As Pansy swings open the door, she leans back long enough to say, “I’d be so sad if this caused a rift between us.”
When they return to the room, Nell overhears Patel saying, “That’s all premature until it’s authenticated. And I mean, I’ll be going to other institutions, but I’m going to bring in the main freelance curators as well. Then we’ll make a determination once we know what’s what.”
The men all stand when they come back, something Nell never sees on the West Coast, and then they are all seated again.
“We’d love to get this dealt with and put to bed before you leave again,” Walker is saying, scooting his chair in, as if Nell isn’t completely accessible on the West Coast, like they rely on the Pony Express or something.
“Why the pressure?” Louis asks.
Patel ignores him and turns to Nell. “If you’re at all inclined to go this way, I’d really encourage you to let us get the ball rolling. And if I may,” she says, squaring her shoulders, “I’d like to make the case for discouraging you from pursuing the auction route. I know that’s always attractive, and I’m sure you’ll look into it at some point. But firstly, the sapphire will likely be put in a vault if it’s sold privately, and no one will see it again—a huge loss. And that’s the best-case scenario. The worst case is the sapphire is dug out and resold. At that point it becomes a pure commodity based on weight and other metrics. Any art value is lost. It’d likely be slammed into a modern setting, too, but that’s neither here nor there. The cultural value is destroyed—historical, ethnographic, archaeological. Forgive me for being dramatic, but I see it as not unlike the dynamiting of the Buddhas of Bamiyan. Lost forever. And we really would be able to properly handle it for you, not to mention we’d want to celebrate it with you. And I don’t have to tell you that prices are never guaranteed at auction.” She says the last part unflinchingly, holding Nell’s eye.
“Is the museum thinking of ponying up?” Nell asks.
Baldwin winces.
“We’d need to understand the context,” Patel says smoothly. “But I’ll remind you that the Cleveland Museum of Art has one of the largest acquisition budgets in the nation, up there with the Getty and the Met.”
“I’d like her to have time to consult with outside experts,” Louis says, jumping in on Nell’s behalf.
“She’s a sophisticated attorney,” Walker says, as if Nell isn’t there. “There’s been more than enough time for her to understand all the implications. Plus she’s had a private meeting with the curator of an internationally renowned museum, she’s had a few months back home to think about it, and most important, she is a magna cum laude graduate of Stanford Law School and a partner at one of the leading firms practicing intellectual property litigation on the West Coast. It’s not like she’s overwhelmed in negotiations about her great-aunt’s will.”
“You understand I’m sitting right here,” Nell says.
“Just like your mom,” Baldwin says with a sickly smile. “Making your presence known.”
THE MOONLIGHT
Ambrose didn’t see May for the rest of the day after their ride. She’d beat him back to the house and disappeared. When he came down for dinner, the maid told him May had a headache and had asked for a tray in her room.
Message received, he thought. And over dinner by himself, he decided he’d leave in the morning, on the first train. He was outraged at her for avoiding him as he sat in the dining room alone eating cold ham and country biscuits. He promised himself, in earnest this time, that he would move on with his life. He’d leave now. Not to follow his brother and father; he wouldn’t be going to DC. First to Chicago or even farther west—a man could lose himself out there. He could start anew—palm trees and Santa Barbara, maybe even Hollywood.
Upstairs he packed his small weekend bag. The books and assorted things he’d brought from town, as if he were living out here, living with them. Looking at it now, he realized what a sham it’d been. He’d been waiting, testing, and it’d finally happened. May had given her answer, once and for all. Ambrose supposed he’d had to come back and see it, feel it, before he could know it. Everything was over.
He’d leave his books here for May, let her sort through them if she wanted. He’d leave the Ragman, too.
When he finished, having tidied everything and now lying in bed, he was about to finally let go, to slip under to unconsciousness, his grip loosening on the day, on his expectations, on May. The door creaked open.
May slipped into his room in her white nightgown, which shone nearly pale blue in the moonlight streaming through the windows. He reached for the bedside lamp.
“No,” she said. “Don’t turn it on.”
His pulse hammered in his ears as she crossed the room. Anger morphed into excitement; adrenaline serving both. And then she slipped under the thin linen, her body a warm delight next to his.
He stilled himself, as if a bird had landed on his shoulder. If he’d learned anything today, it was that he couldn’t force her. He waited, exhilarated but not grasping, sure now. Why else would she walk down the hall to him?
Her lips came tentatively at first, tiny kisses at his neck, her hand traveling across his bare chest, and then her lips to his—the spark of connection. He restrained himself from grabbing her.
Under the cover of night she was both braver and more demanding than he. The feel of her hands passing over his heart raised chill shivers up his neck. Her insistence bordered on blind determination, and he knew she was shutting down her doubts. He’d seen her do that before. He’d watched as she cast her lot—for pleasure, for desire, for him—that day before he’d left on his trip.
He slipped a hand high up her thigh, thinking he might; he could; it was possible. It was impossible.
But desire won out, and she felt warm under his fingertips, and so soft, and when she finally slipped him home he could feel her open mouth against his neck.
“You,” she said.
He knew in that moment that he never should have left. Or he should have taken her with him. Or she should have waited. Something should have been different. Starting now it would have to be made different, some things destroyed and others made new. He would see to that.
The smell of her around him, the feel of her crushed against him, drove him toward some elemental rivalry that in the moment, before he could check it, he had to know.
“Was it like this? Before. Was it ever like this?”
She shook her head and he breathed into her asking, “Ever? It was never like us?”
Her hair fell against his mouth as she shook her head. “No, never like us.”
THE VICTORIAN