The Necklace Page 16

  Additionally, you left your underwear in my bed. Shall I FedEx it to you, care of your office?

  He’s been sending her emails all week. They’ve been falling off her screen amid an avalanche of work, but she can’t avoid this one.

  To: Louis S. Morrell

  From: Cornelia Q. Merrihew

  Re: re: Notice of Letter

  Mr. Morrell—You are mistaken. I am in possession of all my undergarments. Perhaps you should query your other bedmates. And in the future, please contact me via private text to discuss personal matters.

  This email acknowledges that I am in receipt of my cousin’s letter.

  She’s not surprised when her phone pings almost immediately.

  Louis: Bedmates! You didn’t leave anything, as you rightly point out, but I had to say something to get your attention. You’ve been ignoring my emails. I’m not the greatest at being ignored.

  As if anyone could ignore him. That night of the speakeasy, under the pretense of a tour of his house, he’d shown her almost directly to his bedroom. Before she’d had a chance to take in the particulars, he’d already started unbuttoning his shirt. She’s getting used to Mr. No Pretense now, but that night she couldn’t help but stare at his chest, a leaned-out flex of muscle from neck to wrist, from shoulder to belt buckle. A spare body with a honed mind to match; “gristly,” you might call it at his age. “Oh, but it looks good on you, Mr. Morrell,” she’d wanted to say.

  “My eyes are up here,” he’d said, tipping her chin up toward him.

  “That’s usually my line,” she’d said.

  “Should I ask what color they are?”

  She’d snapped her eyes shut. “Blue. Mine?”

  When he’d paused too long, she’d opened them.

  “Green. I always hate that game.”

  “Always, huh?”

  “You,” he’d said, coming close and reaching inside the neckline of her blouse to slip her bra strap down her arm, “are trouble.”

  Nell: Apologies. Wasn’t ignoring. Work is insane. I’m supposed to believe this phantom underwear was a ruse to get me to pay attention to you? You could also be covering your ass. Confusing me with that other person, the one who can’t remember to put on her clothes.

  Louis: There’s no one else, silly. And I’m not using lady things to cover my ass. Not my type of thing. No judgment on dudes who are into that. After your last night here, you should know what I’m into. I can’t stop thinking about it or you. When are you coming back?

  He’d been silly and sly that night before she’d left, with an appealing gleam in his eye. She’d like to see him again.

  Nell: Might be coming back soon, given the letter. Would be lovely to see you.

  Louis: Lovely? What every man wants to hear. I think it’d be a little more than lovely. Shall I come out there first? Exchange upcoming Cleveland snow for rain. In this case, I’ll take the swap. Also, I have info for you on duties. Good news is—no prison for you. Bad news is—I’ve always wanted to hike Mt. Rainier. Even in the rain.

  Nell smiles at this. She’s already done enough of her own preliminary research to know that until the Moon is verified and authenticated she has very few worries about legalities.

  Nell: Top of Rainier is a technical climb involving crampons and ice axes, but by all means lace up your Adidas and grab a water bottle. I’ll be working. The case I’m on does not appear to be settling.

  Louis: Is your stiff-arming serious? Or do you like a little chase?

  He’d been straightforward that night, too.

  “I’m not drunk,” he’d said. “But if you are . . .”

  “No,” she’d said. “I know what I’m doing.”

  He’d waited then—appealing and desirous, but never forcing. When she’d reached forward for a belt loop, pulling him close, that had been all the confirmation he’d needed.

  Nell: Apologies. You’re lovely. I don’t mean to stiff-arm at all. I’m just unused to this.

  Louis: No more apologies. And no more with the “lovely.” I don’t have time to mess around. I like you. When I like something I go right after it.

  Nell: I’m an it? How about handsome?

  Louis: Better. Don’t forget virile, strong, smart, and good at chess, both literal and metaphorical. You could never be an “it,” so don’t pretend like I’m making you out to be a thing.

  Nell: So bossy.

  Louis: Seriously, I don’t want to tip the scales over into pest, and lovely is rather wan.

  Nell: But you really are. Lovely that is. You’re a man who uses the word wan. If you come right now, I won’t have time to see you. But hold please, for further updates.

  Louis: Fine. We can do this the old-fashioned way—letters/texts/whatever. Carrier pigeon, I don’t care. I don’t know if you know, but I’m very charming.

  Nell: Yes, I’m aware.

  Louis: And determined.

  Nell: Clearly.

  THE RAGMAN

  Ambrose thought of following Ethan and O’Brennan, of ordering a car to take him to the train station, of not letting them shut him out again, of not letting them close another door in his face. But that was the weak move, wasn’t it? Trailing after them like a puppy?

  His neck started to itch, close to the surface under his chin where he’d nicked himself shaving, and around the back toward his hairline.

  Some movement was needed, some sort of action. After a quick change out of the traveling clothes he’d put on anticipating a train ride, he was out the front door. He crunched down the gravel lane between the high summer grass soon to be baled and headed for Ethan’s stables—a large complex of shingled barns a good half mile from the house. His itchiness subsided as he strode.

  Ambrose stomped into the barn, but the scent of horse manure and hay mixed with leather soap and liniment transported him out of his thoughts with the promise of exercise, motion, and fresh air. He consciously calmed himself when the stable hand, not more than a boy, led the Ragman to him. The horse was wary, and reading Ambrose’s energy, the animal shied. Poor beast, none of this was his fault. Though he had a pitiable name, the Ragman was a black nearly eighteen hands. Some lineage from Holland, Ambrose had been told the day at the auction. Ambrose ordered a black saddle and black tack along with his own black britches and boots. He figured if he was going to be the ne’er-do-well brother, he might as well go all the way.

  He was looking forward to his ride now. But the stableboy wouldn’t meet his eye, and paranoid thoughts raced through Ambrose’s mind—some help in the house had overheard him and May, someone had seen Ethan and O’Brennan leave him behind—everyone knew how servants talked.

  “I hear Mr. Van Alstyne is up on the mountain,” the boy said shyly. Ambrose adjusted his thoughts. The boy was just a young farmhand, deferential to the owner’s brother. “New horse, too. Thoroughbred, so I’ve heard. Fast.” Ambrose looked forward to seeing his contented friend Van Alstyne. No surprise he’d be riding a racehorse off track. He had a penchant for horses he could hardly handle. “But fragile in the legs, I’m told,” the boy said.

  Ambrose approached the mounting block.

  “My sister works over there,” the hand explained as Ambrose threw a leg over. “At the Van Alstyne place.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for him,” Ambrose said, and clicked his tongue to get the Ragman moving.

  The boy tipped his cap.

  Ambrose guided the horse up the small trail to the side of the “mountain,” really not more than a tree-covered hill. The stable smell gave way to dirt and leaf mold and a carpet of green ferns. A slight wind at the tops of the trees frothed everything up, including his spirits. Cured from this morning’s mess, and filled with pure air, Ambrose started to feel solid again, clear and vital.

  He was nearing the top of the hill when he heard the dull, thudding hooves of another rider and saw a chestnut streak moving through the trees. The rider took a jump over three neatly stacked logs wedged in between a locust and a tulip tre
e. After a sound landing, the horse slowed and pranced, dancing back toward the beginning of the run-up, wanting more. It was then that Van Alstyne turned and raised a hand.

  He dismounted, throwing the reins loosely over his arm like a cloak, and walked over to Ambrose with the other hand outstretched. Ambrose had the feeling then that Van Alstyne had timed the jump for maximum effect.

  “Ambrose, my boy.” He was only a few years Ambrose’s senior, and this avuncular tone was new. Ambrose made the man reach up to shake hands, leaning over only as far as was polite.

  “Get down off that beast and help me put another log on this jump,” Van Alstyne ordered.

  Ambrose dismounted and tied the Ragman’s reins to a nearby maple sapling. The horse didn’t need to be fully restrained, just needed to think he was.

  He walked over to where Van Alstyne was stooping down to lift one end of a log. “Grab that and pull it over here,” he said.

  The two men grunted and heaved the log up and on top of the stack of tree trunks, wedged between saplings so they wouldn’t roll.

  “Surprised to find you up here,” Van Alstyne said, wiping mud on his haunches, mindless of his expensive riding kit. “With all your family has on its hands right now.”

  Ambrose kicked the logs to make sure they were secure.

  “Ethan’s the one heading to DC, then?”

  Ambrose assumed the hearings must be in the papers already. There was something about the fire, the investigation, and the affected families nearly every day now. He knew Ethan had taken to hiding the papers from May, but she just demanded them from the maids.

  “I’m back here to man the ship. Really, they’re going to need a lot of counsel from home.”

  “I’m sure,” Van Alstyne said, rather too heartily. In a change of topic he said, “But your brother’s becoming quite the land baron, isn’t he? Vivian says he’s crazy about land.” Somehow Van Alstyne had become the type of man who attributed his thoughts to his wife. Whether he was in perpetual surety of her agreement, or afraid to express his views as his own, Ambrose suspected the verbal tic was the former. The Van Alstynes had always been enviously well suited. Ambrose wanted to ask him about it, wanted to ask how it was maintained, and if it was as easy and blissful as it looked from the outside. He didn’t know if he’d be relieved or disappointed if their union required compromise and hard labor. Ambrose hoped there was at least one easy love story in the world, but he couldn’t pry into the unknowable privacy of someone else’s marriage.

  “I don’t know about crazy,” Ambrose said.

  “Made me an offer on that duck pond at the far end of my property. Pretty little thing, but I wasn’t thinking of parting with it. He named quite a generous sum.”

  Ambrose’s ears burned. Was Ethan trying to best him again, make him want something, and then get it first? Or did he intend to gift it to Ambrose, as an act of charity? Either way, it was enraging. Why had he suggested it to Ambrose this morning? His brother’s actions were never clear to him. Was this an act of keeping his brother close, or an enemy closer?

  “Frankly, I was surprised,” Van Alstyne was saying. “Ethan’s never really been the sportsman, has he? And now, well . . .” He trailed off, embarrassed by even this tangential mention of Ethan’s handicap that made it impossible for him to shoot. “Makes Vivian think he’s out to buy up half the county. Maybe he’d let you shoot over there. I’m sure you’re quite the marksman after your travels.”

  They continued, with Van Alstyne asking many detailed questions about Ambrose’s itinerary after Mandalay and Ambrose asking many detailed questions about the construction of the Van Alstyne manse next door.

  “Now, you tell Ethan to call me when he gets back. Tell him to come see me about that duck pond,” Van Alstyne said, clicking the chestnut racehorse into a walk down the opposite path.

  Ambrose continued toward the top of the little mountain, a strange hill that made him feel like he’d ridden back in time. As he rode along the north side of the rise, the views spread all the way to Lake Erie and then across to Canada. The vast horizon made him feel that if he kept riding he would meet water and then perhaps a boat to take him off into all that blue.

  He thought of that night on the riverfront in Mandalay with the Van Alstynes, when they should have been at the ball but instead sat getting tipsy and telling stories. The blithe ease that radiated from the couple and enfolded all in their close company focused Ambrose’s mind, and something that had been just in his peripheral vision came into full view.

  He could take May. They could leave.

  He hadn’t let himself think of it, hadn’t let his mind even consider it. Van Alstyne’s comments had also left a panicky tightness in Ambrose’s chest at the thought of living next to Ethan and May for the rest of his life. But the breeze and the trees began to clear this, began to make him feel expansive, as if anything were possible.

  Ethan knew as well as anyone that Ambrose wasn’t going to be content in the middle of the country playing at baron. His brother wanted to keep him close, that much was clear. He probably feared that if Ambrose left, May would go with him. And really, what did Ethan expect? He’d married her under the most precarious circumstances. Ethan was nervous about Ambrose’s return home, that much was clear. Didn’t that nervousness prove there was something wrong with the match?

  He heard hooves turning up the trail behind him and, assuming it was Van Alstyne again, he continued toward the ridge.

  But it was May who came up beside him on her petite Arabian gray, Blueskin, who daintily sidestepped young trees, keeping tight to the deer path. May was astride. She only rode sidesaddle for show now. Dressed in Ethan’s worn riding clothes, she breathed hard from riding to catch up. The necklace sparkled on her skin.

  “Lucky that thing’s sturdy,” he said, pointing with a gloved hand.

  “She’s sturdy enough to get me up here at a full canter, though it’s probably not good for her,” May said, purposefully misunderstanding, but Ambrose let it go.

  When she was abreast of him, she said, “I love it up here. It’s where we come.” She leaned down and patted her horse’s neck. “Don’t we?”

  “You were following me.”

  “I was already out. But I did see Calvin. He told me you were here.”

  Ambrose leaned over to grab Blueskin’s bridle near the bit, feeling the Ragman sway and prance as Ambrose reined the horses neck and neck. He leaned over then to whisper something in May’s ear, something about them going away, about the expanses before them, the day and the energy of the ride having gone to his head. But she turned toward him at the last minute, and he caught her lips instead and kissed her.

  For only a moment he thought of his brother. But thought was replaced by sensation coupled with the deep knowing that life was short. Then the smell of her perfume and a lingering scent of violets overwhelmed him until every thought left his head except for rightness and the opening of memory. When they parted he knew she was his. She belonged with him.

  He scrabbled with the reins and the bridle, awkwardly trying to get an arm around her, to bring her closer when her little horse stepped away.

  “Why’d you have to do that?” she asked, turning to look at the view ahead, avoiding his eyes.

  “You know why.” He pulled her horse in again, but Blueskin stepped back. Ambrose loosened the reins, never wanting to force, but watching May’s face closely.

  She looked down, defeated.

  He swung off the saddle, coming next to her. “Come down,” he said, patting her horse.

  She didn’t move from her position.

  “I can’t talk to you if you’re up there.”

  She slid off the saddle, ignoring his arms waiting to help her.

  “I’m down,” she said.

  He took a breath. The timing felt fateful. “I love you. I always have. I was an idiot to leave.”

  “Go to hell,” she whispered, and started to walk away, Blueskin following.

&n
bsp; He clambered after her, leading the Ragman. “I’m already in hell. You think this is easy for me?” He wanted to stop her, to talk face-to-face, but she wouldn’t look at him.

  “Love is an action, you know?” she said. “It’s not something preserved in glass.”

  “Seems to me you took some actions yourself.” He reached out, trying to get them both to stop.

  “Would you let go of her?” May swatted at his arm.

  He wasn’t about to let go without saying what needed to be said. He put an arm around May, but she balked, shrugging him off and walking toward the view.

  “Look, I don’t understand why you did what you did,” he said, following her. She turned at that and he faltered. “I mean, I do and I don’t. I made mistakes, one huge mistake, but so did you, and I don’t know how to make it right. But I know what matters now. I swear, you’re the only thing that ever has.”

  There were tears in her eyes. “God, you’re an ass.”

  Anger rose. “I’m serious. Don’t pretend that you don’t know exactly what I’m talking about. You married my brother out of some sense of duty.”

  There, he’d said it. He watched her face, but she neither flinched nor denied it. He suspected that whatever alchemy lay between her and Ethan, it had never transformed into all-out passion. “You can’t live your life based on some misplaced notion of duty, May. Don’t you see that?”

  “You were always trying to get me to see that.”

  She’d always be the girl she’d been on that afternoon at his brother’s house. Even if lately her eyes were more shadowed. Even if a bright diamond and a thin band shone on her left hand, likely even when her hair shone with gray. He’d still see her as she was at the party.

  “The trouble is, you thought we had time. You still think we do,” she said.

  “You’re right. We don’t have endless time. Let’s fix it right now. Let’s not waste another minute.”

  “Let’s just ride off into the horizon?”

  Ambrose looked forward, contemplating Lake Erie. It wasn’t that far off from what he’d been thinking.

  He took her hand, turned it up, and pressed a kiss in her rough palm—the smell of leather, the taste of salt, and the feel of one rough callous, as she refused to wear gloves.