Authors: Brenda Joyce
The Third Heiress (12 page)
“That house belongs to your family?” Jill asked rather breathlessly as the sprawling mansion came closer into view.
“Actually, it now belongs to the National Trust, but our family has the right to use it as we wish. Occasionally we even hold parties here,” Lauren said.
“There’s a lake,” Jill said, noticing a tree-lined lake before one side of the rectangular building. Towers with spires graced the four corners of the house, and as they drove up the curving driveway, Jill was faced with an extravagant portico as tall as the house and a similarly sized temple front.
“Most of these old homes have lakes or moats—most of them man-made.”
The car halted before the portico’s wide, imposing front steps. As Jill slowly climbed out of the car, her pulse pounding, she was aware of the height of the six pillars holding up the pediment—they were as tall as the building itself. “Is the house three stories?” Jill asked.
“Yes. But as you can see, the ground floor has very high ceilings.”
Jill remained amazed. She glanced around. To her left were another set of huge brick buildings. “Let me guess. The stables?”
Lauren nodded. “Now, of course, it’s a shop and café for tourists.”
“The family actually comes here—lives here—from time to time?”
“Not very often,” Lauren confessed. “Hal used to come and stay here for weeks at a time when he was in town. He was the most attached to Uxbridge Hall of any of us. And when Thomas was married, he and his wife and children lived here most weekends. He used it as a kind of country home.” She smiled.
“How far are we from London?”
“Not even ten miles,” Lauren said cheerfully. “In the past, when this was our family’s primary residence, it was very convenient.”
“When was this the family’s primary residence?” Jill asked as they started up the front steps. Once within the portico, they were on a slate-floored, open courtyard. The front doors of the house were at least fifty feet beyond.
“A long time ago. Before I was born, at any rate.”
“Did they live here in Kate’s time?”
Lauren glanced at her. “Which was?”
“About 1906.”
“I believe my family still spent a good portion of their time here at the Hall. The house in Kensington Palace Gardens was also built around that time, I believe.”
They crossed the courtyard. A tall, somewhat stocky woman with short, iron gray hair and oversized tortoiseshell frames, clad in a black turtleneck and trousers, had appeared to stand on the threshold of the Hall. She seemed surprised to see them. “Mrs. Sheldon-Wellsely, how are you, my dear?”
“Lucinda, I hope I should not have telephoned first.”
“Of course not,” the older woman said, still smiling. “This is your home, my dear.” Her smile disappeared. “I am so sorry about your brother. I cannot get over what has happened. He was the nicest young man.”
Jill flinched, reality washing over her. She didn’t want to think about Hal now, she wanted to think about Kate. But there was no denying the stabbing ache the mere mention of him brought to her chest.
“Thank you,” Lauren murmured. She quickly changed the topic, introducing them. “Lucinda Becke is the custodian, and has been so ever since I was a little girl. This is a visitor from America, Jill Gallagher.”
“I almost consider myself a member of the Collinsworth family,” Lucinda said pleasantly to Jill, offering her hand. If she knew anything about Jill’s relationship with Hal—or about the accident—she gave no sign. “I have been the director here since’81. Actually, I was just filing some interesting papers—letters from your grandfather to his valet.”
“This house is incredible,” Jill said as they paused in a huge, empty room. Pillars supported the high, bluish gray and white ceiling. The center boasted a sculpted circular pattern, mirroring the mosaic on the floor, while square panels bordered it. The floors were blue and white marble, done in myriad patterns. The walls were divided into huge frieze work panels with a Roman military motif. At each end of the room were two alcoves, each with a fireplace. There were statues standing next to the room’s many pilasters, and periodically there were square panels with frieze work in an arabesque motif. Gilded benches and stone pedestals with sculptures lined the far and near walls of the room.
“This is the hall,” Lucinda explained. “Although in an earlier time, it was used for entertaining. Balls were held here, extremely lavish affairs.” Lucinda smiled widely. “In fact, the family also had a tradition of holding the heir’s wedding ceremony here. Unfortunately, that tradition did end with the eighth earl.” She smiled at Lauren. “Your great-grandfather was the last Collinsworth heir to be married in this room. What a shame.”
Jill studied Lucinda’s animated expression as Lauren asked, “Could you give us a brief tour? Jill is interested in the history of the house.”
“I would love to.” Lucinda’s eyes brightened. “There is nothing I would love more.”
As they walked through the hall, Lucinda pointed out the details of the various panels they passed. Jill could hardly absorb what she was saying. Excitement filled her.
Anne Bensonhurst, later the countess of Collinsworth, had certainly visited here after her debut, for she had eventually become engaged to Edward Sheldon, heir to the Collinsworth estates. She had undoubtedly been a frequent guest in this house. Had she brought along her friend, Kate Gallagher? Jill could image the two girls in this spectacular room, in their evening gowns, perhaps with raised fans—did the ladies use fans then?—surrounded by other guests. Perhaps, she thought, her mind spinning, Kate had visited Anne here after her marriage to Edward. Perhaps she had even spent the night.
As they walked into another room, which Lucinda referred to as the “eating room,” she asked, “Would visitors have stayed overnight? Ninety years ago?”
“Weekend parties were quite popular, but longer visits usually took place in country homes during the High Season,” Lucinda explained.
“The High Season?”
“The summertime.”
They had all paused in the eating room. It was also huge, but perhaps only a third the size of the hall. The carpet was rose-hued with a diamond pattern in gold and green, the walls were a lighter shade of rose, trimmed with pale green, and the ceiling was also pale green, with more painstaking frieze work. Paintings hung on the walls. Many were portraits.
Jill felt dazed. Her pulse was pounding too swiftly for comfort, and far too loudly, as well. Lucinda was avidly explaining that the family and its guests would take breakfast in this room. “Are those portraits of the family?” Jill asked, her lips feeling almost and oddly numb, due, she thought, to her excitement.
“Oh, no. Those two are portraits of the Duke of Northumberland from the mid-eighteenth and early nineteenth century. That portrait is of William and Mary. That one there is of George IV.” Lucinda smiled eagerly. “That far portrait is of one of the early earls of Collinsworth, from the mid-seventeenth century, and the one beside it is William, the eighth earl. It is quite common in houses like this for the family to hang portraits of royalty—so one might think that the family, by association, is as majestic and as noble.”
Jill was disappointed. There were some portraits of ladies among the gentlemen and she had hoped to espy Anne. She finally looked at Lucinda directly. “Oh.”
“Dear, is there something you are looking for? Something you specifically wish to see?”
Jill wet her lips. “I was hoping to find a portrait of Anne, perhaps with Edward. And maybe even with her friend, the American heiress, Kate Gallagher.”
Lucinda stared.
Jill realized that Lauren’s regard was divided between them both.
“Come with me, into the gallery,” Lucinda said, her strides brisk.
They passed through two lavish rooms and were then faced with a vast and extremely long room. French doors opened along one of the long walls to a terrace and spectacular gardens outside. Huge crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, armless chairs with blue velvet seats lined the room’s perimeter, and dozens of paintings were hanging on the walls. Lucinda did not pause, crossing the carpeted expanse, passing several fireplaces with white marble mantels. She finally halted in front of a large painting.
Jill gripped Lauren’s sleeve. She was faced with a painting of a couple having a picnic in a meadow, near a tree. The woman was seated at the gentleman’s feet, and she was dark-haired, young, and neither pretty nor plain. But her eyes were shining. “That is Anne, correct me if I’m wrong.” Jill was trembling. She had also grown very warm.
“Yes.” Lucinda moved closer. “She was very young, no more than eighteen. This was painted during the first year of her marriage.”
Jill stared. Anne sat on a blanket in a lovely white dress sprigged with blue, beneath a large, blossoming cherry tree. On the red paisley wool blanket were the accoutrements of a picnic—a wicker basket, a bottle of wine, two goblets, and several plates. Pieces of fruit—an apple, two pears, a cluster of grapes—had spilled from the basket. A book lay open beside her skirts, and a cocker spaniel lay at her blue-slippered feet.
Standing beside Anne was a tall, dark, striking man with a very patrician, quite stern expression. He was wearing riding jodhpurs and high black boots, a white shirt and a long tweed jacket. He held a crop in one hand. A burgundy cravat was around his neck. His stare was dark, unwavering, relentless. He was handsome and charismatic. He appeared every inch the aristocrat. He looked as if he had been born to command a hundred servants—and he also looked as if he did not know how to smile. Anne seemed too young and very fragile, seated there at his feet. “So that’s Edward.”
“Yes.”
“They make a striking couple,” Jill mused. “Anne is so young.”
“Many girls married at that age back then,” Lucinda explained. “This was quite the union. Edward Sheldon was
the
catch of his times. And Anne, of course, was a great heiress herself. All of London was agog over the alliance—and rightly so.”
the
catch of his times. And Anne, of course, was a great heiress herself. All of London was agog over the alliance—and rightly so.”
Lauren was staring at the painting as well. “I’ve seen this many times, but it almost feels like I’m seeing it for the first time, today.” She did not smile. Jill thought her expression tense. “I never knew him. He died a long time ago. Around World War Two, I believe.”
“When did she die?” Jill asked studying Anne in the portrait.
“I was nine when she died,” Lauren said.
“She lived to the ripe old age of eighty-five,” Lucinda said. “She became ill quite suddenly, and passed away in her sleep, in 1975. I recall the funeral quite clearly.”
Jill regarded Lauren. “You must have a lot of memories of her.”
“Not really.” Lauren was emphatic. “She was very brusque—and very busy. We stayed out of her way. We were all frightened of her.”
Jill was surprised, and she looked at the young girl seated at Edward’s feet, her eyes shining with love. “She looks fragile to me.”
Lauren did not reply.
“Did she ever talk about Kate?” Jill knew it was a long shot.
“What I do remember,” Lauren said, suddenly smiling but red-eyed again, “was that Hal and Thomas used to play wildly in this house when we were children.” She smiled, her eyes moist. “We spent some vacations here—even a few weekends, when we were very young. Perhaps I was five or six. They excluded me.” Lauren was choked up.
“There, there,” Lucinda said, patting her back.
Lauren shook her head. “I’m fine. It was so long ago. I had forgotten all about it. They had their own secret language and it made me so mad, because they could spell and I could not. They used words spelled backward. Just to tease me.”
There wasn’t anything to say, so Jill remained silent, studying the painting, almost feeling as if Hal were standing right there beside them—or beside her, looking over her shoulder at the portrait, too. She folded her arms across her breasts. “Where do you think this portrait was painted?” Jill asked Lucinda. He was going to haunt everyone for a very long time, she realized.
“It was painted at Stainesmore,” Lucinda replied. “The family’s country home.”
“In the north of Yorkshire,” Lauren added. “It was once a huge, working estate. It’s rather run-down now, actually. We still summer there sometimes.”
“Hal mentioned that he summered in Yorkshire as a child,” Jill said. She continued to stare at Edward. For some reason, she had gotten chills, raising the fine hairs on her arms. He looked vain, arrogant, cold, and difficult. Jill thought that it had been a poor match. Anne did not look like the kind of woman who could hold such a man’s attention for very long, no matter what Lauren had said.
“I think your grandmother was in love,” Jill remarked.
Lauren did not reply.
“No one married for love in those days, Miss Gallagher,” Lucinda said with a smile. “Not when titles and estates were involved. But it is no secret—Anne was smitten with her bridegroom.”
Jill doubted that Edward had been smitten with his bride. He did not appear to be the kind of man capable of great passion or deep feelings. “Did the Sheldons need Anne’s fortune?” Jill asked.
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