The Heiresses (7 page)

“Institutionalized!” Thalia exclaimed. “Whatever for?” She knew it was rude to quiz her aunt, but they were here for the truth, were they not?

“Oh, for many reasons.” Hestia shook her head, avoiding the question. “We can talk about that some other day.”

“So it is really true that our mother is dead?” Clio asked.

Hestia paused for a moment before speaking. “Yes. I am afraid so. I was there the day she died. The day of your birth. I saw it with my own eyes. Oh, Demeter and I had so many plans, including a brilliant doctor lined up, one who used extremely progressive methods. One who could have, perhaps, saved her life. However, it was not to be. He was dismissed by William, and Demeter had to rely upon a doctor who should never have been allowed to practice medicine at all. Just before she died, she named you: Thalia, Erato, and Clio Craven-Towneley. Her last act on this earth. Do you have the tokens I asked you to bring today?” Her eyes lit up, remembering she had asked them to do so.

It took only seconds for all three girls to produce the three embroidered hearts. As they laid them on the small table in front of them, all three gasped. They were exactly the same—obviously made by the same hand.

“I believe there is a small slit, in the side of each heart,” Hestia continued. “Originally there was a small paper scroll protruding from it, though it may now have been pushed inside.…”

Thalia, Ro, and Clio all picked up their hearts once more and located the cavity inside. All three pulled out a small piece of paper. And all three opened the piece of paper and read it out at the same time.

“My name is Thalia. This name was given to me by my mother, who loved me dearly. Please use it in her memory.”

“My name is Erato. This name was given to me by my mother, who loved me dearly. Please use it in her memory.”

“My name is Clio. This name was given to me by my mother, who loved me dearly. Please use it in her memory.”

“Did you make these?” Ro glanced up first to ask her aunt.

Hestia simply shook her head. “No. A very clever and kind woman did so.”

“Thalia, Erato, and Clio,” Ro said quietly. “Comedy”—she nodded at Thalia—“and history.” She turned to Clio, nodding at her as well.

“And you?” Clio asked.

Ro blushed. “Erotic poetry.”

“Lucky you.” Thalia raised her eyebrows suggestively.

Ro avoided Thalia’s gaze. “Hestia pertains to the hearth and Demeter the harvest and fertility.”

“Also life, death, and marriage. I sometimes wonder if our father had foresight.” Hestia shook her head forlornly. “Demeter’s dearest wish was that I look after you. And that is what I am here to do now that your father is no longer with us, causing his endless trouble. Still, I have something to be thankful for—it was William who made me discover my voice as a woman in the modern world.”

Thalia interrupted. “Our mother was Demeter Craven, before marriage. I have heard of the Cravens, of course, in the newspaper, because of your campaigning to take your seat in the House of Lords. But you mentioned our father’s name briefly—Towneley. I know it as well, but I can’t quite remember why.…”

“Your father was William Towneley,” Hestia answered with a brief cough. “Later William Craven-Towneley. He was a viscount, as was my father, your grandfather.”

“Really? Our father was a viscount? So, we have a title!” Thalia sat up in her seat.

“Yes, you do.” Hestia’s voice had a warning note to it.

“Which makes us Honourables?” Ro asked.

Hestia responded with a curt nod.

“I don’t understand.” Clio’s eyes darted from one sister to the other.

“Truly?” Thalia turned to her, eyes wide. How could she not?

“Don’t speak to her like that!” Ro said, looking shocked at Thalia’s rudeness.

Hestia simply laughed. “Squabbling already! A good sign. You are true sisters!”

“I’m sorry.” Clio looked miserable. It was obvious to all that she was having difficulty keeping up with the conversation.

“There is no need to be sorry, Clio.” Hestia glanced over at her third niece warmly. “Your father was a viscount, which makes you the Honourable Clio Craven-Towneley. However, I’m afraid it is a title that would be rather unwise to use at this point.”

“Clio Silsby.” Clio’s reply came back quickly. “My name is Clio Silsby.”

“It’s not much of a title,” Thalia kept on, ignoring her sister. “I mean, you only write it on envelopes and such, it’s not spoken aloud, but still … a title! I’ve never had one of those before.” Her attention turned to her aunt again. “And what of the new viscount?”

Hestia sighed. “His name is Charles Towneley.”

“We have a brother as well?” Ro asked.

“No,” Hestia said quickly. “Charles Towneley is your
half
brother. It may give you some kind of indication of your father’s moral character when I tell you he had a child with another woman, an American heiress, less than six months after you were born, after your mother’s death. It was long enough, unfortunately, for him to marry this woman, thus making Charles legitimate and now able to carry the title. Disgraceful, really.” Hestia sat back in her seat. “Oh, but this is an awful amount for you to take in over tea at the Savoy.”

“It is,” Clio said softly.

Hestia took a deep breath. “I’m afraid to tell you there’s more and that it is to do with Charles. Now”—she paused—“it is very complicated, but very important, so you must listen carefully. You see, when your mother married, a great deal of money was placed in the trust of her husband, your father, for their future children. This was a gift from her grandparents, who were rather old-fashioned, I’m afraid, and believed that the male, as the head of the household, should control all financial dealings. Unfortunately, because of your father’s machinations, you have been robbed of this inheritance and it has now been passed along in your father’s estate to Charles. This money, as I see it, is not his, but rightfully yours to claim. It was Demeter’s money on marriage, meant for her own children, and Charles is
not
Demeter’s child. I have informed Charles that the three of you are here and reunited and I believe it is now my duty to claim back this money for you, in order that you may make your own way in life and so that the truth can—”

It was at that moment that a shriek rang out, high above the patter of voices and resting of forks on plates, piercing the mood of the Grand Foyer. Everyone in the room quieted and turned in their seats in order to see where the sound emanated from.

A girl of their own age absolutely bolted through the elegant room. She was the most artlessly beautiful person Thalia had ever seen in her life, with a perfect dark bob that swished just so and a black dress with an odd front made to look like a gentleman’s dinner shirt that seemed shockingly masculine. She dragged a very expensive-looking fur stole along on the ground behind her carelessly and her eyes scanned the tables in the room rather furiously, hunting for something as if her very life depended upon it. Before long, her eyes came to rest on the tiered cake stand of their party, which lay virtually untouched.

“Oh, do tell me you have just the tiniest cucumber sandwich to spare?” she said as she raced over toward them. “Just the one! It’s for our scavenger hunt, you know, and I must win today, I really must.”

Hestia gave the girl a long stare. “Do go home, Venetia. You’re making rather a fool of yourself, don’t you think? What would your mother say?”

“I swear you won’t miss it at all.” Venetia ignored Hestia’s words, stole one of the cucumber sandwiches, blew the four of them a kiss, and took off once more. As she exited the room, there was another shriek. “I found one!” she proclaimed to someone out of their range of sight.

Over their untouched tea and cakes, the foursome turned back to stare at one another. “Do you have any questions?” Hestia eventually asked.

“I have one,” Thalia said. “Who was that? And what on earth was she doing?”

“That was Venetia Saville. And she was doing what she usually does—precisely nothing but at a very high volume, preferably with most of London watching. Today, it seems, she’s on a scavenger hunt, treating the city as her playground, competing against some of her little friends and most likely her equally silly brother, Edwin. I’m sure we’ll read about it in all the newspapers tomorrow. Now, do we have any real questions? About the matter at hand?”

The three girls’ eyes met. There were so many questions. Hundreds of questions. About each other, about their parents, about their half brother, about this fortune Hestia had mentioned. But, right now, not one of the girls could put a voice to any of them. There were simply so many questions jostling for attention, aching to come out, that it was difficult to define and ask the first one. Hestia seemed to understand this. “There will be plenty of time to ask. Many, many years, I am hoping. But for now, I must force you to drink your tea and eat at least one cake. I’m sure that is what your mother would want for her three beautiful daughters.”

Silently, the girls did as they were told, washing down the cake that caught in their throats with the now lukewarm tea.

*   *   *

Ro had another question entirely—one that neither of her two sisters had even considered. It had been bubbling inside her since the very moment she had laid eyes on Clio, the third triplet. On every instance of Hestia pausing for breath, or asking if the girls had any questions, her question bubbled a little higher inside her, rather like a kettle on a hot stove, though the fire, in this case, was lit by what Ro knew. Something, obviously, that the others did not know. With another sip of her tea, she tried to quench the fire, but she was becoming more and more worried that, soon enough, she would have to speak up. How could she not? They could not continue this … farce. She busied herself, replacing her cup upon her saucer and found that her now shaking hand made it clatter noisily. Should she tell them? Now? Just as she had looked up once more and was about to open her mouth and start speaking, however, Hestia continued her incessant chatter.

“I’m determined to win this money back for you so you need never depend upon a man as your mother had to. Yes, despite the Married Women’s Property Act and all because of our archaic paternal grandparents with their positively Victorian ideas about money. I have one word for you girls:
independence
. Independence is everything in this man’s world. There is nothing more liberating than being able to make your own decisions in life. We will claim this money from Charles. It will be yours. And while we are doing so, I suggest that you come and live with me, in London, under my care. To begin our quest, I have arranged for all of us to meet with him tomorrow and—”

“Wait! Stop!” Ro spoke up a little too loudly, putting a halt to the barrage of information. Her shoulders sagged slightly as soon as the hasty words exited her mouth. She had not meant to start this way, but now it was too late—the kettle had boiled over. Several parties at tables situated nearby glanced over to see what the commotion was about. “Sorry,” she said more quietly. “It’s just that”—she paused—“I must say something…”

“Yes?” Hestia urged her on, under the interested gaze of her sisters.

Ro closed her eyes for a moment and put her fingers to her temples, trying to gather the many thoughts that seemed to knock against each other in her head, all vying for attention at once. She wondered how to put what she was about to say. Was there any good way to say it? In the Grand Foyer of the Savoy, life continued to sparkle around them, voices chattered, people laughed gaily, forks tinkled against plates. It seemed wrong to give voice to these thoughts in such a place and before this timid, dark-haired, wide-eyed girl as well, which seemed particularly cruel. But she must say it before things went any further. She must.

“Ro?” her aunt asked, trying once more.

Ro opened her eyes and let the words spill forth, tumbling over one another as she spoke too fast. “This is all very interesting and I’m quite sure with all our similarities that Thalia and I are related in some way. I don’t know if you’re … confused, or whether it’s something else, but you see we can’t go rushing into claiming some sort of fortune from this Charles fellow, because we’re not triplets. Clio can’t be our sister. You said before that both our parents had blue eyes. That means we can’t have a sibling with brown eyes. Not a full sibling, anyway. You see, it’s scientifically
impossible
.”

The
Inheritance

There were those few dreamy moments on waking in which Clio believed everything in her life to be normal—that she was home, beneath the warm, familiar blankets of her own bed, and her mother was close by, asleep in the equally small room next door. In the dim light of the early morning, she smiled slightly and turned over onto her side, pulling the blankets closer around her. And then she felt the strange smoothness of the sheets, smelled the odd crisp fragrance of the new pillow beneath her head. That was when she remembered it all—being dragged to London, where she was told she was a triplet and that she might also be an heiress. If she was willing to fight her half brother for money, that is. And then being told she couldn’t possibly be a triplet. Slowly, not wanting to believe any of it, she opened her eyes. Instead of her friendly bedroom and few belongings, each with its own history and neatly in its place, a vast, sparsely furnished room surrounded her, full of glossy wood, with sharp and unfriendly angles.

Clio sat up now, her eyes skating over the furnishings. The overall effect was something akin to an expensive dollhouse where the owner had simply chosen the items all at once from a store—“Yes, I’ll take that and that and that”—and then simply discarded everything that had previously existed in the bedroom but now didn’t belong. As if money did not matter. And she supposed it didn’t. Just last night, Hestia had informed her nieces that if they needed money for little things, there was some kept in a desk drawer in the library. She had then proceeded to show them where. When Hestia had opened the drawer, Clio could not help but gasp—it was literally stuffed haphazardly with notes. Stuffed to the very brim! Instantly she had known that this was a different world she had stepped into. A world in which there was an endless supply of almost everything—money, furniture, food, clothes. Taking another look around the room, Clio knew one thing for sure: there was only one item that did not belong in this room. And that item was her.