The Heiresses (21 page)

“The third I had to help on its way.” Mrs. Thompson glanced away for a moment, remembering. “For your mother had already passed. The doctor was no use. I’m afraid it was quite a vicious birth. One of the worst I have ever attended. The child was hurt in the process—on her right temple. She may still have a scar.”

“And who witnessed the births?”

“Well, there was me, of course. Then there was the doctor—Dr. Hollingsworth—and his Lordship. Your aunt arrived after the first two babies had been born and she fainted before the third child was born, if I recall correctly. My niece was in and out—she was running after another doctor, who was at first turned away. There were others in the house as well, of course, servants, but, naturally, they did not witness the births—other maids, his Lordship’s valet, the housekeeper…”

Ro made a mental note of this. “No one else? No other lady?”

Mrs. Thompson shook her head. “No, miss. Not that I saw.”

Ro paused, thinking for a moment. “And that third child—did it look different from the others?”

Mrs. Thompson looked slightly taken aback with the question. “Well, yes,” she replied slowly, not quite meeting Ro’s eyes, which Ro took note of. “Quite dark, with curls, the third one was.”

“And what happened after the births?”

Over the next few minutes, Mrs. Thompson told Ro the ins and outs of the following few days. How she had cared for the babies and begun to think everything was not quite right when she had been called upon to help with the memorial portrait. When Hestia had not reappeared and she had started to realize the babies were to be sent away, she had quickly embroidered the small hearts and pushed their names inside. She knew that babies given into the care of the Foundling Hospital were often left with small tokens, and it was this knowledge that gave her the idea of making the hearts, which she had hidden inside their swaddled clothes before they were sent away.

“Your aunt and your mother were very insistent upon those names. And they seemed like such good, kind women, who wanted the best for you. I knew I had to do something.”

Even though she knew it was improper, Ro reached forward and grasped Mrs. Thompson’s hand. “Thank you so much. I know how difficult that decision made your life. Truly, thank you from all three of us. We have only just now found each other again. We never would have done it if it weren’t for your actions. But I must ask you something. Can you explain about this memorial portrait? I’m not sure I understand about that.” Ro had no idea what Mrs. Thompson had meant by this statement.

Mrs. Thompson seemed surprised that she was asking about this. “Well, it was to prove that you and the other fair baby were both dead, I suppose, for that was what his Lordship ended up telling the world—that your mother gave birth to twins, who died along with her, and that a third child never even existed. I mean, honestly! I never thought he would get away with such a terrible lie, but he did, obviously, right up until his death! The day of that portrait was a difficult one indeed. His Lordship was quite insistent that it only be the fair babies posed with the mother and that they both be asleep. It was only later I realized exactly what was going on.”

Ro’s slight smile froze as she realized exactly what Mrs. Thompson was telling her. So, the three of them had not simply been sent off to relatives in the country—William had lied about their very existence. He had claimed she and Thalia had died at birth and covered up Clio’s birth altogether. That was what Dr. Hollingsworth had been referring to the other day when he’d called Clio the “third one.” And it also explained some of the strange comments Charles had made when they had met—about being surprised to see three of them and how they didn’t really exist. She supposed that Dr. Hollingsworth had helped to deny the very fact that Clio had been born at all. And most likely signed the death certificates for herself and Thalia, along with their mother, she would hazard a guess. Her father’s actions took her breath away as she struggled to maintain her focus on Mrs. Thompson and what she was saying.

Now Mrs. Thompson simply smiled a kind smile at her, not knowing what she had just revealed. “I only wish I had been able to help your mother. But triplets, in those days—even now, it would be very dangerous.”

Ro tried very hard to gather her thoughts. “You must have so much experience. Can I ask you something else? Have you ever seen twins or triplets before that look different? I mean, extremely different? Like us?”

Mrs. Thompson gave Ro a long look, as if assessing what Ro did and didn’t know about her situation, which told Ro instantly that Mrs. Thompson had guessed at the time of birth what it had taken Hestia years to discover. Ro gasped. “So, you knew all along!”

Mrs. Thompson nodded. “Yes. I had seen a photograph of twins born before, in Jamaica—one black and one white. It is very rare, but it is possible.”

“And the doctor? And my father?” Ro asked. “Do you think they both knew?”

“Your father was … quite incensed by the difference, I must admit. The doctor? I’m not so sure. He did seem to understand what your father was upset about, so perhaps he guessed also.”

Ro’s breath caught in her chest. “And did my father say anything? Mention anyone’s name?”

Mrs. Thompson thought about her question before answering. “There was much ranting and raving, but I was busy with the babies and there was your poor mother to attend to, of course. I don’t recall him saying anything in particular, however. No name, or anything like that.”

Ro shook her head. “It is simply all so … awful. Especially that memorial portrait. What a horrible, horrible thing.…”

“Yes, I began to become very worried that something untoward might happen, especially to the little dark-haired baby that was left out altogether. I was very happy to drop her off to that vicar and his wife. They seemed … overjoyed to have her and so very kind.”

Ro nodded now, thinking of Clio. “You’re right. They were very kind indeed.”

*   *   *

Not long after this, Ro thanked Mrs. Thompson profusely one last time and then said her good-byes. She had not walked far at all before her legs became very shaky and she had to sit down. Whereupon, she burst into tears. She wasn’t sure why—she supposed it was a combination of her father’s evil betrayal against them and because of Mrs. Thompson herself. There was something about Mrs. Thompson—she offered a refreshing believability. Ro had known that every word she had spoken had been the truth, which was a rarity lately. Finally, she knew the basics of her situation—she was one of triplets. Thalia was her full sister and Clio her half sister, but they were triplets all the same. Sisters. She could still barely associate herself with the word. She had wanted a sister, even one sister, for so long. It felt like a kind of release to let this want—this need—go. To know that this was now her reality was an overwhelming feeling.

With a little more time and a few more deep breaths, Ro was able to walk to the closest road and hail a taxi. She informed the driver she wished to go to Belgrave Square, but they were only a few minutes away when she decided what she really needed to do was to walk and to clear her head before she returned home to confront Thalia and Clio with the news that one of them was dead, the other nonexistent, and that Charles truly did have the upper hand in this situation. “I’ve changed my mind,” she told the taxi driver. “Please pull over here.”

Ro found herself walking for quite some time, thinking. With Uncle Henry destitute—well, not exactly destitute, but without ready money—her future was now precarious. She couldn’t see Aunt Alice fronting up the money for her to attend the university (she detested Uncle Henry’s learned ways and Ro was quite sure she wouldn’t think it “seemly” for a woman to attend the university). And while Hestia would approve of her studies, it would be far too shaming to turn up on her front doorstep and start asking for large sums.

Thus, her future seemed to now be aligned with that of Thalia and Clio—all three of them now required this inheritance that Charles was holding so close to his chest, even though, by his own admission, he didn’t require it. Ro considered for a moment asking Charles privately for money for the university so that she might leave the city and then instantly dismissed the idea. It wouldn’t be right. She and her sisters had agreed to fight this battle with Charles together. As Thalia had said—three were stronger than one. And she doubted Charles would hold the most progressive views concerning women and education. Undoubtedly he would share Aunt Alice’s views, even though he was fifty years her junior.

“Excuse me,” a gentleman said, stepping in front of Ro in order to pass through an iron gate. On looking up, Ro found that she had paused in her step outside the university—Vincent’s university. She frowned now, wondering if she had walked here on purpose, or whether it had been an accident. She hadn’t meant to come here. She hadn’t even considered it. Had she?

Ro took a few steps to the left, standing out of the way, and stared up to where Vincent’s rooms would be. She recalled Thalia’s words from the other night—her suggestion that Vincent had some sort of motive in following their motorcar from London. She had to admit she was intrigued. Why had he done this? Because he was interested in her? She blushed now, remembering their encounter at the castle. Not that anything truly untoward had happened. The knight had finally left the chamber they were in and then … well, they had kissed and … touched. She felt her cheeks become hotter still as she recalled what had passed between them.

Lost in her thoughts, Ro smiled. What was especially thrilling was how completely, utterly, and totally out of character it was for her to have done this. It was not her, yet, somehow, it was all her. She had acted purely on desire for the first time in her life. Of course, she had been shocked when Vincent had told her there had been cocaine in the wine (which was illegal, she knew), but she had to admit that, despite the odd effect the drug had had on her heart, it had all been lovely. Was this what Thalia was doing every single evening? She supposed so.

It was the passing reference to Thalia that did it. Without a backward glance, Ro found her feet swiftly retracing the route she had taken the other day—to Vincent’s office. For that’s what Thalia would do—if she had a question, she would ask it. And, now, that was exactly what Ro was going to do.

*   *   *

“Ro! What a lovely surprise!” Vincent opened the door to his rooms.

Ro felt far less brave now. “I know you weren’t expecting me…,” she began, her heart beating wildly in her chest once more, just as it had done at the castle, only now there was no drug to blame.

“Do come in.” He opened the door wider and, after seeing he was truly happy to see her and she was not being a nuisance, Ro did so.

With the door shut once more behind them, the pair stared at each other for a brief moment, then laughed hesitantly at the awkwardness between them.

“I must apologize for the other night,” Vincent finally said with a smile. “I…,” he started, then paused once more.

“I must admit it was quite unlike any other wine I have ever tasted,” Ro tried.

“That is very true.”

Silence fell over them again. In it, Ro tried desperately not to blush as she had blushed downstairs. She couldn’t halt the thoughts running through her head—of what she and Vincent had done the other night and how she would very much like to re-create that scene again right now.

Vincent took her silence the wrong way, taking a step forward toward her. “I hope you don’t think ill of me…”

“Oh, no,” Ro replied quickly, taking a step forward herself. She was horrified that he would think this. “Not at all.”

The pair were close now. If Ro wanted to, she could have easily reached out to touch Vincent. And, oh, how she wanted to do just that. She shook her head. “No, I would never think ill of…” Before she knew what she was doing, her arms were repeating what her feet had done downstairs—showing her the way, without her having to think about her actions. Now, Ro found herself pulling Vincent to her—by his shirt of all things. As she did so, all kinds of feelings whirled inside her, fighting for precedence. All at once she was scared, thrilled, excited, petrified. What would he do? What would he say?

He came to her willingly, smelling deliciously of soap and paper, his shirt crumpled beneath her hand where she clutched at it. They kissed. Longer and harder and deeper than they had at the castle. Ro could barely believe this was real and not yet another dream. That she was brave enough to do what she had so longed to do in her private thoughts amazed her.

The pair finally paused for breath, pulling back slightly. Vincent spoke first, his eyes holding Ro’s. “Oh, God. I have not been able to stop thinking about you. Are you really here?”

Ro was ecstatic at his response, though tried desperately not to show it. She smiled a wide smile back at him. “I’m not entirely sure,” she replied, feeling bolder by the minute. “Why don’t we try that again to find out?”

This time, Vincent needed no encouragement. He did not need to be pulled toward her, but grabbed Ro willingly and drank her in. Minutes passed as they explored one another’s mouths and bodies. When Vincent sat down on the edge of his desk, sending some papers spilling to the floor, he brought her in even closer to him and she was able to run a hand through his tangled hair. As for Vincent, he skimmed one hand down Ro’s waist pulling her closer again. If Ro had thought she was going to die the other night, at the castle, she quickly realized she had been wrong. Surely she would die now, instead. Of ecstasy. If it was possible to do so, she didn’t care. She wasn’t going to stop what she was doing anytime soon.

Slowly but surely his hand moved away from Ro’s waist and swept down her thigh. After some time, he pushed aside her skirt and caressed her knee. And then Vincent’s hand stroked her leg upward, slowly but surely making its way higher each time—up her thigh, then over the top of the edge of her stocking, higher and higher. When he reached the edge of her knickers, Ro gasped. The sensible part of her told her she should tell Vincent to stop. Immediately. But the truth of it was, she didn’t want him to stop. Not at all. She was both frightened and thrilled by the thought of where his hand might travel next.