by Calia Read
“I know that, and I’m very sorry to bother you, but my name’s Serene Langley. I’ve been away, and I just read your letter about not being able to tour Langley Hall. I simply wanted to know when’s a good time to stop by.” I smile at her hopefully.
Andrea does not smile back. “I’m sorry. That’s not possible. Have a good day, Ms. Langley.” She begins to shut the door on me. Any chance I have at finding out more about my family’s past is drifting farther away from me.
I reach my arm out to block her from shutting the door at the last second. “Please. I just need to speak to you for a few minutes. I won’t take up much of your time.”
The woman hesitates. She looks down at her watch before she sighs and opens the door wider. “Please make it quick.”
Before she can change her mind, I step into the foyer and look around. Whoever wants to tear down this beautiful landmark is a fool. The wood floors are scuffed but swept and taken care of to the best of their ability. To the left is a half landing staircase with a Persian carpet runner. A beautiful stained glass window is directly above the intermediate landing. I imagine that when the sun comes in at the right angle, the kaleidoscope of colors is breathtaking.
The wainscoting, baseboards, and light fixtures are all original. To the left, mahogany pocket doors halfway stick out from the doorframe leading into what appears to be the dining room. A fireplace accented with green tile. Wood beams create a grid pattern on the ceiling.
Everything needs a bit of polishing, but all that matters is it’s all still here.
Before I can gawk at anything else, the woman clears her throat. “I am assuming you’re related to David Langley?”
I turn away from the dining room and blink Andrea into focus. “Yes,” I draw out slowly. “He’s my father.”
“He’s the one trying to have this building torn down.” Accusations coat her words and fill her gaze. For her, I’m guilty by association.
Why would my dad want a building that’s part of our family history to be torn down? It makes no sense.
I hold both hands up in supplication. “I understand you’re frustrated with my father, but I don’t agree with what he’s doing.”
Andrea doesn’t look convinced. Not in the slightest. She crosses her arms, her body language screaming she’s detached from this conversation and isn’t interested in what I have to say. “We have legal fees upward of a million dollars trying to fight your father to keep Langley Hall open. Not that he cares, but we’ve run out of money. This beautiful mansion will be shut down in a matter of weeks, and then it will be slated for demolition.”
I swallow. “I’m very sorry to hear that. But as I said, I don’t agree with any of this. I don’t even work at Hambleton’s anymore.”
At that, her eyes light up with interest. “You don’t?”
I shake my head. “I left a while ago.”
“I see. What exactly are you here for?”
“I’ve been out of town for a while, and I heard what my father was doing. I thought I’d try to get a tour of the place before the door shut for good,” I lie.
She opens her mouth, and I take a step forward and snort. “You know what? That was a lie.” I look her in the eye. “I’m here because I’m trying to find more information on my great-great-grandmother Emmeline Hambleton, but I can find nothing about her. I found your site last night and read what you had to say about Emmeline. When I ask my family, every one of them clams up and refuses to say a word, and if they do, it’s nothing good. I thought I would come here because she married Uriah Langley. And I’m assuming that without the overwhelming success of Hambleton’s, Uriah would’ve never purchased this mansion. On your site, it appears you don’t have much information on Emmeline. But I think you do. I think you have more than you’re truly letting on.”
Andrea’s lips draw into a thin line while her face goes pale. I know I’m right and continue. “Maybe that’s the reason my family is fighting you. You know too much. I don’t know. I know nothing, and that’s the honest truth, but I want to know. I’m begging to know. However, I understand if you don’t want to give it to me because of everything my father’s doing.”
I exhale heavily. My shoulders drop once the words slip from my lips. It feels good to tell the truth, and I hope that Andrea understands I’m being honest and forthright.
The seconds tick by without a word from Andrea. She’s going to say no. The heavy weight of defeat starts to press back down on my shoulders. I begin to dig through my purse for my keys when I hear her speak. “If you follow me, I can show you where we keep all of our Langley archives.”
Immediately, my head shoots up. “Are you serious?”
She nods; her face still somber as we walk toward the hall. “Yes. Now please follow me.”
My heart begins to thrum wildly. We pass numerous rooms—kitchen, the back stairs, mudroom, library, and living room—until we enter an updated, temperature-controlled room. For a mansion that’s about to be shut down, this is probably the nicest room in the house.
The curtains are the heavy blackout kind. Andrea turns on a light and closes the door behind us. “This is where we store all the archives.”
A large writing desk sits in the middle of the room with two chairs on either side. There are four bookshelves against the opposite wall and directly behind me are five large filing cabinets. Hanging above the cabinets are the original blueprints of Langley Hall and a painting of the home when it was first built. It indeed was a magnificent home.
“You can have a seat at the table,” Andrea says.
I place my purse down next to the chair and watch as Andrea unlocks all five cabinets. She opens the first drawers, then pulls out two pairs of latex gloves and hands one to me. I give her a questioning look. “You’ll need to wear these so you don’t transfer oil from your hands onto the documents,” she explains.
Whoa. This lady does not play when it comes to preserving archives.
Andrea places her gloves on the table and begins to pull black archival flip-top box, after box, after box from the cabinets. When she’s done, I count four in total. All the boxes have E.G.H. labeled on the top.
“These are all the documents we have on Emmeline.”
All I can do is stare at Andrea because my family claimed to know nothing, but a stranger has all this information tucked away.
And your father wants to destroy this place, my mind whispers.
“What would you like to know first?”
“Anything. I don’t even know where to begin. Her birth, when she died, marriage certificate. Things like that.”
Andrea flips open the lid of each box, then puts on her gloves. She stares at the boxes for a few seconds. “I’m trying to think of the most fascinating documents.” She glances at me. “Emmeline was quite a scandalous woman in her time but truly progressive.”
“Progressive,” I repeat. “I like the sound of that.”
“We like it now, but back then, it wasn’t a good thing,” Andrea says as she starts to flip through the documents. “Women paid the price for thinking outside the box, and that’s exactly what Emmeline did when she started Hambleton’s. I think we should start there.”
Not so patiently, I wait to see what Andrea has. She pulls out a document that’s preserved in a clear polyester sleeve. Now that I’m taking a closer look at the boxes, most of the papers are covered in the same polyester covering.
Andrea carefully places the document in front of me as though it’s a piece of fine china that once belonged to Alexandra Feodorovna.
The first document says, UNITED STATES PATENT OFFICE.
Hambleton’s Co. of Chicago, IL.
Registered Date: Dec. 12, 1913
Trademark for the name HAMBELTON’S
Application filed Sept. 10, 1913
Serial No. 81,573
The rest of the document goes on to list a statement starting with “To all whom it may concern,” that the name Hambleton’s is a trademark name of the H
ambleton’s department store and corporation. The statement is written and signed by David Langley, Secretary of Hambleton’s Co.
David Langley? Has to be related to Uriah.
The declaration is signed by him, and subscribed and sworn Dec. 11, 1913 by Eric Spooner, Notary Public.
“Wait. I don’t get it. You just said Hambleton’s was started by Emmeline. Yet this has David Langley’s signature.”
“He simply filed for the trademark. When I say Hambleton’s was created by Emmeline, believe me.”
I lift my eyes from the paper. “Why is that?”
“We’ll get to that later.” Andrea smiles and leans in. “Ready for another document?”
I nod. She gently removes the paperwork from the table only to replace it with another.
“Now what set Emmeline apart and made her so progressive is Hambleton’s flagship store was in the Historic Loop Retail District in Chicago, and she was the first woman to do so,” Andrea says.
“Is that so?” My brows shoot up as I look down at the document.
Andrea nods. “She was smart enough to know that in order to start her company, she needed investors, and those investors needed to be powerful men. These are some of the copies of the stock certificates from the men who invested.”
This certificate is almost identical to the stock I found in Livingston’s library, only it’s a copy. Still, it’s exciting to see. The amount of shares is twenty, and it goes on to certify that Potter Palmer Jr. is the owner of the capital stock.
“It was a momentous deal for Mr. Palmer to invest into Hambleton’s. His father was a successful businessman and is credited for the development of State Street. He was a close friend of Uriah’s,” Andrea explains.
“Uriah more than likely encouraged him to invest.”
“That’s my guess.”
The next stock has Uriah’s name with—surprise, surprise—forty shares.
Another is David Langley with ten shares.
Then Asa Calhoun with twenty shares. Seeing his name gives me pause and makes my heart speed up. I think back to the letters I found in my parents’ garage written between Asa and Emmeline. He warned her to be careful, yet he still invested in her dream.
The last are for Étienne and Livingston Lacroix, both with five shares each.
This isn’t new information, yet I still want to slide this document into my purse. It’s mine, and I want to take it home with me. I want to study it for hours on end because all these men invested in a company that my great-great-grandma created and one of those men happened to be the man I loved.
Swallowing, I glance at Andrea and pretend these documents are having an average effect on me and my world isn’t being rocked to its very core. “How fascinating.”
Up next is the divorce decree for Emmeline and Uriah Langley. With my elbows resting on the table, I lean in and carefully scan the document. Emmeline Hambleton is the petitioner, and Uriah Thomas Langley is the respondent.
The filing is listed as the 9th day of September 1913.
Directly beneath the filing it says the marriage was solemnized on the 2nd day of August 1913 at St. Patrick’s Roman Catholic Church in Chicago, IL, in the county of Cook.
It goes on to list that the marriage between the petitioner and respondent be dissolved because said respondent is guilty of adultery and cruelty. I read through the rest of the legal mumbo jumbo about how if sufficient cause can’t be made within six months, then the decree should not be made absolute.
Beneath that is the certified decree of the divorce 12th day of March 1914 and made final and absolute and that the said marriage is thereby dissolved on the same date.
Directly beneath is their signatures. Uriah’s is shaky, but Emmeline’s is fluid with wide loops to exaggerate the E of her first name and L of her last.
In a small way, I think their signatures reflected their personalities. Uriah’s was shaky and unsure, and I frown because it doesn’t align with the confident businessman portrayed online. Emmeline’s was bold and confident. Perhaps that’s another reason they divorced. They were two people who were merely the opposite of one another. Sometimes that can work; other times, it doesn’t.
Wordlessly, I slide the document back to Andrea. She thumbs through her files.
“This is Emmeline’s death certificate. It’s quite interesting, considering she passed away in New Orleans.”
My eyes instinctively widen when she says New Orleans. Anxiously, I wait for her to place the document in front of me. The certificate is worn and yellow from old age, the ink faded from time, but I can still read the sharp cursive.
Be it Remembered, that on the day to-wit the twenty-sixth day of March in the year of our Lord One Thousand Nine Hundred and Fourteen.
Before me, W.T. O’REILLY, M.D., Chairman Board of Health and Ex-Officio Recorder of Births, Deaths, and Marriages in and for the Parish of Orleans, personally appeared
A. Preau native of this city residing at No. 113 S. Ellis Street who hereby declares that
Emmeline Hambleton McLaren
a native of Chicago, IL, aged 29
departed this life this day (26 March 1914) at 9:26 p.m. on 135 St. Charles Avenue at the St. Charles Hotel in this city.
Cause of death broken neck, severe head injury from fall from a second-floor balcony
Deceased was married to Matthew McLaren
That throws me for a major loop. I didn’t know Emmeline remarried. “Andrea, do you have a marriage certificate for her and Matthew McLaren?”
Andrea flips through all her files, her brows scrunching together. “You know, I don’t think we do. I do know she remarried directly after her divorce from Uriah.”
I lift my head. “How soon after?”
She stops searching and looks at me. “About a week after.” She laughs. “Emmeline didn’t waste time. When she wanted something, she went after it.”
That’s something I can admire and understand. I go back to reading the death certificate.
Birthplace of parents London, England
Thus done at New Orleans, in the presence of the aforesaid, A. Preau as also in that of C. Collier and P.H. Wallace both of this city, witnesses by me requested so to be, who have hereto set their hands together with me, after reading hereof this day, month and year first above written.
Below is the signature of W.T. O’Reilly.
Right away, something sounds off about her death. Falling off a balcony? Her death doesn’t sound accidental at all. But maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe I’m looking for anything that might give me a clue as to why my family wants to blot her out of our family history so badly.
“This is all so fascinating.” I lift my head and stare at her with a bit of awe. “Where in the world did you get these documents?”
Andrea’s eyes become alight with excitement. “Emmeline’s sister’s great-granddaughter, Natasha, donated them over a month ago. It came as quite a surprise.”
I find myself leaning in. “Emmeline had a sister?”
“Yes. Her name was Marjorie Dunmire. I believe she went by Margo.”
“Wow.”
Andrea nods. “The reason it’s hard to find information on Emmeline is that Emmeline isn’t her real name. In 1912, a boarding pass listed Emmeline Hambleton. Yet her birth certificate says Abigail Davies. The reason for changing her name is not explained.”
“Do you have her birth certificate?” I ask anxiously.
Andrea shakes her head. “Sadly, no. I believe Natasha’s daughter has the rest of the family documents.”
“What’s Natasha’s daughter’s name?”
Andrea hesitates as she gathers the documents and places them in the flip-top box. “I’m not certain I should be giving you that information.”
“Please. I need to find out why my family is so determined to hide Emmeline’s life,” I plead.
Andrea stares at Emmeline’s death certificate and sighs, but she doesn’t relent. I go in for my kill.
“Do you believe someone in my family is trying to hide the truth about Emmeline?”
Andrea’s head shoots up so quickly I’m surprised she doesn’t get whiplash. “I allude to just that on my site, but in my heart, I know someone is hiding the truth. Natasha has donated quite a lot of documents out of the goodness of her heart, but her daughter has more.”
“Tell me her name. Please.”
There’s a slight pause, then, “Natasha’s daughter, Alisha Jones, lives in Urbana. I’ve spoken to her numerous times. Natasha mentioned Alisha has copies of the original documents, letters, and pictures. I’m sure she’d be willing to speak with you.”
“Truly?”
Tight-lipped, Andrea nods and takes off her gloves. “Yes. I can even try to set up a meeting between the two of you if you would like.”
“That would be fantastic.” My eyes narrow a bit. I’m smart enough to know when someone does a kind gesture for a stranger it’s not out of the goodness of their hearts. Andrea expects something in return. Quid pro quo. Standing up, I peel off my gloves. “I can talk to my father and see if he can grant Langley Hall a bit of leniency. And in time, perhaps he’ll change his mind.” Doubtful, considering he thinks of me as a jobless vagabond.
“He probably won’t, but it’s worth a shot. At first, he was very amicable with the Preservation Association a year ago.”
I look at her curiously. “He was?”
She nods. “He agreed that Langley Hall should be a historic landmark, but when he found out that we were also petitioning to have the name of the home changed to Langley-Hambleton Hall, he did a complete one eighty on us. He lawyered up and decided that Langley Hall should be donated to the Champaign School District.” She snorts. “They now want to buy an entire row of lots on this street to build the new junior high. Never mind the fact these lots should be historical landmarks. The school district intends on tearing down Langley Hall for a parking lot.” Andrea takes a deep breath. I can tell she’s getting upset by the deep stain of her cheeks and how she violently shoves the cabinet drawers closed.
