by Brenda Joyce
"Please come with me," Lauren said, but it was a command.
Jill glanced at her stony face. She could not wait to escape the salon. "Lead the way."
"One minute. Miss Gallagher."
Jill stiffened, facing Alex. "Yes?"
"I want to caution you," he said firmly, his stance wide, almost threatening. "This family is in shock. You're a stranger in our midst. I don't want the boat rocked, not even slightly. I'm asking you to keep a very low profile for the next two days until you leave."
Jill stared at him, her pulse pounding. "I don't think you
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The third Heiress 33
are asking me anything," she said through stiff lips. >*You are giving me orders."
"I'm advising you," he said flatly.
Jill hugged herself. Her damn eyes were glazing over again. "I know I'm not welcome here. I guess I should have sent Hal home alone. But that was something I could not do."
Something in his blue eyes flickered. "No one said that. Miss Gallagher."
Jill shook her head. "I am sorry if my coming here has rocked your boat." She was suddenly bitter. "He died in my arms. How could I not bring him home? I have every right to be at the funeral!". She felt tears slipping down her cheeks. She glared at Lauren. "We weren't dating. We were practically engaged— a week before he died he proposed to me. He asked me to marry him" she cried aggressively.
The words had erupted of their own volition, and even as they did, her confidence wavered, while her emotions got the best of her and she could not continue. There wasn't much more to say anyway.
And all she could think of was, Hal, come back, I am so alone ... I need you!
Then she realized that Lauren and Alex were regarding her in disbelief.
"I don't believe you," Lauren said, her expression aghast. "He would never have asked you to marry him. Thomas is right about you!"
Jill started. She did not know what Lauren meant by her last repiark.
"Hal and I are very close," Lauren cried. "We are— were—only two years apart in age. If he was going to affiance himself to you, he would have told me. He said you were dating. That is all. He mentioned it once or twice. I know my brother! If my brother was in love and planning on marriage, he would have told me—time and again!"
Jill's pulse was racing wildly. Her knees felt weak—she was afraid she might once again collapse. "No," she said, shaking her head. She looked from Lauren to Alex. He was regarding her with his probing blue gaze, the shock now gone firom his face. He didn't believe her either, she thought.
And she was terribly, sickeningly afraid that it was pity she now saw in his eyes. "He asked me to marry him—he did," she said hoarsely.
Alex's hands were on his hips. "It doesn't matter. The point is moot. Lauren?"
A sudden determination seized Jill. She must never let this.family know that she herself had doubts—^that Hal had been uncertain in the end—that maybe they were all right— while she herself was wrong.
Oh, God.
Lauren stepped forward. Her eyes were red. "Come with me. I'll show you to your room." She turned and briskly left the salon, not waiting to see if Jill was following.
Jill hesitated, sending Alex one last glance. His regard was steady, and she had the uneasy feeling that he sensed her confusion and doubt—that he sensed the entire story. But that could not be the case. She was, understandably, paranoid.
"We'll talk tomorrow," he suddenly said.
There was something unyielding in his tone that made Jill hurry away from him. She had no wish to speak with him tomorrow or at any other time. She stumbled after Lauren, wishing she had never arrived at the Sheldon home, wishing she had never met any of them.
Jill followed Lauren up to the third floor. Lauren said not a word. Her shoulders seemed rigidly set. As they walked down a long corridor, carpeted in blue and gold, numerous works of art hanging on the walls, Jill suddenly waited to find Hal's room. The room he had grown up in as a boy. The room he had used when he was in town. It would give her some comfort to go there.
They stopped at a beautifully ornate door. "Good night," Lauren said. She turned and walked away.
Jill watched her go. She knew she was not mistaking her rudeness. Then she walked into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Her bags had been brought up. They were neatly lined up at the foot of a huge four-poster bed with a dark green velvet bedspread, matching dust ruffles, and pillows and shams in
various shades of green, blue, and gold. Jill looked around, wide-eyed.
The ceiling was pink, and intricately carved, a huge beige starburst in its center. The walls were painted a lovely, muted jade green, and numerous paintings—all of them old but small in size—hung on the walls. The room she had been given was the size of her studio in the Village—at least. There was also a working fireplace on one wall, the mantel a dark green marble, and the room's furnishings were all antique, the fabrics—brocades, silks, and damasks—rich in texmre, but faded and old.
Jill wandered around, touching the beautiful porcelain lamps and a small black, green, and gold Chinese screen standing in one comer. Had Hal been insane? She would have never fit into his family in a million years.
Jill stood very still, seized with absolute understanding, with horrific comprehension.
Hal had fallen in love with her. But when their relationship had deepened, he had realized the impossibility of ever bringing her home. He had wanted to marry her—but had realized that his family would fight their marriage tooth and nail. The Sheldons would have never accepted a lowly dancer into their midst. Which was why he had suddenly had second thoughts about them.
Jill sank down onto the bed.
Hal had loved his family. From the start of their relationship he had spoken about them often, with love and pride. It had been clear to Jill that his family was the center of his existence, and because she herself had no family, it had been one of the very first reasons why she had fallen in love with him.
She closed her eyes. Hal wasn't at all like his brother, his cousin, or his sister. He had not been arrogant, and he had not flashed his money around town. Jill had not lied when she had said he had rarely used his driver in the entire time she had known him, and he had preferred jeans and T-shirts to suits and sports coats. It had never bothered Jill that he did not earn a living from his photography. He had been an artist, just as she was, and she had believed in him deeply. She had always felt certain that one day he would have had his lucky
break and show his work to great critical reviews, and that would be the beginning of his career.
Suddenly the pieces of the puzzle began to fit. Hal was so different from them all. No matter that he adored them. What if he had gone to New York to escape them and the pressures of being a Sheldon—of being the different Sheldon, the near black sheep?
If so, he would have been very conflicted. But he had hidden his inner turmoil so very well—until their last and final conversation.
Jill grew frightened. She hugged her pillow, not wanting to go where her thoughts were leading her. Hal had known, at the end, that he could not bring her home without having to choose between her and his family. Jill wept.
And when her sobs finally died, she lay staring up at the ceiling, knowing she would never know how he would have solved his dilemma. Jill wished she hadn't come to London.
She wished, desperately, that Hal were alive, that they were back in New York, in the midst of their fairy tale. For now that was what it yas beginning to appear to be—a foolish fairy tale.
But it was a fairy tale she would never forget, not for the rest of her life.
Jill could not sleep.
Her thoughts tormented her. And she missed Hal so badly that it hurt in every fiber of her being.
But perhaps the worst part was staring at the night-darkened ceiling, feeling so utterly alone—being so utterly alone—once again.
Jill turned on the bedside lamp. She could beg
God from here to eternity, but Hal was dead, and nothing could ever change that fact. But somehow, she would survive—just as she had survived the loss of her parents twenty-three years ago. But this time the loss was different. This time she would cling to her memories. She did not want to ever forget, even if it meant living with anguish for the rest of her life. The only thing she had to do now, for her own sanity, was lay to
rest her confusion and doubts. For that was a cross she just could not bear.
Abruptly Jill stood up. She could not sleep, and lying restless in bed would make her crazy, with her thoughts seesawing back and forth between her worst fears and her now unattainable hopes and dreams. She needed to do something, she needed to distract herself, for she dreaded being alone for the rest of the night.
Jill walked over to a television on a nightstand and snapped it on. She rubbed her forehead tiredly. British television with its odd humor did not interest her. What she really needed was a sleeping pill or two, which she did not have. Barring that, she could use a good stiff drink. A martini or two would do, she thought almost savagely.
Hadn't she seen a bar cart in the salon where she had faulted?
Jill glanced at the clock on her nightstand. It was a quarter to twelve. She had arrived at seven-thirty p.m. By now, the family must be well asleep. She crossed the room, pulling on a pair of jeans, for she'd been sleeping in her T-shirt and panties. She refused to consider what would happen if she were caught wandering about the house unescorted. She did not think anyone would look kindly upon the act. She knew from Hal that Lauren and Alex did not live with the family. If she stumbled across anyone, it would be that bastard Thomas. But that was too bad. She would stand up to him if he dared to confront her the way he had earlier that day. She owed the Sheldons nothing. She was alone again, and if she did not take care of herself now, tio one else would.
Jill made it to the hving room without seeing a soul and poured herself a scotch, which she did not usually drink and did not even like, and started back up the stairs. But on the second-floor landing she paused, sipping the neat drink. It warmed her instantly, and even better, it dulled the grief and pain and confusion immediately. Hal's bedroom, she knew, was on this floor. He had often told her how he loved the light from his bedroom facing east on the second floor.
How she wished she could go to his room and wander
among his things. On the other hand, she knew his family would be furious if she did so without permission.
But Hal wouldn't mind. Jill could almost feel him smiling at her—encouraging her.
And she didn't give a damn about the Sheldons, not after the way they had treated her that evening.
Scotch in hand, Jill started down the hall, trying to be as soundless as possible. She paused at a door, leaning her ear against it. When she heard nothing, she knocked very softly. There was still no answer.
Her heart racing wildly now, Jill turned the knob and pushed the door open. Shadows greeted her. She hit a wall switch.
A bedroom that had not been used in years greeted her, and Jill saw nothing to even remotely suggest that it belonged to a boy, much less Hal. She turned off the light, quickly backing out and closing the door. Her heart continued to thunder in her own ears.
She continued down the hall, finishing the scotch, finding three more unoccupied rooms, her pulse rampaging inside of her chest. She was beginning to question the wisdom of what she was doing, yet the scotch had given her courage. On her fifth try, she knew she had stumbled onto his room.
She inhaled, fighting to regain her equilibrium.
For facing her was a bookcase, and in it was an entire shelf of framed photographs.
The walls were also covered in photographs.
Jill began to shake. She would recognize Hal's work anywhere. She slipped into the room, shutting the door behind her, turning on the hghts.
His work surrounded her, everywhere. Jill wished she had another drink.
Again, tears somehow slipped down her cheeks.
"Oh, Hal," she whispered. Her words sounded bereft to her own ears.
The royal blue draperies were partially drawn and the room was cast in dancing shadows caused by the street and house lights outside. Jill's heart was hammering wildly now as she walked over to the bookcase. She smiled, more tears
coming to her eyes. Hal had mentioned to her that he had been insane as a youth, shooting everything in sight. She saw photographs of wildlife—clearly he had been on safari—of flowers, trees, landscapes, Stonehenge. And then there were photographs of his family. .
Blinking to clear her eyes, Jill picked up a framed photograph of Thomas, taken perhaps ten years ago. Even then he'd had the striking looks of a model or an actor. Jill stared. Not because he had gotten better-looking with age, but because the shot was clearly a candid one, and Hal had caught Thomas leaning over an infant, with the most beautiful expression of love on his face. The child, Jill assumed, was his own.
Jill put it back. Then she froze.
On another shelf there were several photographs of Hal as a teenager and as a young man. They were not self-portraits, because Jill could recognize Hal's work. Someone else had taken them.
She started to cry, but soundlessly, the tears streaming endlessly down her cheeks.
She touched the frames. He was playing soccer in one shot, riding with the hounds in another—looking so damn blue-blooded doing so—and holding up a diploma in the last. She smiled through her tears.
She paused. There was a fourth photograph of him on a ski slope, and he was with a young woman. A terrible pang pierced through her as she studied the photo. The woman was not Lauren, she was red-haired and stunning. Of course, this photo had to be several years old and her first reaction, which was jealousy, was absurd. Staring closely at it, Jill decided that Hal looked very thin, even in his ski clothes. Had he been ill at the time this photograph was taken?
She put the frame back and glanced over at the few books filling the rest of the bookcase. Then she wandered to the bed, which was a massive four-poster in an extremely dark wood. She ran her head over the plaid quilt. He probably hadn't slept there in years.
She sat down on the bed, glancing at the photographs taped to the walls. Most were black-and-white. Many were
portraits of people she did not know, many were of his family. Jill stared at one portrait, a head shot of a beautiful and regal older woman who had to be his mother, the countess, whom she had not yet met. The resemblance was unmistakable.
Jill did not move, filled up with him, and for one moment, she almost felt him beside her, but then the moment was gone. She lay down, more tired now than at any previous point in the past few days. Hal's bed was more than comfortable—it was comforting. She could almost smell his cologne, but that was only in her mind.^
She turned her head and her gaze slanmied into another photograph—but this one was very old and in an antique silver frame on his nightstand. Jill sat up.
Jill pulled the framed picture from the bedside table where it stood. She stared, surprised, eyes wide.
It was an old black-and-white photograph of two young women in period dress. To Jill's untrained eye, it appeared to be tum-of-the-century; their gowns were white and long, the skirts slim, and both women wore boaters on their heads. The two women were standing close to one another in front of a wrought-iron fence. They stared at the camera, unsmiling.
Had this been Hal's?
For one moment Jill was confused, until she recalled the several times they had visited museums in New York together. Hal had always enjoyed pointing out the details of late nineteenth and tum-of-the-century life—which he had seemed quite knowledgeable about. Of course this was his. He had undoubtedly admired the photography.
Jill looked more closely at the photo, trying to see what it was that had drawn him to it, but for her, it was merely an old photograph of two young women. She shrugged to herself and laid the framed photo down on the bed. But she was thinking now that something
was odd. Hal had not collected old photographs. He had been too intense about his own work. Chills seemed to cover her arms.
Jill hesitated, then picked up the silver frame again. Unsure of what compelled her, she turned it over and she gasped. There was handwriting on the back of it.
Curious, Jill took a closer look. Her eyes widened as she read aloud, "Kate Gallagher and Anne Bensonhurst, the summer of 1906." The handwriting was Hal's.
There was no mistake about it.
Jill was frozen. She did not know what to think. But her last name was Gallagher—and Hal's last dying word to her had been "Kate."
She stared at the photo, trembling.
This was, undoubtedly, the oddest coincidence, nothing more. Jill reminded herself that Hal had loved her, had told her so before he died, and that this photograph had nothing to do with that woman named Kate, who was probably his lawyer or some such thing. Jill mmed the photograph back over. Who were these women and why had Hal cared enough about their photograph to write on the back of it, to keep it?
She was grim, and in spite of her reassurances to herself, she was concerned. Oddly enough, she felt uneasy, and she was wishing that she had never come into his room.
Still, Jill continued to stare at the picture. Both women were dark-haired and fair-skinned. Of course, back in those days, women did not take sun. One of the women was neither plain nor pretty; in spite of having classic features, she somehow disappeared beside her companion, whose looks were bold and striking. It was this other young woman who suddenly commanded Jill's complete attention.
Jill could not look away. She was mesmerized. There was something compelling about her. Something so very unusual. She was beautiful, but not classically. Her nose was straight and Roman, her jaw too wide, her cheekbones very high— and there was a definite mole on her right cheek. Jill did not think it was her looks that were so commanding. Perhaps it was her eyes. They were dark and bright with intelligence, with vitality, with joy, Jill thought, and Jill received the distinct feeling that this woman had secrets she wished to teas-ingly share.
