The Lost Jewels - Kirsty Manning Page 0,93

Gloriously gleeful and cocky.

She thought about the sheep guts the boys had used in the back alleys of Southwark and how they too shook their fists when they scored. She recalled the wistful way Flora and Maggie had watched them, desperate to hoist up their skirts and join in.

Essie’s breath caught, and she thought of the twins with their bandy legs. It had been over eighty years, and still the grief made her bones ache. Gertie’s recent passing compounded her sadness, though it gave Essie some comfort that her sister had slipped away quietly in her sleep instead of enduring illness or pain.

Nobody told you that, as you got older, grief and joy ebbed and flowed like the tides.

This afternoon, these filthy girls running about in denim cutoffs and bare feet were perfect.

As the girls leaned their freckled faces in together to share a secret, Essie caught a glimpse of her sisters, and it filled her heart to know that Gertie, Flora and Maggie’s blood—their spirit—ran through the veins of these glorious, healthy young girls. Molly and Katherine would finish school. Likely go to college. Choose their own paths.

Katherine—now bored with soccer—was climbing Christopher Columbus. She clutched at his rather bulbous nose and hauled a leg over his shoulder. What would become of them? Essie wondered. Molly was the more outspoken: precocious and articulate. Perhaps she’d become an attorney, like her great-great-aunt in London. Her younger sister Katherine—now sitting on Columbus’s shoulders, lost in her own thoughts—was quieter, more considered. She liked to steal away to the library, burying her head in Essie’s books. Last week she’d caught a pink-faced Katherine reading Jackie Collins when she’d insisted she needed to go upstairs and read Little Dorrit.

She was curious, too. Katherine loved nothing more than to sit at Essie’s dressing table, going through her jewellery box and asking her about each piece.

Just that morning, Katherine had sat beside Essie on the sofa, smelling of apples, sweat and cut grass, and touched Essie’s sapphire earrings.

‘What are these called?’

‘Sapphires.’

‘Are they from Grandpa Niall too?’

‘Why, yes … he had the stones made into earrings.’

‘I love the blue. They match your eyes. Blue is my lucky colour.’

Essie’s breath had caught in her throat. Then she said, ‘Mine too.’

Essie pressed her hands to her eyes to suppress the tears that threatened. She had no right to cry. No claim to this grief since she’d left London all those years ago. She and Gertie—along with the Yarwoods—had made a pact to never speak of that night in Piccadilly Circus.

‘You girls had best be moving on,’ Mrs Yarwood had advised in her tiny yellow kitchen. ‘It won’t be long before the police put two and two together. I’d say you could argue self-defence—we saw him raise a fist to you—but if his wealthy family decide to fight it, I’m afraid a judge would be more likely to side with them. You’ll be in gaol before you know it, Essie.’

‘But it was me …’ sobbed Gertie.

‘Shush, Gertie. You did the proper thing to save your sister. But, Essie, you need to get on that ship tomorrow. There are likely people who would be able to connect you with Mr Hepplestone.’

‘I can’t! I won’t leave.’

‘You must. Stay and you’ll go to gaol. Try to see this as an opportunity. Make the most of it. Don’t be looking back with regret. Gertie can stay with us—she’s like our own.’

Essie’s heart broke all over again. ‘Thank you. For everything. I’d be very grateful if you could keep an eye on Gertie. Come, let’s get you home to bed now, Gertie. Mrs Yarwood, I’d be grateful if you’d come with me while I settle Gertie, then I’ll explain to you and Ma my plan …’

Afterwards, when Essie bid her neighbour goodnight, Mrs Yarwood had clapped her hands and said, ‘Well, Mr Yarwood and I would love to assist. Now, I meant what I said. No regrets. Only love.’

And oh, how Essie had loved. She’d been married to a good man—a kind man—for over fifty years. She’d been a poor judge of a man’s character only once.

And yet …

It had been a shock to see yesterday’s obituary in newsprint—although the family had telephoned the news through some weeks before. Essie was far too old now to travel to London, so was unable to make it to the funeral.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the newspaper clipping she’d carefully cut from the London Times. Her hands were unsteady as she unfolded it. Eventually she