The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  Jill thought it was mildly interesting that the only hospital in York that had existed a century ago was supported by the Collinsworth family. On the other hand, it was the city's largest hospital, so she wasn't about to make too much of it.

  Alex explained their predicament—that they were hoping to locate records from 1908.

  "You are fortunate once again. We have extensive files, downstairs in the basement. I'll have someone show you down, and you can browse as you wish." Wharton did laugh nervously. "Being as the patient whose records you are looking for is long since dead, I don't have to worry about violating anyone's rights. In fact, I'll show you down myself."

  They left the office, taking the elevator to the basement, Wharton and Alex chatting about the hospital's research into children's leukemia. As they stepped out into a spotless corridor, Jill said, "Dr. Wharton, has the Sheldon family always supported this hospital so extensively?"

  "It's a family tradition and the earl would be the first to tell you so," Wharton said, leading them to a stainless-steel door that was not locked. He pushed it open, revealing a cavernous basement that was filled with row upon row of wall-sized file cabinets. "His father was the one who first took a serious interest in us, contributing generously to our cause and actually lifting the hospital out of near bankruptcy. Back then, it was strictly an oversized maternity ward." He smiled at Jill.

  Jill managed a smile back, Alex thanked him again, and Wharton left.

  "This is odd," Jill blurted. "Edward was the one who started the family tradition of supporting this hospital? Edward?"

  "Jill, my family is involved in dozens of philanthropic projects. Our work is cut out for us. Let's get started."

  Jill quickly walked over to the first row of cabinets. "These are alphabetized—but there are years listed on here, too," she said, staring at files labeled Williams-Woolverton, 1980-1995.

  An hour later they found something. Alex had extracted a very old folder from a file cabinet and he said, "Bull's-eye. Here is a patient named Katherine Gallagher, Jill. She was admitted May 9, 1908." He paged through the contents and extended a birth certificate toward her. "Peter Gallagher, bom May 10, father unknown, mother Katherine Adeline Gallagher."

  Jill seized it, shaking. "But we don't know for sure that this is our Kate Gallagher—but if it is, she had a son named Peter!" Her mind was spinning. "This could be my grandfather's birth certificate. Oh, God—if only I knew for certain that he was bom in York!"

  "Hold your horses," he said, as calm as she was not. "She was here for three days. Attending physician, date of admission, departure, it's all here," Alex said, studying the file's contents.

  "This really doesn't tell us anything," Jill almost wailed. Then she stiffened. "Alex, this is our Kate! She named her son after her deceased father!" Jill cried.

  "Relax. Maybe. Here's the bill. There's got to be a copy of the receipt."

  Jill tensed. "Who paid her bill?" she cried, gripping his strong, muscular arm.

  He smiled at her. "That's what I like about you—you're a bright cookie." His gaze returned to the file. "Well. Here it is. Can you read that scrawl?"

  Jill took the very frail, yellowed sheet of paper that listed the cost of Kate's stay as being fifty-five pounds and change. The bill was stamped Paid, and it had been signed for in the bottom right-hand comer. But the signature was not just

  scrawled, it was faint with age and almost illegible. She could barely make out the words. "This doesn't say Edward Sheldon, or even Viscount Braxton," she said, at once disappointed and relieved.

  He peered over her shoulder, standing so closely behind her that she felt the front of his shoulder and chest against her back. "I believe the first name is Jonathan. Maybe we need a magnifying glass."

  "You're right, it is Jonathan. I think the last name is Barclay," Jill said, deflating like a hot-air balloon ripped with a knife. "Damn it."

  "Relax. Do you really think Edward would waltz in here and pay for the bill, then sign the receipt using his real name?"

  Jill blinked at him, staring into his bottomless blue eyes. "Handwriting experts?" she breathed.

  "My thinking exactly. In any case, we certainly found something. If this handwriting is Edward's, if he signed the receipt using the name Jonathan Barclay, we can safely assume this is our Kate."

  Jill nodded, her spirits instantly lifting. "Thank you, Alex," she said. But something was nagging at her, and she couldn't quite figure out what it was. Had she heard the name Jonathan Barclay before? It seemed familiar.

  "No problem." He slid his arm around her and guided her to the door. "Let's make copies and get to the house."

  Jill nodded, easing away from him. Like his hand, his body was strong and warm. All lean, hard muscle. And this was not the time to be thinking about that.

  But his gaze was on her, steady and searching. Jill realized there was a question in his eyes. And she damn well knew what that question was.

  She knew she should look away, put up a wall, and quickly. But she didn't. For that moment, she couldn't.

  The bath was steaming hot, and Jill never wanted to get out of it.

  They had arrived at Stainesmore an hour ago, driving up twisting roads that were so narrow Jill knew they would have

  a head-on collision should another car be coming their way. The roads were enclosed by high stone walls creeping with vines and, infrequently, wildflowers, and beyond those ancient, crumbling walls, stark, barren moors seemed to stretch on endlessly to some distant point where they finally met the sky and the sea. The occasional flock of sheep could be seen grazing from time to time. Once, Jill saw a rider galloping along a distant ridge. Their ascent became steeper and steeper still. Alex had mentioned that the town of Robin Hood Bay was "that way," and he had pointed toward the coast, in a southerly direction, as his silver monster continued to climb, its engine now sounding as if it were making a vociferous protest, as if it could not withstand the rigors of the slow pace and the extreme climb.

  Stainesmore belonged in a gothic novel. It certainly did not belong in the twentieth century as the millennium approached. It sat on a prominent slope of treeless land, its back to the cliffs and the sea, a towering castlelike structure of red-brown stone with an arched entryway that led into a grassy courtyard. The central roof was crenellated, and two round towers flanked the long, rectangular central portion of the building. Jill had imagined something more along the lines of a sunmiery, whitewashed villa, and she had been slack-jawed as they had made their way to the front door, where a housekeeper and a dozen servants had appeared to greet them with curtsies, bows, and "Good day, sir. Good day, madam."

  Jill sighed. The claw-footed bathtub was an antique, right down to its brass faucets. The bathroom was huge and spacious but very sparsely done, boasting little more than the ancient toilet with its rope handle, the small pedestal sink, a towel rack, and an electric heater. The floors were beige marble, though, and huge windows looked out upon the short stretch of land behind the house, containing a swimming pool and the rose gardens Edward had written his gardener about. Even while she reclined in the bath, Jill enjoyed an expansive view of the darkening gray sea and the twilight-hued sky. Jill only regretted that she did not have a glass of wine in her hand.

  It occurred to her now that maybe if Hal had lived, even without the lies, she might have eventually ended the relationship first, because of the vast class and cultural differences between them.

  Jill finally stood and stepped from the tub, instantly shivering, because the air was cool and she had not thought to turn on the small heater. Wrapping herself in a huge white terry-cloth robe, she imagined Alex as a boy, summering here with his cousins. Hadn't he felt very much like an outsider, as she did? She wanted to ask him what it must have been like.

  A knock sounded on her bedroom door, jerking her out of her reverie.

  Barefoot, still in the robe, Jill hesitated. She was certain that it was Alex, and she was immediately aware of being hot a
nd damp from the shower, as well as being bare beneath the fluffy white robe. With some trepidation, she opened it and saw that Alex had donned his faded Levi's and the clinging yellow cashmere sweater as well as soft, scuffed loafers. His hair was damp. Obviously he'd just bathed, too.

  The jeans gloved his long legs and hips, and the sweater fit his broad shoulders and muscular arms like a second skin. Jill looked away, but not before she saw his gaze slide over the fat robe she was wearing. "I'm sorry. I thought you'd be ready by now."

  Jill stepped back, aware of being very alone with him on the threshold of her room in the nearly empty house. "That's okay."

  "I'll be downstairs in the library. It's cozier than the living room. How does a glass of red wine sound? We keep a wine cellar and it's really well stocked."

  "That sounds good," she said with a quick smile, meaning it even though she questioned her judgment in accepting such an invitation. She would focus on Kate. She would limit herself to one glass of wine, too. "Alex? Bring your laptop."

  "It's a mini-notebook." He looked at her with some dismay. "You want to go on-line tonight?"

  "Why not?"

  His gaze veered to her mouth.

  Jill was no longer smiling.

  "I'll see you downstairs," he said, turning on his heel and striding down the long, bare hall.

  Jill watched him go, still holding on to the door. Something was happening here, and she didn't like it. Because if she was brutally honest with herself, she would admit that she was disappointed that he hadn't tried to kiss her, touch her, and with the night falling, she was having trouble keeping her thoughts from straying to a place she was very afraid to go. She tried to tell herself that she was merely overwrought, and that it was the mystery surrounding Kate that was disturbing her, confusing her, but she'd have to be an idiot to believe her own lies.

  Alex dismissed the staff and carried a tray with two glasses of a superb vintage port, two decaffeinated coffees, and two pieces of sh2imelessly heavy apple pie himself. Jill followed him back into the library. The room was hardly "cozy," it had high ceilings and it was at least twice the size of Jill's studio. But it was smaller than the "grand" salon with its five hundred seating areas—well, okay, there had probably been fifteen—and the dozens of faded but exquisite rugs covering the floors. Along with the fact that it was lined from floor to ceiling on three walls with books, it was rather intimate.

  The fourth wall boasted a huge hearth with an outstanding and somewhat impressionistic painting hanging above that. Jill had already studied the stormy harbor scene and realized it was a Vlaminck. The furniture was old and exquisitely wrought, the fabrics elegantly, chicly faded. Jill sat down, not on the smaller of the three sofas in the room, but on the floor, her back against the worn gold damask fabric. She slipped off her Cole-Haan's and wiggled her bare toes, sighing because a half a bottle of superior wine and a few sips of port had done the trick.

  "What a meal. I'm stuffed. How crass do you think it is for me to take that pie up to my room for an in-the-middle-of-the-night, I-can't-sleep snack?" she asked.

  "I think that sounds like a great idea," Alex said, placing the tray carefully on the delicately carved coffee table in

  front of Jill. He brought over his mini-notebook, which was no larger than Jill's Filofax, setting it on the coffee table. Jill stiffened. Her sense of well-being vanished.

  He fooled with the modem, replacing the short cord with a long one, which he installed in a jack. Jill watched him, saying nothing. She still wanted to find out when Anne had gotten engaged, but did she really want to snoop through Alex's files? Did she really want to behave so shamelessly? And what if she found the Gallagher letters there?

  He booted her up. "Still game?" He smiled.

  Jill met his eyes. She couldn't smile.

  "Did I just ruin the evening?" he asked quietly.

  He could not be a traitor to her cause. Maybe it would be better if she did not look for the Gallagher files after all. Then, of course she had to look. "No. Of course not. I love it here, Alex."

  He seemed surprised by her sudden change of topic. "I guess I do too," he said after a pause. He settled down beside her, his hands flying over the keys. "It'll take a sec or two to get where we want to go."

  He was always saying "we." Jill reached for the coffee. She should not drink any more tonight. She was buzzed, and they were alone. The house was huge—but his room was right across from hers.

  There is a man . . . you must not trust him ... if you do, something terrible will happen . . .

  Jill could hear KC's voice as clearly as if she were speaking to her now. But KC could be wrong. She had admitted on many occasions that while the cards did not lie, the reader could err.

  "You're into the Trib'' he said, interrupting her thoughts. "You can scroll each page of each issue this way," he said, showing her which keys to use.

  Jill set her coffee down and he moved aside so she could sit in front of the Libretto. She squinted. Headlines from the month of October 1908, jumped out at her. The month Kate had last been seen—the month Kate must have disappeared. "I wonder when Anne and Edward were married," she said, and because she was so fascinated by Kate's life, it was easy

  to shove her dilemma about Alex aside. For now. Besides, she could hardly search through his files with him sitting beside her.

  Impulsively, she scrolled rapidly ahead, scanning pages quickly. She was aware of Alex sipping his port and watching her, even though she did not look at him. She found what she was looking for. "Alex, listen to this," she said excitedly. " The marriage of Anne Bensonhurst, the only surviving child of Lord Randolph Bensonhurst, and Edward Sheldon, Viscount Braxton, is to be held on Saturday, August eighteenth, 1909.' "

  Jill met Alex's eyes. Her pulse raced. "I wonder if they postponed it, once Kate disappeared."

  "What's the date on that?" Alex asked, digging into his slice of warm pie. .

  "February seventh—four months after Anne's birthday party—and Kate's disappearance," Jill said. Her g2ize was already back on the small screen in front of her. "God, how do you work on this thing? It's so tiny," she muttered, scrolling as rapidly as she could through pages and pages of articles.

  "With the utmost concentration," Alex said dryly.

  She knew he continued to watch her, but she didn't look up, too intent on what she was doing. Jill wasn't sure how many minutes passed before she stumbled onto the wedding announcement. "They were married on August eighteenth," she said breathlessly. The article was brief and Jill read it aloud. '5^

  " 'Lady Anne Bensonhurst, the daughter of Lord Randolph Bensonhurst, was wed to Edward Sheldon, the Viscount Braxton, eldest son to the earl of Collinsworth, at St. Paul's Cathedral, yesterday at 1:00 p.m. Three hundred and fifty guests attended both the ceremony and the reception, held at the Ritz Hotel. Lord and Lady Braxton have sojourned to Marseilles for their honeymoon.' " Jill froze, her heart speeding. "Oh, God. Listen to this.

  " 'Perhaps the only blight upon this lavish affair, which reputedly cost his lordship two hundred thousand pounds, is the fact that the bride's close friend, the American heiress

  Katherine Gallagher, remains missing. Her disappearance was reported earlier in the year in the month of January by her mother, Mrs. Peter Gallagher of New York City.' "

  Jill was silent. Then Alex touched her, lightly. "Well, they didn't postpone the wedding."

  She turned to look at him. "No, they didn't." She was wide awake now. She no longer felt the effects of the wine. "I feel sick."

  "You're taking this too personally," Alex said. Then, "Maybe she was pregnant, too."

  Jill stared at him, and said, "Is that a joke? A bad one?"

  "Not really."

  "Do you think he was toying with them both?"

  "He wasn't toying with Anne, Jill. She came from a premier family. She was an heiress. She was the perfect choice for a wife."

  Jill stared at him, flushing with anger. "But Kate was low class, even th
ough she was wealthy—is that your point?"

  "I'm not trying to argue with you. I've lived here most of my life. Class lines still exist, and anyone who tells you otherwise is full of it."

  She moved away from him and the laptop. "Kate was to Edward what I was to Hal." Then she added, "Except I don't have money, and she did."

  "This is a very old, entrenched family," Alex said softly.

  "Why don't you just spit it out?" Jill heard how bitter she sounded. "Hal would never have married me. Even if he had wanted to, Thomas and William would not have allowed it."

  "He would have had a world war on his hands."

  Jill stood. "Why do you have to always call a spade a spade?"

  Alex rose slowly to his feet. He had also kicked off his shoes, Jill saw inanely. "Do you want me to lie to you? What good will that do? Isn't it better knowing the truth—so you don't make the same mistake twice?"

  Jill shook her head. "Don't worry. I'm never making the same mistake ag2iin." She meant it. It was a vow that she had made to herself, one she intended to keep.

  "Jill." The one word was laden with sympathy.

  "I'm fine," she said. "But I think I'm going to call it a night."

  "I agree." He squatted and downloaded the file. "I'll see , you tomorrow, Jill."

  She watched his hands flying over the keys. "What are you doing?"

  "I'm filing the article for us. I've created a Gallagher folder. This file is named Anne's Wedding. Okay?" He powered off, closed the lid, and rose to his full height.

  She thought about the folder; she thought about the missing letters. There would never be a better opportunity to look through his files. She started to reach for the tray.

  "One of the maids will clean up in the morning, just leave it," he said. "But don't forget your pie." He smiled.

  Jill took the single plate without smiling and they walked upstairs in silence. She would wait an hour, she decided, for him to fall asleep, and then she would go downstairs and see what she could find in his mini-notebook. She felt terrible, as if she were contemplating the most heinous of crimes.