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Authors: Brenda Joyce

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“The case was never officially closed,” Alex said quite casually, jerking Jill out of the past. “But it was dropped in the fall of 1909 when all the leads just fizzled out. Lucinda Becke was right. Kate Gallagher did disappear—as if into thin air.”
Jill gazed up at him, stunned by what she had been handed. “How did you find this? Were these articles in the archives at Uxbridge Hall?”
He grinned. It was boyish. “No. I like cruising the Net. With the right
software, you can go anywhere—including into the old archives of newspapers like the
Times
and the
Trib.”
“But why? Why go to all this trouble?” Jill did not understand. And she was dying to read the three articles. She could hardly restrain herself from dashing over to the sofa to do so.
“Maybe I wanted to help out—after letting you down so badly with the letters.”
He wasn’t smiling. He seemed very sincere—and very intense. Jill forgot to breathe. Why was he going out of his way like this?
Alex broke the tension. “Go sit down and read. I’ll heat up some water and make us some tea.”
Jill nodded. She sank down on the sofa, her hands still shaking. The complaint regarding Kate’s disappearance had been filed by her mother, Mary Gallagher, on January 2, 1909. Jill’s excitement increased. The article described Kate as being the daughter of the deceased Peter Gallagher of New York City. Surely this was the very same Peter Gallagher who lived at Number 12 Washington Square—Jill had to assume so.
Kate had apparently been last seen at a birthday party thrown in honor of Anne Bensonhurst. That event, Jill read, had been held on Saturday, October 17, and it had been held at Bensonhurst.
Chills swept over Jill. The words in front of Jill blurred. She stared down at the copy in her hands, but instead saw Kate in a black lace ball gown, ravishingly beautiful and pale with distress. The crowd around her was a kaleidoscope of gay colors, the women bejeweled, the men in black tuxedos and starched white shirtfronts. An orchestra played. Kate stood alone watching the crowd in the huge hall.
An observer, not a participant, and an unhappy observer at that.
“Her mother was insistent that Kate would have never disappeared of her own volition,” Alex said.
Jill was so startled that she almost jumped from the couch at the sound of his deep voice. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, regarding her. “Where were you just now, Jill?”
“I could see it. Her. At Anne’s birthday party. That was where a dozen witnesses claimed to have last seen her. I could see her, and the crowd, so clearly. It’s almost scary how vivid it was.” Jill could not smile at him.
He launched himself off of the doorjamb and sauntered forward with his long, easy stride. “Obviously she had her child—or lost her child—and returned to London—only to then disappear.”
Jill hadn’t thought about that. “You’re right.”
“If you’ve read all the articles, you know that quite a few of Kate’s friends disagreed with her mother. Seems like your ancestor, if she was your ancestor, had a reputation for being rather reckless, impulsive, and wild.”
“I believe she was my great-grandmother. I believe it more and more every day.”
“Why?” He sat down next to her on the sofa, and as he did so, the kettle in the kitchen began to sing.
“It’s just a feeling I have. A strong one.” Jill met his gaze, expecting him to laugh at her.
He did not laugh. He said, “Sometimes the strongest feelings are correct. When my gut tells me something, I listen to it.”
Jill smiled slightly at his terminology. “I’ve learned that my grandfather, Peter Gallagher, died in 1970 at the age of sixty-two. That means he was born in 1908, Alex, the same year Kate delivered her child.”
“That’s interesting,” Alex said. “How’d you find that out?”
“A letter my mother wrote to her mother.” Jill smiled now in her enthusiasm. “My grandfather was also born in Yorkshire, maybe in the city of York.”
Alex regarded her. “There’s still no proof. And we don’t know that Kate had a healthy child. Jill, a lot of women died in childbirth back then although Kate did not, at least not in May of 1908, because she was alive and kicking at Anne’s birthday five months later. But infants died all the time back then.”
“I realize that,” Jill said, refusing to be swayed to pessimism. “What do you think happened?”
“Don’t have a clue.” He seemed cheerful as he jumped off of the sofa and hurried into the kitchen to turn off the kettle. Jill was reading the second article when he returned with two cups of black, sweet tea. He had shed his jacket and loosened a very boldly colored red and gold tie. “Hope it’s not too strong.”
“I’m not a tea drinker.”
“Neither am I. Guess you’ll have to stock some coffee in the house.”
Jill found herself staring at him, but she was seeing Kate. “I think she ran off with her lover.”
His blue gaze roamed her face. “To live happily ever after?”
“Yes.” Jill neither blushed nor became defensive.
“There aren’t too many fairy-tale endings in real life, Jill,” he said slowly.
“No.” She thought about Hal—with a small pang. She wondered if she
would ever be able to forgive him his treachery. She wondered if she would ever want to.
“I didn’t mean to raise a tough subject.”
She glanced at him and finally said, “You’re very intuitive.”
“Does that get me Brownie points?”
She stood up. He was too tall, he took up too much of the couch. “Why would that get you Brownie points?”
“Most women like a guy with sensitivity.” He continued to regard her.
“I loved Hal,” Jill said very sharply. She could not believe it. He was coming on to her!
“I know you did.” Alex stared at her. He didn’t say what Jill felt certain he was thinking—but you loved someone who loved someone else and now you don’t know whether to love him or hate him. “Jill, everyone has to get on with their lives, yourself included. If you don’t mind my advice.”
Jill was suddenly very angry. Furiously so. “What do you think I’m doing? Hal is dead because of me, he lied to me about a huge part of his life, I really didn’t know him, but I’m trying to get over it—over him—to the best of my ability. And you know what? I think I’m doing okay—and I don’t need you coming on to me or advising me or telling me that I’m not!”
Abruptly Jill sat down, staring at her knees. She had to face it. Hal had known Marisa for a lifetime—he had known Jill for only eight months. Whatever bond had been between Hal and Marisa, it had withstood the test of time. It must have been very special.
Jill knew she could not compete, not now, in the present, and not then, in the past. She had been a fling. An interim fling that had only happened because of Marisa’s divorce.
She did not want to acknowledge the rest of her thoughts. But they loomed now, loud and clear, in her mind. Maybe, just maybe, she had also been Hal’s lover because of Kate.
“Look.” The one word was terse. Jill had to glance at him. He was flushed, but in control. “I wasn’t trying to criticize you. And I wasn’t coming on to you, either.”
Their gazes locked. Jill didn’t believe him, but she kept it to herself.
“When I come on to you, you will know it,” Alex said flatly.
Jill stiffened. There was something in his tone that frightened her.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to upset you, I only came to offer you some support.” Alex flashed a brief smile at her. It seemed strained. “Maybe we need to lay more than Hal to rest, sooner rather than later.”
Jill hesitated, daring to look him in the eye—daring to be honest. “I
want to. I’m tired of this. Of being sad, of being angry, of being fine—only to find it’s an illusion. But it’s so hard. I wake up at night and my first feeling is, I miss him. Then I remember
everything
, and I don’t miss him at all. It’s horrible.”
His expression softened. “I can imagine. But you have no choice, Jill. You’ve got to let him go. You’ve got to let it all go.”
She stared back. He didn’t know. He could only imagine what her turmoil was like. No one could know—unless they’d been lied to and duped by someone beloved who was now dead.
“What is it?” he asked sharply.
Again, he’d picked up on her thoughts. Jill was tense. “There’s something I haven’t told you. There’s something I haven’t told anyone.” Warning bells exploded in her brain. Like tiny fragments of blinding light. But she could not hold her tongue.
Alex waited, patient, passive, absolutely still.
“When Hal was dying, he told me he loved me, but he called me Kate.”
Alex started, eyes widening slightly. “Maybe you misheard.”
“No. I didn’t. He said, ‘I love you, Kate.’ And I know, with every fiber of my being, that he was thinking of Kate Gallagher,” Jill cried.
Alex just stared.
September 10, 1906
Dear Diary,
I have met the most extraordinary woman. Her name is Kate Gallagher. I met Kate in Brighton. She is in Britain with her mother, hoping to catch herself a titled husband. Indeed, she confessed as much to me within moments of our meeting—and we were not even properly introduced. But that is Kate. She is bold and forthright, recklessly so. I have never before met anyone like her, neither man nor woman.
Being with Kate is like being in the center of a whirlwind. Of course, I have only read about such events of nature in novels, but a whirlwind must feel like Kate. She cannot sit still for more than a few minutes, and is always expounding upon her ideas, which are, to say the least, unconventional. She expects to marry for true love! She expects me to do the same! I understand that she does not understand our society, or the fact that I must marry well, and that the alliance must suit both families. I have tried to explain it to her, but she refuses to even try to comprehend me.
Alas, I do believe that is why I am so drawn to her. The other day we had a picnic by a pond. Kate took off all of her clothes and went swimming in the nude. I must say, after my shock faded, it did look like fun. But what if other strollers had happened upon us? I shudder to think of how Kate’s reputation would have been torn to shreds. Truly, Kate does not think twice about anything she wishes to do, and I think that is why
I am so infatuated with her. I wish, for at least a day, I could be as brave as she is.
I have thrown my first extreme fit of temper. I was determined to have Mama invite Kate and her mother to Bensonhurst for the Season. I wish for Kate to come out with me, and when I told Mama as much, she was horrified. Mama does not like Kate. It is silly, but understandable, she fears Kate’s wild nature will manifest itself in me! I cried and sobbed for hours, until Papa complained, which he never does, and told Mama to give me my way. I am deliriously happy. This shall be the best Season a lady could ever have. There is not a dull moment when Kate is around.
However, I do have some anxiety. You see, dear Diary, Mama’s friends dislike Kate as well. I have overheard, more than once, that they think her trash. I am also afraid that her suitors do not have the most honorable intentions toward her. Have I mentioned that the gentlemen flock to her like bees to honey? A mere smile from Kate, and an admirer comes running. Most of her current beaux have horrid reputations as rakes and scoundrels. Kate is an heiress herself, but that cannot compensate for her reckless behavior. (She was caught alone in the gardens at midnight at a soirée with a much older gentleman quite recently, in spite of my warnings not to allow him near.) I fear she will only snag the worst sort of husband, a callous fortune hunter at best. And that, I know, would break my dear Kate’s heart.
I must go. Today Kate and her mother arrive at Bensonhurst for their stay with us.
J
ill clutched a small bag of groceries with one hand and fumbled with her keys with the other. It wasn’t even seven o’clock the following morning, but her jet lag and excitement had caused her to rise hours ago. As she pushed the door open with her hip, she heard something inside crash to the floor.
Jill stiffened, alarmed. For one instant, she was afraid of an intruder, in the next instant, she saw one of the cats flying out of the salon and upstairs—a blur of silvery brown fur. She smiled. No one had told her that Allen Barrows’s cats were temperamental Siamese, and she had yet to make friends with either Lady Eleanor or Sir John.
“Jill?”
Jill turned at the sound of Lucinda’s voice. “Good morning,’ she said as the other woman came up the stone path, dressed casually in black trousers and a black wool sweater. The day was cloudy and gray, hinting of rain. The sun was barely up.
Lucinda smiled widely, as usual, wearing her oversized tortoise shell eyeglasses. “I got home very late last night and was afraid to call because of the time change. But I saw you go out this morning and I wanted to come over and welcome you to your flat.”
“I’m glad you did. I’ve been up for hours. Come on in,” Jill said.
Lucinda followed her into the kitchen, smiling as she glanced around the apartment. “How do you like it?”
“I love it,” Jill said. “Isn’t this the kind of place Kate might have stayed back in 1906?”
“Well, I think Kate would have resided in a more upscale house, certainly in a more posh neighborhood like Mayfair,” Lucinda said. “Don’t forget, she was a guest at Bensonhurst.”
“I know. But that was before she went to the country to have her child. She came back to London afterward—she was at Anne’s birthday party. I only have instant coffee. Is that okay?” Jill set a kettle to boil and went to the refrigerator for milk. As she opened the door, she was faced with the very expensive bottle of champagne that Alex had brought her last night. She had opened it after he had left, unable to resist. It was a 1986 Taittinger Blanc de Blancs. He had spent well over a hundred dollars on the single bottle, maybe as much as two. Of course, he was loaded. The gesture was probably meaningless; she doubted he had thought twice about spending so much money.
“That’s fine. I was so excited when you faxed me that letter, Jill.”
Jill sat down with her at the kitchen table, which was covered with a heavy linen tablecloth. The daisies left by Allen Barrows remained in the center of the table in the blue and white vase. “Are there records at Uxbridge Hall that I could look at? Wouldn’t it be safe to assume that Kate stayed at Bensonhurst again when she returned to London after having her child?”
“I am intimate with those records, dear. Kate was not a guest after her first stay in 1906.” Lucinda’s gaze was direct. “If there was even a hint of gossip about the child, she would not have been welcome in society, Jill.”
Jill absorbed that and said, “Hal would have put those letters somewhere very safe. The next time I am in New York, I will search the apartment there again. But I’ve really thought about it. I think they must be at the Sheldon house in Kensington Palace Gardens—because that is where they belong.”
“At least we now know that the letters really exist.” Lucinda’s eyes sparkled.
“Alex is picking me up tonight. He’s going to help me search for them
at the house.” Jill got up to remove the whistling kettle from the stove. Alex had not been keen on the idea. He thought it would be a wild goose chase. However, he’d explained to her that all of Hal’s bank accounts had been returned to the estate. Hal did not have a safe-deposit box on record with any of the institutions where he normally banked.
Lucinda turned so she could watch her. “He seems like a very nice man. He is certainly being very helpful.”
“I don’t know what to make of Alex Preston.” Jill hesitated. “Lucinda, do you think he might have deleted those files?”
Lucinda’s eyes were wide. “Why would he ever do such a thing?”
Jill set two mugs down on the table along with a pitcher of milk and a sugar bowl. “The more I think about it, the more doubtful I am. Kate was a guest of Anne’s and she got pregnant. You just said yourself that if anyone suspected, she would have been turned into an outcast—a social pariah. Correct me if I’m wrong. A young, unwed mother in those days would have been more than a huge scandal—it would have been an unacceptable tragedy.”
“Yes, it would have been a tragedy. Kate was ruined from the moment she became pregnant. I feel so sorry for her—I had no idea until I read that letter.”
“Well, that is a skeleton in the Collinsworth closet, is it not? And Alex’s last name might be Preston, but he is a Sheldon through and through.”
Lucinda was silent. “I hope you’re wrong, Jill. I really do. Besides, here in Britain every old family has more than skeletons in closets, there are ghosts lurking everywhere—and we are all used to the sordid side of our history. In fact, we are titillated by it. I can’t think of why Alex would delete old letters of historic value to the family.”
“Maybe you just hit the nail on the head. Alex is also an American. Maybe he is misguidedly trying to protect the only family he has.”
“Oh, dear,” Lucinda said.
“I hope I’m wrong, too,” Jill finally said. “There’s one other possibility.”
“There is?”
“Yes.” Jill met Lucinda’s gaze. “Maybe Thomas deleted them. I’ll lay odds he wouldn’t want any skeletons to surface in his closet.”
J
ill stood by her front window, gazing outside, watching several pedestrians on the sidewalk just beyond her iron gate and the single car passing in the street. Alex had promised to pick her up at seven-thirty, claiming
he could not leave the office any earlier. He was late. It was a quarter to eight and it was already growing dark out.
She heard a noise behind her and espied one of the cats sitting halfway up the stairs, staring at her out of vivid blue eyes. “Hello, sweetie. Are you Lady Eleanor or Sir John?”
The Siamese continued to stare unblinkingly. Then it began delicately licking its paw. He—or she—made Ezekial seem like a mutt. Even in the act of bathing itself, the cat appeared a snooty aristocrat.
Jill walked towards the cat, hand extended, about to pet it. It leaped up and fled up the stairs. She stared after it. “Oh, well.”
Then she heard the sound of a powerful engine outside. Jill walked back to the window and parted the curtains. Her eyes widened as she watched Alex step out of a very racy, very sleek, silver sports car. He was wearing a single-breasted charcoal gray suit and a very flashy pink and blue tie. He saw her and smiled.
Jill flushed, stepping away from the window, dropping the curtains. She wished he hadn’t caught her peeking out of the window like an excited teenager waiting for her first date. She hoped he did not get the wrong idea.
She turned and slipped on her black leather jacket, picking up her tote. She was wearing a white T-shirt and a long, straight black jersey skirt. She opened the door before he could knock, abruptly coming face-to-face with him.
“Sorry I’m late. A minor problem at the office.” He smiled at her.
Jill smiled back, but briefly. “That’s okay. Thanks for picking me up and chauffeuring me over to the Sheldons’ in the first place.” She closed the door and made sure it was locked.
“That’s a helluva lock. I could pick that with my eyes closed,” Alex said.
“Is that a skill of yours?”
“When I was a boy growing up, I was a bit rough around the edges.”
Jill stared at his face. “What does that mean?”
“I was a street kid, sort of delinquent. I picked a few locks in my time.” He grinned.
“You stole from people?”
“Just the occasional six-pack.”
She knew he was not referring to soda. “How old were you?”
“Eight, nine, ten. My mother worked long hours. I was your typical wild kid.” Alex touched her elbow as they walked down the stone path to his car.
Jill glanced sideways at him. He could be working in some factory now, drinking beer after work while shooting pool and living in a tenement, but instead, he was a power broker in a thousand-dollar suit, driving a car that probably cost well over six figures, part of a family of aristocrats who lived in a turn-of-the-century mansion. “It’s amazing,” Jill murmured, “the way a life can be altered.” And before the words were out of her mouth, she thought about Hal.
“Yeah. It is. If my mom hadn’t died, I might not be here.” He opened the door for her. “I might be ripping off a lot more than six-packs.”
Jill took a long hard look at him. He was smiling. She was trying to imagine him as a street punk into petty theft. It didn’t work. “More likely you’d be one of those super cons, ripping off a few million here and there from the kinds of people you work with now.”
He laughed. The sound was warm. “I take that as a compliment,” he said.
She slid into the car and he closed her door. She eyed the car’s white leather interior as he jumped in beside her, turning on the ignition. A CD player came on, the music classical.
He turned the volume down. “Brahms relaxes me.”
“Some car,” Jill returned.
“I’m not very self-indulgent, but I decided I deserved this a few years ago,” he said.
Jill decided not to take issue with that comment. Before leaving New York she’d stopped in a Tourneau store and learned that the watch he wore, even though it was just stainless steel, cost fourteen thousand dollars. “What kind of car is this?”
“A Lamborghini.”
“Boys and their toys,” Jill couldn’t help herself.
He grinned. “Yep. Life sure is fun.”
Jill had to smile.
“Hold on,” he said, shifting into gear.
Jill’s heart stopped and she gripped the seat belt, buckling it in haste. But his comment had been in jest. He winked at her.
Quickly she turned her face away. Jill stared out of her window, aware of him in the seat beside her, an image of his strong hands on the leather-bound steering wheel imprinted on her mind. He handled the sleek monster beneath them as easily as she handled her ballet slippers. He was an interesting man. Was he charming her? And why had he agreed to help her search his aunt and uncle’s house? Could she trust him?

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