The Third Heiress (32 page)

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Authors: Brenda Joyce

BOOK: The Third Heiress
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She glanced at the old stone chapel, which she could barely make out, and tried to remember just where it had been in comparison to the house. She hoped it had been directly south of the family’s summer home.
Jill started decisively forward. A moment later her foot connected with something solid and she went down with a thud.
“Ow!” Something hard—a stone—dug into her hip. She rolled away from the object, sitting in the soaking wet grass, beginning to feel the cold, thinking about the black and blue mark she would undoubtedly have. Then she looked at the stone she had tripped on.
It was overgrown with weeds, but if she did not mistake her guess, it was a small and unobtrusive headstone.
God. She’d fallen over a grave! Wasn’t that bad luck or something?
Jill was about to get up. Her teeth were chattering now. Instead—and later she would have no explanation for her behavior—she crawled forward, pulling the weeds off of the small marker, which was no more than a foot and a half high.
The stone was gray-black. Like the slabs of stone from the tower.
Chills swept Jill, but then, she was wet and freezing, and it had started to drizzle again.
As she pulled the weeds off, her fingers brushed indentations in the slab—the stone was engraved. Jill crept closer. Her breath got stuck somewhere in her chest.
On all fours, she froze. Jill stared at the words swimming before her eyes, her heart careening with sickening force.
“Katherine Adeline Gallagher,” it said. “June 10, 1890–January 12, 1909.”
THE TOWER
J
ill stared at the headstone in shock. Then she gripped it, the stone feeling as if it were ripping apart the flesh on her fingertips, unable to tear her gaze away from the engraved date of death—January 12, 1909. She could barely breathe; she was panting, unable to consume enough air into her severely constricted lungs.
Kate had not merely disappeared in 1908, she had died shortly after, for here was the glaring proof.
Jill suddenly sat back on her knees, in front of the headstone, closing her eyes, squeezing back hot tears. Kate, so young, so beautiful, so vibrantly alive, had died at the age of eighteen. Jill should not be surprised. She’d had an awful, dreadful feeling for some time now, especially since last night, that something terrible had happened to her. And she had been right.
What had happened? And why?
Jill choked on a sob, shaking uncontrollably. And her own image was there in her mind—but as Hal had photographed her, not as she actually was. Lush, voluptuous, like Kate.
And Kate became you …
Jill refused to dwell on KC’s strange words. But damn it, she and Kate looked alike, and Jill was never going to forget her overwhelming and bizarre reaction to the tower. Jill was afraid.
She wiped her eyes. Hal hadn’t died telling her that he loved her, he had
died telling Jill that he loved Kate. It was even more difficult to breathe now. The truth was glaring, and it was unavoidable.
They had met on the subway. Or so Jill had once thought. But Lauren had insisted that Hal had met her at her club. Had he watched her there, singling her out because she looked like Kate? Had he singled her out because he knew that she was Kate’s great-granddaughter?
Of course he had
.
Jill did not want to cry. She had thought the tearful outbursts long since finished, her tears all used up. But they flowed freely now. She cried in silence for her other self, the Jill who no longer existed, the young woman who had naively, completely loved and trusted a very confused and troubled man.
“Jill? What is it?”
Jill recognized Alex’s voice instantly as he hurried to her, his boots making a loud squishy sound in the soaking grass. She did not want him to see her like this. He would not understand; he’d think she was crying over Hal. She quickly rubbed her eyes.
He lifted her to her feet and turned her around and pulled her into his arms.
Jill did not move. She could not move. Not just because she was stunned, but because he felt very safe, very right.
She did not know how long she remained there in his embrace, but she forgot about the headstone and Kate. He was cupping the back of her head, over her baseball cap, with one large hand. It was extremely comforting, the way a mother might cup the soft, warm head of her infant.
But they both knew she was no child. His hand slid slowly down, to the bare nape of her neck. The contact was electric. And in that moment, she became aware of standing head to toe with him, of being pressed up against the length of his lean, muscular body. For another heartbeat, she remained motionless, while her mind came to life. I want this, she thought. I want him.
Reluctantly, she stepped back, away.
His gaze swept her eyes and her face, searchingly.
For one moment, she did not look away; she could not. Then she turned and pointed, her hand trembling slightly. “Look.”
He followed her gaze. He was holding a penlight in his hand, and he moved past her, squatted and shone the light on the grave. He was silent.
Twilight was falling. The drizzle had again stopped, leaving nothing but thick fog and the darkening mauve-blackened night in its place. Jill
realized she was soaked to the bone. Her teeth began to chatter. Alex rose to his full height. “Holy Toledo,” he said very quietly.
Jill couldn’t help it, the statement was so absurd that she burst into what sounded distinctly like hysterical laughter.
He didn’t smile, his gaze roaming her features, one by one. “Well, there goes your theory that Kate Gallagher ran off with someone to live happily ever after.”
Jill nodded, shivering.
Suddenly Alex pulled off his own car coat, a heavy, wool-lined distressed leather affair, and he slipped it over her soaking anorak. “You’ll catch pneumonia,” he said. He slid his arm around her, as if he did not think her capable of making it back to the house without his support. They started across the field.
“She died,” Jill chattered, their hips brushing and bumping. “And someone knew the exact date. Someone knew it and buried her, Alex. He buried her here, near Stainesmore. We have to find out what happened, and who did it!”
He did not answer. But he pulled her closer against his body as Jill began to shake uncontrollably. Kate, Hal, Marisa, Alex … the dynamics, the turbulence around her, was overwhelming.
“I didn’t tell you about the dream,” Jill said hoarsely, glancing up at his perfect profile. “Kate was in terror, imprisoned somewhere, maybe in that tower, and there was dirt all over her, under her fingernails, and there was so much blood. I saw her, Alex.”
He started; Jill felt it. “It was just a dream.” His tone was sharp. “I’m worried about you. We need to cease this quest for a few days. You must rest, Jill, before you come down with the bloody plague.”
Jill’s temples suddenly throbbed as she looked at him, startled by his use of such English language—and dated English language at that. “Tomorrow night we’re going back to London. We can’t let this go, not yet. We need to search Stainesmore for more evidence, more clues, and maybe go back to the manor and search there, too. Do you think there might be some records at the chapel? Surely they would keep records about who is buried in their cemetery?”
He regarded her as they stumbled across the soggy parkland. “What do you hope to gain?” he finally asked softly.
Jill suddenly pulled away from him, staring at him, incredulous. “What kind of question is that! She was my great-grandmother and someone murdered her!”
“We don’t know that she was your great-grandmother and we don’t know that she was murdered.” His eyes flashed.
“Are you turning against me, now?” Jill began to tremble again, with renewed vigor. She did not want to contemplate her suspicions about Alex now. It was more than she could handle.
He stared. “I would never turn against you,” he finally said. He cursed, running a hand through his hair. “What do you want, Jill? How do you want this to end up?”
“I want to know the truth. I want to know what happened to Kate, and why it happened. And what about her child, Peter—who might be my own grandfather? He didn’t die. What happened to him?” Jill paused. “If your family is involved, so be it. Then there will be lots of juicy gossip in the tabloids for a week or so. They can handle it.” She was bitter.
“My aunt and uncle have just lost their son,” Alex said harshly. “They don’t need any more unpleasantness in their lives. Not now.”
She stared at him. “So you are worried that it will be something affecting the family—that it will unpleasant?” Jill finally pressed.
He hesitated. “How could I not be worried? They’re very old, they’ve just lost Hal. Aunt Margaret’s heart is bothering her. My uncle has aged twenty years in four weeks.” His tone had risen.
“I don’t want them hurt.
”
Jill stared. She had never seen Alex this emotional before. Or this firm, this unyielding. It hit her hard, then, that he would never yield on this point; that his loyalty to the Sheldons was undying—that it was written in stone.
“Jill,” he said, more softly, with renewed composure, “no matter what happened to Kate, she died a long time ago, and no one is going to pay for the crime—if there was a crime. I don’t want to see my aunt and uncle hurt. They’ve suffered enough—and I know you agree with me at least on that. Let’s drop this for a week or two. Especially before you became so obsessed there’s no reasoning with you at all.”
“I’m not obsessed,” Jill said, perturbed. How far would Alex go in order to protect the Collinsworth family? He was the outsider who had always wanted in. He was “in” now. Didn’t he have a lot more motivation than Thomas ever would?
“I think you’re obsessed and it’s damned convenient, too. Instead of crying into your pillow every night over Hal and all that he did to you, you’ve got this bone to chew on,” Alex said, not quite calmly.
Jill couldn’t respond at first. Of course Alex would feel the need to champion and defend his family’s honor. Wouldn’t she be as stubbornly,
as fiercely loyal to her own family, if she suddenly discovered that she had one?
But she did have a family. Kate Gallagher was her family—and Kate needed her now.
Jill stumbled, bumping into Alex, trying to remind herself that Kate was dead and in spite of her gut feelings, there was no substantial proof that Kate was her great-grandmother. That it wasn’t the same, not at all.
“I’m not letting this go, Alex,” Jill finally said. “I can’t. And it’s unfair for you to want me to, especially now, when I’m making such headway—when there’s so much at stake.” She turned her back on him and marched in the direction they had been going. It was dark out, but the many yellow lights of the house now winked and danced through the swirling fog, beckoning her, an eerie beacon light guiding her back to Hal’s home.
“Just what is at stake, Jill?” Alex called after her.
“The truth,” she flung over her shoulder. She did not stop, and he made no effort to catch up to her.
A
few hours later, Jill sat on the side of her bed, staring at the electric heater someone had turned on for her, having put on gray sweats and a white T-shirt, her standard wear for sleeping in cool weather. She did not want to go to sleep, even though she was exhausted. She did not think she had ever been more tired, in fact. But she was afraid to dream about Kate.
She and Alex had had a quiet dinner, each of them absorbed in their own thoughts. They’d drained a bottle of fabulous red wine—a 1982 Château Margaux—before their first course had even arrived. The tension that had arisen between them earlier that day—or perhaps even days ago—had not been dissipated by the effects of the alcohol. If anything, it had increased. The silence had become heavy, awkward. Alex had then opened a 1961 Lafite. Jill had never in her life tasted such an intense yet velvety smooth wine. They had finished that bottle, too, again hardly exchanging more than a word or two.
Jill had found herself wondering about Alex’s private life—something she should have no interest in. They had both refused dessert, and had sipped decaffeinated espresso in more silence before saying good night and going their separate ways.
She had expected him to make a pass at her; to kiss her at her door. He hadn’t. Jill had only been partly relieved. She found his behavior more
than odd, it was highly inconsistent. She could not figure him out. Worse, there was no mistaking her own disappointment.
Jill gave it up. Instead, she concentrated on the fact that somehow Hal had led her here to this place in time—his family home in northern Yorkshire, with Alex, in the spring of 1999, searching for the truth about Kate. She had died shortly after her disappearance in October of 1908. Poor, poor Kate. The questions had haunted her since she’d found Kate’s grave—what had happened? Why had it happened? And who was responsible for Kate’s death?
She had only been eighteen, so it was logical to assume that she had been murdered. Recalling her terror and the way she had been pleading with someone in her dream, Jill felt sick and shaken. Had she been begging for her life?
Had Edward killed her?
It was the most horrible of thoughts, and Jill knew she should not speculate, not yet, it was too soon and it was hardly fair, in fact, it was monstrous.
Jill could not imagine Kate demurely accepting the position of mistress. Jill felt that she knew Kate. She had been a woman of passion and courage. She would have fought for her love. She would never have accepted Edward turning to another woman.
And that woman had been her dearest friend.
Jill was sick. The betrayal of Edward and Anne must have been monumental—if Kate had ever learned of it. Jill hoped she’d remained oblivious.
And Jill could not help identifying with Kate. She had been an outsider, no matter that she was an heiress, while Anne had been the perfect, suitable choice for a bride. Jill was furious at the thought.
Her determination had never been stronger. Jill reminded herself that she needed proof that Edward had been her lover, no matter that she was certain that he had been just that. She needed more than the mere recollections of Janet Witcombe—as told to her by Anne. She needed hard evidence. As soon as she returned to London, she would get a copy of Edward Collinsworth’s handwriting, and have it compared to Jonathan Barclay’s signature. It would be a coup if their handwriting matched.
Barclay. The name bothered her again. Hadn’t she heard it, or come across it, somewhere, recently?
Jill wished she had a sleeping pill. Or another drink. Even though she’d kept up with Alex glass for glass, which meant she’d consumed an entire
bottle of red wine herself, her mind continued to race, and she was still afraid of another nightmare.

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