The Rich Shall Inherit (11 page)

The luxurious room seemed stuffy as he lay there thinking about the story that was emerging from Rosalia’s journals about Poppy, and her father, Jeb….

1881, CALIFORNIA

Jeb Mallory disembarked from the coastal steamer
Santa Rosa
, swinging his malacca cane jauntily. The cane, with its silver lion’s-head handle, had supposedly been made for a prince of Russia who had gambled away his inheritance and all his possessions. Jeb had bought it casually from the pawn shop in Monte Carlo intending it as a gift for Nik, but had decided that he liked the air of a boulevardier it gave him, and so he’d kept it.

He was wearing a pair of silver-gray worsted trousers and a black broadcloth jacket fashioned by one of London’s finest Savile Row tailors. His soft black leather boots were handmade to his own last at yet another expensive London establishment, and the light cashmere overcoat slung around his shoulders had been purchased in Paris. His gunmetal-gray silk cravat came from Italy, and he had been assured by the Monte Carlo jeweler that the large pearl stickpin he wore came from the deepest waters of the South Seas. With his shiny top hat placed at exactly the right angle, he looked the perfect picture of a man in mourning.

Removing a fat Romeo y Julieta from a solid gold cigar case, he snipped the end neatly with a small gold clipper. Cupping his hands, he lit it with a wooden match taken from another small gold case and then, puffing luxuriantly, he smiled at the group of awed children who had gathered to watch the steamer from San Francisco dock, and who were now watching him instead.

As he boarded the horse-drawn Arlington Hotel bus waiting on the wharf, Jeb glanced around at the other passengers, tipping his hat as he recognized the wife of the local architect. She had been present at his wedding and he was surprised when she
turned her face away at though she hadn’t recognized him. He shrugged indifferently; after all, he’d been gone for some time and he guessed he looked like a foreigner in his new European finery.

The town looked even smaller than he remembered. The bus trundled slowly past the curve of the beach and Castle Rock, and past the stately white Diblee house, Punta del Castillo, with its wonderful ceilings painted by a French artist, and its beautifully landscaped gardens. It was Santa Barbara’s masterpiece and exactly the kind of house Jeb would like to build. Only not in Santa Barbara, he thought with a smile. It was much too provincial. No, with his new fortune he would build his mansion along the banks of the Hudson River in New York, or perhaps at Newport, Rhode Island, alongside the railroad magnates and oil giants and captains of industry like Rockefeller and Vanderbilt and J. Pierpont Morgan.

The bus jogged past Larco’s Fish Market where the same old white pelican picked among a pile of fish trimmings, just as he always did. On the right was Dr. Shaw’s ancient blue adobe house encircled by an iron fence, and farther down the street the same bootblack plied his trade as usual in front of the Morris house. They passed Al and Seth Loomis’s Saddlery Store where Nik had first set eyes on Rosalia, and Shaw’s Grocery Store, and the blacksmith’s on the left with a horse being shod at the glowing orange-red forge. In the single street that was Chinatown, the same old men with gray pigtails and black satin skullcaps sat in front of their shops thoughtfully smoking their long pipes, and women in silk coats and trousers clattered stiffly along the wooden sidewalk on tiny bound feet.

Nothing had changed—and it never would, Jeb thought, puffing on his cigar to dispel the cloying scent of Chinese incense. He noticed the red-brick Catholic church but remembered Margaret wasn’t buried there; she was in the small Presbyterian cemetery up on the hill. And no doubt her face was turned to the wall, he thought bitterly. Naturally he was sorry Margaret had died, but in truth he felt nothing for her. She had blocked him efficiently from her bed and out of her heart. Who could blame him for seeking diversion elsewhere?

As the driver turned into the wide gates of the Arlington Hotel he felt as though he had been away years instead of ten months; he was a man of the world now, unsuited to Santa Barbara’s leisurely pace of life. His vast new fortune, won at the tables in
Monte Carlo, was burning a hole in his pocket and he was determined to enjoy it. But first he had a score to settle with Nik Konstant.

When the manager showed him his rooms, his face flushed with anger. It was the same suite he had shared with Margaret on their honeymoon night. “These rooms are not satisfactory,” he said sharply, “kindly arrange something else.”

“But, sir, Mr. Mallory, this is our very best suite,” the man protested.

“Then give me the second best!” he snarled, heading for the bar. He hadn’t thought that Margaret could ever upset him again, but, by God, one look at that room and all the bad memories had simply flowed back again. It was only as he sipped his second whiskey and chaser that Jeb allowed himself to think of Nik.

He’d been in another bar—the ornately decorated one at the famous Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo—when Nik’s letter had been delivered to him, and to his horror his hand had trembled and tears had pricked the backs of his eyes as he’d read it.

I have waited all these months for you to return and at least pay your respects to Margaret
, Nik had written,
but all we have received is one telegram from you. I cannot tell you in strong enough terms that I consider the fact that you were not here—where you should have been—is the sole reason that her illness went unremarked and unattended. In short, I place the full blame for Margaret’s death on you. I can never forgive you, Jeb, and I am writing to tell you that you must consider our friendship at an end. About our partnership, as you seem no longer interested in the Rancho Santa Vittoria I am willing to buy out your half share on whatever terms you and our lawyers consider suitable.

Although you failed to mention your daughter in your telegram, nor have you expressed any concern as to her whereabouts or her welfare, we are taking good care of her. In case you are interested, she is a fine child. May God forgive you, Jeb Mallory, for I surely never can.

He had signed it
Nikolai Konstantinov.

As he downed his third whiskey Jeb knew he had to see Nik that very afternoon.

He’d been waiting for an hour, alone in the library of the Konstant House, when Rosalia finally returned from the lambing sheds. She hurried into the room, her hair spilling from its braid, a tiny weak lamb called a
lepe
still cradled in her arms.

“Jeb!” she exclaimed, her brown eyes widening in astonishment. “We didn’t expect you.”

“The traveler returns,” he replied lightly, kissing her soft cheek. “How are you, Rosalia?”

“I have to find this poor
lepe
a warm place near the stove in the kitchen,” she said, backing away uncertainly. “He has to be hand-fed, you know.”

“I’m here on more important business than
lepes,”
Jeb replied, amused at having disconcerted her. “I’m here to thank you for what you did for Margaret. I wanted to give you this.” Flourishing a sheaf of thousand-dollar bills, he held them out to her. “In repayment for your care,” he said, smiling.

Rosalia stared at the wad of bills, horrified. “I only did what anyone would have done. I’m just sorry I wasn’t there when she needed me. I don’t need your thanks, Jeb.”

“Indeed she
does
need your thanks!”

Nik strode into the room and threw a protective arm around Rosalia. His shirt was stained with blood from the lambing and, with his pale, angry eyes, his shaggy beard and his blond hair standing on end, he looked like a wild man. Jeb started forward, an easy smile on his lips. “Nik, boy-o, that’s just what I was saying. Of course she needs thanks. Both of you do. I can never thank you enough for what you did for Margaret.”

“Rosalia deserves your thanks,” Nik said contemptuously, “but not your gambler’s money. Did you win it when Margaret was on her deathbed, Jeb? Or maybe when she was being buried? Perhaps you’d like to hear a few more details? About how Margaret suffered? How she died alone? About how she was too warn and emaciated from the worry and turmoil you put her through to fight the typhoid fever?” He paced angrily across the room. “Still, you would have enjoyed the funeral, Jeb. Everyone came—all the same people who were at your wedding just a few years ago. Everyone—
except you
!” Nik’s lip curled. “The perfect husband in his fancy European mourning clothes.” He turned away wearily. “You had my letter. I’m willing to buy you out so you need never come to the Rancho Santa Vittoria again. Just name the sum and the lawyers will take care of it.”

Jeb’s face flushed an angry red. “So much for that fine
friendship
we had then, boy-o. And that fine partnership! Remember Nikolai Konstantinov? The lad fresh off the boat that I took under my care? Remember it was
me
, Jeb Mallory, who got us our stake in this ranch?
Without me,”
he added contemptuously,
“you would be nothing!
And now you say you want to ‘buy me out!’”

“I remember this.” Nik stode across the room, towering over
him menacingly. “It was
my
money that staked your gamble for that first fifty acres, and
my
hard work that made the Rancho Santa Vittoria what it is today. Tell me what you have done to make it grow, Jeb Mallory. Where were you all those years?
Gambling and fornicating in San Francisco!”

Rosalia forced her way between the two men, the lamb still clutched in her arms. “Nik, please, I don’t like to hear you talk like this!”

He turned away with a disgusted shrug, but Jeb grabbed his arm. “I’ve put a lot of money into this place
Nikolai Konstantinov,”
he said through gritted teeth, “and by God if you hadn’t done what you did for Margaret, I’d kill you right now for what you’ve just said!”

Nik’s laugh was full of contempt. “That’s typical of you, Jeb,” he retorted, “you’ll fight for your honor—even though you have none.”

“God damn you
,” Jeb bellowed, raising his fist as Rosalia rushed in to separate them.

“Please, oh, please, don’t do this,” she wailed. “Don’t bring violence into my home!”

Jeb stepped back, rigid with anger. He glared at Nik. “All I have to say to you is that you will
never
get my share of the ranch. By God, boy-o, I’ll see to it that you never get another cent from me.
You’ll never get your hands on anything I own.”

Nik folded his arms impassively. “We’ll see.” He shrugged. “We’ll just see about that.”

Jeb stalked from the room and Rosalia ran after him, the
lepe
still clutched to her breast. He couldn’t be leaving, she thought wildly, just like that. Without even asking about his child? Without even seeing her?

“Jeb,” she cried as he ran down the steps.
“Jeb. What about Poppy?”

He stopped as though he’d been struck, then, turning his head, he stared at her. “Poppy,” he repeated, like a man recalling something long forgotten. “Of course.
Poppy.
Where is she?”

“In the nursery, with Angel.”

He leapt up the stairs, striding along the wide, galleried landing to the nursery wing. Thrusting the
lepe
at a maid, Rosalia hurried after him. Angel was fast asleep in the crib nearest the door, her blond curls fluffed into a fine halo around her head, and her golden lashes sweeping from fragile lilac eyelids across the smooth curve of her pink cheeks. Poppy was wide awake, her red
hair was standing spikily around her ears, and her alert blue eyes stared at Jeb curiously.

He stared back at her with a jolt of recognition; she had her mother’s hair and pale skin, but by God she was a chip off the old Irish block! Pulling the soft wool blanket from the crib, he wrapped her in it.

“Jeb!” Rosalia ran after him as he headed for the door, the baby tucked under his arm like a bundle of washing. “Where are you taking her? Jeb, Jeb … oh, please …”

“I told Nik that he will never have anything of mine. And that includes my daughter,” he shouted as he crossed the hall.

“Nik! Stop him, stop him!” she cried.

“I can’t,” Nik replied sadly, “Poppy is
his
child, not mine.”

“At least you’re right about that, boy-o,”
cried Jeb from the top of the steps,
“and I’ll tell you this. You’ll never see me—or her—again!”

Rosalia thought she heard the baby chuckle as he swung her onto his shoulder and climbed into the carriage. And then they were gone.

Mike pushed his chair from the desk and stretched wearily. The art deco desk clock said five-thirty a.m. and he was exhausted. The story had just poured from him; it was Poppy’s beginning, but there was so much more to be written yet, so much more to be discovered.

As he fell into bed, he knew that he still needed to solve the enigma that was Poppy’s character, and he wondered what a child born of such passion and such coldness would be like. Fire and ice, maybe?

1881–1886, CALIFORNIA

Poppy and Jeb stayed in the most extravagant suite the Sir Francis Drake Hotel in San Francisco could provide while the house on Russian Hill was being redecorated to include a nursery. As soon as they were established, Jeb called his longtime friend and mistress, Maraya Kent, singing and dancing star of the
Follies
revue and a woman with a heart of gold, and asked her to find him a nursemaid.

Maraya thought for a moment and then said, “I have just the girl for you. She’ll be there tomorrow.”

The next day Louise LaSalle came to be interviewed for the position of Poppy’s nurse. Louise was a dancer who, for various reasons, had fallen on hard times and Maraya was doing her a favor getting her this steady work. She told Jeb she was a country girl, one of twelve children, so she knew all about bringing up babies. That, and the fact that she also had ravishing dark eyes and the pertest pair of breasts Jeb had seen in some time, secured her the job.

That first night, after she had put Poppy to bed in her fancy high-ceilinged room at the Sir Francis Drake Hotel, Louise put on her favorite red silk robe and went to Jeb’s room to offer the poor widower a little comfort. Of course, it was accepted.