The Diamond Waterfall (9 page)

I have been ill—the result of a fall. My wrist was sprained and they think it quite serious [he wrote with his left hand. It looked like an old man's wavering]. I do not know who I can get to write for me. How could I dictate to some amanuensis all the love I feel for my darling Lily, the loveliest flower…. This has taken nearly two hours to write [he told her]. I cannot, dearest, do this very often. Shall you take the silence for my love? Do you still receive flowers three times a week? I have wired that you should receive grapes now, and a fruit basket each weekend….

Had it been the truth—that damaged wrist? She had never questioned it. But now … The silence had seemed long after the habit of receiving notes, letters. He wrote once more with his left hand. The wrist, he said, was not improving. “Next week, I will try to write again. I have some news….”

He had not written. Indeed he had had news. News which surely she might have expected to hear from
him?

“An engagement is announced between …” The truth had not been too difficult to discover. Even in the little time she had had since yesterday (and she had sent out at once for gossip papers. A picture of Augusta in
The Queen:
“A blushing rosebud, soon to be a blushing bride. The wedding, planned for November …”) she had learned that she was the goddaughter of Lady Bartlett (that mother of sons …) and had joined them at the end of July. For the rest—Lily thought, I can imagine it all. Certainly Augusta
would be different, younger, well connected, suitable (oh, how suitable). And —proximity. There was nothing to beat proximity….

The story was an old one. But it would not do. I am a woman scorned, she thought now, in the private dining room in the Savoy, lifting her wineglass, sipping without tasting. He has behaved very badly. And
why,
in God's name,
why should he get away with it?

She turned to her neighbor, Colonel Crossley-Payne, and very lightly touched his arm. She smiled sweetly.

“Dear Colonel, please, the name of your solicitors? A person you could —recommend? You see, I have a problem of a”—and she smiled again—“a rather delicate nature.”

She was up early next morning. Nothing came for her by the first mail. She took a cab and was in the City just after ten. The solicitors were in the shadow of St. Paul's. She was able to see Colonel Crossley-Payne's man at once. He was amiable, grizzle-haired and portly, with a wide smile. His frock coat strained whenever he leaned forward at the desk.

“… My dear Miss Greene, cases of this nature …” He rubbed his hands. “Er … Some experience … A good barrister … I have in mind a Q.C. who cannot be too highly recommended—if he is free and will take the brief. Essential, of course, that counsel be first-class … these cases can be—Not to say tricky …”

She was in it now, and could not back out. She could see events, already out of her hands, moving faster and faster.

“You have the letters with you, Miss Greene?” A strange man, hands unknown to her, reading Edmund's schoolboyish phrases. There was something wrong. She felt suddenly weak—last night she had scarcely slept— wanted to snatch them back, saying, “But these are
private.”
After all, if Edmund was happy, what did any of it matter?

Within seconds the mood had passed. She felt her anger grow colder, not hotter, strengthening her resolve.
He shall not get away with it.
She could see the solicitor, his eyebrows lifting occasionally:

“Ah yes,” he said at intervals. “Ah yes, certainly this would appear to be, if not a proposal, a promise. The words are not there, perhaps, but the sense—it would be difficult to take the sense as otherwise.” He looked up from the desk, caught her at a moment when, against her will, tears had filled her eyes.

“You say that you have heard nothing from him—as regards the future marriage, that is? Not that, I think, anything he might say now would affect the case.”

When she arrived at the theater, a letter had just come by the evening mail. The familiar handwriting. She thought, I shall read it later. I shall not let it
spoil my performance. But it might have been better to read it, for all during the show, creeping into her mind at every lull (whenever, standing still, she had to gaze up adoringly at the hero, her duke), an idea … perhaps. Perhaps he has changed his mind. Perhaps after all I shall end this evening, this year—in happiness?

But she might have guessed. It was as she had expected deep down. A letter which, attempting to excuse and explain, succeeded in neither.

… this may arrive
after
you have perhaps heard from others. Although my wrist is not quite right, I could not of course have let anyone else write this particular letter. … I know I should not allow one of my
dearest friends
to discover so late on of my romantic attachment…. You must have wondered sometimes whom and when I would marry? You, Lily, who gave me such a happy summer with your delightful companionship! In days to come as a staid married man and paterfamilias I shall remember my darling Lily with affection. … I should like you to meet Augusta, but think that your two worlds are so different—And that is why I think there was surely never anything
serious
between us two…. But what
fun
we had, did we not, Lily?

She could hardly bear to wade through it all. Her contempt for him was total. Before her eyes, prince turned into frog.

And so good-bye,
dear
friend of my youth—for now I am no longer the boy you knew, but a
man….

“Oh rot!” she said out loud. “Rot. Rot. Rot.” Her hand made as if to tear the wad of paper, then halted. This too must be shown.

That evening she turned down a prior supper engagement, pleading a headache. She went straight home to bed. In the small hours she awoke, her heart pounding. She could not remember her dream, only that it had been about Edmund and that he loved her. She felt as she lay there that it was she who had done wrong. Tears crept down her cheeks, and she wept silently. It could not be
all
pride…. She lay for a long while, the tears falling. In the dark, Lionel's face passed before her. Dark, saturnine. Man about town. Idle memory. What was he saying?

“… and of
all
the jewels—the Diamond Waterfall—it must be seen to be believed….”

She was to have worn a diamond tiara. Edmund had said once (oh, his foolish streak of poor poetry), “Your tears—they are jewels. Diamonds.” And now, she thought (because I have, in spite of all, a heart), I weep for him, because of him, a whole
waterfall
of diamonds….

Events moved swiftly. Later that month she learned that Edmund would like to settle out of court. In a letter he admitted that an intention to marry might reasonably have been supposed from “certain phrases.” But he had quite simply changed his mind—and was willing to pay for the privilege (usually a woman's, he commented).

“It is possible that by going to court we shall get a larger sum.” The solicitor's even voice. “It is also possible—so unpredictable is the law, even with a special jury as we would have—that we might get less. Or even, nothing. And the, er, publicity. While it
might
be good for your career…. One cannot be sure. You will be exposed to comments of the public, the judge, his counsel. And you realize that all, any, of these letters may be read out?”

“No,” she said. “I shall not take him to court. And—the sum mentioned —that is completely acceptable.”

That evening after the show she sat in her dressing room and wrote to Daisy. She was sending her very soon, she said, the sum of seven thousand pounds. “My darlings, you are at last going to America! And buying a lovely house of your own and sending the children to
good
schools. Joszef shall have a business of his own. I shall explain later. … I am so happy for you both, for us
all
.”

That night, strangely, she did not weep.

It seemed to her a happy coincidence that Robert (she thought of him now as Robert) should write inviting her to Yorkshire for the weekend. He suggested two dates: the second involved traveling on the day of Edmund's wedding. A Friday. It must have been meant, she thought. She had due to her a free ten days and decided to take them then. She would go on to see Daisy.

On the Thursday night, which was to be her farewell to her public for ten days, she allowed an admirer, Frederick Calthrop, to take her to supper. He was an elderly bachelor (“I shall never marry, my dear”) and also very rich. They went to Romano's. The menu had been arranged earlier, together with the wines. He had taken a great deal of trouble. He offered that evening to buy her a little dog. In passing she had mentioned once that she missed the fox terrier, Rex, they had had many years ago as children.

“You have only to say, Miss Greene, and the very best—a King Charles, don't you think?—will be yours. I should ask only a smile in return.”

But of course. And how
kind.
She would let him know in a fortnight. “I go north tomorrow …”

They were a party of five traveling up from Kings Cross. As the train left, looking at her watch, she tried not to think that Edmund was by now already surely married. She had seen mention of it on a newspaper placard earlier that morning. Tomorrow or Monday there would be photographs.

Her companions were a married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Hunnard; a
young man of about thirty, Mr. Johnstone; and an elderly, forthright general's widow, Mrs. Beeley. It soon became apparent to Lily that the wife and the young man were in the midst of an affair, which by secret signs and language they seemed able to carry on during the journey. Perhaps purposely, the husband appeared unaware. No doubt tonight, thought Lily, there will be tiptoeing along the corridors. She tried to imagine such a life for herself, but could not.

At Darlington, so that they would not have to wait for a connection, they had hired a special train to Richmond, where they were met. There was some light left as they motored the few miles to The Towers. Looking out, she was reminded that East, West or North Riding, she was Yorkshire. Her emotions were mixed: anticipation, a little (pleasurable) fear, a tingling feeling of going into the unknown. Something, anything, might happen. After all, had not Lionel said, lightly enough it was true, “My brother is not, you know, immune to your charms.”

I could do, she thought now, with being wanted. Perhaps with being wanted a lot. She thought even of a proposal which she could have the pleasure of turning down. She wondered idly if what she had heard about Lionel's proclivities or tastes in sexual matters were his brother's also? (Ten pounds—the price of a little virgin, she had learned.) She wished Evie had not spoken, since she found it difficult now to look at Lionel without wondering whether that day, or the day before, some poor child had been sold to him. But then, she thought, perhaps it is none of it true. And in the meantime, he
is
amusing company.

She had thought that the village of Flaxthorpe would be larger. But it was little more than a hamlet: a fine but small Norman church, an inn, a few houses and cottages, and in the distance, farm buildings. The Hall, pleasant, Georgian, walled: it was here the Hawksworth family lived. The young heir who was to marry the rich American.

The Firth home, The Towers, could be seen from the village. Even in the fading light it impressed her, if only because it was worse even than she had imagined—or Lionel had said. Who could have dared to blot the landscape so? That wonderful stretch of unbroken moorland, the softer hills below, some woodland—and then this monstrosity … confused as to its intentions. Partly baronial, partly (but only a very small part) classical. The rest— what?

Robert came to greet them. He seemed different, perhaps because he was in his own home, his castle (and it
was
almost a castle). More forceful, assured.

“Will it keep fine for the shoot? November. We are often better favored in the last weeks of the season.”

Everything had been laid on for their comfort. She was impressed to see they had electric light. But the house itself seemed vast, echoing. Upstairs the
bedrooms ranged either side of the wide straight corridors. It was her first experience of staying in a country house. She distracted herself now with little worries about “doing it wrong.” She had no maid. But one appeared, a local girl with butter-colored hair. Her clothes were unpacked and the low-cut coral chiffon evening dress laid out, with its underskirt of black silk, its yards of ribbon and lace.

But first they had had a late tea in the smaller of the drawing rooms. Just before she had gone up to rest and change for dinner, Robert's daughter, Alice, had come down to see the company. Lily had almost forgotten her existence.

A thin, nervous child, with drab mid-brown hair and pointed features, Alice was ill at ease. Her face had a close, guarded look—one that Lily had seen already on Robert. She supposed her to be about twelve or thirteen. The only person with whom she spoke at all easily was Mrs. Beeley, the general's widow, who somehow struck the right note—chafing her about learning French, to which Alice responded with spirit. To Lily, something almost despairing came from the child. She felt a softening: seeing how Alice placed her feet reminded her of Daisy and how, when in trouble with Dad, she had used to stand just that way.

Poor child, she thought. I may have had a foolish mother but at least she was there. To be motherless? To have no one to run to…. But Alice did not look as if she ran to anyone.

Downstairs before dinner, Robert paid Lily very little attention, spreading his duties as a host equally among them all. She began to wonder if what Lionel had said was true? Her charms … It was during the meal that everything changed. As well as the house party there were some local guests. Mr. Hawksworth, Charlie Hawksworth as they called him, was not there. He had gone “over the herring pond to see his betrothed,” she learned.