Free Kingdom Lost by Patricia Wentworth Page A

to her with pleasant courtesy.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œAre you Eustace?”
    This was very daunting. But at any rate she spoke ordinary, human English.
    â€œEr—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.
    â€œYou’re not Eustace?”
    â€œEr—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.
    â€œWhat are you?”—as if he were a table, or a chair, or a black beetle.
    â€œWell—I’m Timothy.”
    â€œAre you?”
    The open gaze was one of puzzled dismay—“Who the deuce is Timothy?” in fact.
    Timothy made a bold plunge.
    â€œI say, I’m being most awfully rude. Won’t you sit down? Helena won’t be a moment.”
    â€œAunt Helena?” A rapt tone came into her voice.
    â€œYes—she won’t be long.”
    â€œOh—I thought you were Eustace.”
    She