“I read you are interested in Mr. Cartier’s Hope Diamond,” my luncheon partner said to me three days later. “Is your interest really serious?”
“Yes, Letty’s birthday is coming up, and she was so enraptured with the stone. I’ve been thinking about it.”
“It’s a serious gift for one sister to give another.”
“I know, but it wouldn’t be from me, exactly. Father set aside a sum for me to buy something special for Letty when she turned thirty.”
“But my dear, it’s supposed to be nothing but bad luck. That’s why I’m so upset that Evalyn wants it.”
We were at a birthday fete my mother was throwing for one of her cousins, Nancy Thane. The woman I was talking to was a dear family friend, Mrs. Thomas Walsh. Aunt Carrie to my sister and me, though we weren’t at all related. The Walsh house and ours had sat side by side in Newport for most of my life. Though Aunt Carrie’s children were much younger, our two families began mingling when I was but a toddler. They were invited to the same parties and belonged to the same sailing and golf clubs. I’d always liked Mr. and Mrs. Walsh, adored them, in fact. Aunt Carrie had always been a much more fun and nurturing alternative to my own mother. There were never many rules at her house. Carrie taught Letty and me to sail and ride horseback and fed us when we were hungry instead of just at mealtimes. As a girl, I’d often confessed my hopes and dreams to her, and she always responded with an openness I found both comforting and refreshing, as opposed to the loneliness and isolation my mother’s chiding instilled in me. Like my father, the Walshes hadn’t come from money but had worked their way to their wealth, Mr. Walsh having been an Irish immigrant who literally struck gold. I often thought back to the many picnics we used to enjoy on their lawn, eating food that Carrie had prepared herself.
Our family had recently been to the wedding of their daughter, Evalyn, to Edward McLean, whose father owned the Washington Post and the Cincinnati Enquirer. Our lives were further connected, unbeknownst to either family, through Vee Swann. After my abortion exposé was published, the Cincinnati paper offered me a job to work undercover and write about “coal widows.” These were women whose husbands worked in the mines and left them for long periods of time. The series of articles examined their poor living conditions and described how they coped while taking care of their families on their own.
I had been happy to leave New York for even a brief period, to put distance between Max, my mother, and me. I’d never confronted my mother about her role in what had happened to me, but she’d guessed based on Vee Swann’s article for the World. Rather than apologize, she defended her position, saying that she believed I would be happier if I was married. I told her she was the only one who would be happier if I was married. The conversation did nothing to melt the iceberg that had wedged its way between us.
“How can I persuade Evalyn not to buy that cursed diamond?” Aunt Carrie seemed so disturbed. My heart ached for her. She’d lost her husband just eight months before, and she’d only recently begun venturing out. No wonder she was overly anxious.
“I wouldn’t worry about all the bad-luck stories,” I whispered. “If I tell you a secret, will you promise not to share it?”
Though I was reluctant to reveal to anyone the facts and clues about the Hope that I was gathering for my plan against Oxley, Aunt Carrie was different. I wanted so much to ease her anxiety. She nodded, and I trusted her.
“I heard half of those stories are made up. A friend of mine says they are too similar to the story in a book called The Moonstone by a British writer named Wilkie Collins.”
“I read that book ages ago. Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“I want to believe you, Vera. I do. But ever since Vinson died, I am much more superstitious.” Her voice caught in her throat. It had been five years since the terrible accident in Newport that killed her seventeen-year-old son and caused grave damage to then nineteen-year-old Evalyn. “I see a psychic regularly, and she’s very afraid of the diamond.”
“But Aunt Carrie, so many psychics are nothing more than charlatans.”
“Of course, there are some who have no scruples. But I only consult with Madame Marcia Champney. She is the best in all of Washington, D.C. You should come to visit and meet her. You’d change your mind.”
Aunt Carrie leaned closer to me and whispered, “She warned me about the accident weeks before it happened. I forbade Vinson to take out the car, but…” She stopped speaking for a moment to calm herself, but before I could think of a way to change the subject, she continued. “Madame Marcia has told me that I have to do everything in my power to prevent my daughter from touching that vile diamond. She claims it contains centuries of evil, and no good has ever come to anyone who has owned it. Thomas has spoken to me through Madame, and he agrees. The stone is evil.”
“There’s no such thing as an evil stone.”
“Of course there is, Vera! Haven’t you read the papers? Why, my own son-in-law’s family paper has printed several stories about the ill fate that has befallen people who have possessed the stone.”
“Just because the papers print it doesn’t make it gospel.” I smiled inwardly. I would know. But there was no reason she would believe me just because I said it was true.
“Do you have your heart set on buying Letty the stone?” she asked.
“No, just toying with the idea for now.”
“I might have a proposition for you.”
She had a gleam in her eye. “I was just thinking… you’re such an enterprising young woman, and you live in New York where the stone is…”
“Yes?” I was intrigued.
“Do you know about paste jewelry?”
“I do. I learned about it only recently, in fact.” Jacob had not only mentioned paste to me just days before, but he had given me a full lesson on it.
“Well, here’s my idea. Since Evalyn seems to be serious about buying that damned stone, maybe I can somehow secretly replace the one she buys with one of paste without her knowing it. To protect her.”
“Spoken like a devoted mother. But how would you do that?”
“I’m not quite sure yet. I’ve thought about approaching Mr. Cartier and offering him some kind of deal, but I’ve asked around, and those who know him say that he’s not the kind of man who would be amenable to pulling a trick like that on a client. And Evalyn and Ned are his clients, and I’m not.” Aunt Carrie shook her head in despair. “Can you think of any way for me to do it?”
“You are really serious, aren’t you?” I asked.
She grasped my hand. “You don’t have children, and you haven’t lost a sister or brother… Yes, I know you lost your beloved father, but that is in the natural order of things. A child knows that she will outlive her parents. Even though it was tragic and too soon, it’s not the same as…”
Tears came to her eyes. She opened her pocketbook and withdrew a handkerchief. “I can’t describe what it was like to lose my son, Vera. All the light went out of the world. I wouldn’t want my most hated enemy to endure it. And now my daughter’s stubborn obsession with beautiful things is pushing her toward tragedy. I just know it. I won’t be able to bear it if anything were to happen to her. She’s practically crippled from the accident as it is and in so much pain…”
Despite being at a party with people all around, Aunt Carrie broke down in sobs. I helped her up and escorted her to the ladies’ room, an elaborate peach-and-green salon with a sitting room as well as a lavatory. The attendant there asked if she could get us anything, and I asked her to bring a glass of brandy and a cool cloth. The cloth first.
After receiving it, I pressed it to Carrie’s temples while she lay back against the peach-striped silk cushions on the settee. When the attendant came back with the brandy, I helped Carrie sit up so she could take sips of the liquid fire.
In a few minutes, she had calmed.
“I am sorry, Vera.”
“No need to apologize.”
“I’m simply beside myself. With Thomas gone… and now Evalyn has her heart set on buying that stone and—”
I feared that continuing to discuss it was going to set Aunt Carrie off again, and before I knew what I was saying, I told her I would help. “I’ll figure out a way to work with you on your plan. Together we’ll make sure she doesn’t touch the blasted thing. Bad luck or not.”
I wasn’t sure how I was going to accomplish it, but maybe Aunt Carrie’s needs and mine might dovetail in a scheme that would enable me to write the salacious and compromising story that would finally bring about Mr. Thelonious Oxley’s ruin.