The Heiresses (22 page)

“Vincent?” a voice called out, with a knock on the door at the same time.

The pair froze.

“Vincent, are you there?” It was a woman’s voice, Ro realized.

Vincent visibly recoiled in horror as he and Ro separated. “Oh, my God,” he whispered. His eyes met Ro’s. “It’s my fiancée.”

Ro took a step back, fixing her skirt in the process. “Your what?” she hissed, under her breath.

Vincent waved a hand. “Wait, that’s not true. She’s not my fiancée. Oh, God. Look, it will be better for you if you hide. Over there.” He pointed to a spot behind some heavy bookcases.

Ro ran the few steps over to the bookcases and hid herself behind them, hoping the many layers of dust she could see wouldn’t cause her to sneeze.

After a short pause, she heard Vincent open the door. “Genevieve! And Mrs. Mitchell! What a surprise! Won’t you come in?”

There were voices—something was said that Ro couldn’t quite catch, though she expected it was a greeting of some sort, and then footsteps. The three were properly inside the room now. The door closed.

“I have missed you!” Ro heard the girl say. “Are you still very busy?” She sounded young. Very young, Ro thought. And a little silly with it.

“Very, I’m afraid,” came Vincent’s reply.

“Mama has just paid a visit around the corner, to Mrs. Belton. Do you know her?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure of being introduced to Mrs. Belton, no.” Vincent’s voice sounded amused to Ro’s ears.

“Oh,” the girl said. “She was showing us her most amazing Canaletto she just bought for her husband’s birthday. They’re amazingly rich, you know. Mr. Belton made his money in beer.”

“Genevieve!” her mother reprimanded her.

But it was too late. Ro winced at the girl’s obvious gaffe and guessed, correctly, that Genevieve and her mother were also amazingly, recently rich and that this was also due to something like beer, or toothpaste, or soap, and that she had much to learn about polite society.

“Were you talking to someone just now?” Genevieve continued.

Ro held her breath as she heard footsteps headed toward her.

“How embarrassing,” Vincent said with a chuckle, and the footsteps stopped. “I was talking to myself. You see, I was in such a rush as I’m already late to meet with someone and I dropped these papers on the floor…” Ro heard Vincent gathering them up. “I was chastising myself for being careless.”

“Perhaps if you had put them away in the first place?” Mrs. Mitchell said, rather pointedly, Ro thought.

“That, Mrs. Mitchell, would be a very good idea. What this room needs, I fear, is a woman’s touch.”

Ro almost laughed out loud. Sure enough, this shut Mrs. Mitchell up nicely. She did not offer to tidy up.

“Oh, dear. So you must go?” the girl said. “I will be miserable all afternoon now. In fact, I told Mama quite plainly that I would do nothing but mope for the rest of the day if we passed by and she wouldn’t allow me to stop.”

“But you have seen me now, so there’s no use in moping, is there?”

“I suppose not,” the girl said and sighed. “If only we had stopped by before, rather than later.”

“It is a shame,” Vincent replied, and Ro shook her head in wonderment that he did not fall asleep, so dreary was the conversation.

“We shouldn’t keep Dr. Allington, Genevieve. We will take our leave now,” Mrs. Mitchell told her daughter firmly.

The mother and daughter said their good-byes, as did Vincent. The door opened, the door closed. Footsteps retreated down the hall.

When there was silence once more, Ro reappeared from her hiding place.

Vincent came back to his desk and leaned upon it, looking altogether beaten. “It’s not as it seems.”

“Isn’t it?” Ro asked. “And how is that?” She knew she should leave, but found she couldn’t—something inside her needed to know why Vincent had lied. Why he had thought he could toy with her emotions.

He stared at her for some time, before pushing himself off the desk briskly. “I will not lie to you, Ro. You are clever and educated and I will lay the truth out for you because there is probably some part of you that will understand my logic. Genevieve is kind and sweet, but I do not love her. This might make me sound unfeeling, but it is the simple truth. Her family is wealthy. If I am able to marry Genevieve, I would be fortunate enough to have the means with which to write and research without having to teach. I know it must be obvious to you that Genevieve is not like you…”

Ro could not help but interject here. “No, she certainly is not,” she replied harshly. Genevieve seemed quite ridiculously feeble-minded and she was surprised that a eugenicist could possibly be interested in breeding with her.

“I am so very embarrassed.” Vincent approached her.

“As you should be.” Ro held out one hand and he stopped. She then found the strength within herself to say one final thing. “Good day, Vincent.”

And with that, Ro left the room.

*   *   *

On the walk back to Belgrave Square, Ro knew she should be furious with Vincent. That instead of walking calmly, she should be stamping along the pavement, kicking at stones and glaring at small dogs passing by with their owners. And she
was
cross, but, somehow, not as much as she ought to be. Perhaps it was because Vincent had told her the truth. Perhaps it was because she had been brought up by Uncle Henry and Aunt Charlotte, in a household where logical argument reigned supreme and Uncle Henry’s work always came first. Perhaps it was because she herself longed to study and understood how someone might do whatever it took to make this possible. It was, most likely, a combination of all of these things, but the fact was, even though she was cross, Ro understood Vincent’s position. In a small way, she even respected it. He was willing to give up a chance at love in order to further his research. What would she be willing to give up in order to find the money she needed to attend the university? Ro wasn’t yet sure of the answer to this question.

Vincent had made things perfectly clear for Ro. Like Uncle Henry, his research came first. This girl, Genevieve, would provide the money he needed to continue his research. He had certainly not treated Ro in the way she ought to be treated, but he had acknowledged as much and she believed him to be sorry for his actions on that account. She also believed this hadn’t happened before. Vincent had simply had a taste of what might be—what love might be like—and he had grasped at it, or her, to be exact, with both hands.

Ro knew her usual, logical, sensible self should walk from that room and never see Vincent again. But what had passed between them, even if it was over a short space of time, had changed everything for her. Ro wanted more from Vincent. Needed more from him. There was nothing logical or sensible about this, she knew, but she embraced the thought anyway. Turning the corner into Belgrave Square, she suddenly understood Vincent’s single-minded focus on his research and Thalia’s similar focus on gaining their inheritance. Now, like them, she had one aim. She would have what she wanted and what she wanted was Vincent.

The facts of the matter were this: Vincent was interested in Genevieve’s money. Well, Ro could do better than plain old money. Perhaps not right this second, but in the near future. The three of them would win their money from Charles, she was sure of it. She wasn’t exactly sure how this would come to pass, but she trusted she would find a way to convince Charles with time. What she had to top Genevieve, however, was connections. Connections would be crucial to furthering Vincent’s name when it came to his research, especially in an area like eugenics—she knew that much from being Uncle Henry’s niece. There was no denying Vincent had been impressed when he found out her aunt was Hestia Craven—Lady Hestia Craven, no less—a viscountess with friends in extremely high places. A viscountess beat a Mrs. any day, however much money that Mrs. had. All Ro needed now was money herself. The inheritance.

A small stab of fear pierced her chest then because Ro realized that she had something she wanted badly, and she saw that she would do anything, or almost anything to get it. And she was sure this was how Thalia had felt about the inheritance all along. From their first meeting, Ro had thought Thalia was all false bravado with her insistence on never returning home. But from the few little bits and pieces she had learned, it seemed that Thalia’s former home was a very dark place indeed. Ro paused in her step now and bit her bottom lip, deep in thought. Yes, now that Ro wanted something equally badly herself, she knew without a doubt that her sister was a far more dangerous person than she had originally thought. She would have to be careful when it came to sharing information and strategy with Thalia. Very careful indeed.

*   *   *

It was only on the final approach to the town house that Ro’s thoughts turned from Vincent and the inheritance back to her sisters and what she must now tell them. If she should tell them at all. As she considered her situation and the new knowledge she had gained, she began to see how what Mrs. Thompson had told her might affect Clio greatly. What if Thalia was to use this information somehow against Clio? And then, of course, there was Hestia to consider. Had she known about this ruse? There was no way she could not have known. So, why had she not told them? And was this what she had been hiding from them all along? Ro could see why Hestia might have wanted to keep this information to herself for as long as possible—most likely because she felt it her duty to keep the triplets together, in order that they might get to know one another. Ro could not thank her aunt for hiding the truth, but she could see how it was a motherly action and one she had taken for her sister’s, Demeter’s, sake.

As Ro walked up the front steps of the town house, still undecided about whether or not to share her news, she began to hear raised voices emanating from inside. She ran the final distance to the front door and entered as fast as possible, just as one voice in particular became louder. It was coming from the drawing room.

Ro entered the scene to see a furious Thalia towering over a quivering Clio. “Finally! You have come home!” She whipped around the moment she realized Ro had returned. “Look what I found. In Clio’s coat pocket, quite by accident.” She waved something in one hand. A photograph, it seemed. “Look at it! She has been hiding it and not told us about it. I have no idea how long for. She has been keeping secrets. Lying to us. Look!” Thalia stalked over to push the photograph upon Ro.

“Oh.” Ro looked at it. It was the memorial portrait itself. “Oh, yes, I see.”

“What?” Thalia screeched, seeming to sense something in Ro’s expression. “You knew as well? You knew and you didn’t tell me?”

Ro shook her head. “No. I’ve never seen it before. But, just now, Mrs. Thompson told me of its existence.” She glanced at Clio, whose tear-stained face was now in her hands.

Thalia eyed her in disbelief. “And I’m supposed to believe that? No, I don’t believe it. You’re conspiring. Both of you. Conspiring against me. I know it.”

“Thalia, don’t be ridiculous…,” Ro started.

Thalia snorted. “Ridiculous? I’ll tell you what’s ridiculous. That I ever agreed to help both of you out in the first place. To work with you, instead of against you. But, no. No more. No more of this working together rubbish. You’re both on your own. But be warned. I’ll do whatever it takes to get that money.” She stalked from the room snatching the photograph from Ro as she went. “
Anything
.”

Clio and Ro looked at one another, dread washing over them. They knew Thalia meant every word.

Sisters Divided

In her bedroom, Thalia busied herself with the newspaper and Hestia’s silver scissors. Carefully, she cut around the edges of the most interesting piece of the day. When she was done, she held it up before her and began to read aloud to Haggis McTavish, sitting on the floor. “A large number of young society people, including the well-known Venetia Saville and increasingly well-known Thalia Craven-Towneley, sipped cocktails yesterday evening at a Wild West Ball. Dressed in cowboy suits and cowgirl dresses, their lassos may have come in useful when several gate-crashers caused a commotion and the police had to be called.” Haggis McTavish cocked his white furry head and looked suitably impressed. “I wonder what Charles will think about that?” Thalia asked her companion, snorting.

Her plan now, not that she particularly had one to speak of, seemed to be little more than to embarrass her half brother into giving her some more money. Well, either that, or simply to have a good time. After all, what was the point of being an heiress in one of the greatest cities in the world, if you couldn’t have a good time? She seemed to do good times rather successfully, though she was sure even better times might be possible with more funds. Especially funds that weren’t shared with her newly found sisters. There was a small trickle of income coming in from the newspaper gossip columnists—she’d found out quite early on that they would throw a little more her way for information about who would be where and when, or who had been where and done what. The public loved to be entertained and her friends certainly accomplished that. Still, it wasn’t really enough. Not to live the sort of life her friends were accustomed to.

Checking the time, and realizing she had promised to be at Venetia’s house in less than half an hour, Thalia tucked the newspaper clipping away and raced downstairs. Wanting to avoid her sisters and her aunt, she pulled on her coat and adjusted her hat as fast as possible in the hall’s oval looking glass with its beveled edge. After checking her lipstick, she was out the door and running down the steps onto the pavement, Haggis McTavish following close behind. Thalia walked quickly in the direction of Venetia’s town house. She was just about to cross the road to Chesham Place, when a voice called out behind her.

“Thalia Craven-Towneley?”

“Yes?” Thalia paused and then smiled a wide smile for the photographer before turning. It always looked more natural, she thought, than forcing a smile on command.

It was as she turned that a motorcar pulled up beside her. And before she knew what was happening, she found not a photographer, but two large, burly men, one on either side of her, gripping her arms, their fat fingers digging into her flesh, forcing her toward the car. Thalia’s entire body froze, her voice mute, her mind stunned. She could do nothing. Each of her limbs suddenly felt as if it belonged to someone else—it was as if she could not control any of them in the slightest. Her thoughts quickly flew to another time and another place when such a thing had happened, when time had also stopped—at Lintern Park. That night. That awful night and what had happened afterward. The two men pushed and shoved her until she was hurled into the backseat, with Haggis McTavish thrown in as an afterthought behind her.