I was about to respond, but the elevator had stopped, and the operator opened the gate for us.
I’d never visited the store and was surprised to see it was so much smaller than Tiffany & Co. on Thirty-seventh Street. Then again, Mr. Tiffany sold lamps, vases, dinnerware, silverware, and glassware, as well as jewelry, whereas Cartier’s kept its inventory focused on jewelry and bibelots.
To my surprise, there was no sign that we’d entered a jewelry store at all. We walked into a carpeted sitting room with a scattering of delicate chairs and small tables, with soft green walls and curtains pulled back to reveal a view of Fifth Avenue below. Fine crystal chandeliers with multiple arms and rainbow teardrops of glass hung down, shedding a soft, warm glow.
“Where is the jewelry?” I asked.
My sister, who pointed to the elegant wainscoting, said, “There are drawers cleverly built into the paneling that pull out. You’ll see.”
A well-dressed man approached us.
Letty greeted him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Fontaine.”
“Mrs. Briggs, how nice to see you. Can I be of assistance?” he asked.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Cartier,” Letty told him.
“Of course. He’s just finishing up a call. Can I offer you seats and some refreshments? Champagne, perhaps?”
Unlike American establishments, Cartier’s followed its European counterparts and served champagne.
Letty said yes, we’d love some, and off he went. While he was gone, Letty told me that unlike the shop’s jewelers and designers who had moved from Paris with Mr. Cartier to open the New York branch, Mr. Fontaine wasn’t an import but a native.
“The only person you’ll meet here who doesn’t speak with an accent.”
Mr. Fontaine returned with two coupes of pale golden liquid and a plate of thin cookies.
I took a sip of the dry, effervescent wine and thought of my father. He traveled to France twice a year, not just to see the latest fashions for the ready-to-wear department but also to bring back foodstuffs and liquors for both the store and his private stock. Cases of the best champagne were always included.
“Madame Briggs,” Mr. Cartier said in a soft, heavily French-accented voice, as he walked into the viewing room a few minutes later. The jeweler was a medium-tall, dapper man with dark hair, a high forehead, and a strong nose. His dark brown eyes sparkled as he smiled at my sister.
“What a delight to see you again,” Cartier said, bowing slightly and taking Letty’s hand.
She greeted him and then introduced us. “Have you met my sister? Miss Vera Garland?”
I’d never been to his shop, but since he and my father were colleagues and friends, I’d come in contact with the jeweler several times socially.
“Yes, I have,” he said as he took my hand. “It’s lovely to see you again, Mademoiselle Garland.”
“And you, Mr. Cartier.”
The middle brother of the world-class jewelry concern, Pierre Cartier was well known in New York society not only as an entrepreneurial businessman and purveyor of magnificent gems but also as a benefactor of the arts. Together with his American wife, the heiress Elma Rumsey, he supported many causes, including the Brooklyn Museum and the Metropolitan Opera. The couple’s names were in the columns at least once a month, as much because of the former Miss Rumsey’s notoriety as her husband’s.
By 1910, Cartier had already built quite a reputation for his New York shop, his largesse, and the parties he and his wife threw. I’d been to more than one of his galas with my parents at his Beaux Arts Parisian-style town house at 15 East Ninety-sixth Street, which was quite large, boasting more than thirty rooms, eleven bathrooms, and seven fireplaces. And Mr. Cartier had attended my father’s funeral ten months before.
“So, you are here to try on your earrings, Madame?” Mr. Cartier asked Letty.
“Yes, your note said you wanted to check the way they sit on my ears?”
“Indeed. Let me go and fetch them and—”
“I was wondering,” Letty interrupted, “if we could see the Hope Diamond as well. While we are here.”
Did Mr. Cartier hesitate for a second? I wasn’t sure, but there was the subtlest change in his expression. “I would be delighted. But let me warn you in advance, you mustn’t touch it. I’ve devised a way you can try it on without coming into contact with it directly, but we have to follow strict precautions. While I act as its guardian, I must be careful that its curse doesn’t rub off on my customers.”
And on that ominous note, he left the room.
“What nonsense,” I said to Letty once we were alone again. “Pierre Cartier, worried about a curse? Father always said he was the best salesman he ever met. I would bet that this is all part of his act.”
“Quite so. Jack calls him ‘the showman.’ But even if this is all just to get attention for the stone, I wouldn’t risk touching it, would you?”
Before I could answer, Mr. Cartier returned with a leather tray that he placed on the table before us. “Your earrings, Madame,” he said with a flourish.
The earrings were displayed lying on dark gray velvet. They sparkled like delicate flowers moistened by spring rain. Amethyst petals surrounded a gold pink-sapphire-studded pistil. Delicate leaves with pavé emeralds peeked out.
Letty clipped on first one and then the other. After they were in place, Mr. Cartier studied them. Then he positioned the big oval table mirror so that it reflected Letty’s image back to her. She turned her head this way and that and then looked at me.
“What do you think?”
“They are beautiful,” I said, and they were. The emeralds and sapphires complemented her skin tones, and the amethysts matched her violet eyes.
“I think so, too,” she said, beaming.
“I think they are sitting a bit too far back on the lobe. We can adjust that. Now, tell me about the fit?” Mr. Cartier asked.
As Letty focused, a tiny frown creased her forehead. “They might be a bit too tight,” she said to Mr. Cartier.
“Let me get our jeweler to adjust them.”
He rang for Mr. Fontaine and made the request.
A few moments later, the door to the viewing room opened. I glanced over as a man ambled out, wearing a gray smock over black slacks. Everything about him was long and thin—his legs, his arms, even his hands. His black hair fell in waves over his collar. Despite his height, he moved elegantly, purposefully, without looking at either Letty or me but rather at Mr. Cartier.
“Ah, Mr. Asher,” Mr. Cartier said, and he explained the issue with the earrings.
“I’d be happy to help adjust the clips,” the jeweler said in a low, slow voice with an accent I couldn’t quite recognize. A bit British but with something else mixed in.
“These are particularly lovely stones. Siberian amethysts are very rare,” Mr. Asher said as he worked on the earrings with one of the tools he’d taken out of his smock pocket. “If you look deeply into the stones, you’ll see that there are red flashes at six and twelve o’clock. These alternating zones of purple and blue account for the delightful and particularly velvety look that is the hallmark of a Siberian’s quality. Christian bishops often wore amethyst rings, since its color symbolized royalty and an allegiance to Christ.”