of anger. “My mother was dragged away on a beautiful spring afternoon while I watched.”
Tess felt an unbidden shudder of sympathy for the little girl Miss Winther had once been. “I’m so sorry. No child should have to witness that.”
Miss Winther held out the necklace, the facets of the large pink topaz catching the light. “Could you...put it on me?” she asked.
“Of course.” Tess came around behind her and fastened the clasp of the necklace, feeling the old woman’s delicate bone structure. Her hair smelled of lavender, and her dress under the pink shawl was threadbare and faded. Tess felt a surge of emotion. This find was going to change Miss Winther’s life. In a single transaction, the old woman could find herself living in the lap of luxury.
Miss Winther reached up, cradling the jewel between her palms. “She was wearing it that day. Even as they were taking her away, she ordered me to run for my life, and that is just what I did. I was very lucky in that moment, or perhaps there had been a tip-off. A boy who was with the Holger Danske—the Danish resistance—spirited me to safety. Such a hero he was, like the Scarlet Pimpernel in the French Revolution, only he was quite real. I wouldn’t be here today if not for him. None of us would.”
None of us...? Tess wondered who she was referring to. Ghosts from the woman’s sad past, probably. She didn’t ask, though; she had other appointments on her schedule and couldn’t spare the time. And knowing the human cost of the tragedy made Tess feel vulnerable. Still, she was taken by the old lady’s sweetness and the air of nostalgia that softened her features when she touched the reclaimed treasure around her neck.
We’re both all alone, we two, thought Tess. Had Miss Winther always been alone? Will I always be?
“Well, I’m certainly glad you’re here.” The old lady’s smile was soft and strangely intimate.
“This is the appraisal on the piece. I think you’ll be very pleased.”
The old lady stared at the document. “It says my mother’s lavaliere is worth $800,000.”
“It’s an estimate. Depending on how the bidding goes, it could vary by about ten percent up or down.”
Miss Winther fanned herself. “That’s a fortune,” she said. “It’s more money than I ever dreamed of having.”
“And not nearly enough to replace your loss, but it’s quite a find. I’m really happy for you.” Tess felt a glow of accomplishment and pleasure for Miss Winther. In her frayed shawl, surrounded by old things, she didn’t look like a wealthy woman, but soon, she would be.
All the painstaking work of restitution had led to this moment. Tess spread a multipage contract on the table. “Here’s the agreement with Sheffield Auction House, my firm. It’s standard, but you’ll want to go over it with a contracts expert.”
A timer dinged, and Miss Winther got up from the table. “The scones are ready. My favorites—I make them with lavender sugar. It’s an old Danish recipe for autumn. You sit tight, dear, and I’ll fix the tea.”
Tess pressed her teeth together and tried not to seem impatient, though she had more appointments and work to do at the office. Honestly, she didn’t want a scone, with or without lavender sugar. She didn’t want tea. Coffee and a cigarette were more to her taste and definitely more suited to the pace of her life. She’d been running since she’d rocketed out of grad school five years before, and she was in a hurry now. The quicker she brought the signed agreement to her firm, the quicker she earned her bonus and could move on to the next transaction.
However, the nature of her profession often called for forbearance. People became attached to their things, and sometimes letting go took time. Miss Winther had gone to a lot of trouble to make scones. Knowing what she knew about the Winther family, Tess wondered what the woman felt when she reminisced about the old days—fear and privation? Or happier times, when her family had been intact?
As she bustled around her old-fashioned kitchen, Miss Winther would pause every so often in front of a little framed mirror by the door, gazing at the necklace with a faraway look in her eyes. Tess wondered what she saw there—her pretty, adored mother? An innocent girl who had no idea her entire world was about to be snatched away?
“Tell me about what you do,” Miss Winther urged her, pouring tea into a pair of china cups. “I would love to hear about your life.”
“I guess you could say finding treasure is in my blood.”
Miss Winther gave a soft gasp, as though Tess’s statement surprised her. “Really?”
“My mother is a museum acquisitions expert. My grandmother had an antiques salon in Dublin.”
“So you come from a line of independent women.”
Nicely put, thought Tess. Her gaze skated away. She wasn’t one to chat up a client for the sake of making a deal, but she genuinely liked Miss Winther, perhaps because the woman seemed truly interested in her. “Neither my mother nor my grandmother ever married,” she explained. “I’ll probably carry on that tradition, as well. My life is too busy for a serious relationship.” Gah, Tess, listen to yourself, she thought. Say it often enough and you’ll believe it.
“Well. I suspect that’s only because the right person hasn’t come along...yet. Pretty girl like you, with all that gorgeous red hair. I’m surprised some man hasn’t swept you off your feet.”
Tess shook her head. “My feet are planted firmly on the ground.”
“I never married, either.” A wistful expression misted her eyes. “I was in love with a man right after the war, but he married someone else.” She paused to admire the stone once again. “It must be so exciting, the work of a treasure hunter.”
“It takes a lot of research, which most people would find tedious. So many dead ends and disappointments,” said Tess. “Most of my time is spent combing archives and old records and catalogs. It can be frustrating. But so worthwhile when I get to make a restitution like this. And every once in a great while, I might find myself peeling away a worthless canvas to find a Vermeer beneath. Or unearthing a fortune under a shepherd’s hut in a field somewhere. Sometimes it’s a bit macabre. The plunder might be stashed in a casket.”
Miss Winther shuddered. “That’s ghoulish.”
“When people have something to hide, they tend to put it where no one would want to look. Your piece wasn’t stored in a dramatic hiding place. It was tagged and neatly cataloged, along with dozens of other illegally seized pieces.”
Miss Winther arranged the scones just so with a crisp linen napkin in a basket, and brought them to the table.
Tess took a warm scone, just to be polite.
“It sounds as though you like your work,” Miss Winther said.
“Very much. It’s everything to me.” As she said the words aloud, Tess felt a wave of excitement. The business was fast-paced and unpredictable, and each day might bring an adrenaline rush—or crushing disappointment. Tess was having a banner year; her accomplishments were bringing her closer to the things she craved like air and water—recognition and security.
“That sounds just wonderful. I’m certain you’ll get exactly what you’re looking for.”
“In
