The Rich Shall Inherit (24 page)

Pale-faced and trembling, she was out of the house as the sun came up on her fourth day, hunched alone on the steps with her arms clasped around her knees and her chin sunk into her chest, waiting.

When Jeb finally returned just after four that afternoon, she was curled up on the wooden verandah, fast asleep.

“Hey there, Papa’s girl,” he called with his usual jaunty grin, “don’t you think you should come and take a look at your new pony?”

“Papa!” she screamed, waking instantly and hurling herself down the steps and into his arms. “Oh, Papa! I thought you were never coming back. I thought you’d gone away and left me—forever and ever and ever …” Her arms snaked around his neck, gripping him tightly as tears of relief rained down her face.

He glanced bitterly at the window of Margaret’s old room, wondering why she had to die, God damn it, and leave him with all the responsibility! Sure and he loved Poppy, but a man couldn’t always be tied down by a little girl.
“You
needn’t have worried yourself so, Poppy,” he said, setting her back on the ground, “Papa will always come back. Now, let’s go and have a look at that pony, shall we?” But as he walked across to the
waiting horse, Jeb vowed that as soon as his fortunes changed for the better, he’d get the child a new nursemaid and a governess, and then he’d be off on his travels again. There wasn’t a thing, child or woman, that could hold him down for long!

Poppy held out a cautious bunch of grass to the plump brown pony, patting his flanks excitedly. “If you’re gonna ride a horse, you’re gonna learn to do it well,” he told her, hoisting her into the saddle.

For two days he held the pony on a lunge rein, first walking and then trotting her around in cirlces as Poppy learned to spot up and down with the rhythm of the horse and how to use her knees for control and how to hold the reins as lightly as a feather and never to pull on the pony’s tender mouth. Soon she was trotting around the paddock on her own, sitting easily in the saddle, straight-backed and relaxed and laughing with delight when the pony broke into a canter.

She named him Spider because of his long, spidery legs and she was up at dawn to feed and groom him and muck out his stable, and she thought that with Papa home and her new pony to love she must be the happiest girl in the whole world.

When Jeb told her that he was going into Santa Barbara on business and he’d be back the next morning, Poppy didn’t even worry, she was so busy with Spider to look after. But when he hadn’t returned by dusk on the second night, she felt that old gnawing fear in her stomach. As darkness fell on the third night her lonely, frightened tears flowed again. In search of comfort she crept from the house and curled up in the stable near Spider, comforted by his solid warmth and the clean stable smells. As the days drifted past she lost count of how long Jeb had been away. She just rode Spider in solitary circles around the Mallory House, afraid to stray too far in case she missed him.

When Jeb finally came back, he merely grinned his jaunty grin, his bright blue eyes sparkling with good humor, and demanded to know how the riding was going. He didn’t say anything at all about where he’d been or what he’d been doing.

The third time it happened, Lian Sung walked out, muttering in his strange-sounding English that this was not a good house. Poppy followed him silently on Spider as he trudged down the sandy lane with his worldly goods strapped on his back, stopping at the top of the hill as he disappeared into a grove of sycamores.
And then she walked Spider slowly back to the big silent house—empty now but for the terrifying blind old Indian.

The days dragged past and even the Indian seemed to have forgotten she was there, barely turning his head to stare at her with his strange opaque eyes whenever she sneaked into the kitchen in search of a piece of the flat bread he cooked on the open fire, or a hunk of cheese and an apple. Each morning she would saddle up Spider and ride to the top of the hill and she’d stare first at the dusty lane hoping to see her father riding jauntily home to her, and then along the sandy trail that Jeb had told her led to the Konstant House. Poppy wondered wistfully what it must feel like to have a father like Nik and thought how lucky Angel was, and she wondered again what Angel must look like.

Day after day she hesitated at the top of the hill, gazing intently down the sandy trail and conjuring up pictures of Angel, longing to ride down it and find her, but Jeb had made her promise never to speak to the Konstants. Still, she decided, he hadn’t forbidden her to take a look at them, had he? Digging her knees into Spider’s plump sides, she set off down the trail at a fast canter.

The trail seemed to go on forever and Poppy began to worry that she might be lost when, suddenly, beyond a stand of oaks she caught a glimpse of red-tiled roofs, and there below her in the valley lay the prettiest house she had ever seen.

The Konstant House wasn’t in the least bit like their own gray weatherboarded home with the old adobe hut that was now the kitchen just stuck on one side. It was shiny and white and built around a courtyard, with a big arched gateway, and wrought-iron gates in a beautiful pattern like swans’ wings. The spray from a blue-tiled fountain sparkled in the sunlight like graceful ropes of diamonds and the comfortable long chairs, grouped on the colonnaded verandah, looked just right for lounging in on hot days. And everywhere were terra-cotta pots of geraniums and lobelia, begonias, and fuchsia, hibiscus, bougainvillaea and roses, spreading in a riot of color that dazzled Poppy’s eyes. She could see gardeners at work in the shady flower gardens in back of the house and someone was picking vegetables in the walled garden beyond. And in a large grassy paddock a small girl with hair so light, it glinted like bleached gold in the sun, set her sleek black pony at a series of jumps, taking them steadily higher and higher until Poppy gasped in admiration.

She knew at once that this must be Angel, and even from a distance she could see she was beautiful. But there was someone
else, a tall, dark boy in a checkered shirt who strode toward Angel and patted the pony’s neck as he talked to her. Lucky Angel had a
brother
as well as a mother and father … oh, lucky, lucky Angel! Keeping to the shadow of the oaks, Poppy urged Spider forward, straining her ears to catch their voices, longing to know what they were saying and wishing she were part of that charmed scene. A bell rank suddenly and Spider whinnied as she pulled clumsily on the reins.

A small, dark-haired woman was standing in the courtyard ringing a silver bell and her voice carried clearly up the hill as she called, “Angel … Greg … lunch is ready.
Vamos almorzar!”

Sliding from her pony Angel loosened its girths and removed the saddle. Her brother gave the animal a hearty thwack on the rump and they laughed as it kicked up its heels and galloped off into the paddock. Breathless with envy and delight, Poppy watched as they climbed the paddock fence and, arm in arm, walked toward the beautiful house where their mother waited in the courtyard.

“Come on, you two,” Rosalia called. “I swear that horses are more important to you than food!” And she ruffled Angel’s blond hair affectionately as she followed them into the pretty house.

Poppy sat for a long time just staring at the house and thinking enviously about its inhabitants. She wondered hungrily if they had lunch at the same time every day and what they were eating. She wondered if they might come out again afterward and ride the pony, or whether Angel’s mother would insist she take a rest. And as she finally turned away and urged Spider into a trot, she was quite certain that Angel’s mother and father would tuck her safely into bed that night, and that every morning when she woke up, they would be there.

Walking softly so as not to wake the Indian, she foraged for her own supper that night, tearing off a piece of flat bread and pouring herself a glass of the frothy, creamy milk the Indian had taken from the cow in the apple orchard that very morning. Taking it to her usual place at the top of the steps, she munched it slowly, staring across the tangled garden to the road, wishing Papa would appear magically around the bend. But, of course, he didn’t, and when it finally became too dark to see anymore, she turned wearily back into the big silent house.

She sat on the edge of her bed, her chin in her hands and her legs swinging, thinking about Angel Konstant again, remembering
her bright hair and the sound of her joyous laughter. There was something so fresh and pure and beautiful about Angel—she had an aura about her, like a real angel. Scrambling from the bed, Poppy stared at herself in the long mirror. Her blue cotton dress was grubby and there were milk stains down the front. Her face was streaked with grime and a faint milky moustache bordered her mouth. She couldn’t remember the last time she had brushed her hair because no one was ever there to tell her to do it, and now it was matted on top and the braids hadn’t been undone in days. Holding out her hands, she stared anxiously at the black half circles under her bitten nails, and she compared her scratched, stockingless legs in the scuffed muddy boots with blond Angel’s immaculate image.

Ripping off the dress angrily, she rummaged in the dresser for a clean nightgown. Then she unbraided her hair and attacked it with the harsh wire brush, trying unsuccessfully to remove the tangles. The water jug was too high for her to reach and anyway it was too heavy to pour, so she stood on a chair and dipped first one hand and then another into the cold water and rubbed them onto her face, wiping off the dirt on a harsh white linen towel. Finally she knelt beside her bed and, folding her hands, said her prayers, only tonight she didn’t just pray for Papa to come home, she also asked God to make her like Angel Konstant. And that night, too, she dreamed about the pretty black pony riding over the jumps, and the brother and sister walking back together to the lady with the voice as sweet as her silver bell, only in the dream it wasn’t Angel who was there, it was her!

When Papa finally returned, it was without his usual jaunty grin and bagful of presents. Poppy stood silently at the top of the mahogany stairs as he slammed into the house, his face bleak with anger.

“God damn it, Poppy,” he groaned, noticing her suddenly. “I’d forgotten all about you!”

She stared at him, stunned …
how could Papa have forgotten her … it was impossible … she would never forget him ….

He sighed again. “All right, then,” he said grimly, and without even a kiss he marched past her into the nursery. “I guess there’s nothing for it but to take you along with me.”

Poppy watched silently as he dragged open her dresser drawers and began to stuff a small bag with her things, too upset that he had forgotten her even to wonder where they were going.

“Get yourself ready for bed,” Jeb said brusquely as he closed the nursery door behind him, “we’ll be off tomorrow at dawn.”

Poppy lay unsleeping in her chilly bed, trembling with fear—not at the thought of
where
, or even
why
, they were going, but at the idea that Papa had forgotten her. She was up and dressed well before dawn, waiting outside his door with her small bag and her rag doll clutched beneath her arm, just the way Papa used to carry her when she was very small. When Jeb finally opened the door, he almost fell over her.

“I didn’t want you to forget me, Papa,” Poppy told him, her eyes wide with fear.

He glared at her silently. It was bad enough that he’d lost the house and his share of the Rancho Santa Vittoria to a cheap cowboy from Montecito, but now he was stuck with Poppy too. God damn, it was tough enough for a gambling man on the road without a kid tagging along! Grabbing her bag, he strode down the corridor so fast, she had to run to keep up with him. “What about Spider?” she asked breathlessly. “Is he coming with us?”

He’d forgotten all about the damned pony. “He’ll be waiting for you, when you get back,” he lied carelessly. “Come on now, hurry up.”

The Indian, bundled into his serape, was waiting in the front hall. “I will not see you again, Mr. Jeb,” he said, his once sonorous voice now faded to a whisper. “You and I will both depart this house for good.”

Jeb looked at him steadily. The old Indian was always right. He had been here at the beginning and now this was the end.

The Indian bowed his gray head. “It will not be long now,” he murmured as they filed past him into the pearly-clear dawn.

1887

Papa had told her they were to “travel” and Poppy had dreamed of returning to Monte Carlo, but it wasn’t like that at all. This time they had only the tiniest cabin on the ferry back to San Francisco, in the lowest part of the boat where the waves slammed against the sides, making her feel sick. But even though she cried, Papa just lay on his bunk drinking Irish whiskey from a silver flask and snoring loudly when he finally fell asleep.

They disembarked at San Francisco on wobbly legs, and when she asked hopefully if they were going home to Russian Hill, Jeb merely grabbed her hand and loaded her into the horse-drawn bus that would take them to Union Square Station. Poppy pestered him with a barrage of questions, but he told her angrily to be quiet and she slumped sulkily in her corner.

There were no smart staterooms this time on the big train to Chicago, just a section of a harsh plush seat that scratched her legs, and when she complained that she was hungry, Jeb bought her packets of sandwiches and apples from a man with a large tray slung around his neck. Poppy finally fell asleep, with her head on Papa’s arm, holding tightly to his jacket sleeve and dreaming that she was Angel Konstant riding her black pony over a hundred jumps, as the train rumbled and clattered across the vast country.

When she awoke, her head was resting on Papa’s fine soft overcoat and he was gone. Panic clenched her stomach again as the thought crossed her mind that while she was sleeping he might have forgotten her again and got off the train without her. “Where’s Papa?” she asked the dark, disapproving woman opposite as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

“By the smell of him, he’ll be in the bar!” she snapped. “I don’t know what a man like that thinks he’s doing, leaving a little girl like you alone while he gets drunk!”