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