The Third Heiress (24 page)
Authors: Brenda Joyce
“So I understand. Valuable to whom?”
“Obviously they would be family heirlooms of a sort, for you and your family,” Jill began.
“But how does that involve you?” he asked pointedly.
“Kate was my ancestor. I have some evidence to that effect.” Jill knew her words were a stretch.
“Well, I suppose that is very interesting, but I must ask you to refrain from activities that distress Lady Collinsworth.”
Jill wanted to ask him point-blank if she could come back when his wife was not at home in order to search for the letters. She did not. Her common sense told her that now was not the time. But it would not hurt to make a case for herself, to use in the future. Jill swallowed. “I have no family to speak of, my lord. My parents were killed in an accident when I was five years old. I was raised by an aunt who was hard of hearing and far too old to be burdened with a young child. I left home to study ballet when I was seventeen—never to return. I need to know if Kate Gallagher was my ancestor. You can trace your heritage back hundreds of years. I can’t even trace mine back one generation.”
“I sympathize with your plight, and if my wife were well, I would surely allow you to continue your search for your heritage, Miss Gallagher. But right now, you would only aggravate her illness and mental well-being.” He glanced at his watch, which was a gold face on a black strap from Van Cleef & Arpels, as he stood up, signaling the end of their interview. “Now, I must get to the office.”
Jill stood up, wetting her lips. “Kate Gallagher was a guest of your mother before she married Edward—your father. Kate had a child, possibly an illegitimate one. That same year, in 1908, Kate disappeared—and was never seen again.”
He regarded her almost blankly. “I beg your pardon?”
Jill repeated what she had said, beginning to perspire.
“What is the point you are trying to make, Miss Gallagher? Why would this be of interest to myself?”
“Did your mother ever talk about Kate? Did she ever mention her? Do you know who the father of her child was? Surely you must have heard something as a child growing up here?”
“I know nothing about this Kate Gallagher, Miss Gallagher. Today is the first I have ever heard of her. My mother was a very busy woman when I was a boy. In fact, I was off at boarding school for most of the time, as was my brother. Mother was a matriarch—my father died very young, just before D day, in fact. Mother ran our estates, worked behind the scenes in the Lords, chairmanned every single board at the Collinsworth Group, not to mention all the charities in which she was actively involved. She was not the kind of woman to reminisce about the
past. When she was alive, she lived in the present. That is what I do recollect.” He did not smile as he walked out from behind his desk, extending his hand toward her.
past. When she was alive, she lived in the present. That is what I do recollect.” He did not smile as he walked out from behind his desk, extending his hand toward her.
“She sounds like a very strong and admirable woman,” Jill said. She did not share the rest of her thoughts with him, that she had not appeared strong at all in either the portrait Jill had seen or the photograph.
“Yes, she was both those things. Now, if that is all?”
Jill hesitated. “Did you know that Hal had in his possession a photograph of Kate and Anne when they were girls of sixteen?”
He stared at her as if she had lost quite a few marbles. Or as if he could not quite believe that she had not shaken his hand and left, as he had prompted her to do.
“Not only did Hal have this unusual, very old photograph, he had written on the back of it, dating it—and he had it framed and standing on his bedside table. It was obviously important to him.” Jill spoke swiftly.
“What does this have to do with me?”
“It was very important to him,” Jill said, “and I am trying to find out why.”
William shook his head. “We have all been through a terrible time,” he said. “I know you were close to my son, and I know you have suffered as we all have. Perhaps this fascination you have serves a purpose, distracting you, but I would advise you to get some rest and forget about this woman. I doubt she is a relative of yours.”
“What if I told you that Hal mentioned Kate as he lay dying in my arms?”
William paled.
Jill jumped to her feet. “Forgive me.” She hadn’t meant to bring a graphic image to the poor bereaved man’s mind. “I apologize,” she said. “For imposing upon you.”
Clearly shaken, William regarded her with a bewildered look. Finally he said hoarsely, “I think I must ask you to leave.” He walked across the long stretch of library to the door. Jill had no choice but to follow.
But at the door, he seemed to pull himself together. Some of his ruddy coloring had returned. “Thank you for your time,” he said politely. “Have a pleasant day.”
Jill was startled. “Thank you.”
She followed the servant from the room, thinking about their interview. William Sheldon did not know anything. If he did, she was a terrible judge of character. She wished she hadn’t upset him, but she’d had to ask about Kate.
But how would she find the letters now? This house was at the top of her list of probable places in which to search. She wondered if Alex would openly defy his uncle in order to help her. Probably not.
The hall was endlessly long. As she approached the foyer, she heard female voices, one of which she recognized as belonging to Lauren. Although Hal’s sister had been very civil last night, Jill tensed, shoving her worry about William and the letters from her mind.
As Jill entered the foyer, Lauren turned and saw her. Her eyes widened. And she was with Marisa Sutcliffe.
Jill could not smile. She looked first at Lauren in her charcoal designer pants suit and simple but elegant jewelry, and then at Marisa, in a short tweed skirt, a pastel green cashmere twin-set, and beige high-heeled shoes. Marisa, Jill decided, was shockingly beautiful, in spite of the fact that she looked as if she spent most of her time crying.
Both women were silent, staring at Jill, and in that split instant, Jill was fully aware of being an intruder in their midst—and a low-class one at that.
Suddenly Marisa came forward, hand extended, a smile firmly in place. “You’re Jill Gallagher,” she said.
Jill was taken aback. “Yes, I am.”
“Marisa Sutcliffe,” she said, still holding out her hand.
Jill slowly, reluctantly, took it. The handshake was brief. Marisa had to despise her. Any other emotion would be an impossibility. So what was this? More good manners?
“This is quite the surprise,” Lauren interrupted Jill’s thoughts while Marisa stood mere inches from Jill, studying her the exact same way Jill supposed that she was studying Marisa. “Hello, Jill.”
Jill quickly decided to tell her as little as possible and make a very hasty exit. “Good morning, Lauren. I was on my way out.” She forced a smile and stepped past the two women.
“Wait.”
Jill froze at the sound of Marisa’s plea. And it was a plea.
“Please,” Marisa said.
Jill faced her with grave apprehension.
“I don’t really know what to say,” Marisa said with a brief and wan smile. “This is bloody awkward. But … before Hal died. Did he say anything … anything at all?”
Jill’s heart felt like a jungle drum inside of her breast. The foyer became overly warm. What was Marisa asking her? Surely she didn’t know about Hal’s dying words! “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Mare, don’t,” Lauren said, her tone soft and kind—a tone Jill had never heard her use before. “Don’t do this.” Lauren took her hand.
Marisa pulled it away. “Did he say anything at all—about me?” Her tone pitched upward with anxiety, with hope, with fear.
And Jill understood. How could she not? And in spite of the fact that Marisa was the other woman, in that moment she felt for her completely. Marisa wanted to know if Hal had told Jill about her, or if he had told Jill that he loved her, or wanted to marry her, or something. Then Jill thought about the fact that Marisa wasn’t the other woman. She, Jill, was the other woman. “He never told me about you,” she finally said, honestly.
Marisa’s face fell. Lauren put her arm around her, and as Marisa dug in her alligator bag for a tissue, Lauren gave Jill a hard, angry look.
Jill froze. The look was vicious. But it was gone in the next instant.
“I had better go,” Jill said, uneasy now and aware of the urge to tell Marisa the truth—that Hal had been on the brink of breaking up with her. But she hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t expected anything other than hatred. In fact, she had been expecting some kind of ugly confrontation from this other woman. Worse, there was something that seemed nice about Marisa. Appealing, even. How could Jill herself despise someone who was grieving like this? Her pain was horrendous. But the bottom line was that she could have behaved like a bitch. She had been more than civil.
“I miss him so,” Marisa suddenly said into her tissue, her words choked. “If only he were alive!”
Lauren led Marisa to a pair of thronelike chairs on either side of a marble-topped table and she sat down in one of them. Jill watched the two women, wanting to run away now but unable to move.
Marisa looked up. “He was coming home,” she cried in anguish to Jill. “He told me so. He wouldn’t lie to me—we had no secrets—he even told me about you. He was my best friend in the world! How will I survive without him?!”
It did hurt. Not a lot. Just a little. Like the second day of a martini hangover, dully, listlessly. And Jill thought that if anyone knew the truth about what was in Hal’s heart, it was the other woman, not Jill herself.
“How could God do this?” Marisa suddenly cried. “Hal wasn’t perfect, but who is? But he was so kind! I think of so many people who don’t give a damn about the poor or the ill, and they are alive! Hal cared.” Marisa looked at Jill through glistening eyes. “Do you know that he never once walked past a beggar without handing him a few pounds?”
Jill knew. “Marisa.”
She looked up, her nose red, her skin blotchy, her features and figure perfect.
“He was having doubts about us,” Jill said with dread. “He was homesick. He told me so.”
Marisa’s eyes brightened.
It was the best that Jill could do.
“Thank you,” Marisa said. Then she wept again.
Jill nodded grimly at Lauren and headed for the door. To her dismay, Lauren fell into step beside her. “Is Alex here?” she asked. “Did he bring you over again?”
“No.” Jill paused. “Your father asked me to come.”
“What matter could the two of you possibly share an interest in?” Lauren returned, obviously confused.
Jill said, “You’ll have to ask him.” She glanced at Marisa, who was trying to compose herself. “Tell her I’m sorry,” she said.
And she walked out, leaving Lauren standing there.
Jill hurried down the drive and through the open iron gates. Once on the shady, tree-lined street, she halted, to catch her breath and compose herself. Her temples throbbed. She was beginning to understand Marisa and Hal as a couple.
And as she stood there, almost wishing that she had never encountered Marisa, her words echoed in her mind.
We had no secrets.
We had no secrets.
Jill stared blindly across the street at a huge stone mansion and behind that, Kensington Gardens. Had Hal told Marisa
everything?
everything?
Had he told her about Kate?
U
sing her hip, Jill pushed open her front door. In her hands were two shopping bags, one containing groceries, the other a brand new Sony answering machine that she’d felt she’d had to buy after her earlier conversation with KC. She smiled at Lady Eleanor, who sat up expectantly on the sofa in the parlor, regarding her unwaveringly. Another silvery brown blur disappeared into the kitchen, and presumably through the doggie door and into the gardens outside.
sing her hip, Jill pushed open her front door. In her hands were two shopping bags, one containing groceries, the other a brand new Sony answering machine that she’d felt she’d had to buy after her earlier conversation with KC. She smiled at Lady Eleanor, who sat up expectantly on the sofa in the parlor, regarding her unwaveringly. Another silvery brown blur disappeared into the kitchen, and presumably through the doggie door and into the gardens outside.
“Hi ya, Lady E.” Jill smiled at the Siamese and carried her bags into the kitchen. As she hooked up the answering machine—reading the directions in order to do so—her mind kept skipping back to the depressing morning she’d had. After she recorded a greeting, she dialed Lucinda Becke, plopping down in one of the kitchen chairs while popping open a can of Coke.
“How are you faring, Jill?” the director of Uxbridge Hall asked.
“I feel like I’m at a dead end,” Jill said. She told Lucinda how William had forbade her access to his house. “It was my best bet for finding the letters.”
“I tend to agree,” Lucinda commiserated. “But surely you won’t give up now?”
Alex’s image flashed through her mind, dismaying her. “No. I may never find those letters. Either Alex or Thomas deleted them, and I’ll bet whoever did, he’s got a copy himself. I’m going to Yorkshire, Lucinda. And York. My grandfather was born somewhere around there, and in any case, Kate stayed near Robin Hood Bay when she was pregnant. Which is, amazingly, just a few miles from Stainesmore. Another coincidence? How could it be one! I’m going there. I’m going to call up all of the hospitals and find out which one goes back to 1908. Maybe that’s where Kate was hospitalized to give birth to her child. Maybe I can locate Peter’s birth certificate while I’m at it. I’m going to find some trace of her, I swear, and I’m going to find some trace of Peter, too.”
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