The Diamond Waterfall

by Pamela Haines

  And the ring he had given her? A lover’s opal and plaited gold. Traditional joining of hands and pledging of troth. Misfortune to come to the faithless one…. That too must be hidden away.

  The train was dirty, gritty, and after leaving the Romanian side of Predeal there was no food. Hungry, heartsick, she sat in the cold carriage and felt as if she had been torn apart. It had not been necessary to fall in love. It was to have been fun. It had not been necessary to make a child.

  And now this terrible hurrying back. She could see only black ahead. She was to produce a seven months’ child, but before that … As she drew nearer to England, the dread of everything clutched at her. Why not just tell Robert the truth? But this child must live in his home, call him father. If he were to give it only hate …

  “You don’t look much better. You don’t have the appearance of one rested.”

  She spoke sharply in reply. “After a journey such as I’ve just suffered? Whatever did you expect?”

  What indeed? Not, oh not, this secret. Bad news, which must be forever kept hidden.

  But here at home again, all was not bad news. Even Alice came to greet her and was not too churlish. Best of all was Hal. Four months had altered him completely. She hoped he recognized her but had to admit he didn’t. It was as a friendly stranger, nothing else, that he greeted her. A great wide smile. Teeth now, to be counted. He stood up in the iron cot and shook the bars. She marveled at the rounded knees beneath the full skirts.

  Letters, too, awaited her. All good happy news from America. But from her brother, Harry, a disturbing note.

  She had taken little account of what had been going on in the world outside. Before she left there had been rumors of war. Letters from home mentioned “the conflict in South Africa.” But no one in Sinaia or Bucharest had spoken of this argument between Dutch settlers and the British, a continent away. On the journey back, some people in a French railway carriage spoke critically of the British (so arrogant, and their mauvais comportement in this unjust war …). Lily had kept quiet.

  Unreal, irrelevant, it had seemed, this Boer War. But now, with Harry’s letter, how different. He who was so soon to have left for America and a new life. Telling her now:

  You’ll expect to hear that I’m off to New York and Daisy—well, the States will have to wait, because I’ve enlisted! For Queen and Country. So it’s the West Yorks Regt, and following the Flag. We sail in early December….

  Death at sea. She thought of everything. Already the letter was old. She could do nothing now but wait.

  So long had she been away that she thought it would be only natural Robert would want to go through the dreaded ritual. She had resigned herself beforehand, wondering only how much of the jewelry she would have to wear.

  Perhaps she could plead exhaustion from the journey? True enough, God knew. But that was only to postpone the horror. Worse would be if he didn’t approach her at all.

  “You were long enough away,” he said, “perhaps you missed us after all, that you have come hurrying back before the date given.” He stood there in his dark red dressing gown. “I hope at least you have some zest for life again.” He paused. “Did you miss me, a little?”

  “Yes, of course …”

  He talked idly for a few moments, then in brisk tones, “Undress, please —the nightgown off.”

  Why, why, so spirited usually, do I obey? Head hanging, waiting to be draped with gold. But tonight it was to be just the Waterfall—that should have been so beautiful. The fire in the bedroom was quiet, glowing red. She thought that she could smell fear. Her own.

  Before she had not liked him to see her body, had hated as much as anything this standing naked before him—to be hung with trophies. The diamonds were cool against her flesh. Cruel against her skin. Facets caught the light. She felt suddenly a wave of sick misery, a longing quite desperate for Val, for it to be as it had been. … All evening she had kept it at bay, telling herself, I shall feel again when it’s all over. Only then would it be safe to feel.

  He had taken off the gown. Underneath he was naked. She saw with horror that, as he gazed at her, he grew—what was once unattractive now appeared obscene.

  “Lily, my dear …” The deep voice. He was walking toward her.

  I cannot, she thought, cannot, cannot. Shall not.

  She said, in a dull but loud voice, “Don’t. Please do not. I’m with child.”

  “What?”

  Then a moment later: “What?”

  She still didn’t answer. But began to tremble. Looked behind her for a chair, sofa. Weak-kneed, she sat down. What have I done?

  “You must be mad…. You mean to tell me … Dear God, is that the truth? Say now—”

  “Yes, it’s the truth.” What good to lie now? There was a bitter taste in her mouth. The taste of fear.

  He dragged his dressing gown on angrily. “My God, it surpasses all—an actress, yes, dear God a cheap actress …” As he came near her, she flinched. “Give it to me, the Waterfall, give it to me. I want it off you.” He pulled impatiently at the clasps, cursed as they would not open fast enough. “I want it off you. Off!”

  He let it fall over the head of the chair. “And now, if you dare—tell me who, eh? Dare to tell me—”

  “No one—”

  “Autogenesis? My God.” He was walking to and fro.

  “No one—especially. A casual encounter, an accident—”

  “Who?”

  “A Romanian.”

  “Naturally, why not? His name—if you dare—”

  She hesitated, her mouth dry with invention. “Alexandru Crisan.”

  “A friend of—our friends? Eh?”

  “It was … he’s a happily married man. Middle-aged. I said—an accident. These things … I can only—would have asked forgiveness. These things happen—”

  “So ill, so weak, that you have to leave home. But well enough to whore. Aren’t you?” Leaning forward, he struck the side of her head so that she fell against the chair back.

  “Don’t! Robert—how …”

  “Don’t, don’t…. You don’t care for what you deserve.”

  She said, sobbing now, “These things happen—”

  “They do not—to me. In the world you came from, perhaps. Or the fast set maybe. The usual disgusting ways of Society. Lionel may live that life if he pleases. These things, they don’t happen to me, in my home—”

  She cowered in the chair as he came near again. But he stood over her only, head thrust at her.

  “You meant to pass it off as mine, eh? That’s the filthy truth—is it not?”

  She avoided his eyes, the angry color of his face.

  “You’ve heard me before—on the ways of Society. Chipping at the very foundations of the family. And the older families, they are the worst. Not the parvenus, so-called…. You know what I think about that sort of conduct? Eh? Yes, say yes.”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned nearer.

  “I have my son at least. You’ve given me an heir. But if this bastard’s a boy, don’t think he stands second in line. Offspring of some gypsy, and a shopkeeper’s daughter—for that’s what you are. … Do you think I want the Waterfall coming into such hands? Do you?”

  He hit out suddenly with the back of his hand, this time her face. A whiplash. A second later he hit her again, about the shoulders. Right, left. And again. The blows rained down. A fist in her face …

  She was too shocked to fight back. Afraid, too. Between blows he shouted, railing against her, against Val. This Romanian gypsy …

  “You are never to go back there. Nothing to do with any of them, understand?”

  In her terror, as he belabored her, his voice not so much loud as threatening—and righteous, she thought, Dad. (In the hall. Leeds. My wicker basket beside me. Discovered. Wicked. In the wrong. Hopeless. Imprisoned.) I have married my father.

  “Was he a Jew? Tell me that.”

  “I don’t answer you. You’ve knocked me about,
like a drunken husband on Saturday night. Now leave me. Go on, get out—if you haven’t killed the child. … Get out.”

  He threw her nightgown at her. For a moment it covered her face. She wrapped it over her belly, her knees. Her head she kept down so that she didn’t have to see him. She heard the door close behind him.

  The next morning, after an almost sleepless night, she saw in the mirror that she was marked: her face worst of all, livid bruises on cheek and temple. Her throat and upper shoulders too were stained.

  After breakfast she sent for Robert.

  He looked the other way as he spoke. “Well?”

  “Well?” she said. “I am not well at all, thanks to you.”

  “Why should it concern me if you lose your bastard? Tell me that.”

  She said coldly, “If I lose it, or am made ill by your brutality, I shall not hesitate—”

  He interrupted angrily, “Don’t threaten me. I exercised only my rights as a deceived husband. You know you are in the wrong, and deserve—”

  “Now you threaten me! Would you like me to announce to the world not only that you have been cuckolded, but also how you have treated me? I am not afraid to do so.”

  She saw that for a moment he was afraid.

  “That would help no one,” he said. “I would not allow it.”

  “Then some arrangements must be made about the future, if we are to remain a couple. Shall we remain a couple?”

  “Our son, my family, our name. Of course. How can you ask? And as the wronged one, I make the conditions.” He grew more confident again. “It is I who decide how it will be in the future.”

  “Is not a person who has been struck also wronged?”

  He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “The conditions are that in private, I ignore you, or talk as little as possible. That in public, we behave as before. I give the child a name and nothing else. Do not expect me to love it. And above all, do not expect him or her to inherit anything of mine. The jewelry, my mother, our own blood, Lionel …” His voice caught, the words trailed off.

  “Well?” Then when he didn’t answer: “Very good,” she said. “That is perfectly satisfactory. Meanwhile, some story must be invented to account for these.” She pointed to her bruises.

  All that day and the next, she spent in bed. She wrapped silk scarves around her neck, pleading a sore throat after the journey, a fever too, so that she had been dizzy and had fallen heavily in the bedroom, hitting her face against the fireguard. It was their story for the domestic staff, for Alice, and a few others. She was surprised at how easily it succeeded.

  She would have told Sadie, but there was not really the occasion, for Sadie, after a horrified concern at Lily’s appearance and a (surprising again) credence in her tale, poured out her own anxieties:

  “Charlie, two days ago, darling Lily. He wants to fight for your Empire, as if it wouldn’t be just dandy without any contribution from him. And not telling me till too late—isn’t that just like a man? Someone or other’s Horse they call the Regiment and oh, it’s crazy! Only eight weeks to the new baby. Why I’m so mad at him I just haven’t been able to stop crying.”

  What else but crazy? But now there was Sadie to comfort. Her own troubles could be put aside for the moment.

  She heard that Harry had landed safely and was at Pietermaritzburg. The first of Val’s letters arrived through Paris. She sent one off herself. Charlie left straightaway after Christmas. Sadie’s world seemed all saddlery, revolvers, Zeiss’ glasses. A little after his departure she had her baby—a girl whom she called Amy, after her grandmother. Lily told Sadie she too was expecting. In September, she said.

  Her greatest consolation now was Hal. She spent so much time in the nursery that Nan-Nan, rather than being pleased, showed signs of resentment. For the new baby, Lily felt a mixture of longing and fear. Strong it must be, since it had survived the journey back, the beating, her emotional upset. But unlike those far-off days when it had been the precious secret of hers and Val’s, now it was—a burden.

  Winter still, always winter. She watched one darkening afternoon the steady fall of snow drifting across the garden, watched the last leaves on the spectral beeches and thought only, How time stretches out. It will always be a winter afternoon.

  The next day, the baby quickened. She could hardly contain her excitement. The good news. When she saw Dr. Sowerby, he remarked that she seemed perhaps more advanced than had been thought. Her absence abroad was tactfully not mentioned. Feeling for a while physically better, she hugged her treasure to herself, hands sensing every movement. Val, who would be so proud. She wrote to Paris.

  With Robert there continued the veneer of politeness they’d agreed to show in public. In private, they scarcely spoke to each other.

  It was a warm summer. She sat outside, increasingly large now, eight months that should have been only six. She was in the summer house or, on truly fine days, on a garden bed. She was lying there the afternoon she was brought the news about Harry. That he had been killed on the sixth of June, at a place called Diamond Hill.

  11

  On the whole, Alice thought, she preferred this new baby, although Papa plainly did not. Nan-Nan did not seem enchanted either.

  “We’ve had girls before, haven’t we? Nothing like my girl, who’s my girl?” (But Mama had been her girl, too.)

  The baby had been christened in October, and this time Alice’s photographs had been very successful. The baby had been named Theodora, which meant Gift of God. She had cried throughout the ceremony. She was also very large: nine and a half pounds. Theodora was after the Romanian count who had stayed at The Towers the summer before last. Papa had not said that he disliked Theodora. It was just that she, Alice, was sharp. At the ceremony he had not been at all jovial. Once or twice she saw him drum his fingers on the table when a guest praised the child. Later when she interrupted, and should not have, he was short with her:

  “Seen but not heard, please. Go and look to your brother. You’re a big girl now and should be a help.”

  Big girl—of course, yes. That meant growing up and becoming more responsible. But there didn’t seem any more of her than a year or even two years ago. Perhaps it was being sharp that kept her so small. And what of it? Except that Nan-Nan kept dropping hints.

  “When it happens, you will tell Nan-Nan, won’t you?”

  “When what?”

  “When you get your poorly time …” She looked knowing.

  “Ill?”

  “Well, not quite ill,” Nan-Nan said. “Poorly for a few days. Your mother went to bed often then.”

  When her throat swelled up at the beginning of November she asked, “Is this it, am I … poorly? That way?”

  “No, no,” Nan-Nan said hurriedly, “that’s not it.” She added fiercely, “You’re to tell Nan-Nan at once.”

  But on the whole, really she was much happier now. She did not have too much to do with Belle Maman, who gave so much attention to Hal these days, and now had Theodora to fuss over.

  While she—had Gib. She would tell herself often, I have a friend. The only sadness, that he would go away to school next September. What if he became someone different then, someone not interested in photography? For that was their greatest bond (aside from what had first brought them together. And they didn’t, now, need to speak of that again). She was his teacher, although he was already almost her equal. Indeed at the beginning she’d felt humble, after the disaster of Hal’s christening photographs. It was Gib who had watched, and then helped her develop the second, horribly artificial set.

  All through the summer of 1899 they had been out and about with her camera, then, later, his too. Pictures: the moors, grouse butts, Flaxthorpe church, a waterfall swollen with autumn rains. The spray was like a million diamonds, Gib said. She had not liked that. A diamond waterfall, she had thought, remembering her mother.

  Gib usually came over to The Towers. Sometimes though she went instead to the Vicarage. She liked it there, wit
h its vague feeling of holiness. A sense of God’s presence—and safety, although as religion it wasn’t as attractive as Aunt Violet’s Catholicism. All those colored robes, and beautiful sounds (Mother Church, it was called. How happy that name sounded! How warm!). And then the incense: she had never smelled it but she could imagine how exotic, how secret the scent of it would be.

  Gib was looked after now by his Aunt Ettie, who was small, fluffy, and delightfully vague. She referred to him always in her slow dreamy voice as “little Gib,” even though he towered above her already, and indeed topped Alice by at least three inches.

  She and Gib, a team, were they not? They had begun to think—Gib’s idea this—that they might set themselves up as roving photographers, working on commission. Arabia, India, or even wild Romania that Belle Maman had written of so excitedly. The idea was enormous. It glowed.

  “But first,” Gib had explained, “I have to go to school, and then to university, because that is what my father did. Although, I suppose”—pause —“I could always run away when the time comes.”

  The daring, the courageous, the intrepid Gib! Three years younger than she, yet it was he who had the ideas.

  But meanwhile, here and now, there was Christmas to enjoy. No Fräulein. Lots of Gib. The only cloud in the sky, Uncle Lionel.

  He was to spend Christmas with them, and made it worse by arriving a week early. At once, he made a great fuss of her.

  “Well, mistress Alice, where are you roaming, come and tell your true love.” His hateful kiss and embrace lingered. “Let’s see what our little budding Lumière has been up to.”

  She pushed him away a little.

  “Let me see the darkroom,” he said. “Please, Alice.”