reveal my own suspicions? I might lose a fortune by speaking out, but to remain silent would surely be wrong, perhaps even criminal. My thought was interrupted by Dora tapping at the door with the tea-tray, and for the next several minutes I was obliged to make uneasy small talk, while trying to decide what I should do.
‘Sir, before you continue,’ I said as soon as the door had closed behind her, ‘I think I ought to tell you ... I have sometimes wondered whether I might have been a foster child – a foundling. My parents never said, but it would explain ... certain things about my childhood – and if I am not their child by blood, then—’
I broke off, alarmed by Mr Montague’s reaction. What little colour he possessed had drained from his features; his cup rattled against his saucer and he was obliged to set it down.
‘Forgive me, Miss Langton – a momentary indisposition. Are you willing to tell me how you came to this conclusion – to consider the possibility, I mean?’
And so I launched into the story of Alma’s death, and my mother’s collapse, my walks with Annie by the Foundling Hospital and my father’s utter indifference, but leaving out the séances, wondering all the time what had so shaken Mr Montague. Though the fire was scarcely keeping the cold at bay, I noticed a faint sheen of perspiration on his forehead, and every so often, though he did his best to conceal it, he would wince as if in pain. He asked various questions, most of which I was quite unable to answer, about my parents’ lives before they had married – I did not even know where or how they had met – the sources of my father’s income, and whether I had any memories at all of the time before we moved to London.
‘None, sir; none that I am sure of.’
‘I see ... Let me say at once, Miss Langton, that even if your suspicionswere proven, the bequest would stand. You are your mother’s legitimate daughter according to law, and that is all that the law requires. And besides ...’
‘Mr Montague,’ I ventured, when he did not immediately continue, ‘you have spoken of a resemblance, and intimated – at least my heart divines – that you know something which touches upon my suspicions about my birth. Will you not tell me what it is?’
Still he kept silent, as if caught up in some inner debate, glancing from me to the glow of the fire and back again. Pale grey light slanted through the window; the glass was streaked with tears of condensation.
‘Miss Langton,’ he said at last, ‘I assure you, I know nothing of your history beyond what you have told me. What you divine is – only the wildest of fancies on my part. No – the best advice I can give you is to sell the estate, sight unseen, enjoy whatever wealth it brings you, and let the name of Wraxford vanish from memory.’
‘But how can I be certain of that,’ I persisted, emboldened by his hesitation, ‘if you will not tell me what you suspect – or who you think that I resemble?’
He seemed more struck by this than I would have expected, and resumed his communion with the flames.
‘I confess, Miss Langton,’ he said finally, ‘that I do not know how to answer you. You must allow me time to reflect; I shall write to you within the week.’ And soon after that he took his leave.
My uncle was naturally astounded by the news, but the name Wraxford meant nothing to him, beyond vague associations with some ancient crime or scandal, and the weather remained so bitter that the streets were mired with frozen slush, while the hours dragged by in an endless round of speculation until, on the fourth morning after Mr Montague’s visit, a stoutly wrapped parcel arrived for me by registered mail. It contained another package, also sealed; a brief letter, and a chart of the Wraxford genealogy, drawn in the same small, precise hand.
20 th Jan y 1889
Dear Miss Langton,
You have trusted me with your secret, and I have resolved to trust you with mine. I
‘Sir, before you continue,’ I said as soon as the door had closed behind her, ‘I think I ought to tell you ... I have sometimes wondered whether I might have been a foster child – a foundling. My parents never said, but it would explain ... certain things about my childhood – and if I am not their child by blood, then—’
I broke off, alarmed by Mr Montague’s reaction. What little colour he possessed had drained from his features; his cup rattled against his saucer and he was obliged to set it down.
‘Forgive me, Miss Langton – a momentary indisposition. Are you willing to tell me how you came to this conclusion – to consider the possibility, I mean?’
And so I launched into the story of Alma’s death, and my mother’s collapse, my walks with Annie by the Foundling Hospital and my father’s utter indifference, but leaving out the séances, wondering all the time what had so shaken Mr Montague. Though the fire was scarcely keeping the cold at bay, I noticed a faint sheen of perspiration on his forehead, and every so often, though he did his best to conceal it, he would wince as if in pain. He asked various questions, most of which I was quite unable to answer, about my parents’ lives before they had married – I did not even know where or how they had met – the sources of my father’s income, and whether I had any memories at all of the time before we moved to London.
‘None, sir; none that I am sure of.’
‘I see ... Let me say at once, Miss Langton, that even if your suspicionswere proven, the bequest would stand. You are your mother’s legitimate daughter according to law, and that is all that the law requires. And besides ...’
‘Mr Montague,’ I ventured, when he did not immediately continue, ‘you have spoken of a resemblance, and intimated – at least my heart divines – that you know something which touches upon my suspicions about my birth. Will you not tell me what it is?’
Still he kept silent, as if caught up in some inner debate, glancing from me to the glow of the fire and back again. Pale grey light slanted through the window; the glass was streaked with tears of condensation.
‘Miss Langton,’ he said at last, ‘I assure you, I know nothing of your history beyond what you have told me. What you divine is – only the wildest of fancies on my part. No – the best advice I can give you is to sell the estate, sight unseen, enjoy whatever wealth it brings you, and let the name of Wraxford vanish from memory.’
‘But how can I be certain of that,’ I persisted, emboldened by his hesitation, ‘if you will not tell me what you suspect – or who you think that I resemble?’
He seemed more struck by this than I would have expected, and resumed his communion with the flames.
‘I confess, Miss Langton,’ he said finally, ‘that I do not know how to answer you. You must allow me time to reflect; I shall write to you within the week.’ And soon after that he took his leave.
My uncle was naturally astounded by the news, but the name Wraxford meant nothing to him, beyond vague associations with some ancient crime or scandal, and the weather remained so bitter that the streets were mired with frozen slush, while the hours dragged by in an endless round of speculation until, on the fourth morning after Mr Montague’s visit, a stoutly wrapped parcel arrived for me by registered mail. It contained another package, also sealed; a brief letter, and a chart of the Wraxford genealogy, drawn in the same small, precise hand.
20 th Jan y 1889
Dear Miss Langton,
You have trusted me with your secret, and I have resolved to trust you with mine. I
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