The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  Her teeth began to chatter. She had never walked in her sleep before. She did not know what to think.

  Hugging herself—for it was forty degrees or so out and she was barefoot and hardly dressed—^Jill ran back toward the house. As she did so, the day grew even lighter. A pink blush stained the mist, the sky. Glancing toward the sea, she could make out the glowing red sun rising over the horizon.

  Jill was still dazed as she crossed the terrace that let onto what Alex called "the music room." In Kate's time, he had said, the company would spend an hour or so after supper in the music room, allowing various young ladies to play the piano or the harp and sing for everyone. Jill found the French doors wide open. Was this, then, how she had come outside last night?

  And for just how long had she been outside? she wondered wildly. She had no recollection of leaving her bed, much less her room or the house.

  Jill paused in the music room. Both the grand piano and a harp remained in it, the harp removed to a comer by a pair of windows, the piano in a central location. Shivering, she crossed her arms more tightly around herself, her befuddled mind now recalling that she had dreamed not just about Kate, but about Edward and Anne, as well. She had been afraid as the dream unfolded, but nothing had really happened in the dream, it had merely been some kind of dinner party, with Kate and Edward having eyes only for one another. It had been so vivid, so real, and they had clearly been in love.

  Jill was still disoriented and confused. Why hadn't she dreamed of Edward being a cold and cunning playboy, out to use Kate? Unfortunately, he had been rather likable, but it had only been a dream.

  Suddenly Jill remembered the last, frightening part of her dream. Kate had been frantically, desperately reaching out, toward someone, with something in her hand. Had she been

  trying to give something to someone? If so, who? And what had shebeen holding?

  Then Jill recalled the stone walls. Her stomach tightened and lurched, sickeningly, and Jill was afraid she might throw up.

  She waited a moment for her lurching stomach to subside, and then she turned and closed the terrace doors. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a gold-framed mirror that hung above a pedestal table against one flocked wall. Jill froze.

  Then, trembling, slowly, she looked at her reflection again.

  And for a blinding instant, she saw Kate.

  Not as she had been at the dinner party in her evening gown, but as she had been in the tower, her face pale and dirty, her hair tangled in knots, swirling around her face.

  Jill's heart began to pound.

  Jill walked slowly to the mirror, pausing a foot or so in front of it, afraid to look at herself again.

  But she did. Her face was as white as a new sheet. But dirt streaked it. Her hair was a riot of tangles, cascading about her face. Her eyes were huge, and in this light, they appeared black. And because her skin was so pale, her mole stood out darkly on her face.

  She looked exactly like Kate. Fair, curly-haired, sensuous, terrified. Fear seized Jill. Suddenly she whirled to flee.

  Alex gripped her shoulders. "Jesus Christ! What the hell happened to you?"

  Jill stood in her bathroom wrapped up in the thick terry robe, hugging herself, staring at her pale face in the mirror. She had just gotten out of the shower and steam filled the bathroom, clouding the mirror. She was frightened. She had never walked in her sleep before. What was happening to her?

  She did not move. She did not want to leave the sanctuary of the steamy bathroom. Alex was in her bedroom. She could hear him speaking to someone—either he was on the phone or he was talking to a housemaid.

  But she couldn't remain in the bathroom forever. If only

  her mind would stop spinning, racing, if only she could shake off the crystal-clear images of that last, horrible dream.

  Jill left the bathroom. Alex had been pacing; he paused in midstride. "Come. Sit by the fire. Before you catch pneumonia."

  She glanced at him as he pulled a huge armchair forward. She went and sat down in it. The upholstered chair dwarfed her. It was easier to obey than not.

  Jill wanted to stop thinking, just for a while. But she couldn't. What if she were losing the last of her marbles?

  Alex pulled an ottoman in a paisley silk fabric over and sat down beside her. Jill watched the dancing fire. "Jill." He took her hands in his. Jill was forced to meet his gaze. "You will become deathly ill if you keep this up. This has to stop."

  She stared at him. "I don't know what happened," she finally said. "I was walking in my sleep. Can you imagine?" Her light tone was high and forced.

  "Is this a habit of yours?"

  "No." Jill felt herself losing her grip. She was ready to burst into tears. "I've never walked in my sleep before. I'm scared."

  "You don't have to be scared," he said calmly. "As soon as you're dressed and ready we'll drive back to London. I want you to go to my doctor. He's a great guy. The old Marcus Welby type. He'll check you out and give you something to calm you down, help you sleep. You need a few days of rest, Jill. No more hunting down Kate." He smiled at her, his eyes warm.

  Jill stared at him, her temples starting to pound. He was giving orders. He was telling her to quit her search for the truth. Why? "Alex, I'm so close, I can feel it. There's something on my mind, some clue I've overlooked, and I know it's going to come to me—"

  "Didn't you hear a word I said?" He was incredulous.

  She hesitated. A knock on the door interrupted them. Alex stood, opening it. A young maid entered, followed by another girl, the two of them carrying trays loaded with coffee, tea, muffins, fruits, and several covered plates. Jill

  smelled eggs and bacon and steaming hot porridge laced with cinnamon. She had no appetite.

  "Sir? I brought enough fer two. Can I make the table, then, fer you both?" No more than sixteen, she smiled at him.

  "Yes, please, Rose, that would be very nice."

  Rose and her friend were very efficient. A moment later they left, closing the door behind them. Jill stared at the heavily laden table without even seeing it.

  "What aren't you telling me?" Alex asked, pausing before her.

  She looked up. "I dreamed about her again, but this time, she was with Edward and Anne."

  "And that's it?"

  "No, that's not it!" Jill cried. She began to shiver. She was so cold. The hot, endless shower hadn't been able to chase away the chill within her bones, and Jill knew why—it was because the chill was in her heart, not her body. "It was iso vivid, so real, Alex, it was as if I were there! I could see everyone so clearly, and Edward and Kate were in love." Jill gazed at Alex, but she saw Edward's handsome, aristocratic countenance instead. Alight with love and happiness. "He didn't kill her. He was head over heels in love with her."

  Alex was silent.

  "I couldn't see Anne," Jill said, standing. "She was there, but so out of focus, her image was not clear. I could not tell what her expression, her feelings, were. Kate and Edward were happy, but Anne was an enigma."

  "Jill. It was only a dream." He slid his arm around her waist.

  "It was too real to only be a dream," Jill cried. She finally focused on him. "I'm losing it, aren't I? I'm going crazy. It's Kate. She's around, and she's haunting me. Because she wants me to deliver justice."

  "You're not going crazy." Alex was firm. He cupped her shoulders. "In the past five weeks you've been through hell, Jill. It was only a dream. You've been living and breathing Kate's life. Why wouldn't you dream about Kate and Edward? I think it's pretty natural, and I think you're very romantic, and you would dream about them being in love and

  happy— I'm sure they were, for a while. And it makes complete sense that you would not dream as vividly about Anne—because Anne doesn't interest you, and in this quest of yours, you haven't learned anything about her, yet." He smiled, but it was fleeting. "Kate is dead, Jill, she's not here, haunting you."

  Jill stared at him. She did not smile back. "I want to bel
ieve you. I do. But I don't. I can't."

  Jill just looked at him. He didn't understand. How could he? He wasn't the one who had to find out the truth about Kate. He wasn't the one with the weird dreams. He wasn't the one who was completely alone in the world.

  Alex slid his arm around her and guided her to the table. "I have a great idea. Why don't you take a long weekend on the coast somewhere? There are some very pleasant resorts scattered about this country, you know. Maybe I can even swing some more time for myself, and I'll go with you."

  Their eyes held. Jill tried, desperately, to search their depths, but she could not read him. "Let's face the fact that you want me to go home. To rest,'' she said.

  He shifted. "That's right. And what is suspicious about that? If I care about you, I don't want to see you hurting yourself."

  "Your family covered up Kate's death," Jill said. ''Your family, Alex."

  "There is no proof," he said flatly. "You're clinging to dreams, Jill, because you're hurt and alone and desperate for a family of your own."

  "And if I find proof?"

  "If you find proof," Alex said evenly, "then I'd like to see it."

  "You'd be the first," she returned, mming away. Her tote was on another chair, not far from the bed. Jill sat down, digging inside. She extracted the wedding photo of her parents, the one of Jack and Shirley surrounded by the best man and maid of honor, Shirley's parents behind them, alongside Peter. Suddenly Jill's vision blurred.

  Sweet dreams, pumpkin.

  Good night, dear.

  Jill felt terribly alone. What she wouldn't give for one moment in her mother's or her father's arms.

  "What's that?" Alex asked, wandering over.

  Jill handed him the photograph. "My parents, the best man and maid of honor, my maternal grandparents, and Peter."

  Alex's eyes widened and he stared.

  "What is it?" Jill asked sharply, but as she spoke, the dream she'd had flashed through her mind, Edward smiling at Kate, that silent salute with the flute, Edward ...

  "Nothing," Alex said, shoving the photo back at her.

  Jill stood, staring down at the photograph, her eyes on Peter. "Oh, my God," she inhaled. "Now I know why he looks so familiar. My grandfather is almost sixty here—and he looks like an exact older version of Edward in that portrait at Uxbridge Hall—doesn't he?" she cried. And it was a challenge.

  Alex met her gaze. He seemed reluctant. "Yeah," he finally said.

  December 1, 1907 Dear Diary,

  I know I have not written in several months, but so much has happened that I hardly know where to begin! I miss Kate so much I hardly know what to do with myself—yet, in some unfathomable way, I am relieved that she has gone home. She departed for New York in great haste, so much so that I hardly know what happened. But Mother, of course, is so very pleased that she is gone. I think Mother knows about Kate's affair — but I am jumping ahead of myself

  How odd it is. I remember, before Kate left, how we would go to all the parties and fetes together, how no one ever noticed me, how they all remarked on Kate — the men and the women, even though I am as great an heiress as she, and of course, I come from an ancient and noble lineage. How different it is with Kate gone. Now, when I go to a dinner party or a ball or even shopping on Bond Street, I am noticed instantly. Gentlemen cross the street in order to bow over my hand.

  Ladies extend more invitations than ever, so many I cannot possibly accept them all. Mother says Kate was a terribly negative influence in my life, preventing me from numerous opportunities. I am beginning to believe that she is right.

  I must take a great big breath and calm myself That is easier said than done! One hardly knows what to do when one suddenly becomes en vogue! And now, smiling, I do use dear Kate's fondest expression. Ah, Kate. I must write her and tell her how popular I have become — without ever telling her the truth, of course.

  I am even beginning to think that I might marry not just for position, but for love.

  I can almost hear Kate applauding me now for my bold thinking. How pleased she would be for me. Yet thinking about Kate saddens me, too. The past few months were the most wonderful of my life. Kate was — is — the best friend I shall ever have. Sometimes I miss her so that I almost weep. But then I think about my popularity now that she is gone, and the sorrow diminishes. Mother keeps reminding me that if Kate were still here, it would drive my most respectable and preeminent suitors away.

  That is why it is best that Kate has gone home. If I knew about her love affair (which she denied), then others undoubtedly suspected, as well. I am sure that Mother guessed. Kate is so headstrong. She refused to listen to my words of caution, and every time she stole out of my window to meet her lover, I envisioned the worst. Kate swore to me that their every rendezvous remained chaste. I hardly believe that. I know Kate too well. How often did Kate not tell me that one must live life in the present, instead of waiting for a future time that might never come?

  I am haunted by her love affair. I think about it constantly, Kate in the arms of some faceless stranger. (For she refused to reveal his identity to me.) I admit, I admire her daring. I could never slip out at night to meet my paramour — if I had one — much less climb

  down from a second-story window to do so! I also admit that a part of myself is filled with envy. Imagine those heated nights, spent in a lover's strong arms! I have never been kissed and I wonder, continually, what it must be like.

  I do wonder who this paragon of men is, to have so well stolen my dear friend's heart. I have concluded that he is married, and the worst of rogues. Because if he were not, he would court Kate openly. Either that, or his lineage is so ancient, so impeccable, that he could never consider Kate as a bride.

  And, writing of paragons, I must come to the most exciting part of my tale. I have met a man. Dear Diary, he is the most charming, handsome, clever gentleman, a man who outshines all his peers. When he walks into the room, I can see no one else — it is as if he stands there alone. Actually, I first met him at Lord Willow's box in Swinton last summer. His name is Edward Sheldon, and he is the earl of Collinsworth 's heir. I am falling in love, dearest Diary!

  Indeed, I do think I have heard several dowagers discussing my prospects at several recent gatherings — and Lord Braxton's name was mentioned along with mine! I have already hinted of my interest to Papa. Oh, to recall the look in his eyes! And I have actually heard Mother and Lady Cecilia scheming over the union.

  He is not courting me. But then, he has not courted anyone. The gossips say he is a rogue, with no intention of ever settling down, at least, not until the earl himself is dead. But then there are other rumors too, that his heart is taken, but by some inferior type, perhaps a French actress, who can never aspire to more than being his mistress, and that is why he is so reticent, why he seems to be bored with all the available young ladies of the ton, why he is forever so aloof and elusive.

  I know that such a man could never love a French tart. Briefly, at Swinton Hall, I thought he might be interested in Kate. I must admit, I was somewhat taken

  by him even then, but last summer, with Kate beside me, outshining me, I was a true wallflower — and hardly confident enough to even speak with him. How that has changed. Still, I do confess, I was jealous when I saw his flirtation with Kate. But whatever interest he might have had for her, or she for him, it was either in my imagination or they both found other, newer pursuits. I have seen them in the same room many times since that week at Swinton Hall. They never even look at one another — if they did have a flirtation, it ended when our week in the country did.

  I am glad. I love Kate, truly, and I want her to marry well (she should find an American husband, from among the nouveau riche), but I am going to marry Lord Braxton. I love him even now, as I write to you, dear Diary, and I shall be his wife, I shall bear his children, I shall manage his homes and estates. And one day, I shall be the countess of Collinsworth. This I have promised myself I have no doubts.

 
; Tomorrow Mother is allowing me to attend a small Christmas party. Edward shall also be there. I cannot wait.

  Eighteen

  J

  ILL LET HERSELF INTO THE FLAT, HOLDING THE DOOR AJAR

  with her hip, her hands full with her small duffel bag and tote. She turned to watch Alex drive away in his sleek silver monster. She wanted to wave, but she couldn't. She smiled instead but was certain he had not seen her.

  She entered the house. The flat felt like home. It was cozy and inviting and she was so glad to be back. Yorkshire had not been what she had expected. Jill shivered, thinking of all she had learned.

  And sitting there on the stairs facing her was Lady Eleanor, licking one of her velvety paws.

  Jill stepped inside, putting her bags down, letting the front door slam shut. "Hi, Lady E.," she said quietly. . The cat stopped bathing itself and meowed at her.

  Jill walked over to the stairs and sat down beside the Siamese. She was aware of being very alone—and she had not felt that way during the weekend. But then,, she had not been alone in Yorkshire. She'd had Alex as a companion— and as a lover for that one single night.

  Jill shook herself free of such unwelcome thoughts. Lady E. had not leaped away. Jill touched her soft fur. The cat began to purr and Jill continued to caress her back.

  She was aware of being exhausted, and she thought longingly of crawling into bed, even though it was only one in the afternoon. But she was afraid to sleep because she was afraid to dream—and what if she walked in her sleep again, as she

  had done last night? Somehow, the idea was more than frightening, it was terrifying.

  "What's happening to me. Lady E.T'-Jill whispered. She couldn't stop thinking about Kate, but now she was also haunted by someone who was very much alive. If only she hadn't slept with Alex, if only she could trust him completely.

  Jill dialed up her neighbor, determined to concentrate on solving the mystery of Kate and not get sidetracked by personal feelings she hadn't ever wanted in the first place. "How was Yorkshire?" Lucinda asked after they had exchanged greetings.