The Lost Jewels - Kirsty Manning Page 0,53

their treasure. The piles of gemstones, buttons, neckpieces and rings on Mr Lawrence’s desk had been so immense that it was improbable to think no-one would come looking …

Just as quickly as the thought arrived, she pushed it away. Her family were thieves. Any one of them could go to gaol if Mr Lawrence turned them in! Her stomach churned at the thought, but in her heart she felt Mr Lawrence was a kind soul. Still, she remembered the notice from London’s town clerk in the newspaper wrapped around her kippers weeks ago.

When Essie returned home from her Saturday jaunts roaming the curved tree-lined streets and glossy front doors on the way to the Serpentine with Edward, she always made sure to slip a small bag of aniseed drops to the twins when Ma wasn’t looking. Saturday last, she’d told Edward that Gertie had a fondness for reading and as they passed a bookseller along Piccadilly Circus, he’d bought an illustrated copy of The Secret Garden.

‘It’s my sister’s favourite book,’ he told Essie.

‘You shouldn’t. It’s too—’

‘You said Gertie was quite the artist; I thought she’d like it,’ he said simply as he pressed it into Essie’s basket.

When Ma had eyed her suspiciously as Essie presented the book wrapped up in brown paper and twine, Essie had lied, saying it was a gift from Mrs Ruben.

‘For me?’ Gertie’s face puckered with confusion as she turned the stiff new pages. ‘A new book,’ she said dreamily. ‘Can you imagine a garden filled with overgrown vines and a wall so high that you could hide from the world? And from Ma!’ she added in an undertone as she traced her fingers over watercolour leaves. ‘She’d never find me. Too hard for a drunk to—’

‘Gertie,’ snapped Essie. ‘Enough!’

‘Why do you always stick up for her? How can you stand it?’ Gertie looked at their mother, whose papery hands were shaking as she tried to unscrew the lid of her bottle.

‘Never heard of a Jew that liked giving presents,’ muttered Ma as she took a swig from the bottle and sank into the threadbare armchair.

Essie let her mother’s hurtful comments pass. If it wasn’t the Jews it was the Italians. The Poles. Whoever had failed to extend the credit and hand over a bottle of liquor that week. She didn’t discriminate with her bitterness and there was nothing to be gained by labouring the point when her mother could barely stand upright and would not remember a word she’d said in the morning.

Mrs Yarwood was happy enough to look after the girls on a Saturday. In fact she insisted on it, though just last week her eyes had narrowed a little as she quipped: ‘There’s a rosy flush about you of late, Miss Essie. It’s lovely to see you smiling.’ She took a breath before her voice dropped and she whispered, ‘You deserve an occasional afternoon off, but be careful, lass.’ She patted Essie’s hand and said nothing about Essie wearing her Sunday best to work on a Saturday.

The trio of younger sisters enjoyed their Saturdays with Mrs Yarwood, walking to the Borough Markets to buy soft loaves of bread and hard cheese. Sometimes they’d picnic on the bank of the Thames; other days they’d spend all afternoon in the cheery yellow kitchen preparing fancy meals from a second-hand cookbook Mrs Yarwood had picked up at a local fair—slow-cooked beef cheeks in red wine and buttery mashed potatoes, pork chops in apple cider with strawberry clafoutis. Essie would arrive to collect her sisters and be forced to stay for a two-course feast they’d cooked, aprons tied around their waists and flour smeared across their cheeks and little noses.

Gertie would write down the recipes for ham cooked in cider followed by a tart gooseberry jelly. One evening, when their lips were stained purple, she wrote down recipes for blackberry curd and blackberry jam.

Today, Essie had arrived at the Yarwoods a little earlier and the kitchen was filled with steam and the tangy scent of lemon. As Mrs Yarwood dictated, Gertie was writing out the recipe for a cough mixture:

2 spoons honey

pinch of thyme leaves

ground peppercorns

squeeze of lemon (fresh)

(Add to boiling tea, or water)

Essie closed her eyes and pressed her hand to the cheek Edward had kissed as he bid her farewell. It had been only the briefest of pecks, but as he leaned close the scent of his soap and freshly laundered shirt had mingled with the muskier smell of his skin. She’d wanted to trace