In Trade
A backstory
The bell above the door of Pembridge & Sons Antiques Brokerage chimed, a sound Emily usually welcomed like an old friend’s greeting. Today, however, it heralded the entrance of them: three young women, who moved through the shop like a squadron of glittering warships. Their designer athleisure was crisp enough to cut glass, their expressions curated into masks of practiced indifference. Trailing behind them, a harried-looking assistant clutched an array of branded shopping bags and a tablet – her eyes darting nervously.
As the group moved forward, Emily returned an antique pocket watch back to the case.
She straightened her gray suit – an off-the-rack treasure from before college, and offered her warmest, most professional smile.
She knew this type. Old money. New impatience. They drifted toward the Victorian jewelry case, drawn to a particular piece: a mourning brooch of carved jet and seed pearls, oval shaped, yet like a tree – the weeping willow. Emily’s heart gave a little leap as she moved toward them. This, she could do. History was her language, her sanctuary.
The tallest of the trio, a pale blonde with ice-chip eyes, didn’t glance at Emily. Instead, she addressed the assistant. “Clarissa. Ask it about this.” A manicured nail tapped the glass above the brooch. “The tree thing. Is it real?”
Clarissa stepped forward; her voice carefully neutral. “Miss Thorne enquires about the authenticity and provenance of this brooch, please,” she asked in a sweet Cockney accent.
Emily’s smile didn’t waver. She unlocked the case, lifting the brooch with reverent care onto a black velvet pad. “Ah, yes! This is a truly special piece. Mid-19th century, crafted during the height of Victorian mourning customs. The weeping willow symbolizes—”
“Oh how delightfully boring,” the blonde—Miss Thorne—interrupted with her Queen’s English, and her gaze fixed on her own reflection in a nearby gilded mirror. “We don’t need a history lecture from the help - just the facts.”
Emily took a breath, the familiar weight of the brooch in her palm grounding her. “Of course. It’s authentic jet, not vulcanite, confirmed by our gemologist. The pearls are natural seed pearls. It originated from the estate of—”
“Clarissa,” sighed another girl, examining her flawless manicure. “Does it even know what it’s talking about? It’s American, and looks barely out of school. Probably just parroting what someone told it.” She flicked a dismissive glance toward Emily, not quite meeting her eyes. “Honestly, establishments like this should employ people with actual connections. Someone with… you know, background.”
The third girl giggled, a sound like shattering crystal. “Background? Darling, look at it. Solitary little shop sparrow. Probably lives in some tiny flat, eats microwave meals, no friends to speak of. Who would want to listen to it drone-on about dead people’s trinkets all day?”
Emily’s fingers tightened infinitesimally around the brooch. The words, sharp and careless, landed with uncanny precision. Solitary. No friends. Tiny flat. They painted a picture startlingly close to the truth: the quiet evenings studying instead of attending parties, the scholarship-funded literature degree, the empty apartment that still echoed with the silence left by a plane crash two years ago. Her parents’ laughter over the phone lived now only in the stories she attached to objects like this brooch.
She opened her mouth, the history of the piece—the grieving widow who commissioned it, the journey it took from London to Boston and back—rising instinctively to her lips, a shield and a solace.
“Clarissa,” Miss Thorne cut in again, her voice dripping with ennui. “Perhaps we should speak to someone qualified? This is taking far too long. Some people clearly have nothing better to do than bury themselves in the past because their present is so… empty.”
Clarissa shifted uncomfortably, offering Emily a fleeting look that might have been sympathy, or perhaps just embarrassment. Emily closed her mouth. The words died unspoken. She carefully placed the brooch back onto its velvet bed.
“The documentation is thorough,” Emily said, her voice remarkably steady, betraying none of the tremor she felt inside. She pulled out a folder and removed a document, sliding it across the counter. “Pembridge & Sons guarantees authenticity. Everything is detailed there.” She met Clarissa’s eyes, not the ladies’. “Please let me know if you require further assistance.”
The trio barely glanced at the document. With synchronized disinterest, they turned and drifted toward the door, their conversation already shifting to spa appointments and someone’s disastrous yacht party. Clarissa scurried after them, throwing one last apologetic glance over her shoulder. The bell chimed their exit, leaving behind a vacuum filled only by the scent of fresh nail polish and old paper.
Emily stood very still for a moment, the carefully aimed barbs about loneliness and emptiness settling around her like fine, cold ash. The familiar ache of loss pressed against her ribs. Then, her gaze fell back to the mourning brooch. She placed it on her lapel. The delicate willow branches, the smooth jet, the quiet endurance of the pearls. It had been crafted in profound grief, worn for years, survived generations… and here it was. Still beautiful. Still holding its story.
A wry, almost imperceptible smile touched Emily’s lips. She quickly removed the brooch, placed it on the velvet pad, and returned it to the display case.
Those girls, she thought, with their armor of wealth and disdain, moved through the world like hurricanes, leaving a trail of ruffled feathers and unintended wounds. But Emily knew secrets. She knew history. And history whispered that behind the grandest facades, the most polished exteriors, often lay rooms thick with unspoken disappointments, stifled dreams, or the quiet desperation of never being quite enough.
Their sharpness? It likely wasn’t born in a vacuum. It was probably forged in some unseen pressure, some private loss or expectation they carried just as heavily as Emily carried hers – they just wore it differently.
She picked up a soft cloth and gently polished the glass above the brooch, erasing the smudge from Miss Thorne’s impatient tap. The past wasn’t just about dates and provenance; it was a mirror, reflecting the enduring, lovely truth of being human. Everyone had cracks. Everyone had stories buried deep, like precious artifacts waiting for a careful hand to uncover them. Even, perhaps especially, the glittering ones who tried so hard to pretend they didn’t.
The shop was quiet again. Emily took a deep breath, the scent of history settling her. There were always more stories to discover, more pieces to connect with someone who would truly listen. She turned toward the next item waiting on her desk – a gilded crystal wine glass, part of a very large set, humming with silent potential – and ready to begin again.
The bell above the door chimed once more.
P.S. for the Curious Reader:
This glimpse into Emily’s world comes from my upcoming novel - where a quiet shop assistant might just understand the weight of history – both in objects and in hearts – better than anyone expects. Stay tuned!
What resonated with you about Emily? Share your thoughts - no “mean girls” allowed, only kindred spirits!