The Rich Shall Inherit (69 page)

The year 1917 drew to a close with the British taking Passchendaele at enormous cost of life and then finally in the summer of 1918 the French forced back the Germans at the second battle of the Marne. In September the German line was broken again, and by October, Germany was petitioning for peace.

Poppy took the first train to Geneva; she counted the minutes to when she would see her son again, half afraid that he might treat her like a stranger after four years of separation. As she drove through the vista of snow-capped mountains and green valleys dotted with cows, she wondered what Rogan would look
like. After all, when she’d last seen him he had been six years old, and now he was almost eleven.

Rogan must have been waiting on the steps because as the car rolled up the driveway in front of the neat Swiss manor house that was Le Rossant school, he ran to meet her.

“Mother!”
he called.
“There you are at last!”
And as she stepped out he threw his arms around her in a great bear hug.

“Be careful,” Poppy gasped, laughing, “you’ll crush me!” She stared, amazed, at the eleven-year-old son she’d last seen as a lanky little boy. Rogan was already taller than she was, his shoulders were broad, and his young body looked hard and strong, but his shock of orangy-blond hair still fell engagingly over eyes that were as bright a blue as hers.

“Mother, you’re just as beautiful as I remembered after all,” he cried. “Come on, I want to show you off to my friends, I’ve been boasting about you for years. Now they will see I told the truth!”

“Rogan,” she said tearfully, “I’ve missed your growing up. I’ve missed all those years between the little boy and the big one! I think I’m going to cry.”

“No tears, Maman,” he said gently. “At least we’re together again now.”

Poppy thought of all the other mothers whose sons would never be returned to them, and she thanked God again.

She enjoyed meeting Rogan’s friends and being shown around the school that had been his home for the past four and a half years, and afterward she took him away for a few days privacy together so they could get to know each other again.

The Hotel Beau-Rivage in Lausanne brought back memories of the fateful day she’d applied for the job as companion to Mrs. Montgomery-Clyde. She remembered hiding nervously behind that same potted palm near the pillar in the foyer, and recalled how the woman’s pursed lips had folded greedily around a chocolate while she’d eyed her up and down, as though she was some lower form of life. But now, she thought proudly, she could match the wealthy Mrs. Montgomery-Clydes of the world, franc for franc, dollar for dollar.

Le Rossant had done a good job in her absence. Her son was clever, he was quick, he was handsome. Rogan spoke three languages fluently and would be at home anywhere in the world. He had the air and manners of a gentleman. Somehow, with a
mother like her and a father like Franco, he had acquired “breeding.”

It was miraculous to have dinner with him and have him take care of her as solicitously as any lover. And it was wonderful to shop with him in Geneva, indulging herself giving him all the things she’d been deprived of giving for so long—mundane things like shirts and socks, a tweed sports jacket he liked, as well as the expensive gold watch he coveted in a jeweler’s window that told the time in half a dozen countries as well as the phases of the moon.

They drove up into the mountains so he could show her the village of Gstaad, where the school migrated in the winter months, and he told her how much he enjoyed skiing on the clumsy wooden skis, and how thrilling it was to climb those dizzy heights. They took the little rack railway up the mountains and hiked together through forest trails, and they slept in tiny Alpine inns that brimmed with good fresh food and hospitality of the sort not seen in France since the beginning of the war. And they talked and talked.

Poppy asked him about his classes, about his sports, about his tutors and his ambitions. She asked him what his favorite food was and what music he liked and what books he read. And then, quite casually, Rogan asked her who his father was.

They were lunching at a little wooden mountain restaurant overlooking the village of Gstaad and Poppy had watched fondly as her big son devoured his favorite
rösti Oberlanderart
, which he told her consisted of ham, bacon, and onions topped with a gratiné of cheese and a fried egg.

“I never knew what happened to my father and I was afraid it might hurt you to talk about him,” Rogan said humbly. “But you see, Maman, I have to know.”

Poppy stared silently down at the valley, trying to gather her wits, “Your father was a fine man, a
good
man,” she said at last. “He died before you were born, Rogan … he was killed in an accident. A car accident in Italy.”

“Were you with him … when it happened?” he whispered, horrified.

She shook her head. “He was alone. It was a business trip, you see. I loved him very much, Rogan.”

“Poor Maman.” His hand covered hers comfortingly.

“At least I had you. When you were born I thought you were
like a little messenger sent from heaven to help me. Just like Luchay,” she added.

“Luchay?”

“You remember, the parrot?”

“Of course.” He beamed.
“Luchay!
The magical green parrot … ‘Poppy
cava
, Poppy
chérie
… Poppy darling …’ Of course I remember that wise old bird. He must be very old now.”

“Luchay will outlast us all,” she said firmly, “and he knows all the family secrets.”

“Do we have secrets, then?” Rogan asked lazily as the waiter poured her coffee.

She shook her head. “You wanted to know about your father. He was an Englishman. His name was Franco … Frank, I mean. We met in Italy when I was on my Grand Tour ….”

“Grand Tour?” he asked, astonished. “But I thought you’d
always
lived in Europe!”

Poppy felt herself blushing as one lie followed another. “No … no, I was born in America. My father had emigrated from Ireland to California. Don’t you remember, I told you that you were named for your Irish ancestors? Anyway, my father—your grandfather—was a bit of a gambler. He did well at first in California, but he later lost a lot of money. He had a big ranch there with cattle and sheep. I used to help with the roundups…”

“You
did?” Rogan said, astonished.

Poppy almost laughed, except it was so sad. Rogan knew so little about her, and now even the stories she was inventing were lies, or half lies …

“Anyway, when Jeb—my father—died, there was nothing left. The ranch was sold … I don’t know what’s happened to it since. I’d fallen in love with your father and we were married. He died so young, but he left us the farm at Montespan, and enough to live on comfortably.”

She felt as though his bright blue eyes were pinning her against the wall as he said, “But, Maman, I remember you had a business. Wasn’t that what you always told me when you left me with the nanny?
You
were away so much.”

“Ah, yes,” she lied quickly, “for a long time I ran a little fashion shop close by the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Hats and things … women liked it. It was a success—until the war came.”

“But what about now?” Rogan asked anxiously. “Do you have
enough money? If only you can wait until I’m able to work, Maman, I’ll take care of you.”

She smiled, he was so protective, so tender with her. “I’ve been very lucky with my investments, Rogan,” she replied demurely. “I think you will find that when I die, you’ll be a very wealthy young man.”

“Don’t even talk about dying!” Rogan exclaimed, a frown of horror crossing his handsome young face. “Besides I don’t care about the money. I plan to make lots of my own.”

“Really?” Poppy laughed. “And how will you do that?”

“I’m not sure yet,” he replied, subdued, “but I know I will.”

He was so painfully young that her heart went out to him. “Of course you will, Rogan,” she said gently. “You are just like your father.”

“Am I
really
, Maman?” he asked eagerly. “I know so little about him. I’ve never even seen a photograph.”

“All the pictures were destroyed in … in a fire,” she said, searching desperately for a story. “But I didn’t mean you were like him physically. Frank had dark hair, although it was going gray when … anyway, he had dark hair and dark eyes, and he was sort of middle height, but you have other qualities that are like him.” She hesitated, thinking of Franco’s charm—and his ruthlessness—and she was suddenly afraid for her son. “You know, Rogan,” she said fiercely, “what we
are born
is one thing, what we
become
is quite another. I want you to remember that.”

He nodded, thinking about what she had said. “I think I understand, Maman, I’ll do my best to make you proud of me.”

“To be able to be proud of yourself, that’s all I ask,” she said quietly, and they smiled at each other.

“If my father was English, then we must have family there. I’d love to meet them, now that the war is over,” Rogan said eagerly.

“Yes … no,” she cried, inventing another story hurriedly. “Frank was much older than me; there was only his mother—your grandmother—and she was already an old lady, in her eighties I think. She died at the beginning of the war. I’m afraid you are the last of the line. There are no estates or anything … your father’s family had been rich once, but in the end they were reduced to modest means. I’m afraid that Frank didn’t have much of an inheritance.”

“It doesn’t matter, Mother,” he said quickly. “Let’s not talk
about it anymore, I can see it upsets you. I’ve got you, and that’s all I need.”

Poppy smiled wanly. “That’s what I said to you when your father died,” she whispered.
“At least I’ve got you.”

It was their last night together. She was to leave for Paris the next day and Rogan had asked if they could entertain some of his friends. “Of course,” she’d said gaily. “Bring them all to dinner at the Beau-Rivage. They shall stay the night with you and we’ll have a grand time.”

Poppy felt as nervous as if she were meeting a lover as she dressed for dinner in a plum-colored silk dress with a demure high neck. She swept her exuberant hair up on top and secured it with a sprinkle of diamond stars; she clasped a ruby-and-diamond bracelet around her wrist and matching pendant earrings in her small pretty ears, and then she examined herself anxiously in the mirror, wondering if she was suitably dressed for her role as Rogan’s mother. She wondered if she needed a little powder on her nose, and she pinched her cheeks to bring a blush of color to them. And, of course, she was much too early, Rogan and his friends weren’t expected for half an hour yet. She paced the floor of her suite anxiously, wondering how she would compare with their mothers.

The restaurant at the Beau-Rivage was crowded with international businessmen and politicians, army generals and bankers, all in Switzerland to talk high finance business deals and peace, and Poppy felt proud of her table of schoolboys, laughing and chatting easily as they enjoyed the lavish meal she’d ordered. Glancing up, her eye caught that of a man opposite. She paled as he lifted his glass in greeting. He was a world-famous financier who supposedly had made an ever bigger fortune dealing in arms. He was also one of Numéro Seize’s best clients and Poppy knew him well; she knew his taste in wine and food, and in women. He’d asked her more than once to dine with him, even though he knew her rules; and unlike the others he’d refused to take no for an answer, until finally she’d told him that if he persisted, she would have to ask him not to return to Numéro Seize. He had obeyed, but Poppy knew he’d resented being put in that position.

“Are you all right, Maman?” Rogan asked anxiously. “You’re very quiet and you look so pale.”

“I… yes … no, I’m all right. It’s just a little hot in here …” She glanced wildly at the door, seeking an escape, but it was too late, he was getting up, coming toward her … oh, God, this was the end …. She waited like a cornered animal, unable to move.

Their eyes met as he walked toward her table and Jacob Le Fanu paused almost imperceptibly; then, with the merest flicker of a smile, he walked on.

“I say,” one of the boys cried excitedly, “isn’t that Jacob Le Fanu? The arms dealer? His son is at Le Rossant. They say Le Fanu made a pile of money in the war.”

“Really?” Poppy said brightly, but inside she was trembling. She had always thought she would be able to keep her two lives separate; she’d never imagined a situation like this. Now she realized how dangerous it could be. Le Fanu had been discreet, but another man might not be so sensitive. Funny though, she’d never liked Jacob Le Fanu, but she was grateful to him now.

On her way back to Paris the next morning she thought about what to do. Time was passing quickly; before she knew it Rogan would be eighteen. He would leave Le Rossant and go on to a university. He would be out in the world of young men—and young men knew all about places like Numéro Seize. She had just seven years in which to restore her fortune, depleted by her wartime generosity to the soldiers—seven years in which finally to secure Rogan’s inheritance.

1919, France

The big salon at Numéro Seize had been cleared of the shabby tables and chairs that had seemed so smart in the candle-lit wartime years, and transformed at enormous expense into an intimate blue and silver supper club. The customers were entertained with smart cabaret acts recruited from Paris’s best music halls and they danced to a jazz band brought over especially from New York. There was a glittering new cocktail bar to rival the one at the Ritz, all white leather, chrome, and plate-glass mirrors, that was considered the epitome of chic, though the quiet, paneled library and elegant formal dining room remained the same. Somehow Poppy had cleverly managed to span the generation gap between her old clients and the new young ones, who remembered her kindness to them in the war. Only now, of course, the cost was twice that of prewar years. You had to be very, very rich to afford membership at Numéro Seize.

Poppy also re-created Montespan as a “home” for Rogan. It wasn’t just a question of new curtains; she tried to invent a past. She bought English antiques so she could say they came from his father’s family home; she bought silver photograph frames and hunted in junk shops for old photos of anonymous faces she then claimed as relatives; she filled the shelves of his new study with costly rare books that she planned to tell him his father had collected. She bought “mementos” of his father—an old fountain pen she would say he had used, a heavy repeater pocketwatch that had been his “grandfather’s,” a gold signet ring with a worn family crest. She even found a beautiful old western saddle that she could tell him had belonged to her own father when she lived
in California. And, in her mind, all these things became “Rogan’s family inheritance.”