The Tuscan Child

by Rhys Bowen

  She put her hand on his shoulder. “Have courage. I will return when I can. You should not try to light a fire. The smoke may be seen.”

  She paused in the doorway to look back at him. “May God watch over you.” And then she was gone.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  JOANNA

  April 1973

  The funeral was held on a rainy Tuesday. The weather had looked promising over the weekend, but on Monday afternoon it clouded over again, and by nightfall the rain had begun. At the time of the funeral it was a bleak and blustery day. I hadn’t expected anybody to come but was surprised by the number of local people who filled the pews and later stood around the grave with me while the rain dripped from our umbrellas and on to the coffin. It seemed a fitting send-off for my father that the heavens were weeping for him.

  Afterward, the vicar’s wife and Billy Overton’s bakery had prepared a fine spread in the church hall. One person after another came up to me to express condolences. Some of them I knew, others were complete strangers, but they all had some association to Langley Hall and my family. “And my mother was in service at the Hall when she was a girl, and she always said how kind the old squire was to her when she got scarlet fever.” Similar stories over and over, until I realised that everyone present resented the loss of the Hall as much as my father had done. It represented the passing of an old way of life, of the security of knowing one’s place. I found it very touching.

  As the crowd thinned, a young man came up to me. I had noticed him at the gravesite. He had been wearing a Burberry raincoat, his face hidden under a big black umbrella. Now he was wearing a well-cut black suit. “Miss Langley?” He had red hair and freckles on his nose and looked absurdly young. “I’m Nigel Barton. You know, Barton and Holcroft, your family solicitors?”

  “Oh, Mr. Barton.” I shook the hand he held out. “How do you do? I’m pleased to meet you. I was wondering whom I should contact about the formal side of things and whether my father left any sort of will.”

  “We do not possess a will, Miss Langley. Have you been through his papers?”

  “I did glance through his desk, but then I felt uncomfortable about going through things when I wasn’t sure I had a right to.”

  “You are his daughter.” He smiled at me. “I think that gives you every right. Perhaps you would care to come to the office in Godalming tomorrow and we can see how I might be of help to you?” He handed me his card.

  “You look awfully young to be a partner in a law firm,” I said, before realising that this wasn’t very tactful.

  He laughed. “Not a partner yet, I regret to say. The Barton in the firm’s name was my great-grandfather. We’ve been your family lawyers for a couple of hundred years. I’ve only been qualified for a couple of years, and I’m very much the junior of juniors.”

  “I am supposed to take my own bar exam this year,” I said.

  “Of course. I heard that you were reading law. We’ll have lots to talk about. Maybe I can take you to lunch tomorrow? The Boar’s Head down the street from our offices serves a pretty good meal.”

  I hesitated. A man inviting me out to lunch? I wasn’t sure I was ready for that. “I’m sure that’s not necessary, nor is it part of the usual service,” I said, and saw his face fall.

  “It’s not, but it’s a really good excuse for me to have a slap-up meal instead of the usual sandwich,” he said. He gave me a hopeful smile.

  Why not? a voice was whispering in my head. He looks harmless enough. It’s not as if he’s inviting you to a nightclub. Not a date. Strictly business.

  I managed my own smile. “Thank you, Mr. Barton. It’s very kind of you.”

  He beamed as if I’d given him a present. “I won’t keep you now, then. I’m sure all these people are waiting to talk to you. Around eleven thirty tomorrow, shall we say?”

  Billy Overton and Dr. Freeman both offered to drive me home, but Miss Honeywell appeared out of nowhere and I rode home with her.

  “It was a very satisfactory funeral,” she said as we left the village street and turned into the leafy lane. “You must feel comforted by how many people came and by the reverence in which they hold the Langleys.”

  “Touched and surprised,” I said. “I only wish my father had been alive to hear all the nice things they said.”

  “I’m sorry I was a little late,” she said. “A last-minute phone call with parents who are in the Middle East. I had to reassure them their daughter would be kept safe from gardeners and grooms.”

  I chuckled. “And did you reassure her?”

  “I’m not sure. These foreign girls grow up so sheltered that they hurl themselves at any man.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “You’ll be going back to London, I take it?”

  “Not for a few days,” I said. “You asked me to clear out the lodge, and I haven’t yet found a will, so I don’t feel comfortable disposing of my father’s belongings.”

  “I don’t think he left very much, did he?” she said. “I know he kept a few good pieces of furniture from the Hall, but apart from that . . . Oh, and I believe there are still a couple of trunks of personal items that he asked if he could store in the attic. You should take a look at them when you have time. Mainly things like old trophies and photograph albums, I think. And some family portraits. You may want to keep some of them.”

  “Thank you, yes, I’d like to look through them.”

  “Come over whenever you like. The front door is open during the day.”

  “I’m afraid I have no idea how one gets to the attic,” I said.

  She laughed. “Of course. I always think that you once lived at Langley Hall.”

  “I was born in the lodge,” I said.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll have one of the gardeners bring your father’s things over next time I see them.”

  We had reached the gates to the school. She stopped the car to drop me off at the lodge. “Your employer doesn’t mind your taking this time off?” she asked.

  “They have been most understanding,” I said, not wanting to touch on the truth. I thanked her and let myself in. Again I was struck by the feeling of cold and damp, almost as if the lodge itself was echoing my father’s sadness and despair. I told myself that I should make an inventory of everything, but felt suddenly drained after the funeral. I realised I hadn’t eaten any of those cucumber sandwiches or sausage rolls or little cakes, and wished now that I had packed some up to eat later. I made myself a cup of tea and a slice of toast, then I decided to call Scarlet. Scarlet was my former college roommate. I was currently occupying the sofa in her flat, having had to move out of my last digs in a hurry. She was completely different from me: for one thing she was a cockney whose father ran a pub. Her name wasn’t really Scarlet, either—it was Beryl, which she hated. She felt that Scarlet suited her personality much better. She had embraced everything that the seventies stood for: she wore long tie-dyed skirts, her unruly hair half covered her face, she smoked pot, and she went on protest marches against war and for women’s rights. I had always been the good one, the studious one, focused on my degree, not on ending the war in Vietnam. But surprisingly we got on really well. She was kind and easy-going, and she had welcomed me instantly when I’d had nowhere to go. She now worked in the theatre, assistant stage manager at the Royal Court, known for its avant-garde plays.

  I wasn’t sure I’d find her at home mid-afternoon, but the phone picked up after several rings.

  “Yeah? What do you want?” said the grumpy voice. It sounded more like “Waddayouwant?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Did I wake you?”

  “Oh, Jo, it’s you, love. Don’t worry about it. I had to wake up anyway in ten minutes. Dress rehearsal tonight. New play. Ten women on a train going to Siberia. Bloody depressing if you ask me. They all end up committing suicide. And talking of depressing, how was the funeral?”

  “Very nice as funerals go.”

  “And how are you coping?”

  “Keeping my head abov
e water describes it best. The lodge is about the bloodiest gloomy place you could find. But I’ve got to go through my father’s things and get it cleared out for the next tenant, so I won’t be back for a while.”

  “No problem. I’m not planning to rent out your bed. Not planning to invite anybody into my own, either. I’ve had enough of men.”

  “That new actor didn’t turn out the way you hoped? I thought he was taking you out to dinner.”

  “He bloody didn’t turn out to be anything. We went out to dinner. I invited him back to the flat, and he started showing me pictures of his partner, Dennis.”

  I started to laugh. “Oh, Scarlet, do you think we’re both doomed?”

  “It’s too bad we don’t fancy each other, isn’t it? Do you think someone could learn to become a lesbian?”

  “I don’t think so.” I was still laughing. “It is good to hear your voice. I’ve had to be polite to people I don’t know all day. And tomorrow I have to have lunch with a very earnest young solicitor.”

  “There you are, then. Someone your type.”

  “No more lawyers, thank you. Actually, no more men, thank you. I’ve learned my lesson. From now on I live a quiet life. No men. No sex. Study and books and the occasional lonely meal at a good restaurant.”

  “And cats. Don’t forget the cats.”

  I laughed then. “I need to get back to London as soon as possible. If the solicitor tells me I can do what I like with the things in the lodge, I’ll have an auctioneer come and pick up anything worth selling. Then the rest goes to a charity shop, and goodbye, Langley Hall.”

  When I put the phone down, I realised what an effort it was to sound bright and cheerful. Keep busy, I told myself. That’s what I had to do. So I got a large rubbish bag and started filling it with my father’s clothes. I wasn’t sure if anyone would want handkerchiefs with a monogram on them, but you never know. Then I filled a box with books, setting aside a few that had been my childhood favourites—the ones that my father had read to me. By the end of the day, I had cleaned out the bedroom and the linen closet. Then I went through my father’s desk, carefully this time, in case there was a will or some other surprise hidden in a secret drawer. There was a post office savings book with five hundred pounds in it. A receipt for some shares in a building society. A bank book. That was about it. It seemed my father was probably worth a little over a thousand pounds. Better than nothing.

  I opened a tin of soup for my supper. As I stood stirring it at the stove, I was suddenly overcome by a memory of my mother standing at this same stove and stirring a big pot. “Chicken stew and dumplings,” she said, beaming at me. “Your father’s favourite. This will cheer him up if anything will.”

  The memory of that warm, friendly kitchen with its good smells and kind words was too much for me. I turned the stove off, left the soup, and went to bed.

  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.