The Rich Shall Inherit (29 page)

“I’m not
Papa’s girl,”
Poppy screamed as he held out his arms. “I’m not, I’m not, I’
m not!”

“Poppy, oh, Poppy.” Angel hurtled down the stairs toward her just as Poppy lifted the kitchen knife in her clenched fist and, panicked, threw it at her father.

“Oh, Poppy,” Angel whispered again as Jeb sank to the floor at their feet, his blood making a dark stain on the red Oriental rug.

1898, ITALY

Aunt Melody Abrego had been pleased when Rosalia asked her to chaperone her two girls on their European visit. She had listened to Poppy’s story and her heart had gone out to the poor child—though of course she wasn’t really a child anymore; she was a young woman, and a very attractive one in her own strange, almost catlike way. She couldn’t compare with Angel, of course, but then Angel was so especially beautiful. Aunt Melody just hoped all those wicked Frenchmen and romantic Italians wouldn’t be chasing after them.

She and Greg were shepherding the excited girls through San Francisco’s Union Square Station en route for their European Grand Tour. Settling her large straw hat more firmly on her piled white hair, Aunt Melody straightened her worsted jacket and eased her new shoes. Her feet had always had a tendency to swell and now she was sixty and plumper than she used to be, they were the bane of her life; she just couldn’t wait to board the train and take off her shoes in the comfort of their private stateroom. She only hoped her girls wouldn’t want to do too much walking in Paris, and that they would behave themselves. Not that she anticipated any trouble with Angel, but Poppy was unpredictable.

Rosalia had told her that what Poppy had done had been unintentional, she had just been frightened by Jeb; she had said that the scars of her childhood would never heal, and that they could thank God that no one could brand Poppy a “murderess” (Aunt Melody flinched even thinking the word) because Jeb Mallory had survived. But even though his wounds had healed,
the doctors had told them Jeb’s liver was so damaged from drink, he would need constant attention for a long time. Nik had arranged to pay all his expenses and in addition had settled a large sum of money on Jeb, to be paid in monthly installments for the rest of his life—on the understanding that he stay away from Poppy and the Rancho Santa Vittoria.

Nik had been away when the “accident” had happened, and it was Greg who had rushed to San Francisco after Miss Henderson’s horrified telephone call. He’d told them how the girls had been banished to Miss Henderson’s study and forbidden to speak to anyone. Their clothes had been packed and the—trunks were waiting in the hall when he arrived, and the other girls had peered curiously from the salon hoping to catch a glimpse of the notorious Poppy before she disappeared forever.

Miss Henderson, grim and white-faced and fearing the ruin of her lifetime’s work building up the Academy, had been forced to make a telephone call to one of San Francisco’s most important citizens, whose daughter she’d had the privilege of “finishing.” He’d understood her predicament instantly and had arranged for Jeb to be transferred to a private nursing home, and he’d also ensured there would be no police inquiry.

Miss Henderson had flung open the study door. “Your brother is here, Angel,” she’s said coldly. “I already explained to him that there was no need for you to wait in here with … with this girl, but that you insisted.”

“Oh, Greg,” Angel had whispered, hugging him, “it’s horrible, horrible … I’m so frightened. Just look at her … I can’t get her to talk, or even to move ….”

Poppy was huddled in a cold, slippery leather chair with her knees drawn up to her chest and her face buried in her arms. “I’ve come to take you home,” Greg had told her, running a comforting hand over her springy hair. “Everything is going to be all right now, you’ll see. Come on, Poppy, look at me … talk to me?”

Moving her arm an inch, she’d gazed at him with one bleak tearless blue eye. “I can never go home again,” she’d whispered, “don’t you see, Greg? They think I tried to kill my father!”

“Thank God your dreadful father is still alive,” Miss Henderson had snapped, “and it’s no thanks to you, you wicked girl, that we are not all in jail!”

Angel had turned angrily. “Be quiet, you miserable woman,”

she’d cried, “you know nothing about this situation. It wasn’t Poppy’s fault.”

“It wasn’t her fault? Did someone else stab Jeb Mallory, then? Is that what you are trying to tell me? I’m afraid there were too many witnesses for you to get away with that lie!”

“It’s not a lie,” Angel had cried despairingly. “Oh, you just don’t understand.”

“Poppy,” Greg had said gently, “your father is not dead. He’s very much alive. But I promise you this, he will never bother you again. We’ll make sure of that this time. He’s gone from your life, forever.” Lifting her easily into his arms, he’d said, “And now I’m taking you home. Your family is waiting for you. We need you, Poppy—and you need us.”

Greg’s brown eyes had held more than just sympathy for Poppy; he had been in love with her as long as he could remember. He’d just been waiting for her to grow up, hoping that when she was eighteen and out of finishing school she might begin to look at him with more than just sisterly affection. He’d wanted her to see him as a woman sees a man she loves, and who loves her.

There were gasps of shock from the other girls as, with Poppy’s face hidden in his chest, he’d carried her through the hall. “Goodbye, Angel,” some had called, and a few brave ones had added, “Good-bye Poppy—and good luck.”

Over the next few months Greg and Poppy had become inseparable. She’d clung to him as though he were her lifeline, telling him the secrets of her painful childhood as she’d been dragged from city to city, rooming house to hotel, always alone and always ending up in the children’s home. She told of her nightmares that Jeb would return and try to take her away, and how shocked and frightened she had felt when he walked through the door. She confessed that she didn’t remember hurling the knife at her father; she’d just wanted to get away from him, she couldn’t even bear him to touch her … and how she hated the fact that she looked like him.

“You are the wounded one, Poppy,” Greg had reassured her tenderly, “but now it’s all over. You’ll never see him again. And I promise you, one day I’m going to make you forget all this. We’ll be so happy, it’ll be as though it never happened.”

Walking through the gardens with her on the night his mother had told them of the planned trip to Europe, he’d been filled with sudden foreboding. “You’ll be gone for six months,” he’d said
worriedly. “I don’t want you to forget me. You know the old saying, out of sight—out of mind.”

“How could I forget you?” she’d asked, looking at him puzzled. “Why, I bet Angel and I will talk about you all the time. I just wish you were coming too.”

“It’s just that—well, I don’t want you to go falling in love with someone else, Poppy,” he’d said. “I guess what I want is for you to fall in love with me.”

She’d stared uncomprehendingly at his familiar handsome face. “But how can you say that? You are my brother.”

“But I’m not your brother, Poppy,”
he’d cried, gripping her hands tightly. “Don’t you see?
I’m Greg Konstant and you are Poppy Mallory. And I love you.”

“And don’t you see,”
Poppy had whispered, her eyes anguished,
“that I really just
wanted
you to be my brother?”
And she’d rushed back to the house, her red hair flying in the wind, as though she couldn’t wait to get away from him.

She’d avoided him after that, staying close to Angel until it was time for them to leave, but Greg had insisted on taking them to San Francisco to see them off.

The giant steam locomotive puffed even louder and the porter hurried along the train slamming doors. Angel kissed Greg goodbye, wiping an excited tear from her eye as she climbed aboard, and he smiled as Poppy’s eyes finally met his. “Please don’t go away not friends,” he said, “after all, I only said I loved you.”

“I know.” She lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry, Greg. It’s just that I never thought … I didn’t realize …”

“Just promise you’ll think of me,” he pleaded, “don’t dismiss me yet, Poppy.”

As Aunt Melody called her again to hurry, his eyes held hers for a moment; then, planting a hasty kiss on his cheek, she turned and climbed on board.

“Good-bye,” they shouted, hanging out the window, as the train pulled away from the platform, “good-bye … we’ll write”

“Greg,” Poppy called across the din of the departing train, “Greg … I promise …”

Paris was everything Poppy had ever dreamed it might be. The May skies were a clear cloudless blue, the chestnuts were in blossom along the
grands boulevards
, and the spring sunshine gilded the cafe tables where they lingered over a
citron pressé
,
watching the Parisian world go by. Shuffling dazzled behind their guide, they saw the wonders in the Louvre and gazed admiringly at the Mona Lisa and the Winged Victory. “Be sure to take notes, girls,” commanded Aunt Melody, taking a seat on a marble bench, and fanning herself with the guidebook as she eased her aching feet in their too tight shoes. “Your papa will want to know what you have learned.”

They sat in the awe-inspiring nave of Notre Dame Cathedral listening to a soaring anthem sung by cherubic choirboys, and they lingered excitedly in front of shops selling rich dark scented chocolates and creamy pastries, or pate de foie gras and strange pungent cheeses. They shopped for trinkets in the smart stores and worried over their choices in a chic little hat shop on the rue de la Paix. They even became accustomed to taking a small glass of wine with their dinner, under Aunt Melody’s eagle-eyed supervision—though she herself always had three or even four. Then invariably she’d complain of how sleepy she was, saying that they must go to bed—just when Paris was waking up!

Every day they walked and walked until Aunt Melody cried for mercy and even Angel admitted she was tired, but still Poppy hadn’t had enough. The city seemed to shimmer with excitement, like a mirage, and she wanted to see it, to grasp it … to know it was real before it all disappeared. Or before she had to leave.

Aunt Melody had refused to take them to Montparnasse, saying it wasn’t “suitable,” and Poppy was determined to find out why. One afternoon when Aunt Melody was sleeping off her lavish lunch in the comfort of the Hotel Lotti and even Angel was dozing over her book, Poppy put on her jacket and went off to explore by herself. She sat in a cafe, sipping lemonade beneath a striped awning, ignoring the bold stares of the men passing by, and wondering what was so unsuitable about such a jolly place. And she wandered alone through the pretty streets and squares near the Sacré Coeur, peering admiringly over the shoulders of artists busy at their easels, capturing so skillfully the scene she saw around her. She lingered in front of the facades of small music halls plastered with lurid posters and photos of the latest “artistes,” and she climbed the steep Butte, staring at the bold-looking women loitering in the doorways, quickening her step as they stared back at her contemptuously. Once a man jostled her elbow and spoke to her, but she just glared haughtily at him, and murmuring
“Pardon, mademoiselle, je m’excuse
…” he hurried off.
Her feet fairly skipped along as she crisscrossed the pretty bridges, stopping to admire the barges laden with vegetables fresh from the countryside; often there were whole families on board and even a little dog perched on the stern, and she waved to the children, who waved back, calling,
“Bonjour, ma’mzelle.”

Of course, she never spoke to anyone and she was back at the Hotel Lotti long before Aunt Melody awoke and poked her head around their door, saying brightly, “Well, girls? Did you enjoy your nap? I’m sure you feel as refreshed as I do and ready for the theater tonight.”

They wore their best dresses. Angel’s was fondant-pink silk trimmed with rosettes of ribbons and flowers, and Poppy’s was butter-yellow satin with swirls of tiny jet beads. At the theater the audience was more exciting than the Molière play, which was all in French anyhow. “Did you ever see so many smart women,” Poppy whispered to Angel, as they peered through opera glasses at the chic audience gradually filling the tiers of red plush seats.

“All of a sudden I feel like the country cousin,” Angel murmured, glancing down at her pink dress ruefully. “And I had thought Miss Matthews’s dress was the finest I had ever seen—until now!”

“You look exactly as young girls should look,” Aunt Melody commented approvingly, “and quite suitable for Santa Barbara.”

Angel’s eyes met Poppy’s exasperatedly. “But Aunt Melody, this isn’t Santa Barbara,” she hissed, “this is
Paris!”

They sat up half the night composing an urgent telegram to Nik and Rosalia: “Unless you wish your daughters to be known as mere country bumpkins, severely lacking in style and overloaded with culture, imperative attend the salon of Monsieur Worth to purchase several new Paris gowns.”

They waited anxiously for a reply, shrieking with delight as they read: “One gown and one day outfit each may be purchased from M. Worth but am assured by those who know that Madame Marcel on the rue de Valence is just as good and less expensive. You may purchase anything else from her Aunt Melody thinks suitable. Love Mama and Papa.”

M. Worth’s salon on the rue de la Paix was very grand with pale green
boiserie
and long Louis Quinze mirrors. A haughty-eyed vendeuse asked them to take a seat and Poppy and Angel perched uncomfortably on little gilt chairs on either side of Aunt Melody, waiting for the Maître to be free.

“Jumped-up little dressmaker,” fumed Aunt Melody after fifteen minutes had ticked away. “This is intolerable!” she snapped after half an hour; and finally she commanded the vendeuse to tell Monsieur Worth that if he could not see them immediately, they would leave.

“Oh, Aunt Melody, no,” cried Angel, agonized, “no,
please
, we
must
stay …”

“Aunt Melody, it’s so important,” wailed Poppy. They were so close to their Paris dresses, they couldn’t let anything stop them now.