The Lost Jewels - Kirsty Manning Page 0,92

was lurching and heaving across the top of the swell. Essie was on deck clinging to the rails, wobbly with seasickness. Niall coaxed her back to the cabin, then went to fetch Guinness and dry crackers.

Kindness and hope, Katherine—that’s what you should look for in a man. Your great-grandfather Niall spent the entire Atlantic crossing tending to the ill, instructing the newer sailors on the ship on their ropes and seamanship, helping them practise navigation, fixing ropes … I never heard him raise his voice or utter a sharp word.

It was the same when Joseph was learning to sail the little dinghy or ride a bike. Or—heaven help me—learning to drive his first automobile. Niall was always there right by Joseph’s side, like a true father should be. Essie had smiled dreamily.

Kate’s great-grandfather may have showered Essie with gifts over the lifetime of their marriage, but whenever Essie spoke of Niall, it was with the easy tenderness of one who loved deeply and knew she was cared for in return. In Essie’s stories, it wasn’t the jewels that sparkled—it was Niall. Gestures were far more important to her than gemstones.

Niall had brought her a cup of Irish breakfast tea in bed every morning until the day he died. Set the table for their breakfast before he went to bed each night—always with a little vase of roses, or forget-me-nots he’d picked specially from the garden. He’d planted roses outside her window for summer, and bulbs for winter.

Kate’s breath started to shorten as her eyes ran over and over the same lines:

… the dry-retching, the clammy hands and sweat at her temples. My mother and sister were both the same when they were with child …

Kate too had experienced all of these symptoms when she was with child.

She placed both hands on her stomach and closed her eyes for a beat—wanting the pain to pass, but clinging to the memory of those first flutters. Loss and hope knotted in her stomach.

Chapter 34

ESSIE

LOUISBURG SQUARE, BOSTON, 1994

Essie lowered herself into the swinging chair on her stoop. In her hand was a glass of fresh lemonade brought to her on a tray by her dear friend and housekeeper, Mrs Mackay.

It was a humid Sunday afternoon—the kind that promised a late afternoon squall off the Atlantic. But for now the sun was high and fuzzy, and Essie was grateful Mrs Mackay’s lemonade was not too far off sucking a lemon. She shook the glass to get the last drops then fished out a few ice cubes and wrapped them in her handkerchief, before pressing them against her neck as she watched her great-granddaughters Molly and Katherine play soccer across the road. The relief was immediate. How those girls could keep running about the park in this steamy summer heat was beyond her.

Her son and grandson were in the back garden with their glamorous wives—no doubt burning expensive steak and laying an elaborate lunch table with potato salad and corn with peppery lime butter. Once the dessert was cleared they were all going to have a little chat about the Sunny Banks Retirement Village being constructed in Cambridge. Glossy brochures had been left with her to have a think about a fortnight ago after a similar lunch culminating in a far-too-sweet sticky date pudding.

Aside from the fact there was no ‘sunny bank’ anywhere within a hundred-mile radius of Boston, Essie was not leaving her home. Her son and his offspring would never understand, of course. They just wanted her to be safe. Cared for. But how could Essie explain to her family—with their privilege, comfortable houses and education—that this house was as much a part of her as her arm? It represented everything she’d longed for as a child in London. Shelter, books, food. Family.

Someday soon this house would be passed to the next generation. She hoped they’d fill it to the brim with children, laughter and godawful plastic toys.

She loved it when these two energetic great-granddaughters visited and shrieked up and down the staircase, trailing sticky fingers down the wallpaper and carelessly spreading books and Lego across the floor for everyone else to trip over.

Molly had the ball but Katherine was making a determined tilt for it. Long skittish limbs flew in all directions. Their skin glowed with summer tans, and their hair fell in loose ponytails at their shoulders. Katherine sliced a goal past her older sister, and they slapped hands and danced around with their hands in the air, shaking their skinny butts.