The Rich Shall Inherit (43 page)

Poppy was treated with the proper respect due to a guest, so that on Sundays when the large family gathered, she would sit alone at her table in the window and Signora Rossi would hurry to serve her first. Then she’d excuse herself and hurry off to attend to the demands of yet another small grandchild.

Poppy tried not to watch as the excited children ran in and out, while their mamas lavished them with food and attention and love and their adoring papas looked on fondly; but they would come and peek around the door at her, laughing, and she’d feel a pang of jealousy for the family’s simple happiness. She’d hurry through her unwanted lunch and then wander into the little town of Bellagio, lingering in the dim candlelit church, searching for answers that didn’t exist, and finding only temporary peace.

As the long days drifted into weeks and weeks into months, she had endless time on her hands to contemplate Felipe’s revenge. Though she hoped each day for a letter, there was no word from Angel, and on the long, dark winter nights loneliness would engulf her. She’d doze restlessly, dreaming of home and
Greg, whom she knew she loved so dearly now and whom she would never see again. On the sharp gray afternoons she would brave the icy winds blowing across the lake, pacing the leafless gardens restlessly, wondering how she could ever have been so foolish.

Her meager supply of money began to run low, and anxiously, she cut back on her meals at the
pensione
, taking only supper. Her body was growing clumsier as the baby grew, but she made no attempt to consult a doctor or to provide for her confinement. Signora Rossi looked worried, questioning her in her few halting English phrases, but Poppy just shook her head and pretended not to understand. It was almost as if, despite the evidence of her distorted body, she still wanted to believe it really wasn’t happening.

Showery April slipped into the soft balmy days of May and, as the
pensione’s
gardens bloomed with vines and scented blossoms, she contemplated her future with dread. She tossed and turned at night, wondering where she would go, and what she would do. She had only a vague idea of when the child was due and, when the first pain stabbed tentatively at her lower back in the middle of a warm May night, she just lay there not wanting to believe it. Then the pains began to come stronger and faster.

When this child is born, she told herself, in the lull between contractions, my whole life will change. And then her agonized screams brought Signora Rossi running.

“Ah, Signora,” she said comfortingly, “I felt the child would come tonight, I saw the signs in your face …” and she hurried to her kitchen to fetch hot water for Poppy’s torn body and sheets to tie to the bedrails for her to pull on when the pains struck.

Poppy thought the night would never end, and when the dawn breeze finally crept coolly through the window, the child had still not been born. Worried, Signora Rossi dispatched her husband to bring the doctor from Bellagio. She bathed Poppy’s burning forehead and held her in her arms as she would her own daughter, as the pain ripped through her again and again.

“The child is breeched,” the doctor told the Rossis, his face serious. “There is grave danger she will lose it—and maybe her own life as well. Where is her family?”

Signora Rossi shrugged, lifting her eyes to heaven. “The husband is dead,” she told him. “She is alone.” And she hurried to Poppy’s side as she screamed yet again.

Night had darkened the sky again when, with a final agonized scream that made Signora Rossi cover her ears in horror, Poppy’s baby finally emerged into the world. Contrary to the doctor’s predictions, she wasn’t born dead; she was screaming lustily and she weighed a fine six pounds and two ounces. Poppy was too ill even to open her eyes to look at her, and the doctor sent at once to the village for a wet nurse as he began the fight to save Poppy’s life.

As she hovered the next few days between dreams and reality, it seemed as though Poppy would get her wish. With nothing left to live for, she knew that God was about to free her from her mortal misery. She dreamed she was drifting slowly backward into a dark, restful tunnel where there was no pain, only peace … it would be so easy, she thought as eternal darkness came closer and closer … then her child’s cries penetrated her unconscious and with it the double pain of her torn body, and all her memories returned again to torture her.

“So, Signora,” said Dr. Callonio three weeks later, “you have decided to live.”

Poppy glanced at him sullenly. “The choice was not mine, Signore,” she told him coldly.

“Remember, poor Signora,” he said kindly, “things are never as bad as they might seem. And you have a beautiful daughter you haven’t yet seen.” He shrugged apologetically. “We were not sure you were going to survive and felt it urgent that we baptize your child in the name of God. The Signora Rossi took the liberty of choosing her name. Helena Maria Mallory.”

Poppy stared at the bland blue sky outside her window. Her child was three weeks old, she had a name … she was real … Pulling the sheets over her head, she turned her face to the wall.

“Don’t despair, child,” Signora Rossi said understandingly, “remember God helps us all.”

But not me, thought Poppy, biting her lip to keep back the weak, anguished tears. Never me.

She peeked fearfully at the child when they finally brought it to show her. There was no sign of her own telltale red hair—she was as blond as Angel herself. With a sigh of relief she knew no one would ever tell she was not Angel’s child. But even though the baby was as sweet and as pretty as any infant could be, she felt not one scrap of affection or love for it. It was Felipe’s child.

She thought jealously of how different it must have been for Angel. When her child was born, it would be all joy and love and
celebrations. Asking for a pen and paper, she wrote a telegram to Angel:
Daughter born.
And then, ignoring her baby, she turned her face back to the wall again and waited for Angel to come.

Each day she looked eagerly for the man from the telegraph office in Bellagio bringing her a message from Angel, and each day she was disappointed. With the baby in her crib beside her, she paced the floor of her room at night, returning worriedly to the dresser to count the money remaining in her meager purse. The wet nurse needed to be paid as well as the doctor, and Signora Rossi, good-hearted though she was, could not be expected to give her food and shelter for nothing …. Oh, Angel, Angel, she thought desperately, you promised you’d take her, you promised to help.

Ten days passed and she had just about given up hope when late one afternoon the pony trap from the station at Bellagio trotted up the path. It swirled to a stop and Angel stepped out. She was wearing a silk dress in a tiny springlike flower pattern and a large cream straw hat. Her blond hair was coiffed immaculately and she wore ropes of large lustrous pearls around her neck.

“Wait here, my man,” she commanded, alighting from the trap. Shading her eyes from the sun, she glanced up at the house as Poppy came flying out the front door.

“Angel, Angel,” she screamed. “Oh, God, Angel! I thought you were never coming …”

Angel hesitated for a split second and then she opened her arms and they hugged each other tightly. “Are you all right?” she whispered, her clear blue eyes anxious.

“I don’t even want to remember,” Poppy replied bitterly. “And you?”

“It was a girl,” Angel said, “Born a month ago, like yours.” She linked her arm through Poppy’s as they strolled through the gardens. “Felipe doesn’t know I’m here. I waited until he’d gone to Venice for a couple of nights and then I came. He wouldn’t let me write to you—of course, I did, but he intercepted my letters. He even wrote to Mama and Papa and Greg … I don’t know what he told them, but since then, Mama has never mentioned you in her letters. Oh, Poppy, why don’t you let me tell her what has happened? She would help you, I know she would”

Poppy just shook her head. She knew Felipe had finally destroyed her. And now she would rather die than face Rosalia and
Nik with her shame. As for Greg, he would never believe her story. No, she could never go home again.

“Felipe told me I must never see you, that he didn’t want the child. He said I must have nothing to do with you. Poppy, Felipe said such terrible things about you, things that I know just can’t be true.” Her blue eyes searched Poppy’s for confirmation. “Felipe said you were bad, he said you were a temptress and that you had even tried to seduce him.” Her voice faltered. “Please, tell me it’s not true.”

Poppy stirred the gravel of the pathway with her toe, avoiding Angel’s honest eyes. “It’s not true, Angel,” she said at last.

“Forgive me for even asking you, for even thinking it might be …” stammered Angel. “Of course, I was
sure
it wasn’t true … but then why should Felipe say such
cruel
things? Sometimes I just don’t understand him, Poppy. Sometimes I think he’s not the same man I’d married … the gentle, carefree Felipe of those days in Venice. He can be so
cold
, so … distant. You know when he seems happiest? When I’m all dressed up and dripping with diamonds, playing the role of lady bountiful on the estate, or queening it from a box at the opera. Sometimes I don’t feel real, Poppy, it’s as though he’s changing me into someone else ….” She paused, examining Poppy’s shuttered face contritely. “But how can I complain,” she exclaimed, “when I think of you and all your troubles! Of course I’ll take the baby, I promised I would.” She hesitated again. “Are you sure you want to go through with this? There’s still time to change your mind.”

Poppy shook her head. “It’s fortunate the baby looks nothing like me, Angel,” she replied. “She’s so blond and pretty, she might easily be your own daughter.”

“Then from today she will be my daughter. I don’t give a damn what Felipe says,” Angel said vehemently. “I can promise you this, Poppy. There will be no stigma, no one will ever know … not even the child.”

Poppy nodded, satisfied. She stared at the driver, whisking flies from the horse in the waiting pony trap. “Felipe is going to be angry with you for coming here. You’d better hurry back before he returns.”

Angel glanced anxiously at the pretty gold watch trimmed with seed pearls and rubies, which she wore clipped to her belt. “The train leaves in an hour,” she said anxiously. “Oh, Poppy, I hate to leave you.” Tears brimmed from her eyes as she looked at her.

“I’ll get the baby,” said Poppy. She returned a few moments later and held out the child wrapped in a woolen shawl. “Signora Rossi is bringing her things,” she whispered. “There isn’t much, just a few clothes.”

Angel stared at the baby’s sleeping face. “But she’s so lovely, Poppy … oh, how can you bear it?” Tears spilled from her eyes again and she pushed them away hastily with her finger. “I mustn’t cry,” she said, attempting a smile. “They say it’s bad for a mother’s milk.” Carrying the baby carefully, she walked to the pony trap and laid her in the waiting basket. Signora Rossi hurried forward with a small bundle clutched in her hands and handed it to Angel.

“The baby will be baptized formally next month,” said Angel. “Have you chosen her name?”

“Signora Rossi named her Helena Maria.”

Still, Angel hesitated beside the carriage. “What will you do?” she whispered. “What’s to become of you, Poppy? I only wish you would return home to Mama and Papa and Greg. Oh, Poppy, I’m sure Greg will never rest until he finds you.”

“He never will,” said Poppy distantly. “I shall make sure of that.” She handed the sapphire engagement ring Greg had given her—so long ago it seemed—to Angel. “Please give this back to him,” she said harshly, “then he will understand. It’s over. And don’t worry, Angel, it’s easy for people like me just … to disappear.”

Angel hesitated, staring at the ring, the symbol, recognizing the finality in Poppy’s gesture.

Instead of taking it, she thrust a packet toward her. “It’s all the money I could get,” she said. “I only wish it could be more but Felipe takes care of all our financial affairs.” Impulsively, she tore the pearls from her neck and thrust them at Poppy. “Take these—sell them. They must be worth a fortune. Felipe said they once belonged to Madame du Barry … ‘a whore’s pearls,’ he called them! I’ve never liked them because of that ….” She climbed quickly into the carriage, tears raining down her face. “Oh, my darling Poppy,” she whispered, “shall we ever see each other again?”

“Good-bye, Angel,” Poppy replied quietly.

“Oh, Poppy!”
Angel wailed as the driver whipped his lazy horse into action. “I can’t bear it … I just can’t bear it … there must be
something
I can do….”

“Promise me one thing,” Poppy said suddenly, clutching at
her hand, “only
one
thing. Name the baby for me … call her ‘Poppy.’
Please
, Angel.”

Angel stared at her, shocked. “It will be difficult …” She faltered.

“Please, Angel,”
Poppy begged.

She nodded. “Very well, I promise.”

Poppy looked at her gratefully, knowing it was for the last time, and then she turned and ran back down the path, into the peaceful gardens along the edge of the silent blue lake.

1899

Angel faced her brother fearfully; she’d never seen him angry before, at least not with this deep, biting anger that narrowed his eyes and hardened his voice.

“You’re lying, Angel,” Greg said icily. “And why mother and father believe Felipe, I’ll never know.”

“It’s because of Jeb Mallory,” she whispered, terrified. “They said Poppy was truly his daughter after all, no matter how she’s tried to deny it to herself. And why else would she run away—just disappear—if it wasn’t true? Poppy met someone else, Greg, and she ran off with him; someone she loved more than you,” she added cruelly, because she needed to protect Poppy and the baby.

“What did she say to you when she gave you this?” he demanded, pulling their sapphire engagement ring from his pocket. “Tell me
exactly
her words.”

Angel closed her eyes to shut out his anguished face. “She said, ‘Give this to Greg … tell him I don’t need it anymore …’” she whispered miserably.