“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 she 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.”
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?