The Rich Shall Inherit (27 page)

The Mallory House was unoccupied, but Nik always made sure it was well maintained. It gleamed with a fresh coat of white paint and its windows sparkled in the sunlight. Leaving her mare to graze, Poppy wandered slowly down the hillside that she still remembered as a blaze of scarlet poppies, even though they told her the poppies had never grown there since the storms the year she was born.

Anger would boil inside her as she looked at the Mallory House and at the beautiful rich acres spreading as far as the eye could see, and she would hate her father even more for gambling away not only her childhood, but everything that should have been hers. She told herself that if her worst nightmare came true and he ever returned and tried to take her away from here, she would fight and scream and kick … she would die rather than go with him!

“Penny for your thoughts?” Angel yawned as she sat up in bed, and ran her hands through her fall of pale silk hair. “You look too solemn for a birthday girl.”

Poppy hugged her knees, staring ahead reflectively. “I was just wishing my father had died,” she said bitterly.

“What a thing to say!”

“But it’s true, Angel. Being an orphan would have been easier to accept than being abandoned. It’s a thousand times worse knowing you weren’t wanted. I swear to God that if I ever have children, I will never
never
leave them!”

Leaping from her own bed, Angel snuggled in beside Poppy. “Look at it this way,” she said sympathetically. “Your father’s leaving you the way he did was our luck. Greg and I got you for a sister and Mama and Papa have an extra daughter. You’d never think that you were the same girl who arrived here that winter’s night ten years ago. I remember looking at you and thinking that this must be a special look that children from orphanages have, you were so pale and pinched and frightened. And you were so skinny, you really did look just like a stick insect with wild red hair.”

Poppy sighed, running her hands through her unruly tangled mane. “I haven’t changed much, have I ?” she said, laughing.

Their faces were side by side on the pillow and Angel studied her carefully. Poppy’s skin was the color of new cream. A faint dusting of freckles ran across the bridge of her small straight nose and under her uptilted bright blue eyes fringed with dark copper lashes, and her brows rose in two straight wings, giving her a strangely insolent air. She had high, flaring cheekbones, a wide, somehow vulnerable-looking mouth, and strong, even white teeth. And at just seventeen Poppy no longer looked like a stick insect, she had high pointed breasts, a tiny waist, and a deliciously curved derriere that Angel envied. Of course, she was unfashionably tall, but she had a natural grace and a kind of… Angel struggled to find the right word … style! Yes, that was it, even on a horse Poppy had style!

“You’ve changed a lot,” she said seriously. “Truthfully, Poppy, all you have to do is look in the mirror to prove it. I think you are wonderfully pretty and elegant.”

“Pretty? Elegant?” scoffed Poppy. “You must be talking about someone else … that’s more a description of you than me, Angel.”

Angel sighed. “You know that’s not true,” she replied loyally.

“Angel,” said Poppy, “do you suppose now that we’re seventeen we shall fall in love?”

“I hope so.” Angel stretched luxuriously. “I just can’t wait! But what do you suppose falling in love feels like?”

“I imagine it must be so exciting,” Poppy murmured, clasping her knees and resting her chin on them as she thought. “It’ll be thrilling—like flying on great eagle’s wings, arching and soaring with happiness …”

“Oh, Poppy, how different we are.” Angel laughed. “I imagine falling in love must be warm and dreamy … I shall feel gentle and wonderfully content and just carry this little warm glow of happiness in my heart every single day.”

Poppy frowned, staring at the wide oaken beams running across the ceiling. “Angel,” she said after a while, “how do you suppose babies get inside your belly?”

“It’s a mystery to me.” Angel sighed. “Mama says she’ll tell us when we get married and not before. I mean it can only be something simple like what the rams do with the sheep and the cows with the bulls.”

Their eyes met and they grinned at each other conspiratorially.

“Ugh!” exclaimed Poppy.

“Ugh!” agreed Angel as they burst into laughter. “I know what,” she said suddenly, “let’s whoever gets married first promise to tell the other what it’s like, I mean exactly what you do and how it feels.” She offered her small hand, pinky finger outstretched.

“I promise to tell,” Poppy agreed solemnly as she hooked her little finger with Angel’s.

“There now, it’s a solemn pact,” said Angel. “You must never forget it, Poppy.”

“I won’t,” she replied, “but anyhow you are sure to marry first. Every boy in Santa Barbara is already in love with Angel Konstant,” she added wistfully.

It never failed to amaze Rosalia how two such opposite personalities could get along so well. Angel was so calm and feminine and sweet-natured. Poppy was volatile and a tomboy. Angel was amenable and easygoing and she looked on almost everything as “fun,” while Poppy was rebellious and suspicious. Angel was confident and Poppy was the shy one, though she often hid it under some outrageous act that made it look as if she was trying to claim attention. And, of course, they looked so different, the petite cool blond beauty and the tall flame-haired vibrant firecracker!

She shook her head in amazement as with feminine shrieks and giggles and masculine shouts and laughter, two-dozen young people piled into the haycarts for the ride to Hope Ranch and the picnic on the beach. Poppy had clambered excitedly to the very top of the hay and hitching up her white skirts, she teetered along the bale, her usual black sombrero tilted over her eyes and her red hair already escaping from its grown-up pompadour. Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief as with a triumphant scream she pushed one of the boys off the cart.

Angel lounged back lazily against a bale of hay, a wreath of wildflowers threaded by an adoring young man crowning her upswept blond hair. There was a haughty look in her eyes as she dismissed him with a shrug, turning to flirt with yet another.

Rosalia looked at Nik, her eyebrows raised despairingly. “They are too wild,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s time they were tamed and I know just the place. Mrs. Diblee told me of this wonderful finishing school in San Francisco that absolutely guarantees to turn wild young daughters into charming young women.”

*  *  *

They arrived at Miss Henderson’s Academy for Young Ladies in Berkeley, with a trunkful of new clothes fashioned by the local dressmaker, Miss Matthews, and with handsome twenty-four-year-old Harvard graduate Greg Konstant as their escort. Angel swept confidently into the hall with Poppy following reluctantly behind her. The big house was gracious and elegantly furnished, with many gilt-framed paintings on the walls and lace curtains at the window. There was a red Oriental carpet and flowers everywhere, carefully arranged by the pupils as one of their “feminine arts” courses. But despite their fragrance, to Poppy the smell was still that of an institution.

There was a flurry of stifled giggles and whispers from the stairwell and she glanced up to meet the curious stares of a dozen girls, who disappeared hurriedly as the principal herself came forward to greet them. Miss Henderson had smooth white hair, she wore a sensible gray skirt, a high-necked white silk blouse with a large topaz brooch clasped at the neck, and Poppy already hated her. She hadn’t wanted to come here at all, but for once Angel had let her down.

When Rosalia had first told them they were to go to school in San Francisco, Poppy had stormed around her bedroom, tossing her long hair back angrily and demanding to know why they must go. “It’s sure to be terrible,” she’d raged, “all those silly society girls, and no ponies, no ranch, none of the things we love, Angel!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Angel had replied, brushing her hair and staring dreamily into the mirror, “it might be fun. Mrs. Diblee told Mama that we’ll be taken to the opera and to art galleries and museums, and we’ll learn to speak a little French, though of course you already speak that, and maybe some Italian so we can converse with any foreign diplomats who might just happen to pass through Santa Barbara. We’ll learn how to greet royalty—just in case we should ever meet any—and how to give a proper dinner party for them.” She laughed at Poppy’s mutinous face. “Oh, come on, Poppy,” she said, “I’ll bet we get to meet all sorts of nice girls there. And maybe even some suitable boys to fall in love with!”

Poppy had climbed into bed and pulled the sheets over her ears. She didn’t want to hear what Angel was saying, she didn’t want to go to San Francisco and she didn’t want to go to finishing school. She just didn’t want anything in her life to change.

“Mr. Konstant,” Miss Henderson said, offering Greg her hand, “how very nice to meet you. Of course, everyone in San Francisco knows your father and the famous Rancho Santa Vittoria. Why, they say it’s the biggest ranch in California.”

“Indeed it is, ma’am,” Greg replied courteously. “But my father arrived in this country a penniless immigrant from Russia. He worked hard for his success.”

Miss Henderson’s eyes flickered as she weighed the Konstants’ wealth against their lack of breeding, but she was a quick thinker. “Ah, but your mother’s family, the Abregos, are one of California’s oldest.” She smiled, offering her cold hand to Angel. “And this is Angel. What an unusual name, my dear.”

“I was named for my father’s birthplace, Archangel, ma’am,” she replied shyly.

Miss Henderson’s brows rose slightly in surprise. “How very quaint,” she replied. “Still, my dear, I’m sure you are going to make lots of suitable friends here.” Her glance took in Poppy, standing behind Angel. “And this is the Mallory girl?” she said icily. She hadn’t been at all keen to take her into her school, but the Konstants had insisted that the two girls stay together.

“Another well-known name in San Francisco,” retorted Poppy, tilting her chin defiantly. “Everyone knew my father.”

“Indeed they did!” Miss Henderson turned from her dismissively. “Mr. Konstant, may I offer you some tea? It must have been a long and tiring journey.”

“Thank you no, ma’am,” he replied curtly. “I must leave. And I shall trust you to take care
of both
my
sisters.”
Poppy shot him a grateful glance as he kissed her good-bye. “Be brave,” Greg murmured with an encouraging grin. And then he was gone.

There were twelve rooms at Miss Henderson’s academy, each shared by two girls, and Poppy’s heart sank as Angel was shown to a room she was to share with Dorothea Wilkes Frazer and she realized that they were to be separated. “Of course, you’ll know of the Frazers, such a well-known San Francisco family,” gushed Miss Henderson. “I feel quite sure that you and Dorothea will get along well.”

“Of course we will,” Angel cried, beaming at the dark-haired chubby Dorothea, “it’ll be fun.”

Poppy’s head drooped as, with Angel’s favorite phrase “it’ll be fun” ringing in her ears, she was shown into a room with a sullen-looking copper-haired girl who glared at her unwelcomingly.
“You are to share with Laura Banks,” Miss Henderson informed her. “Oh, dear,” she added, surprised, “I hadn’t realized you both had red hair. I hope there will be no clash of ‘temperament.’” Her glance rested warningly on Poppy as she closed the door, leaving her alone with Laura.

“The bed near the window is mine,” Laura told Poppy abruptly, “and the walnut chest. We share the wardrobe and my stuff is already in there, you’ll just have to make do with whatever space is left.” Folding her arms, she stared at her icily. “And another thing, my hair is not a common
red
like yours. Mine is
auburn.”

Poppy threw her a cool glance as she flung open the wardrobe. Laura had dresses for every possible occasion and they completely filled the space. Lifting out a lettuce-green organza evening dress, she gazed at it critically. “Only such a filthy color would go with your
auburn
hair,” she commented, casting it to the floor. Then, ignoring Laura’s outraged gasps, she threw out an armful of clothes. When the wardrobe was half empty, she said calmly, “Now we have equal space. I’m afraid you’ll have to find somewhere else for all your rubbish.”

Laura’s cheeks burned as she glared at Poppy. “Do you have any idea what those dresses cost?” With a contemptuous glance at Poppy’s new garments from Santa Barbara’s most popular dressmaker, she announced scathingly, “Obviously you wouldn’t. Don’t think I won’t complain to Miss Henderson about this,” she added. “You are here five minutes and already you’re causing trouble.”

“If you do that, Laura Banks,” Poppy said, clenching her small fist threateningly, “then I’ll punch you. And I warn you, Greg says I punch pretty good.”

“Who’s Greg?” asked Laura, backing away nervously.

“Greg’s my brother,” Poppy replied with a triumphant smile.

“Oh, no, he’s not,” retorted Laura. “Greg Konstant is
Angel’s
brother! We all know who
you
are! Just wait till my father hears that I’m rooming with Jeb Mallory’s daughter, he’ll have a fit.”

Poppy felt the hot blood rush to her face. No one had ever mentioned her father in all these years, but this girl
knew.
The door flew open suddenly and Angel stood there beaming at them.

“Hello, you two,” she cried. “Oh, what a heavenly room, it’s much nicer than mine,” She held out her hand to Laura. “I’m Angel Konstant,” she said, smiling.

Poppy bit her lip to stop it from trembling as she bent over her
trunk, hauling out her clothes and flinging them into the wardrobe.

“Oh, Poppy, isn’t everyone just so nice?” beamed Angel. “I told you this would be fun!”

Most of the staff and the girls were quite kind and polite, but Poppy felt they knew she was “different.” And everyone wanted to be Angel’s friend. Was it Angel’s beauty, her smile, her charm? Poppy wondered as she stood to one side watching the girls jostle for a place next to Angel at supper or passing little notes asking to be her very best friend. Or was it also the Konstant money? She hadn’t realized until now that the Konstants were so very rich. She watched jealously as the teachers preened under Angel’s smile, forgiving her instantly for being a duffer at French and for not remembering the exact placement of wineglasses for a banquet or the names of the painters of the Renaissance period of Italy. Even Miss Henderson went out of her way to be nice to her, and for the first time Poppy realized that Angel was not only a beautiful girl—she was the powerful Nik Konstant’s daughter. Angel was an “heiress.”