The Rich Shall Inherit (13 page)

Poppy would drift along the sideboards, tasting the turkey and the ham, running a casual finger through the cream on top of an elaborate dessert that had taken the French chef and his assistants all day to concoct. She’d stick a finger into the chocolate mousse or lick the icing sugar from the top of a cake. No one cared. And when she’d placed her sticky fingers on Jeb’s immaculate gray trousers, he’d merely brush her away irritably and tell her to go find the latest nursemaid.

Jeb would place a wager on almost anything—a thousand dollars on which carriage would turn the corner of the street first, a diamond ring from Cartier on which soprano could hold the high C longest, his ruby cuff links on which chorus girl in the new revue had the longest legs. He’d travel to New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, and Boston in search of a great poker game. But it was at the gambling parties in his own house that the stakes were highest.

The rumors started slowly at first but they soon gathered momentum. Some men had stopped going to Jeb’s poker games, complaining that the stakes were becoming too crazily high. They said he was losing money, that he’d gone through his Monte Carlo fortune three times over and was spending a great deal more than he was winning. They said his share of the Rancho Santa Vittoria only made him land rich, not cash rich, and cash was what he needed to gamble. After a six-month run of bad luck the rumors had it that Jeb Mallory was broke.

“Nonsense,” murmured the young ladies watching him through their tiny mother-of-pearl binoculars at the opera. “Why, he still looks wonderful. A man on the brink of disaster could never look like that, so calm and easy and smiling.”

“Of course he’s not broke,” scoffed the guests arriving for Poppy’s sixth birthday party, gazing in wonder at the banks of thousands of roses and carnations that Jeb had ordered to be specially dyed the same blue as Poppy’s eyes. Blue damask covered the long tables, blue garlands were strung from the ceiling, and a small mountain of shiny blue-wrapped presents waited to be opened.

Poppy sat in her birthday chair at the top of the table wearing the beautiful blue organza dress scattered with tiny pink roses
that Jeb had ordered from Paris. Sipping champagne, she watched the conjurer who was also their houseboy and the juggler who was a footman, and the dancing girls who were the maids, with large, solemn blue eyes. She noticed pretty young girls kissing red-faced old men, covering her ears as they shrieked with laughter. She watched people dancing gaily to the ten-piece orchestra, and she noticed how greedily they gobbled the roast quail and the sea scallops, the lobster and the caviar, as the expensive champagne spilled carelessly onto the pretty blue cloths.

At midnight Poppy’s cake was carried in on a silver salver. It was the biggest cake she had ever seen, and then the funniest thing happened, suddenly it burst right open and out of the top popped two pretty ladies wearing nothing but ropes of blue beads and black net stockings with shiny red garters. They danced the whole length of the table, their breasts bouncing, kicking their legs high while Poppy and all the guests just laughed and laughed.

As the noise and music and laughter reverberated around the lofty room, Jeb suddenly called for silence. “A toast to my daughter, Poppy, on her very important sixth birthday,” he cried, lifting her onto the table. “To Papa’s girl.” “To Papa’s girl,” chorused the guests, amused. And then Jeb handed her a small blue suede box, and when she opened it inside was a beautiful sparkly blue necklace.

“Sapphires and diamonds,” Jeb called loudly, clasping the inappropriate gift around her small neck. “I thought it was time my best girl had some jewels.”

The men eyed him speculatively and the ladies ooh’d and aah’d as they inspected his gift, and Poppy’s eyes sparkled as brightly as the sapphires.

Jeb smiled, satisfied that the lavish party and his extravagant gesture would put a stop to the rumors of his insolvency and increase his chances of credit. But this time there was a lurking glint of worry in his eyes.

A few weeks later Poppy was awakened before dawn by the sound of crashing china and the slamming of doors. Voices were raised angrily and, grabbing her rag doll, she ran to her usual vantage point behind the banisters, staring at the scene in the front hall. The heavy oak door stood wide open and she could see Ma’mzelle and some of the maids climbing into a hansom cab, piling wicker baskets and boxes in after them. The French
chef stood in the hall shaking his fist and bellowing angrily, and by now Poppy knew enough French to understand that what he was ranting on about so murderously was money. She watched bewildered as he grabbed a pair of tall silver candelabra and marched from the house with them under his arm. The other servants quickly followed his example, grabbing expensive knick-knacks, silver boxes and Chinese vases, even paintings from the walls—anything they could carry into the waiting cabs. Then the door slammed and the house fell silent again.

Poppy clutched the banisters waiting for Papa to come running to find out what was happening. Where was everybody going? And why were they taking all those things?

The long-case clock in the hall ticked ponderously and she heard the faint burr of the machinery as it prepared to strike the hour.
“Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six,”
she counted. An hour for every year of her life. With a faint echo the chimes died away and she scrambled to her feet and ran across the hall and along the corridor to Papa’s rooms. The little lobby with its gilt chairs and tall Italian rococo mirrors was empty. Papa had always warned her not to disturb him if he was sleeping, and she opened the door to his bedroom cautiously, peeking around and breathing as quietly as she could. But the vast mahogany four-poster was still covered with the black Chinese silk spread embroidered with dragons, and the bed had not been slept in. She remembered that sometimes, when Papa came home really late and he’d had a lot to drink, he’d just strip off his clothes and fall asleep on the daybed in his dressing room. She peeked in hopefully, but he wasn’t there either.

Poppy thrust a tightly clasped fist to her mouth to stifle a sob of fear. Where was Papa? Had he left, too, along with everyone else? What would she do if he never came back? Panic lent speed to her legs as she flew back along the hall and down the stairs, flinging open door after door, searching for him.

Chaos reigned in every room, chairs and tables were overturned, curtains torn from their rails, valuable ornaments broken. She stared aghast at the kitchen. Bags of flour and sugar and other dry goods had been emptied into the middle of the stone-flagged floor and a metal churn of milk upturned over the lot. The big stoves that were usually kept stoked and hot twenty-four hours a day, in case Jeb or his guests called for a meal, were cold and dead ashes spilled from the grates. As she watched, a small brown rat emerged from beneath the dresser. It scurried across
her feet and she fled, screaming, back along the corridors to the front hall. Wrenching open the door, she hurled herself down the steps and into the street.

She ran and ran, sobbing with fear, her little rag doll still clutched under her arm—just the way Papa used to carry her when she was very small. It was only six-thirty and the sun had yet to burn away San Francisco’s morning mist, and between her tears and the fog Poppy failed to see the man until she bumped into him.

“Hey, hey, now, little lady,” a concerned masculine voice said gently, “what’s the matter? How come a little girl like you is running around the streets at this time in the morning? Alone and barefoot, and in your nightgown?” Taking her hand, he said encouragingly, “Come on, now, it can’t be that bad … look, your doll’s not crying.”

Poppy’s red hair stuck out wildly, and her face was scarlet with fear and hysteria. She was sobbing too much to speak and picking her up, he said gently, “It’s all right, little girl. You’re just lost, that’s all. Look, there’s a police station over the way. Why don’t you and I go and talk to those nice people about what we can do to help you?”

It was several hours before Poppy was calm enough to tell them her name. The police sergeant whistled softly. “Jeb Mallory’s daughter,” he commented in an awed voice. Between hiccoughs Poppy sipped a glass of milk and told them what had happened.

“Better send someone round there,” the sergeant instructed, “see if Mr. Mallory’s returned.”

But the young policeman returned half an hour later to say that no, Mr. Mallory wasn’t back and that he’d left someone on guard because all the doors had been left unlocked and you couldn’t trust anybody these days.

Poppy spent the night at the police station, sleeping in a funny little bunk in a cell with bars and a big padlock, drinking lemonade and eating corned beef hash that the policemen brought from the saloon across the road. She might quite have enjoyed the novelty of it all if she hadn’t been so worried about Papa.

When Jeb finally stormed into the police station demanding to know what they were doing with his girl, the police sergeant told him in no uncertain terms and a strong Irish brogue exactly what he thought of a father who left his six-year-old daughter all alone.

Muttering that it was a long story, Jeb pushed a wad of dollar
bills into the sergeant’s hand. “For the Police Recreation Fund,” he said with a smile as he took Poppy by the hand and walked back with her to Russian Hill.

“It’s all over now, darling girl,” he told her, without offering any explanation as to what had happened, “we’ll be leaving this house shortly. After all, it’s too big for just the two of us, isn’t it? Maybe we’ll travel abroad again. How’d you like that?”

“Monte Carlo?” she asked joyously.

“Why not?” he replied, grinning.

Poppy sighed contentedly, clutching her rag doll closer. Everything was all right again now.

The scandalous story of Jeb Mallory’s forgotten little daughter spending the night in a police cell while he played poker, and the juicy gossip of how his servants had stripped his house and walked out because they hadn’t been paid in several months, flew around San Francisco like a whirlwind. The rumors that Jeb had gambled away his fortune were refueled and the Mallorys were the chief topic of conversation at every society dinner party, and in every saloon and bar in the city.

Jeb and Poppy just stayed quietly at home together in the big, silent, wrecked house, avoiding everyone. Poppy thought it was wonderful having her father all to herself, though she did wonder why no one came to clean up the mess. Jeb opened endless bottles of champagne from what was left of his once vast stock, drinking constantly as he fixed boiled eggs and scrambled eggs and fried eggs in the littered kitchen, until Poppy complained that she couldn’t eat another egg, and then he made a funny sort of stew from potatoes and bacon. It was all very odd, but quite fun.

One morning a week later there was a thunderous knock on the door and a severe-looking man handed Jeb a sheet of paper. Poppy watched in surprise as Jeb tried to thrust it back at him, but the man merely stepped back and said, “That’s a court requisition, Mr. Mallory, you’d best not ignore it. This property has been legally claimed by Mr. Bud Mayhew in payment of an IOU held by him to settle a gambling debt. I’m sorry, sir, but there it is.”

Taking Poppy’s hand, Jeb led her upstairs and began to pack their things. A few hours later they stood on the grand front steps with all their bags stacked around them while Jeb locked the big oak door firmly and pocketed the key. Then he hailed a
cab and told the driver to take them to the wharf. They were to catch the steamer to Santa Barbara.

On deck later, Poppy stared in astonishment as he took the big brass key from his jacket pocket and flung it into the water, watching silently as it disappeared beneath the waves.

“It’s all right, me girl,” said Jeb with a grin, “there’s plenty more where that came from. All I need is for the luck to be with me. And we still have assets, you and I. We have each other, don’t we? And we still own half the Rancho Santa Vittoria!”

Francesca Rinardi had the sort of cold classical beauty that commanded awe and respect. Her smooth blond hair, flawless features, and tall, blade-thin body had taken her to the top of her profession in Paris, where she’d been the perfect model, swirling haughtily around the pale green, crystal-chandeliered salons of Dior and Balmain.

“Modeling was different before miniskirts changed the profession in the sixties,” she often told her daughter, Aria. “Top models were like royalty—always beautifully groomed and dressed.
We
only mixed with the best people; to the others, we were an unattainable vision.”

What she didn’t tell her was that her father had been a Belgian greengrocer in a village near Liege and her mother a plump, comfortable countrywoman, and that she’d discarded them both when she’d departed their three rooms over the greengrocery for Paris and a career. She’d spent the hard-earned money they’d given her so proudly and lovingly, on a first-class seat on the train to Paris because she knew she wouldn’t meet anybody who was anybody in second class, and her gamble had paid off. The middle-aged man in the very next seat who had helped her with her bags had turned out to be a silk manufacturer from Como and he’d just happened to know the Directrice at Balmain.

After that it had been easy. Francesca invented a whole new background for herself as the only daughter of a country squire, recently deceased, and she hadn’t bothered to stay in touch with her real family. She had eliminated them from her life as neatly as if they were dead.

Francesca was twenty-six when she met Paolo Rinardi at a party in Paris. Every time she glanced across the room she’d
caught him staring at her, until finally she’d asked her host who he was. “That’s Paolo Rinardi,” he told her, “the
Barone
Rinardi. His family have one of the oldest titles in Italy, as well as one of the most beautiful palazzos in Venice.” He also told her Paolo had estates in the country and a grand apartment in Paris and that he was a bachelor.

Paolo was tall with a blond shaggy mop of hair that he wore longer than was usual in those days, simply because he was so absorbed writing his book
The Lives of the Romantic Poets
that he forgot to get it cut. He often spent weeks on end at work on the book, shut away in the big library of his country home, the Villa d’Oro, without seeing anyone at all.
Except Antony Carraldo.