The Lost and Found Necklace

by Louisa Leaman

  He thinks for a moment. “Jossop’s,” he adds. “That’s it. That’s the name of the jewelry company she went to work for. Nancy once mentioned it. Jossop’s of Hollywood. And there was a producer, a man Anna got engaged to, a Christopher somebody…Christopher Roderick.”

  “Wow!” says Jess, overwhelmed. “I need to sit down and draw my family tree. There’s so much to figure out, so much to discover. All thanks to the butterfly necklace.”

  “Well, isn’t that the wonder of family heirlooms? They keep us connected to our past, with the people who’ve gone, yet to whom we owe so much.”

  “Yes,” says Jess. “They really do.”

  “One wonders why it left your family, given what a treasure it is.”

  “I wish I knew. It’s odd. I mean, I guess maybe it got mislaid when we moved house. We did that a few times after my mum died. Lots of change. Although”—Jess puzzles, thinks back—“the jewelry box always came with us, every time. My sister and I, we had it in our bedroom. We used to fight over it. So it stands to reason that the contents, including the necklace, would have come too, but…who knows? In your chats with Nancy, did…did she ever mention it?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “One of her off-limits topics?”

  “I believe so.”

  Jess sighs, then her phone trills: a message from Guy. For a moment, she hopes he is contacting her to say that he has the necklace for her; then equally, she fears he is messaging to say it has been melted down for scrap.

  “Excuse me,” she says, clicking on the message, nerves sweeping her stomach.

  Jess of the Doughnuts,

  Is your grandmother hanging in there?

  I’m keeping my ringed fingers crossed for you.

  And in the meantime, stay away from airplanes. And skydive instructors.

  G.

  Neither. Just something nice. Pointless but nice. She shuts off her phone then looks to the window. On the terrace outside she spies a stone sculpture of a peacock.

  “Ah, I’ve seen a photo of Minnie holding a peacock,” she exclaims.

  “That would have been Percy. He roamed the estate for decades. Ruled the place, some say. Emery made the sculpture of him just before…” He pauses, shrugs. “Well, why not come outside and see it up close.”

  He throws open the patio doors, leads Jess out. The sun has warmed the sandstone flagstones, and the smell of fresh-cut grass hangs in the air. They would have taken tea here, thinks Jess. They would have admired the view. Maybe played some croquet.

  “Here he is,” says Bevan, patting the large but elegantly formed stone peacock. “Sculpture was just one of the crafts Emery excelled at. He could turn his hand to anything.”

  Jess places a hand on the peacock’s back.

  “He’s so lifelike,” she says. “He could strut right off his plinth, take a turn on the lawn.”

  But as the sunbaked stone heats her palm, she realizes there is something achingly sad about the way Percy looks out across the valley. Like he’s waiting, forever waiting. She turns to Bevan.

  “They were happy together, weren’t they?”

  “Oh yes,” he says, “they had some very halcyon years together, a decade in fact, before—”

  He stalls, casts his eyes down. Jess senses what’s coming.

  “The war?” she says, second-guessing the specter of the First World War—its cataclysmic impact on the early twentieth century.

  “Yes,” says Bevan. “Emery was slow to sign up. They all were. The conscientious objectors of Pel Tawr—there was an article about them in our local paper. But in the end, having been inspired by the war artists, Emery decided to play his part. He joined the Welsh Fusiliers, sailed out in May 1917, taking his sketchbooks with him. He was killed five weeks later. Drowned, of all things. The rain that year, it was dreadful. No-man’s-land was a lethal quagmire, never mind the sniper bullets. Emery slipped off a wooden gangplank while carrying supplies across the field. His body was never recovered.”

  “Oh god,” says Jess, a chill in her soul.

  “And that, I’m afraid, was where Minnie and Emery’s love story ended, like so many of that era, all too briefly.”

  A wedge of sorrow catches in her throat.

  “But they were soul mates,” she protests. “That’s what Nancy told me. The necklace brought them together. They were meant for each other.” She sighs. “Soul mates forever.”

  “Ah,” says Bevan, “there is a philosophy that the way of soul mates is to come into our lives to challenge us, move us forward. It’s not the job of a soul mate to accompany us through our entire life or share every detail of our being. Once it’s purpose has been fulfilled, the soul mate is free to disappear.”

  Jess nods, wide-eyed.

  “Like Emery,” she whispers. “He restored Minnie’s joy after a bad marriage. He made her happy, gave her a child, and then…he fluttered away.”

  “Like a butterfly.”

  “Yes,” says Jess, the necklace’s translucent wings suddenly more pertinent than ever.

  She stares at the sky, then turns to Bevan. “Thank you so much for your time,” she says, tucking Minnie’s sketchbook into her bag, along with the envelope of Nancy’s photographs. “And for sharing your home with me. It’s wonderful. It really is.”

  Bevan smiles, a glint in his eye.

  “Consider it your home too.”

  “Yes,” says Jess. “Yes, I suppose it is in a way. Thank you.”

  “Visit again. Whenever you wish. And…give my love to Nancy, won’t you?”

  “I will. Goodbye. And thank you again.”

  ***

  Jess walks away feeling wiser and warmer, and a little sadder for Minnie and Emery, their love cut so short. To finally find someone who’s right for you, who lets you be you—your soul mate—then have them snatched away… It’s too cruel. But as she hobbles down the lane, past the lazing sheep and hedgerows, toward her guesthouse, she cannot shake the necklace from her thoughts, the tiny green-blue cells of its plique-à-jour wings—because suddenly she sees in it not just life and love, but death too; the end of things, the transience of butterflies, their presence so rich, so brief.

  Does this explain the “OUI” engraving? An edict to say yes while you can? Yes to what? With a shiver, she hastens forward. Having already faced her mortality, she knows only too well that every of drop of time is precious. So what, today, should she be saying yes to? Settling down or taking risks? Listening to her head or trusting her heart?

  At last she reaches the village of Beddgelert. Surrounded by heathery mountains and pine forests, not one but two rivers winding through the village’s streets, creating meandering chaos for cars and pedestrians. At every turn there is a humpback bridge, and on every corner, a trinket shop or ice cream parlor or accommodation to serve the summer walkers. Jess finds her guesthouse on the main street, a traditional stone cottage with log fires and the promise of Glamorgan sausages and fresh eggs for breakfast. It’s a welcome sight after so much walking. She checks in and just about manages the final push upstairs to her bedroom, where she flops onto the ruched satin bedspread and pops a double dose of pain relief. The tablets will make her drowsy, but no matter. From the bed, she can see through the window, right across the forested valley. It’s a view she’ll happily stick with for the evening.

  As the sun sinks low behind the trees, Jess makes herself comfortable with a mound of cushions, places her haul of Taylor memorabilia beside her on the bed, then digs out her phone. Tim, she guesses, will still be at work, planning in his classroom, eating a protein bar, loyal to his job promotion. She dials his number and he answers immediately.

  “Hey, you,” he says. “I hoped you’d call. I’m sitting here, boring myself stupid going through the staff lists for next term. There’s still a post up for grabs, if I could only entice y
ou, oh greatest art-and-design teacher there ever was.”

  “I’m thinking about it,” says Jess.

  “And one thing we really should start thinking about is the kitchen for the flat. The contractors want our instructions. I’ll get some brochures, then when you’re back, we can go through them. Seriously, Jess, can you imagine us waking up every day together? Lie-ins in our own bedroom—”

  Tim beside her every night. What would that be like? It wouldn’t—as Steph has decreed—be fireworks, but it would certainly be a soothing night’s rest. Tim always sleeps deeply, as though he’s been programmed to. Jess has noticed she wakes up refreshed whenever they share a bed, as though somehow, lying next to him, she absorbs all his orderly, calming atoms.

  “I’ll bring you breakfast in bed every weekend,” he promises.

  And he will, she thinks. He’s that much of a gem.

  “How’s Wales?”

  “It’s fascinating.”

  “I miss you,” he says.

  “Miss you too,” says Jess. “So what are you up to this evening?”

  “I promised Duff I’d meet him for a pint and a game of Risk.”

  Of course. Thursdays. The habitual routine: real ale and board games with Duff on Thursdays.

  Tim talks on, about a scandal at work and a bike crash that has put half his cycle team’s best riders out of action, but his chat is disturbed by the intermittent buzz of Jess’s phone. When she gets off the line, she finds a slew of messages from Guy, who has sent links to a Facebook page from a woman appealing for help to recover her engagement ring, which slipped off her finger while snorkeling in Spain.

  Business opportunity? G.

  Jess smiles to herself. Two job proposals in one minute, at opposite ends of the spectrum, from men who are at opposite ends of the spectrum. She doubts Guy is serious—his type rarely is—but she knows Tim is utterly serious. The teaching post gets a mention at every opportunity. Yes, she’s interested. Yes, she sees how getting back into teaching makes sense. Yes, she understands that Tim is proud of his school, but…the constant encouragement is starting to feel like pressure.

  She pictures them both, Tim and Guy, tugging on her arms, fighting for her attention; Agnes pulling from one side, Nancy from the other. She sighs, shuts her eyes, and turns her attention instead to Minnie’s sketchbook. The stiff, yellowed pages reveal sketch after sketch, much like Nancy’s, some gentle and detailed, some crude, of flora and fauna. At the back there are a dozen pages of writing, presented like a memoir. Jess marvels at the sight of her ancestor’s elegant, looped script. She softens into her pillow and reads:

  I arrived full of anxiety, having made my way alone, by train, then boat, then another train. I was greeted on the lawn by the youngest of the Floyd children, who seemed merely amused by my sudden appearance, clambering out of the pine forest like a wood nymph; but I believe they were rather used to sudden arrivals and departures, such was the bohemian way of their home.

  I was then brought to the kitchen and given some soup and asked about my background. I said little, other than that I wanted to join the artists and that I had walked for a very long time. They were kind to me. A bed was made, and I slept nonstop for thirty-two hours. When I awoke, the sky was blue, the birds were singing, and such a lightness came over me.

  In the parlor, I met Emery Floyd, the young gentleman of the house. As he talked, I could not help but be inspired by his mind. He knew the work of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and the campaigns of William Morris. He confided he had once wished to replicate their intellectualism by studying Eastern philosophy and medieval literature, but that wordy ideas were not his forte. He said he believed his true gift was in his eyes and hands, their ability to communicate with each other, and this I wholly understood.

  In the weeks that followed, I noticed him watching me as I wandered alone on the grounds. The house was not without its social routines. Meals were communal, at set times of the day, eaten around a long wooden table, which had been crafted by Emery himself. Everyone was expected to help with chores and maintenance of the grounds. There was open access to workshops and tools, to encourage the creative forces, but I stayed away. I stayed away from all the high jinks too—the plays, the card games, the drinking, the dressing-up.

  Other characters at the house were large and loud, with many opinions and just as many insecurities. They stayed up all night drinking absinthe, then did daft, grandiose things, like marching through the streets, draped in velvet cloaks, shouting the verse of William Blake. Meanwhile I walked alone, ate in silence, spoke little. Looking back, it’s almost as though the shock of my transition had all but wiped out my character.

  I think Emery could sense this. He gave me the space I needed, but didn’t quite let me slip away. Once a day, he would seek me out. He brought me things—an unusual flower or tile or piece of embroidery, hopeful that it might ignite an opinion or comment. He introduced me to Percy, the resident peacock, who ruled the place. When he suggested I paint or maybe try my hand at metalwork, it made me wince. After years of being denied, I found it terrifying to be actively encouraged. I found it terrifying, but Emery’s calm attentiveness softened my nerves, and as the spring rains eased and the lawn baked in the summer sun, my confidence returned.

  I took an interest in the flower gardens, where Madame Floyd grew dahlias, euphorbias, and lilies. Their intricate beauty gave me the impetus to start sketching again, first the flowers themselves, then the birds and insects that inhabited them. The butterflies in particular drew my attention.

  “The Callophrys rubi,” said Emery one day, observing my sketch of a vivid green-blue butterfly. “This part of Wales is known for them, where they mate and breed.”

  As I sat on my knees among the buddleia bushes, deep-pink flower fronds cloaking me, a pencil in my hand, he told me that far away in Japan, butterflies had great symbolic value. They were thought to be the souls of humans, representing joy, longevity, emerging womanhood, even marital happiness.

  “Sometimes they place them on young women’s kimonos,” he told me, holding my gaze, “in the hope that they’ll attract a soul mate.”

  As he spoke, one of the same green-blue butterflies landed on my thigh and a deep reasoning burrowed into my mind that this force of beauty should be the subject of my first jewelry creation. If I could only capture the translucent delicacy of its petal-shaped wings, its ephemeralness—there for a moment to land its love, only to flutter away moments later.

  As though reading my thought, Emery took my hand and led me to his workshop, where he furnished me with tools and materials and taught me the basics of silversmithing and stone setting. He had little knowledge of the elaborate Lalique enameling techniques that I loved so ardently, but did his best to re-create the effect. He never once saw outrage in my desire to make jewelry. He just saw magic.

  We grew closer every day. When my butterfly pendant was finally finished, he told me I should be proud, then he handed me an engraving tool.

  “You must mark your work.”

  “Mark it?”

  “With your name, your insignia, so that the world knows that you, Minnie Taylor, created it.”

  For a moment I considered whether to attempt my signature or just my initials, but then it came to me—a word in my head, somehow more meaningful, more potent than any other. Oui!

  Yes to art.

  Yes to freedom.

  Yes to love.

  Overcome, I struggled to fit the clasp, so he fixed it for me and placed it gently around my neck. As his fingertips caressed the silk of my skin, I knew he wanted so much to kiss me. And I wanted him to, but my tender heart trembled at the thought and I cowered.

  That evening we took a boat out on the lake. As we rested in the middle, I could not resist leaning over to admire myself in my necklace. Gazing at my reflection, I tipped too far forward and hit the water with a splas
h. Emery screamed to me.

  “Minnie!”

  I saw him drop the oars, jump in after me, but I couldn’t stay above the surface. The more I tried, the more I sank. I felt the life leave my lungs, and I knew I was drowning. Then I saw him again, grasping into the sun-flecked depths, diving forward, seizing my arms, and pulling me to the air. He forced my face to the sky, and with a strength that I’m sure was born from pure adrenaline, he heaved me back onto the boat, where I spluttered and gasped and stared, awestruck, into his eyes.

  And so, not wasting any more time, no longer holding back, he leaned down and kissed me, and it was a kiss of such intensity that all my demons were vanquished in that instant—a kiss of true love. I reached for my necklace, felt it there against my heart, and suddenly it seemed like the loves and lives of the whole world—not just mine and Emery’s—were bound within its form.

  Minnie Philomene Taylor. Pel Tawr, 1918.

  Jess reads it again, herself in awe: the incarnation of the True Love Necklace explained by Minnie herself. There are a few more pages of notes about jewelry materials, plus a list of flowers and their Latin names, but it’s this account that means the most. Through it, Jess finds a sense of closeness to Minnie that wasn’t there before. The fact that they both had a brush with mortality intrigues her. A hundred years apart and the life lesson is the same: Never take happiness for granted.

  And Minnie’s happiness clearly lay with Emery. Her adoration of him exudes from every sentence. It was their necklace. Jess thinks of all the design masterpieces she’s seen in galleries around the world, some about joy, some about suffering. To what extent does a creator’s intent become imbued in the creation itself? Here is a necklace made with love, for the sake of love, but can the quest for a soul mate really be bound within its form? Such a lovely idea.

  “If only it were true,” she whispers, shutting the book, her thoughts twirling in circles.

  Chapter Ten

  In Aggie’s kitchen, over a plate of homemade gluten-free macaroons and kombucha tea, Jess shares the spoils of her trip to Wales.