Authors: Brenda Joyce

The Third Heiress (13 page)

BOOK: The Third Heiress

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Lauren’s eyes widened. Clearly she was taken aback. “Of course not,” she said quickly.

Jill hadn’t meant to be impertinent. “Sorry.”

Lucinda rushed into the awkward moment, for Lauren’s cheeks remained flushed. “Hal was very fond of this painting in particular, you know. He used to spend hours here, right in this gallery, in fact. Not that he did not appreciate all the works of art in this house.”

Suddenly Jill imagined Hal wandering around this huge house by himself—and it did not quite make sense. There was something sad and lonely about it. But there was also something else, a sense she was trying to grasp, but could not quite identify. He’d kept the photograph of Anne and Kate—and he had spent far too much time at Uxbridge Hall. She thought about all of the evenings they had shared. It suddenly seemed to Jill that not an evening had gone by that he hadn’t mentioned his family, or told her some amusing tale about them, at least once. “How much time did he spend here, actually?” she asked Lucinda.

Lucinda glanced at Lauren. “He used the private apartments whenever he was in town,” she finally said. “There is something I wish to show you.”

A little tiny warning bell was going off in Jill’s brain, but she could not quite decipher it. She followed Lucinda and Lauren down the gallery to a beautiful marble-topped table. Several framed photographs were on top of it—current photos of William and Margaret, and then several of Thomas, and one of two young boys in school uniforms who looked so
much like him that they had to be his sons. “The earl, the countess, his heir, and his grandsons,” Lucinda remarked.

Then Lucinda pointed at a small display case on an adjoining bureau. Inside were a variety of small objects—a painted porcelain egg, an enameled snuff box, teardrop jet earrings, an inkwell and quill, several old leather books, a locket.

“My dear, look at that locket right there,” Lucinda said with a soft but triumphant tone.

Jill cried out. The locket was open. Each half contained a small, perfect portrait. One was of Anne. The other was of Kate. “Anne and Kate,” Jill breathed.

“They were obviously good friends,” Lucinda said. “According to the Bensonhurst house records, which we have, Kate and her mother were guests at Bensonhurst for some time.”

Jill could hardly breathe. “It was in September of 1906 that they arrived,” she whispered.

“Was it? You have an excellent memory, my dear. This locket was given to the museum by Anne herself, shortly before her death.”

Jill did not want to leave the display case with its locket. She was experiencing chills again, and while the sensation was disturbing, it was not entirely negative.

And then, as clear as day, she could imagine Anne and Kate seated together at a dining table in an eating room like the one she had just passed through, their heads close together, giggling and whispering, telling one another about their flirtations and successes at the Fairchild ball. Outside, the sun was high, casting the girls in a warm but ethereal glow. Both girls were too excited to eat. Both girls had never been happier. They were the best of friends.

Jill hugged herself. The hairs on her nape had just risen and her heart had lurched. The sensation was distinct. It was one of impending darkness, and it was not pleasant.

“The rumor is that she had a lover.”

Jill and Lauren whirled and regarded Lucinda with equally wide eyes.

“I beg your pardon?” Lauren asked stiffly.

“Not Lady Anne.” Lucinda smiled at them both. “Kate.”

Jill stared. “Kate had a lover?”

“The gossip is that she used to sneak out of the window of Anne’s bedroom at Bensonhurst while she stayed there, using tied-together sheets to climb down to the gardens below.”

Jill’s ears seemed to ring.

Lauren was cool. “Are you passing down gossip that is almost a century old, Lucinda?”

“Actually, I am passing down gossip that came from Anne herself.” Lucinda smiled, unperturbed.

Jill could not believe her ears.
“She
told you that?”

“She told my predecessor. Uxbridge Hall was reopened to the public in 1968 after extensive renovation. Just before the opening, Anne came here to inspect the house and give her approval for the opening. She was the dowager countess then. Apparently the visit invoked many memories for her. Or so Janet Witcombe claims.” Lucinda continued to smile.

“Is she alive?” Jill asked in a rush. “Janet Witcombe?”

“She most certainly is.”

“I would love to talk to her, find out if it’s true, find out what Anne actually said.” But even as Jill spoke, in the throes of excitement, she realized that this might be a dead end. 1968 was thirty years ago. Who could remember a thirty-year-old conversation?

“She’s a bit senile right now. But she has moments of extreme lucidity. If you are fortunate, you will catch her at a good time. I’m happy to give you her listing.”

Jill turned to Lauren. “Can you believe this?”

Lauren frowned. “No. I can’t. And what difference does any of this make? Even if Kate did have a lover and climbed out of the house with sheets, it’s just quaint gossip, Jill. Let’s go. I have had enough for one day of my dead ancestors.”

Jill did not want to leave. There was an entire house to explore, and if she did not do so today, she would never be able to do so, because tonight she was going home. But Lauren was clearly finished with the outing. Very reluctantly, she followed Lucinda and Lauren out of the gallery and through a room filled with chinoiserie.

Once again in the cavernous hall, the trio paused. Jill had one last question. “Do you know if Kate came here to visit Anne after she married Edward?”

“No. She did not. That would have been impossible, I’m afraid.” Lucinda stared at her. “You look like her, you know.”

Jill started. “What?”

“I noticed the moment we met. Before we were even introduced.”

Jill did not think there was any resemblance at all between them. Kate had been so striking—Jill was aware that she was attractive, but in a far more ordinary way. But Lucinda was being sincere. Didn’t that mean that they might be related? Was Kate Gallagher a long-lost ancestor, or even
her own great-grandmother? “Why are you so certain that Kate never visited Anne here?” She asked.

Lucinda was no longer smiling. She was somber. “She never visited Anne here, my dear, because she disappeared when she was eighteen, and she was never seen or heard from again.”

FOUR

J
ill walked slowly downstairs. She had put on her jeans for the flight home, and her bags had been taken out to the car by a servant. Her strides slowed. Standing in the marble-floored foyer was Alex Preston.

His back was to her. For one moment Jill faltered, debating going back upstairs in order to avoid him. On the other hand, she didn’t want to miss her flight. She studied him. When Lauren had given her the long spiel that morning, she hadn’t really mentioned Alex as being a part of the apology package.

Alex must have heard her or sensed her presence, because he did turn. His gaze immediately settled on her features.

Jill continued down the stairs, pausing before him. He had a way of looking right through her, or into her, that made her tense. “I’m on my way to the airport,” she said, stating the obvious. She was eager to leave and didn’t care if he knew it.

“I know.” He smiled slightly at her. “I’m here to wish you bon voyage.”

Jill assumed he was more than eager for her to depart, as was the entire family. “Are you a messenger for the family?”

“Should I be?”

She was startled. Didn’t he know about Lauren’s apology on behalf of the Sheldons? “I guess not. Thanks for your hospitality.” She was trying to be polite so she could go. She did not know what else to say, but her words sounded slightly sarcastic to her own ears.

His slanting black brows lifted. “We’ve hardly been civil. And the Brits are famous for their civility.”

“I’m not going to complain.” She was impatient to leave. She glanced at the open front door, and the sedan idling in the driveway.

“You don’t seem like the kind of woman to turn the other cheek.”

“I’m very tired, Alex,” Jill said tersely, in no mood to spar. “It’s been a rotten couple of days.” Kate Gallagher had disappeared at the age of eighteen. Nothing could have prepared Jill for such a fact.

And now she had a dozen questions on the tip of her tongue, questions she’d been too shocked to think of before, when Lucinda had dropped that bombshell upon her. In any case, Lauren had been insistent that they leave and go to lunch. They had left shortly afterward, but Lucinda had invited Jill to drop by anytime—and she had given her both Janet Witcombe’s telephone number and her own.

Jill almost wished that she were not leaving London.

“Yeah, it sure has,” Alex said. Then, “I heard you had a helluva day at Uxbridge Hall.”

Jill started. Did he read minds? “What are there—football huddles in this family?”

“We’re close-knit,” he said wryly.

“It was very interesting.” Jill hesitated, the urge to tell him what she had learned quite compelling. But she resisted it. “How long have you been living over here, Alex?”

He eyed her. “Why?”

“I was just wondering if you knew anything about the family’s history.”

“The family’s history—or the alleged disappearance of Kate Gallagher?” His blue gaze held hers.

She thought she flushed. So he and Lauren had been sharing notes. She did not have to wonder if Lauren had also told Thomas all about their day. Of course she had. “Can you blame me for being curious?”

“I think you need to distract your mind, and a preoccupation with this Kate Gallagher does just that. But to answer your question, I was taken into this family when my mother died. I was fourteen. I left London a few years later only to go to Princeton, followed by grad school at Wharton. I returned exactly ten years ago. And no, I know next to nothing about her.”

“You must know something about Anne,” Jill persisted.

“Not really.” He remained silent.

Jill found that hard to believe. On the other hand, Hal had told her once that Alex was driven by his work. Jill recalled that so clearly now.
Maybe he lived in a vacuum. But she did not think so. She was a decent judge of character, and Alex seemed sharp, clever. “I know what it’s like,” she said slowly, “to have very little family.”

He stared.

“My parents were killed when I was five and a half years old.” She was grim. “It was a car accident. Can you believe it?” Suddenly she felt that damned stabbing anguish again. For a short while she had had a family—Hal had become her family—and she’d always assumed that they would eventually have children of their own. All of those dreams were now gone, forever. “The worst part of it is, I really can’t remember them. I have no damn memories of my parents.” But she had memories of Hal. And somehow she had to hold on to those memories, not letting anything or anyone taint them.

The task felt overwhelming.

A silence had fallen. “What’s the point?” Alex asked finally.

“Your mother died, and the Sheldons became your family. I think they are extremely important to you. When Anne died, wasn’t she well into her eighties?” Jill met his gaze.

“Yeah.”

“And you must be, what? Thirty-three? Thirty-four? Thirty-five?”

“You’re a little bulldog,” Alex said, but not with rancor. “I was nine when she died. I knew her, but slightly. She was the kind of old woman a kid would avoid whenever possible.”

That was interesting. Lauren had said the same thing. “Why?”

“She was strict and bossy. She was a real matriarch. We were all afraid of her. Everyone was afraid of her. Even the servants.”

Jill stared. That was not the impression she had received either from the photograph of Kate and Anne or the portrait of her and Edward. She had seemed young, soft, not quite pretty, and passive. But people changed over time. Life could do that.

Jill thought about how her life had changed—changing her—irrevoca—bly—in one split second of a car accident. Twice.

The injustice of it all could be overwhelming. She fiercely shoved all self-pity aside.

“What is it?” Alex asked, a bit too sharply.

She shook herself free of her thoughts. “Nothing. I have a plane to catch.” She glanced at her watch, a red and black Swatch affair, and shifted her vinyl tote to her shoulder. It crossed her mind that if Alex and Lauren had been comparing notes, Alex might merely be backing up Lauren. But
why do that? “Well, thanks again. And you can pass that along to your aunt and uncle and cousins.” She refused to think about Thomas now. Hopefully she would never see him again. It did not surprise her that no one else had come to say good-bye.

To Jill’s surprise, Alex fell into stride beside her. “I’ll take you to Heathrow.” His gaze locked with hers. “A bit of American civility,” he said.

W
hen Jill opened the front door to her small studio, a small blur of gray fur leaped across her path. Last night she had called KC to tell her she was coming home, and KC had understood. Nothing would have been worse than to return now to an empty apartment. But her studio wasn’t empty.

“Ezekial!” she cried, reaching for him.

But her gray tom was thoroughly annoyed at her—he hated being left alone—and he had already disappeared, to sulk and hopefully teach Jill a lesson.

Jill sighed. She’d needed comforting. Returning home was bittersweet. Jill set down her bags, not moving out of the doorway. She couldn’t move. She was struck by how tiny her studio was. It was impossible not to have vivid contrasting images of both the Sheldon mansion in Kensington Palace Gardens and Uxbridge Hall.

Jill turned and slowly closed her door. She would probably never return to either the Sheldons’ London home or their ancestral one again—and that was for the best. Wasn’t it?

In a way, she felt as if she had just stepped out of a fairy tale—yet it had hardly been that. It had definitely been the worst few days of her life.

But she could not quite shake the feeling that she should not have left London just yet. But that was nonsense—there was nothing for her there.

Immediately images of Hal’s family and Kate Gallagher came to mind.

Jill brushed her bangs out of her eyes, crossing the studio. According to Lucinda Becke, Hal had loved Uxbridge Hall. She thought about the portraits in the eating room—one had been of a seventeenth-century ancestor of his. It was so amazing—to be able to trace one’s roots so far back—to know without a doubt who one was, where one came from. Hal, Jill thought, and people like him, undoubtedly took such knowledge for granted.

She looked around at her studio, aware of being absolutely alone in the world. Then she thought about the beautiful, compelling Kate Gallagher,
who had disappeared at the tender age of eighteen. What had happened to her? Had something terrible happened? Or had she really had a lover, and had she run away with him to live happily ever after?

Was Kate her ancestor? Could she even be her great-grandmother?

If such a twist of fate was possible, then that meant Kate had never married, because they shared the same last name.

“Shit,” Jill muttered, crossing the room. It was painted a pale melon color, except for the far wall, which an artist who was a friend of hers had painted as a mural. It depicted many different scenes from New York City in vibrant primary colors. Several colorful kilim rugs were underfoot, which she had collected over the years at garage sales and flea markets. Her bed was a simple queen-sized mattress and box spring, but it was covered with a royal blue quilt and a half-dozen large peach, blue, and gold pillows. A single orange couch faced the mural, a wicker chest serving as a coffee table.

The eating area was by the small open kitchen, and her tiny pine table could just seat two. Director’s chairs with red canvas seats balanced that side of the room.

Jill walked into her kitchen area, shrugging off her leather jacket. She hadn’t been able to sleep on the flight home. Her mind hadn’t stopped, her thoughts shifting from the Sheldons and Alex Preston to Kate Gallagher and back again. And there had been the sick feeling she could not shake that had to do with her leaving Hal so far away—and with his having, perhaps, loved another woman, Marisa Sutcliffe.

She opened the refrigerator for ice water and froze. On the top shelf, which was mostly bare, was half of a leftover pizza, and in the refrigerator door was an opened bottle of white wine. She and Hal had shared that pizza just last week, Jill drinking the wine.

She slammed the door closed.

She almost expected to see him come sauntering out of the bathroom, a grin on his handsome face.

Had he loved Marisa? Had he been about to break up with Jill in order to marry the other woman? Could she have been so deceived? Could she have been so stupid?

It happened all the time, Jill thought grimly.

And why had he kept that photograph of Kate and Anne, beside his bed, of all places?

Jill gripped the counter. “This is not fair, Hal,” she cried angrily. “None of this is fair!” She felt like ripping Marisa’s gorgeous hair right out of her head. But that wasn’t fair, either. What had Marisa done, except to love
Hal over the course of her lifetime? If Hal had duped Jill—if he had been using her—then he was the bastard, not her.

But how could she be angry at, even hate, someone who had just died?

Jill realized that she could let her mind spin around and round in circles, or she could lay her confusion and anger to rest, right alongside Hal. Maybe, for the sake of her own mental and physical well-being, that was what she would have to do.

She’d done it before. When her parents had died. She’d attacked ballet with her entire being, living it and breathing it and even being it, until there was nothing else in her life.

But Jill was now exhausted, and she had no ambition to dance. She knew she’d have to force herself to go back to work—immediately. But what she really wished, desperately, was that Kate was her relative, that she was her great-grandmother, and that she knew it for a fact, that she had proof.

Jill wished she were back at Uxbridge Hall, exploring the rest of the house, looking for clues about the woman who had so tragically disappeared at such a young age.

Jill turned on the faucet, filled up a glass with tap water, and drank it thirstily, eyes closed. She did not want to be home after all. Her studio was horribly empty. She felt more alone now than ever before—even than when she had been a guest at the Sheldons, as rude and uncivil as they had all been.

Ezekial pressed against her ankles, purring.

Jill opened her eyes, which were moist, smiled, and bent to scoop up the cat. Thank God for Zeke, she thought. But temperamental beast that he was, he hissed and leaped out of her arms. He hated being held, but loved being petted—when it suited him. “Thanks, Zeke,” Jill said shakily.

Jill suddenly picked up her kitchen phone. From the front pocket of her jeans, she pulled out the scrap of paper with Lucinda’s telephone numbers. She glanced at her watch. It was two in the morning in New York, which meant it was seven in London. She quickly dialed Lucinda’s home phone.

The phone was answered instantly.

“Jill! This is such a surprise.”

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” Jill said swiftly.

BOOK: The Third Heiress

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