‘I . . .’
‘According to her biography on the Yale University website . . .’ Orlando rifled through the file on the table and pulled out a sheet of paper, ‘Professor Sylvia Gray was born in London, then won a scholarship to Cambridge. Highly unusual, Miss Star, for a girl from the East End to achieve such a thing. She went on to complete an MA and a PhD and was there for the next five years before she was offered a position at Yale, “where she met and married her husband, Robert Stein, a professor of astrophysics at Yale. She now lives in New Haven, Connecticut, with her three children, four horses, and is at work on her new book”,’ Orlando quoted from the sheet of paper.
‘She’s an author?’
‘She’s published some critical texts through Yale University Press. There! Isn’t it amazing how genes will out?’
‘I hate horses. Always have,’ I mumbled.
‘Don’t be so pedantic. I thought you’d be overjoyed!’
‘Not particularly. After all, she gave me away.’
‘But I am sure you’ve worked out from the family tree I drew so carefully for you that “Petula” – now “Sylvia” – was only eighteen when she gave birth to you. She was born in 1962.’
‘Yes, I had worked it out.’
‘She must have been in her first year at Cambridge, which meant she became pregnant at some point the previous summer—’
‘Orlando, please, slow down. I’m doing my best to take all this in, but it’s hard.’
‘Forgive me. As I said earlier, I should stick to fiction, not reality.’ He lapsed into silence then like a chastised child, as I tried to process what he’d told me.
‘May I speak?’ he said timidly.
‘Yes,’ I sighed.
‘There is something you should see, Miss Star.’
‘What is it?’
He handed me a printout. ‘She’s here in England next week. Lecturing at Cambridge, her old alma mater.’
‘Oh.’ I read it blindly, then put it down.
‘Isn’t it incredible? To come to where she is now, without the backing of privilege. It just shows you how the world has moved on.’
‘And you hate it.’
‘Admittedly,’ he said, ‘I’ve been against the march of progress. But as I was only discussing with my brother the other night, you have helped to change me. For the better, might I add. Investigating your origins . . . well, it has taught me a lot. Thank you, Miss Star. I am in so many ways indebted to you. Will you go?’
‘Where?’
‘To meet her in Cambridge, of course.’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought, I . . .’
‘Of course you haven’t.’ Orlando laced his long fingers together, finally taking the hint. ‘So now, how about I tell you what I have decided regarding my own future?’
‘All right.’
‘Well, I mentioned that Mouse and I had a long conversation the other night. And you will be glad to hear we made amends.’
‘I heard from Mouse, yes.’
‘Then you will also know that dear Mr Ho has offered us what is an astonishingly healthy amount of money for the shop. Which will enable both Mouse and me to clear the debts accrued against our various assets. And for me to find alternative premises for myself and my books. The good news is, I think I may have found such a thing already,’ he announced.
‘Really?’
‘Yes indeed.’
And then he told me about Mr Meadows’ bookshop in Tenterden and how he had already offered to take over the lease. And that Mr Meadows had agreed immediately.
‘There is also a set of rooms upstairs where I can live,’ he added. ‘And I do believe after all this time in the trade, I’ve earned the right to name it “O. Forbes Esquire – Rare Books”. What do you think?’
‘About the idea, or the name?’
‘Both.’
‘I think that they are perfect.’
‘Do you really?’ Orlando said, his face opening like a burst of sunshine. ‘Well, so do I. And perhaps it’s time for a fresh start for all of us in the family. Which includes you. After all, you are related to dear Marguerite.’
‘And Rory,’ I added.
‘Mouse and I discussed whether we should tell her everything about the past. I mean, it hardly makes any difference now, given it was so many years ago, but the irony is, she never wanted High Weald anyway. After Teddy’s tenure of extravagance, the estate was left flat broke. My father’s cousin Michael – Teddy and Dixie’s son – had to sell off portions of what was left of the farmland, plus the dower house and the cottages, just to keep afloat. But, of course, there was nothing spare for renovations. Mouse and I have talked about giving Marguerite a share of the proceeds of the shop to help with the basics like plumbing and heating. Who’d have thought it . . . ?’
‘Thought what?’ I watched Orlando as he drifted off into his own world.
‘That sixty-odd years on, it would be us, the poor relations across the lane, mere shopkeepers and farmers, that would be offering charity to the incumbent lady of the manor. But that is what can happen in time. Just like your mother and her rise in fortunes, a lot can change in two generations.’
‘Yes, it can.’
‘Will you go to Cambridge and listen to her lecture?’
‘Orlando.’ I rolled my eyes at the way he’d managed to steer the conversation back. ‘I can’t just turn up and tell her I’m her long-lost daughter.’
‘I insist that you see one more bit of evidence. One could say it is the denouement of my thorough detective work. Now, where did I put it?’ He rifled through the pile of papers once more. ‘Aha! Here!’ He handed it to me with a flourish.
I looked down at the page and saw a face gazing back at me. The face was as familiar as my own, only older and more well groomed, with blue eyes enhanced with subtle make-up, and the alabaster skin framed by a shiny white-blonde bob. I could feel Orlando’s eyes boring into me, his excitement palpable.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘The internet, of course. On one of those networking sites. Now tell me that Professor Sylvia Gray isn’t your mother, Miss Star?’
I stared again at what I would undoubtedly look like in my mid-forties. Despite all the written proof Orlando had collated for me, it was this photograph that made it real.
‘She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?’ he prompted. ‘Just like you. And fate has conspired to have her right under our very noses in a few days’ time. Surely you must take the opportunity presented to you? Personally, I’d love to chat to her. She’s one of the foremost authorities on Russian literature – which as you know, I have a particular penchant for. Her biography tells me she lived in St Petersburg for a year while doing her PhD.’
‘No, Orlando, stop it, please! It’s too soon. I need time to think . . .’
‘Of course you do, and again, I beg your pardon for my excitement.’
‘I can’t just walk into a lecture at Cambridge University! I’m not a student there.’
‘True,’ Orlando agreed. ‘But luckily, we are blessed with knowing someone who is. Or at least, was.’