Page 88 of The Tuscan Child
“Where am I going?” Hugo regarded him with distaste. “I am Sir Hugo Langley and this is my house.”
“Not this part of it, mate,” the man said. “Right now this is the property of His Majesty’s government and the East Sussex regiment. Your bit is the wing over there.”
Hugo swallowed back his anger. “I thought you were supposed to be moving out.”
“We are. They were going to send us over to France, but it seems they don’t need us. Doing very nicely without us. So I reckon we’ll be going home soon.”
As Hugo went to walk away the man called, “So where have you been? Having a good time on the Riviera?”
“Flying bombing raids. In Malta since 1941, then in Italy, then in hospital for three months while they rebuilt my leg.”
The man stood to attention and saluted. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see the uniform. I didn’t realise.”
Hugo went around to the side of the house and in through what had once been a servant’s entrance. It felt wrong to be sneaking into his own home like this. He wandered around, recognising objects of furniture but experiencing a jolt of unreality that nothing was in its proper place and none of the rooms were familiar to him. On the table in what was now serving as a drawing room, he found the letter addressed to him.
Dear Hugo,
As I write this I don’t know whether you are alive or dead. They say you are missing. I have to think that means dead. I have stayed on here dutifully, but now I have to think about my own happiness and that of our son. I have met someone. He’s an American major. A wonderful person, likes to laugh and dance and makes me feel alive again. I am going to America with him as soon as they can find a place for me on a ship. I have instructed your solicitor to start divorce proceedings. I’ll happily admit to being the guilty party so there is no stain on you or your lofty family.
It never really worked, did it? I saw the fun, creative side of you when we were students together in Florence, but when we came back to England you tried to be your father—stuffy and boring and correct—and I never felt that I belonged at Langley. Not the sort of life I would have chosen. And poor little Teddy, so lonely and always teased by the village boys. I want a better life for him, too.
Please forgive me. I wish you all the best,
Brenda
Hugo stared at the letter for a long while. At first he felt indignation that his wife should betray him with an American. But then elation took over. If Sofia’s husband did not return he was free to marry her. As soon as the war ended and he was allowed to travel, he would go back to Italy and bring her home. He sat down immediately at the writing desk and wrote her a letter.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
HUGO
Spring 1945
Weeks passed and there was still no letter from Sofia. Hugo told himself that the postal system in Italy was just not up and running yet. Maybe her letter had got lost in the mail. He’d wait until the official end of the war and then write again. Or better still, he’d go over and surprise her.
But then he had a visit from the family solicitor, Mr.Barton.
“I’m sorry to meet in such distressing circumstances,” he said. “I understand you will not contest the divorce your wife requests?”
“I will not,” Hugo said.
“Then that matter can be taken care of simply. But your father’s death has created the serious matter of death duties. I am afraid they are quite considerable based on the size and value of the estate.”
“What do you mean when you say ‘quite considerable’?” Hugo asked.
“Almost a million pounds.”
“A million pounds?” he demanded. “Where am I going to get that sort of money?”
“If you can’t raise it I’m afraid the estate will have to be sold.”
“But that is monstrous,” he snapped. “Unfair.”
“It’s the way the law works I’m afraid.”
“Could some of the land be sold off for building?”
“Possibly. Although I doubt it would bring in enough.”
