I tried to catch Letty’s eyes. Was she as surprised as I was that Mr. Asher was talking to us about the stones? Maybe I had been wrong to assume he was at a low rung in the hierarchy at the shop. Mr. Cartier appeared comfortable with his jeweler’s recitation. In any case, Letty didn’t notice me. She was too engrossed in listening and watching him work on her earring.
My eyes returned to Mr. Asher, and I found myself mesmerized by how his long fingers moved. Like a musician’s, I thought, and for a moment, I remembered a man I’d loved long ago and how his fingers had moved on his cello… how his hand had held his bow…
Mr. Asher finished with one earring and offered it to my sister. She clipped it on.
“Next to your face, with the color of your eyes, the stones really are perfect,” Mr. Asher said.
I had long since gotten over Maximilian Ritter but had never forgotten his sensuous beauty and how his touch had moved me as much as his music had. Since then, I’d never noticed the same grace in another man’s hands, but Mr. Asher’s made me shiver.
As if he felt me looking at him, Mr. Asher turned and met my eyes. His were dark green and unfathomable. Liquid mystery, I thought, and then wanted to laugh. I was beginning to sound like a stage review on one of the women’s pages—and describing a heartthrob, no less.
“I think it’s still a tad tight,” my sister said, and gave the earring back to him. “And thank you for all that information. I didn’t know anything about amethysts before.”
“Mr. Asher is our resident raconteur in addition to being one of our most trusted jewelers,” Mr. Cartier explained. “Even I have learned innumerable facts from him. We call him ‘the wizard’ because of all the arcane and esoteric knowledge he possesses.”
“Are there stories about amethysts?” Letty asked. She was flirting a little bit, the way she often did. I wasn’t surprised. Mr. Asher had a certain charm, with that rakish smile and the way his green eyes sparkled.
“Oh, yes, they have a rich and storied history,” he said. “In mythology, Amethyst was a Greek girl who had a run-in with Bacchus and was saved by Diana. The stone was said to have been one of ten in the breastplate of the high priest of Israel in ancient times. In 1652, Thomas Nicols, the preeminent lapidary, declared it to be of equal value to a diamond of the same weight. Mostly, it’s believed to be a protective stone, one that helps rid the mind of negative thoughts.”
“Stones have powers?” I asked.
Mr. Cartier answered, maybe to regain control. “Bien sûr. Powers and properties. Some that are considered occult.”
“How very interesting,” Letty said.
As Mr. Asher stepped forward, offering both of the earrings to my sister for her to try on one last time, I caught a whiff of his scent. The metallic fragrance of warm rain mixed with smoke. And underneath those top notes, I detected a creamy amber. The combination stirred me. It was almost familiar, but I couldn’t pull a memory of it. It was as if someone had planted the idea of this scent in me once, and now I had finally happened upon it.
While Letty looked at herself in the mirror and adjusted the earrings, Mr. Asher turned to me. “You should wear spessartite—rare garnets—often called mandarin garnets because of their deep orange hue,” he said. “They are named for the Spessart district of Bavaria. They would pick up the russet tones in your hair and the fiery color in your eyes. Spessartite is known to be a healing stone and is said to stimulate the analytical properties of the mind.”
“An excellent idea, Asher. I’ll have to get some in and show Mademoiselle Garland. Mr. Tiffany favors them in some of his more colorful pieces, but I like seeing them in simpler settings.”
Did I detect competition between Cartier and Tiffany? There was no question the two eponymous retail establishments were considered the best in the city, with Tiffany being a bit more of a household name due to its wider range of goods.
Mr. Asher caught my eye and smiled. He’d noted Cartier’s tone, too. An understanding passed between us.
My heart seemed to hold for a beat. I felt a flash of something as deep as the red sparkle in my sister’s earrings. Were this man and I simpatico? No, that was ridiculous. We’d exchanged a quick glance that had lasted for mere seconds. This was the stuff of the sentimental novels that my sister read. Surely I was overreacting; it had been a long time since I’d had any kind of connection with a man. Except, if I were honest with myself, this was different. I felt him in my bones. And it scared me.
The men I met as Vera Garland treated me like a bonbon or an arm ornament, and they were not interested in talking about politics or social reform with a woman. And I couldn’t trust the men I met as Vee Swann. Although I had more in common with other reporters and may have had some interest there, as a result, they instinctively always looked for the story, and I had secrets to protect. I never wanted to give any of them the opportunity to ferret out my true identity. That would be the end of my career, and I didn’t want that.
“I’m sorry, but this one is still a tiny bit tight,” my sister said to Mr. Asher as she took off the left earring.
Mr. Asher took it from her, made another adjustment, and handed it back.
She tried it again and announced it was perfect. “And now can we see the Hope?”
Mr. Cartier smiled. “Of course,” he said, and turned to Mr. Asher. “Would you bring it out along with the bib?”
“The bib?” I asked.
“Because of the bad luck associated with the Hope Diamond,” Mr. Cartier explained, “Mr. Asher created a metal bib for clients to wear. The necklace sits on that so the stone never comes in contact with your clothes or skin.”
“But surely that’s all the stuff of legend,” I said. “Neither of you actually believes a jewel can bring bad luck.” I looked from Mr. Cartier to Mr. Asher.
“The legends go back hundreds of years. It’s my responsibility to take all precautions and protect my clients,” Mr. Cartier said with the utmost seriousness.
“And you, Mr. Asher?”
That slight smile appeared on Mr. Asher’s lips again. “Since I can’t prove there isn’t bad luck, I find myself left to believe it,” he said, and then went off to retrieve the legendary stone.
“Let’s go into the viewing room,” Mr. Cartier said to Letty and me, escorting us out of the main showroom and into a smaller room decorated in the same colors and style but more intimate. He offered us seats at a French Louis XV desk and then turned to pull the drapes, casting us in shadow. Then he sniffed.
“It’s a bit stuffy in here,” he said. Opening a drawer, he pulled out a leather-covered wooden box. From inside, he took out a stick of incense, which he lit and set to burn in a crystal ashtray. The scent of sandalwood and frankincense began to permeate the room—a mixture that at once brought to mind the mystery of a place of worship in a foreign and unknown land.
“The diamond has had quite a storied past,” he said as the thin wisp of smoke filled the shadows, setting his stage. “And quite a legend has sprung up around it. Imagine, if you will, an ancient temple deep in the heart of India, where men and women had been going for years to pray and make sacrifices to their Hindu god. The year is 1668. A rather well-known merchant, by the name of Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, has traveled the Orient in search of rare and precious gems. Following rumors about a great diamond in the head of a Indian temple god, Tavernier finds the temple. This is an ancient and fantastical place. Entering, Tavernier sees only darkness, but he smells a heavenly incense not unlike the one filling this room now. Tavernier’s senses open like a flower. The hairs on the back of his neck tingle. His eyes begin to adjust. And as they do, he can make out priests in attendance, tending to the shrine. They welcome him into the shadows and give him a tallow with which to gaze upon their treasure. He looks at the great carved figure of their god. He takes in the head and arms and torso, and then… then his gaze rests on the stone in the god’s forehead, between his eyes. The statue’s third eye is a giant diamond. He can’t look away.”