The Diamond Waterfall by Pamela Haines Page A

then—that I should hear it first from Nan-Nan. I think she truly didn’t realize I knew nothing of it at all.
    â€œWell,” she said, come up to The Towers for the afternoon (who had she been talking to?), “Well,” she said, seeing me mixing rose madder and burnt sienna in my paint box, “what’s all this I hear about a new mother?”
    â€œWhat, what?” I said. “What?” Papa wasn’t even there for me to ask.
    And then her funny, pinched look. She pressed her lips together:
    â€œOh well, if you don’t know, Miss Alice, then it’ll be only a rumor— hearsay.”
    I ran from her then and rushed into Mama’s sitting room. Then I rushed out again, and went to my shrine, her shrine,
our
shrine. And I knelt for a few moments, head buried in my hands. I was so stupid I didn’t even wonder who it was—it was just the idea. That was enough to set me weeping.
    And then, only a few minutes later, the knock at the door. Uncle Lionel wanting to see me. Downstairs, he made me sit on his knee. How I hate to sit on his knee. He held my hand too, and pulled at the fingers one by one. His knees are not comfortable. They are not safe. And also, I’m too big for that. I am twelve.
    â€œYour Papa has asked me to tell you …”
    Yes, that is how it began. Not even Papa himself to tell me. Oh, and then, and then that it should be
her
    â€œOh,” I cried, “not that one!”
    â€œBut Alice dear, yes—that one. She—”
    I didn’t like her when I saw her. I remember now, neat features, a nose a little hooked, and a very good figure. She had a firm speaking voice, which I suppose some might think pretty. And a tinkling laugh that is horrid. And expensive, fashionable clothes. And, worst of all—she is an actress. Yes, she is an actress. And quite, quite hateful.
    Aunt Violet is away. I’d have wanted to run there at once. I spoke again to Nan-Nan, and she said she was sorry I should have found out like that. Then she cried a little, and I cried a little. And she said there would never be anyone like Mama. But that I must try and look at it like this: that Mama had been her very special baby—and so had I. So
that
could never be the same again.
    They are not to be married until Easter. Miss Greene has contracted to stay in her show (I shall not go to see it!) until March. She does not plan to continue working. There are to be two features on her in the illustrated papers, Uncle Lionel says. She is determined to be a good mother to me as well as Papa’s wife. I don’t like that word “determined.” Often when someone is not pleased with me, they say “you are very determined today.”
    They are often not very pleased with me now. Yet I don’t think I used to be very naughty. I don’t think I often wanted to be. It was easy to be good
then.
But now when Miss Fairgrieves must write about me, what Papa calls a “moral report,” whenever he is away from home for more than a day, then it is always full of “Alice has been as usual rather headstrong, argumentative, even secretive. …” But why should I not be secretive? I
have
a secret. It is that I loved Mama the best.

6
    It had grown dark. The sea glimmered in the March evening. Lights were strung across the promenade, around the Casino.
    â€œMarquez vos jeux, s’il vous plaît, messieurs, marquez vos jeux …”
The croupier had a high-pitched voice, insistent.
    Lily looked at the faces above the dazzling white shirtfronts. Alert, tense, some wary, some knowing. Here in the
salle privée
were those willing to play for high stakes. Those who could afford to lose—or perhaps could not.
    â€œTout est marqué, messieurs?”
    I have played for very high stakes, and I have lost.
    â€œFaîtes vos jeux, s’il vous plaît, faîtes vos jeux …”
    Tonight, the fourth of their honeymoon,