Then she gasped, peering at it. Was she seeing things, or was there a faint script engraved into the inside of the gold band?
She’d missed it at the museum; the curatorial staff too; the human eye could only pick up so much with a hand-held loupe. Even now, with the ring magnified a hundred times, it looked like the merest scratch. It was so delicate; the engraver would have had to have worked with a diamond tip and beat a tiny hammer into the curve of soft gold.
I GEVE ZOU VIS IN LUIF AURELIAE
Kate read the words aloud and they echoed around her study. ‘I give you this in love, Aurelia.’
And just like that, she felt the words start to flow. She started to type the final section of her article:
The Champléve Ring
There is no greater symbol of love—of commitment—than the finger ring. It was the Greeks who developed these tokens of love and the Romans quickly added their own charm, with secret inscriptions inspired by Ovid quickly becoming the norm …
Kate’s fingers flew over the keyboard, describing the forget-me-nots and pansies, quoting Madame Parsons and detailing the craftsmanship and risk it took to produce a black and white enamel ring that would fit on a small finger. She wrote about London’s talented goldsmiths in the seventeenth century, and the trail of trauma—war, plague and fire—that soured the history books. Stories of grief, betrayal and death that brought London and her subjects to their knees time and time again.
This Golconda diamond ring had endured it all.
Kate gulped the last of her white wine and banged out her final line.
This ring was made for a woman named Aurelia, and she was loved.
Chapter 29
ESSIE
LONDON, 1912
Essie stood at the ticket counter at Paddington Station, Gertie pressed close beside her.
They were surrounded by noise and movement: whistling locomotives, guards yelling for tickets, the hiss of steam. Excited children circled their parents, tired workers looked for a place to rest their feet. The clatter and chaos of London’s streets was condensed, echoing under the wrought-iron fretwork that arched over the platforms.
‘Two second-class tickets to Cheltenham Spa, please.’
Essie counted out the coins carefully as Gertie watched, wide-eyed.
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 travelling 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 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 towards 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 recognised the lined paper from Mr Yarwood’s accounting ledger, and she thought her heart might break for all the kindness their neighbours 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 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 swarm 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.