The Necklace Read online

  She’d fretted over the menu and given up on the idea of serving chai altogether. She’s made a pot of Earl Grey and placed it next to a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket. When he sees it, the Mahj grabs the bottle up by the neck, unasked.

  “I see you’re familiar with my TMZ headlines. You’re thinking I’m drinking champagne morning, noon, and night.” Before she can protest or apologize, worried that she’s offended him, he expertly uncorks the bottle with only the slightest sigh and pours them both a coupe. “Why not be civilized?” he says, and toasts her without touching the rims of the wide bowls. She’s glad she snagged the old-school glasses out of a box and washed them. Vlad had packed them up, deeming them vintage kitsch, not worth much and bound for a bric-a-brac guy in town unless someone in the family wanted them.

  They load up delicate plates with little cakes. The Mahj picks up a meethi she’d managed to find in a suburban Indian grocery. “You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble,” he says with a smile. She leads him into the chilly living room. The heat was turned down for the winter and the spring thaw has yet to reach the interior, making her wish he’d chosen the tea. Her shoes click on the bare floors. Most of the furniture has been divided up or sold, including all the fairly good rugs. She’d worried over what the Mahj would think of the place with the air of a yard sale about it. But if the Mahj notices, she can’t tell. He’s reflexively gracious, with ingrained manners that mark a royal trained from birth.

  Emerson’s had the place scrupulously cleaned, but it just shows the shabbiness even more and somehow makes the house feel colder. The Canaletto is gone. The bright outline of its former place on the wall makes the rest of the room look gray. The blackbuck mount is gone, too, already donated to the natural history museum. Emerson has sent her a precise and detailed accounting of it all, but it’s different seeing it in person.

  They settle themselves in two awkward, brocade-covered tiny chairs in front of the cold fireplace. Emerson has set them up—likely from a bedroom upstairs—and she smiles at her cousin’s thoughtfulness. Niceties about the Mahj’s trip and questions about his stay are exchanged while they balance their plates on their laps and put the champagne on the floor like a picnic. Emerson overlooked providing them with a table.

  “My trip,” the Mahj says, “is really full of lovely surprises. I must say I am loving these flowering trees.” It’s not until he’s fetched the champagne bottle from the other room and poured them both a second glass despite the chill that they fall silent.

  “Thank you for indulging my curiosity. I couldn’t get much out of anyone other than this,” he says as he brings the journal entry out of his pocket, folded up and creased. She’d spent a good amount of time agonizing over whether to include the entire journal and the photo with the lot, and she’s glad she decided against it. Who knows what he would have done with it if he’s carrying this around in his pocket?

  She has the journal at the ready in the library and gets up to fetch it.

  “This fell out of the entry when I found it,” she says, coming back in the room and handing him the photo placed on top.

  “That was my grandmother. They told you?”

  They had told her. The maharani of Baroda, second of four wives to the maharaja and known as the Indian Wallis Simpson for her glamour and divisiveness. She’d ransacked the maharaja’s jewels, reset some more to her liking, which included having the biggest and most famous strands of rubies remade into anklets that she wore daily. That kind of effortless middle finger to the world made Coco Chanel call her a kindred spirit when they’d met once in Paris.

  “I have many pictures of her dressed like this,” he says, unimpressed. “Dressing like this was her escape, you understand?”

  Nell gives a little shake of her head. “No, sorry.”

  “They observed ghoonghat—like purdah? At least the fancier you were, the more the women were kept separate. It was popular among my family at the time—obviously not anymore. Dressing like a peasant was her release. She had a little haveli, too, her Petit Trianon, if you will. Lined completely in mirrors, where she’d go and pretend she was a dancing girl.” He’s pointing to the background of the picture. “This was taken there. It was where she used to have rendezvous.”

  At Nell’s silence, he continues, “Trysts, you understand. With foreigners, mainly,” he says, as if reading her mind. “She was educated, which was unheard of, but she was a great favorite of her father’s and her mother was ambitious. She spoke nearly perfect French, I’m told.” He’s examining the picture. “I’ve heard before that she took lovers. My great-grandfather took four wives, so I suppose it’s fair. So he . . .” The Mahj flicks Ambrose’s journal with a gentle tap of his buffed nail. “. . . I’m sorry to say, was not the only one.” Instead of being embarrassed and blushing, like a Quincy, he seems to wear this as a point of pride. Nell remembers that he’s been educated abroad, and she can’t help but admire his progressive ways.

  “I don’t think they were lovers,” she says.

  He looks smug. “Mrs. Quincy, Nell. This is actually a conversation I’ve had more than once, if you can believe it. I’m not at all squeamish about talking about my grandmother’s love life. You shouldn’t be, either. They were people.” He takes a sip from his coupe.

  “No, I mean, I’m fine with it. I just don’t think they were because he was in love with someone else.”

  “He was in love with this May?” he asks, skimming the journal entries.

  “She was his sister-in-law,” Nell says.

  The Mahj pauses, eyebrows raised, and Nell pushes on. “His friend was with your grandmother.” She shows him the letter from Ambrose to May describing Dicky’s dancing girl. Shows him the picture of Dicky from the scrapbooks Loulou kept.

  “So I see,” the Mahj says, politely, but he is most interested in the photograph of his grandmother wearing the necklace.

  “She was very beautiful,” Nell offers as he studies it. “You look quite a bit like her.”

  He ducks his head because, of course, good looks run in the family.

  “She was a great favorite of the people,” he says. “I still run across shrines to her when I’m in the countryside back home.” Nell gives silent thanks that there are no shrines to Quincys, just the one she’d created in her own mind. The one she has almost completely dismantled.

  After another sip from her glass Nell decides it’s time to ask. “But why did she sell it?”

  “Do you know the Hindi word ‘stridhan’?” At Nell’s shake of the head he continues. “It’s like a cross between an insurance policy and a dowry. Jewels were meant to be stridhan for women, a security to be sold when they needed cash. It wasn’t all that unusual for my grandmother to sell her jewels. My grandfather was extravagant, loved polo ponies.”

  “Is that why it was never reported stolen?”

  Louis comes through the door then, without knocking or ringing. He knows Quincy ways now. She’s been staying with him in town on this trip before the opening of the exhibition. The cross-country thing they’ve been doing remains delicious if undefined, but she’s come to know a few of his quirks, such as timing his entrances perfectly.

  After introductions, Nell assures the Mahj he can speak freely in front of Louis, as he’s the estate lawyer.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, you’re not together?” the Mahj asks.

  Neither of them says anything. Louis’s proposal remains dropped between them. Nell hasn’t mentioned it, and Louis has kept quiet—a pride-off between them.

  The Mahj smirks. “You Americans, so touchy, so puritanical. I am learning this about you. I thought it was a stereotype. But to answer your question, Nell, I think my grandfather knew what happened to the Moon, that she’d sold it,” the Mahj says. “Her father-in-law gave it to her before the wedding fire. And frankly I think my grandfather was relieved to have the thing done. By that time he knew government changes were inevitable—tax increases and land reform. He was a smart man, and he
was probably glad to have the money.”

  “So why did you want to shell out for it?” Nell asks. They’ve drunk nearly the whole bottle of champagne. Louis’s presence at her side gives her courage.

  “Obviously you’d let the government know it’d be coming home,” Louis says. “That’s why we didn’t have any problems.”

  The Mahj inclines his head. “I don’t know if you know, but bringing back Indian heritage is something I feel rather strongly about.”

  “So why didn’t you just make an offer privately?” Louis asks.

  “Once I heard you had evidence that the thing had been legitimately bought, wasn’t stolen as we thought, well, I was advised that my claim wasn’t strong and international antiquity law is hard to enforce anyway, as you know,” he says, gesturing to Louis.

  “And you must forgive me here if I do not get the nuance right, but we weren’t at all sure who you were.” For the first time all afternoon he seems flustered and actually blushes.

  “I’m sorry?” Nell says.

  “We weren’t sure what you’d do if you knew a maharaja was interested in the necklace. Where your negotiations would wind up.” And Nell does see: they were afraid she’d try to gouge them and they’d decided to take their chances at a public auction.

  “Please know this is not personal to you,” he says. “But I have had the experience in the past of people assuming all sorts of things, most of them wrong, when I am involved in a sale. Some of it is my own fault, yes,” he says, acknowledging his past faux bidding. “And we lost a piece I dearly wanted by being too direct in our approach. With the Moon, quite frankly, I couldn’t let that happen again. So a public sale by a third party was the best way.”

  He slips the patched and faded photograph of his great-grandmother into his jacket pocket, unasked, sips the last of his champagne, and stands. “I should be going.” But not before he empties the last of the bottle into Nell’s glass. “I think you’ll enjoy seeing the restoration of the Moon. I helped them bring in artisans from one of the famous workshops in Jaipur. The rumor is that back in the day, that very shop was the court jeweler for some of the Mughal emperors. They rewove the cording and shined it up properly. They’ll actually be at the party tonight.” He’s heading for the front hall, saying, “I’ll be looking forward to seeing you at the opening.” He bows a little to Louis. “You both, I hope.”

  Nell had debated going to the reception even though she’d be less on display than the Moon or the Mahj, and she has no fear of overshadowing either. The Mahj can clearly hold his own, and no one can outshine the Moon. Patel had told her Baldwin and Pansy, all the Quincys in fact, had RSVP’ed right away. Those old familiar twinges of the imposter, the pretender, had gripped her, making her want to stay away. She was never a true owner of the Moon; it had passed through her possession quickly. She’d merely been acting as a placeholder in a drama bigger than her. The universe had paid her well for this, yes, and that should be her consolation.

  But Nell is done with hiding, done with molding herself, done with monuments and shrines. She is ready to be seen for exactly who she is now in the midst of this. She is done with nostalgia.

  Besides, Patel had been charmingly tenacious, which made Nell feel welcomed, and Louis has promised to be her wingman.

  When he’s at the door, the Mahj turns and asks, “So she left him for his brother? The love letter. Buying her the necklace. A scandal, I’m sure.”

  “I’m afraid not, actually. Ambrose died in a car crash. They were all in the car when it happened.”

  “Oh, how tragic.”

  “Yes.”

  “My grandmother May died in childbirth later that year and Ethan Quincy drowned.”

  “Drowned?”

  “Some thought it suicide. There was a mine fire, an industrial accident, and some say he felt responsible for it. Some think he was depressed for other reasons.”

  The Mahj squints closely at her, sizing up the color of her hair, the point of her chin, the light color of her eyes.

  “Do you know the Hindi word ‘jaraja’?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Forgive me, it’s not a nice word. I don’t know you well, but let’s say it means ‘love child,’ essentially. The resemblance is uncanny.”

  “Yes,” she says, blushing. “My mother had her suspicions.”

  “So you find that to be true?”

  “I’ll never know, but given the letters, I believe so. Many in the family find it shocking. I suppose that makes them scandalous, a little immoral.”

  The Mahj is shaking his head. “No,” he says with a smile and his hand over his heart like a romantic balladeer. “I think that makes them human.”

  THE DIVING BOARD

  After the Mahj leaves, Nell needs to get outside. Despite counseling herself to caution, he was such a charmer that she drank more champagne than she wanted and now she’s jangly, face flushed and wanting cold air. She changes into wellies and pulls on an abandoned anorak from the hall closet that’s two sizes too big—a hodgepodge with the red wool dress she’s wearing, chosen to try to look chic for the Mahj. Louis takes her hand as they walk down a muddy path, the tall weed trees just starting to bud green. The borders of the field are soggy with last fall’s cut, but this trail is old and worn so deep into the land that it will never disappear.

  The pond houses still stand, though the foundations on the men’s side look like they need attention. The diving board, a single plank of locust polished smooth by generations of wet feet, still gives a mighty spring into water that is thawing and patchy with ice.

  “Think we could make something of this?” Louis asks, walking into the little clapboard house and patting the river rock of the fireplace. There’s a tentative grin on his face. Is he dreaming about living at the farm? Has he had his eye turned by Quincy grandeur? She supposes she shouldn’t judge him if he has. She’s been susceptible to it her whole life.

  “That’s assuming we could get our hands on the property. Pretty sure Baldwin owns all the way down to the pond now,” she says.

  “Not this,” he says. “This.” He waves back and forth at the space between them. “I feel bad that I haven’t seriously asked you,” he says, and in a moment she’s in a kiss that erases everything, all the doubts, leaving only connection and certainty.

  When they part, this huge man, all six feet of conviction, folds himself down with one knee on the clear pine floor.

  Her pulse storms in her head, flying on champagne and the traditional words, though he doesn’t need to say them. Everything is plain on his face. This is no joke proposal or manipulation.

  She can’t deny that nagging questions have dogged her about how much of his attraction to her is because she’s now so well set up after the sale of the Moon. She admonishes herself that it’s uncharitable to think that of him. They’d been attracted to each other before anything with the Moon happened. He’d proposed, even—such as it was. But where will they live? Who will move for whom?

  But in the moment when he asks, she savors; she breathes before this moment speeds into the past.

  A compromise, a meeting halfway, that’s what’s often advised in a romance, but it hardly ever works to make half a commitment and keep half safe. It would be so easy to keep a piece of herself back. She’s been doing that for months. But she’s coming to understand that what is required is making herself vulnerable, moving fully and completely to a place that’s not safe or comfortable. He hangs then, waiting for a response. She knows when it comes, it can’t be halfway. If it is, they’ll never meet. She must come all the way over, exposing, rendering herself vulnerable, being clear.

  From the poem and the Moon, Nell knows that a pair who were meant to be together were not. Though who moved or failed to move, who had courage and who was a coward, will remain forever obscured to her.

  And the things she has been looking to belong to, to fit herself into, seemingly for her whole life, fall away as she looks at Louis at her feet
, his eyes lit with a fierce faith.

  “See, this is why people have a ring,” he says, misreading her silence. “You have doubts, that’s fine. I’ll be certain for both of us. I thought this might take a little convincing. Forget what people will say, I know you feel it, too . . .”

  It’s then she kneels down to stop him, comes to his level to kiss him, with everything—with love and hope and the feeling of ultimate belonging—and then on an exhale she says, “Yes.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Though the Moon of Nizam is a fictional jewel, it was inspired in part by the Patiala Necklace. Created by the House of Cartier in the 1920s for Maharaja Bhupinder Singh, the Patiala Necklace included the seventh-largest diamond in the world, amid a setting of 2,930 diamonds and rubies. The entire necklace went missing in 1946. The main diamond came up for auction by an anonymous seller in Geneva in 1982, and it was bought by the De Beers Company and renamed on their behalf. In 1998, a representative of Cartier found the remnants of the setting in a secondhand jewelry shop in London. In addition to the missing De Beers diamond, most of the significant stones, including several important Burmese rubies, were also missing and have yet to resurface publicly. The House of Cartier has restored the ransacked necklace by replacing the missing gems with synthetic stones, and they have kept it for their archives and traveling display.

  The Maharani of Baroda is a creation of fiction. But for a deeper understanding of ghoonghat and stridhan, as well as the North Indian life of a maharani as it was lived, I recommend Maharani Gayatri Devi’s autobiography, A Princess Remembers. As the fourth maharani of Jaipur, Devi was known as the “Indian Jackie Kennedy” for her beauty and style. Indeed, Jackie Kennedy was the maharani’s guest in Jaipur during Kennedy’s famous tour of India in 1962. Devi was elected to the Indian Parliament and served as the representative for Jaipur.