Chapter 22
I awoke from a deep, exhausted sleep after the emotional ups and downs of the night before. I was scarcely out of bed with coffee mug in hand when the telephone rang loud enough to wake the dead. I dashed into the hall and dove for the receiver.
“Hello, this is the Beaumont residence. Elisabeth speaking.”
“Miss Beaumont, it’s Jerry.”
I frowned into my coffee cup. “Jerry? Is everything all right?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m calling on behalf of Mrs. McLean. The McLeans are hosting a party this evening and would like for you to attend. Hors d’oeuvres begin at six o’clock, followed by dinner and dancing. It’s a formal soiree, so wear your best.”
I frowned. “Are you sure, Jerry? I haven’t heard anything about this. Is it a spontaneous gathering?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “It’s been scheduled for several weeks. Mrs. McLean says she forgot your invitation.”
“Of course. Is this at Friendship?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Jerry. See you soon.”
I couldn’t help but wonder if it really was an accident.
None of the women, including Evalyn, had said a word about it, and I’d spent a lot of time with them.
They weren’t exactly adept at keeping secrets.
It was as if I were an afterthought, or perhaps Evalyn was putting me through some kind of test to see if I would still cooperate, still jump when she told me to jump.
I refreshed my coffee and padded quietly to the workshop so as not to disturb Father.
Though it was nearly noon, no sound came from his room.
I had plans to work on my collection one more time, to try to find some inspiration that might help me make peace with working for my father.
As much as I enjoyed entertaining the idea Julia Wane had planted in my head of working at the National Museum, it wasn’t feasible to volunteer and work for free as most women did, leaving my father to run the business on his own. I needed an income to help support us.
I reached for my sketchbook and thumbed through it slowly, pausing on an old newspaper clipping.
Its edges curled away from the page as if the glue was worn and the paper had been smoothed down one time too many.
The past few years, I’d taken to collecting articles about the very few female jewelers lucky enough to gain some semblance of notoriety and pasted them inside the front flap of my sketchbook.
There were only two that had made headlines doing precisely what I thought I was supposed to do: bide my time, gain more experience, and work on my own designs until the moment came when my pieces could speak for themselves.
Now, everything felt different. I was different, and I didn’t know where to go from here.
Hoping for some inspiration, I skimmed the newspaper article about Charlotte Isabella Newman for the hundredth time.
She had been a hero of mine; her name was well known in the jewelry business.
When her boss and teacher had passed away, she’d made the company her own and stamped her designs with her own signature, “Mrs. N.” It was said she employed men, too, though she was the primary designer.
More importantly, she’d broken convention in every way, and I’d hoped—despite her age—to travel to her boutique on Savile Row in the Mayfair end of London one day to meet her.
I’d also hoped to travel to Paris to meet Jeanne Poiret Boivin, another of the few female designers who’d made a name for themselves.
Since Julien’s death, the trips we’d planned to go abroad had been postponed. My collection had been postponed. Everything else had been postponed, too.
Sighing, I opened the bottom drawer of my worktable and retrieved a small square of metal that would become the mount for a ring I’d illustrated in my notebook.
I flicked on a lamp and sorted through my sketches to the design of the ring in two different scales: one sketch was to size, and the other was an enlarged version from a couple of different angles.
The style of the mount was complex; a round diamond would be encircled by a halo of diamonds, and beneath the halo, I’d construct a triangular web of thin platinum strips to allow light to strike the gemstones from every possible angle.
If I managed the design correctly, it would be pretty but not one of a kind.
While I enjoyed the manipulation of metal and stone, the hammering, sawing, filing, and careful polishing, it was the spark of a new idea and the feverish sketching that followed that I had enjoyed most, or so I thought.
Looking back over the course of my life, my enjoyment had felt more like a proxy, as if I’d gleaned it from others who truly loved the work while I merely subscribed to their enthusiasm.
But I had to try, for my father’s sake if not for mine.
I pulled on my protective eye gear and bent over the ring mount, examining my work.
Being a jeweler in my own right was something I’d strived for my whole life, without question.
But what if I didn’t want this life? Courting the wealthy, being a part of a world I’d never felt like I belonged to and never had.
Even now with my fine new dresses, I felt like an interloper, an impostor in Evalyn’s world.
I had responsibilities and a life worlds apart from theirs.
What was more, I could scarcely converse with them.
They spoke of charities, politicians’ wives, and dignitaries and spent their days playing card games and sipping cocktails.
It was hard to keep up, and though it had been something of a welcome respite from my life, I was growing more and more wary of the constant land of make-believe and showmanship and most of all their version of “friendship.” I felt as if I were walking on the edge of a blade at all times.
As I glanced back at my original sketches and the ruby I’d intended for the ring, I heaved a sigh of dismay.
The design would take so much work, but the bigger problem was we lacked a ruby of the right clarity and size to finish my design.
I removed my eye gear and leaned over the tray of the few remaining loose gems to assess them.
I’d always loved stones, regardless of size or type.
Searching for them, finding them, identifying them.
Learning about their chemical makeup and structures and studying them for hours under a microscope.
In those moments, I knew deep down that I’d always dreamed about a different life, one I’d never given words to until I’d met Julia Wane and seen other women hard at work in the museum.
I picked up the ring mount again, assessing the multiple cutouts in the tiny square of metal. Julien had helped me cut them. I remembered that day as if it were yesterday, my frustration and my big brother—older by two minutes—coming to my rescue.
* * *
I’d redrawn the sketch many times and finally decided to start the piece.
“Everything all right?” Julien’s voice came from the doorway.
I looked up from the tiny ring mount to find him dressed in the navy suit he usually reserved for meeting with customers. “Sure. Why do you ask?”
“You’re frowning.”
I smiled. “Yes, well, what I’m working on is quite ambitious.”
“Do you need help?” He reached for a pair of protective eye goggles.
“If you would make the first cut, I can take it from there, I think.” It wasn’t unusual for me to sketch the designs and for my brother to finish them, but not this time. I wanted the work to be mine. Though Father had always been supportive, it was Julien who pushed me to be creative.
“This is your best work, sis.” He peered at the two-dimensional rendering.
I smiled again at my favorite person in the world. “You think so?”
“I do.” His tone was earnest, his blue eyes sincere. “It might be tricky soldering this piece together.” I stepped aside as he took over my station, using the goldsmith’s miniature saw to cut the metal into a series of uniform strips. “What do you think?”
“That’s perfect,” I said, sweeping the tiny metal crumbs into a marble bowl to be melted down later. No material was wasted, regardless of its size; nearly everything could be repurposed.
“I’ll show you a soldering trick later when you have a minute,” he said, raking a hand through his wavy blond hair. “It’ll probably make this mount easier.”
“When I have a minute?” I laughed. “All that’s on my agenda today is ordering metals and polishing the piece Father finished yesterday. After that, I’m sweeping the store.”
* * *
As the sound of Father’s footsteps clunked across the kitchen floor overhead, Julien’s voice, his face, his presence dissipated like smoke.
And I was alone again in the workshop, and my coffee was cold.
I put the ring mount back in the tray and flipped through the next few pages of my sketchbook.
Some of the drawings were unfinished. Others, I’d sketched every minute detail of a piece from multiple angles.
I flipped to the back where I’d outlined my collection.
I’d always thought it would be something special, representative of the art nouveau movement that had been very popular with its colored enamels swirled with gold or silver, the intricate designs of dragonfly wings or beetles or butterflies, colorful cabochons of sapphires or rose quartz or amethyst, detailed and delicate, whimsical and natural.
If I ever completed it, my collection would showcase a necklace, a pair of hair combs, three sets of earrings, four brooches resembling various gilded insects, and a money clip, though Father had tried to talk me out of it.
I wanted to design something distinctly male for my collection as well.
I’d used the Japanese cherry blossoms as my inspiration.
The necklace resembled a web of thin branches with ends that curled into tiny leaves painted with green enamel and clusters of pink blossoms. A tiny diamond would be nestled in the middle of each blossom.
The necklace would be a large statement piece, designed for a plunging neckline or a strapless dress.
As I traced the designs with my finger, I knew the drawings were beautiful but not unique.
The art nouveau style had been popular for twenty years already and was bound to change soon.
And yet I didn’t know if I cared about any of it.
All my inspiration, all the pressure to stand out as a true asset of Beaumont Jewelers had vanished into thin air.
There were other things I wanted far more.
“What are you working on?” my father asked as he crossed the room.
His hair was mussed, but his eyes were bright.
He’d been spending more and more time tinkering with projects he’d abandoned, but he never seemed satisfied enough with any of them to keep at it for long.
I was happy to see him interested at all.
I glanced down at the ring mount. “I’m not sure this is working anymore.”
“Maybe you need a little inspiration. Perhaps a jewelry show or a tour of the shops around town. See what everyone else is selling.”
“From what I saw at the bazaar, there’s not much new on the horizon.”
He covered my hand with his. “Maybe it’s time we went to New York. It’s the jewelry capital of America after all. Perhaps I can set up some meetings with some old friends. Get them to show us what they’re working on.”
I knew then that a trip to New York was as much—or more—for him than it would be for me. And yet the idea of leaving town for a few days sounded perfect, exciting even. I’d always wanted to see New York City and the famous diamond district, but as always, there was the matter of affordability.
“We still have a few outstanding bills,” I said, “but I’ve built a small cushion for us. I don’t know.” I shook my head. “I’m not sure a trip will help me much with my designs.”
“Of course it will, chérie. We’ll visit some boutiques, research what others are working on, take in new sights. Fill up our creative wells again. I think we could both use the time away.”
I studied his face, taking in the lines on his forehead, the crags around his mouth and eyes. They seemed lesser that day, softer. In recent weeks, he’d regained his appetite and had started to fill out again. “Are you sure you’d be up for that, Papa?”
His eyes softened at the name I’d called him as a child. “I think it’s time we invested in our future—in your future.”
I was so happy to see him becoming himself again that I didn’t reflect on what he was saying. I didn’t need to take time investing in a future I was beginning to realize I didn’t want to be a part of, but I’d confront that hurdle another day.
“How soon would we go?” I asked.
“How about next week? Is that too soon?”
“It’s perfect.”
And for the first time in nearly half a year, my father wrapped his arms around me.