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Part One—The Journey
Chapter One
Unexpectedly comes a knock at your door. Standing there is a courier asking you to sign for a packet.
What in the world? The packet has come from “Allensby, Bixby, Crosby, & Sons & Daughters, Barristers and Solicitors,” from a town in England whose name you don’t recognize. There are several items inside, the largest of which is a beautifully handwritten letter on stationery emblazoned with a coat of arms:
My Beloved Child,
My name is Arthur Hanover, and what I am about to tell you may come as rather a shock: I am your uncle. A relative you never knew existed, and about whom no one has ever spoken. I have chosen this moment to reveal my existence because I am the last of my line, and growing old. More importantly, you are named in my will as the inheritor of my estate, title and wealth. This includes my ancestral home, Hanover Manor.
In order to secure your inheritance, however, there are some documents that must be presented by you to the local probate court. This will require that you come to England. To that end, I have enclosed an assortment of vouchers good for first-class travel to London and onwards to my estate. In addition, there is a cheque for £20,000, an amount I trust will be sufficient to cover your expenses during your journey.
You may, of course, choose to ignore this invitation and simply cash the enclosed cheque. The world is in such a state of utter paranoia these days that I would not be surprised if you did. However, if I’ve assessed your character correctly, you are neither faint of heart nor lacking a sense of adventure. I believe you will come.
If you do make the journey, what awaits you besides wealth, property and a title is this: a complete explanation of your relationship to me. Curiosity, I am certain, is what propels gifted people like yourself through life.
But for reasons I cannot disclose, I must urgently request that you tell no one of this letter or your plans. It is for your own good, my child, believe me. After the court receives the documents, you may say and do as you please.
Finally, as a reassurance that I am who I say, I’ve included a copy of my entry in Burke’s Peerage.
Affectionately,
Arthur Hanover
Hanover Manor
You
double-check the addressee, but it’s you and only you. Smile and think, this
is an elaborate prank, and try to guess who among your friends has engineered
it. Realize it’s not April Fool’s yet. Then you wonder whether this isn’t
the most elaborate junk mailing you’ve ever received. Look for a sweepstakes
offer, the come-on, the fine print. There isn’t any. From the packet you pull
out an unsealed envelope stamped with the British Airways logo. Inside—an
authentic-looking “Gift of Travel” voucher with instructions on how to
redeem it. The voucher details several itineraries from your city, including
connecting flights. Says you can even go through New York and take the Concorde
over if you choose. The tickets will be round-trip, first class, open-ended,
good for one year.Next you find a voucher from a British limousine service, called Browns Chauffeur Hire, stating that you’ll be met at either Heathrow or Gatwick, depending on your flight. You can call any time, on as little as two-hours’ notice. No mention of an expiration date. Only that a Bentley limousine has been reserved and will transport you to and from a destination listed as “Hanover Manor.”
Another item is a sealed envelope from Barclays Bank. You open it, and find a draft made out to you for the amount stipulated in the letter. It looks genuine.
Still another is a reprint from the 1998 edition of Burke’s Peerage and Baronetage. It’s a capsule biography of one Arthur Reynold Hanover, with myriad references to his ancestors, who from medieval times have progressed from barons to viscounts to marquises. None of the names is of anybody related to you that you know of.
Finally,
there is a small blue envelope affixed with a reddish brown wax seal and a handwritten
message on the outside:Open this only if you remain truly undecided whether to come. Otherwise, it’s best that you discard it unread.—A.H. You recheck the packet. Missed it the first time—a small audiotape. The tape is an exact recitation of the letter. The alleged Arthur Hanover speaks to you in the rich, cultured voice of a trained Shakespearean actor. If this is a hoax, someone has gone to a lot of trouble.
You reread the letter while replaying the tape. Eventually conclude this is no frivolous joke or advertising ploy. So there must be some huge mistake or something seriously wrong here. You’re tempted to call a friend or a family member. But you gaze at the letter, at the tape, and then down at that small envelope, and something restrains you from calling anybody. Not yet.
The reprint doesn’t tell you much, but Lord Hanover sounds highly accomplished. Says he’s a member of Britain’s Academy of Science. Also on the boards of several genealogical societies. You know that the British Isles is a region that takes bloodlines very seriously.
Then it hits you. Really hits.
You sit down to catch your breath.
This means one of your parents has a half brother, of whom they themselves may or may not know anything about. Or maybe know but must keep it secret. From you? Yes, obviously. From the rest of the family? Probably, since you’ve never before heard a hint of this. From the other parent if only one knows? Maybe—another disturbing possibility.
Gosh, this also means that one of your own dear grandmothers, for heaven’s sake, once gave birth to a child about whom the rest of the family was not informed. Or was it one of your grandfathers who sired this Hanover character? Has all this been kept under wraps to protect either or both of them?
But so what if there’s really some uncle out there you never knew you had? You could adjust to that.
But hold on. Maybe all affected family members do know, and this has been withheld from you until now at the request of Arthur Hanover. To protect his reputation, or that of his grandparents—maybe as a condition of being named in his will. So now the end is near, and at long last it’s time to inform you. That fits.
Except: He urges you not to discuss this with anyone. And nobody on your end has said a word.
Which backtracks to another looming question, one you probably should have asked first: Why me? Why not leave it to Mom or Dad? … Well, for whatever reason, he didn’t, so that could explain the possibility of neither of them knowing about his will.
Then
there’s that salutation. … God, you can hardly bear to think it. But you have to—an
unimaginable bequest is involved: What if
he’s actually my father? Maybe “uncle” is just a cover story, designed
to protect you and your parents, regardless of whether they’re privy to these
latest developments. Unfortunately, that fits, too. But it’s too painful, so
you shove that possibility aside.
