Kingdom Lost

by Patricia Wentworth

  “Oh, well,” he said, “I expect you’ve got no end of better friends than I am. I shouldn’t like to butt in—I shouldn’t really. You take my advice and either put the thing in the fire, or else open it with your fiancé. And now I’ve got to go, or James will be thinking I’ve smashed the car. Good-bye—and change the cigarette case for anything you like.”

  Valentine looked at him for a moment. He wasn’t her best friend—he wasn’t her friend at all. She had wanted him to come so much that the day had been like a year whilst she waited for him; and now all of a sudden, she wanted him to go. She walked past him to the hearth and put the packet down on the mantelpiece.

  “Good-bye,” said Austin at the door.

  Without turning round, Valentine said,

  “Good-bye.”

  CHAPTER XXVI

  After Austin had gone Valentine went back to the drawing-room. She had put the packet into one of the study drawers, because she did not want Aunt Helena to ask questions about it.

  There were half a dozen people in the drawing-room. Some Ryven cousins; the Vicar and his wife; an old lady who had been Mrs. Ryven’s governess. Not Timothy, who had been asked, but who had found an excuse. Eustace was not coming down till next day, so the Vicar was the only man of the party—kind, dull, prosy.

  The cousins were Mrs. James Ryven and her two unmarried daughters. Mrs. James was cousin Laura, a round, good-natured, voluble lady with a passionate interest in bridge and dress. Her daughters disapproved of her—and of nearly everyone else. They were Janet and Emmeline. They disapproved very much of Valentine.

  Nobody enjoyed the evening very much. Mrs. James missed her bridge. Helena Ryven was uneasy; Valentine had been out of the room for half an hour, and had come back looking like a ghost. Old Miss Verrey was disappointed at the absence of her adored Eustace. The Vicar was put out because he could see that Mrs. Ryven was not really listening to his long and interesting account of a walking tour in the Black Forest some forty years ago. And his wife was annoyed because he had told Mrs. Ryven the same story the last time they had dined at Holt. Janet and Emmeline Ryven never enjoyed anything. They talked to Valentine because it was their duty to talk to her; and they would have wondered why Eustace was marrying her, if they had not been certain that it was because of the money.

  Valentine did not talk very much. She said “Yes” when Janet asked her if she liked reading, and she said “No” when Emmeline inquired whether she didn’t think it a great waste of time to read novels.

  A steadily weakening conversation lingered until eleven o’clock, when it finally expired. The Vicar and his wife took their leave; the Ryvens and Miss Verrey drifted to their rooms; and Helena Ryven kissed Valentine briskly on the forehead and told her to sleep well.

  Valentine went up to her room and sat down on the edge of her bed in the dark. All through the evening she had been longing to be alone; but now that she was alone she was frightened. Austin had gone out of her world, and she didn’t know what to do. It was eleven o’clock, and in an hour it would be twelve o’clock; and when it was twelve o’clock it would be Wednesday. And on Thursday she had got to marry Eustace. She felt cold through and through, and she felt stupid, as if she couldn’t think or make any plans. Edward’s packet was in the top left-hand drawer in the study. She wasn’t to open it until things were so bad that they couldn’t be worse, and she was only to open it in the presence of her best friend. How was she to open it if she hadn’t got a best friend? If Timothy had been there, she could have asked him what she ought to do.

  All at once something happened. It happened when she thought of Timothy. It was like waking up out of those horrid dreams in which you can’t move or cry out. She woke up, and she knew what she was going to do. She was going to get the packet, and go down to Waterlow, and find Timothy and ask him what she ought to do.

  She switched the light on and looked down at her white lace frock. That wouldn’t do; she must put on something dark. She slipped it off and opened the wardrobe door. There were a lot of dresses hanging there. She chose the darkest.

  The clock in the hall struck the half hour as she opened the bedroom door. She stood on the threshold, listening and looking out. A small light burned in the corridor and showed it empty—panelled walls; dull green carpet; a picture or two black with shadows; the newel-posts at the head of the stairs; and just that one little light. The house was as still as sleep.

  She went back into her room and changed her shoes. She couldn’t walk to Waterlow in white satin slippers.

  Timothy had been sitting up late with his accounts. Things were not doing so badly. An old investment of his father’s had turned up trumps. The fear of having to sell Waterlow was no longer before his eyes, and he had been able to give Lil a good send-off. It was all quite satisfactory—and he was quite unable to derive any satisfaction from it.

  He put away the ledger and stretched himself. He did not feel in the least like bed. He had gone for a long tramp to tire himself, but he wasn’t tired. He felt strung up and in violent protest against this marriage which Helena was pushing on. He couldn’t get Valentine’s face out of his thoughts; and every time it came, he remembered his first sight of her, her colour, her bloom, her anxious youngness.

  And she had told him that she was happy.

  He had been working in the dining-room. He went now to the long window that opened upon the garden, and stepped out on to the flagged path. The night was all clear and dark. The untroubled sky held a faint shimmer of stars. The Milky Way showed fainter still, like a dream of other worlds. It was so still that he could hear the flow of the scarcely moving stream. He went towards it down the path between the invisible flowers. But when he reached the river he turned sharply. He had heard something or—someone—a footstep. And then as he turned, someone passed before the lighted window and stood there, holding to the jamb and looking into the room.

  Timothy came back up the flagged path with the feeling that fate had played a trick upon him. It was Valentine. And what was he to do with Valentine on the eve of her marriage to Eustace? What could she do to him except wring his heart? And what could he do with her except take her back to Holt? It was all pretty damnable.

  She heard him coming, and said,

  “Timothy!”

  There was recognition, not question in her voice, and when she had said his name she stepped up into the dining-room and stood under the light, waiting for him to come in too. She was bareheaded, and she wore a dress that was the colour of dark red berries. Her eyes dwelt on him, and she held a small brown packet in both hands.

  Timothy came in frowning.

  “Hullo!” he said. “What is it?” and Valentine said “Timothy!” again.

  “Well, what is it? What’s brought you here at this hour?”

  “Is it too late?” He thought she turned paler. “I thought—to-morrow—would be—too late.”

  “Val—what is it? How did you come? Is anyone with you?”

  “No. I walked. I thought—to-morrow—would be—too late.”

  “You oughtn’t to have come,” said Timothy very gravely. “I’ll get the car and take you home.”

  Valentine looked at him piteously.

  “You won’t—help me?”

  “What sort of help can I give that won’t hurt you, Val? I’m thinking about you. What sort of help do you want?”

  She relaxed a very little and put out her hands with the shabby little packet in them.

  “I don’t know what I ought to do. Austin wouldn’t do anything—he isn’t my best friend at all—he wouldn’t help me—he went away. But I sat on my bed and thought—I didn’t know what to do. And then I thought about you, and I thought you would tell me what I ought to do. So I came.”

  Whatever he had to pay for it, she had come to him. And what was he going to do? What did she want him to do?

  He said that simply:

  “What do you want me to do, Val?” And then, “Won’t you sit down?”

&nb
sp; She shook her head.

  “Will you tell me what I ought to do, Timothy? It’s about the packet. I couldn’t find it after I came from the island. Austin had it. He brought a bag to carry my things to the yacht, and this must have stuck in the lining. He found it, and he brought it to me to-night. But he wouldn’t open it with me, because he isn’t my best friend. He doesn’t want to be my friend at all. He went away.”

  “Look here, you must sit down,” said Timothy. He pulled up a chair and put her into it. “Now!” he said, “What is this packet?”

  Valentine told him in a tired little voice.

  “Edward gave it to me—oh, a long time ago—years and years ago—I’d nearly forgotten about it. And he said I was only to open it if I was very unhappy—if things were so bad that they couldn’t possibly be any worse—and then I was to open it with my best friend. And I thought Austin would be my best friend, because he found me on the island. But he isn’t, so I don’t know what to do.” She spoke almost as if she were saying a lesson. She drooped in her chair and rubbed at one of the green seals with a little brown finger.

  Timothy looked down at her. If he went on looking at her, he would touch her. And if he touched her, he wouldn’t be able to let her go. He turned with a jerk and went to the window.

  “What’s in the paper?”

  “I don’t know. I promised faithfully that I wouldn’t open it ever unless—”

  She stopped speaking, and a hurrying silence overtook them. It was like water coming down in flood, carrying you away. Timothy stemmed it with a great effort.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I promised,” said Valentine. “But I haven’t got a best friend.”

  “Will I do?” said Timothy gently.

  Valentine sat up.

  “Would you? I didn’t think about that. I only thought perhaps you’d tell me what to do. Would you be my best friend?”

  “If you want me to be. I’ll be anything you want me to be.”

  She got up and ran to him, thrusting the packet into his hands.

  “Open it! Open it! Oh, open it quickly!”

  “Wait a moment. You’ve no idea what’s inside?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You’re sure you want to open it?”

  “Yes—yes—yes!”

  “Then here goes!”

  He broke the seals, burst the frail string, and unfolded the paper. It fell unregarded on the floor. The immediate contents were a large yellow envelope and a sheet of paper.

  “This is something you’ve signed,” said Timothy.

  “Yes—Edward wrote it, and I signed it—oh, years ago.”

  Timothy looked at the sheet and read:

  I promise on my word of honour that I will not open the enclosure, or allow anyone else to open it, unless things are so bad that nothing can possibly make them any worse.

  It was signed: “Valentine.” Beneath the signature there were a few lines in Edward Bowden’s writing:

  Remember that knowledge may be avoided, but can’t be un-known. Stop and think. Unless any change may be one for the better, don’t open the envelope or read the contents.

  E. B.

  Valentine put her hand on Timothy’s arm.

  “Open it!”

  “What about ‘Stop and think’?”

  “Open it!”

  “Val—are you sure? Are things really so bad?”

  Her hand dropped. She stood back.

  She said “Yes.” Her voice seemed to shrink from the word.

  For a moment Timothy’s hand closed on the envelope, closed hard. Then he tore it open. There were some folded sheets of foolscap inside, yellow and crumpled. They had been folded for so long that the creases were like cuts. Timothy straightened them out.

  “There’s a lot of it, Val,” he said. “You’d better sit.”

  She pulled out one of the straight chairs by the table and dropped on to it. Timothy took one too. They were so close to each other that if either of them leaned forward, knee or hand would touch. Timothy sat sideways to the table with the sheets in his hand.

  “Do you want to lead them? Or shall I read them out?”

  Her eyes widened. They were full of a troubled expectancy.

  “You,” she said—just one word. Then she put her hands in her lap and waited.

  Timothy began to read aloud what Edward Bowden had written. The light was over their heads, high up, a yellowish globe hanging from the black beam that crossed the room. The polished oak of the table reflected the yellow lamp. It was an old table that had borne the christening, wedding, and funeral baked meats of seven generations. The chairs were old too. Timothy’s great-great-great-grandmother had sat as a bride where Valentine sat now. She had sat there in a radiance of happy love. Valentine’s head touched the tall back of the chair which the bride’s head had touched. Valentine’s face was sorrowfully pale. Her eyes hoped, and were afraid. Her hands looked white against the lap of her dark red dress. Whenever there was silence, they could hear the flowing of the stream like the flowing of some deep under-current of the heart.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  Timothy began to read:

  “‘Well, my dear, I have tried to play Providence, and if you ever get as far as reading this, I shall have made a bad failure. Now, just once more before you go on reading, I want to ask you to be sure that you want to go on. I suppose you will go on, if it’s only out of curiosity. But remember you won’t be able to go back. Your whole life will be changed. Is it now so hard that you would wish it to be changed in every relationship, every circumstance? Think a little before you decide.’”

  Timothy looked up, his face very grave.

  “There’s no more on this page. He wanted you to stop and think before you read anything more.”

  Valentine said, “Go on.”

  “‘Every circumstance—every relationship.’ That’s pretty sweeping, Val. Do you want to scrap the lot?”

  “Yes,” said Valentine.

  “Sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He took the sheet from which he had been reading and laid it on the table. As his eyes fell on the top of the next page, they became intent. He put out his right hand and laid it on Valentine’s knee.

  “Val—”

  “What is it?”

  “I must go on now—I’ve got to read it to you,” he said.

  “What does he say?”

  Timothy took his hand away.

  “He says, ‘You are not Valentine Ryven.’”

  The words came into Valentine’s mind and stayed there, like drops of oil falling into water. They didn’t mix with her own thoughts at all; they stayed there as words—cold, strange, heavy words. Then she heard Timothy speaking sharply:

  “Val, don’t look like that! Are you going to faint?”

  People fainted in books. She moved her head and said,

  “I don’t think so—I don’t know how.”

  And right in the middle of all the strangeness, Timothy laughed.

  “That’s something to be thankful for anyhow! Valentine—”

  She put her hands on the arm of the chair and leaned forward.

  “But I’m not.”

  “Not what?”

  “Not Valentine. Edward said so.”

  “Val—”

  “Will you read it again? He did say so—didn’t he?”

  Timothy nodded.

  “Yes, that’s what he says—‘You are not Valentine Ryven.’”

  “Then who am I?”

  “I don’t know, my dear. There wasn’t any other child on board.”

  “Go on reading—please.”

  Timothy began to read again. He felt overwhelmed and bewildered. How was this going to affect Valentine—her marriage—all of them? The word mortmain came oddly into his mind—something in history—something legal—it meant “dead hand.” He thought irrelevantly of King John and Magna Charta, and of Edward Bowden stretching out a dead hand to turn all their af
fairs upside down. He read:

  “‘You are not Valentine Ryven—and I can’t tell you your real name because I don’t know it. Your mother came on board the Avronia as Mrs. Brown, but that was not her name. I don’t know what her real name was, but she was a very unhappy woman who had cut herself adrift from all ties. She came on board and kept her cabin. And on the second day of the great storm you were born.’”

  Timothy looked up.

  “So that’s it! No one thought of that.”

  Valentine was holding the arms of her chair. Her mind had begun to work. If she wasn’t Valentine Ryven—if she wasn’t—

  She said, “Go on,” in a clear, steady voice.

  Timothy went on:

  “‘I’ve told you about the storm often enough. On the evening of the second day they launched the boats. The first boat overturned. Little Valentine Ryven and her mother were in it. I helped to get them into it myself, and I was flung down and nearly washed overboard, just as I told you. I decided that I would not go in any of the boats. I managed to get to the companion door and to get inside. I was going towards my cabin, when one of the stewardesses caught my arm. She said, “Mr. Bowden, there’s a dying woman in this cabin, and I can’t leave her. Will you help me to get her on deck?” Then she wrung her hands and said, “She’ll die if we move her.” I went into the cabin, and I saw a woman lying on the lower berth with a new-born baby in her arm. She looked at me, and she said, “I want to stay here. I don’t want to live, and I don’t want my baby to live.” The stewardess caught my arm and whispered, “I’ll try and find the doctor. God knows where he is, but I’ll try and get him if you’ll stay with her.” She ran out of the cabin, and I never saw her again. I don’t know what happened to her. I never saw anyone again. The ship gave the most frightful lurch, and I found myself on my knees by the berth, clinging to it. I had to try and prevent the baby from falling out.

  “‘After a bit the ship righted herself to some extent. I stayed where I was in case it happened again. Your mother talked to me—she was quite sensible. She kept begging me to leave her and save myself. She said she didn’t want to live, and she didn’t want her baby to live; but she didn’t want to have anyone else’s death on hex conscience. She told me she had no friends and no money. She said there was no place for her in the world, and no place for her child, or any human being who would pity it or care for it. I am not very easily moved, but it was very moving. She was not very old.