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.
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 Wycli
ffe 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.
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