The Third Heiress (35 page)
Authors: Brenda Joyce
“No, I am a woman with a mission.” She stood. “You open up the trunks. I’m going to go through the smaller boxes. I’m a chauvinist,” she added.
“Obviously.” He was wry.
As Jill started toward a pile of boxes she noticed a huge object covered with a white canvas cloth, lying behind the stacked boxes, propped against the wall. “What’s that?” She spoke aloud, but more to herself than to Alex. She shimmied herself in between the stacked boxes and lifted a section of the tarp. It was a painting.
A chill swept her as she dragged the entire cloth off.
The life-sized oil painting had been laid on its side. But there was no mistaking who the subject of the portrait was. Kate was sitting in the grass in a garden that was overflowing with tulips on a very sunny day. She was breathtakingly beautiful. “Alex!”
“I see,” he said, coming up behind her.
“Help me get this out,” Jill cried excitedly, turning to move the boxes. A moment later they had cleared a space in the attic and set the painting right side up against the boxes. “This is stunning,” Jill said, her heart thundering wildly. “Oh, my God. Look at what we’ve found!”
Alex was silent.
Jill stared at Kate, and suddenly realized just how sensual the expression on her face was. She became motionless. Her dark eyes were almost black, sultry and beckoning. Her full mouth was parted, as if she had just drawn in her breath, or was about to speak. Kate was fully clothed, but her expression made the painting far from innocent. There was no question about what was on her mind.
And suddenly Jill recalled the photographs Hal had taken of herself. She stepped away from the painting, shaken. Her expression had been identical to Kate’s.
“What is it?”
The cheer of the day was gone. Jill’s stomach had curdled and she could not move or even answer Alex. She was so much like her great-grandmother, she thought, staring fixedly at the painting.
Staring fixedly at Kate.
“Jill? Where are you?”
His voice sounded distant. Jill ignored it. Kate stared out from the garden, but not at her, Jill. She was staring, Jill knew, at Edward, who was beside the portraitist, watching the work of his mistress in progress. Jill could see them so clearly. Edward in a pale waistcoat and his shirtsleeves, his head bare, his eyes going back and forth from Kate to the canvas, repeatedly. He was smiling, satisfied and pleased. The artist, a younger man, working feverishly, having eyes only for Kate. And Kate, that half smile, that dreamy, sultry look, having eyes only for her lover.
The chemistry between them was electric.
“Jill.”
Jill started. Alex was beside her, and she had not been aware of his presence until just then. She faced him. “What a work of art.”
“Yes.”
“She’s so beautiful. Of course Edward—any man—would fall madly in love with her.”
“Is beauty only skin deep?”
She finally looked at Alex, really looked at him, into his eyes. “Of course it’s not. But we already know that she was brave and reckless, and that she defied convention—she was very admirable. In a society ruled by
strict moral codes, she must have been a breath of fresh air. Men probably flocked to her like bees to honey.”
strict moral codes, she must have been a breath of fresh air. Men probably flocked to her like bees to honey.”
“I agree.”
There was something in his tone that made her stare at him. “Would you have fallen in love with her?” Jill asked impulsively. “If you had lived back then?” She hoped—desperately—that his answer was a negative one.
“I don’t know. I can’t say. Maybe. If she were really all of those things.”
“She was all of those things.” Jill was certain.
“You’re a romantic, Jill, with a capital R. Has anyone ever told you that?” His gaze was riveted on her face.
“I’m hardly romantic!” Jill wasn’t amused.
“You’ve romanticized Kate. Glorified her. Maybe she was just a wild, rebellious eighteen-year-old, as immature as most girls her age are.” His brows lifted. “Maybe she made a stupid, childish decision, not thinking anything through, getting involved with her lover in a day and age when that kind of affair could only bring heartache and self-destruction.”
“Don’t,” Jill said quietly. She faced the painting again. Alex’s words echoed in her mind—heartache and self-destruction. Jill had no doubt that it was her love affair that had destroyed Kate. “Is there any harm in my romanticizing her?” she finally asked.
For a moment, he was quiet. Then he said, “I’m beginning to think so.”
She did not want to know what that meant. She studied the painting, now noticing the details, the care given to every fold in Kate’s satin dress, the elegance of her hands, the locket around her throat. “I can’t believe that no one knew this was up here.”
Alex, behind her, did not speak. Suddenly a notion seized her. “Or someone did know this was up here—and it’s hidden up here for a reason!” Jill faced Alex, eyes wide. Her accusation seemed to linger, echoing, in the long, low space of the attic.
“I’ve seen this before,” he said quietly.
She blinked. “What?”
“When we were kids, we came up here from time to time—I told you that.” His hands were in his pockets. His gaze was sober. “The day we found this, we were all together, the four of us, me, Thomas, Lauren, and Hal.”
Jill’s heart picked up its beat. “The four of you found this,” Jill repeated slowly.
He nodded.
“Hal saw this,” she said.
He nodded again.
“And?” Why was she not surprised? She felt ill. Hal had seen this portrait as a child, and so had Alex. But he’d never said a word.
Alex shrugged. “That’s it. The end of the story. The housekeeper yelled at us for going into the attic in the first place.”
Jill stared at him, the sick feeling in her stomach heavier now, wondering at the flicker in his eyes. He wasn’t telling her something, but what? “Was that the first time Hal saw Kate?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know.”
He was lying. Jill wet her lips. “Do you remember his reaction to this painting?”
“Not really,” Alex said. “I’m starving. You ready yet?”
He had changed the subject. Jill stared at him, uneasy. He knew something he wasn’t telling her, and she was so damn sure of it. “Did Hal’s obsession start the day you found this portrait?” she heard herself ask.
“I have no idea,” he said. “Are you finished with the interrogation?”
Jill smiled hastily. “I’m not interrogating you. I’m just surprised that you never mentioned the existence of this portrait before.”
“I forgot about it,” he said flatly.
Jill nodded. But maybe she was wrong. Maybe he was telling the truth and KC’s nonsensical tarot card reading, her warnings, had subconsciously influenced Jill’s perceptions. “Let me go through a few boxes before we quit up here,” she finally said.
“You haven’t had enough?”
“No.” Abruptly Jill went to a stack of cartons and pulled the top one down. As she went through an assortment of odd knickknacks, Jill wondered who had hidden the painting. It should be at Uxbridge Hall, hanging there in one of the public rooms. She couldn’t wait to tell Lucinda about it.
Then she realized why the painting had been hidden. Kate had died—and there had been a cover-up. Of course someone in the family would hide her painting, otherwise every time a tour went through the hall, tourists would ask about Kate, keeping the mystery alive.
Jill wondered if she was getting in over her head.
Her stomach growled. Jill ignored it, opening the sixth box, grim now. She realized it contained glassware. She was about to move on, tell Alex she was ready to go, when she looked down at the goblets, each one separated from the other by cardboard. There was no reason for her to do so, but she couldn’t shake from her mind that someone had hidden the painting away in the attic, that someone did not want the truth about Kate to ever be known, and she pulled out four of the goblets, followed by
another four. A set of eight snifters was below. She also removed those. The bottom of the box was lined with scraps of newspaper.
another four. A set of eight snifters was below. She also removed those. The bottom of the box was lined with scraps of newspaper.
“What are you doing?” Alex asked curiously, coming over. “The trunks contain clothing—children’s clothing.”
“I don’t know,” Jill said, about to replace the glasses. “I’m ready for lunch, too.” But she stared into the box, which was now empty except for the shreds of paper at the bottom. Without thinking, Jill reached down and dug through the scraps of paper, but nothing was hidden there. She was being foolish, she decided, a handful of newspaper in her hand. Then she went still. Realizing that the paper wasn’t shredded at all, even though the pieces were hardly uniform in size. She appeared to be looking at differently sized articles, each one carefully and completely cut out of different newspapers. Then she noticed the date on top of one piece of a page—and it was 1909.
Jill no longer believed in coincidence.
Her pulse racing, she smoothed out a piece of paper and saw that it had been cut out of the page with scissors, so that it formed a perfect square, and it was a clipping of an entire article, four paragraphs long. The small but boldface headline read: “HUNT FOR GALLAGHER HEIRESS WINDS DOWN.” It was dated September 15, 1909.
Breathless, Jill reached for another segment of newspaper. Again, it was a clipping, this one rectangular in shape and a mere two paragraphs. The smaller yet boldface headline read, “MOTHER OF MISSING HEIRESS SWEARS FOUL PLAY.”
“Alex! The bottom of this box is filled with newspaper clippings—and they’re all about Kate’s disappearance!” Jill cried hoarsely, smoothing several pieces out at once. And as she did so, it clicked in her brain that these clippings had been hidden, too.
There were more headlines, and another one had a date—January 15, 1909. “SECRET TESTIMONY OF BEST FRIEND REVEALS NO CLUES ABOUT KATE GALLAGHER.”
Alex squatted beside her. “Well, well,” he said. “Somebody was collecting souvenirs.”
Jill flinched, meeting his eyes. “The question is, who?”
JUNE 1, 1907
Laughter trickled across the meadow, interspersed with the playful shouts of children and the yappings of dogs.
“This is so idyllic,” Kate sighed, speaking to Anne. The two girls were standing not far from a dark, gleaming pond as a bevy of ducks drifted by, followed by two gorgeous white swans. On the other side of the pond was Swinton Hall, Lord Willow’s hunting box. The hall was actually an old Scottish castle, square and bulky with ancient parapets boasting flags with Willow’s blue and gold coats of arms, the flags rippling in an exceedingly blue sky. About a dozen ladies, gentlemen, and a few children were scattered about the two friends, partaking of an afternoon picnic.
The ladies sat upon plaid blankets, two and three to each tartan, nibbling cold chickens and shepherd’s pies, fresh, crusty bread, and fruit tarts. Gentlemen strolled with one another or a lady friend, except for a group of four who were playing badminton in their waistcoats and shirtsleeves. Several children raced about, the boys in their knickers chasing the girls in their straw hats. Two small dachshunds had joined in the game of tag, and were barking frantically on the heels of the children.
“I have always had a particular fondness for Scotland,” Anne said with a smile. She and Kate both wore long, cool white silk dresses, Kate’s sprigged in yellow, Anne’s in green, the hems flounced and detailed in French lace. They were holding hands as they strolled along the perimeter of the pond. Neither girl had bothered to open her parasol. “I have always wished that Father would let us a place somewhere in the north country, but he refuses. He is, I think, the only Englishman in this world to despise hunting.”
“And that is so very odd,” Kate said with a laugh.
“Anne!”
Kate stifled a sigh at the sound of Lady Bensonhurst’s strident voice. The two girls turned around, Anne as reluctant as Kate.
Lady Bensonhurst approached them, her strides rather martial. Another lady was in tow, a beautiful woman of forty or so whom Kate disliked as much as she did Anne’s mother. Lady Cecilia Wyndham smiled at Anne, but looked through Kate as if she did not exist. Kate arranged her mouth into a cold smile in return. Kate knew that the striking baroness did not like Kate because she diluted the male attention Cecilia was so accustomed to enjoying.
“Anne, Cecilia and I are off to the village to buy some of those marvelous little wind chimes we saw the other day. Do you wish to accompany us? Won’t it be quaint to hang them at home in the gardens?” Lady Bensonhurst smiled at her daughter, practically ignoring Kate.
Anne glanced at Kate.
Kate gave her a look.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, you may join us, too, Kate,” Lady Bensonhurst said. “I would so dislike leaving you by yourself, especially as Mary was too ill to join us for the weekend.”
“I think I shall pass,” Kate said, well aware she was using a phrase that the gentlemen used in their poker games.
Lady Bensonhurst recognized the slang, and she scowled. “Do speak proper English, dear Kate.”
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