Heiress

by Susan May Warren

  “I couldn’t care less about society, Mother. Haven’t you noticed? There’s a war on. No one cares about debutantes or gala balls or the opening of the opera. My life—your life—is worth nothing but what the New York Chronicle declares. I’m tired of trying to end up on the social pages.”

  “The social pages are what built your life.”

  “No, I built this mess, Mother. Me. And you, thank you very much.”

  Phoebe recoiled, and for a moment Jinx wanted to yank back her words. Her mother seemed to shrink, the lines on her face suddenly crevassed and brutal. She still wore hair rats, still cinched her corset so tight that her internals probably had begun to lose their moorings. Jinx didn’t want to end her days like Caroline Astor, dementia requiring her to rearrange the dinner settings of imaginary guests long into the night.

  “I did nothing of the sort,” Phoebe finally said, her voice but a haunting whisper.

  “Oh, Mother, be honest. You lied so I could marry Foster—”

  “I did that for you.”

  “You did that for you. Because it was all you had—society. But see, I have more. I have Bennett, and Jack, and Rosie. Despite everything, God has blessed me, and I’m not letting go of that.”

  “Don’t talk to me of God’s blessings. You are an adulteress.”

  She didn’t let the epitaph bruise. “But maybe God blesses even the sinners.”

  Her mother stared at her, a muscle pulling in her jaw, her eyes fierce. “I very much doubt that.”

  Jinx turned away. “I did too. But that’s where I think we’re wrong. I think God’s blessing might have everything to do with Him and His riches, and nothing to do with whether we deserve it.” She walked into the room, where Amelia and her staff were removing the painting. She reached out for it and then met Amelia’s eyes. On the count of three, they heaved it into the fire. The frame broke, the canvas curling in the heat.

  She turned back to her mother. “I don’t want society’s blessing—I want God’s. And this time, I’m going to be strong in the belief that God loves me. Not rich, socially competent Jinx, but possibly poor Mrs. Bennett Worth. Although Bennett has surely made his own way these past years.”

  Phoebe now pressed her hand to her mouth, shaking. “You have destroyed our family.”

  “I think you and Father took care of that long before I came along.”

  Phoebe blanched. “You will have nothing. I will make sure of it.”

  “Then I will take care of her.” Bennett came up behind her mother, his blue eyes on Jinx, her hero in a gray sack suit, vest, a black tie, obviously cleaned up from his stay in the Tombs. Something had resurrected in him when Jinx declared to the court reporters that she loved him, washed clean of shame upon his countenance. She saw in him a man tasting redemption.

  Now, he brushed past Phoebe. “If she’ll still have me.”

  Jinx pressed her hand to his chest. “Find me a judge.”

  He laughed and kissed her cheek. “Bossy Jinx, always in charge.” He looked around the room. “I approve of your changes. What will you do with the room now?”

  “I have no idea,” Jinx said, and looped her arms around Bennett’s neck. He met her gaze. Oh, he had eyes she’d spend the rest of her life finding herself inside.

  Phoebe came near the fire in the hearth, her gaze upon the burning portrait. Her eyes glistened.

  “Jinx,” Bennett took her hands. “I don’t want you staying here tonight. I talked with the police detectives—they seem to think that it might not be safe. Whoever killed Foster might come back, finish with Rosie and Jack.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Bennett. I have my staff here to protect me. No one will hurt Rosie, or Jack.”

  “Mother.”

  Jinx looked up. Rosie stood in the doorway, her eyes red. She looked at Bennett without warmth, back to her mother. “Jack’s not coming back.”

  Jinx stilled. “What?”

  “I went after him, but…he’s enlisting.”

  Jinx’s breath hiccoughed from her. “What, no, he’s only seventeen… .” She looked at Bennett. “He’s only seventeen.”

  “I’ll find him, Jinx. I’ll stop him.” Bennett kissed her hands. “I won’t let our son go to war.”

  “Oh, Bennett, Thank you.”

  He turned to go then stopped. “Jinx, get behind me.” He reached out his hand behind him, grabbed hers.

  She glanced at her mother, who had paled.

  Jinx stiffened, looked around Bennett.

  Foster’s valet stood a foot from Bennett, one of Foster’s dueling pistols pointed at his chest. Rosie had moved away from him, toward her grandmother.

  Bennett raised his hands. “Now, Lewis, I don’t know what you believe happened, but Jinx was telling the truth when she said I didn’t kill my brother.”

  Perhaps he’d come to collect a sort of severance. She started to step out from behind Bennett, but he pulled her back. “Stay put,” he hissed.

  Fine. She wasn’t tall enough to lean over his shoulder, so she peeked out. “Listen, Lewis, if you want money, I’m sure we can work out something—”

  “Shut up.”

  She stiffened at his tone. And a ripple went through her when he stepped forward and pressed the dueling pistol hard to Bennett’s chest.

  To her horror, Lewis reached out, grabbed her by the arm, and yanked her forward.

  She cried out and Bennett leaped for her, but Lewis flung her to the floor then slammed his beefy fist into Bennett’s face.

  Bennett spun, slammed onto Foster’s desk, and hit the floor.

  By the time he popped back up, Lewis had her by the hair. He dragged Jinx to her feet. She clawed at his hands, pain needling through her body. “Please, Lewis—”

  “I told you to shut up. You talked enough today.” He wound his arm around her neck, cutting off her breath, pressed the gun to her chest.

  Bennett held up his hands, his chest rising, falling, so much in his eyes she wanted to cry. “Please,” he said. “Please don’t hurt her. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  Lewis dragged her over to the desk. Pushed her into Foster’s chair. “Open the safe.”

  “What safe?”

  He pressed the gun to her head. “Press the lever under the desk drawer.”

  She felt under the desk, found an indentation. Pressed it.

  The front side panel of Foster’s desk popped open. Inside were the deeds to their home, his yacht, his motorcars, and a stack of stock certificates, T-bills, and bonds.

  Foster’s net worth.

  She took them out, lay them upon the desk. “I didn’t know about these.”

  Lewis grabbed them all, shoved them into his suit pocket. “Get up.”

  She managed to stand and he pushed her over to the fireplace, next to her mother and Rosie. Bennett, he made kneel.

  “Me and Flora had a plan. We were going to go out West, start a new life. She was going to be a showgirl, maybe I’d buy a little hotel. Have people working for me for a change.” He kicked Bennett, hard, in the face, and he fell back, onto the stone hearth.

  “Bennett!” Jinx made a leap for him, but Lewis grabbed her, tossed her into her mother. Phoebe locked her arms around Rosie.

  Lewis’s eyes narrowed at Phoebe. “Foster wasn’t always like this, stealing other men’s women. Not until he married your daughter. Not until she turned him away—”

  “That’s not true! Foster never loved me. He wanted Esme, not me.”

  “And he would have had her too, if—”

  Someone slammed into him, from behind, tackling him hard onto the floor. The dueling pistol skittered out of his hand. He roared and pushed his assailant off. The man tumbled back, and only then did Jinx recognize him.

  Oliver.

  He swung at Lewis, but the man had the girth of a bear and his punch lifted Oliver off his feet, dropped him hard.

  Esme had run at Jinx, now grabbed her hand to pull her away. Jinx shook her away, lunged for Rosie.

 
Her daughter wore a wild-eyed look, and shrank into the corner. Slapped at Jinx’s hand.

  “Rosie!”

  Oliver rounded on Lewis, took another shot in the jaw, but held his ground and launched himself at Lewis, tackling him back into a Louis XVI chair. It splintered under their weight.

  A shot shredded the sound of Lewis slamming Oliver to the floor.

  Lilly stood at the open door, the other dueling pistol pointed at the ceiling. “Get off him.” She pointed the pistol at Lewis. “Trust me, where I come from, they taught me how to use this.” But her voice shook.

  Lewis got up and a smile slid up his face, something sickly. “But they didn’t teach you how many bullets are in a dueling pistol, did they, little girl?” He took a step toward her.

  Lilly glanced at her mother, all thirteen years in her eyes as Lewis closed in.

  Jinx wanted to leap too, when Lewis reached her, but Esme was already there, tackling her daughter, yanking her from Lewis’s grip, even as he grabbed the useless pistol and tossed it away.

  Jinx turned, searched the floor for the other one.

  Bennett sprawled on the marble hearth, blood pooling under his head. No—oh, God, please—She ran to him as her mother began to cry. “Please, leave us alone!”

  Rosie stayed locked in the corner.

  Jinx reached Bennett and pushed her hands under his head, searching for the wound. “Bennett, wake up, please, Bennett.”

  She put his head on her lap, not sure where the blood came from, and looked up.

  Her heart caught in her throat. Esme stood in front of Lilly, wearing the look she’d seen the day she’d stood up to their father, the day she’d run away to be with Oliver.

  Lewis had produced a knife and flicked it at her. It nicked it into her chest, near her heart. A bead of blood rose, trickled into her dress.

  Oliver didn’t move, caught five feet away. Jinx couldn’t look at the agony on his face.

  “You,” Esme said softly, not a hint of tremor in her voice. “I recognize you. You were there the day Oliver’s apartment burned.” Her voice lowered to a wisp that sounded less of fear and more of fury. “You—you set the fire, didn’t you? You thought Oliver was there and tried to kill him.”

  Lewis stiffened. “He was supposed to be there. I saw him go in. Saw his light flicker on.”

  “People died.” Her breath seemed to be leaking out.

  Lewis advanced, and Esme cried out. “Shut up.”

  “No.” She choked out. “It was you. You killed Foster too. You learned it from him—eliminate the man in the way. Oliver. Foster—”

  “Shut up!” He grasped her throat, his fingers digging into her flesh.

  Esme clawed at his fingers. “But what you don’t know is that Flora would have never married you. You weren’t good enough for her.”

  Her mother had crept behind him, and Jinx wanted to shout when she saw that she’d scavenged a leg from the destroyed chair. No, Mother—

  “The police are probably wringing the truth out of Flora right now. She’s probably singing your name all over the tombs—”

  “Shut up!”

  Phoebe slammed the leg into Lewis’s head. He howled and rounded on her, but she launched herself at Esme, her arms around her.

  Lewis roared and tackled the both of them.

  Lilly screamed as Oliver dove at the mass.

  “Under me, Jinx—” Bennett came to life beneath her. He pulled out the pistol he’d fallen on, still loaded, and shoved it into her hands.

  Jinx hit her feet just as Lewis straddled Oliver, both hands at his neck. Oliver clawed at him, fighting for his breath.

  Thank you, Foster, for the one good thing he’d forced upon her.

  Skeet shooting lessons.

  Jinx aimed and hit Lewis square in the chest. He tumbled back, off Oliver, and hit the parquet floor with a thud.

  Blood blossomed out of his chest.

  Esme was weeping. Jinx stared at her in horror as Esme bent over Phoebe, rocking back and forth, her hands covered in blood. “No, please, Mother…”

  Jinx dropped the gun. Stumbled over to her mother. Esme’s hand clutched her mother’s neck, blood pouring between her fingers, as Phoebe turned pale.

  Lewis’s knife had slashed through her bare skin—skin that would have been covered, even boned with a high collar if not for the new styles.

  Jinx fell to her knees. “Mother, why did you do that?”

  Behind her, she heard Amelia yelling, heard Lilly weeping. Rosie had stumbled over, now cupped her hands over her mouth, shaking. Bennett pressed a hand to the cut on the back of his head, knelt behind her.

  Phoebe took Jinx’s hand, touched her other to Esme’s. She looked at her daughters. “I love you. Both.” She nodded then, a whisper of a smile upon her face. “I love you both.”

  “Mother, don’t you die on me. Not yet,” Esme said, her voice tight. “Hold on.”

  Oliver had taken off his shirt, now pressed it against Phoebe’s wound, but she’d started to fade. Her gaze becamedistant, her breaths shallow.

  Oh, God, please, no…

  But as Esme wept into her bosom, Phoebe’s blood stained the parquet floor, and as Jinx gripped her cold hand…she slipped away.

  Jinx finally leaned down and pressed a kiss to her mother’s pale cheek.

  “I know, Mother. I know.”

  Epilogue

  “Jinx, it’s too cold for you to be standing out here like this.”

  She expected his admonitions, of course, but didn’t move as Bennett came up behind her andput his hands on her shoulders.

  “You can’t see every ship off. You don’t even know if Jack’s on it.”

  She refused to let his words sting. He didn’t mean them to be cruel, but—

  “What if he is? What if he’s one of those doughboys climbing the gangplank, looking back to see if there’s a familiar face in the crowd, loving him, praying for him as he goes into battle? I need to be here, Ben, just in case.”

  His hands tightened on her shoulders. “You’re shivering.”

  “I’m fine. They’re nearly finished anyway, the last have already boarded.” She’d gotten as close as she could to Pier 88 and the four-stack troop ship as the three thousand-plus soldiers filed on. She hadn’t really expected to see their son. But perhaps he’d see her.

  Know that she missed him so desperately she could hardly breathe with the sorrow.

  The November wind had long ago slipped under her mink coat, turned her legs to ice. Still, the baby in her womb kept her warm, flopping around even at five months so that he had the ability to turn her seasick.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t find him.” Bennett said it every time, so often that she knew misery burned through him also. He’d never helped his son grow up.

  Maybe never would.

  Jinx squeezed his hand, unable to find the words.

  So much they’d lost that day. Jack. Mother.

  So much she’d also gained. Bennett. Esme and Lilly.

  Freedom.

  She hadn’t even cared about the scandal, her plummet from society’s register. She let her seat at the opera go, put her home up for sale. She and Rosie and Bennett moved into an apartment at 927 Fifth Ave, at the new Warren and Wetmore building.

  Bennett managed to maneuver Foster’s stocks into Jinx’s name, despite the suspicion surrounding his death.

  Flora St. John headlined at the Follies all summer long.

  And Oliver and Esme finally married in a ceremony that Jinx attended as the matron of honor. She waited at the altar of Trinity Episcopal Church and smiled at her sister as she wheeled their father up the aisle.

  He’d looked up twice during the service, and once, even smiled.

  The gangplank began to draw in, the soldiers standing at the rail. Jinx scanned their too-young faces, most of them too far away for her to make out.

  “Did you see him?” Esme joined her at the rail, her hands gloved, her long hair cut short now. “I’m sorr
y I’m late—we had a problem with one of the presses.”

  “Did you get the paper out?”

  “On time.” She pressed her hand upon Jinx’s. “I hope you don’t mind. Lilly and Rosie wanted to come.”

  Jinx nodded, turned and watched as the girls exited Oliver’s Studebaker. Rosie had cut her hair even shorter since Jack’s disappearance. Lilly, however, still wore hers long, in two dark brown braids, the Crow in her. Still, they looked like sisters, in their sable coats down past their knees, their cloche hats. Behind them, the New York skyline caught the morning sun in the windows. A thousand shiny eyes watching their boys leave for war.

  Oliver exited behind them, his face grim as he watched them walk toward the rail. “Oliver should forgive himself for Mother’s death,” Jinx said. “It wasn’t his fault.”

  Esme tightened her hold on Jinx’s hand. “He has a servant’s heart. He can’t get past the fact that his father spent his life taking care of us and yet he failed.”

  “He’s a good man, Esme.”

  Lilly and Rosie joined them. Rosie stood beside Jinx, not looking at her. Someday, perhaps, Rosie would forgive her mother.

  Maybe when Jinx forgave herself. Maybe it was enough, for now, knowing that God had forgiven her. In fact, only that held her together, convinced her that someday, yes, she’d see Jack again.

  No one spoke as the lines were cast off, the departure horn sounding, a sad wail reverberating through the harbor, right down to her bones. Her eyes filled. “It’s the not knowing that’s the hardest.” She leaned back against Bennett’s chest. “All I do is pray that the war will end, that he’ll come home.”

  “‘O taste and see that the Lord is good: blessed is the man that trusteth in Him,’ ” Esme said.

  Jinx drew in her words, relished them, allowed them to nurture her. Blessed is the man that trusteth in Him.

  She watched as the troop ship slipped away from the pier. “Come back to me, Jack. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be waiting right here for you.”

  Author’s Note

  What if you could buy anything you wanted, at any time? What if you had servants to wait on your every desire…had numerous glorious homes, clothing, and jewelry…and could take extended vacations on a whim? Would you be happy? Or is there something deeper about life that money cannot buy?