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.

I felt quite cheerful when I opened the first of the trunks to find it contained more pictures, only this time bright, modern ones. I was looking at splashes of Italian sunshine, old stone buildings, black cypresses. I read the signature in the corner of one: Hugo Langley. So my father really had been a painter. What’s more, he had been talented. What on earth made him give it up?

I put the pictures aside, intending to show them to Nigel. Maybe they would fetch serious money at an auction, if I could bear to part with them. Then I opened the second trunk. This one held old albums with leather covers and impressive clasps. Photos of long-ago Langleys in long dresses and ridiculous hats, frozen in time as they posed for a camera or standing in groups outside Langley Hall holding tennis racquets or having tea on the lawn. I was witnessing the lifestyle I’d never know. I put the books aside and delved deeper. A silver cup presented to Sir Robert Langley as Master of Hounds. A smaller one to Hugo for winning the high jump during sports day at Eton. Then I came to a small leather box, beautifully tooled and gold embossed. I opened it, anticipating those long-lost jewels, and almost closed it again when I saw that it contained only a tiny carved wooden angel, what looked like a medal of some sort on a ribbon, a cigarette packet, a bird’s feather, and a folded-up envelope. Why anybody would keep such trifles in such a lovely box I couldn’t imagine. Some Langley from history playing a game of pretend as I had done as a child, maybe.

I took out the cigarette packet to throw it away when I saw that it had been opened. On the inside of the cardboard was a sketch of a beautiful woman. It was only a tiny sketch, hastily done and not in any way finished, but somehow it conveyed the woman’s personality. I could see her eyes almost sparkling with amusement as she looked at her sketcher, her mouth about to smile. I smoothed it out and put it down on the table. Then I unfolded the envelope. I recognised my father’s elegant handwriting. It had an airmail stamp on it, and it was addressed to a Signora Sofia Bartoli in a place called San Salvatore in Tuscany. The date beside the stamp was April 1945, but it had never been opened. Another stamp beside the address was in Italian, but I got the gist of it. “Not known at this address. Return to sender.”

Intrigued now, I tore the envelope carefully open. To my annoyance the letter was in Italian. I managed to read, “Mia carissima Sofia.” I stared in disbelief. I couldn’t imagine my cold and distant father calling anyone his beloved. He certainly never showed any such outpouring of affection to my mother or me. I tried to read on, but the rest was beyond me. Then I remembered an Italian dictionary among the books I had put in a box to take to the charity shop. I ran to retrieve it, then sat at the kitchen table, frowning in concentration as I tried to make sense of the words. It was lucky I’d had years of Latin and French schooling because that made it easier, and when I had finished I could not quite believe what I had translated. Surely I must have got it wrong. I went through it again.

My darling Sofia,

How I miss you every day. How long the months have seemed since I was with you. All that time in hospital, not knowing if you were safe, wanting to write to you but not daring to do so. But I have good news. If your husband is indeed dead then we are free to marry. When I was finally allowed to return home to England, I learned that my wife had found someone else and left me for a better life in America. As soon as this horrible war is over, and the news indicates this will be very soon, I will come for you, my love. In the meantime, I want you to know that our beautiful boy is safe. He is hidden where only you can find him.

I broke off in amazement. My father—my distant, unemotional father—had a child in Italy. A child with an Italian woman called Sofia. But hidden where only Sofia could find him? A chill came over me. The letter was never delivered. A child hidden away and never found? Of course now, twenty-eight years later, I had to hope that Sofia had recovered the child and all was well.

CHAPTER NINE

JOANNA

April 1973

I don’t know how long I sat there staring at the flimsy sheet of airmail paper. Having grown up as an only child, I was shocked to discover in one day that I might have two brothers in other parts of the world. If this one had survived, I thought. Perhaps he had been hidden with a kind family in the hills, to be reunited with his mother when hostilities ceased. That is what I tried to believe. But now I was dying to know more. My father never spoke of his wartime experiences, but I knew from my mother that he had been a pilot with the RAF and terribly brave, flying missions over occupied Europe until he was shot down and nearly died. I hadn’t even known this happened over Italy. One didn’t tend to think of Italy as a scene of bombing missions.

I turned away in frustration. If only I had known about this before he had died, I could have asked him. I could have found out the truth. Now I’d have to fish it out for myself.

I finished going through the two trunks and didn’t find anything of value to anyone but a Langley. Not a single picture of the first wife or my half brother, but there were some small snapshots of a younger, healthy version of my father laughing with friends at a café. Written on the back of one was “Florence, 1935.” I put the trunks to one side and went back to emptying linen closets, the pantry, the bathroom cupboard, assembling a big pile to be donated and an equally big pile to be taken out with the rubbish. I found that I felt completely unsentimental about discarding items from my childhood, only anxious to get this task done and set off on my quest.