The Necklace Read online

  Pansy and Baldwin aren’t speaking to Nell or to the press. Their complete silence is an indication of the depth of their disgust. Partly over the supposed “controversy” this sheds on May Quincy’s relationship with her brother-in-law. Partly over the public way it’s been latched onto and dragged through the press. A researcher from Kenyon College had called them all, trying to gain access to the journal. After that, Baldwin sent Nell a curt email filled with words like “unacceptable,” “scandal,” and “Kardashian-esque.” The last one had made Nell smile. Baldwin does keep up with the times.

  Though she suspects it’s the windfall coming her way that is unacceptable to Baldwin.

  The jewelry auction is held every fall, allowing plenty of time for Russian oligarch buyers and threadbare British aristo sellers to make their respective transactions before the holidays. They use these auctions as if they are their own personal eBay—a tidy transfer of assets from the land-poor to the newly flush. She’s been told there’s likely museum interest in the Moon.

  She’s ensconced in a luxe little conference room reserved for VIP consignors overlooking the auction floor, when the head of the jewelry department knocks on the door and peeks her head in. Today she is wearing a shroud of black layers from her chin to her flat boot–clad feet. Her pale, almost-white hair is tied back with a leather strap, and she has no makeup on her grave Flemish angel face except for a glowy sheen high on her cheekbones.

  She hands Nell the glossy catalog; it’s a luxurious hardcover coffee table book, a first for her department, and she asks if Nell needs anything, clearly juggling a long to-do list.

  Just a new stomach to deal with her nerves and a high bidder, Nell thinks.

  She’d been encouraged to stay home by nearly everyone, including the Flemish angel, but in the end it was her father who convinced her to come to New York, making the once-in-a-lifetime argument. Of course he’d insisted on meeting her here; she suspects he couldn’t resist the glamour of the event. Louis is here, too, claiming he was needed in his role as estate attorney, but she suspects he also wanted to witness the spectacle as much as she did.

  Nell had reintroduced them over dinner last night, and she was relieved when they’d discovered a common affection for Cleveland sports teams and red wine.

  They’re side by side, hidden behind the skybox’s one-way glass window, looking down on the crowd, scanning. She feels the sharp crackle between her and Louis, heightened by the energy coming off the room. She knows he’s looking for the Mahj, too.

  Nell actually points, hitting glass, when she sees Reema Patel walk in. Being a curator at a museum with one of the largest endowments in the country means she’s recognized on auction floors the world over. She’s greeted by a small clutch of attendees—air-kisses and handshakes all around. Right behind her, a young, slick-looking Indian man in large aviator sunglasses enters, talking on a gold-plated cell phone. His wrinkled suit looks expensive, as do his scuffed loafers and tousled hair with manicured stubble. He’s handsome enough to be a Bollywood star, but his artful dishevelment marks him out as living in the West. The Indian men she’s previously encountered have been meticulously groomed.

  “Gotta be,” Louis says, chin up once sharply.

  Just last week her father had forwarded her a link about the Mahj gate-crashing the Royal Enclosure at Ascot and being denied by security, yet another confirmation of his nostalgic tendencies despite his youth.

  Nevertheless, his playboy habits and ability to attract the paparazzi have made him something of a media darling. Many in the crowd unashamedly take pictures of him with their cell phones, and a few lean in for selfies.

  He’s been banned from the big auction houses and has taken to enlisting proxies and aliases. So it’s with some confusion that Nell watches the head of the jewelry department, the Flemish angel, rush across the room to shake the Mahj’s hand, as excited as a six-year-old meeting Santa. The Mahj is off his phone, and he removes his sunglasses with a courtly flourish as Reema Patel formally introduces him. The department head, uncharacteristically red-faced with excitement, shows them both to prime seats located side by side in the front row.

  “The hell?” Louis says.

  Reema Patel is scanning the room. When she looks up at the bank of skybox windows, she smiles, assured and only slightly frosty. Nell reminds herself that Patel can’t see through the one-way glass, because it’d been awkward when Nell had told her the Moon was going to auction. Patel had been professional and formal, but clearly disappointed and disapproving. Nell notes a slightly triumphant swish of that black hair as Patel now takes her seat next to royalty.

  Nell wants to call the Flemish angel back and ask what’s going on.

  But there’s no time, as the auction begins right away. Lesser modern lots go for over their estimates. Bidding’s energetic on the floor and topped up by the phones and the Internet.

  When the white-gloved auction house assistant brings the Moon of Nizam onto the stage, a hush falls over the room. On a large screen behind the auctioneer, a projection of Ambrose’s journal entry looms over them all. The portions pertaining to Ambrose buying the piece from the maharani are highlighted, his old-fashioned fountain pen script as romantic as the pressed violet Nell had found next to his name.

  The auctioneer is droning on about the gemological specifications of the necklace, carats and clarity. And when it comes to provenance, he says, “Former property of May Quincy, wife of industrialist Ethan Quincy, as given to her by her brother-in-law, Ambrose Quincy, and consigned by their granddaughter.”

  It’s then that Nell really feels the truth of it. For of course the auctioneer meant that Nell is Ethan and May’s granddaughter, but all she hears is that she is May and Ambrose’s.

  “Shhh.” Louis hip-checks her, his nose practically against the window.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  Bidding has started at one million and is ramping up in hundred-thousand-dollar increments.

  There’s an out-of-time feeling. And Nell knows then that when Loulou wrote her will, she made a very specific choice.

  “We’re at the reserve now,” Louis says, his eyes never leaving the crowd. “It’s going for sure.” He jostles her elbow.

  This wasn’t a mistake. She believes it then. It wasn’t a dotty, demented old lady with too much stuff on her hands. And Nell’s known all along it wasn’t an oversight or sloppiness on Louis’s part. It’s an apology, an offer of restitution, an attempt at absolution, and a chance to right a wrong. And as Nell watches the price increase on the floor, she knows it was meant to be a debt repaid.

  The auctioneer has close to ten million on the floor. The Internet bidders have dropped off. The phone bidders have gone silent.

  Loulou had to have known more than anyone what was between May and Ambrose and exactly where Nell’s mother, their daughter, fell in the course of it. Loulou had been the repository of not only the heirlooms, but of the secrets, too.

  It’s then that the Mahj raises his paddle.

  “Would you pay attention?” Louis gestures toward the floor.

  “And we have a new bidder in the mix.” The unflappable auctioneer, who’s built his career on friendly froideur, lets a crack of excitement show as the Mahj and one last bidder take up the game in a back-and-forth, rising higher until only the Mahj is left.

  “Going once at twelve million.” The auctioneer is gesturing to the room. “All done at twelve million.” His voice has a questioning lilt as he hesitates only a moment before bringing the compact gavel down with a crisp bang. “Sold to the gentleman in the front row for twelve million dollars.”

  Assistants are rushing to see the official bidding number. There’s clapping and handshakes, and it takes a few minutes for the crowd to quiet enough to pay attention to the next lot.

  “I believe it now,” Nell says to her father, watching as the Moon is whisked out of the room.

  Louis hugs her. “You just made twelve million dollars!”

>   Her father raises his eyebrows at this.

  “Did I?” The entire thing feels like a dream.

  The jewelry department head barges into the room, breathless from rushing upstairs to congratulate her.

  But Louis steps forward, as protective as ever. “You might have a very specific problem on your hands,” he says to the department head. “Even allowing him on the floor is suspect.”

  “Oh, no need to start barking at me, Mr. Morrell.” The Flemish angel practically pushes Louis aside to get to Nell. “I can’t go into specifics, you understand, but having one of the largest museums in the country involved helped his case.” She’s shaking Nell’s hand so vigorously, it’s like she’s shaking Nell bodily. All professional distance is gone. The woman is full of unabashed excitement. “Also, the Indian government let it be known they approved. Knew there was a better shot than not that it might be coming back home. There are international interests as well, you understand,” she says to Nell. “And of course certain funds were held in escrow, that’s all I’ll say.” She holds up a hand in warning. “Please don’t quote me. But I do feel it’s only fair to tell you, given the unique circumstances.” She turns to Louis. “You’ve no worries on the surety front. Please rest assured.”

  As much as Nell’s excited, the money feels unreal. The whole scene feels as if she’s underwater, and it’s then she knows what she wants.

  “Can I meet him?” Nell asks. “I want to meet the maharaja.”

  The department head’s mouth twists down in a little moue. “Of course,” she says, faux brightly in a way Nell knows means the opposite. “I don’t see why not.”

  THE BUCKEYE

  “I want to drive,” May insisted when they walked out the front door. The chauffeur had left the Packard four-seater in front of the house, the roof tucked and folded. Already, the seats looked hot.

  “Have you been crying?” Ethan asked with ill-disguised disgust now that they were outside in the sunlight.

  “Hay fever,” she said, though she had no history of it. She crunched across the gravel, but Ethan held his grip on the keys. “Can’t I do one thing? Besides, you’re drunk.”

  Ambrose was alert, and he knew defiance was not the way to handle Ethan right now. Ambrose had noted the glass in his brother’s hand in the gunroom, though Ethan seemed the same, straight Ethan in spite of it. Only the slight slurring together of words suggested that mixing whiskey and his pain pills might be more than Ethan could handle. They’d waited for May in stilted silence as Ethan refreshed his drink and drank a second whiskey straight down.

  Out front, Ethan kept his grip on his keys. Not that Ambrose could blame him; handing May the keys would be akin to handing over his manhood.

  Ambrose climbed over the door and plopped himself down in the back seat, waiting for them to finish their brinkmanship.

  “I won’t get in,” May said, crossing her arms over her chest, and Ambrose had to admit, the stance was unattractive.

  But Ethan seemed to know when she wouldn’t be moved. He handed the keys over to her, without looking at her face, and then silently walked around to the passenger side.

  With a little stamp of her foot May then hopped behind the wheel, and Ambrose realized her satisfaction at being in control—of anything.

  May started the car and as they accelerated, Ambrose noted that she kept continual watch on Ethan out of the corner of her eye. He thought he saw Ethan mouth something to her, but he couldn’t make out what it was.

  “Eyes on the road,” Ethan said over the wind.

  “My eyes are on the road. If you hadn’t been drinking, you’d see that,” May said primly.

  “I haven’t been drinking,” Ethan said. Typical Ethan, Ambrose thought sourly. He never would own up to his questionable behavior.

  She turned down a dirt lane connecting the Shaw farm and the Van Alstynes’ new place. She picked up speed on the straightaway.

  “Slow down,” Ethan said.

  She laughed. “Don’t be such an old woman.” She continued to accelerate the car.

  “You know, darling,” Ethan said, his eyes on the road. “Don’t you think it’s a little much to be wearing that necklace today?”

  May’s hand was instantly at her throat. “I wear it every day.”

  “Just like your wedding ring,” he said, turning fully sideways to face her.

  Dry dust from the road rose around Ambrose, mixing with the hot day and coating all the leaves on the trees. And then his brother said, “You think I’m stupid.”

  Ambrose leaned over the driver’s seat then, his hand on May’s shoulder.

  “I think you’re stupid drunk,” May said, eyes facing front.

  “You think I don’t know what’s happening right in my own house?” Ethan said.

  “What’s happening in your house, Ethan?” May said, drawing out the “your.”

  Ambrose’s hand slipped in front of May’s chest, pressing her back into her seat protectively. “Watch the road,” he said in her ear, willing her to keep them safe.

  “You don’t tell her what to do,” Ethan said, turning fully toward the back seat.

  “Neither do you,” May said. Ambrose wanted to tell her to quit it, to get along, but that had never been May’s way.

  Turning to May, Ethan said, “I want it off.” His voice was loud and dangerous. Then, in a flash Ambrose couldn’t have anticipated, Ethan swiped his right arm, his good arm, across the car toward May’s throat.

  Ambrose blocked him.

  “I’m driving.” A nervous little chuckle arose out of her as her hand fiddled at her neck. “I’ll take it off when we stop.” That she acquiesced so easily meant she recognized the danger in the situation.

  “I want it off!” Ethan yelled, lunging toward May again. The car swerved, and Ambrose fell back as Ethan reached for the necklace, gaining purchase. He gripped the side of the delicate cording and dug his fingers in, wrapping around the silk, and then he tugged—hard.

  “Ethan, stop,” May said in a garbled voice. One hand grabbed for the wheel and one hand scrabbled at her throat as Ethan pulled her head toward him. “You’re hurting me.”

  But Ethan pulled harder until Ambrose could see the cording imbedding in the opposite side of her neck. He rose up between the seats again and hit his brother’s arm, trying to sever his grip. The car swerved, but Ethan didn’t let go.

  “For God’s sake, let go!” Ambrose shouted over the wind. “You’ve lost your mind!”

  The car swerved and skittered. Ethan’s grip slackened a bit as he looked back to the road, giving May a chance to right the car.

  May swatted at his hand. Ambrose tried to get leverage over the seats, almost crawling in between the two of them. Finally, the cord snapped. The necklace and May’s head flung to the left. Ethan flew to the side of the car as May jerked the steering wheel to the right. The car lurched toward the rutted ditch at the side of the road.

  It seemed an instant that the buckeye tree loomed in front of them. Ambrose leaned from the back to brace May into her seat with all the protective force he could muster, and then it was the sound of steel crumpling and the hot smell of burning leather and grease.

  THE EARL GREY

  The interloper’s doorbell rings at the farm, and Nell expects an entourage, or at least Reema Patel acting as the Mahj’s handler, much like she did those months ago at the auction. But when Nell opens the door to the handsome and elegantly scruffy young man she remembers, she’s a bit relieved it will be just the two of them today. She has questions to ask, and she doesn’t want an audience.

  The Mahj is sharply dressed in an Italian playboy’s idea of country clothes, though spring mud is likely doing a number on his delicate cognac boots. His waxed hacking jacket is too clean to be anything but brand-new. His frayed corduroy trousers are too heavy for the unexpected jump into the sixties today, but they’ll be just right for the fall back down into the thirties tonight.

  “Mrs. Quincy,” he says, and sh
e wouldn’t be surprised if he bowed. “This is a pleasure.”

  The incorrect name doesn’t faze her anymore. Throughout this process she’s been addressed this way. “Call me Nell, please.”

  She’s waiting for him to reciprocate, to tell her what to call him. Your highness, Maharaja, Mahj? When he doesn’t offer, she tries not to address him by name.

  When Nell had received an invitation to the museum reception, sent to her in Oregon, she had called Reema Patel, who’d been hard to get on the phone. Not that Nell minds; the woman is working on the show of her career, titled “From Partition to Pride: The Artistic Jewelry Traditions of India.” The centerpiece is, of course, the Moon of Nizam, on generous loan from its new owner, the Mahj.

  Nell had chatted up Patel in anticipation of asking her for a favor, patiently listening to her litany of busyness as she got together a marquee exhibition in half the usual time. Patel’s been friendlier since she gained possession of the Moon, and she recounts how she’s been calling in every favor due her in a prestigious career to get accompanying jewelry and miniature paintings for the exhibit in order to tell the story of the Moon, its place in Mughal history, and its importance to Indian patrimony. The insurance for the exhibit is exorbitant, she’d complained. Security is a nightmare, she’d confided. When Nell had finally asked if Patel would help set up a meeting, Patel had agreed; she’d been enthusiastic about it even.

  Now, Nell leads the Mahj in to the flower room. She’s set up tea on the massive marble table that’s always acted as a bar. Moving this monster will be a considerable undertaking, one Emerson hasn’t puzzled out yet. He and Vlad have been staying out here supervising the cleanout for the last week, but they’ve made themselves scarce today. She’d held her breath weeks ago when she’d asked Em for this favor, sidestepping Baldwin, who’s still not speaking to her, despite her decision to pay the taxes on the Moon. She’d decided it was the right thing to do, but Baldwin wasn’t mollified. Her decision was met with silence, though she’d spared them all a headache and saved the Quincys a bundle. But Emerson had thanked her and when she’d asked for this favor, he’d said “Sure, Nell-bell. I’m sure G-Lou would approve of royalty visiting the place.”