The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  When she had regained her breath, she glanced around at the milling crowd. Now where did she go? Now what did she do? How did she find Lauren, whom she had only glimpsed in a photograph?

  Jill was frozen, against her own admonitions helplessly thinking of the time Hal had so fondly and proudly showed her photos of his family. Hal had spoken often, not just of his sister, but also of his older brother, Thomas, his parents, and his American cousin. His family was, by his accounts, extremely close-knit. His love for them had been so obvious. He had glowed when he had told her tales of growing up as a child, most of them describing the sunmiers in Stainesmore at the old family estate in the north, where as children they fished and hunted and explored the nearby haunted manor. But there had been Christmas holidays at St. Moritz, Easter in St. Tropez, and those years at Eton, playing hooky and running wild in Lx)ndon's West End, chasing "birds" as he called the girls, and sneaking into clubs. Then there had been his football years at Cambridge. And always, since he was a small boy, there had been his first love, his true love, his photography.

  Jill knew she was crying again. He had held her close on so many nights, telling her how his family would adore her— and that they would welcome her with open arms, as if she were one of them. He had been eager to bring her home, he could not wait for her to meet them. Until that unbelievable

  and final conversation of theirs in the car, when he had told her he wasn't sure he really wanted to get married after all, that he wanted to go home for a while, alone.

  Jill knew she must not cry again, but the tears would not stop. Shaking and weak and afraid of blacking out another time, Jill picked up her bags and started walking slowly with the crowd. She must forget about their last conversation. It was the icing on the cake, incapacitating her with bewilderment and confusion. In time, they would have worked things out. Hal would not have walked out on her. Jill knew she had to believe that.

  Jill followed the crowd through a barricade where Customs officials watched them go by, relieved at least that for the moment her tears had ceased. She was about to meet Lauren and the rest of Hal's family, and never in a million years would she have dreamed that it would be this way, with her bringing Hal's body home for the funeral. She wanted, desperately, to be in control of her physical functions. She did not want to black out in front of them.

  She paused as she reached a circular area where a crowd was waiting for the arriving passengers, some of them drivers holding up signs with names written boldly upon them. And Jill's gaze inmiediately settled on a tawny-haired woman about her own age. Jill recognized the other woman instantly. Even if Jill had not seen photographs of Lauren, she would have recognized her because she looked so much like Hal. Her shoulder-length hair was the same dark blond, spiked with lighter strands of gold, and her features were also classic. Like Hal, she was tall and slim. Lauren had that very same look of casual elegance and worry-free wealth that had nothing to do with the designer pants suit she wore but everything to do with her actual heritage—it was an aura only those bom to old money can have.

  Jill faltered, unable to continue forward. Suddenly she was deathly afr^d to meet the other woman.

  Lauren had spotted her, too. She was also motionless, and she was staring. Like Jill, she wore dark glasses. But hers were tortoiseshell and oversized, matching her beige Armani suit and Hermes scarf perfectly. She did not smile at Jill. Her

  face was stiff and set in an expression of... what? Self-control? Suffering? Distaste? Jill could not tell.

  But she was taken aback and dismayed. Gripping both her canvas duffel bag and her carry-on, as well as her leopard-print vinyl tote, aware now of wearing faded Levi's and a white T-shirt, Jill walked slowly toward Hal's sister. "Lauren Sheldon?" She could not meet her gaze even through the dark glasses that they both wore.

  Lauren nodded, a single jerk of her head, turning her face aside.

  Jill swallowed the lump that was choking her. "I'm Jill Gallagher."

  Lauren had folded her arms across her chest. Her shoulder bag seemed to be dark brown alligator. A gold and diamond Piaget watch glinted from beneath the cuff of her suit jacket. "I have a driver outside. We've already picked up the coffin. Because of the Easter holiday, we couldn't find you a decent room and you'll be staying at the house." She turned and began walking rapidly out of the airport.

  For one moment Jill stared after her, trembling, in disbelief. The woman had not said hello, or asked her how her flight was. Hal had said that Lauren was kind and compassionate and more than friendly. This woman was cold and aloof, and not even civil.

  But what did she expect? She had been at the wheel, and now Hal was dead. Lauren must hate her—the entire Sheldon family must hate her. She hated herself.

  Far more ill than before, filled now with an accompanying dread, Jill followed Lauren out of the terminal, her mind going blank again.

  Jill shifted so that she could see the highway behind her. She was in the backseat of a chauffeured Rolls-Royce, as was Lauren. Both women had taken to the farthest and opposite comers of the spacious sedan. The hearse was behind them. Jill watched it make a left mm. She continued to watch the long black sedan as it disappeared from sight. It was taking Hal's body to the funeral home, while she and Lauren were going to the Sheldons' house in London.

  Jill did not want to be separated from the hearse. She almost felt like banging on the door, demanding to be let out. Her heart was thundering in her chest, and her sense of loss was, amazingly, worse. It was insane. Jill continued to stare after the disappearing hearse. She bit down hard on her lip, determined not to make a sound. She was shaking uncontrollably and afraid she might once again escape her grief by blacking out.

  Jill forced herself to settle back in her seat and breathe deeply, her eyes closed, continuing to shake as she fought for equilibrium. She was not even going to make it through the next twenty-four hours if she did not somehow come to grips with herself and Hal's death. When she had regained a small amount of her composure, she glanced at Lauren. In the thirty minutes since they had left the airport, Hal's sister had not said a single word. She sat with her back toward Jill, her shoulders rigid, staring out of her driver's side window. She had not removed her sunglasses, but then, neither had Jill. They were like two hostile zombies, Jill thought grimly.

  So much for kindness. They could comfort one another. After all, they had both loved Hal. But Jill did not feel up to making the first overture, not yet, and she was too aware of her role in his death. Tears burned her eyes. The funeral was tomorrow. She was booked to return home the following night. She hated the thought of leaving him behind, an entire ocean between them, yet on the other hand, if the Sheldons were all as compassionate as Lauren, it was for the best.

  She opened her carry-on, a huge fake Louis Vuitton bag that she had bought for fifteen dollars from a street vendor, and searched for and found a Kleenex. She dabbed at her eyes. Lauren hated her. Jill was certain of it. She could actually feel the other woman's simmering resentment.

  Jill did not blame her.

  When Jill tucked the tissue back in her bag she looked up and found Lauren watching her, facing her directly for the first time.

  Jill did not think. Impulsively she said, low, "I'm sorry."

  Lauren said, "We're all sorry."

  Jill bit her lip. "It was an accident."

  Lauren continued to face her. Jill could not see her eyes through the opaque sunglasses she wore. "Why did you come?"

  Jill was startled. "I had to bring him home. He spoke of you—all of you—so often." She could not continue.

  Lauren looked away. Another silence fell.

  "I loved him, too," Jill heard herself say.

  Lauren turned to her. "He should be alive. A few days ago he was alive. I can't believe he's gone." Her words were angry and had she pointed her finger at Jill, the blame she felt could not have been more obvious.

  "Neither can I," Jill whispered miserably. It was true. In the middle of the night she
would wake up, expecting to find the solid warmth of Hal's body beside her. The coldness of her bed was a shock—as was the sudden recollection of his death. There was nothing worse, Jill had realized, than the oblivion of sleep followed by the absolute cognition of consciousness. "If only," Jill whispered, more to herself than to Lauren, "we hadn't gone away that weekend."

  But they had. And she could not change the past few days, she could only have regrets. She would have regrets for the rest of her life—regrets and guilt.

  Had he really been thinking of breaking up with her?

  "Hal should have come home months ago," Lauren said tersely, interrupting Jill's thoughts. "He was scheduled to come home in February—^for my birthday."

  "He liked New York," Jill managed, avoiding her eyes.

  Lauren removed her glasses, revealing red-rimmed eyes that were the exact same amber shade as Hal's. "He was homesick. The last few times we spoke, he told me so."

  Jill was motionless. What else had he told his younger sister, whom he was so close to?

  Jill thought she would die if Lauren knew about Hal's sudden change of heart about their future.

  Then, angrily, she reminded herself that it had not been a change of heart. Nothing had been set in stone. Everything would have worked out, sooner rather than later.

  Lauren remained immoving also. Finally she said, "He mentioned you."

  Jill jerked, eyes wide, staring now at Lauren as if she were ^ a Martian. He had mentioned her? "What do you mean, he mentioned me?"

  "Just that," Lauren said, putting her glasses back on. She glanced out of her window as the silver-gray Rolls sped along. "He mentioned that he was dating you."

  Jill stared, stunned. They had not been dating. They had been discussing marriage—they had been on the verge of becoming engaged. She was speechless.

  "How long were the two of you seeing one another?" Lauren asked bluntly.

  Jill looked at her, the other woman becoming hazy and blurred. "Eight months. We met eight months ago." She was gripping the sensuous leather seat with desperation.

  "That isn't a very long time," Lauren said after a pause.

  "It was long enough to fall head over heels in love and to be thinking about..." Jill stopped herself short.

  Lauren removed her eyeglasses again. "To be thinking about what?" she demanded.

  Jill wet her lips. She hesitated. Everything raced through her mind—his ambivalence, her guilt, a woman named Kate. *The future," she whispered.

  Lauren just stared—as if she had two heads. "He should have come home a long time ago," Lauren said finally. "He did not belong in New York."

  Jill did not know how to respond. Hal had not told his sister about the extent of his relationship with her. Why? It hurt. God, it hurt, the way thinking about their last conversation hurt—the way he had hurt her by even having doubts about their future as man and wife. She lay back against the seat, severely exhausted. It hurt almost as much as his death hurt.

  She needed to find a sanctuary amd bury her head under a {rillow and sleep. But then she would wake up and remember everything and it would be so awful...

  The Rolls-Royce stopped

  Instantly Jill's tension increased. The Sheldon family

  home was now the last place she wished to be, because if Lauren's reception was any indication of the way Hal's family would greet her, then she was not ready to meet them, not now, not ever.

  They were on a busy, two-way street in the midst of London, Jill realized. The driver was waiting to make a right-hand turn across the lane of oncoming traffic. Tall iron gates were open, but the road they wished to turn onto was barred by a mechanical barricade and a uniformed security guard. Jill wet her hps. Past the barricade, she glimpsed a shady, tree-lined street of huge stone mansions.

  The Rolls crossed the road, the barrier was lifted without their even slowing, the officer on duty inside of a small security booth waving them on. Jill craned her neck as the Rolls rolled up the asphalt street, viewing palatial home after palatial home. A park seemed to be behind the homes on her right.

  Jill wanted to ask where they were. She did not.

  The Rolls mmed into a circular driveway on one of the street's largest mansions and halted in the graveled drive before the house. Jill thought she could feel her blood pressure rocketing.

  "We're here." Lauren stepped out of the car without waiting for the chauffeur to assist her. Jill could not move as quickly. The gentleman opened the door for her and Jill stumbled out. It had started to drizzle.

  Jill did not move. The fine mist settling on her hair and shoulders, she stared at the house where Hal had been raised as Lauren hurried up the wide and imposing front steps. Two sitting lions, carved in stone, guarded those front steps. For one moment, Jill was completely taken aback.

  Hal had talked about his family's London home with pride. Hal had mentioned, oh-so-casually, that the house, built around the turn of the century, had about twenty-five rooms and one of London's most spectacular rose gardens. It was not the family's original London home, which had been built in Georgian times and was part of the National Trust. Jill had vaguely gathered that Uxbridge Hall, which was some-

  where just outside of central London, was open to the public, although the family kept private apartments there as well.

  Jill stared up at the city dwelling. She had expected opulence, yet she was taken aback now that she was actually confronted with the reality and the extent of it. The house was built of a medium-hued sand-colored stone and was three stories high—but the first two floors clearly had double ceilings. Thick columns supported a temple pediment over the oversized front door, and the numerous arched windows also boasted smaller pediments and intricate stone engravings. There were iron balconies on the second floor and the high, sloping roofs sported a jumble of chimneys. The stonework itself was amazing. Painstaking detail had gone into every cornice and molding. The house was surrounded by manicured lawns and blooming rose gardens; a wrought-iron fence circled the perimeter of the entire property, undoubtedly to keep the public out.

  "God," Jill heard herself say. In spite of all the conversations she'd had with Hal, she could hardly beUeve that he had been raised in this house. And this was just their city home, not even their ancestral home, which Jill suspected was even larger and grander. She was suddenly aware of how small and shabby her own studio in the Village was. She suddenly wished she were not wearing her oldest, favorite, and most faded Levi's.

  If Lauren heard her, she gave no sign, for she was already pushing open the heavy front door.

  "I shall bring your bags, madam," the driver said behind her.

  Jill hoped she smiled at him, thought she failed, and slowly followed in Lauren's wake. She found herself in a large entry hall with high ceilings and polished beige-and-white marble floors. Works of art hung on the walls, and the bench, marble-topped table, and mirror were all exquisitely gilded. Jill was grim. She was acutely aware of not belonging there.

  Jill glanced down at her worn Levi's, and the black blazer she had put on in the air-conditioned car. The jacket was

  actually a man's sports jacket, but she had loved it upon sight and had bought it in a thrift store for herself. She was wearing Cole-Haan loaifers, but they were very old, as soft as butter, and severely scuffed. Of course, she could only wear soft, broken-in shoes when she was not dancing because of the pain and damage her profession caused her feet.

  She hesitated, afraid now to follow Lauren, feeling horribly out of place, wishing she had worn a suit like Lauren's. She didn't even remember dressing for the trip abroad. She had not a clue about what was in her duffel bag. If she was lucky, KC, her best friend and neighbor, had helped her pack, but Jill didn't remember even speaking to KC in the past few days. Suddenly she was worried about her cat, Ezekial. She would have to call KC immediately and make sure she was taking care of the tom.

  Jill's gaze settled on a painting that took up an entire wall. It had to be a masterpiece, a
nd it was depicting some kind of mythological scene that she was not familiar with. She swallowed, telling herself to take deep, steady breaths. She would meet his family, be polite. Surely they would be civil in return—unlike Lauren. In a few moments she would be shown to her room. It could not be too soon.

  If only she were staying in a hotel.

  Her anxiety had gotten to the point where she was ready to make a mad dash back out the front door. Jill glanced over her shoulder. The front door was solidly closed.

  Her panic began mounting slowly, steadily.

  Jill told herself that everything would be all right. To keep breathing deeply.

  Hal's image, as he lay dying in her arms, his face starkly white, his mouth spouting blood, filled her mind.

  Footsteps sounded. Jill tried to still her trembling hands and smile as Lauren reappeared. She had removed her jacket, revealing a beige silk T-shirt that probably cost more than all of the clothing upon Jill's body. "Come," she said.

  Jill followed, filled with trepidation. Lauren led her into a large living room, far more lavish than the foyer. But Jill hardly glimpsed the faded but stunning Oriental rugs and the antique furnishings ot the Matisse hanging on one wall.

  Three men were standing in the center of the room, one elderly and white-haired, the two other men younger, in their thirties, one golden and tanned, the other dark-haired and olive-skinned. Each man was holding a drink.

  Lauren stopped, as did Jill. The three men turned. As one, they all stared at Jill.

  Three pairs of penetrating eyes. Three pairs of accusing gazes.

  This was Hal's family.

  Jill knew she was facing William, Hal's elderly father, and his older brother, Thomas, and his cousin, Alex. She did not know who each of the younger men was, although she suspected Thomas was the blond. But at that moment, she could take it no more. For their stares did not relent. Their hostility was unmistakable. But then, she had been the one driving ...