by Rhys Bowen
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.
CHAPTER NINE
JOANNA
April 1973
I don’t know how long I sat there staring at the flimsy sheet of airmail paper. Having grown up as an only child, I was shocked to discover in one day that I might have two brothers in other parts of the world. If this one had survived, I thought. Perhaps he had been hidden with a kind family in the hills, to be reunited with his mother when hostilities ceased. That is what I tried to believe. But now I was dying to know more. My father never spoke of his wartime experiences, but I knew from my mother that he had been a pilot with the RAF and terribly brave, flying missions over occupied Europe until he was shot down and nearly died. I hadn’t even known this happened over Italy. One didn’t tend to think of Italy as a scene of bombing missions.
I turned away in frustration. If only I had known about this before he had died, I could have asked him. I could have found out the truth. Now I’d have to fish it out for myself.
I finished going through the two trunks and didn’t find anything of value to anyone but a Langley. Not a single picture of the first wife or my half brother, but there were some small snapshots of a younger, healthy version of my father laughing with friends at a café. Written on the back of one was “Florence, 1935.” I put the trunks to one side and went back to emptying linen closets, the pantry, the bathroom cupboard, assembling a big pile to be donated and an equally big pile to be taken out with the rubbish. I found that I felt completely unsentimental about discarding items from my childhood, only anxious to get this task done and set off on my quest.
The next day I was hauling out bags and boxes for the dustman when a car drew up and Nigel got out, accompanied by an older man.
“This is Mr. Aston-Smith,” Nigel said. “He’s an appraiser. I thought we’d get a jump on things and have the furniture valued.” I escorted them inside, apologising for the mess. I showed him the family portraits, the few good pieces of furniture. I was tempted to show Nigel the letter. I needed to show it to somebody, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Mr. Aston-Smith didn’t take long. He walked around making muttering noises and scribbling in a notebook. In a very short time he came back to me.
“Not much here, I’m afraid,” he said. “The desk is a fine piece. You’d probably be looking at a good five hundred pounds at auction. The chest upstairs maybe slightly less. The grandfather clock—that might also bring in serious money. The armoire—well, it’s good wood, but nobody wants large pieces of furniture like that these days.”
“And the pictures?”
“On the wall? Prints. Worth maybe a hundred a piece.”
“I meant the other pictures. My father’s work.”
“They are good, I’ll grant you that,” he said. “But he doesn’t have a name, does he? It all depends on name for modern art at the big auctions. Snob value rather than quality, I’m afraid. Again they’d bring in an amount in the hundreds rather than the thousands.”
“And the family portraits?”
“I can’t tell you much. They are all in need of a good cleaning, as I’m sure you noticed. If you like, I can take them to an art restorer I work with and we can make a judgment on them after they’ve been cleaned.”
“Would that be very expensive?” I was conscious that the amount I was to inherit was hardly a fortune, especially if I had to share it with a newly discovered brother.
“Not too horrendously so, depending on the amount of restorative work that would need to be done. Just a simple cleaning to begin with, and then we could make a decision about whether to proceed.”
I glanced at Nigel. He gave me one of his hopeful smiles. “All right, then,” I said. “Please do take them.”
As they headed for the front door, I made a decision.
“And I want to keep the desk,” I said, “but I’ve nowhere to put it at the moment.”
“Maybe they’ll let you store it in the school attic,” Nigel suggested, “with any other small bits and pieces you are hanging on to.”
“Excellent idea.” I smiled at him. “Miss Honeywell should be amenable since I’m rushing to get the place cleared out. I�
��ll ask her.”
“How long do you think you’ll still be here?” Nigel asked.
“I hope to be gone by the end of the week.”
I saw his face fall. “I see. Presumably you need to get back to work.”
Of course I needed to get back to work, but I wasn’t sure I still had a job. Nevertheless, I smiled and nodded.
“I’ll keep you up to date,” he said, “and I’ll let you know when the funds from the various accounts will pass to you.”
I looked at Mr. Aston-Smith. “Perhaps your person should hold off with the restoring work on the paintings until I know that I have legally inherited the money.”
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll take them with me but await your instructions. And presumably I should do the same with the furniture you want to send to auction. We don’t want to sell anything you don’t have a right to.”
“Don’t worry,” Nigel said. “I’ll take care of it. You go back to London. I’ll telephone you with any news.”
And so they left with my family portraits. I went on with my clearing up. Later, I was about to sit down with a cup of tea when there was another knock at my front door. This time a large, florid man stood there. He frowned when he saw me.
“So what’s this with the girl’s school?” he asked in a deep voice with a definite transatlantic accent. “When did Langley Hall get sold?”
“Right after the war,” I said.
“Too bad. I was hoping to look around the old place. Are you the gatekeeper’s daughter?”
“I’m Joanna Langley,” I said stiffly. “Daughter of Sir Hugo Langley.”
His eyebrows shot up. “No kidding. So the old man married again? What do you know.”
It was just dawning on me who this was. I stared at his face and saw no resemblance to my father, who had always had the lean appearance of a Romantic poet. This man was well fed and chubby in a not particularly attractive way.
“You’re Hugo’s son?” I asked.
“That’s right. Teddy Langley, I used to be. Now I’m Teddy Schulz. Of Cleveland, Ohio.”
I forced myself to hold out my hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Teddy. Until a couple of days ago, I had no idea that I had a brother. It came as a big shock.”
“Yeah. I just got a shock, too. The old guy’s death, I mean. A client came back from England and showed me the newspaper with the obituary in it. ‘Any relation of yours?’ he said. So I thought I’d better hightail it over the pond, being the son and heir, y’know. I presumed the estate would be coming to me. Isn’t that how it works with English law? Oldest son gets the lot?”
I didn’t know what to say to this. In truth I was feeling a little like Alice plunging down a rabbit hole that revealed one unpleasant surprise after another. Teddy had been looking around as he spoke. “So who got the dough from the sale of the house?”
“The dough?” I stared at him. “The money from the sale all went to pay off the death duties when my grandfather died and my father inherited. We’ve been living in the lodge ever since, and my father was the art master at the school.”
“No money? That’s too bad. I always pictured my pa living in luxury in the big house of my childhood.” He glanced at the lodge. “Certainly not like this. So what about the furniture and stuff? All those creepy antiques I remember. I presume I’m entitled to a half share, as his son.”
I had taken an instant dislike to him. “You inherit the title, so I’m told. But I expect you’d have to revert to being Teddy Langley.”
“Sir Teddy. Well, ain’t that a kick! Does it come with an allowance?”
“It comes with nothing.” I forced myself to be gracious and British. “I’ve been clearing out my father’s belongings, and you are welcome to look through old photograph albums and see if there are any photos you want. Or any pieces of furniture, for that matter.”
“Sure, okay.” A gleam had come into his eyes. I led him inside. He looked at the sad piles of stuff waiting for the van from the charity shop. “Is this it?” he asked. “This is how you lived?”
“This is it.”
“And no money?”
Again I had to wrestle with myself to be honest. “I think he might have had up to a thousand pounds in his various savings accounts.”
He gave me an incredulous stare. “A thousand pounds? That’s all? You’d better keep it. I’ve done pretty well for myself. My old man, Schulz, went into the real estate business after the war, and I joined him right after college. Strip malls, mainly. I make more than that in a week. You clearly need it more than I do.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Actually I do need it. I don’t have anywhere to live right now.”
“You’re not married?”
“I’m only twenty-five,” I said. “I’ve plenty of time for that when I qualify.”
“As what?”
“A solicitor. I’m taking my exams this year.”
“An attorney, huh? They make good money.”
“When and if I qualify,” I said. “Look, would you like a cup of tea? I’ve just made a pot.”
“Sure. Why not?” he said. “A cup of tea. That’s what everyone drank all through the war. A bomb was dropped and everyone said, ‘It’s all right. Have a cup of tea.’” And he laughed.
I served him tea and some slightly stale biscuits. I don’t think he enjoyed either.
“I’ll give you the name of the solicitor who is handling Father’s estate,” I said. “He was going to ask the American embassy to help find you. Now you’ve saved him that task. But he can tell you the particulars about the title.”
He stood up, shaking his head. “I can’t think what good a title would be to me if it didn’t come with the property.”
“It might help you sell more real estate,” I said sweetly. I had meant it as sarcasm, but he thought I was serious and burst out laughing, clapping his hands together. “You might have something there, Sis. Add a touch of class to the business.”
He paused, taking a sip of tea. “Y’know, I’d been planning to come over and surprise the old guy. I was going to bring the wife and kids and let him see how I turned out. He never thought I’d amount too much. Too bad he died not knowing.”
I didn’t think my father would have been as thrilled as Teddy clearly thought he’d have been. I wasn’t quite sure what strip malls were, but they didn’t sound too respectable. Teddy fished into his own wallet. “Look, here’s my card. If you’re ever in the States, come and visit. My ma would be interested to see you, I’m sure. And the kids would get a kick out of an English aunt, speaking the way you do.”
“Thank you, you’re very kind,” I said. He stood up, heading for the door. “And you’re sure you don’t want any of this before I donate it?” I asked, gesturing around the room.
He was still grinning. “This old stuff? Hell no. You’re welcome to the lot.”
We parted company then. I watched him get into a car and drive away, wondering what kind of little boy he had been when he had lived at Langley Hall and thinking about how glad I was that my father was dead. I didn’t think he’d have been happy to see what Teddy Schulz had become.
By the end of the next day, I was ready to leave. Miss Honeywell had agreed to store the desk and trunk in the attic again. I promised to come for them as soon as I had a new place of my own. And she had generously offered for her own maids to come over and clean up the lodge for the new tenant. She had even shaken my hand warmly. “I wish you nothing but the best, Joanna. I’m sure you’ll make a splendid lawyer and do great credit to your family name.”
I was standing outside the front door, staring for one last time around what had been my home, when a car drew up and Nigel Barton got out.
“You’ve caught me just in time,” I said. “I was about to leave.”
He looked at my two suitcases. “Then let me give you a lift to the station. Or have you called for a cab?”
“No, I was planning to walk, so thank you,” I said gratefully.
/> I glanced back at Langley Hall as we drove away.
“Your brother came to see me,” he said. “That was a bit of a surprise.”
“It was for me, too,” I agreed. “I think he was horribly disappointed in his inheritance.”
“Yes, he questioned me for some time. I believe he thought you were hiding something from him, or you didn’t quite know the contents of the will. When I reassured him there was nothing but a title, he went away. Not the most pleasant of individuals.”
“Daddy would have been horrified,” I said.
We pulled up in the station yard. “I’ll be in touch,” he said. “I think the various sums of money will be released in the next week or so. And the items should go to auction soon.”
“Thank you. You’ve been very kind,” I said.
“Not at all. It’s been a pleasure.” He paused. “Joanna—I may call you Joanna, mayn’t I? I do come up to town from time to time. Maybe I could take you to a show or something.”
Scarlet had said something about falling off a horse and the best thing to do being to get right back on again. But it had been such a great and damaging fall. I wasn’t sure I wanted to ride anymore. It’s only a show, my inner voice was saying. Nothing more.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’d like that.”
His face lit up.
But we never did go to that show because in a little over a month, I had left for Italy.
CHAPTER TEN
HUGO
December 1944
After Sofia had gone, Hugo sat holding the bandage over his wound for a long while until gradually he felt the morphine starting to work. There was still some water left in the battered tin mug, and he drank it gratefully, then remembered the chestnuts she had left for him. He peeled off the prickly casings and ate their contents. They weren’t as satisfying as the roasted chestnuts at home, but they were edible.
