
‘Ma! That was so rude. I didn’t get to say goodbye.’
‘Now you listen here, miss.’ Ma stepped close and Essie could smell the gin on her warm breath. ‘That pretty man with his striped suits and sharp shoes is not for the likes of you.’
Essie felt her neck growing hot. ‘But—’
‘Those green eyes will get you into trouble.’ She poked Essie’s shoulder. ‘Are you understandin’ me?’
‘But, Ma, he loves—’
‘He loves what’s on offer beneath your skirts, Essie.’ She tugged at her daughter’s dress before reaching into her own apron and pulling out a tiny bottle. She removed the lid with shaking hands and took a sip, then sighed with relief.
When she spoke again, her voice was soft. ‘Don’t be daft, child. You know what they say: A sea wind changes less often than the mind of a weak man. And weak he is, lass. Those shiny eyes and new suit will be gone as quick as you give him what he’s asking.’
Essie felt her cheeks redden with rage and humiliation. Her mother was wrong. Tonight was …
She closed her eyes and remembered Edward’s fingertips tracing along the top of her bare shoulders, peeling off her bodice, kissing her back as he unbuttoned her dress.
She shivered. What she and Edward had was special.
How could her mother understand? Poverty had made the once-fair Clementine Murphy bruised and broken. But Essie would show her ma it was possible for fortunes to change. For hope to triumph.
Chapter 22
KATE
PARIS, PRESENT DAY
Kate stood in Cartier’s workshop at the top of a Haussmann building in Rue de la Paix, Paris. The sun streamed through the giant sash windows as she gazed out. Luxury jewellers and fashion boutiques lined the street below, their elegant awnings billowing in the light breeze. Above, identical window boxes spilling over with red and pink flowers were attached to every balcony.
She smiled and her stomach grumbled. She’d peeled apart a flaky croissant from a paper bag during her dash from the Opéra metro, but now she wished she’d arrived a little earlier to sit at one of the marble-topped cafe tables below. She’d have sipped mediocre Parisian coffee while trying to decide between a plain buttery croissant with raspberry jam, or a more decadent almond croissant filled with gooey frangipane.
The Cartier workshop smelled of leather, metal, and ever so faintly of smoke. Kate made a point to visit once a year; it was a way of absorbing the inspiration and passion that drove the world’s finest jewellers, and to be reminded of all the skilled hands that passed over a jewel or a gemstone. Each time she was struck anew by the care and precision, but also by the sheer audacity of what a bit of imagination and dreaming could accomplish.
Colour palettes and vials of coloured crystals were arranged along walls. A dozen men and women leaned over microscopes, working with paintbrushes that were so fine they could be used to paint a grain of rice. Desks were scattered with loupes, tiny hammers and anvils, and traditional suede catches were draped across the desks and laps to collect the slightest sliver of silver, gold or platinum. Engravers used tiny diamond-tipped shafts to carve patterns into gold bands and watch faces, enamellist apprentices pounded glass into a fine powder in a mortar and pestle before adding water to blend up the enamel paste.
‘Dr Kirby, lovely to see you again.’ Madame Parsons, a master enameller, greeted her warmly.
‘It’s always a pleasure to visit your workshop,’ replied Kate, wishing that she’d blow-dried her mop of curls before meeting this Gallic Anna Wintour with her severe bob, silk blouse and fitted pencil skirt.
‘I have the illustrations here,’ the enamellist continued. ‘We sent you the photos that will be printed in the catalogue to accompany your essay, but I’m glad you’ve found a moment in your schedule to see these sketches. The line of the hand is so important. It begins with one person’s dream.’
They spent the next thirty minutes poring over the designs of an elaborate coloured diamond necklace painted with gouache. There were detailed sketches of the necklace from every angle, showing how each diamond sat at the collarbone and caught the light.
‘These should be in a gallery!’
‘There are over three thousand diamonds in this neckpiece. More than the Maharaja of Patiala’s 1928 commission.’
Kate estimated it would take four years to complete all the cutting, framework, setting and polishing. ‘Four years for a single necklace!’
‘And it will never be worn in public, most likely.’ The enamellist’s eyes sparkled, but she would never be so indiscreet as to disclose who the necklace was intended for. Kate couldn’t help but speculate … was it a Middle Eastern sheik, a French mistress or a dot-com bazillionaire?
‘I wondered if you might have a few minutes to look at these images from the Cheapside collection?’ Kate said. She pulled out her phone and scrolled through Marcus’s photos, showing an entranced Madame Parsons the enamel necklaces and buttons.
‘Ah.’ Her face softened. ‘I have wanted to see these since I was a little girl tidying up and mixing paints in my papa’s workshop.’
Kate showed her the close-ups of the emerald watch and the pomander before coming to the salamander hatpin. ‘Look at this salamander—studded with emeralds up the back, but with an enamel underbelly that looks like fur.’
‘This salamander—’ she tapped the screen ‘—it is begging you to tell its story. You paint the different coloured enamel—crushed glass—on in different sections, making a distinct pattern … like this fur. But there is nothing to separate the edges. It’s trial by fire. We pop it into the kiln at eight hundred degrees, but we really don’t know how it will turn out. It’s a risk.’ She pursed her lips together and shrugged.
‘Ironic, considering that in old legends it was believed that the salamander could survive fire.’
‘Exactly! And think of all the people this very salamander has outlived due to civil war, plague and the Great Fire. London herself has been torn down, burned and bombed. See how the enamel has rubbed away at the feet? I think it would not have survived four hundred years above the ground. The gold would have been melted down, the gemstones removed and made into something else, non?’
‘Perhaps.’ Kate wished she had one of Marcus’s details of the black and white champlevé ring to show Madame Parsons. Instead she tried to describe it, and showed the enamellist the rough sketch she’d done in her notebook.