Aurelia pictured the workshop just three shops down from theirs, but five times the size of her papa’s and brimming with twenty lapidaries, cutters, polishers and jewellers hunched over their benches.
‘Who’s it for, Papa?’
He placed the diamond onto the piece of leather spread in front of him and said, ‘Why, darling, it’s for you. I plan to make it a wedding gift, for when you wed Jacob. Would you not expect a goldsmith to save his finest work for his only daughter?’
He went to the anvil and took the slim gold band off the point. ‘See how I have already shaped the gold? But I need to measure it on your finger.’
As his daughter tried on the ring that would one day become her wedding band, her father sighed. ‘I’ll not be able to hallmark or be given assay and touch until I am a master.’
Papa looked down at the pomander with the broken chain glittering on his workbench, turned it over to study the enamelling. ‘I need to make my masterpiece,’ he said. ‘Only then will I have freedom in this land.’
Amsterdam, September 1665
Dear Aurelia,
My wanderjahre continues to delight! I cannot believe it has been six weeks since Berg de Jong—the finest jeweller and goldsmith in Amsterdam—has taken myself and my apprentice Dirk Jenk into his workshop overlooking the canal. Each day we sit at a long table under a window, leather catch trays affixed to the desk and resting in our laps, just like at home.
Outside our third-floor window barges float up the canal loaded with tulip bulbs, cheese and herring. Also, bags of spices and gemstones shipped from the Dutch East Indies and Ceylon. Cinnamon scrolls from the bakery next door mingle with the smell of metal and soldering.
How I miss your mother’s kitchen, filled with the scent of warm appeltaart and fresh bread.
Every morning, two artists tutor us so that we may indeed be worthy of the title ‘Master Goldsmith’. Currently we are learning to sketch flowers. Yesterday I drew some pansies, starting with the petals and keeping the heel of my hand on the paper until my lines felt confident and unbroken. The flowers reminded me of you with their modest charm and prettiness. Then I added a line of forget-me-nots, in remembrance of those we loved and lost.
I hope you and your mama are keeping well. I know I can rely on you to take care of her and the child she is expecting.
Until next week,
Papa
Chapter 23
ESSIE
LONDON, 1912
Essie stopped hanging out the washing on a line above the oven to dry, then reached behind and loosened her apron strings. She lifted a damp cloth to her face and took a seat at the kitchen table. She was dizzy—tired in a way she couldn’t fathom.
She still had clothes in the boiler on the stove, but was grateful for the spare minutes of soaking she had until they needed to be hung out. Gertie was reading upstairs, Ma was asleep in the front room and Freddie … Well, who knew when Freddie would be home?
Essie leaned down to unlace her boots and felt blood rush to her head. She sat up quickly and eyed the washing, making some quick calculations in her head.
Two months.
Two months since she’d bled.
Essie’s first instinct was to run to Ma and lay her head in her mother’s lap. But there would be no soothing words on the end of her mother’s tongue. No comforting hands through her hair. Only ridicule and shame. Ma would throw her out as soon as she knew her eldest daughter was with child—hadn’t she said as much many times?
Essie sat taller now, and ran her hands across her belly. Was Essie imagining it, or could she feel a flutter? Certainly, her heart fluttered with excitement and her mind filled with thoughts of Edward: his broad hands, the blue corridor in his Mayfair flat, walks in Hyde Park.
She hadn’t heard from him since he sailed for Boston. She’d hoped Edward would write, but understood that he would be preoccupied with work as he was away for such a short time. But if his words were true—and hadn’t they always been—then he was due to be back in London any day now.
She tiptoed to Ma’s room, stole a sheet of paper from Pa’s old dresser. As she walked past her Ma—grey-faced, snoring and slumped in her chair—Essie froze. Her feet tingled with fear.
Was this what lay ahead?
Essie swallowed her fears, ignored the sinking feeling in her stomach and stepped past her slumbering mother. When she stepped into the kitchen, she penned a letter to her sweetheart.
Dear Edward,
I hope your visit to Boston was rewarding.
When we last met, you promised you would return from Boston in November and I have been counting down the days.
I need to meet with you soonest. I am with child.
It has been somewhat of a shock, but I am certain of it. I know you would want to hear this news from me directly.
I look forward to seeing you soonest …
She hesitated before finishing:
… so we can make plans together.
E
Essie tucked the letter into an envelope and sealed it with wax from a candle. After she’d written the address, she paused and with a shaking hand wrote one last word underlined across the front:
PRIVATE
Chapter 24
Meet me outside Fortnum & Mason at 6.30 p.m.
E
‘He’s taking me to supper,’ Essie confided with a whisper of pride as she read the last line of Edward’s letter to Mrs Yarwood. She’d previously only permitted herself a glance in the windows at the tearooms with white tablecloths and silver trays piled with cucumber sandwiches, French pastries and scones loaded with jam and clotted cream. Or perhaps they’d have chicken and mushroom soup, ladled from gold tureens and served with pillowy warm bread rolls and fresh butter. Her mouth started to water …
‘He said it was important!’ She inhaled to steady her jittery breath. ‘I haven’t seen him since he left for Boston. I wrote to him last week, as soon as he was due to return.’ Her voice sounded steadier than she felt. She was giddy at the thought of seeing him. Finally, they would be able to make some plans.
‘Then you’d best be borrowing my coat then. The one with the fur collar. And some gloves. Return them to me when you get a chance. No rush, love,’ said Mrs Yarwood. The older woman’s voice was soft, but cautious. There was the slightest pinch to her lips.
‘Please don’t tell Ma. She doesn’t approve …’
Mrs Yarwood placed a gentle hand on Essie’s shoulder. ‘Your mother cares for you, Essie. She only wants the best …’
A tear leaked from Essie’s eye and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.
‘I mean it. You’ve all lost so much. Her grief …’
‘I’ve told Gertie to meet you and Mr Yarwood near Piccadilly Circus Station after school. It’s so kind of you to take her to supper. I’m so grateful to you for having her in the afternoons and evenings while I do extra shifts. It’s meant that she could finish this term at school.’
Well, the extra shifts and the money from the jewels, though of course she didn’t mention those.
Mrs Yarwood squeezed Essie’s hand. ‘It’s been our pleasure to look after Gertie. We love her like she’s our own.’
As she pulled the coat across Essie’s shoulders and started to help button it, she paused, and pressed a hand to Essie’s cheek. ‘You look a picture,’ she said softly.