Did Ambrose imagine the tension, the judgment in his father’s face? Perhaps Ambrose was being uncharitable, always guarding against his father and barricading himself. He’d gained perspective on his trip, maybe enough to engage his father as an adult, man to man. He needn’t be on the lookout for slights and disrespect. A man knew how to handle a father. Especially one who, Ambrose now noted as his father shakily rose from his chair with the aid of his cane, was rapidly becoming an old man. Ambrose felt an unfamiliar softening, and he walked to the front hall and rifled through the jacket he’d thrown on the sofa for the leather-bound packet in the interior pocket. He unwrapped the cord.
He was proud of his photographs and thought they held promise. He’d had a great many developed during his stay in New York. He chose one, a unique perspective of the Taj Mahal, and brought it to his father standing behind the carved desk.
“Look,” Ambrose said, handing the print to his father. “A true wonder of the world.”
Israel gave it a cursory glance and handed it back to Ambrose.
“It’s incredible in person. Much more so than in a picture,” Ambrose said.
“It’d have to be, wouldn’t it?” Israel tapped the photo with the back of an index finger. “I’ve seen this picture before. We get the world news here.” He leveled his gaze at his son. “Unlike Srinagar.”
Ambrose felt the challenge in his father’s words, and he flipped through a few more pictures of jungles and temples trying to find something his father hadn’t seen, something to amaze him.
Israel kept watch over Ambrose’s shoulder. He stopped Ambrose at one photo in particular, reaching over to grasp it and bring it closer.
Ambrose had snapped Dicky’s Indian princess in profile as she’d come into the room unaware, eyes down and a glossy strand of hair slipping out of her long plait, a surreptitious portrait, taken unasked.
“Loulou will be here soon, of course,” Israel said. “She’s out with her friends. And I believe May’s invited young Richard as well.”
Dicky’s girl had objected to having her picture taken, but Dicky had pleaded with Ambrose to find a way. Dicky had become so insistent that Ambrose had started teasing him about including the prize in the trunks with the hunting trophies he was sending home. Nevertheless, Ambrose had returned each evening with the camera, each time pretending he was photographing the riotous inlaid mosaics on the walls or the architecture of the limestone turrets outside while he tried to frame her into the picture. He felt guilty for it, but he finally snapped her.
Israel said nothing, carefully lining up the edges of the photo and folding it before methodically ripping it in half, and then in half again. “Your sister has taken quite a shine to young Richard.” Dicky had returned well before Ambrose, and had been taking Loulou around ever since. May had mentioned something of this in her letter.
His puritanical father’s nonplussed calm as he ripped each quarter into smaller pieces unnerved Ambrose, but he couldn’t look away. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised at Israel’s knowledge of Dicky’s indiscretions. Dicky was a braggart and a gossip. That Israel kept up with such gossip indicated that things between Dicky and his sister were more serious than Ambrose had guessed.
Israel returned the photo to his son in pieces. “Fortunately, young Richard . . .” Ambrose knew Dicky would forever be “young Richard,” even in his seventies. “. . . seems ready to nest. And I’ve known the Cavanaughs my whole life. Your mother and Celeste Cavanaugh were the same year coming out.”
Ambrose tried to remember how he’d felt on the train coming home—a world traveler, someone with perspective and ideas. How was it possible that in less than an hour his father had managed to strip that away?
His father turned to the cold fireplace. “I don’t pretend to understand your decisions, Ambrose—leaving, not returning after the accident, or for your brother’s wedding, which would have been the decent thing to do.” And with that phrase, and with the ripped photo in his pocket, Ambrose thought that maybe his father understood a little more of the situation than previously imagined. “Begging from him so you could continue sightseeing and hunting.” He said the last two words like “whoring” and “gambling,” and in a tone as if Ambrose had robbed a widow. “But now that you’re back, I’m sure you’ll want to get on with it.”
Ambrose’s shoulders slumped as a feeling of powerlessness and ancient, sullen despair engulfed him.
“And we must decide which club you’ll join,” his father continued, turning toward him. “I’m sure you don’t want to join mine—full of old men. Ethan’s might do, but it’s turning into a business club. We’ll ask him where the young men are joining these days. The bachelors.”
His father walked to the bowl of candies, selected one, and held it out to Ambrose. “You always did like mint,” he said.
Ambrose placed the mint in his mouth, a concession to his father and a small price to pay for finally being able to leave the room.
*
Upstairs, he spat the candy into the doily-lined trash can.
His childhood room shrouded him in afternoon silence and damp heat. The yellowed shades drawn against the bright sun made his room a warm, dim tomb. His relief in escaping his father embarrassed him.
He opened his valise and rooted through notebooks and papers, searching for his flask. He’d come to his father’s dry house knowing he’d need supplies. His hand brushed the cerulean leather jewelry box—longer than a ruler and wider than his wallet, the leather tooled in gilt with lotus flowers and paisley. The box represented a problem he’d been pushing from his mind, refusing to think about or decide. But here it was, clearly caught up with him now. The jewelry case was shabbily made. The glue on the white silk satin inside was already yellowed at the seams. Given the Indian love of all things English, it wasn’t surprising they’d copied the jewelry boxes. Ambrose preferred the traditional silk pouches and inlaid sandalwood boxes he’d seen in the markets. He’d been meaning to buy one, though after May’s telegram he never seemed to get around to it.
He lifted the lid and a thrill lit his eye, as it had when he’d first seen the jewel—a quickening felt by all knights-errant when first laying eyes on ancient bounty.
A sapphire as big as a robin’s egg sat nestled in the middle of a circle of gems. Two peacocks, set with diamonds, supported the dazzling sunburst of stones on their backs. Small emerald drops dangled in their beaks. He’d since learned that peacocks were auspicious and good luck, but given the state of things he doubted it. The peacocks and the sapphire with its constellation around it formed a heavy, chest-spanning pendant, the gold so ruddy it looked like brass. Where, in the west, a chain might attach to each side of the neck plate and clasp in the back, ribbons of blue, violet, and real gold were tied in intricate knots on each side of the collar. These were then tied around the wearer’s neck.
It was tribal, exotic, and so large it bordered on vulgar. It was meant to be May’s, but he had second thoughts about giving it to her now. Such an extravagant gift would surely be strange for a sister-in-law. Though perhaps no stranger than May actually being his sister-in-law.
He lay back on the bed, the necklace on his sternum, a heavy thing.