CHAPTER EIGHT
JOANNA
April 1973
The next day, I was about to leave to catch the train to Godalming when there was a tap at the door. Two burly men stood there carrying a trunk between them.
“Where do you want it, miss?” one of them asked.
Seeing my surprise, the other added, “It’s from the attic. Miss Honeywell told us to bring down your things.”
“Oh, I see. Thank you. This way, please,” I stammered. I led them through to the sitting room.
“There’s some pictures, too. We’ll be back,” the one who spoke first said.
“I have to leave now to catch a train,” I said. “Just put them in the sitting room with the trunk, would you?”
And I left. Barton and Holcroft’s offices were in an elegant Georgian building at one end of Godalming High Street. Nigel Barton appeared from an inner office before I could announce myself.
“We’ll be back in an hour, Sandra,” he said to the receptionist. He ushered me out of the door, down the street, and into The Boar’s Head. It was one of those quaint old pubs with leaded panes in the windows and a quiet hum of conversation from the few people standing around the bar. Good smells came from the kitchen. Nigel found us a high-backed oak booth and went to order our drinks. He came back to report that there was roast lamb or fish pie. Normally I would have selected something lighter at lunchtime, but I found I was starving and willingly accepted the roast lamb. As he had predicted, it was excellent. I suddenly realised how long it had been since I’d had good food—not really since my mother had died—and how much I enjoyed it.
When our plates were clean, Nigel stacked them to one side. “Now to business,” he said. “I take it you found no will.”
I shook my head. “There is a savings book, a receipt from a building society for some shares, and his bank book. But probably not over a thousand pounds in total.”
He nodded. “You’ll need the death certificate before they’ll hand over any of that money. And I’ll have to write a solicitor’s letter. Apart from that there are no assets?”
“A couple of good pieces of furniture that I might put up for auction. I think I’d like to keep the desk, but I’m not sure where I’d put it.”
“I’ll have to locate your brother before you do anything,” he said.
I didn’t think I’d heard right. “My brother? I’m an only child.”
“Your half brother. From your father’s first marriage.” He took in my shocked face. “You didn’t know your father had been married before?”
“No. I was never told. I knew that my parents had both married late in life and that I was a complete surprise to them, but I had no idea . . .” I let the rest of the sentence drift away as I tried to come to terms with this news. “When was this?”
“Your father was married before the war and had a son. The marriage was dissolved when he returned at the end of the war. His wife married again and took the child to live in America. Lord knows how I’ll trace him now. I believe the stepfather adopted him, but I presume he’d still inherit the title, if he wanted to do such a thing in America.”
I was still in shock. How could my father have lived with me all those years and never even mentioned his son? And more to the point, why had his son never been in contact with him since the end of the war?
“I’ll get in touch with the American embassy,” Nigel said. “But I wouldn’t worry. I think it’s quite clear that your father would have wanted you to inherit what little he left.”
And if it wasn’t quite clear? I was thinking. If the law decided that an oldest son should inherit everything? A thousand pounds would make all the difference to me now, especially at this uncertain time. If my law firm wouldn’t take me back, then I could still survive with that money.
“If his stepfather legally adopted him, then presumably he’d have no claim,” I said. “He’s no longer a Langley.”
“Complicated matter, if American law is involved,” he said. “Still, more interesting than most of the cases I’m given. Is your practice more exciting than that of a high-street solicitor?”
“Not at all,” I said. “I expect it’s pretty much the same. Lots of conveyancing.”
“You chose to be a solicitor and not a barrister?” he asked. “You wanted the comfortable, quiet life rather than the excitement?”
I looked down at the worn oak table. “Actually, I’d have very much liked to be a barrister,” I said. “I got a good degree, but I had more than one thing against me. Money, for starters. The chambers at which I interviewed were quite keen on me when they heard I was the daughter of Sir Hugo Langley and thought it meant I was part of the county set with good connections. They lost interest when they found out they were wrong and we were penniless. And then there’s the fact that I’m a woman. The elderly head of chambers told me outright that I was wasting my time. If I became a barrister, I’d get none of the juicy cases. No solicitor worth his salt would want to put his case in the hands of a woman, when almost all judges are male and most juries are male, and none of them would take a woman seriously.”
“That’s preposterous,” Nigel said.
“But true.”
He nodded. “I suppose it is true. Still, there are plenty of interesting things to do once you qualify: corporate law, international law, as well as criminal.”
“Yes.” I gave him a bright smile. “I haven’t quite decided what I’d like to do yet. Pass that wretched exam first, right?”
“I’m sure you’ll ace it.” His smile seemed a little too friendly for comfort.
“So what’s next?” I asked. “For my father’s estate, I mean.”
“I’ll see to the death certificate, try to contact your brother, and, if you like, I could send an appraiser to see if anything you have is worth sending to an auction.”
“You’re very kind.”
“No, my grandfather would kill me if I didn’t take proper care of a Langley.” He grinned, making him look absurdly young again. A nice, pleasant, harmless young man. And yet Adrian had been all of those things . . . One should learn from one’s mistakes.
Nigel escorted me to the station and I took a taxi back to Langley Hall. I almost fell over the two trunks and large brown paper-wrapped parcel deposited right inside the sitting room. I had to admit to being rather curious. I suppose at the back of my mind was always the thought that the lost Langley jewels might be in one of them! I tore off the brown paper wrapping from the large parcel and found myself looking at my own face. It was so startling that I almost dropped the picture. It was even more startling when I read the inscription: “Joanna Langley. 1749–1823.”
My heart was racing so fast that I had to sit down. I examined the portrait again and noticed subtle differences. She had hazel eyes and mine were blue. She also had a mole of some sort on her left cheek and a slightly longer nose. I was looking at an ancestor. But it felt rather special to know I had a namesake who looked like me. It affirmed for the first time that I really was a Langley and that the lovely house down the drive was my birthright.
The rest of the pictures were all portraits of various Langley ancestors. Most of them were dark and gloomy, and I wasn’t sure I would want to keep many of them. I supposed I should, given they were my only ties to my past. Someday I’d have a place of my own, when I was a rich corporate lawyer—a flat overlooking the Thames, all glass and modern furniture, and I’d put these pictures on the wall just to impress my clients. But they’d need cleaning first. They were awfully dirty from generations of candle smoke and neglect.
I felt quite cheerful when I opened the first of the trunks to find it contained more pictures, only this time bright, modern ones. I was looking at splashes of Italian sunshine, old stone buildings, black cypresses. I read the signature in the corner of one: Hugo Langley. So my father really had been a painter. What’s more, he had been talented. What on earth made him give it up?
I put the pictures aside, intending to show them to Nigel. Maybe they would fetch serious money at an auction, if I could bear to part with them. Then I opened the second trunk. This one held old albums with leather covers and impressive clasps. Photos of long-ago Langleys in long dresses and ridiculous hats, frozen in time as they posed for a camera or standing in groups outside Langley Hall holding tennis racquets or having tea on the lawn. I was witnessing the lifestyle I’d never know. I put the books aside and delved deeper. A silver cup presented to Sir Robert Langley as Master of Hounds. A smaller one to Hugo for winning the high jump during sports day at Eton. Then I came to a small leather box, beautifully tooled and gold embossed. I opened it, anticipating those long-lost jewels, and almost closed it again when I saw that it contained only a tiny carved wooden angel, what looked like a medal of some sort on a ribbon, a cigarette packet, a bird’s feather, and a folded-up envelope. Why anybody would keep such trifles in such a lovely box I couldn’t imagine. Some Langley from history playing a game of pretend as I had done as a child, maybe.
I took out the cigarette packet to throw it away when I saw that it had been opened. On the inside of the cardboard was a sketch of a beautiful woman. It was only a tiny sketch, hastily done and not in any way finished, but somehow it conveyed the woman’s personality. I could see her eyes almost sparkling with amusement as she looked at her sketcher, her mouth about to smile. I smoothed it out and put it down on the table. Then I unfolded the envelope. I recognised my father’s elegant handwriting. It had an airmail stamp on it, and it was addressed to a Signora Sofia Bartoli in a place called San Salvatore in Tuscany. The date beside the stamp was April 1945, but it had never been opened. Another stamp beside the address was in Italian, but I got the gist of it. “Not known at this address. Return to sender.”
Intrigued now, I tore the envelope carefully open. To my annoyance the letter was in Italian. I managed to read, “Mia carissima Sofia.” I stared in disbelief. I couldn’t imagine my cold and distant father calling anyone his beloved. He certainly never showed any such outpouring of affection to my mother or me. I tried to read on, but the rest was beyond me. Then I remembered an Italian dictionary among the books I had put in a box to take to the charity shop. I ran to retrieve it, then sat at the kitchen table, frowning in concentration as I tried to make sense of the words. It was lucky I’d had years of Latin and French schooling because that made it easier, and when I had finished I could not quite believe what I had translated. Surely I must have got it wrong. I went through it again.
My darling Sofia,
How I miss you every day. How long the months have seemed since I was with you. All that time in hospital, not knowing if you were safe, wanting to write to you but not daring to do so. But I have good news. If your husband is indeed dead then we are free to marry. When I was finally allowed to return home to England, I learned that my wife had found someone else and left me for a better life in America. As soon as this horrible war is over, and the news indicates this will be very soon, I will come for you, my love. In the meantime, I want you to know that our beautiful boy is safe. He is hidden where only you can find him.
I broke off in amazement. My father—my distant, unemotional father—had a child in Italy. A child with an Italian woman called Sofia. But hidden where only Sofia could find him? A chill came over me. The letter was never delivered. A child hidden away and never found? Of course now, twenty-eight years later, I had to hope that Sofia had recovered the child and all was well.