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.