‘Remember, enamelling is a language. Forget-me-nots and pansies. This champlevé ring is a work of love. To paint that pattern would take infinite time and patience. And then it goes in the kiln and perhaps … pfft!’ She flung up her hands to indicate disaster.
‘So love then. Romantic? It couldn’t be a mourning ring?’
‘Black and white. Love and death. Even the rings made for death were meant to remind the living of loved ones. This is what I adore about enamel: it is the most expressive, the most human of the jewellery crafts. It is uncertain—like life itself, non?’ She shrugged again and smiled.
Kate smiled back and nodded. ‘It sure is.’
‘This champlevé ring will have a transparency to it, a lightness. That I know for certain because it is made from molten glass. Also, 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.’
Madame Parsons was right. The mystery of the champlevé ring may just be unravelled if Kate could uncover the symbolism—the language—of the black and white flowers and how they might have come to be paired with this magnificent diamond.
Later that evening, Kate sat at her favourite table at Chez Georges, doodling in her notebook and flipping back to the floral patterns of the diamond ring, the words of Madame Parsons ringing in her ears.
Black and white. Love and death. Even the rings made for death were meant to remind the living of loved ones. This is what I adore about enamel: it is the most expressive, the most human of the jewellery crafts. It is uncertain—like life itself, non?
The waiter arrived and she ordered the confit duck and a huge glass of Chambolle-Musigny. French comfort food—there was nothing uncertain about that!
As Kate waited for her wine, she traced the line of black forget-me-nots, running over her conversation with Madame Parsons. The master enameller’s words reminded her of Essie’s gift on her eighteenth birthday back in the study in Louisburg Square, and the last words she ever uttered to Kate: I think you are perhaps starting to see that not everything in life is black and white.
Like champlevé, life could be challenging and uncertain. Humans were capable of producing great beauty—to commemorate both love and loss. Kate agreed with Madame Parsons, the two were knotted together. The desire to be loved, to connect and to be remembered carried through jewels and gemstones as they were set and reset. Forgotten and rediscovered. The history of a jewel really had no end. Often, it was a story of second, third and fourth creations …
The pinot arrived and she took a sip, allowing the red wine to warm her throat.
She checked her watch. It was 1 p.m. in New York and Marcus would be in the middle of a show. His phone would be switched off.
Just to hear his voice, she dialled his number anyway.
As expected, the call went straight to voicemail. ‘Hey, Marcus here. Or not here. Anyway, leave a message …’
She hung up without saying anything and put her phone onto silent. Then she reached for a slice of baguette and slathered it with salty butter, took a gulp of pinot and cursed herself for wishing Marcus was in Paris with her.
THE GOLDSMITH
THE CHEAPE SIDE, LONDON, 1665
Aurelia sat alongside her father at his workbench as he tinkered with a gold ring at his anvil. Above her head, long gold necklaces cascaded from hooks like falling leaves in the morning light, and a velvet bag of pearls sat half open. Ignoring the ting of his tiny hammer, she peered through the shutters across the Cheape Side, watching the street fill with horses and carriages loaded with rotting bodies headed for the pits.
She stretched her arms out and tugged on the shutter to let in the soft summer light. Papa frowned. As a foreigner, her father was forbidden from opening the shutters of his shopfront.
To their left, a trio of blazing red rubies sat above the doorframe, guarding against the pestilence that had overtaken London. The workshop air was sharp and sweet. Each day Mama sprinkled the room with lemon water to stop the stink from the street creeping in. Mama wanted Papa to close his workshop altogether until this sickness had passed, but Papa insisted on working. What else would he do with his time? Besides, Papa insisted on keeping his doors open for trade despite the fact that so many Londoners had closed theirs.
‘How will I earn the money to feed us, my love, if I do not work?’
Aurelia watched Papa’s eyes light up as he moved the gold ring about on the anvil until he was satisfied. She craned her head towards the sun like a cat, felt her left cheek become warm, and was grateful for these tiny pockets of contentment in their days.
Mama’s steps had slowed since last summer. It had taken less than a week for her brothers David and George to die of the pestilence. She closed her eyes now, recalling the sight of their small bodies wrapped in linen shrouds.
That had been a year ago. Inspectors had since removed the cross from above their door that warned people to stay away. But they still had few visitors.
Papa looked up from his anvil and slid along the bench to where two pieces sat waiting for his attention.
Aurelia picked up the first, an emerald the size of a baby’s fist, and turned it over in her hands, the angles of the green stone icy in her palm.
As she handed it to Papa he pointed to the hinge as he lifted the top piece to reveal an exquisite gold watch face. ‘I need to be careful. One slip of my rasp could shatter the stone.’
She passed him the leather pouch containing the second item: a perfume bottle hanging from a gold chain tumbled onto the length of leather and droplets of oil spilled onto the fabric.
Aurelia recognised the tang of the lemon oil and the woody rosemary oil they dabbed on their temples and wrists every morn. Half dreaming, she dipped her fingers in the oil, lifted them to her nose and picked up faint traces of lavender, rose and cinnamon alongside the more powerful and earthy ambergris.
Papa turned the scent bottle in his hand. The white opals caught the light, as if the bottle was covered with the lightest of feathers. ‘Look at the enamel work.’ He pointed at the bunches of tiny flowers painted between rubies and diamonds.
‘Champlevé, perhaps?’ he said to himself, turning the pomander between his thumb and forefinger so the gemstones sparkled with the light. He placed it carefully on the leather.
‘I have an idea …’
He reached into a locked wooden box on his workbench and produced a faded leather pouch. He unfastened the ties, and used a pair of tweezers to lift a clear stone up to the light, turning it from side to side as if he wanted to study it from each angle.
‘I’d bet my teeth this one’s Golconda … it has the clearest water, see?’
Aurelia leaned in and caught the golden hue as he turned each facet up to the light.
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘I bought it for a pretty penny long before you were born. Old Mr Shaw bought a bagful of gemstones for a song from a ship’s deckhand after the poor lad found himself in a spot of trouble after returning from Bandar Abbas. He’d done a stint in prison for theft from a passenger. Lost himself to the drink and gambling when he got out. Couldn’t pay his debts. Old Shaw sat on the stones until the whispers had died down along Cheape Side. Luckily, the old man was always so busy he never wanted for extra stock.’