The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  He tipped his hat, his teeth flashing white against unusually swarthy skin.

  Kate could not hide her pleasure and she smiled once at him. She knew that he continued to watch her as they strolled farther down the promenade, coming abreast of the Palace Pier. She wondered who he was.

  "Are you flirting?" Mary cried, aghast, glancing back over her shoulder now.

  "Of course I am. There is no harm done. Mother,*' Kate said with some exasperation.

  Mary was distraught. She was a plump woman with extremely fair skin, blue eyes, and golden ringlets. "I wish you would behave," she said, dabbing at her cheeks again. "How can we find you a husband if you act so commonly?"

  "And I wish Father were alive," Kate muttered, but Mary did not hear her. Peter Gallagher had always lauded her effrontery—but he had been an ebullient man himself, not giving a damn what the Old World snots thought of him. He had little use for knickerbockers and said so, time and again. But then, he had made his fortune in rubber and the new automobile industry, so much so that he could afford not to care what anyone thought of him. He had died last year, leaving most of his fortune to her, Kate, in the form of company shares and real estate, and an ample pension had also been left to her mother. Mary would live well for the rest of her life. Kate was an heiress.

  In New York her father had turned away a dozen suitors—Kate had only been fifteen. He had claimed each and >every one of them was not good enough for her—but then he had asked Kate her opinion, and Kate had agreed. Kate knew

  that had Peter still lived, he would never have forced her to marry against her will.

  But he had wanted her to come out in Britain. "It's the Irish in me," he had told her once. "As a boy they spit on me and dropped their horse manure on my feet, watching while I cleaned their streets for them. Now my little girl will marry one o' them, just you see."

  It was painful thinking about him. "Let's go down to the sea," Kate said suddenly. "We can take off our shoes and walk in the water."

  "We are not in our bathing costumes, and it is too late in the day to bathe in the sea anyway," Mary replied. "Besides, the beach is all stones. Look. Everyone is leaving the beach even as we speak."

  "Oh, posh," Kate said, annoyed now. "I know what you are going to tell me. That we have to go back to the Metro-pole and dress for supper."

  "Well, we do, dear."

  "Supper was horrid last night. All those fat old ladies, staring at us as if we were creatures from the very moon."

  "Kate, stop."

  But Kate was smiling now. "Rather, they were staring at us as if we were creatures from the days of cave dwellers. Don't you care. Mother? They hate us. We are not good enough for them—savages that we are." Kate shuddered theatrically.

  "If you would be less forthright, they would not stare at us that way! Everyone saw the way you went up to that gentleman and started a conversation with him yesterday," Mary cried.

  "He had lost his croquet partner. Why shouldn't I have volunteered to take the other gent's place?"

  "It was far too suggestive. Ladies do not offer themselves to gentlemen."

  "I hardly offered myself to him," Kate said with a laugh. "I only wanted to play the game. Mother, even if I were prim and proper, they would stare. I am not a Brit, Mother. Our money is new. And everyone knows it."

  "Do not use that word! It is so ... so .. . crude."

  "Which word? Brit ... or new? I am going to the beach. Come if you want," Kate called, beginning to run down a ramp, her skirts lifted well above her stocking-clad calves.

  "Kate. Come back! You'll get covered with sand and supper is at eight!"

  Kate dashed across the beach, laughing. She ignored her mother purposefully—otherwise she feared she would turn into an exact replica of her. There was a breeze on the beach that was brisk and salty and wonderful, and she felt it tugging at her hat. She did not stop, ignoring the stares of the last few bathers of the day as they packed up their things. Ladies and gentlemen gawked at Kate as she ran by.

  Everyone was so boring.

  Who could live that way? Fettered and shackled by rules? Afraid of what others might think?

  Her white straw hat finally flew off of her head. Kate paused to shut her white parasol, pick up the boater, and tucit it under her arm. Her hair, which was well past her shoulders, long and red and curly, was coming out of its chignon. Kate did not care. She shook her head to encourage it to fall free, and as it did, she skipped down to the water, the tiny stones of the beach finally getting caught in her shoes. As waves rushed toward her, she waited until the very last moment before running backward, out of their way. Her white kid shoes remained miraculously dry.

  Kate laughed, feeling happy and free. If she was very clever, she would manage to enjoy herself this summer, and she would also manage to avoid becoming engaged to some boring Brit. Kate pranced toward the surf again. She waited until the very last possible moment before darting out of the way of another incoming wave. As she did so, instinct made her glance back toward the promenade, but not toward her mother, who waited for her on a wooden observation deck. The dashing, dark-as-midnight gentleman stood at the edge of the promenade, a tall silhouette leaning on the fancy wrought-iron railing, staring in her direction.

  For one instant, Kate's heart skipped and she faltered. Breathless, she quickly gave him her back, and too late, was

  covered with foaming surf as a wave crashed over her shoes and the hem of her skirt. Her cheeks felt terribly hot.

  He was watching her. There was no mistake about it.

  And the water was cold. As the surf rushed back to the sea, retreating swiftly, Kate smiled, kicking off her shoes. There was a relief in that, and not just because of the pebbles. She hugged herself, whirling in a timeless dance of joy. Maybe Brighton—and Great Britain—would not be so boring after all. She dared to glance toward the promenade again. The stranger hadn't moved.

  She played tag with the waves for some time, until she was out of breath, her cheeks flushed, perspiration gathering beneath her stays and between her breasts—conscious of him there, watching her. Her stockings were not just soaking wet but torn and shredded. The hem of her skirt was also sodden and covered with wet sand. The sun was finally beginning to lower itself—the afternoon had grown darker. Kate finally glanced toward her mother standing on the deck at the railing. Mary waved urgently at her. Kate knew what she wanted, but did not move. The stranger was walking slowly away, down the promenade, about to cross King's Road. Had he watched her this entire time? Kate smiled to herself.

  She knew her mother was probably shouting at her, and with a sigh, she picked up her things and started slowly toward the promenade. The last group of ladies and gentlemen were just departing, but one young lady in a huge white hat and a pretty white lawn gown was falling behind her friends, clutching her parasol and glancing at Kate. The rest of the promenade, as well as the beach, was now deserted, although a few couples and some young boys lurked about the pier. It was later than Kate had thought.

  They would be late for supper, undoubtedly, and everyone would whisper about their tardiness behind their backs. Kate sighed.

  She made her way through the coarse sand to the walkway. The other young woman had paused, left behind now by her own party, and Kate saw that she was about her own

  age, which was sixteen. Her hair was dark, her eyes blue, her skin as fair as Kate's. The girls' gazes met.

  Kate smiled.

  The other girl said, cautiously, "Don't you have a bathing costume?"

  "Of course I do," Kate replied with no hesitation and a friendly tone. "But why bother to put it on at this hour?"

  "Your gown is probably ruined," the other girl said.

  Kate looked down at herself and smiled ruefully. "I never liked this dress anyway."

  The girl laughed. "You're an American."

  "And you're a Br—and you're English," Kate returned swiftly.

  The dark-haired girl smiled. "That's hardly unusual.
We are in Brighton." She spoke with that perfectly cultivated, upper-class British accent.

  "I'm here with my mother. We're on a vacation," Kate explained.

  The dark-haired girl hesitated and fell into step beside her. "How lovely. Have you been to Brighton before?"

  "Never. Actually"—Kate smiled at her—"my mother wants me to find a husband and that's the real reason we're here."

  The girl seemed surprised, and it was a moment before she spoke. "Well... we all need to wed, sooner or later."

  "And why is that?" Kate laughed. "Because our parents tell us that we must?"

  The girl stopped, staring at her as if she were a headless chicken. "Of course we must marry and have children."

  "That's very antiquated thinking," Kate said pointedly, without rancor. "You're not one of those Br—Englishwomen with a title, are you? Then there is extreme pressure, is there not?"

  "Actually, I am Lady Anne Bensonhurst, and I suppose there is some pressure." Her tone was very cautious now.

  "Well, I am Miss Kate Gallagher," Kate said, extending her hand, fully aware that she did so in a bold and mannish way. "And you should read Miss Susan B. Anthony."

  Anne hesitated and took her hand. She smiled a httle. "It is a pleasure," she said. "Who is Miss Susan B. Anthony?"

  "An extraordinary woman—a woman I hope to emulate in the course of my life."

  Anne Bensonhyrst blinked at her.

  Kate was a very impatient girl, but her patience seemed vast now, and she added, "She was a suffragette and an enlightened thinker, my dear. She believed women to be equal to men—in all ways."

  Anne's eyes widened. They walked along for a moment, and Kate asked, "How long are you here in Brighton?" They were not very far from Mary, and soon this pleasant interlude would end. Kate dreaded the rest of the evening.

  "Just a few more days. I have so much to do in town. I make my debut this season, you see." Anne smiled, clearly happy with the prospect.

  "How lovely," Kate said, feeling sorry for her. She would be betrothed in no time at all, having no say in the matter, Kate felt certain.

  Anne faltered.

  "When I marry," Kate said firmly, "it will be for true love, even if I have to wait ten years to do so."

  Anne shook her head. "You must be very brave," she said. "Because no one marries for love, or at least hardly ever."

  Kate laughed. "I refuse to do as others do. Don't you know that life is far too short to be fettered by stupid, useless convention? Do you have a motorcar?"

  Anne blinked. "No. But my neighbor does. I don't really know him, though. I mean, I know of him—he is the Collinsworth heir and he has let the cottage next to ours. His roadster is beautiful, actually."

  "You should ask him to take you for a drive. Better still, ask him to teach you to drive." Kate grinned, imagining the ruck-US that would cause in this very proper Englishwoman's family.

  Anne's mouth dropped. "I could never ask a gentleman— much less a premier catch—to drive me ... Do you know how to drive?"

  "I do," Kate said, and it was a proud boast. "My father taught me when I was fourteen. Fm a very good driver, and my only complaint is my mother refuses to let me drive—she says it is not fitting for women, much less one my age, and she will not budge. Soon, though, I intend to buy my own automobile. I will probably buy a Packard."

  Anne was silent and wide-eyed. They had almost reached the deck. "I have never even heard of a woman driving a roadster. Miss Gallagher."

  "Call me Kate. I don't mind."

  Both girls paused a few steps away from Mary. "Is that your chaperone?"

  Kate sighed. "That," she said flatly, "most certainly is. Actually," she amended, "that's my mother. I think she is about to have a fit."

  "Well, you have sand all over your face and in your hair." Anne did smile. Then her smile faded. A woman was hurrying toward them. "That is my older sister, Lady Feldston. I do believe she has just realized that she has lost me."

  Kate laughed. "I'm sure you could find your way back to your cottage with little trouble."

  Anne pinkened. "Of course. Kate, would you and your mother care to join us tonight for supper? It will be quite a crowd. I believe we're having twenty for dinner. It would be so lovely."

  Kate did not have to think about it. "I would love to come," she said. "For I have dreaded supper at the hotel— you would not believe how rude the other guests are."

  "Rude?" Anne appeared distraught. "Why, whatever happened?"

  "Ever since we arrived, they have been calling me a title-hunter behind my back—but quite loudly, I must say—I could hardly help hearing."

  Anne was shocked. "That is horrid! Simply horrid—and not to be tolerated, I assure you."

  Kate looked at her. "But the problem is, it is true. My mother is determined that I wed a title."

  Anne was so taken aback that she could not speak. After a

  long pause, she said, low, "My dearest Kate. You must never admit such a thing again. You must be discreet."

  Kate laughed at her. "You sound like my mother, Anne. I will see you at supper tonight."

  After Anne had left, Kate joined her mother and told her about their supper invitation. Mary's eyes were wide with excitement. "Kate! The Bensonhursts are quite an old, established family! If they should befriend us, why, you shall have your debut after all!"

  Kate looked at her mother, feeling sorry for her, caught up as she was with her limited views. She patted her hand. "Why don't we dwell upon the prospect, not of my season, but of a very pleasant evening?"

  But Mary was murmuring, "I wonder if she has a brother or a cousin—an eligible one, that is."

  Kate ignored her—a habit she had fallen increasingly into. She decided Brighton would not be so bad after all. Maybe, just maybe, she had found a new friend to while away the summer with.

  Then she recalled the handsome stranger. Kate shivered. She could not get him out of her mind. In fact, she had the oddest feeling—the deepest, most certain expectation—yet it was mingled with a fearful excitement, too. Kate hardly knew what to make of her strange emotions. She had never felt this way before.

  But she did know one thing. She knew she would see him again—and she sensed it would be soon.

  Eight

  J

  ILL STEPPED OUT OF THE TAXICAB AND STOOD STARING AT

  Lexham Villas, where Allen Henry Barrows lived. The entire block was a series of attached Victorian row houses, all of them white stucco, with wrought-iron fences curtaining off the separate properties from the street. The Barrows residence. Number 12 Lexham Villas, was on the comer. A small stone path lined with purple pansies led to the front of the whitewashed house. Two tiny patches of green lawn were in front of the house as were two old, shady trees. It was positively charming.

  "Can I give you a hand with your bags, madam?" the driver asked, having hefted Jill's three bags from the trunk.

  Jill started. "Oh, thank you," she said, at once delighted and breathless. This was so very British, she thought, and instead of following her cabdriver to her front door, which was painted a slate blue, she walked around the north side of the house.

  To her increasing delight, she found a blooming garden there, filled with tulips and daffodils, azaleas and hydrangea, that all of the villas shared. There was even an old, whitewashed swing out back. Pink and white petunias filled the flower boxes on the windowsills on the back of Barrows's home.

  Jill hurried back around to the front of the house, paid the cabbie, tipping him American style and receiving a huge thank you from him in return. She stepped inside.

  The entry was dark, and directly in front of her a narrow staircase with a shiny wooden banister led upstairs. She glanced around. The walls were covered in textured, cream-colored wallpaper. The wooden floors were old and scarred from years of use but were both waxed and polished. She could see directly into the parlor from where she stood. Several faded throw rugs were scattered about, and a brick fireplace
was facing her. The sofa was thick, oversized, and plush, as were both armchairs. The coffee table was clearly an antique, as was the mirror hanging on one wall. She smiled to herself.

  The house belonged to another time, another place, and although Jill herself was thoroughly modem, she loved it. It was warm and cozy and so very personal. She ran into the parlor. The fireplace was real—she would make a fire tonight. She went to the windows, which were covered in heavy white muslin draperies, and pushed them aside. The sky outside was clearing. The sun was trying to shine. She then opened every window, letting in what seemed to her to be impossibly fresh, clean, very sweet air. She could smell the flowers blooming in the garden, as well as the recent rain. The grass was wet.

  And a bird was singing in a tree just outside of the window. Jill craned her head to try to locate the vocal culprit, and espied a red robin. As if sensing it had an audience, it sang more loudly. Jill smiled again.

  Her heart felt lighter than it had since Hal's death. It had taken Jill four weeks to arrange the sublet and back out of her life in New York. In those four weeks, Jill had gone to the public library several times, looking for information about her own grandfather or Kate. She hadn't turned up anything except an obituary about a rubber tycoon, Peter Gallagher, who had died in 1905, leaving behind a wife, Mary, and a daughter, Katherine Adeline. Jill wondered if he had been Kate's father. She had no clue. But their home had been a very fashionable address for the time—Number 12 Washington Square.

  She had also wondered about the coincidence of the names—the tycoon Peter Gallagher, who died in 1905, and her own grandfather, bom in 1908.

  Now Jill walked into a small kitchen that was very old-fashioned, with striped wallpaper and ancient, fat appliances, also noticing a vase filled with daisies on the kitchen table. Jill saw a note beside it.

  "Welcome, Miss Gallagher, and do enjoy your stay in my home." Instructions on feeding the two cats. Lady Eleanor and Sir John, followed. It was signed, "Best Wishes, Allen Henry Barrows." Jill smiled and put down the note.