Indignation and fear mingled in her heart

The letter arrived on the hall mat together with a bill Ingrid knew would have a great red overdue stamp across it, an unsolicited Cotton Traders mail order brochure for clothes she couldn’t afford, and a flyer from the council which she would read later on the off chance it applied to her. Highly unlikely.

The envelope was made of thick paper, which misled Ingrid into believing the contents were substantial. Her name and address were typed, the typist using an old-fashioned typewriter – the kind you had to push the keys down hard and return the carriage.

Intrigued, Ingrid carefully slit the edge and peered inside. At first she thought the envelope was empty, but exploring fingers caught a thin sheet of paper. She gently pulled the paper out, shaking the envelope to see if there was anything more. No.

The contents of the letter were sparse, less than one page.

My niece, Ingrid.
If you are reading this, then I have departed this mortal coil. As I type, I sincerely hope that will be many years hence. Others may not wish me so well, but that is most definitely their problem.

It certainly was some years hence. Forty five years hence. Ingrid’s eye ran to the signature at the bottom. She had not known she possessed an aunt, on either side of her family. In fact, as far as Ingrid knew, she was without near kin of any kind – no siblings, parents gone, no aunts and uncles to provide cousins.

Your aunt, Lucille.

And a copperplate signature bearing the same surname as Ingrid. Her father’s sister then.

Ingrid returned to the contents, a flutter of excitement building. Was she about to inherit a fortune, even a small one, from an estranged aunt who had always wanted to know her niece but had kept from spoiling her all these years due to some ancient family quarrel? It was like a novel. Her spirits lifted. She eyed the Cotton Traders catalogue, now with disdain.

You may not be aware of my existence, Ingrid, although I am much aware of yours. It broke the hearts of myself and my dear parents when Robert married that unsuitable girl, hence we have never been introduced.

Unsuitable girl? Indignation rose in Ingrid’s breast. What was unsuitable about her mother? Good country stock, farming people, Ingrid had been told. Somewhere in Gloucestershire, near an ancient forest with few roads back then and a populace which liked to keep to themselves. She returned to the letter.

You are likely unaware of the tragedy of your parents’ marriage, what it cost your father and his family. Now I am gone, however – and whether either of your parents outlive me or not – I wish you to be aware of the true circumstances of your birth. Do not take what will be disclosed to you lightly. I never could abide the notion of the sins of the fathers being visited on the heads of the children, which is why it is my duty to warn you. Hopefully in time.

Warnings? Tragedies? Cost? Ingrid’s pulse pattered. Indignation and fear mingled in her heart as she hurriedly scanned the rest of the letter.

I am not prepared to relive the horror of those days by writing all the details. I have, however, dictated a full account which resides in a safety deposit box held by my London solicitor, the details of whom are included with this letter, as instructed in my will.
You should contact them as a matter of urgency. Also note that there is good news to somewhat offset the bad.
I will die a rich woman with no one to inherit, apart from you. I had considered Battersea Dogs Home, and may still leave my fortune to some such charity. You will find out shortly.
Your aunt Lucille.

Solicitor? Ingrid ripped the envelope apart, but it remained empty of any solicitor details. She stumbled to the couch in the tiny lounge room, sat heavily, staring at the life-changing correspondence in her shaking hand. … which some brainless solicitor’s clerk had just rendered entirely futile.

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