Kingdom Lost

by Patricia Wentworth

“Gray—”

  “He had an extremely impertinent letter from Colonel Gray, which he put in the fire.”

  Timothy hesitated.

  “If the girl is really Maurice’s daughter, Gray is her trustee.”

  “So he informed us.”

  “Eustace might find himself in an awkward position.”

  “Colonel Gray appeared to take a good deal of pleasure in pointing that out.”

  Mrs. Cobb broke in:

  “That’s what Reggie said. He said Eustace would find himself in Queer Street if he went on spending money when perhaps it wasn’t his to spend.”

  Timothy frowned at her, but without effect.

  “I do think Waterson ought not to bring her here,” she concluded irrelevantly.

  Mrs. Ryven threw up her head and looked coldly at her sister.

  “I think Mr. Waterson knows very well what he is doing. If he thought we had a case, he would certainly say so. He does not think that we have a case. He said, in so many words, that the girl is Maurice’s daughter.” She laid her knitting on the arm of the sofa and rose to her feet. “And if she is Maurice’s daughter, it is not a case of my having her here or not having her here. The house is hers.”

  She walked quite slowly to the window and looked out. The rain swept everything; the beauty of the place was obscured. But twenty years of possession had stamped every detail of it upon Helena Ryven’s mind. She saw the change of the seasons turn the bare tracery of the giant beeches to a mist of faint, frail green that deepened to summer’s wealth of foliage and flamed in gold and copper at the touch of the autumn frosts. She saw the ordered garden lying out of sight behind tall walls of rosy brick—fruit trees of her planting, her rose garden. No, not hers. For twenty years she had had in her mind the day when Eustace would bring home a wife; she had schooled herself to meet it. Now fate had cast her for a part for which she had not schooled herself. She stood in the wings and waited for her call. Neither anger nor that cold shrinking should prevent her taking that call finely. If it was difficult, the triumph would be all the greater, and the applause.

  Helena turned back into the room, and heard the distant sound of an approaching car.

  CHAPTER VIII

  The sound was a very faint one, for the drive lay on the other side of the house; if Mrs. Ryven had not been almost painfully on the alert, she would not have caught it.

  It was with a great effort that she came calmly back to her seat. As she put out her hand for her knitting, the door opened.

  “Eustace!” said Mrs. Cobb in tones of the liveliest surprise.

  Eustace Ryven came in and shut the door. A very slight frown crossed his face at the sight of the assembled family. Then he came over to the hearth and stood with his back to the carved mantelpiece, looking down at his mother.

  She said, “How did you get away?” and he answered at once in the same low, confidential tone,

  “There was no committee meeting.”

  “No committee meeting?”

  “No. Gray came up.”

  “What did he want?”

  “I expect you know. He’d had a call from Waterson. Waterson says the girl is certainly Valentine Ryven.”

  Mrs. Cobb and Timothy might not have been present. The conversation was between Eustace and his mother; his manner very definitely excluded the other two.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Ryven. She felt a passion of resentment, a passion of protective love, and a passion of pride. The pride was for Eustace, for the unmoved dignity of his bearing in the face of this blow.

  Eustace moved a little.

  “I take it that Waterson has communicated with you.”

  “Yes—he’s bringing her here.”

  The last word slipped into a silence. Eustace took a full half minute before he said, “You thought that best?”

  “Inevitable.”

  She rose and stood beside him. She was a tall woman, but her head only reached his shoulder. The two were alike. Eustace had the same fine build and carriage, the same handsome features; but his eyes were blue instead of dark, and his whole colouring paler. He would have been a noticeable figure anywhere. It was a bitter pill to Ida Cobb that, even to her maternal eyes, Reggie came off a very poor second.

  “You think there’s no possibility of a mistake?” said Eustace.

  “Mr. Waterson seems quite sure she’s Valentine. I don’t see how there can be any mistake. There was no other child on the ship, and she has all the papers—Maurice’s marriage certificate, her own birth certificate—everything.”

  “I see.”

  There was a pause. And then once again the door was thrown open. It was Bolton. He announced Mr. Waterson and withdrew.

  This time no one had heard a warning sound. Helena Ryven, taken unawares, felt a sickening pang. She came forward with her hand out, her eyes on the kind thin face. He looked concerned; he was sorry for them. Her pride rose. It was all over. But no one should pity them, not even this kind old man, who had known her since her wedding day. No one should pity Eustace.

  She spoke conventionally.

  “You’ve had a wretchedly wet journey. Do come to the fire.”

  Ida of course must needs come forward too.

  “But, Mr. Waterson, what have you done with her? Where is she?”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Cobb? No, thank you—no, thank you—I’d rather keep away from the fire. Well, Eustace, I’m glad to see you. Very glad you were able to get down—very glad indeed.”

  “But where is she?” Ida Cobb repeated.

  “In the study. How do you do, Brand? Yes, I just asked Bolton to let me take her into the study. I thought, you know, that I’d better see you and run through the papers before you meet her.”

  Mrs. Ryven turned to her sister.

  “If she’s alone—I don’t think she ought to be alone—Ida—”

  Mrs. Cobb very distinctly jibbed. How like Helena to try and get her out of the room just when things were getting interesting!

  “Oh, I don’t think that would do,” she said.

  “You, Timothy, then. I don’t think she ought to be alone—it looks—”

  “Oh, I say!” said Timothy.

  Mr. Waterson smiled.

  “You needn’t be alarmed.”

  Ida Cobb broke in again:

  “Oh, do tell us what she’s like! Is she at all civilized? I mean of course a South Sea island—a desert island—I mean of course—they don’t really wear clothes, do they?”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, Ida!” Mrs. Ryven spoke with some asperity.

  “Yes, but has she any clothes?”

  “Charming clothes,” said Mr. Waterson. “Go along and talk to her, Brand.”

  Timothy went with reluctance. He had no desire at all to assist at a family council; but he blenched a good deal at making the acquaintance of a young female savage. On the other hand, Helena was right—you couldn’t leave the poor girl alone in a strange house. A strange house? A strange world. If it was rough on them, it was rough on the girl too. Beastly for her to feel she wasn’t wanted.

  Timothy opened the study door and went in.

  Valentine had been up since six o’clock. For nearly twelve hours she had been coming nearer and nearer to this moment—England—her own people—her father’s house—Aunt Helena—Eustace.

  She had said good-bye to Barclay with a child’s careless affection, and to Austin Muir with clinging hands, wet eyes, and scarlet cheeks.

  “You will write to me, Austin. You will come and see me. Oh, promise, promise, promise! Oh, you have promised—haven’t you? I won’t go unless you do—I won’t! Oh, make him promise!”

  All this under the eyes of Mr. Waterson, Barclay, and the crew of the yacht, her hands fast on the lapel of his coat. Small wonder that Austin in a rapid undertone promised anything that would end the scene.

  “Yes, yes—I’ll write. Yes, yes—of course.”

  The emotion of saying good-bye ebbed as she drove with the kind old man who had come
to meet her. She borrowed his handkerchief to dry her eyes, and found so many new and exciting things to look at that she did not want to cry any more. Austin would write to her. There wasn’t anything to cry about. He would come and see her. And to-day—to-day, she was going to sec Aunt Helena.

  For the first half hour she asked innumerable questions, then fell into a deep silence, sitting straight up in the car and looking through silvery veils of wind-driven rain at the roads, the woods, the villages, the open spaces green with bending bracken. This was England—the rain; the greenness; the grey skies; the sweet, wet scent of the pines. This was England. This was her own country. Presently she would come to her people, her own home.

  As they turned in at the Holt gate, Mr. Waterson spoke to her with pleasant courtesy.

  “I hope you’re not tired.”

  She said “No,” the word hardly audible, and he looked at her curiously. She was so white that her eyes looked almost black in contrast. Her lashes were quite, quite black. They framed the wide, dark, brilliant eyes. Someone much more dense than Mr. Waterson would have been aware that it was excitement that had drained the colour from her cheeks.

  They stood in the porch, with the rain behind them and the heavy oak door opening. Valentine stared at the butler, old Bolton, who had been thirty years at Holt. Who was this? She had a moment of uncertainty; and then, just as she was going to put out her hand, Mr. Waterson stepped between. In some mysterious way she understood that she was not to shake hands with Bolton. Mr. Waterson was explaining that she would have to wait a little, and asking her if she would mind; and she said “No.” And all at once she began to feel, not exactly frightened, but as if she might feel frightened soon if Aunt Helena didn’t come.

  They crossed the big, square hall, dark with panelling, and came into a little room lined with books. There was a fire; there was a writing-table; there was a window that framed a purple beech, a square of emerald grass and a bed of scarlet flowers. She saw the window first. It seemed to hang like a picture against the dark, book-covered wall.

  Valentine found herself alone in this room. She stood in the middle of it, looking at everything with the same strained, curious gaze. This was different from the hotel at Honolulu; it was so shut in, so dark, so full of things. She touched the thick carpet on the floor with her foot. It was soft, like sand. There were curtains at the windows, heavy red curtains. It was a new sort of place, and through all her excitement it felt strange to her. It felt strange and cold.

  Timothy Brand opened the door. He saw a girl standing in the middle of the room with her hands holding one another tightly. She was dressed in white—white shoes and stockings, a white felt hat, and a long white fluffy coat. All this whiteness looked chilly. There was something curiously rigid about her pose.

  He only saw her like that for a moment. When the door opened, Valentine’s heart gave such a thump that her hands involuntarily clutched one another. It had come. The moment had come.

  She saw a rather heavily built young man with rough fair hair, light nondescript-coloured eyes, and a sunburnt face. He wasn’t at all beautiful. Just in the moment it took him to come into the room, she had decided that he was not nearly so good looking as Austin, and she was conscious of disappointment. He wasn’t as tall as Austin. And Austin had a straight nose. And Austin had golden-brown hair and colour in his cheeks.

  Timothy came forward with a feeling that someone ought to give him the V.C. And then all of a sudden Valentine ran to meet him.

  “Are you Eustace?”

  This was very daunting. But at any rate she spoke ordinary, human English.

  “Er—no.”

  She stopped and sprang back. He had never seen a girl move like that before. It was the sort of thing that kittens did.

  “You’re not Eustace?”

  “Er—no—not Eustace.”

  What a bally idiot he was making of himself! The dark blue eyes looked at him reproachfully. It was apparently very inconsiderate of him not to be Eustace.

  “What are you?”—as if he were a table, or a chair, or a black beetle.

  “Well—I’m Timothy.”

  “Are you?”

  The open gaze was one of puzzled dismay—“Who the deuce is Timothy?” in fact.

  Timothy made a bold plunge.

  “I say, I’m being most awfully rude. Won’t you sit down? Helena won’t be a moment.”

  “Aunt Helena?” A rapt tone came into her voice.

  “Yes—she won’t be long.”

  “Oh—I thought you were Eustace.”

  She looked at him reproachfully again and ignored the proffered chair.

  “I’m Timothy Brand—I’m Helena’s brother.”

  He was unprepared for the sudden movement which brought her quite close to him.

  “Oh—are you my uncle?”

  Timothy simply did not feel able to live up to being an uncle.

  He said, “Oh, good Lord, no!” and then was afraid that he had been rude because he saw her face change. She looked, yes, she looked rebuffed, and she said “Oh” again in a soft, disappointed way.

  “Why aren’t you my uncle? If you’re Aunt Helena’s brother, and she’s my aunt—”

  “I say, do come and sit down by the fire!”

  “No—I don’t want to. I want to know why you’re not my uncle.”

  “Well—” said Timothy. “I say, we’re a most awfully complicated family—and I’m most frightfully bad at explaining things—”

  “What do I call you?” Valentine interrupted him. Her eyes were fixed reproachfully upon him. He felt he wasn’t behaving quite nicely in not being her uncle.

  “Oh, you call me Timothy.”

  Valentine sighed.

  “It’s a very ugly name.”

  “You’ll get used to it. I say, do sit down—because I don’t think I can explain about the family with us just standing in the middle of the room looking at each other.”

  She sat down then on the edge of a chair.

  “It’s this way.” He sat himself down beside her. “My name’s Brand—and Helena’s name was Brand before she married Edmund Ryven—and Edmund Ryven was your father’s younger brother.”

  “Are you married?”

  Timothy laughed.

  “Do I look married?”

  “I don’t know. Are you?”

  “Rather not!” He ran a hand through his hair. “Look here, I’m making an awful mess of this—I told you I should. My father—his name was James Brand—my father was married twice. Helena and Ida are the first family—they’re a good bit older than I am.”

  “Who is Ida?”

  “Ida is Mrs. Cobb. And her husband is in business. And she’s got a son called Reggie and a daughter called Marjory. You’ll see Ida in a minute, because she’s come down to assist in the family powwow. She’s a good sort—you’ll like her. I say, I have got frightfully mixed! I hope you’re keeping your head. Well, I’m the second family. And then my father died, and my mother married a man called Egerton, and Lil—”

  “Who is Lil?”

  “I’m explaining rottenly—I’m no earthly good at it. Lil’s my half-sister—like Helena and Ida, only on the other side, you know. She’s five years younger than I am and she lives with me.”

  “Here, do you mean?”

  “No—at Waterlow, about three miles away. I’m one of the poor wretches who are trying to make agriculture pay.”

  Valentine did not know anything at all about agriculture. She held up one brown hand and touched the fingers in turn.

  “Helena—Ida—you—and Lil. Is that right? And Helena is Aunt Helena, but you’re not my uncle?”

  “You’ve got it.”

  A pleased look crossed her face.

  “Edward said I was very quick at getting things.” Then, with a complete change of manner, “They’re talking for such a long time. Why doesn’t Aunt Helena come?” She leant forward as she spoke. “Timothy—”

  Timothy had stopped feelin
g shy a long time ago. He had never felt shy with children; and this was a child.

  “What is it?” he said with a friendly look.

  “Timothy—I feel all frightened.”

  “Why?”

  He found her hand in his, and found it cold.

  “I don’t know—I feel all frightened. I thought she would come at once. Isn’t she—isn’t she pleased because I’ve come?”

  “Who?”

  He felt his hand squeezed—not the whole of it, but a little bit of the palm.

  “Aunt Helena.”

  “Of course she is,” said Timothy in rather a loud voice.

  She went on pinching his hand.

  “She said—in her letter she said—”

  “What letter?”

  “It was to my mother. She said how pleased she was—about me.”

  Helena Ryven was holding that letter in her hand as Valentine spoke. She had read it through, but she did not lay it down. Her own letter—twenty years after. It read strangely—it read very strangely now. All that grief for Maurice, all that warmth of welcome to his young unknown widow and her child, read like something in a book long out of date. The letter had been written at the height of that grief and sympathy. It had been written by a younger, softer, kinder Helena Ryven. Perhaps the thing that Mrs. Ryven never forgave Valentine was the realization that in twenty years she had travelled a long way from the woman who had written that letter. The realization came and went like a flash of light. She folded the letter and laid it down without comment. It was the last of the papers which Mr. Waterson had given to Eustace, and which Eustace had passed to her in silence.

  They were sitting round a small table with an inlaid top, which was used for tea. Mrs. Ryven had poured out tea at that table for twenty-one years. She looked at Mr. Waterson’s grave, lined face. She could not trust herself to look at Eustace. She heard Ida Cobb make a rustling movement behind her, and instantly the whole tide of her anger and resentment turned against Ida, who never knew when she wasn’t wanted. She ought to have left them alone. She ought to have gone with Timothy. It was not her business. She wasn’t a Ryven.

  Eustace Ryven pushed back his chair and got up. The movement broke a strained silence. Mrs. Ryven also rose.