Free The Diamond Waterfall by Pamela Haines

evenings Mama went out, or people came. Dinner parties. Mama would say of those evenings, “Something I have to do, for your Papa. People can’t choose, Alice, what they must do.” She’d come in to see me when she was dressed—always with so many jewels. Sometimes even, the DiamonWaterfall. Then, after she’d kissed me good night, she would take my hand in hers and, half closing it, fill it with kisses. “Shut your hand up quick, and they will last
all night.”
(And they did, they did.)
    Rubies, sapphires, emeralds—she wore jewelry always. Even in the daytime. Papa liked her to. Sometimes, alone, with me, she would take it off. “It breaks my back, my neck.” And she would give a little laugh, unclasping a heavy bracelet: “It breaks my wrist too.” But often I wanted her to keep them on because, wearing them, she was beautiful. Without them she wasn’t. She was just lovely, plain Mama, with the little face that crinkled up when she laughed, showing small white teeth.
    Such jewels.
They were beautiful all by themselves, without people. It was enough just to look. The stones too: kept in a special room and locked in heavy glass cases. But most beautiful of everything was the Diamond Waterfall. It gleamed not only about Mama’s neck but tumbled as far as her waist, the diamonds fastened together in such a way that they moved as Mama moved. Lovely, so lovely.
    Grandfather had been rich enough to buy the many diamonds it took to make it up. Just as he had been rich enough to build The Towers. Grandmother, Alice was told, had been very very proud of the Waterfall when it was new. Although Aunt Violet wasn’t often rude about other people (she explained to Alice that Catholics were not allowed to be uncharitable) it was she who’d remarked, “Just a little bit vulgar. She wore it, you know,
before
luncheon.”
    It was Mama who wore it in the painting halfway up the great staircase. She looked frightened and unhappy. Alice thought perhaps she’d known already she was ill. Dying, ill.
    She didn’t look at the portrait often. It was not necessary. She had her own picture, in her own shrine: one like Aunt Violet’s for the Virgin Mary.
Hers
had a photograph of Mama, taken by Papa. In his youth Papa had been an eager photographer, with his own darkroom. (When I’m old enough, he has said that
I
may have his camera.)
    In the shrine also: a small bunch of flowers, some heather, a pair of Mama’s gloves (they still held a little of her perfume), and her little gold notebook and gold pencil. Mama had stopped using the notebook when she’d become really ill. In bed all day, too weak even to joke. Her face pale, except for two red spots high on her cheekbones. Toward the end, she was often delirious, each day weaker and weaker.
    Aunt Violet never spoke of that time. “Let’s talk about happier days,” she would say to Alice. “I was
so
careful with your mother always. We spoke only of happy things.”
    Going out through a side door, she stood awhile in the courtyard. A gardener came by with a barrow, but didn’t turn his head. In the distance she saw Fräulein, carrying a flower basket. She thought of joining her. Theymight pick flowers together. I might do this, I might do that. Already it was after five. In a very little, it would be the time when once she had used to sit with Mama.
    Mama’s sitting room. It was no use to go in there. It was furnished still, but it was cold, cold, like Mama. It was covered with dust sheets. It waited— for what?

4
    â€œTell me, Miss Greene, what would amuse you? What would you like to do tomorrow? My brother, you see, has persuaded me to stay in Town, a further ten days at the least.”
    Lily looked at him. Ah yes. Sir Robert, Sir Robert Firth. And beside him the smiling, sardonic face of Lionel. But she had not been listening.
    â€œSome idea for the weekend