They’re standing there admiring it when the back screen door opens with a grinding squeak, as if someone is fit to rip the hinges off, and her uncle Baldwin strides in, a plastic grocery bag in his hand. “Brought an impromptu picnic,” he says in a huff of exertion. “Nothing in this place.” He turns to his daughter. “What are you doing here? I’m supposed to see you at the boys’ lacrosse invitational this afternoon.”
“But she did leave her jewels to me, you know,” Pansy says. It’s then Nell can see the argument, and it’s not a bad one—sloppy drafting, mistaken intent, maybe a little dementia. Pansy wouldn’t have a hard time getting an ambitious young attorney to take the case and make it for her—the potential upside might be huge, and there’s publicity, getting known for a level head during a high-profile case, a connection to the Quincys. All boons whether they win or not. “You offered it to me,” Pansy says, all lightness gone.
“She quite specifically left the jewels in the safe-deposit box to you,” Nell answers, trying for reason. Neither of them provide context for Baldwin, but he doesn’t seem to need it as he is rooting through cupboards for plates for the leftover fried chicken and grocery store potato salad he’s brought. Like all Quincys, Baldwin’s love of leftovers gave him a little puritanical thrill of thrift.
“You were trying to give it away.”
Nell is aware that both of them have started self-consciously arguing in front of Baldwin as if they are in front of a judge.
“She’s already taken it to the museum,” Pansy addresses her father. All pretense of him being uninterested is gone.
“I was being responsible,” Nell says.
“When were you going to tell us about it? After you found out what it’s worth?” Pansy says.
“Clearly, we need a professional inventory,” Baldwin says.
“I’ll be ordering one soon as executor,” Nell says, reminding them both of her role.
“Reema Patel called me,” Pansy continues to her father, excluding Nell. “Told me some member of my family she’d never met before came down to the museum. She wanted to make sure everything was aboveboard.” Pansy turns to Nell. “Quite frankly, she wondered if you weren’t some imposter trying to use the Quincy name.”
Nell buries her sheepish feelings. Of course this is precisely how she’d felt. “As executor, I don’t need to clear every move I make past you. And I’m not hiding anything.” She opens one of Baldwin’s grocery bags on the counter to focus on something to do.
“If you’re going to be high-handed, this is going to get old fast,” Pansy says.
“I’m not being high-handed.”
“Why didn’t you tell me what it was?” Pansy says, ramping up now. “Reema started angling for me to bring it in, made suggestions about getting it in the conservation lab. I’m sure she wants to get big donors down there with it, too.”
“You wish,” Nell says.
“Girls,” Baldwin says, taking the bag of food out of Nell’s hands. “I’m afraid I stand with Pansy on this one.” As if he needs to say that he stands with his own daughter.
Nell wants to remind them that it’s her gift and she is the executor, but politics win out.
“Come on.” Baldwin gives Pansy a significant look, and a whole conversation passes between father and daughter. Then he ushers her out of the house, the two of them in close whispered conversation. Nell hears “Not now” and “Come to the house.”
THE GYMKHANA
May lagged upstairs, ensuring they arrived late to the hunt club. Ethan drove onto the polo field and parked next to the other cars so they could “ride the bumper” as spectators. Loulou and Dicky and their friends tromped over the grass to shake hands and say hello. Some greeted Ambrose with forced cheer. Some waited to be reintroduced, as if they’d never met.
The hem of May’s long white pleated dress dragged in the sodden grass above her saddle shoes. Loulou’s friends reached in the neckline of May’s blouse to lift the Indian necklace for inspection, touching it and stealing sideways glances at Ambrose.
When May joined him after her hellos, he couldn’t resist. “It looks good on you.” He nodded toward the lace collar of her white voile blouse.
“If you’re going to comment every time I wear it, it’s going to get tiresome.” She crossed an arm over her waist.
“Why? Are you going to wear it every day?” He wanted it back, the way she used to be light with him.
He thought he’d embarrassed her. She ducked her head, looking at the ground. Then she reached behind her neck to untie the gilded cords, returning the necklace on the spot.
“May . . .” Ambrose said. It hadn’t been so easy to rile her before. Now, she reacted to his every word. “Don’t.” He reached out to stop her hands.
She flicked off his fingers. “Maybe I’ll donate it to the cause.” She continued struggling with the knots. Ambrose didn’t dare touch her again.
Ethan came to her side then, gave her a puzzled look, and calmly put his good hand over hers on her neck. Then he turned to Ambrose as if he’d done nothing, his hand still on her nape, and said, “This is the end of the last chukka.”
May didn’t stop fiddling with the ties, and Ambrose could see Ethan’s grip becoming tighter. “I thought we already decided this,” Ethan said to her.
“It’s mine, isn’t it?” she said, dropping her hands to her side.
“What do you think?” Ethan turned to his brother. “Do you think she should give your gift away?”
There was no way for Ambrose to safely answer this, and so he remained silent. The half-undone knot trailing down May’s back made Ambrose worry that the necklace would fall off. The horn sounded, ending the game to loud applause.
“Missed the whole thing,” Ethan said as he steered May by the back of her neck around toward the terrace of the club for lunch.
Dicky and Loulou were already seated at their table in an exclusive tête-à-tête. Arabella was on their right. May had invited her. And next to Arabella, leaning into her face with aggressive cheer, was Declan O’Brennan, a young lawyer Ethan had recently hired.
The red-faced Irishman was sweating, despite sitting under the awnings, his dark suit too bulky and too businesslike for the day. He mopped his brow with a table napkin, grinning at one of Arabella’s stories. His thick, well-groomed reddish mustache only made him look more sweltering and made his face more ruddy.