Authors: Brenda Joyce
The Third Heiress (17 page)
Alex twisted to look up at her. “What’s wrong?”
He was extremely astute. Jill met his gaze, feeling sick. “All the nights he stayed at my place, he never once told me the real reason—that you or Thomas were in town.”
Alex regarded her unwaveringly. “How well did you know Hal?”
Jill inhaled. She did not want to answer him. But it was obvious now that Thomas was right—she hadn’t known him very well after all.
“Look, Hal meant no harm. He had a heart of gold. But sometimes he reminded me of a big puppy. He wanted to please. Hal wasn’t very good at telling people things that would upset them.” Alex gave her a long look and turned back to the screen. “I’m doing some searches—Gallagher, Kate, etc.”
Jill nodded. She said without premeditation, to his back, “He told me that this apartment was his. He lied.”
Alex’s fingers stilled. He shifted to face her. “I’m sorry.”
She had expected some comment, but not that. “Yeah.” She forced herself to stare at the screen. “I can’t figure it out.”
“I told you,” Alex said, his gaze still on her. “He was a pleaser. He told you what you wanted to hear.”
Jill met his gaze, almost wishing she hadn’t come to the co-op and run into Alex Preston. Was Alex trying to tell her that Hal had only told her that he loved her because he wanted to please her?
Suddenly she wanted to cry. Hal had told her he loved her—but he had been very involved with Marisa. So it had been another lie.
An unforgivable lie.
And then there was Kate.
“Are you okay?”
Alex was staring at her. Jill nodded, even though she wasn’t, and she brushed her eyes with her fingertips. “It didn’t matter to me who owned this apartment,” she said.
He didn’t look up at her. “Your parents died when you were very young. On some subconscious level, I bet the idea that Hal owned this apartment and had that kind of stability was very attractive to you.”
Jill froze. Because she realized he was right.
She was always in debt, out of work half the time, struggling to meet her bills. And she was alone. But Hal had a family he adored and spoke often of, and had money to spend as he chose. And she’d thought he owned the co-op.
“Nothing,” Alex said finally, still running a search. Jill was relieved at the timely interruption to her thoughts. Then he said, “Hold on. Maybe Hal hid some files somewhere.” He began typing rapidly on the screen again.
“You’re very good at this,” Jill remarked, still standing behind him and peering down over his shoulder. She was relieved by the change of subject.
“Yeah, I am. Eureka. Gallagher1.doc, Gallagher2.doc, Gallagher3.doc.”
“Oh, God,” Jill said, seized with excitement. “Those have to be the letters.”
Alex twisted around again. “Unless he was keeping a file on you.”
Jill started—and realized that Alex was joking. “That wasn’t funny.”
“Sorry.”
“Pull them up. Start with the first one,” Jill said impatiently.
A moment later Alex said, “I can’t.”
“Why not” she cried.
“We need a password.” He continued to type. Jill watched him type Gallagher, Kate, Jill, Hal. He even tried Anne, Collinsworth, Bensonhurst. The screen did not blossom.
They spent the next half hour trying every word they could think of
that had some relevance to the family or Hal. “Try photography,” Jill finally said, despairing of ever coming up with the right word.
that had some relevance to the family or Hal. “Try photography,” Jill finally said, despairing of ever coming up with the right word.
Alex typed, to no avail.
“Wait a minute,” Jill cried, eyes wide. “When Lauren and I were at Uxbridge Hall, Lauren said Hal and Thomas had this secret language when they were kids. It was words spelled backward! Try Etak,” Jill urged, gripping the back of Alex’s chair.
“Kate spelled backward. Okay.” Nothing happened. “Any more suggestions?” he asked. And just as Jill was about to suggest he try Gallagher spelled backward, his fingers flew over the keys. R-E-H-G-A-L-L-A-G.
The screen filled instantly with a document. Jill found herself gripping Alex’s shoulder, leaning over him, almost paralyzed with excitement.
“It’s a letter,” he said tersely. “Dated January 10, 1908. I’ll print it out.”
But Jill did not move. “Stop,” she whispered, her hand covering his. Chills swept over her as she read aloud, “‘Dear Anne.’”
The next line was “I am so afraid. I am afraid for my life.”
THE EMPRESS
Dear Anne,
I am so afraid. I am afraid for my life.
Oh, my dearest friend, I know you understand me far too well, and comprehend my penchant for melodrama. I do not want to alarm you, Anne. But in this case I do not exaggerate. I am so alone, so afraid, and I have no one to confide in. I trust you with the truth.
I did not return home. I am not in New York. I am letting a pleasant little country manor not far from Robin Hood Bay. You see, my dear friend, and I am certain you will forgive me my deception, which has caused me no undue amount of pain, I had no choice but to leave the city. I am with child, Anne.
Please, do not chastise me now! I can hear your gasp, see the horror and pity in your eyes, as well as the tears. Do not pity me. I have no regrets. Anne, I love this child’s father and have no doubt that we will soon be wed. His family—and it is a very good and old family—stands in our way. But he is determined to bring his father round. I know he shall succeed. He is a master of persuasion. I suppose I know that well enough. When I return to London I shall be a bride, with a beautiful baby in my arms, his baby and, I hope, his son.
Do not ask me to tell you the identity of my love. I cannot. It would be a terrible mistake at this tender point in time.
Do not think ill of me, Anne. There have been times where I have wished I could be more like you—so proper, a genuine lady—who would never dream of having such a liaison. But I am not like you, and it is not just because I am Irish and American. I have never understood why the blood has always run so wild in my veins. I have never understood why I have always felt that life is a huge and exciting treasure chest, put there just for me, so I might open it and explore all of its many and vast and oh-so-precious contents. But I do know that I have waited my entire life for this man. He is my knight in shining armor, Anne.
Do you remember how I described to you the excitement of riding in the hot air balloon that day in Paris one year ago? The pounding of one’s pulse, the breathlessness, the absolute giddiness and delight? That is how one feels when one falls in love, Anne, with one’s truest love. I know. It is how I feel now, even as I write, my only company the pounding of the rain on the windowpanes.
But, dear God, I am so alone, and I am so lonely. Of course he is not here, he is abroad; it is his father’s doing. I have a staff of three—two maids so simple they can barely fill my bath, and a housekeeper so grim I would sooner talk to myself than share my fears with her. I do not, obviously, go to the village. No one has ever seen me other than my staff, and I can only speculate what the gossip must be in the surrounding countryside. We have let word out that I am a grieving widow. It was his idea and I do think it perfect. But then, he is rather perfect himself.
Yes, dear Anne, I am smiling now.
Anne, I am becoming heavy with the child. Soon, by May, the physician has said, I will give birth. He anticipates no problems—I have large hips which he says are perfect for childbearing, and my health is so good, again, due to my daily rides, my bicycling, and those long walks which you have so complained about. And, of course, I have insisted upon delivering my child in the best Infant’s Hospital; I refuse to be at the mercy of some village midwife! But I remain nearly terrified, no matter what the good physician says. How many women do we know who have died trying to bring new souls into the world? Remember Lady Caswell, who died just last summer? And she was told that there would not be any problem, either! What if I die trying to give birth to our child?
What if God will punish me for my sins? Not just the sin of loving a man out of wedlock, but for my entire reckless, shameless past?
And the worst part of it is, I have no regrets! And surely He knows this!
Can you blame me, dear Anne, for being terrified? How I wish that you were here.
I am trying to be strong. Truly, I am. But I am only eighteen. There is so much I want to do, there are continents to explore, oceans to traverse, people to meet, books to read, ideas to entertain and debate, balls to attend, and, yes, more skies to fly, and having this baby and becoming this man’s wife is only the beginning of the rest of my life. Or so I pray. If only I could regret my past, repent my sins, but dear God, I cannot!
Please do not reproach me when we next meet. I intend to return to town shortly after the child is born. And because I must keep my whereabouts a secret—I have sworn on the Bible that I would—I cannot even give you an address with which to write me. Pray for me, Anne. Your prayers will reach me, you know I will feel them, and I will feel better just knowing that you have read this, and that you are there, caring about me, sending me your love and affection from afar.
I miss you.
With the greatest affection, your loving and loyal, most sincere, best friend,
Kate
Jill’s heart was pounding wildly as she finished reading the letter. She was so absorbed in Kate’s words, so stricken by her emotions, that she completely forgot where she was. She could see Kate, her belly swollen with child, gracefully dressed in a floral-sprigged white gown, as she sat at a writing table and penned the poignant letter to her best friend, in the shadows of some poorly lit country house. The salon she was in would be well furnished. Rain streaked the windowpanes. Outside the day was dark and damp with mist and fog. A fire crackled beneath the wood mantel of the hearth. And a dour-faced housekeeper in black with a starched white apron stood in the doorway, watching Kate.
“Jill? Jill, are you okay?”
Alex’s voice was a rude and shocking interruption to Jill’s flight of fantasy. She blinked and realized she was leaning over him so tensely that she was pressed against his back, her hand on the desk, gripping it, beside his. Their gazes met. It took Jill a long and almost painful moment to release the past and bring herself back into the present. She straightened, inhaling loudly.
She felt disoriented.
He swiveled in the seat in order to stare very closely at her. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She was aware of trembling now, and she shook her head. “Poor Kate,” she whispered.
“That was a very powerful letter. I feel sorry for her, too.” He turned back to the computer and moved the mouse. The printer began to whir.
Jill remained shaken. She walked away from the desk, running a hand through her hair. Kate had gone to the countryside to have her baby. She had let a small manor near Robin Hood Bay, wherever that was. The physician had said the baby was due in May. “Kate Gallagher had a child, out of wedlock, in May of 1908,” Jill said slowly. Her grandfather, Peter, had been born in Yorkshire in 1908. A coincidence?
Alex stood. “Yes, that’s what the letter says. You’re as white as a ghost.” His scrutiny was blatant, but Jill remained overwhelmed by what she had just read and the coincidence of the birth dates, and was only vaguely aware of it. “I think you need a glass of water, better yet, a glass of wine.”
Jill did not answer. Had Kate ever married? What if her child had been a boy? What if Kate was more than a mere ancestor of Jill’s? What if she was her great-grandmother?
Jill knew she was leaping to conclusions. She knew the odds were a million to one. Except … Hal had cherished that photograph, Hal and her had been lovers, she herself looked like Kate, and Peter had been born in the same year as Kate’s own child, and in the same country, too.
“Jill? Where are you?”
Jill jumped out of her skin when Alex spoke. He was standing in front of her, so closely that their knees brushed. She had not heard him get up and walk to her. His hands were cupping her shoulders, and his eyes were intent, probing hers.
She pulled away from him. She did not want physical contact. “I’m fine. I just feel so sorry for her. I wonder if he ever married her?”
Alex gave her a look of incredulous disbelief.
“What does that look mean?” Jill asked, following him from the office into the kitchen, but reluctantly. The image of Kate writing at the small desk in the dimly lit room haunted her. And of course, if her lover had married Kate, then she could not be Jill’s great-grandmother.
“It means that a guy who jumps through hoops for his parents and leaves an eighteen-year-old girl in the country to have his baby alone is not about to marry her.” He produced a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator. “The guy was a coward. He was also a shit.”
Jill watched him uncork it. She could not shake the letter from her
mind, or Kate’s voice, which had been mesmerizing. “That’s not fair, is it? In those days, one had a very strong duty to one’s parents. I believe one needed permission to marry.”
mind, or Kate’s voice, which had been mesmerizing. “That’s not fair, is it? In those days, one had a very strong duty to one’s parents. I believe one needed permission to marry.”
Alex poured them both glasses of pino grigio. “Honey, I’m a guy. The times may change, but the rules do not. Love, honor, honesty—those sentiments are timeless. Either a man has integrity or he doesn’t. That’s one of the few instances in life that is black or white.”
Jill stared at Alex, really focusing on him for the first time since they had discovered Kate’s letter—or maybe even since they had met. He was an unusual man—self-made, successful, keenly intelligent, yet sensitive and astute. He could obviously swim with sharks or he wouldn’t have the power that he had. Yet he had ethics. Or so it seemed.
Then she thought about Hal, the ache distinct. Where had Hal’s integrity been? “You’re an interesting man,” she heard herself say.
“One of my girlfriends told me I was boring.”
Jill looked at him, actually smiling. “What was her complaint? That you work too much or you didn’t want to get married?”
He smiled. “Smart cookie,” he said. “Both.”
Jill continued to smile, until she realized that they were sharing a light moment. She turned her back on him, shaken. She did not want to enjoy his company, not his or any other man’s. She wasn’t looking for anything now, other than the truth about Kate Gallagher, not even friendship from Alex—especially as friendship could lead where she did not want to go and had no intention of ever going.
“Where is that mind of yours now?” Alex asked, handing her a glass of wine.
Jill started. Fortunately he could not read her thoughts. “The letter,” she lied.
He eyed her with obvious skepticism, still leaning one slim hip against the granite kitchen counter, sipping the icy cold Italian wine with obvious appreciation. He had his own kind of magnetism, too, she realized. And she was only just noticing it, probably because of the shock of Hal’s death and deceptions. It was not movie-star bold, like Thomas’s. When he entered a room, every head would not turn instantaneously. But after a few minutes, Jill had not a doubt that the women present would start looking in his direction, wondering who he was and what he did.
“You’re staring,” he said.
Jill grimaced. “I was thinking.”
“About Kate?”
“Yeah.” What a lie. She avoided his eyes. Whatever was happening here
was wrong. Hal had just died. She did not want to find him interesting or attractive, not even for an instant.
was wrong. Hal had just died. She did not want to find him interesting or attractive, not even for an instant.
“I know you’ve been through a lot, but you need to loosen up, Jill.” His tone made her jerk and meet his gaze. He knew she’d been thinking about him. He probably knew she was finding him attractive, too. He was smiling at her, but not really with amusement. Jill didn’t know what his smile meant. But it was a smile that reached his blue gaze. It was a good, solid, genuine smile.
“Why should I loosen up?” Jill rebutted immediately. Her thoughts were straying dangerously and she was determined to go back to where she’d been before she’d run into him in the apartment. “So you can make a pass at me?”
His eyes widened. “Is that what you want?”
“Hell, no,” she said, meaning it.
He stared. His expression was inscrutable. And a silence fell between them, like a heavy black thundercloud or, better yet, like a rock.
“I apologize,” Jill said abruptly, turning away. He was being kind, she was being a bitch. What was wrong with her?
“It’s okay. I understand.” His tone was flat. Jill looked up and thought that she had angered him.
“You need some downtime—badly,” he said firmly. “Drink your wine and I’ll take you home.”
Jill wanted nothing more than to go. It would be a relief. “What about the files?”
“I’ll print the rest of the files out for you and make a copy on a floppy, too.” He glanced at his watch. He did not wear a flashy 18-karat Rolex like his cousin, but a stainless-steel Audemars Piguet with a dark blue dial. It was heavy yet sleek, at once outstanding and modest. Jill stared at his watch, then at him. It suited him perfectly, right down to the tiny diamond points that indicated the face’s numbers. “I’ll have to do it later, after I get back from my meetings,” he said. His gaze remained steady, unwavering. Was there a question in his eyes?
Jill nodded jerkily. She had to get out of there. She decided she was exhausted, maybe overly medicated. Should she even be drinking? The answer was obvious. “Will you have time? You seem terribly busy.”
“I’ll make the time.”
She knew he would do as he said. But she thought about the letters sitting there on file on the computer hard drive. “Alex, I could go and do that while you dress—and if it takes longer, I could stay—if you don’t mind leaving me here alone?”
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