The Diamond House

by Dianne Warren

  Your sister,

  Salina

  P.S. Oliver has contacted a doctor whom he wants me to see when we arrive in London. My husband is very attentive, overly so, I think. There is no need for him to fuss, but I will see this doctor for his peace of mind.

  Dearest Salina,

  Roseanne has shown your mother and me your last letter and we believe an immediate return to the sensible weather of Byrne Corners is prudent. You might think you have just a little cold, but if you do not take care of it, you will end up with a lifetime of grief like poor Aunt Aideen. Weak lungs are on your mother’s side of the family. I fear you may have inherited them, and if so, England is no place for you.

  Your mother wants me to tell you that you are not to give another thought to anything but convincing Oliver that it is time he got you home to us. I am sure Mrs. Russell knows what she is doing and is no doubt an expert when it comes to caring for those who have fallen to the effects of the English weather, but there is no one like a mother when one is ill. Have you seen the doctor? What is his opinion regarding your condition?

  Your mother says that you are not to leave all your woollen clothing in England just because it itches. You will be glad to have it on the crossing.

  Here is a bit of advice from me. As far as your husband’s brick business goes, leave the trade to him, Salina. You are a married woman now. When you return, you will have a home to think about and you will soon be blessed with children, God willing. You will be busy enough for one life.

  On a lighter note, I am enclosing the letter that you sent to the esteemed Mrs. Morris and she delivered back to us in a huff, telling us that we do not know how to raise polite daughters. I thought you would enjoy her annotations.

  Love,

  Father

  P.S. You make me proud, even as it is wrong to encourage you. And regarding those beads: as you said, a few beads among a basketful.

  Dear Mrs. Morris,

  I thought you and the other pottery club ladies might be interested in my current travels, since I find myself in London, England, studying the china of the British Potteries. I am truly inspired, and hope I will remember all that I am learning for my own future projects. I hope, also, to be able to share what I have learned with some of the local potters’ clubs in Canada. I humbly offer my services. [Oh, what an arrogant girl.]

  Do you know about the Wedgwood factory? I met Mr. Wedgwood himself, a fine gentleman who has a desire to visit Canada someday. When I told him about the ladies’ club and your little backyard kiln, he was most amused. [You know full well I am familiar with the Wedgwood name!]

  I realize that I neglected to send you and the other Potted Ladies my recipe for lemon squares, as requested. Here it is. It is a very simple recipe, but one that always pleases. [This recipe is as common as muck. I do not remember a single request for it.]

  For pastry:

  1 cup butter

  ½ cup sugar

  2 cups flour

  For topping:

  1½ cups sugar

  ¼ cup flour

  4 eggs

  zest and juice of 2 lemons

  Prepare the pastry layer by blending together the butter, sugar, and flour.

  Press evenly into a greased 9×13 inch baking pan.

  Bake for 20 minutes in a moderate oven.

  Prepare the topping by whisking ingredients.

  Allow the topping to rest before whisking again and pouring over the base.

  Bake again until the custard is set (20 minutes).

  Cool and sprinkle with icing sugar.

  Please give my best to the other ladies. How are your ashtrays coming along? I do not believe Mr. Wedgwood makes ashtrays, but perhaps I am mistaken.

  Yours truly,

  Mrs. Oliver Diamond (Salina)

  [You, my girl, have much to learn about respect for your elders. I will not relay your best wishes. I would prefer simply to forget all about you.]

  MR. WILLIAM PASSMORE BYRNE CORNERS ONTARIO=REGRET TO INFORM THAT SALINA DIED EARLY THIS MORNING FROM PNEUMONIA INTERMENT BROMPTON CEMETERY FULHAM ROAD LONDON HEARTBROKEN=OLIVER DIAMOND

  * * *

  THE EVENING OF Oliver’s arrival back in Byrne Corners, he made his way to the Passmore home. On the long crossing from Liverpool, he had become consumed with the idea that he was to blame for Salina’s death, and that she would still be alive if he had not brazenly implied that she might join him on the Hamilton. He thought he ought to return the letters she’d received from her family and, in an act of full disclosure, he was planning also to present the Passmores with the letter that had enticed Salina to run away and purchase her overseas ticket. Who better than her family to decide once and for all whether he was responsible for what had happened? His letter was the evidence. The Passmores would be his judge and jury.

  Roseanne, who happened to be looking in on her grieving parents, answered his knock at the door. He knew immediately it was Roseanne because Salina had told him they favoured one another. Oliver introduced himself and handed her the small bundle of letters. It was difficult for him to look at Roseanne because of the resemblance. He could not tell what her feelings were toward him.

  She ran her hand over the letters, which were tied with a ribbon, and said, “Was this one of her hair ribbons?”

  He replied, yes, her favourite ribbon, and then he got to the point and said that he thought the Passmores should have their letters back. He explained that one of his own letters was in the collection and he was quite sure that letter had brought about the tragedy of Salina’s death and the misery they were all now living. He quoted himself—It will be a long haul for this dry-lander travelling alone—and said he did not know what the Passmores would do with him, but he would accept whatever punishment they thought appropriate, for Salina would never on her own have come up with the idea of travelling to England.

  “I place the ball in your court,” he said. “Do with me what you will.”

  Roseanne had taken her eyes from the letters and was now looking at him.

  “You appear to like a good cliché,” she said.

  “In your own time, of course,” he said. “I will await your verdict.”

  He had not imagined what would happen beyond this point, so he wasn’t sure what to do. He decided he ought to leave, but when he took a step away from Roseanne, she said, “Stop.”

  He stopped.

  “You must be a fool, Mr. Diamond. Either that or you did not know my sister well enough. Perhaps both are true.”

  “Beg your pardon?” Oliver said, not sure that he had heard right. He was struggling to find a context for what Roseanne had said.

  “Are you asking us for dispensation?” she asked. “If so, I don’t understand why.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “The opposite, in fact.”

  “My God,” Roseanne said, “the ego on you.”

  He was now truly confused, because he did not see that ego had anything to do with what he had said.

  “Do you wish me to take back the letter in question?” he asked.

  Roseanne said, “Oh no. You don’t get away that easily. Come inside and we’ll see what happens.”

  He did, although with much more trepidation now, and was directed by Roseanne to wait in the parlour. He imagined that he looked wretched, having just stepped off a train, and he wished he had taken the time for a haircut and a change of clothes.

  Edith was summoned. She arrived in minutes, delivered by her husband in a new motorcar, and the Passmores gathered in the dining room, seemingly ignoring the fact that Oliver was in the house. The door to the parlour was open a crack and he could hear the murmur of their voices, but he could not make out what they were saying. He kept thinking of Roseanne’s words: you did not know my sister well enough. Was it possible? They had been married such a short time, but he felt he had known her intimately since her first letter. He wanted to tell them that his life had been made full by Salina and empty by her death, but how could he say that wh
en there was little doubt she would still be here if he had never written to her? Not just the letter that had enticed her to join him, but any letter at all. And what should he tell them about Salina’s last days? Would they like to know about the cemetery where she was buried? That he had dried his Canadian clay to a powder and scattered it on her grave so as to leave a bit of her homeland with her? He was sweating through his wool jacket and wishing he had not come, or at least not before he’d bathed and had a good night’s sleep.

  After an eternity, Roseanne came to the parlour and led him to the dining room. She directed him to an empty chair at the table, which was covered with a perfectly ironed white cloth. Oliver’s letter was open in the middle of the table, along with others in his own hand: the ones he had written to Salina from the West. When Roseanne saw him looking at them, she said, “We found them in her desk.”

  He nodded, and waited to be introduced. He knew who Salina’s father was from the bank, but he had not met her mother and sisters. No formal introductions came.

  “We’ve read the first letters many times, of course,” Roseanne said. “And now the one you believe is so important.”

  Mr. Passmore was staring up at the ceiling as though he were puzzling over a chess move and the answer might be in the plaster. He was smoking a pipe, and Oliver wished he had one too, so he would have something to do with his hands.

  Roseanne said, “It’s possible, Mr. Diamond, that you’ve overestimated your significance in this matter. Salina was not a woman who could easily be persuaded or taken advantage of. She was too old to have ‘run away from home,’ so we can only assume she did exactly what she wanted. Is that not how you see it?”

  “She had wild ideas,” said Mrs. Passmore. “It was her artistic temperament.”

  Oliver could not fathom what he was hearing. The Passmores appeared to be blaming Salina.

  “Far too independent,” Mrs. Passmore said. “We should have nipped it a long time ago.”

  Roseanne said, “I don’t know about nipping, but I think we can all agree that her pluck was her downfall, considering what has happened.”

  She turned to Oliver. “It appears that she adored you,” she said. “Perhaps you can enlighten us as to why.”

  Oliver had never in his life felt so greatly at a loss for words. He said the first thing that came to mind. “If she adored me, I can only say that I adored her in return. I will always adore her. She was my wife.”

  Mrs. Passmore seized on this. “Was she?” she said in a pleading way. “Was she really your wife? Because I believe you were married by a ship’s captain rather than before God.”

  Oliver wished he could lie and say they had been married by a chaplain, but he was pretty sure the ship’s captain had been mentioned in a letter, and besides, he had come here to be honest, and so he said, “I am very sorry. The ship’s captain was the best option.”

  “Did you love her?” Edith asked. The words were spoken as though she thought it was her turn to ask a question, but she didn’t really care what Salina had done. He remembered that Salina had written of Edith in a less than flattering way. Thankfully, those letters—Salina’s to him—were in his valise and not in their possession.

  “Yes, of course,” Oliver said, trying to answer with dignity for Salina’s sake. “She was the love of my life.”

  Roseanne said, “Then I think you were likely in over your head and we should have some sympathy for you.”

  Again, Oliver did not know what Roseanne meant or what he should say in response. He was overtaken by the memory of a ship’s steward trying to tell him that a young lady was looking for him, and the panic he had felt when he realized the steward was talking about Salina. He’d really had no idea she would find her way onto that ship. He began to speak, not entirely sure what words were about to come out of his mouth.

  “Perhaps I was in over my head, but not through any fault of your Salina’s, and there is no need to send an ounce of sympathy my way unless you are sending it to a grieving widower.” He waited for someone to say he was hardly that, since he and Salina had not been legitimately married, but no one did. He said, “We—Salina and I—had developed the habit of being playful in our correspondence, and my words in that letter were meant to be just that, playful. I did not know that Salina would join me without telling you. In fact, I was quite terrified when I learned that she was on the ship. I did not know what to do other than immediately propose marriage, which I had been planning to do upon my return, with your blessing.”

  As he spoke, he felt as though he were there again, kneeling awkwardly before Salina in her tiny cabin. He’d been trembling as he asked her to marry him. He was trembling now, and he tried to hide it just as he had then.

  “I did not expect to see her on that crossing,” he said. “I truly did not. I was as surprised as you were by what she had done.”

  Mrs. Passmore pulled a lace hanky out of a pocket of her frock. Silence followed as she dabbed her eyes, until Salina’s father cleared his throat and said, “I don’t imagine quite to the same extent.”

  All eyes turned to Mr. Passmore. These were the first words he had spoken since Oliver had been called to the table.

  “Hubris aside,” Mr. Passmore said, now turning his gaze to Oliver, “assigning blame to you, or anyone else for that matter, would be saying that Salina’s death resulted from either scandalous behaviour or her complete lack of sense. The latter is probably closest to the truth, but I see no need to sully her reputation either way.” He tapped his pipe on the table and said, “No one could lead that girl down a garden path unless she wanted to go. As far as I’m concerned, she was married and abroad on her honeymoon, and she was taken from us by an unfortunate illness. Now someone make the tea.”

  Oliver tried to focus on Salina’s father but the room had begun to list. It reminded him of the ship moving with the swell. He thought he should speak but he didn’t know what to say, and as he tried to decide—thank you did not seem right—the faces at the table became blurred and he felt himself becoming faint, and he feared he might slip off his chair. He broke into a sweat and clutched at the seat with both hands trying to hold himself upright, but the next thing he knew he was lying on the kitchen floor with Roseanne and Edith waving striped tea towels around his face, to give him air, he supposed, but they made him feel tangled in a clothesline hung with laundry.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said, brushing the towels away and managing to struggle to his feet and sit once again in his chair, embarrassed now that the spell had passed. He remembered Salina saying in one of her letters that she didn’t believe in vapours. Was that what he’d just had, an attack of the vapours?

  “I don’t know what came over me,” he said, sweat beaded on his brow.

  “Relief, I dare say,” said Edith, handing him a damp cloth with which to wipe his forehead.

  Roseanne boiled the kettle on the stove and made tea in Salina’s white teapot. By the time it had been poured all around, the linen cloth was spotted with sepia-coloured drips, which Mrs. Passmore dabbed with her hanky. The pot made a heavy clunking sound on the wooden table as Roseanne set it down, and she said, “It’s really not a very good teapot, is it?”

  Mrs. Passmore gave her a disapproving look, as though it were wrong to criticize Salina’s handiwork, but then said she had to agree.

  “It was her first, though,” Oliver said. “She had ideas for others. I’m sure she would have corrected the flaws.” When he lifted his cup to take a sip, he burned his lip and he said, “At least it keeps the tea hot.” He set his cup down to let it cool and said, “She wanted to attend an art school.”

  Mrs. Passmore sighed. “An art school,” she said, and he wished he hadn’t mentioned that.

  He said, “You do not blame me, then. For the carelessness with which I wrote that letter.”

  Roseanne said, “I think you’ve missed the point,” but Mr. Passmore held up his hand and said, “We choose not to blame anyone, and let’s cal
l that the end of the matter.”

  The evening soon after came to a close. Edith’s husband was called to collect her, and Mrs. Passmore suggested that they deliver Oliver to his parents’ home on their way since he appeared to be unwell. He declined, and told them he needed the fresh air. In the Passmores’ foyer, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and he looked dreadful. His face was covered with stubble. His eyes were bloodshot. His hair was standing on end. It was a wonder Roseanne hadn’t thought him a tramp and shut the door on him.

  As he walked along the quiet streets, he mulled over their reaction to Salina’s flight and why they did not blame him. Was it possible that no one was to blame, as Mr. Passmore had said, and Salina had simply been taken from them by an unfortunate illness? He did not know the answer. When he arrived back at his parents’ house, he found it already in darkness. He fell into his bed and slept through the night for the first time since Salina’s death.

  OLIVER STAYED IN Byrne Corners for two months before he returned to the West. His mother really was unwell and her illness was not, as he had suspected, all in her head. When she died there was another funeral in Byrne Cemetery. The Passmores did not attend. Oliver stood next to his father and his brother George and he tried to gauge how his mother’s death might affect his father. He and Salina had had only a few months together; his parents had been married over thirty years. He studied his father but it was impossible to say one way or the other. He wasn’t sure how he felt himself about his mother. She had been so much in the shadow of his father that he had hardly known her. Who exactly was she? A good woman, a good wife, but other than that, he couldn’t say. His mind wandered from the words of the minister and he found himself perusing those gathered in the cemetery, remembering the day he had first spoken to Salina. He felt oppressed by a heavy shadow even though the sun was shining.

  After the service, he was approached by a young woman who introduced herself nervously as Miss Beatrice Shaughnessy. She said she was sorry about the loss of Oliver’s mother, and then she said in graver tones that she was very sorry also for the loss of Salina, who had once saved her from a slip in the mud in the middle of a violent thunderstorm in this very churchyard.