Authors: Brenda Joyce
The Third Heiress (6 page)
How she wished she could go to his room and wander among his things. On the other hand, she knew his family would be furious if she did so without permission.
But Hal wouldn’t mind. Jill could almost feel him smiling at her—encouraging her.
And she didn’t give a damn about the Sheldons, not after the way they had treated her that evening.
Scotch in hand, Jill started down the hall, trying to be as soundless as possible. She paused at a door, leaning her ear against it. When she heard nothing, she knocked very softly. There was still no answer.
Her heart racing wildly now, Jill turned the knob and pushed the door open. Shadows greeted her. She hit a wall switch.
A bedroom that had not been used in years greeted her, and Jill saw nothing to even remotely suggest that it belonged to a boy, much less Hal. She turned off the light, quickly backing out and closing the door. Her heart continued to thunder in her own ears.
She continued down the hall, finishing the scotch, finding three more unoccupied rooms, her pulse rampaging inside of her chest. She was beginning to question the wisdom of what she was doing, yet the scotch had given her courage. On her fifth try, she knew she had stumbled onto his room.
She inhaled, fighting to regain her equilibrium.
For facing her was a bookcase, and in it was an entire shelf of framed photographs.
The walls were also covered in photographs.
Jill began to shake. She would recognize Hal’s work anywhere. She slipped into the room, shutting the door behind her, turning on the lights.
His work surrounded her, everywhere. Jill wished she had another drink.
Again, tears somehow slipped down her cheeks.
“Oh, Hal,” she whispered. Her words sounded bereft to her own ears.
The royal blue draperies were partially drawn and the room was cast in dancing shadows caused by the street and house lights outside. Jill’s heart was hammering wildly now as she walked over to the bookcase. She smiled, more tears coming to her eyes. Hal had mentioned to her that he had been insane as a youth, shooting everything in sight. She saw photographs of wildlife—clearly he had been on safari—of flowers, trees, landscapes, Stonehenge. And then there were photographs of his family.
Blinking to clear her eyes, Jill picked up a framed photograph of Thomas, taken perhaps ten years ago. Even then he’d had the striking looks of a model or an actor. Jill stared. Not because he had gotten betterlooking with age, but because the shot was clearly a candid one, and Hal had caught Thomas leaning over an infant, with the most beautiful expression of love on his face. The child, Jill assumed, was his own.
Jill put it back. Then she froze.
On another shelf there were several photographs of Hal as a teenager and as a young man. They were not self-portraits, because Jill could recognize Hal’s work. Someone else had taken them.
She started to cry, but soundlessly, the tears streaming endlessly down her cheeks.
She touched the frames. He was playing soccer in one shot, riding with the hounds in another—looking so damn blue-blooded doing so—and holding up a diploma in the last. She smiled through her tears.
She paused. There was a fourth photograph of him on a ski slope, and he was with a young woman. A terrible pang pierced through her as she studied the photo. The woman was not Lauren, she was red-haired and stunning. Of course, this photo had to be several years old and her first reaction, which was jealousy, was absurd. Staring closely at it, Jill decided that Hal looked very thin, even in his ski clothes. Had he been ill at the time this photograph was taken?
She put the frame back and glanced over at the few books filling the rest of the bookcase. Then she wandered to the bed, which was a massive four-poster in an extremely dark wood. She ran her head over the plaid quilt. He probably hadn’t slept there in years.
She sat down on the bed, glancing at the photographs taped to the walls. Most were black-and-white. Many were portraits of people she did not know, many were of his family. Jill stared at one portrait, a head shot of a beautiful and regal older woman who had to be his mother, the countess, whom she had not yet met. The resemblance was unmistakable.
Jill did not move, filled up with him, and for one moment, she almost felt him beside her, but then the moment was gone. She lay down, more tired now than at any previous point in the past few days. Hal’s bed was more than comfortable—it was comforting. She could almost smell his cologne, but that was only in her mind.
She turned her head and her gaze slammed into another photograph—but this one was very old and in an antique silver frame on his nightstand. Jill sat up.
Jill pulled the framed picture from the bedside table where it stood. She stared, surprised, eyes wide.
It was an old black-and-white photograph of two young women in period dress. To Jill’s untrained eye, it appeared to be turn-of-the-century; their gowns were white and long, the skirts slim, and both women wore boaters on their heads. The two women were standing close to one another in front of a wrought-iron fence. They stared at the camera, unsmiling.
Had this been Hal’s?
For one moment Jill was confused, until she recalled the several times they had visited museums in New York together. Hal had always enjoyed pointing out the details of late nineteenth and turn-of-the-century life—which he had seemed quite knowledgeable about. Of course this was his. He had undoubtedly admired the photography.
Jill looked more closely at the photo, trying to see what it was that had drawn him to it, but for her, it was merely an old photograph of two young women. She shrugged to herself and laid the framed photo down on the bed. But she was thinking now that something was odd. Hal had not collected old photographs. He had been too intense about his own work. Chills seemed to cover her arms.
Jill hesitated, then picked up the silver frame again. Unsure of what compelled her, she turned it over and she gasped. There was handwriting on the back of it.
Curious, Jill took a closer look. Her eyes widened as she read aloud, “Kate Gallagher and Anne Bensonhurst, the summer of 1906.” The handwriting was Hal’s.
There was no mistake about it.
Jill was frozen. She did not know what to think. But her last name was Gallagher—and Hal’s last dying word to her had been “Kate.”
She stared at the photo, trembling.
This was, undoubtedly, the oddest coincidence, nothing more. Jill reminded herself that Hal had loved her, had told her so before he died, and that this photograph had nothing to do with that woman named Kate, who was probably his lawyer or some such thing. Jill turned the photograph back over. Who were these women and why had Hal cared enough about their photograph to write on the back of it, to keep it?
She was grim, and in spite of her reassurances to herself, she was concerned. Oddly enough, she felt uneasy, and she was wishing that she had never come into his room.
Still, Jill continued to stare at the picture. Both women were dark-haired and fair-skinned. Of course, back in those days, women did not take sun. One of the women was neither plain nor pretty; in spite of having classic features, she somehow disappeared beside her companion, whose looks were bold and striking. It was this other young woman who suddenly commanded Jill’s complete attention.
Jill could not look away. She was mesmerized. There was something compelling about her. Something so very unusual. She was beautiful, but not classically. Her nose was straight and Roman, her jaw too wide, her cheekbones very high—and there was a definite mole on her right cheek. Jill did not think it was her looks that were so commanding. Perhaps it was her eyes. They were dark and bright with intelligence, with vitality, with joy, Jill thought, and Jill received the distinct feeling that this woman had secrets she wished to teasingly share.
The woman with the mole stared back at Jill, smiling ever so slightly, Jill now saw, and her eyes were daring Jill to … to what?
“Just what do you think you are doing in here?” a harsh voice demanded from behind her.
Jill cried out, dropping the photograph.
“I asked you what you were doing in here,” Alex Preston said from the doorway. And he flicked on the rest of the lights.
J
ill’s palm rested on her wildly racing heart. “Your frightened me,” she said.
ill’s palm rested on her wildly racing heart. “Your frightened me,” she said.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t expect to find anyone in here.” Alex entered the room. His expression was difficult to read now, but there had been no mistaking it a moment ago. “What are you doing in here?” His blue stare was extremely, uncomfortably direct.
Jill hesitated. “I couldn’t sleep.”
His gaze did not waver. “This is Hal’s room. How did you find it?”
Jill flushed. “By chance. I’m sorry if my prowling around has offended you.”
“You’re a guest here—not a prisoner. But this is a family home.” His meaning was clear—she could have disturbed the family.
“I knew Hal’s room was on the second floor,” Jill continued uneasily. “When I couldn’t fall asleep, I went downstairs to make a drink. I sort of just wandered up here. I didn’t intend to bother anyone—and I don’t think I did—until now.”
He was studying her very closely and he did not reply. Jill could not guess his thoughts. That increased her discomfort, as did his scrutiny. But she was given the opportunity to study him as well. He had changed into a pair of very worn, faded Levi’s. They fit his slim hips snugly, like a glove. And he donned a butter-soft, yellow cashmere sweater—one that looked
very expensive. Not very many men could wear canary yellow and get away with it.
very expensive. Not very many men could wear canary yellow and get away with it.
Jill looked away. Hal’s photography was everywhere. “I miss him,” she added helplessly. “I really do. I guess that’s why I came up here.”
“We all miss him.” Jill fidgeted as Alex glanced around the room, then at the photograph lying on the bed. “Were you looking for something?” he asked abruptly. His gaze was on the framed photograph. “What’s that?”
Jill was bewildered. “No. But I couldn’t help looking at his things. I almost felt him here, with me, a moment ago.” Was he suspicious of her? She tried out a small smile but he did not smile in return as she picked up the old photo of the two women. Her fingers slid over the frame of their own volition. “I found this on his night table,” Jill said slowly. Again, the woman with the mole caught her eye, seemingly staring at Jill. Jill stared back. One of these women was named Kate Gallagher. Something inside of her lurched unpleasantly.
She stared at the women in the photograph, having no doubt that Kate Gallagher was the one with the teasing, vivacious look in her sultry eyes. Of course her name was a coincidence. If only Hal hadn’t mentioned “Kate” with his last dying breath, she thought grimly. If only her last name weren’t Gallagher.
“What is it?” Alex cut into her thoughts.
She had been so absorbed that Alex’s soft question startled her. She had, for one moment, forgotten where she was and whom she was with. For an instant, perhaps only a second or two, she had been completely focused on Kate Gallagher. “The handwriting on the back of this is Hal’s,” Jill said slowly. “This is a photograph of two women, Kate Gallagher and Anne Bensonhurst, and it’s dated 1906. I find this odd, because Hal was not a collector of other people’s work.” She finally looked up at Alex. “And isn’t it strange that I have the same name as one of the women in the photo?”
“Gallagher is an extremely common name,” he said without hesitation.
“But why was he keeping this? Do you have any idea?” She would never tell Alex, or anyone, that Hal had spoken another woman’s name as he died.
Alex shrugged, but he stepped closer to her and peered down at the photo she held. “Ann Bensonhurst was Hal’s grandmother and my great-aunt. That is obviously why Hal kept the photo.”
Briefly, Jill was relieved—that simple fact explained everything. “Anne Bensonhurst was his grandmother,” she repeated. Then her relief vanished.
Did it explain everything? She glanced at Alex, finding it difficult to take her gaze from the photo. “You know, don’t you, that Hal was very interested in the late Victorian and early Edwardian period. In New York we used to go to museums. He was always drawn to the turn-of-the-century exhibits.”
Did it explain everything? She glanced at Alex, finding it difficult to take her gaze from the photo. “You know, don’t you, that Hal was very interested in the late Victorian and early Edwardian period. In New York we used to go to museums. He was always drawn to the turn-of-the-century exhibits.”
“He was a history buff,” Alex said.
But Jill was suddenly remembering an afternoon spent at the Met. Afterward they’d sat outside at the Stanhope, drinking cappuccinos while people-watching, his arm around her shoulders. Suddenly it was there again, inside of her, a huge bubble of grief, the devastating sense of loss, the aloneness, the guilt. The pain was overwhelming.
“What is it?”
Jill swallowed. She must not think about Hal. She must think about Kate Gallagher. It was safer, easier. “Is Anne the one on the left with the darker hair?”
“Yes.”
“She looks like you, except plainer.”
“Her older sister, Juliette, was my great-grandmother.”
“And how did your branch of the family wind up in America?” Jill was genuinely curious. She wiped her eyes with her fingertips.
Alex seemed to relax. “My grandmother married an American, it’s as simple as that. Actually, she was very fortunate. There was nothing left for her here in Britain.”
There was something in his tone that made Jill regard him closely. “What do you mean?”
“My great-grandmother died in a carriage accident as a young woman. The Bensonhurst fortune passed on to Anne. Not the title—titles can’t be passed down to females, but the wealth. My grandmother, who was born a Feldston, was sent away to a girls school when her father remarried. Most of his small fortune went to his son. My grandmother was the “poor” relation, and it was extreme good fortune that an American gentleman fell in love with her and whisked her off to a foreign land.”
Jill wondered if he identified with his grandmother. But there was nothing penniless about this man. Even in his jeans, he had a strong aura of success, self-assurance, and power. He did not seem bitter, either, but she felt certain that he was good at hiding his emotions. “So you’ve returned to your roots,” Jill remarked.
An extremely intense gaze pinned her down. “My roots are Luigi’s, where my mother waited table her entire adult life. My roots are Coney Island, not Mayfair.”
Jill didn’t flinch from his stare. “How did you wind up here?”
He glanced away. “My mother passed away when I was thirteen. I was no stranger to the family—they had us out every summer. They took me in.” He smiled briefly. “Hoodlum-in-training that I was.” His smile faded. “It was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Jill was silent, trying to imagine this man as a young streetwise boy from Brooklyn being thrown into the midst of this family and this kind of life. “It must have been very hard.”
He shrugged, clearly no longer willing to discuss the subject.
Which was fine with Jill. She glanced at Anne and Kate again. “Wouldn’t it be the strangest coincidence if Kate Gallagher was a relative of mine?” The words had come forth unbidden and unpremeditated.
“The odds are a million to one.”
Jill agreed with that. On the other hand, she had this inkling that there was more here than met the eye … “Do you know anything about her?” Jill asked curiously, studying the two women. Now it seemed to her that Kate was smiling ever so slightly at the photographer. She inspected the photograph more closely and decided that Kate was interested in the photographer, either that or she was a ham.
“No. Why would I know anything about some person in an antiquated photograph?”
“Do you know where this was taken?” Jill asked, suddenly handing it to him.
Alex studied the picture. “Frankly, I don’t have a clue. It could be anywhere.” Ignoring her, he put the photograph back on the nightstand, laying it down, faceup. “Hal was the historian in our family,” he said. “My interests lie in the present and the future, not the past.”
“Well.” Jill hesitated. “I guess I’m drawn to history, too.”
When he did not respond, she became aware of how late it had become, how tired she was, and the fact that she was standing barefoot in the room with him. Suddenly she noticed that he was barefoot, too. She folded her arms across her breasts. “I guess I should return to my room and try to get some sleep.” She glanced back at the nightstand. For some reason, she wanted to take the photograph with her, and study it again. But it was a family heirloom and it belonged to Hal and his family. She did not think Alex would let her take it to her room.
But what if Kate Gallagher was her ancestor? Obviously she could not be her great-grandmother, because they shared the same last name. Jill was intrigued, so much so that she shivered … until she recalled Hal’s
dying words, and then she felt the weight of depression. Her life had never seemed or felt more complicated or more bereft. If only he were alive to give her the answers she desperately needed.
dying words, and then she felt the weight of depression. Her life had never seemed or felt more complicated or more bereft. If only he were alive to give her the answers she desperately needed.
Alex remained silent. His lapses into silence were unsettling. Jill avoided his unwavering eyes. “Well,” she said, slipping her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “If you don’t mind, I’ll make myself another drink before I go back to my room.” She started to move toward the door.
But he did not move, and he barred her way. “What did happen, Jill?”
Jill froze. Her heart lurched.
“Or should I say, how did it happen? How did you hit the tree?” His tone was calm, unlike his cousin’s efforts to question her earlier.
Jill wanted to escape him now. “You yourself said this can wait. I don’t think I can talk about it yet.” She glanced at the door, wanting to flee, desperately.
“You’re better off talking to me—than to them,” he said, his hands on his hips. “By tomorrow, Thomas will be wanting the very same answers—again. But he is extremely upset—and very angry. Why don’t you tell me instead. It will save you a helluva lot of grief.”
First Thomas, now Alex, confronting her, pinning her down. Jill began to perspire. “Is this an interrogation?” Jill asked slowly, aware of the heat accumulating in her cheeks.
“No. Not unless you make it one.” When Jill did not speak, he said, “Why are you so nervous? What are you hiding?”
Jill inhaled. The sound was unmistakable in the bedroom. “I’m not nervous,” she shot back, a lie. “I’m exhausted, jet-lagged, and I’m sick. I’ve just lost someone—”
He cut her off, as if he did not believe her. “Hal was very close to the family. Although recently he wasn’t calling … as if he were too preoccupied … or as if he were hiding something himself.”
Jill stiffened. “I know how close he was to his family, he talked about you guys all the time. He had nothing to hide.” But he had, hadn’t he? He’d had their relationship to hide.
“He had you.”
He was astute. Jill despised him for his candor. She hedged, buying time frantically. “What does that mean?”
“Come on,” Alex said flatly. “Why beat around the bush?” His stare remained direct and intent. “You live in a cheap studio in the Village. You’re a dancer. You’re American. Penniless. You’re not exactly the kind of girl he would bring home, much less marry.”
“That was to the point,” she whispered, aghast. “I take it you have never fallen in love?” She was trembling. His words hurt—maybe because they were so goddamned close to what might be the truth.
He ignored that. “Look, I’m an American, too. I grew up on the streets of Brooklyn. I know all about penniless, and I know my cousins. I know my uncle. He had plans for Hal, especially after the disappointment of Thomas’s divorce and the way things are with Lauren.”
Jill wondered what had happened, both with Thomas and Lauren, but did not ask.
“If you really thought Hal was going to bring you home and marry you, then I am very sorry for you,” Alex said flatly.
Jill bit her lip. “He was,” she said. “He was.”
His look was direct and pitying. “I know what Hal was hiding,” Alex said. “But I can’t quite figure out what you are hiding.”
She stared, becoming angry at last.
“What happened the night of the accident?”
“I don’t know,” she lied. “It all happened so quickly. We were talking and then I looked up and saw the tree. I’ve never even been in a fender bender before!”
“I know.”
She stared.
“I’ve done my homework,” he said, holding her gaze. “But not enough of it—apparently.” He did not pause. “You were driving. The roads were clear. It was the middle of the afternoon. You weren’t drinking and there was no sign of drugs in your blood. How does one go off the road and hit a tree, given those conditions?” He was pushing.
She found herself locking gazes with him. He made her uncomfortable and immediately she turned her head away. “Don’t do this,” she said, low. “Not now, not this way, not tonight. I can’t handle this.”
“Hal was my cousin. We grew up together. I want to know what really happened. You weren’t concentrating on the road. That’s my conclusion. Which means you were distracted.”
Jill broke. “I am going to live with the fact that I was driving and I hit that tree and I killed Hal for the rest of my life. I don’t know what happened,” she cried. Jill hugged herself, finding it hard to breathe, hating Alex for pressing her this way. “I’m not hiding anything,” she whispered.
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