Heiress

by Susan May Warren

  In fact, a part of her had.

  She climbed into the cab. “Six forty-five Fifth Avenue, please.”

  Lilly tucked in beside her, very quiet.

  Esme held the paper on her lap. “They couldn’t send me a telegram?” She shook her head, stared out the window. The city seemed dirty, still emerging from winter, black snow lining the gutters. “I suppose this is what I get, what I should have expected. But if they weren’t going to cable me when Father had his stroke, then why now?”

  Come Home. Only two words, and she’d just assumed they were from her father. The sender was simply, The New York Chronicle.

  Someone else from the Chronicle had sent it to her.

  She’d stopped sending the Times thirteen years ago. How had he known where to find her?

  They passed a brand new hotel on the corner of Central Park, pigeons waddling around the fountain in search of sustenance. Lilly’s gaze glued on the magnificent row of residences of high society’s “400.” She wondered if Mrs. Astor still had her New Year’s ball.

  Probably Jinx and Foster lived somewhere on this side of town.

  Esme opened the paper. Stared at the headline, read it again.

  “What is it?” Lilly leaned back, tried to read over her shoulder.

  Esme could barely mouth the words. No, it couldn’t be— “Your Aunt Jinx is in jail for murder.”

  * * * * *

  The last week had turned into a snarl of events so that Jinx could barely sort it out. She’d been standing above Foster’s body, his blood seeping into her dressing gown, her skin. Bennett had arrived—no, he came before, to her room. Then he’d left her, and—yes, he was wearing his coat, carrying his gloves, clearly leaving. And Amelia had appeared, then, behind her, Neville, and Lewis. Someone had screamed, and it seemed Bennett had pulled her away from the body, held her, although even when she recounted it to her counsel, she couldn’t be sure.

  Yes, yes, she had been in her room. Yes, she’d seen the dueling pistols.

  Yes, she’d wanted him dead. That confession came out in a rush, harsh and angry after the police had the impudence to drag her from her home—they’d barely allowed her to dress—to the Tombs, where they interrogated her.

  Yes, she wanted him dead, but she didn’t kill him. No, she didn’t have a reason to kill him. Yes, sometimes he used his fists on her, but he had that right, didn’t he?

  Yes, she knew how to fire a gun—had done it for entertainment at a number of Newport picnics. Foster had even sent her to a private tutor.

  And yes, okay, yes, she had wanted him dead! Yes, she’d fought with him just that evening over their son, over the war, over her fear that he would die in battle. Of course she loved her country, but she loved her son more—that wasn’t so hard to understand, right?

  She’d gone to her room after the fight. What brought her downstairs?

  Noises. Yes, noises. And…

  No, of course she didn’t plan it. No, she didn’t wait until his back was turned, take the dueling pistol, point it toward his head, pull the trigger.

  Who else could have killed him?

  She needed a drink, licked her lips instead, not sure where to start. She thought they’d offered her a drink then, but she couldn’t be sure.

  Yes, of course she was alone, who else would she have been with? She remembered that statement, remembered the silence that echoed through the interrogation room, the way she folded her hands on the chipped wood table, praying her heart wouldn’t betray her.

  No one could find out that Bennett had come to her. Not without asking why. Not without discovering the truth.

  Of course, she’d read about the Tombs, the Manhattan House of Detention, heard about the bridge of sighs that convicts would traverse on their way to a hanging. Heard that convicts hurled themselves from the third floor tier rather than endure their stay, but truly, she didn’t kill him. She shouldn’t be here.

  They’d hadn’t even had the decency to put her in the cells next to the Warden’s residence that overlooked Centre Street.

  Instead, they’d shoved her onto the top floor of the women’s prison, like an ordinary criminal, her cell overlooking a vast inside courtyard, open to the view of the woman across the thirty-foot channel. Jinx sat on the metal bed in her five-foot cell, unmoving, hungry, shaking, watching a roach climb through a crack in the wall, back and forth, between her cell and her neighbor’s. She watched the sunlight appear from the street outside, a fluid orange on the opaque window that ran floor to ceiling in the cell, the height of all three tiers. Bars crisscrossed it, cutting through the wan daylight.

  They’d taken her reticule, and given her instead an aluminum spoon, large bowl, and a cup. Her money they’d replaced with aluminum chips, used as currency, and on her first full day, a commissary man entered the floor, selling combs and writing paper. He also had sandwiches, but they smelled so rancid Jinx decided to continue her fast.

  Surely someone would come for her.

  Her counsel appeared early the second day. Mr. Loren, a pinched man with no chin, tall, with hard eyes. He had her read a confession she didn’t remember giving.

  “Are you sure no one else could have committed this murder?”

  She’d paused on the question long enough for him to ask it again.

  “No. None that I can think of.”

  Bennett wouldn’t kill his own brother, would he?

  I’m going to kill him.

  His words, softly, lethally spoken in her chamber, rattled through her again, and yet again. What if he’d gone downstairs, found Foster—

  But he’d been standing in the foyer in his coat, had appeared genuinely horrified.

  Repulsed at what she’d allowed her life to become.

  I can’t believe you didn’t come to me. I would have given you a different life. A happier life.

  Down the hallway, a woman hummed, a haunting melody that made Jinx put her hands over her ears. It drummed inside her, however, something mournful and raw. She scooted to the back of her bunk, pulled her legs to herself, wrapped her arms around her knees. She had refused to use the toilet in her cell, in view of all the world, until the urge became too much, and nothing would make her lay her head on the lice-infested wool blanket. But exhaustion ripped through her, her limbs on fire, her brain foggy, until she collapsed in slumber.

  She hadn’t killed her husband, had she? She braced her forehead on her knees. Why had no one come for her? Her mother, certainly, should have heard the news, should be fighting for her freedom. She, better than anyone, knew how cruel Foster could be.

  Maybe it was best if the police didn’t talk to her mother.

  Oh…the news. She pressed a hand to her throat. Foster’s murder would have made the papers.

  She’d always longed to make the front pages, something beyond Page Six, but for some grand ball, perhaps, or a charity event she’d hosted.

  She might be ill.

  “Mrs. Worth, you have a visitor.”

  She looked up at the voice, the matron, a large woman who might have made an excellent housekeeper the way she communicated authority. Jinx got up, ran her hands over her skirt. It was about time someone came to get her. Finally. Perhaps they’d found the real killer.

  She kept her head up as women called to her, names that made her ears burn. Yes, well, they belonged here, not her.

  They walked through the doors at the end of the cellblock, the steel grating through her, resounding in her spine, then she followed the matron down the hall to the Police Court entrance.

  A guard looked her over, revulsion in his eyes.

  She must look a wreck—she didn’t even want to imagine what she must smell like, but— “Get your eyes off me,” she snapped.

  The matron opened an inner door and she stepped through, expecting to see the tall pensive form of Mr. Loren.

  No. Bennett waited on a wooden chair, his hat between his fingers, lines drawn into his face. He looked up at her, something so raw in his bea
utiful eyes, it made her heart lurch.

  Bennett rose as she walked over. “Are you well?” His voice, however, came from far away, as if he’d had to pull out a vellum card and read the words to know what to say.

  “I’m fatigued and tired of this game the police are playing. They need to find the real murderer, put him in this awful place.”

  “Your counsel is working on getting your confession overturned—he said you hadn’t signed it, that you had no recollection of your words.”

  “I confessed to nothing.” Or, had she? She shook her head, ran her fingers over her eyes. She needed a bath and a long rest. Then she might be able to unravel the last few days. Forget them, even. “Did they find the murderer?”

  Bennett drew in a breath, looked away.

  “What is it?” She pressed a hand to her stomach. She should eat something, and soon.

  “It’s Jack,” Bennett said quietly. “They’re interrogating Jack for Foster’s murder. They think it was he who went out the garden door.”

  “No”

  “He told them that he saw his father push you, that he heard your argument—”

  How much had Jack heard? She tried to unsnarl their conversation, but it all ran together. “But you were there—you said you fought with Foster.”

  “I did. But Jack must have been standing outside the door in the garden.” His voice turned low. “Jinx, I heard him tell the police at the scene that he wanted his father dead.”

  Her world dropped from beneath her then, her knees simply surrendering, and she hit the floor hard, slapping her head against the brick wall.

  “Jinx!”

  She held her face in her hands, heard a moaning, and realized it came from herself. “No, no—”

  She felt Bennett’s hands on her back, as if to pull her into an embrace, but she pushed on his chest, away from him. “How could you let this happen? You know he couldn’t have done this!”

  He drew in a quick breath, searching her face. “What do you mean? He told me he hated Foster. And I wouldn’t have believed that Foster had the capability to hurt people like he did, but you knew his cruelty. Why wouldn’t his son be the same way?”

  She slapped him. Hard, and it stung her hand. He recoiled, flinching.

  “Get away from me. Just get away.”

  He stared at her, unmoving. He didn’t even put his hand on the red bleeding into his cheek.

  She drew in a trembling breath, couldn’t look at him. “He didn’t kill Foster. He could never kill anyone. He’s not that kind of man.”

  “Is it so hard to believe that Foster’s son could turn out just like him? Open your eyes, Jinx—”

  “No, you open your eyes, Bennett Worth. Is it so hard for you to recognize your own son?” Her voice turned rich and dark. “That’s why I know he could never kill a man—he is his father’s son.”

  Only Bennett’s breath, wavering as he searched her face for the truth, betrayed the impact of her words.

  He closed his eyes, his face tight with emotion. “No. That’s not true. You told me that he wasn’t my child. You said—”

  “I lied! I lied so you would have a life. You’re right, Foster was unbearably cruel and he would have destroyed you. Destroyed me.”

  “Destroyed the life you’d built, you mean.” Bennett backed away, his hand up. “I wanted you, Jinx. I sent you a note, told you I would wait. But you sent it back, torn into pieces.”

  “No—no, I never received your note. I did come, but…Lewis was there.” Oh, how she remembered his eyes on her, on Bennett. “I feared for you.”

  “You feared for you, Jinx. Yes, Foster would have tried to destroy us, but perhaps we would have found a new life. Maybe you wouldn’t have appeared every week on the society pages, perhaps you would have lived without an army of servants, but we would have been happy.”

  She looked away from him.

  He ran his hand through his hair then met her eyes. “The shyster was going to leave you, Jinx. He had a plan to take everything, and leave you penniless and marry some actress he was seeing. I met her Sunday afternoon at the Knickerbocker Theater. She—she attended with Foster.”

  “A blond, tall and willowy?”

  He looked at her, frowned. “You knew about her?”

  “Her name is Flora St. John. Foster didn’t bother to hide it. Sometimes even brought her to the house. She’s one of Ziegfeld’s girls.” Jinx had stayed in her room, the laughter from next door seeping through the walls. “He wanted to hurt me.”

  Bennett stared at her. “You knew and you didn’t care? I thought you loved him.”

  She gave a harsh, ugly laugh. “Why would you ever think that?”

  “Besides the fact that you didn’t want me? How about the fact that you had a daughter with him? Unless—”

  “Don’t even say it. I’ve been faithful every day of my life.” She held his gaze, daring Bennett to argue.

  “Then why, if you didn’t love him?”

  “A woman’s duty is to her husband. Even if she despises him. Even if he comes home drunk and invades her room. Even if she screams and fights him.” She looked away then, refusing the tears. “Rosie was the only good thing to come from my marriage to Foster. She must never know the circumstances of her birth.”

  Bennett’s face twitched with a sort of dark emotion. “I want to walk away from you, to hurt something or someone for the rage I feel, the frustration of knowing that everything I feared for the last seventeen years indeed came to pass. My child, the woman I love, trapped—by her own pride—in a marriage that destroyed her. After leaving you in Newport, I tried to forget you. I tried to fall in love, to find a wife, but I couldn’t dislodge you from my head, my heart. I dreamed of coming back to you, but every time I did, there you were, on Foster’s arm. It ate me up from the inside, and I tried to stop caring. I told myself that you deserved your wretched life, that I was better off for not being around you, not letting you inside to destroy me.”

  His words were a knife, and she flinched. Indeed, she did deserve it. She’d created this world, clung to her empty life, her wretched marriage—her pride—and put herself in this prison.

  Then he turned to her, touched his hand to her face. “But, Jinx, I love you. I’ve never stopped hoping that you might come to me, that you might someday love me.”

  She caught her breath. Oh, she did love him. Had never stopped. She leaned into his touch, the words in her chest. “Bennett, I—”

  “I went to Foster’s office two days before I came to see you, and he told me how he was going to leave you, and like an idiot, I actually pleaded with him not to. I told him that you had helped him build his life, his position, his power, and that he should be the husband he’d promised to be. And then, he accused me of being in love with you.”

  She read his face, as probably did Foster, and saw the truth. “Oh Bennett.”

  “And then he said that he always knew that you loved me too. That you hadn’t been faithful to him that summer at Newport, that he knew Jack wasn’t his. He looked too much like me, soft and bookish, not enough fire in him.”

  She called that gentle and patient, a man of honor.

  But, of course Foster would have seen Bennett in Jack. She’d been a fool to think he wouldn’t.

  “That’s why I came to you—I feared what he might do to you. I’d hoped that you would be glad to see me. I guess I had some sort of idea that, after all this, you might be willing to ignore the scandal and follow your heart.”

  “Yes, Bennett—”

  “I’ve never stopped loving you, and because of that I’m going to fix this, Jinx. I’m going to fix this, and save our—my son—and then you’re going to be free.”

  He got up, and before she could reach out for him, he knocked on the door to the interrogation cell. “Let me out of here.”

  * * * * *

  The house on Fifth Avenue still possessed the power to reduce Esme’s resolve to ash, to turn her into a debutante, bidden by her parent
s to marry a man she despised. She stood on the steps after the taxi left them off, remembering Oliver’s face as her father’s footmen threw him into the night, her father’s decree that she would marry Foster by the next night.

  She had vowed never to return.

  “Are you going to ring the bell?” Lilly said beside her. She had already lifted her hand twice, and Esme took a hold of it.

  “Some things take some working up to,” she said, smoothing her jacket. She pressed the bell. It tolled deep inside the house and she glanced at Lilly, who smiled up at her, more excitement than trepidation in her eyes. And why not? She hadn’t left her home in the middle of the night, a fugitive from matrimony.

  But Esme wasn’t that woman anymore.

  The door opened and she stared up at Pierce Stewart, Oliver’s father, their butler. Nothing of recognition flickered in his eyes—not at first. Then, “Oh my, Miss Esme, you’ve returned.”

  And just like that, life filled her lungs. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath. “Hello, Pierce. Is my father in?”

  He raised an eyebrow as he moved away from the door to allow her inside. She pushed Lilly in front of her, watching her daughter’s reaction to the grand marble entrance, the arched ceilings, the parquet wood floor. Their entire first floor might fit, although snugly, inside just the entrance hall. Sunlight fell in dusty streams to the floor like spotlights. “I’ll inform him that you have arrived,” he said and moved down the hall to the drawing room.

  “Miss Esme, is that really you?”

  She turned at the voice, so familiar, so forgotten. “Bette. I can’t believe you’re still here.” Bette probably looked to her as she did to her former lady’s maid, the padding to her figure, the beginning of lines upon her face. Her dark hair showed just the finest hint of white, but she appeared capable and with an air that bespoke her promotion to head of the female staff.

  “Aye, ma’am. Your mother kept me on even after…” She swallowed. “I became the housekeeper of the Fifth Avenue chateau only a few years ago.” Her gaze fell on Lilly, who had wandered away to examine a portrait of her grandparents hanging in the banquet hall.