The Diamond Waterfall (10 page)

It was Robert who took her in to dinner. They ate by candlelight (“Electricity, my dear, is so cruel,” Lionel told Mrs. Beeley), and from where she sat throughout the meal she could feel his gaze, steady, as if he took the image of her inward. In speaking to others, he seemed to be listening for, watching, her reactions. Now he spoke to his neighbor. Shooting—the eternal topic. Broken phrases floated toward her:

“… after deer … stalking with old Egerton … the sort of chap that uses scattershot in a twelve-bore …”

Mrs. Hunnard, the young married, watched by her lover, Mr. Johnstone (as she, Lily, was being watched by Robert):

“Oh well,” said very prettily, “I can put up with mosquitoes since they take only a little nibble. But
midges”
—and she gave a little shudder—“this August in Scotland. Quite ruined. Tell me, Sir Robert, that you haven't them here.”

They made a little fuss of Lily. She was asked what it was like,
really
like, to be on the stage. “I imagine,” said one rather earnest, heavy-jawed man, “it to be like any other job of work. Plenty of toil and tears.” A rush of disagreement to this: “Oh, but the excitement—and you cannot call it
work”
(this from Mrs. Hunnard).

After dinner Lily was coaxed into singing several numbers from the show. Then a duet with Mr. Johnstone, who had a pleasant light tenor. She felt that really he sang for Mrs. Hunnard.

Lying in bed later, she thought, Edmund is married now. It is all over, quite, quite finished. Of the rest, of what would happen tonight, she did not want to think. But her body, free now of all the lacing, could feel, as if in memory. … In the darkness, Edmund's face came into view. He was over her. His hands touched her face. Remembered touch. The hands, wandering hands, so often reprimanded, restrained, searched her body now. She shuddered in memory.

Angry with herself, she sat up in bed, turned on the light (wonderful electric light), and, reaching for one of the three modern novels laid out for her, forced herself to read.

It is over, over, over.
I do not care.

The next day there was a shooting party. Lionel surprised her by his skill. She had not imagined him a sportsman. Little Mrs. Hunnard stayed behind at The Towers, resting, while Mr. Johnstone said that he did not shoot and would prefer a country walk. Lily was not deceived.

She and Mrs. Beeley walked with the guns. Lily had not realized how large Robert's estate was. His grouse moors stretched farther than she could see, their color gone now with the setting in of winter.

There was a luncheon party at a neighbor's house. Lionel said to Robert, “Miss Greene, you know, is more than a little interested in the Waterfall.” He said it where only Lily and Robert could hear. She was about to say, “But—I never …” and then could not be bothered. Robert said only,
“All
women are interested in the Waterfall,” and smiled to himself. The remark made her angry, and for a moment she would have protested. But then she thought, Why show I care?

That evening he approached her after dinner. “Mrs. Hunnard,” he said, “also on her first visit here, has expressed a wish to see—the stones. Not the Waterfall, of course. But my—collection.”

So in the company of Mrs. Hunnard and Mr. Johnstone (who appeared, an awkward fourth, at the last moment), she followed Robert for a viewing. He had gone first to collect the keys.

Jewels, jewels. A whole roomful of precious stones. She would not have been surprised if The Towers had had dungeons to store them in. But these were kept in a tall airy room, admittedly with a double door, in locked heavy glass cases. Sapphires, emeralds, pearls, rubies, peridots, tourmaline, topaz
… row upon row of them. All indexed, described, places of origin, dates, histories, interesting facts. … To Lily it was an Aladdin's Cave.

“Spend as long as you wish—I would like visits to be at people's whim. But of course I cannot leave such a place open to—anyone.”

Mrs. Hunnard was soon bored.

“And what does little Mrs. Hunnard think?”

“Oh, they are too utterly—they are quite—”

“You prefer—jewelry?”

“Yes,” she said, and dimpled.

Lily was not asked. Only, on the way back, as the other two were talking, he said to her, “I too prefer jewelry. I have a considerable amount. My father, after indulging himself in The Towers, invested what was left in stones. And some jewelry. Notably, of course, the Waterfall. I have merely developed the interest—and extended it. I like them to be on the premises, however. A bank vault would be meaningless.” He spoke without looking at her, but as if confiding. “Lady Firth. A great deal of my collection, of the jewelry that is, was bought for Lady Firth.”

The words rushed to her lips: “I am sorry,” she said. “That you should have lost your wife. A man needs …” Then: “Your daughter,” she went on quickly, “she is perhaps lonely?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “She does not confide.” He changed the subject abruptly, awkwardly, saying, “Ah, but here come the—friends, caught up with us.”

He was equally abrupt, as if embarrassed, when on Sunday afternoon, finding her a moment alone: “The invitation,” he said, “was till Tuesday only. But—could you be persuaded to stay a little longer? Say, Thursday—or even, dare I ask, until the weekend?”

She told him that she did not play again for over a week. So, yes, it was possible. Some rearranging … “My sister,” she said. “I had planned to visit my sister and her family—”

“But that is no problem, that may be arranged. Where? Leeds? You can be taken there and back … I shall see to that. You
will
stay, I take it? I should be honored.”

An invitation perhaps. But she felt it more of a command. She was at once attracted and annoyed. In some ways it was like Wycliffe Avenue, Headingly, all over again. And I did not like that.

Daisy came alone. They had arranged to meet at the Metropole Hotel. It is not, Lily thought, that I am ashamed, but—then she thought again of the photograph in her dressing room and blushed. I have become, and
am still,
a snob.

Daisy's face above the frayed collar of her old black coat had shed ten years. She glowed with happiness. In repose, she showed still the strain she
had been under, but it was otherwise a new Daisy. She who'd never been one to chatter, prattling away now like a child:

“… Joszef couldn't come, wouldn't come, Lily, because he says he will cry if he sees you, tears of happiness and gratitude, and also that we are sisters and must be alone with each other. … I can't say, there are no words. I tried to write, but you must have thought it not much of a letter, for what you had done. To have saved
so much
from your stage success …”

She told Daisy nothing. At least, even with my sister, let me keep my pride. I am ashamed still of that money. Good only for what it can
do.
(But what happiness it was giving!)

“We sail on January the first. We begin 1898 in the most wonderful, wonderful manner—Joszef's second cousin, he's in Boston and we shall go there first. Ah, Lily …”

She spoke quietly, but flushed and nonstop, of their plans, of Joszef, of little Joe, nearly ten, of Anna, nine, of Sara, of Ruth, who at five sang en-chantingly. “And
that
she gets from your dear self.” She said with quiet passion, “Ah, Lily, Lily, it is after all wonderful to be married and have children. You, dear, really must marry soon. Soon, Lily.”

The visit to Leeds was on the Tuesday. When she arrived back, a little late and with only about forty minutes before she should go down to dinner, she found a small packet on her dressing table. The sight filled her with childlike excitement.

Lying on silk in the round leather box was a bracelet. Emeralds and rubies. Gold. Beneath the dressing-table light the stones shimmered. Vibrant peacock colors. She lifted it, laid it against her wrist. She saw that her hand shook.

Her response to its beauty alarmed her. I am used to gifts, she thought, used to returning them politely, if not on every occasion at least on most. (That King Charles spaniel next week? A decision to be made there.) Always excepting Edmund, of course. She looked at the bracelet again longingly. But it's beautiful! She desired it—there was no other word. I yearn to possess it.
And it could be mine….

Her day out had exhausted her. I cannot decide anything, she thought. Accept, or refuse. She put it quickly back in its box, and into her locked case. When the little maid came in to do her hair, she had chosen as her only ornament a simple mother-of-pearl choker.

Lady Firth,
she said to herself suddenly. And then thought, I might still have a title.

I did not really love Edmund. That was not love. And do I, anyway, need it? What, really, has it done for Daisy—if I had not been able to help materially? And for Vicky—what else there but false notions of romance? Ending in tragedy. Frank. Frank Donovan, she did not wish to remember.
She thought, When not unhappy in love, I am instead a little ridiculous…. I am, I think, not made for love.

Then she thought with simple and hard resolve,
It is time to get married.

Downstairs, she did not know where to look. But he solved this for her. After the first glance and greeting (“All was well with your visit to Leeds?”), he ignored her. However, once again it was he who took her in to dinner. As they walked together through the hall, she was about to speak to him (such a gift,
something
must be said), but before she could do so, he said, his voice hard, displeased:

“You are very—as to ornament—simple tonight, are you not?” When, discomforted, she didn't answer at once, he went on, “You received nothing —interesting?”

“I—yes,” she began. She felt certain that Mr. Johnstone and Mrs. Beeley, walking behind, could hear. “Sir Robert, I—”

He cut in angrily,
“Then why are you not wearing it?”

She thought him more hurt than angry. Nor did she see how she could explain here, now. She said coolly, as they came up to the stuffed spaniel, “What do you call him, that very fierce dog?”

An unbearable meal. Robert stiffly angry—surely the others must notice. Lionel, mercifully, was dining out. Then an interminable wait till the gentlemen joined the ladies. She was filled with dread. There was talk of playing cards, or perhaps Lily would sing for them? Mr. Johnstone was detailed to search for a duet from
The Geisha.
Mrs. Hunnard gave delighted little cries. “If only
I
had a pretty voice—I'm
quite
without tune, am I not?” Her husband seemed deep in conversation with Mrs. Beeley. Lily felt out of patience.

She left the room for a moment. As she came back toward the drawing room, Robert was waiting in the hall. He took her arm, pressing it beneath the elbow, on the nerve.

“I must speak to you, Miss Greene.”

She did not refuse. They walked, he directing her, to the small drawing room where they had had tea the first afternoon. There, he asked her to marry him.

She said, “The message of the bracelet. It was not clear.” “I think it was—”

She was surprised to see that he was trembling. She said, saucy with nerves, “Do we speak of love?”

“I am a widower. My child needs a mother—as you pointed out. And I —need a wife.”

“And you think that I—”

“I feel quite certain or I should not have asked.”

“Then—I shall.” She had surprised herself.

It was he now who seemed suddenly embarrassed, ill at ease. There was a pause. Awkwardly, he added:

“Of course—I want a son. I think I should make that clear.”

She said lightly, “Oh that, that will be no trouble.” She turned to him. “Accepting—if I am to consent, I should like to make a condition or two—”

“Indeed.” He looked mildly curious, not displeased.

“The honeymoon. I would want to go to France. To Paris,
especially
to Paris.”

“Of course. Of course.” He took her hands and crushed them between his. It was not unpleasant. She thought even that she might grow to want more of his touch. “The honeymoon. And what if I have a condition or two? Nothing so important of course, but—”

“Yes,” she said, laughing now. Suddenly happy.
I am to be married. I have made the decision.
“Why, yes. Fair is fair, is it not? Do you tell me now?”

I cannot bear it. The most terrible, awful thing that could have happened. Everything is spoiled. I don't believe it, I don't want to believe it. It shan't happen.

And then—that I should hear it first from Nan-Nan. I think she truly didn't realize I knew nothing of it at all.

“Well,” she said, come up to The Towers for the afternoon (who had she been talking to?), “Well,” she said, seeing me mixing rose madder and burnt sienna in my paint box, “what's all this I hear about a new mother?”

“What, what?” I said. “What?” Papa wasn't even there for me to ask.

And then her funny, pinched look. She pressed her lips together:

“Oh well, if you don't know, Miss Alice, then it'll be only a rumor— hearsay.”

I ran from her then and rushed into Mama's sitting room. Then I rushed out again, and went to my shrine, her shrine,
our
shrine. And I knelt for a few moments, head buried in my hands. I was so stupid I didn't even wonder who it was—it was just the idea. That was enough to set me weeping.

And then, only a few minutes later, the knock at the door. Uncle Lionel wanting to see me. Downstairs, he made me sit on his knee. How I hate to sit on his knee. He held my hand too, and pulled at the fingers one by one. His knees are not comfortable. They are not safe. And also, I'm too big for that. I am twelve.

“Your Papa has asked me to tell you …”