The Apple Orchard. Сьюзен Виггс
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be the one to find my treasure.” Miss Winther’s words were slightly startling. “And I’m so pleased that it’s you. I specifically requested you.”
“Why?”
A pause. Miss Winther’s face softened. Perhaps she’d lost her train of thought. Then she said, “Because you’re the best. Aren’t you?”
“I try my best,” Tess assured her. She thought the conversation odd, but in this business, she was accustomed to quirky clients. “This piece was with a group of recovered objects from World War II.” Tess fell quiet as she thought of the other pieces—jewelry and art and collectibles. The majority of objects remained in limbo, their original owners long gone. She tried not to imagine the terrible sense of violation so many families had suffered, with Nazis invading their homes, plundering their treasures and probably sending many of the family members off to die. Restoring lost treasures seemed a small thing, but the look on Miss Winther’s face was its own reward.
“You’ve made a miracle happen,” she declared. “I was just telling a friend on the phone that we’re never too old to appreciate a true miracle.”
For a miracle, Tess reflected, the task had entailed a lot of hard work. But the expression on the woman’s face made all the research, travel and red tape worthwhile. At her own expense, Tess had paid an expert to meticulously clean every link, baguette and facet of the lavaliere. “This is a copy of the provenance report.” She slid the document across the table. “It’s basically a history of the piece from its creation to the present, as near as I could trace it to its origins in Russia.”
“It’s amazing that you were able to find this. When I first contacted your firm, I thought...” Her voice trailed off. “How on earth did you do it?”
Working backward through the provenance report, Tess explained the progress of her research. “This piece was found with a collection of treasures seized in Copenhagen. The lavaliere is pink topaz, with gold filigree embellishments. The chain and clasp are original. It was made by a Finnish designer by the name of August Holmstrom. He was the principal jeweler for the house of Fabergé.”
Miss Winther’s eyebrows lifted. “The Fabergé?”
“The very one.” Taking out her loupe, Tess pointed out a tiny spot on the piece. “This is Holmstrom’s hallmark, right here, his initials between a double-headed Imperial eagle. He designed it specifically to foil counterfeiters. This particular piece was first mentioned in his design catalog of 1916 and produced for a fashionable shop in St. Petersburg. It was bought by a member of the Danish diplomatic corps.”
“My father. He brought the necklace home from a business trip to Russia, and my mother was seldom without it. Besides her wedding ring, it was her favorite piece of jewelry. He gave it to her to celebrate my birth. Though she never said so, I suspect she couldn’t have more children after me.” Her eyes took on a faraway look, and Tess wondered what she was seeing—her handsome father? Her mother, wearing the jewel against her heart?
The stories behind the treasures were always so intriguing, though often bittersweet. The sad ones were particularly hard to bear. There were some cruelties that were simply inconceivable to normal people, some injustices too big to grasp. Miss Winther must have been tiny when her world was ripped apart. How scared she must have been, how confused.
“I wish I could do more than simply restore this object,” said Tess. “It wound up with a number of other pieces in a repository in the basement of an abandoned government building. I spent the past year researching the archives. The Gestapo claimed they kept objects for safekeeping. It was a common ploy. The one helpful thing they did was to keep meticulous records of the things they seized.”
Here was where things got dicey. How much information did Miss Winther really need? Did she have to know what had likely happened to her parents?
There were facts Tess had no intention of sharing, such as the evidence that Hilde Winther had been seized without authority by a corrupt officer, and probably treated like a sex slave for months before she was put to death. This was the trouble with uncovering the mysteries of the past. Sometimes you ended up discovering things better left buried. Was it preferable to expose the truth at any cost or to protect someone from troubling matters they had no power to change?
“This piece was taken from your mother after she was arrested on suspicion of hiding spies, saboteurs and resistance fighters at Bispebjerg Hospital. According to the arrest report, she was accused of pretending her patients were extremely ill, and she would tend to them until they conveniently disappeared.”
Miss Winther caught her breath, then nodded. “That sounds like Mama. She was so very brave. She told me she was a hospital volunteer, but I always knew she was doing something important.” Behind her spectacles, the old lady’s eyes took on a cold glaze 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