The Third Heiress (14 page)

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Authors: Brenda Joyce

BOOK: The Third Heiress
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“My dear, I’m up at six,” Lucinda said cheerfully.
“I can’t stop thinking about Kate Gallagher,” Jill told her. “I wish Lauren hadn’t rushed me out of Uxbridge Hall like that.”
Lucinda was silent. Then, “Yes, that’s a shame.”
“What happened, Lucinda, after she disappeared?” Jill asked. “And when exactly did she disappear?”
“It was the autumn of 1908, just before the holiday season,” Lucinda told her. “There was an investigation, but she was never found. I do believe there was some suspicion that she did run away with her lover. I have some old clippings filed away somewhere, Jill. I would have to look for them, though.”
“That would be great,” Jill said enthusiastically. “Was her lover ever identified?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’m sure I would remember his name if I had read about him. It was a big to-do, Jill, dear, back in 1908. A very big to-do.”
Jill was silent, thinking about what it must have been like back then. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how people close to Kate would have reacted to her unsolved disappearance. “Do you think she ran away with her lover?” she finally asked.
“Dear, I have always wondered about that. But frankly, I have no idea. Even though Anne did tell my predecessor that there was a lover, what if she was wrong? Maybe there was no one.”
“Then something terrible happened to Kate,” Jill said. She shivered as she spoke.
“Her family was very wealthy. Perhaps she was kidnapped but the kidnapping went awry. I do believe that was one of the theories bandied about at the time.”
“Thank you, Lucinda.”
“Are you planning to return to London anytime soon?”
“You know, I’m thinking about it. But I guess I should forget about Kate and get back to work.” Jill felt despondent at the notion.
The two women chatted for another moment, then said good-bye. Jill’s mind was whirling. And she thought, how could she
not
go back to London? Something was compelling her to return, as if she would have no peace about Hal until she found out more about Kate.
She could go back to London, or she could go back to work. There was no question about what she’d rather do.
I must be crazy, she thought, to even consider returning to London to chase after a woman who might or might not be a relative, especially when that woman had disappeared ninety-one years ago.
But how could she
not
go? Kate was practically haunting her, at least in Jill’s mind, and she
had
to know what had happened to her. Jill realized that she wanted nothing more than to learn that Kate’s life had had a happy ending, even if she wasn’t a long-lost relative.
Right now, the concept of justice was awfully appealing—but it felt as elusive as a rainbow.
“Ezekial,” she called softly.
He suddenly appeared on top of the kitchen counter to stare unblinkingly at her. His eyes were a green-gold. She walked over to the cat and stroked his fur. Ezekial began to purr.
Jill smiled slightly, a few tears gathering in her eyes. But she was feeling better, because she had to go back—and the decision felt right. She’d figure out the logistics tomorrow—including the financial ones. A moment later she walked into the bathroom, thinking to shower. But Hal’s razor was lying on her sink, his shampoo was in the stall. Cursing, she walked back out of the bathroom. She had to clean out her apartment, put away his stuff. It suddenly occurred to her that he had clothing in her closet, jeans in her bureau drawer. There were probably even condoms in the drawer of her night table.
Jill knew she was not up to the task of putting away his things.
She felt ill, and it was only partly from exhaustion and jet lag. They’d shared too many good times in her studio. She couldn’t stay there—not now, not yet.
She walked over to the couch and sat down, the cat rubbing against her ankles, glancing automatically at her answering machine. She had two messages. Not even thinking twice about it, she pressed PLAY.
Jill waited for the tape to start playing, reaching down to caress the tom once more.
And Hal’s voice came on.
“Hi, Jill. It’s me. Um … look, we need to speak. There’s something … well, how about lunch before we hit the road? Call me, I’m at home.” There was a second, longer pause. “I miss you, Jill,” he said. And then the machine said, “Friday, eleven-ten A.M.”
Jill was frozen. His voice had been vital, alive. Oh, God. She began to shake uncontrollably.
Nothing could have been crueler than to hear his voice now.
It was like a message from the dead.
But it was not a message from the dead. Hal had called her that fateful morning they were leaving, and she must have been in the shower. They had never had lunch before leaving. And he was dead at dinnertime.
Jill’s brain felt fuzzy, numb. She could not breathe. She pressed SKIP and REPEAT. In a moment his message came on again.
Leaning forward rigidly, Jill strained to hear every nuance in his tone. She was desperately looking for an inflection that would tell her that he
loved her with all of his heart and his sudden reluctance to marry had only been a brief and temporary aberration, that they would have worked it out in a matter of time. And that a woman named Marisa Sutcliffe did not exist.
Marisa’s face loomed before her. Thomas’s cruel words filled her mind.
“I know he would have married her.”
Jillian pressed REPEAT again. Surely she would find the reassurances she was looking for in his brief message. Surely she must.
Ezekial had stopped winding himself around her ankles and now he meowed. Jill really did not hear him.
“I miss you, Jill … Friday, eleven-ten A.M.”
She played the tape another dozen times.
J
ill woke up the following morning thinking about Hal. She had dreamed about Kate again. She couldn’t remember her dream, but it had felt urgent and disturbing and she was almost certain that Hal had been in it, too, as had a dark faceless stranger.
Then she recalled her decision to return to London and she almost felt whole again. She certainly felt better than she had during the past few days. At the very least, her hunt for the truth about Kate Gallagher would keep her preoccupied in a healthy manner. It would certainly prevent her from having a complete breakdown. She would fly standby, and her only issue was finding an extremely cheap place to stay while there, and subletting her own studio in the interim.
Jill showered, called Goldman, the choreographer of
The Mask
. In what usually happens to absentee Broadway dancers, she found out she had been replaced. Jill was oddly relieved, and she made herself some coffee and a bagel. She then reached for the phone. It was early evening in London, and Jill wanted to talk to Janet Witcombe. But the woman in the nursing home who answered the phone told her that Janet was already asleep for the evening. Jill was disappointed.
She was better off waiting to interview Janet in person, Jill decided. Even if it took her a few weeks to reorganize her life and leave. She sipped her coffee, wondering what Janet Witcombe would tell her when she managed to reach her.
Jill got up to pour herself another coffee, Hal’s image competing with Kate’s in her mind. She shivered. There had been a question she had been avoiding asking, even herself. It was a question she had been afraid to acknowledge,
much less ask. Had Hal’s interest in Uxbridge Hall been solely in his ancestors? Or had he talked about Kate Gallagher, too?
Jill was afraid of the answer.
She told herself that she was being a fool. She had no reason to fear the answer to that question, none. Jill shivered again. Her studio seemed cool, as if the temperature had suddenly dropped, and she closed the windows and slipped on a huge sweatshirt. Had he, like Lucinda, noticed the similarity in their appearance?
Jill was uneasy. But if she really did look like Kate, that was some kind of proof of a genetic link between them. Wasn’t it?
Abruptly Jill slid her plate and mug aside. She stood and walked into her bathroom. She flicked on the light and stared at herself in the mirror.
She had never looked worse, but that was from grief and fatigue, and a little makeup would help. She studied her own reflection. She had hazel eyes—she was certain Kate’s were a very dark brown. Her hair was chestnut, and Kate’s was red. Perhaps there was a resemblance though. Jill had a straight, delicate nose—Kate’s had been a bit Roman. Still, Jill had a similarly strong jaw, wide forehead, and high cheekbones. And then there was the mole.
Jill’s birthmark was the color of a freckle. It wasn’t dark like Kate’s. Kate’s mole had been near the corner of her mouth. Jill’s was a bit higher, more toward her cheek. Suddenly Jill reached below her sink where she kept a basket filled with makeup. She pulled out a brown eye pencil and dotted it on the mole.
Jill regarded her reflection, almost mesmerized. Abruptly she turned, feeling almost disembodied, walking into the single room of her studio, and directly to the drawer in the bureau beside her bed. She rummaged through it. A long time ago she had bought an old pendant at a thrift shop. The pendant was an engraved garnet stone set in gold very plainly, dangling from a velvet ribbon. To this day Jill had no idea why she had bought it—it was not her type of jewelry. She preferred clean, modern pieces, usually in sterling silver.
The pendant spilled into her hand. Jill returned to the bathroom as she put the necklace on.
The wine-colored stone winked at her from the hollow of her throat. It was such a period piece, Jill thought.
It was the kind of piece a woman might wear in the nineteenth century—or even at the turn of the century and a few years later, in Edwardian times.
Jill’s hands were trembling. Slowly she took her jaw-length hair and pushed it back, away from her face, and up high onto her head. Kate’s hair had been long and curly and she had worn it either down or twisted on top of her head.
Jill stared, her pulse beginning to pound. For one moment, she thought Kate was staring at her in the mirror. A beautiful, vitally alive, vibrant, red-haired Edwardian woman … and then the moment was gone.
Jill dropped her hands as if her own hair had burned her.
Her layered chestnut hair fell wildly down around her face, her cheekbone-length bangs into her eyes.
Jill inhaled, staring into her own eyes, which were wide and filled with a wild light. She had not just seen Kate in the mirror—that had been the result of her fatigue and her very active imagination. But she did resemble Kate. There was no mistaking that. Even now.
She resembled her a lot. Enough to be her sister—or her great-granddaughter.
Jill had expected to be elated. But she was not.
For suddenly the question was glaring. How could Hal have
not
noticed the resemblance? The answer was easy. It was right there in the mirror.
And a little voice was whispering inside of her head that there were no coincidences. None. It whispered, Hal and Kate, Kate and Jill, Jill and Hal. Jill wanted to clap her hands over her ears.
And she was afraid.
A
unt Madeline was still alive. Jill had not spoken with her in four or five years. She did not hold any grudges, but there had never been any real affection between them, and it had been natural for them to drift even farther apart than they had already been.
Her aunt was her mother’s sister. Her father, Jack Gallagher, had not had any siblings. Or that was what Jill had believed her entire life. Jill was trembling as she picked up the phone. If she was going to try to find out if Kate was related to her, Aunt Madeline seemed the place to start.
Jill recognized her midwestern twang and gruff tone of voice instantly. “Aunt Madeline? Hello. It’s Jill.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. “Hello, Jill. How are you?” Her tone was polite, but reserved.
“Fine,” Jill lied. Madeline knew nothing about her life; there was no point in telling her anything now. “I was wondering if you could help me. I’m trying to figure some stuff out about my father and his father.”
“That’s odd,” was all that Madeline said.
Jill could envision her on the other end of the line, seated in an easy chair in the faded green living room, clad in a clean but outdated housedress, her dark hair streaked with gray, her full face dour, reading glasses hanging on her breasts. “Did Jack have any brothers or sisters?” She wanted to make certain that her version of the truth was accurate.
“No, he did not. If he’d had, you might have gone to live with them instead of with me.”
Jill felt her mouth twisting into a grimace. “Yes.” She did not add that that would have been best for everyone. “Did you ever meet Jack’s family? His father, Peter, or his mother?”
“No, I did not. These are strange questions, Jill.”
“I’m sorry,” Jill found herself apologizing. “I’m trying to find my roots. You know, trace my ancestry.”
“Why?”
Jill hesitated. “I was in London recently, and I think I discovered a woman who was an ancestor of mine.”
There was no reply.
Jill sighed. “Do you know anything about Jack’s life? He was born in New York City, wasn’t he? And didn’t he marry my mother here?”
“Yes. I believe so.”
Jill felt like pulling out her hair. Her mother had been a housewife, and Jack, she knew, had been a junior lawyer in a large firm. “Aunt Madeline, was Peter, my grandfather, also born in New York?”
“I have no idea.”
Jill realized this was not going to be very helpful. “Is there anything that you might remember and want to tell me about my father’s family?”
“No. The plumber is here. He’s at the door. Hold on.”
Jill heard wood creaking and realized her aunt had been in her rocking chair. She was clenching the phone. The call had been useless.
Five endless minutes passed, in which Jill debated merely hanging up, but she did not do so. Suddenly Madeline said, “There’s a box in the attic.”
“What?”
“Their things. Your parents’. I got rid of most everything, but some papers and some of her jewelry I kept. Don’t know why.”
Jill had stiffened with surprise and excitement. “Aunt Madeline, you’re wonderful!” she cried.
There was absolute silence on the other end of the line.
“Could you UPS me the box, two-day air? It’s not very expensive and I’ll send you a check the moment I know the amount,” Jill said eagerly.
“I don’t know …”
“Please. It’s very important,” Jill said.
Madeline made a sound that Jill took to be an affirmative. Jill gave her address on West Broadway and Tenth Street and managed to get
Madeline to promise to send the box first thing the next day. She hung up, pleased.
If she was lucky, there would be something in that box to help her discover the truth about Kate—or about her own ancestry, if it was different. And even if there wasn’t, she suddenly ached to have those few possessions that had belonged to her parents. Why hadn’t Madeline told her about the box years ago?
Jill shook her head. That answer was easy. Her aunt hadn’t said anything because it had never occurred to her to do so.
In any case, one thing was clear. She needed to go back to London sooner rather than later. The urge had grown in its intensity ever since Jill had made the decision to go back, and was almost irresistible now.
Jill went to her bedside bureau and took out her bank book. As she had thought, she had less than three thousand dollars in her savings account. Her checking account had a few hundred in it. “Damn.”
She had to get on the phone and make a few calls. One of the soundmen on
The Mask
had a wife who was in real estate. Jill couldn’t afford to pay anyone a commission, but maybe they might help anyway, given the circumstances of Hal’s death and her sudden unemployment. It was worth a try.
KC also knew tons of people. She might know someone who wanted a sublet right away.
Jill ran across the studio for her tote, dug out her Filofax, and found the number she was looking for. She was about to dial when her phone rang. To her surprise, it was her aunt.
“Aunt Madeline?” Jill could barely believe it.
Without even saying hello, her aunt said, “I just remembered something. I think your grandfather was born over there. In England.”
Jill froze.
Madeline was silent.
Jill recovered. Breathlessly, images of Kate Gallagher dancing in her mind, Jill asked, “Are you sure?”
“No. But I seem to remember something like that. I think he might have come to America as a young man.”
I
t was about four P.M. in London. Quickly Jill dialed the museum.
To her relief, Lucinda was still there, and in a moment she had picked up the telephone. “Jill! I am so pleased that you have called,” she said enthusiastically. “I have been thinking about you. How are you?”
“I’m okay,” Jill said, dying to tell her what her aunt had said. “Lucinda, do you have a minute or two?”
“Of course, my dear,” the Englishwoman said. There was a smile in her voice. “Are you still haunted by Kate?”
Jill tensed. “Yes, I am. That’s an odd choice of language.”
“Is it? We are very proud of our ghosts over here in England, Jill.”
Lauren had practically said the same thing. “She’s on my mind. I just learned that my grandfather might have been born in England, Lucinda—and I had always thought my family to be American.”
“That is interesting,” Lucinda said. “Why don’t you try to find his birth certificate? If it’s not in New York, maybe we can locate it over here.”
“God. I hardly know where to start. Lucinda, I’m trying to find a sublet for my studio. I want to return to London to research Kate, but I don’t have a lot of money. How much would a flat cost me? Or a room?”
“London flats are expensive—in decent neighborhoods, that is. Hmm. Let me think about this.”
Jill agreed and Lucinda said, “You know, Lauren came back the other day. Apparently she is now fascinated with her family, too.”
For one moment, Jill was surprised and even disturbed. Then the moment was gone. “What did you tell her?”
“Nothing. She wandered about by herself. She spent some time, though, in our archives.”
“Can I get into those archives?” Jill asked.
Lucinda hesitated. “I would have to ask my employer. Being as you are not family.”
“Who is your employer?”
“It is someone who works for the Collinsworth Group.” There was a pause. “You know, dear, I have a neighbor who has a nice flat right next door to my own flat in Kensington. I believe Allen is going to be out of town for the next few months and is looking for someone to stay and take care of his two cats. Let me check for you and see what I can do.”
Jill’s heart began to pound with hope and excitement; she found herself crossing her fingers. “Lucinda, if that flat is available, and it’s reasonable, I’ll take it. And I love cats—I have one of my own.
“One more thing, please,” Jill said, sitting down nervously. “Lucinda, did Hal ever talk about Kate Gallagher? Or express any kind of interest in her at all?”
The other woman paused.
Jill stiffened. “Lucinda?”
“He was intrigued by Anne and Kate,” Lucinda said. “He said he
wanted to write their story one day. He used to take that locket I showed you to his apartment and stare at it while making notes. Jill, there is something you should know.”
“What?” She barely breathed. Her palms were clammy.
“About a year ago, Hal told me he had found some letters, written by Kate, to Anne.”
Jill almost dropped the phone. “Oh, my God. Have you read them?”
“No. I’ve never even seen them. In fact, I’m not sure they actually exist.” Her tone was cautious.
Jill was on her feet. “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”
Lucinda hesitated again. “I don’t really know how to say this. I’m not sure I should even be telling you this.” She did not continue.
Jill felt dread. “Whatever is on your mind, please, Lucinda, I would appreciate your sharing it with me. I have to know what Hal was up to” It was only after she had spoken that she realized how odd her own choice of words was.
“Very well. He promised to send me copies of the letters, several times, in fact, but he never did.”
“But Hal wasn’t a liar,” Jill said slowly, very confused. “He wouldn’t make up such a story.”
“Jill, the day he called me to tell me he’d found the letters, it was almost midnight. He sounded quite … incoherent.”
Jill’s grip on the phone was deathly. Her heart lurched. “Incoherent.”
“I hate speaking ill of the dead. He sounded soused, my dear, three sheets to the wind … absolutely foxed.”
It took Jill a moment to comprehend her. “You think he was drunk?” She gasped.
“He was incoherent.” Lucinda was firm. “I do not know what to think.”
Jill could not move. “Lucinda, if he had those letters, do you have any idea where he might have found them—or where he might have put them?”
“No, I do not. But they would be priceless—to us and to the family. He would keep them somewhere very safe. They’re certainly not here at Uxbridge Hall. Maybe he kept them with him.”
Jill stared blindly across her studio, an image of Hal with old letters filling her mind. “Maybe you’re right. What if they’re in his apartment here in New York?”
“If you find them, do let me know. They belong at Uxbridge Hall,” Lucinda said. “We would want the originals.”
Jill promised to do so. The two women chatted for a few more minutes,
Lucinda promising to call her tomorrow after she had spoken to Allen Henry Barrows, and then they hung up. Jill remained stunned. Hal had been fascinated by Kate and Anne; Kate had written letters to Anne. And Hal had sounded drunk as a skunk when he had called Lucinda to tell her about it.
No. Very adamantly, Jill decided that Lucinda was wrong. Hal had conquered his drug problem. She had never seen him drink or do drugs during the entire eight months they had been together. Lucinda was wrong.
Jill was not relieved. First Marisa, now this. Maybe Thomas was right. Maybe she did not know Hal the way she thought she had.
H
al had a co-op on Fifth Avenue. Jill still had her keys. She hadn’t been there since his death, and as she approached the building on the corner of 76th Street, her steps slowed. The doorman outside recognized her and smiled.
His apartment was on the twentieth floor. It was bright and sunny, facing Central Park. Jill paused in the living room, oblivious to the view of the park and the West Side. Being there was making her feel almost violently ill.
She had to find those letters. She felt it with every fiber of her being. But she felt paralyzed. Hal’s presence seemed to be everywhere.
Jill closed her eyes. Had he loved her? Or had he loved Marisa? What if he had, in some bizarre way, loved Kate?
She was never going to forget his last words as he lay dying in her arms there on the road. “I love you … Kate.” As he lay dying, had he confused her with another woman, a woman who, had she been alive, would have been more than a hundred years old?
No. It was impossible. But why did she have that tiny whispering voice there inside of her head, one that kept repeating a litany Jill had come to hate? Hal and Jill … Jill and Kate … Hal and Kate …
Suddenly Jill was angry. She was furious with Hal. He had died, and his death should have been an ending. But instead of the act being final, a door forever closed, his death raised far too many questions and issues, far too much confusion and doubt.
Shoving her turbulent thoughts aside, Jill walked briskly into the third bedroom, which Hal had used as an office. She was there for a reason, and she had to stay focused—but she was trembling, her knees felt weak, and her insides remained curdled. She was also unable to shake the ridiculous
feeling that Hal would walk through the door at any moment and that she would soon wake up from the worst nightmare she had ever had.

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