The Heiresses (14 page)

Before she could talk herself out of it, and knowing she was far enough away from the town house now, she turned and waited on the street corner until she saw a taxi. Hailing it, she got into the backseat as fast as she possibly could. “Russell Square, please,” she told the driver. “Number 52 Russell Square.” She remembered the address easily, having repeated it to herself over and over again during the steamer ride back to London. Ever since Charles had whispered it into her ear. Ever since Thalia had first suspected Clio might be the underhanded liar and thief that she now was.

*   *   *

Clio stood across the road from Charles’s town house, as far back from the pavement as the railings behind her, circling the square’s greenery, would allow. For several minutes, she stared up at his home, wondering how on earth she would find the courage to cross the road, climb the four wide steps, and ask to gain admittance in order that she might speak to him. She wasn’t sure her legs, now trembling slightly, along with her hands, would make it across the road, let alone up to the front door.

Out of the corner of her eye, Clio noticed a figure on her right—almost around the corner—who seemed to be staring at the same town house. It was a woman, Clio could see, squinting in the slowly lengthening shadows of the evening. Not recognizing her, Clio turned her attention away once more, thinking she was most likely curious as to why Clio’s attention was drawn to a specific building.

Clio drew a deep breath and stared at the ground for a moment or two, trying to form a plan as to what she might ask Charles. How could she best put her case? But, really, it was quite simple. Her mother was unwell. She would be happy to leave the city if Charles would give her some money. Any money, as long as it was enough to help her mother in some way. She was being ridiculous standing about here and wasting time. Surely he would not say no?

Readying herself to cross the road, Clio looked up, then realized that the woman she had noticed before was approaching her at a fast rate. The pair’s eyes met and, immediately, something instinctual flared within Clio. There was something about this woman that wasn’t right. Before, all Clio had seen was a tall, thin woman in the distance. Up close, her features themselves suggested she may have once been quite striking, but she was rather nondescript in other ways—clad in sturdy boots and plain, dark clothes. Clio gave her a short smile in the hope that she would be on her way and stepped forward, ready to cross the road.

With this, the woman lunged forward and caught her arm. “Stop!” she said. “I know you. What is your name?”

“Clio,” Clio stammered after a moment or two, caught unawares. “Clio Silsby.”

The woman took a step closer toward her and, suddenly, Clio knew for sure that everything was not right. The woman seemed slightly … odd—agitated and frenzied. She inspected Clio’s face closely. Then, “How old are you?” she demanded. “You were looking over there. At that town house. Number 52. What is your business here? What is Charles Towneley to you?” Her questions came faster and faster. And, all the time, the woman’s eyes skated over Clio’s features, her figure, right down to her very feet, as if she were looking for something, searching for something.

Her breath coming fast now, Clio wrenched her arm away and ran across the street, not checking for motorcars. All she cared about was getting away from this woman, whoever she was. There was something about the way she looked at her—almost as if she wished she were dead—that scared Clio to her very core. It was if she knew at once why Clio was here and what she was doing—knew that she had lied and betrayed her sisters and was here to ask Charles for money.

“Wait!” the woman called out again.

Clio paid no attention to her cries and ran up the steps now, pressing the buzzer urgently. Just as the door began to open, she turned to see if the woman had followed her, or if she was still there. But she was gone.

*   *   *

“Do your sisters know that you are here?” Charles did not invite Clio to sit down in the room she had hurriedly been steered into. It was some sort of library, she supposed, considering the imposing cases of books towering around her and the gigantic, thick desk of impossibly shiny wood sitting in the center of the room. Charles had not seemed terribly surprised to see her, but was obviously not pleased that she had come, either. He had not even said hello.

“No,” Clio answered him truthfully, as he circled the room, picking up this and that, glancing at her from time to time. “I will be honest with you. I am here because my mother is not well. Her lungs are deteriorating quickly and a doctor, one from Oxford, has told us that she must move to a warmer climate, or at least be removed from her damp cottage, if her health is to get any better. This is why I am here. I would be happy to leave the city forever if you would be kind enough to pay me my share of the money you offered the other day. I am not interested in asking for any more than you offered, as my sisters and my aunt are.”

Across the room, Charles slowly placed the book he was holding down on a side table before turning to look at her. “Let me guess. The others have not left town and have no intention of doing so. None of you left this morning?”

“This morning?” Clio did not understand. “Well, no.” Why would Charles think that? She pressed on. “But I am happy to go. And to never return.”

Charles simply shook his head in the oddest way. Almost as if, Clio thought, he was chiding himself. There was a long pause. Finally, he drew a deep breath, before moving over to sit behind his desk. Clio watched him carefully, hoping against hope. Was he moving toward his desk so that he might write her a bank note, or something similar? Please, God …

“No,” Charles barked, as soon as he had positioned himself in his chair. “It is not good enough. I need all three of you gone from the city. I cannot have this hanging over my head. Not now, when the Conservatives are beginning to look upon me so favorably. One is not good enough. It must be all three, or nothing. The last thing I need is for even two abandoned children of my father’s to be mooching around this city. Goodness knows how many might come out of the woodwork. No, it is all three out of the city, or nothing.”

Now Clio did not wait for an invitation, but sank into the chair closest to Charles’s desk. “But…”

“No,” Charles said, firmly. “It is your job to convince them to leave. Do that and you can have your share.”

“But…” Clio tried once more.

“No! No more!” Charles stared down at his desk and ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. It was some time before he glanced back up at Clio again. When he did, it was as if he was truly surprised to find her still sitting there. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough,” he said with a groan, leaning back in his chair. “You know, I really
do not understand
why any of you are still here at all!” He stared up at the ceiling for a moment or two. “It is pure insanity.” With a sigh, he looked back down again. “As I have already stated quite clearly—you have no legal claim to this money. I do not have to give you anything.”

“I know that, but…”

Charles raised one hand. “I don’t think you understand at all. Perhaps I should have given you a little more information. I lied the other day. The two fair girls…”

“Thalia and Ro?” Clio said.

“Yes. They exist. Or existed. But I don’t think you understand—you never existed at all.”

“I don’t…” Clio shook her head, but Charles only raised his hand again.

“I shouldn’t be saying any of this, but there is no other way to make you see. The other two girls are documented. You are not. Oh, I have no doubt there were initially three of you, for I heard my parents whispering about it many a time. Not,” he interrupted himself, staring into her eyes to see if she was paying close attention, “that I will ever repeat what I am saying outside of this room, or that I know the full extent of what went on—to be honest, I am not particularly interested, either. Oh, I suppose it will be easier if I just show you.” With this, he fumbled about in one pocket and finally extracted a key, with which he proceeded to unlock a drawer in his desk. He brought out a large envelope with some documents inside, opening it up. “Yes, here we are,” he pulled out a few pieces of paper and what looked like a photograph. “A photograph and one death certificate, two death certificates … oh, and nothing for you. No surprise there. Here, look for yourself.” He pushed the documents unceremoniously across his desk. “You can see that your aunt has not told you the full story. You weren’t simply sent away to the countryside to be brought up. It’s as I said—you never really existed. Especially you.”

Frowning, Clio reached for the articles Charles offered. The two death certificates were on top and it was these that she picked up first. The writing matched on both—a swirling, decidedly tilted hand—the words unmistakable and almost identical, bar the names listed. For both, the place of death read Mayfair, London. The sex: female. Age: one day. Informant: Dr. H. Hollingsworth. Only the names were different. One certificate read Erato Craven-Towneley, the other Thalia Craven-Towneley. There was no third certificate.

As calmly as she could, Clio reached for the photograph next. With a shaking hand, she brought it closer toward her, then visibly shrank and paled as she took in the details of the image. Though they were out of fashion now, she knew what the image was. It was a memorial portrait—a portrait made of a person after death, for the family to keep in his or her memory. This one was of a beautiful, fair-haired young woman—her mother, though it took Clio a moment to realize this. Her eyes were closed and her expression blank, of course, so unlike the lively looks of the woman she had seen in Hestia’s photographs—the exasperated laughter in the rowboat, the sparkling eyes of the child who had recently kicked a beloved sister in the shins. But it was the second part of the photo that shocked Clio to her very core. For there, in the crook of Demeter’s arms, lay two dead children. Two fair-headed, newborn twins, as still and as silent as their mother.

Charles stood up then and came around the desk, to take the two death certificates from her. “Those,” he said, “are mine. But you can take the photograph, if you like, I have more. You seem the most sensible of the three. Not to mention, you have the most to lose, never having existed at all. Perhaps you might use the photograph to persuade your sisters it might be worthwhile leaving town once and for all? If you can get them to leave, I might very well consider giving you a little extra, just for yourself…”

But Clio could not form any sort of answer. Her eyes were caught up in the photograph and the image of her two sisters, as dead as her mother, with no third child, living or dead, in sight.

Secret Meetings

After her meeting with Charles, Clio had hurried back to the town house. She had the taxi drop her around the corner from Belgrave Square, scared of being seen and ashamed of what she had done. It felt like only moments ago she had been informed that she was a triplet and an heiress and already she had betrayed her two sisters.

She pushed the memorial portrait into the bodice of her dress where it sat uncomfortably against her skin, a constant reminder of her deceit. She was of two minds about whether or not to show it to her sisters. In the end she decided it was best not to tell them. After all, how would she explain how she had come by the photograph in the first place? The other problem was that Clio knew Thalia could easily use this information against her. And that she
would
use it, given a chance. If the opportunity arose to split this fortune between herself and Ro, shutting Clio out, Thalia would take that chance and take it willingly. Clio didn’t want to think unfavorably of her half sibling, but she knew this was true. Leaving Clio out in the cold, even though she had a mother who was unwell, would not bother Thalia in the slightest. Clio was, however, very concerned about keeping any information from Ro. Ro was so clever—Clio knew it would be the middle sister who found their way out of this somehow. Really, she was their only hope. In the end, Clio decided to sleep on the matter and perhaps approach Hestia with the memorial portrait in the morning to see what she had to say about it.

*   *   *

“Don’t tell me she’s gone out again?” Thalia groaned, having searched the drawing room, dining room, and library for Hestia and finding her nowhere.

“Well, it
is
past ten o’clock now,” Ro pointed out, curled up in one of the drawing room armchairs. “If you go out all night and then get up so late…”

“Yes, yes, thank you for the lecture. Did you get to speak to Hestia this morning? Did she give you all the names you were looking for?”

“She was in a bit of a rush, I’m afraid,” Ro answered. “She did promise to talk to me later.”

“In a rush, or simply avoiding us?” Thalia grumbled, glancing at Clio, who practically jumped the moment Thalia’s eyes fell upon her. As calmly as she possibly could, Clio stood up from her own armchair, placing the magazine she had been reading on the small side table beside her. “The maid told me she had gone to Parliament Square. I was thinking of meeting her there soon.”

Thalia’s eyes searched hers, curious. “Why?” she asked, immediately suspicious.

“I need to speak to her as well. About some … medication. For my mother. It’s reasonably urgent.” Clio tried not to gulp. This was what happened with lies. You could never tell just one.

It had, however, been the right thing to say. On mentioning her mother, Thalia became instantly bored. “Oh, all right then,” she said. “Do remind her to come back soon to answer Ro’s questions.”

Clio had taken this as her cue and had run off to get just enough money from the drawer in the library for a taxi. After pulling on her coat and ducking into her room to tuck the memorial portrait safely into one of her pockets, she was gone.

*   *   *

Clio’s taxi zipped along past Buckingham Palace and toward Westminster. Within less than fifteen minutes she was approaching Parliament Square and the Buxton Memorial Fountain on foot, where there seemed to be a small demonstration regarding women’s suffrage taking place. It didn’t take her long before she spotted Hestia, who was holding an enormous placard, which read, in large letters,
WOMEN’S SUFFRAGE FOR ALL!