Page 32 of The Last Night in London
Colin cleared his throat, then moved closer to get a better look. “I’m assuming Mother gave you all this?”
Arabella pulled at the faded ribbon encircling the stationery box, removing her hand as the knot disintegrated and the remains of the fabric scattered like dust. “Yes. It all belonged to your grandmother. Your mother suggested that since Sophia knew Precious during the war, she probably knew Eva as well. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to have a go at her letters and photos. Aunt Penelope mentioned on the phone that she’d already gone through everything after your grandmother died, and there’s nothing scandalous whatsoever, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Hardly. I’m just curious as to why I wasn’t invited.”
Arabella briefly met my gaze. “I had a small window of time away from the office and decided to use it wisely. No ulterior motive, I assure you.”
Colin looked at me as if expecting me to say something, but I was distracted by my phone vibrating. I didn’t bother looking at it. I knew who it was. The night before, I’d texted Knoxie and Aunt Cassie that I needed more time. But apparently unless my answer was yes, they’d keep on trying.
Colin reached inside the second bag and pulled out a small hatbox, the strap holding the lid frayed and broken. “Before we start digging, I’d like to suggest organizing everything by type. Once we’ve done that, we can sort through all of it and try to put everything in date order as best we can.” He reached for the pile of newspaper clippings I’d pulled from an ancient manila folder.
“That’s so very Colin of you,” Arabella said. “All that organizing and analyzing of numbers and such.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’m an analyst, Arabella. It is what I do for a living.”
I suddenly remembered that about him, how careful and methodical he’d been about everything, from deciding what to order from a menu to planning a route home from the pub. He’d always been the driver, too. It made me wonder now if it had less to do with him being the only teetotaler in our group and more with him wanting to be in control.
“I didn’t forget, Colin,” Arabella said. “It’s how you can afford those fancy holidays with your mates.”
He shot her a frown before examining the small stack of yellowed clippings. I watched as he carefully arranged them on the table in straight rows, faceup.
“Now that we’ve got that settled, I may as well get started with this,” Arabella said, pulling out a chair and settling into it. She slid the stationery box toward herself and carefully lifted the lid.
“I guess that leaves this for me.” I picked up the hatbox. A small stack of envelopes rested inside, and I scooped them up with the full intention of sorting them as best I could.
Most were addressed toMiss Sophia St. John, and a few toMrs. David Eliot. A good number had a bold, masculine scrawl on the front, with the nameD. Eliotin the top left corner. With the assumption they were from her husband, I put those in their own pile.
Quite a few of the envelopes, in an expensive heavy linen stationery, were postmarked from Surrey. The penmanship reminded me of the old letters from my grandmother, saved in my grandfather’s desk, each character perfect in its even slant. It was the kind of handwriting that was part of an older generation, now relegated to museums and attics, replaced with deletable texts and e-mails. I’d been lucky to be born before the advent of smartphones, and I had my own stash of notes and letters written by my mother, a solid reminder that she’d once been a part of my life.
I wondered if these letters might have been written by Sophia’s mother, and I put them in their own pile, too. Finding an assortment from different sources, I placed them together in a single pile and flipped through them, noticing an envelope with odd handwriting. The characters were small and precise, as if the writer—most likely a woman, I guessed—had spent time crafting each character. It made me think of how a child learned cursive, but this was the handwriting of an adult. An adult being very careful to demonstrate that she had beautiful penmanship.
There was no return address, but the postmark was dated 12 March 1939. The dark red stamp in the top right corner showed the profile of the king—although I couldn’t remember who was king in 1939. I’d seenWallis & Edward, so I knew it wasn’t Edward, but I couldn’t think of his brother’s name. My curiosity quickly overrode Colin’s directions and I slid the paper from the envelope, then hesitated at the sound of a throat being cleared.
I looked up to find Colin’s serious blue eyes trained on me. Before he could ask what I was doing, I said the first thing I could think of to distract him. “How is it that Sophia’s son, your father, inherited Hovenden Park? Was she an only child?”
“No. She had two older brothers.” He paused, considering his words. “Twins, actually. I never knew them. The elder—by just a few minutes, I believe—William, was killed during the war. Not sure what happened to the other brother. He wasn’t really mentioned. My parents probably know more. Neither one of the twins had children, so Sophia ended up inheriting everything.” He looked pointedly at the opened envelope. “How is the letter sorting going?”
I smiled innocently. “Can we read just one for now? I’m intrigued by the handwriting.”
His mouth started to form the word “no,” but Arabella interjected, “Absolutely! What’s it say?”
If Colin weren’t British, he would have rolled his eyes. “Go on. It’s not like I can stop you.”
I unfolded the letter and, after clearing my throat, read out loud.
Dear Miss St. John,
Thank you for the lovely dinner party last evening. It was a pleasure to properly meet you, and I also enjoyed meeting your fiancé, Mr. Eliot, and your friends. They were a delight, as were the delicious food and wine, and I appreciate your extending the invitation to join you.
There was such a flurry of good-byes when we left that I neglected to remember my purse. It’s a small green box-shaped bag with gold embroidered leaves on it. I’d placed it under my chair in the dining room, and with all the wonderful conversation, I completely forgot all about it.
I would like to call on Thursday around noon to collect it, if that is convenient. I don’t want to intrude, so if you’d like to tell your maid that I will come for it, I will stop by the back door.
Thank you again for your kind hospitality.
Most sincerely,
Miss Eva Harlow
