Authors: Brenda Joyce
The Third Heiress (8 page)
Jill cradled her head on her arms, staring up at the ceiling. She was buzzed from the scotch and exhausted and so terribly scared and finally, thankfully, numb. And as exhaustion finally got the best of her, as she suddenly, finally fell asleep, her last thought was to wonder if there was any connection at all between her and Hal and a woman named Kate.
And she dreamed about a damp, dark, crumbling tower from which there was no escape.
J
ill entered the Anglican church where the funeral service was being held, trailing after the Sheldons, her shoes echoing on the centuries-old gray stone floors. Like most if not all of the churches in England, this one belonged in another place in time—it was probably five or six hundred years old. The walls were rough stone, the windows archaic stained glass, the pews scarred and well worn. Most of those pews were already filled with the family’s friends and associates.
ill entered the Anglican church where the funeral service was being held, trailing after the Sheldons, her shoes echoing on the centuries-old gray stone floors. Like most if not all of the churches in England, this one belonged in another place in time—it was probably five or six hundred years old. The walls were rough stone, the windows archaic stained glass, the pews scarred and well worn. Most of those pews were already filled with the family’s friends and associates.
Jill felt claustrophobic.
She continued down the aisle, behind Lauren, who held a handkerchief to her face. She was crying, but silently. Her husband, a tall, thin man with beautiful dark shoulder-length hair, had his arm around her. They had met briefly at the house. Jill had gathered that he was an artist and that their marriage was fraught with tension.
Thomas walked in front of them, his arm around his mother, Margaret,
whom Jill had not yet been introduced to. The few glimpses she’d had of Hal’s mother outside of the church had shown her that Margaret, who was at least ten years younger than her husband, was sedated and severely stricken. She had not seemed to be aware of Jill’s presence, which was probably for the best.
whom Jill had not yet been introduced to. The few glimpses she’d had of Hal’s mother outside of the church had shown her that Margaret, who was at least ten years younger than her husband, was sedated and severely stricken. She had not seemed to be aware of Jill’s presence, which was probably for the best.
Jill tried not to look at Thomas’s broad shoulders. It was not an easy task, because he was directly ahead of her. The nod he had given her earlier that morning had been very curt. His feelings toward her had not changed since last night.
Jill stared past him. Alex and William were walking side by side in the very front of the family, Alex gripping William’s elbow quite firmly, as if afraid his uncle would collapse. The older man looked very worn and fatigued. The bags under his eyes seemed more extreme today than they had yesterday when Jill had arrived. She had not a doubt he had cried all night.
Alex and William took their seats in the first pew. Thomas was literally holding Margaret upright as he seated her beside her husband, then sat down himself. He did not look up at Jill, who slid into the second pew alone, behind the family, beside strangers who turned to glance at her.
Jill clutched her hands so hard she hurt herself. Then she caught Alex’s eyes as he glanced back at her. He didn’t smile; neither did she. He shifted, facing forward again.
If only the service was over. Jill closed her eyes. This was the singular most horrible moment since Hal’s actual death. It felt endless. And to make matters worse, she could not forget her conversation with KC last night. And she heard someone weeping behind her, the sobs muffled but anguished.
Jill glanced around. Directly across the aisle a petite woman was sobbing into a handkerchief, her long shoulder-length auburn hair hiding her face. An elderly man had his arm around her. He was old enough to be her father.
Jill stared uneasily. The woman was young, and her fitted black jacket and skirt hugged her lush body like a glove. Jill knew her. But that made no sense, because Jill was quite certain that they had never met.
Jill suddenly realized that many people in the crowd were staring at her. She tensed, looking around, but as she did so, men and women quickly looked away from her, avoiding her eyes. There was no mistaking the fact that her presence was causing an odd and strong reaction in the crowd of mourners.
Oh, God. Too late, Jill realized that everyone must know that she had been driving, that the accident was her fault, that she had killed Hal. That was why everyone kept staring. There was no other possible reason.
Jill had never felt worse. The guilt overwhelmed her. It seemed to choke the very breath out of her.
It crossed her mind that she could get up from her seat and flee the church and all of these people with their accusing stares—flee and never come back.
But she loved Hal. She had to say good-bye.
And as the minister took the pulpit, Jill heard whispers behind her. Someone said, “Is that
her?
”
her?
”
Jill froze.
Someone else replied, “Yes, that’s
her
. The American girlfriend, the
dancer.”
her
. The American girlfriend, the
dancer.”
Jill’s shoulders felt like two plywood boards. She did not move. She prayed that the service would start. But the first speaker said, too loudly, “But what about Marisa?”
Marisa? Who was Marisa? Jill turned, staring at an elderly woman in a black Chanel suit, a beautiful black hat, and an extreme amount of very large, very real, diamond jewelry.
The woman smiled automatically and turned her head, gazing across the aisle. Jill did not smile back. Her stomach was curdling with dread. She followed her gaze.
And was faced with the petite redhead in the skinny black suit. The woman had stopped crying. She was staring straight ahead. She was one of the loveliest, most feminine women Jill had ever seen, with a perfect porcelain complexion and dark red hair. And it was then that Jill recognized her.
From the photograph in Hal’s bedroom, the one of him and her on a ski slope.
Jill’s heart fell, hard. She failed to breathe.
The priest began to speak, his somber voice cutting through Jill’s shock. “My dear, dear friends,” he began, his voice deep and resonant, “we are gathered here today under tragic circumstances, to lay the recently departed soul of Harold William Sheldon to rest.”
Who was Marisa? What had that woman meant? Jill fought for air. She was going to fall apart. Oh, God. This was what she had been secretly afraid of, losing it in front of everyone, all these strangers, Hal’s family—Thomas, Alex—everyone who despised her. She could not take any more!
Do not think about the other woman, Jill told herself. Hal loved you. This isn’t what you think it is, it is not. That woman in the Chanel suit had meant something else—but Jill was too distressed to comprehend what that meaning might now be.
Jill gripped the arm of her pew. In front of her, Margaret Sheldon was sobbing now, but softly. Thomas held her close. Directly in front of Jill, Lauren began to weep into her hands and then on her husband’s shoulder.
The service had become a nightmare. A nightmare that she must escape.
Jill closed her eyes, ordering herself to breathe deeply and evenly, but she was feeling both dizzy and faint now, and was horrified because she did not think she could cope for very much longer. She opened her eyes, only to meet Thomas’s gaze. He was still holding his mother, and instantly he looked away from her. The accusation in his eyes had been unmistakable.
And Jill heard the minister saying, “One of the kindest, most compassionate, and bravest souls I have ever known.”
Brave. Had Hal been brave? He had been thinking of running out on her after his marriage proposal. Because he was scared to bring her home to this. To these people, this lifestyle, this arrogance and condescension. In that moment, Jill could not blame him for losing his courage. His family was cold and hostile. Oh, God. They hated her, but even if Hal were alive, they would have hated her; and Hal had known it.
Jill clenched her fists so tightly that her own short, manicured nails dug into her flesh, about to get up and run from the church.
Hal
had not been brave. She felt like the worst kind of traitor for harboring such a thought; she wished, desperately, that she had never had it. And she felt the stares again, knew she was being watched. She could not go. Everyone was already talking about her, and if she did, the gossip would become far worse. Jill stared straight ahead out of blurry eyes.
Hal
had not been brave. She felt like the worst kind of traitor for harboring such a thought; she wished, desperately, that she had never had it. And she felt the stares again, knew she was being watched. She could not go. Everyone was already talking about her, and if she did, the gossip would become far worse. Jill stared straight ahead out of blurry eyes.
Marisa was the kind of woman Hal could have brought home. Once glance had told Jill that—she was elegant, well bred, she came from money. It was as painfully obvious as the fact that Jill was from a lower income working-class background, in her trendy rayon and lycra clothes, her thrift-store and flea-market bargains. Even her haircut was too wayout for this uptown crowd.
And most important, she was a dancer. It had been her passion since she was six years old. What had Hal been thinking?
Thomas was speaking. Jill jerked at the sound of his sandy voice, because she had not seen him rise and take the pulpit. Focusing on him now was a relief—it might even be her salvation.
He had taken the podium, which he gripped with both strong hands. A signet ring with a bloodred stone winked from his right hand. Jill couldn’t help noticing that even in his pitch-black suit and with his bloodshot eyes, he had an inescapable magnetism; he still looked good.
“My brother Hal did not deserve to die,” he began, and instantly he had to stop, turning his face aside, fighting for control.
Jill stared, softening a bit toward him. He might despise her, but he was also aching over the loss of his brother. Last night she had told Alex that they should be comforting one another. She still felt that way.
But with Thomas as angry as he was, he was not about to let her console or comfort him, or even share their grief and anguish.
“Hal did not deserve to die,” Thomas repeated, pausing, jaw flexed. His gaze moved over the crowd, making eye contact with it. He did not glance at Jill.
“No one deserves to die,” he said harshly. “But my brother was so young, he was only thirty-six, and he was also one of those rare souls that the world needs so much more of.” He inhaled. “He did not deserve to die. I still can’t understand why this happened.” Thomas stopped. And suddenly he was looking directly at Jill.
Jill stared back at Thomas, fists clenched. Any compassion she had just felt for Thomas vanished. Had he openly condemned her for murder, he could not have made his feelings more clear. And he had openly condemned her—no one present could have mistaken his meaning, or misunderstood the accusation in his eyes. How could he be so cruel?
“Hal was one of the kindest people I have ever known,” Thomas continued, still staring at Jill. “He had a heart of gold. He was a rescuer. I used to tease him about it. As kids, he was the one trying to bring home strays. We never had less than three or four cats and mutts in the house when we were growing up. Our mother used to beg him not to bring home any more strays but he would not listen.”
Marisa was crying again.
In spite of his anguish, Thomas was a powerful speaker and his voice carried, but Jill no longer heard him. She stared at Marisa, who was in the throes of grief. Clearly she had been head over heels in love with Hal. Jill was sick.
“I’ve decided to collect all of Hal’s work and hold an exhibition,” Thomas was now saying. Jill’s gaze swung back to the pulpit; Marisa continued
to sob loudly, uncontrollably, behind and across from her. “His work is now his legacy to us, and the world,” Thomas said. “I’m thinking of then exhibiting his work permanently at Uxbridge Hall. Hal loved Uxbridge Hall. When he was alive and living in London, he practically haunted that place.” Tears suddenly slid down Thomas’s cheeks. And it was clear that he could not speak.
to sob loudly, uncontrollably, behind and across from her. “His work is now his legacy to us, and the world,” Thomas said. “I’m thinking of then exhibiting his work permanently at Uxbridge Hall. Hal loved Uxbridge Hall. When he was alive and living in London, he practically haunted that place.” Tears suddenly slid down Thomas’s cheeks. And it was clear that he could not speak.
Alex suddenly was on his feet and striding onto the podium. His arm went around his cousin. Thomas shook his head. “I want to finish,” he seemed to say.
Alex argued with him.
Dabbing her eyes, Jill watched the two cousins, the one lean and dark, the other so golden. Alex finally accepted his cousin’s apparently stronger will, and he left the podium.
Thomas swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said harshly. “I owe my brother so much. More than I can explain here, except to say that when times became extremely difficult for me, personally, Hal never failed to call me two or three times a day. Even if it was just to say hello, to make certain I was all right, to let me know that he was there. My brother was a rare and wonderful individual.”
Thomas fell silent. A long moment passed. Jill thought his eulogy was over. Her gaze remained glued to his face. Even if she had wanted to look away, she could not.
He suddenly said, smiling and crying at the same time, “When we were kids, Hal was the one playing jokes. I’ll never forget the time he put a toad in our nanny’s glass of water. Did she shriek, enough to wake up the dead.” His smile vanished. The tears remained. “I can’t believe he’s gone.” Thomas stopped speaking abruptly, tears sliding down his face again. “I miss him so much.”
Jill was ready to get up and run away. His gaze had found hers again. She did not move.
“In Hal’s name,” Thomas said, “I am starting a foundation for young, struggling artists to enable them to pursue their dreams. It’s what Hal would have wanted,” he said.
Jill stared at him. The gesture was both noble and grand. Hal would have been pleased. She wiped her eyes. She had thought her tears finally, at long last, all used up. She was wrong.
Thomas was crying, tears sliding down his face. Jill stared even though her vision was blurry, watching as Alex went to his cousin and took him by the arm, helping him down from the pulpit.
She watched as William stood, and as Thomas fell into his father’s embrace,
the two men clinging tearfully. Alex hovered by them. He had one hand on Thomas, but it fell away.
the two men clinging tearfully. Alex hovered by them. He had one hand on Thomas, but it fell away.
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