Page 15 of The Tuscan Child
“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.”
