by Q. Patrick
She smiled up at Robert Prentice, a warm, intimate smile. “He’s been hidden away all these years. You see my husband—all the time 1 was afraid he’d try and claim him—”
Trant understood then. “Your son!” he said. “And Walgrove never knew!”
“My son.” Gay laughed. “You see now why I didn’t want to marry him?”
The Wrong Envelope
The phone was ringing when Kate Laurence let herself into her Sutton Place apartment. She ran to answer it, absurdly excited. It was foolish to hope it would be Martin. He had left for Washington only that morning and was flying back in the evening. He would be frightfully busy. Why
should he find the time to call? “Hello.”
“Baby.”
“Oh, Martin!”
“Why ‘Oh, Martin’?”
“It’s just so nice. That’s all.”
“Couldn’t be in love, could you?”
“Martin, I’ve got a new hairdo. I’ve just come back from Antoine. All sort of swirled around on top. Crazy. I do hope you’ll like it.”
“How could I help loving it with you underneath it?” In spite of herself, she felt a twinge of apprehension. “There’s nothing wrong, is there?”
“Wrong? I’m here. You’re there. That’s wrong.”
“I mean, there wasn’t any reason for calling?”
“Sure. Wanted to remind you you’re marrying me next Tuesday.”
“I remember.”
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Don’t marry anyone else till I get there. Promise.”
“Promise.”
“Good-by, baby.”
“Good-by, Martin.”
Happiness fizzed in her. You couldn’t be this happy, she thought, not in real life. She was like the ads in the magazines. The housewife whose sheets had come out sparkling white because she used the right soap flakes. The little boy at the breakfast table watching his favorite cereal crackle and snap and pop in cream.
Packages of all shapes were piled on a long refectory table. They had come while she was out. More wedding presents. Butter-yellow sunshine splashed through the long room, emphasizing her mood. She loved Martin. Martin loved her. Tall, handsome Martin Downs loved skinny little Kate Laurence.
As far back as she could remember, she had overheard asides like, “Isn’t it a pity, my dear? Such a nice girl, so rich—and such a bag of bones?” Or, if she hadn’t heard them, she had imagined them in looks, behind smiles.
This morbid conviction that she was homely and unwanted had started at fourteen when a plane crash had orphaned her and left her frighteningly rich and alone. It had tainted everything, making her suspicious of kindness, skeptical of admiration.
Only two people had ever won her complete trust. Toby Palmer, one of the two trustees for the Laurence estate. And Angelica. An old man and a girl. A girl who was married now and had her own life to live. Two friends in a world that protested devotion to her, but was interested only in the Laurence millions.
But all that was different now because Martin had come into the picture. A few months before, old Mr. Downs, Toby’s fellow trustee, had died of a stroke and Martin had unexpectedly thrown up his government work in China to return and take his father’s place as junior partner in Toby’s law office.
Five war and post-war years had miraculously changed him from the sulky law student who had reluctantly endured Kate at his father’s stuffy dinner parties. Almost at first re-sight, Kate had fallen in love. For the first time, she felt no doubts, no suspicions of a suitor. Martin was rich, handsome, in a position to pick any girl he wanted.
He had picked her. Martin Downs loved Kate Laurence. A tall, fluted mirror shimmered on the far wall. She moved toward it, taking off her little black hat. Her reflection looked back at her. Small, thin, yes, the brown hair swirled daringly up over the pointed face with its odd, irregular planes. Her eyes were bright, and happiness had brought her a new glow.
Elegant, Antoine had called her. “Très élègante, mademoiselle.”
Angelica, whose own golden beauty made her generous, had often told Kate that in the past. But until Martin came, Kate had never believed it.
“I’m élègante,” she thought wonderingly and spun round in front of the mirror. “I’m élègante, and in love.”
She wandered over to the wedding presents. It would be more fun to open them that evening when she and Martin could do it together. Things had never meant much to Kate. There had always been too many of them.
There was a heap of mail by the telephone. She picked it up, glancing through it. Replies to her wedding invitation mostly. She recognized Angelica Mills’ broad, scrawling writing on an envelope.
“She’s answered, at least,” she thought.
Her estrangement from Angelica had been the only bad thing that had come out of her engagement to Martin. Angelica, who had been her inseparable companion since they had met at school, had always been possessive. Even after she herself had married Francis Mills, she had thought no man worthy of Kate.
Martin had been no exception. From the start, Angelica had been perversely hostile. And, always impulsive, had expressed her dislike in no uncertain terms. Kate’s increasing resentment had climaxed when Angelica had burst out that Martin was a fortune hunter after the Laurence millions. Since Martin had inherited the Downs fortune, this charge was as preposterous as it was unkind.
A quarrel of frightening bitterness had flared up between the two girls. In a fury, Kate had withdrawn her request for Angelica to act as matron of honor at the wedding and had flung out of the Mills’ apartment.
She hadn’t seen Angelica or her husband since.
But Kate was not vindictive. The idea of a permanent break with Angelica was unbearable. She had asked no one else to be matron of honor and two days ago had written Angelica, begging her to officiate at the wedding after all.
This letter would be the reply.
As she opened the envelope, Angelica’s golden presence seemed to be in the room. Angelica, who had never had a cent, but who had always given Kate in warmth and loyalty more than she had ever taken. Angelica was as stubborn as she was impulsive, but she certainly wouldn’t spurn Kate’s peace overtures.
Kate unfolded the letter and read:
Martin, darling:
I’ve just written to Kate and said I would be matron of honor. After the fight we had, I couldn’t refuse without hurting her terribly. I’ll feel like the serpent standing up in church with the two of you. But then I am a serpent anyway, darling, aren’t I? It’s awful what love does. I don’t mind cheating my own husband. And, under the circumstances, I don’t even mind your marrying Kate now. Poor Kate, be kind to her, won’t you—for my sake? And don’t worry. After your “blissful” honeymoon, I’ll always be there when you want me.
Your Angelica.
At first Kate felt absolutely nothing. Then slowly a cold panic started in the pit of her stomach and crawled upward, downward. It was like a recurrent nightmare she had had as a child—a dream in which she had been standing in a sunny meadow, bright with flowers and loud with bird songs, and suddenly she had known that beyond the horizon the whole world was rotting away.
Her powers of reasoning were functioning weakly. Enough for her to realize that Angelica must have mixed up envelopes. She had sent Martin her acceptance for matron of honor. She had sent Kate—this.
The wrong envelope. Something that happens to everyone. Something that is usually worth a couple of laughs at a cocktail party. “Darling, I did the most humiliating thing the other day. Old Mrs. Compton wrote to invite me to tea and—”
She moved gropingly to a chair. The Venetian mirror hung on the wall opposite. She caught a glimpse of the swirled hairdo that had seemed so dashing. She put her hands up, covering her face.
The doorbell rang. She jumped up. She heard the maid in the hall tapping toward the front door. She tried to call out, but her voice cracked. There was the click of the door opening.
Toby’s cheerful: “Well, good afternoon, Rose.”
And Rose’s prim: “Good afternoon, Mr. Palmer.
Miss Laurence is in the living room.”
She was standing quite still when Toby bustled in. He came toward her, round and beaming. Like a full moon, she had always thought, a pink, happy full moon dressed by Brooks Brothers. He was carrying a long white package bright with a frou-frou of pink satin ribbons.
“I’m a messenger boy, Kate. Visualize a fetching uniform. I suppose I could be a singing messenger too, but that’s only for birthdays, isn’t it? Or can you get ‘Here Comes the Bride’ for a quarter?”
Toby was making one of his Entrances. Numbly Kate watched all the familiar little mannerisms which usually brought a rush of affection because he made her feel she was an interesting, exciting person. He had balanced the package on top of the others and was fluffing up the ribbons, prattling:
“Kate, sweetest, you must promise me—cross your heart—not to open it without Martin. I want to think of you both clapping your hands with glad cries. It’s so much more beautiful than any other present you’ll get.”
He turned and came toward her, holding out both his short, pudgy arms.
“Hello, Kate. What a clever hairdo. Such a subtle charmer, she is. What—” He stopped. “Kate, my poor dear Kate, what’s the matter?”
“Toby.”
He took her arms. With the funny warm touch of his hands, part of her came alive again. She let him draw her to a couch.
“Tell Toby. Something’s happened. My poor little chipmunk, tell Toby.”
The letter was on the arm of the chair where she had left it. She forced herself to cross and bring it for him.
“It just came,” she said. “From Angelica. A mistake. The wrong letter in the wrong envelope.”
Toby fussed his pince-nez on their thick black ribbon out of his pocket and balanced them on his nose, holding the letter at arm’s length.
After her parent’s death, Kate had leaned on Toby. Not simply because he was a trustee of the estate. She had never warmed to the other trustee, Martin’s father, that pedantic old eccentric who had disciplined himself by scribbling all his own reports in shorthand and laboriously typing them himself, and who had tried to instill the same self-discipline in her on long walks made even more exhausting by unending moral discourses.
She had leaned on Toby because he was the opposite of Mr. Downs, gay, affectionate, sweet as a little boy with his enthusiasms for butterflies, stamps, wild flowers, and his wonderful tenderness of heart. When she was hurt, Toby had always made things right. But Toby couldn’t do anything now. No one could.
* * *
He put the letter down. She had been afraid he would show pity, but she should have known she could trust Toby. He was wearing his grave, lawyer’s face, being calm and businesslike.
“I suppose we’re sure it’s Angelica’s writing?”
“Of course. You know it as well as I do.”
He said quietly: “Would it help, dear, if I told you it had to be some sort of a weird mistake?”
“It isn’t a mistake.” Kate felt a dreadful calm. “It’s easy to understand now. Angelica pretending not to like Martin. Saying those vicious things. It was just a blind.”
She was fighting desperately to keep control. Accept it. That was the only thing. From the beginning, probably, it had always been Martin and Angelica, behind her back, deceiving her, exploiting her, laughing at her. Why had she ever let herself think they were different from others? No one could be trusted. No one.
But the memory of Martin’s voice, warm, loving, on the phone, came, and self-pity surged up in her.
“He called me, Toby. Just a few minutes ago. From Washington. To remind me I was going to marry him, he said. H-how could he help loving my hairdo, he said, with me underneath it.” She twisted around to Toby, her face white, stricken. “How could he have done that? How can people be so cruel?”
“Kate, sweetheart.”
* * *
Toby drew her head against his coat with its inevitable red carnation. The familiar carnation smell undermined her. The old darkness rose to engulf her. Who would want skinny little Katie Laurence?
The words spilled out. “I might have known. I’m just a heap of money for someone who needs money. Just …”
“Kate.” Toby’s voice, close to her ear, was sharp. “Don’t. You’re lovely, fascinating, worth a dozen Angelica Mills. If this isn’t just some sly little scheme of Angelica’s, if it’s true, then Martin’s a knave and a fool. Think of them both as knaves and fools. Be angry.”
He sat there, his little round face red with anger because she had been hurt. Toby, sweet humpty-dumpty Toby, being a white knight on a white charger. And he was right, she thought.
Anger began to stir in her but with it came a wild, insidious hope.
“What did you mean when you said this might just be a scheme of Angelica’s?”
He folded his plump fingers over her cold hand. “I’ve known Martin all his life. When he asked you to marry him, I said, ‘That’s the man for my Kate.’ I thought he was a fine boy and I was sure he loved you. I’m not going to admit I’ve been wrong just because a letter apparently got in a wrong envelope.”
“But how—“
“How could Angelica want to hurt you in the one way she knows would hurt you most?”
“She’s my friend, Toby.”
“Is she? We’ve never discussed Angelica. I know how loyal my Kate is. I didn’t want my ears torn off. But what is she? A little penniless nobody you picked up at school. You brought her back here to live with you, gave her dresses, presents, everything she wanted. When she married Francis, you gave her the wedding. When Francis came back from the war, crippled, unable to support her, you persuaded me to take her on as my secretary.”
“But, Toby—”
“No ‘but Toby’s,’ dear. Just because you were Kate Laurence who thought nobody wanted her, you didn’t dare compete for friends. You bought yourself a tame friend of your own. Angelica.”
“No, Toby! No.”
“Yes, Kate! Yes. If Angelica had been a nice character she’d have loved you for your kindness and your generosity. But if Angelica had been a nasty character, she would have danced her little dance for you and hated you because you were rich and had everything and she had nothing.”
He took the pince-nez off his nose and tapped the letter. “Well, now we know. Angelica has a nasty character. Full of hatred and envy. But Angelica wrote the letter, Kate. Not Martin. It doesn’t damn him—until we’re sure. Perhaps she made it all up and deliberately sent it to you out of malice.”
Kate felt confused, beyond the aid of his comfort.
“Martin’s coming here tonight for dinner,” she said hopelessly. “What am I going to do? I can’t see him.”
Toby glared at her. “So you’re not going to fight?”
“Fight how? Fight whom?”
“Angelica. Confront her with the letter. If it’s a lie she made up, tear the truth out of her. If it isn’t a lie, if she’s managed to make Martin think he’s infatuated with her, fight for Martin. He’s worth fighting for. If you don’t, I will. When I get back to the office, I’ll let Angelica—”
“No, Toby. If you talk to her, I’d die.”
Her anger had started to come back. She was beginning to see Angelica Toby’s way. The generous, impulsive Angelica she had known had been a sham. All the time, she had been deliberately deceiving her, hating her, plotting.
She got up. “I’ll go to her, Toby.”
His pink round face lit up. He rose, too, and moved toward her enthusiastically.
“That’s my girl. Now we’ve got to do this up in fine style. The right dress. Toby will pick it for you. Toby’s clever. Something blue-blooded, Kate. Something to show off that wonderful slimness. Something to make her look like a peasant.”
He was making a game of it. That was always Toby’s way of pulling her out
of herself. He was whisking her upstairs to the bedroom, chattering like a plump jay bird. He rummaged through the long closets packed with clothes and found what he wanted, an expensive pink-brown suit. “This and the hairdo. Kate, we’ve got her licked before she starts.”
He drew her to a mirror. “See, baby? See what a lovely little thing she is?”
And because he was there, flattering her, loving her, she saw herself his way.
Shyly she said: “Antoine called me élègante this afternoon.”
“So you are. So you are.”
Toby was hurrying around, laying out her clothes for her on the bed like an actress’ dresser. He noticed the clock on the bedside table and clucked.
“Three-thirty. Goodness me. A vice-president of Metropolitan at four. Must fly back to the office.” He came to her and put his hands on her arms. “You’ll fight?”
“Yes, Toby.”
“If you want me, just call. I’ll stay late at the office.” He took her face between his hands and kissed her on the forehead. “And remember, darling, though you won’t believe it now, there are even other Martins.”
He scurried to the bedroom door and paused at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder with an impish smile.
“By the way, Angelica’s hay-fever’s full upon her. All swollen up like a turnip. She couldn’t look more repulsive. I’ll let her go at six. She’ll be home by six-fifteen.”
He was gone.
With him, most of Kate’s confidence left her. What was Toby’s magic? How had he made her feel there might still be a chance that Martin loved her?
Toby had done something for her. Without him, she would have packed her bags and gone away, far away, not even seen either Martin or Angelica again. But now her anger made her realize that whatever the truth of the letter, Angelica had betrayed her. That could never be forgiven. There was nothing bad enough for people like that.
She slipped out of the dress she had been wearing and sat down in front of the mirror.
She was beginning to understand what hatred was. She could feel it gnawing inside her like sharp teeth.