The Tuscan Child(17)

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.