The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  Was Kate her ancestor? Could she even be her great-grandmother?

  If such a twist of fate was possible, then that meant Kate had never married, because they shared the same last name.

  "Shit," Jill muttered, crossing the room. It was painted a pale melon color, except for the far wall, which an artist who was a friend of hers had painted as a mural. It depicted many different scenes from New York City in vibrant primary colors. Several colorful kilim rugs were underfoot, which she had collected over the years at garage sales and flea markets. Her bed was a simple queen-sized mattress and box spring,

  but it was covered with a royal blue quilt and a half-dozen large peach, blue, and gold pillows. A single orange couch faced the mural, a wicker chest serving as a coffee table.

  The eating area was by the small open kitchen, and her tiny pine table could just seat two. Director's chairs with red canvas seats balanced that side of the room.

  Jill walked into her kitchen area, shrugging off her leather jacket. She hadn't been able to sleep on the flight home. Her mind hadn't stopped, her thoughts shifting from the Sheldons and Alex Preston to Kate Gallagher and back again. And there had been the sick feeling she could not shake that had to do with her leaving Hal so far away—and with his having, perhaps, loved another woman, Marisa Sutcliffe.

  She opened the refrigerator for ice water and froze. On the top shelf, which was mostly bare, was half of a leftover pizza, and in the refrigerator door was an opened bottle of white wine. She and Hal had shared that pizza just last week, Jill drinking the wine.

  She slanmied the door closed.

  She almost expected to see him come sauntering out of the bathroom, a grin on his handsome face.

  Had he loved Marisa? Had he been about to break up with Jill in order to marry the other woman? Could she have been so deceived? Could she have been so stupid?

  It happened all the time, Jill thought grimly.

  And why had he kept that photograph of Kate and Anne, beside his bed, of all places?

  Jill gripped the counter. "This is not fair, Hal," she cried angrily. "None of this is fair!" She felt like ripping Marisa's gorgeous hair right out of her head. But that wasn't fair, either. What had Marisa done, except to love Hal over the course of her lifetime? If Hal had duped Jill—if he had been using her—then he was the bastard, not her.

  But how could she be angry at, even hate, someone who had just died?

  Jill realized that she could let her mind spin around and round in circles, or she could lay her confusion and anger to rest, right alongside Hal. Maybe, for the sake of her own

  mental and physical well-being, that was what she would have to do.

  She'd done it before. When her parents had died. She'd attacked ballet with her entire being, living it and breathing it and even being it, until there was nothing else in her Ufe.

  But Jill was now exhausted, and she had no ambition to dance. She knew she'd have to force herself to go back to work—immediately. But what she really wished, desperately, was that Kate was her relative, that she was her great-grandmother, and that she knew it for a fact, that she had proof.

  Jill wished she were back at Uxbridge Hall, exploring the rest of the house, looking for clues about the woman who had so tragically disappeared at such a young age.

  Jill turned on the faucet, filled up a glass with tap water, and drank it thirstily, eyes closed. She did not want to be home after all. Her studio was horribly empty. She felt more alone now than ever before—even than when she had been a guest at the Sheldons, as rude and uncivil as they had all been.

  Ezekial pressed against her ankles, purring.

  Jill opened her eyes, which were moist, smiled, and bent to scoop up the cat. Thank God for Zeke, she thought. But temperamental beast that he was, he hissed and leaped out of her arms. He hated being held, but loved being petted—when it suited him. "Thanks, Zeke," Jill said shakily.

  Jill suddenly picked up her kitchen phone. From the front pocket of her jeans, she pulled out the scrap of paper with Lucinda's telephone numbers. She glanced at her watch. It was two in the morning in New York, which meant it was seven in London. She quickly dialed Lucinda's home phone.

  The phone was answered instantly.

  "Jill 1 This is such a surprise."

  "I hope I didn't wake you," Jill said swiftly.

  "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 torn 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 cruder 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. "/ 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.

  Jill 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 Galkgher, 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 comer 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 runmiaged 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, modem pieces, usually in sterling silver.

  The pendant spilled into her hand. Jill retumed 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 tum 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 wom it either down or twisted on top of her head.

  Jill stared, her pulse beginning to pound. For one moment, she thought Kate w.as 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.

  Five

  A

  UNT Madeline was still alive. Jell 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 midwestem 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 yo
u?" 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 bom 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 bom 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."