The Rich Shall Inherit (67 page)

Franco remembered all the cruel deeds he had done in his life and he knew that none was more cruel than what he had to do now. “I am no longer a free man, Poppy,” he said quietly. “I can no longer say those words to you.” Kneeling, he lifted her dress from her feet, drawing it slowly upward, over the lovely length of her thighs, past the tempting triangle of bronze hair guarding the precious secrets whose tastes and texture he knew so well; past the slope of her creamy belly, the delicate curve of her breasts, up to her long, graceful throat. With his hands on her shoulders he looked at the face he loved; the pink-flushed alabaster skin, the freckles across the nose, the soft, passionate, trembling mouth, and her blue eyes blazing with despair and tears. He ran his hands for the last time through her wild silken red hair, willing himself to remember the way she looked, the way she felt, the scent of gardenias on her skin.

“It’s cruel to imprison a butterfly in a world of guns and evil and sudden death,” he whispered, “it would never survive. You have finally seen the truth. Go home, Poppy. Go home. I beg of you.”

She knew then that it was no good; there was nothing she could say or do that would change his mind. She thought of Franco’s child in her womb. It was the winning card in love’s poker game and if she told him, he might relent. But how could she? She would be condemning an innocent child to a life behind these four walls, and an inheritance no sane person would ever want.

Franco rang a bell to summon the servant. “Remember,” he said quietly, “if things go wrong, if you ever need help … all you have to do is call.”

She nodded, looking at him for the last time. And then she turned and fled from the room.

1907–1908, France

Poppy left Paris and went with Netta to Montespan before her pregnancy became too obvious, leaving Simone to supervise Numéro Seize. It was the end of September and the farm looked idyllic under the pretty blue sky. There was a warm breeze and the orchard was full of apples, plums, and pears; horse-drawn haycarts trundled past them down the country lanes as she and Netta strolled to the village or drove in the bottle-green de Courmont to Montespansur-Cher, and sometimes even farther, to Orleans, where they bought things for the baby, exclaiming over tiny jackets and bonnets and cribs flounced in organdy and lace.

Poppy’s cheeks were flushed from the sun and her body plump from good health and the growing child. She had forbidden herself even to think of Franco for fear her despair would hurt her unborn child, and instead she channeled all her energies toward it. She would lie for hours on the grassy bank watching the kingfishers dive into the swift little brook like points of brilliant jeweled light, feeling like the mother of all the earth, and wondering why she hadn’t felt like this the last time. She knew the answer, of course. It was because she was carrying the baby of the man she loved. If she couldn’t have Franco, then at least she would have his child, and she wanted it more than anything else in the world. She envisioned a daughter with her red hair and his dark eyes, but when the baby finally came, two days before Christmas, it was a boy.

She thought long and hard before she decided on his name; she couldn’t call him Franco, after his own father, and though she
would have liked to call him Nik, after the “father” she loved, somehow it didn’t seem right. And she never even contemplated calling him Jeb, because that memory was better buried. She wanted a name that meant something to her personally. Finally she called him Rogan, for her own Irish heritage. But the family name she entered on his birth certificate was not Mallory, nor was it Malvasi, the name of the father. It was a name she invented because her son was never going to bear the stigma of either his father’s or his mother’s identity. When he grew older and began to ask questions, she would think of what to tell him, but for now he was just Rogan.

“We can’t stay here forever, you know,” Netta said lazily one evening late in February. “Simone says they need you at Numéro Seize, and from the sound of it, I’m being robbed right and left back in Marseilles.” She sighed. “I’ve half a mind to give it all up and get married again.” She glanced at Poppy, curled up on the sofa, gazing into the glowing fire, with the baby asleep in his bassinet beside her. “What about you?”

“Give up Numéro Seize?” Poppy said wonderingly. “I can’t do that now, Netta, I have Rogan to think of. I have to make money to look after him. A boy needs good schools, a future. An inheritance.”

“I mean about marriage, not money.”

“Marriage?” Poppy looked at her in surprise. Netta knew how she felt about Franco. “You know I’ll never marry.”

“And why not? You could always fall in love again, if you’d let yourself.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied, angrily. “I’m ‘Madame Poppy.’ Who marries a woman like that?”

“Two of your girls have married,” countered Netta. “Solange married a prominent politician and now she’s a
grande dame
at all those cabinet dinners. And Belinda married a title.”

“He has a title and no money,” sighed Poppy. “Belinda will be back when he fails to provide her with the luxurious life she’s used to at Numéro Seize. That address blights you for life,” she added bitterly.

“Still, the house is yours now, since Franco gave you the deeds. And you have the farm, too,” Netta said. “You’re a rich woman, Poppy.”

Poppy supposed it was true; she was rich. She had accepted Franco’s gift of 16, rue des Arbres, and the Montespan farm, for Rogan’s sake. The properties were his security in case anything
should ever happen to her. Meanwhile she would continue with Numéro Seize because she still craved the comfort of great wealth. When she was
really
rich, she promised herself, then no one would hurt her. The rich never suffered, they never felt pain. They lived in cushioned isolation from the rest of the world, indulging their pleasures. Over the years, she had learned a lot about “the rich.” Meanwhile she kept on steadily buying her small properties here and there around the big cities in France, and even in Italy. Of course, they were worthless at the moment, but she still trusted Franco’s advice. She felt sure that one day they would make her the wealthiest woman in the world and she would have found a way to be happy without a man. And without love.

She waited another month until the baby was weaned and then she left him at Montespan in the tender care of a plump, motherly nurse who had already brought up two children of her own. “Rogan will never know about Numéro Seize,” she sobbed, as they drove back to Paris, “he’ll never know the truth about his mother!”

“Why not just give it all up?” Netta begged. “Leave it all and go home to your son, where you belong.”

“I can’t,” she said, wiping away the tears and sitting up straighter. “I need the money, Netta.”

The house looked as beautiful as she remembered it and her girls crowded around excitedly, glad to see her back. But, of course, neither they nor any of the customers at Numéro Seize knew about the baby.

Luchay screamed with delight at being back amid the noise and excitement and, worried that she had neglected him in favor of the baby, Poppy hurried to Cartier and commissioned them to make twin emerald and diamond circlets for his legs. “You are beautiful, my darling Luchay,” she whispered when he peered at them disdainfully. “Didn’t I tell you one day I would make you a Prince of Parrots?” She laughed. “This is only the beginning.
You
shall wear the jewels in this family, Luchay. I shall stick to my whore’s pearls.”

A few weeks later she returned after a happy day in the country with Rogan to find a letter waiting on her desk. It was in a plain cream envelope and addressed in a handwriting she didn’t recognize. But she was busy and it wasn’t until later in the evening that
she found time to open it. It was printed in bold black letters on plain cream paper, and she gasped as she read it.

It was the word
revenge
that stuck coldest at Poppy’s heart. She thought of her sweet baby, helpless and happy with his nanny at Montespan, and her instinct was to fly to him, to wrap her arms around him ready to protect him from any threat. She was being watched, the note said …. Panic swept over her suddenly.
Who
was watching her?
Who
hated her enough to do this?
Who
was evil and cruel enough?
And who knew?

It was no one here, she was sure of that. Only Simone and Netta knew the truth, and they were her friends. The only other person who knew about Greg was Franco. She still had no idea how he had got the information, but she knew he had it. Of course it wasn’t Franco. Then who was balckmailing her? Suddenly the face of the Dottore came to mind; she could see him as clearly as if he were there … the thin, goldrimmed spectacles reflecting back the light so you couldn’t see his eyes; the fine scar bisecting his cheek and tugging at the corner of this mouth where the damaged muscles had shrunk; his thin-lipped smile and smooth, high-pitched voice … The Dottore was close to Franco; it was possible that he could have got hold of the information about her … and what was it Franco had said about being betrayed?

She stared at the telephone. It had been over a year since she’d gone to Naples. Rogan had been born, time had moved on. Still, Franco had said if anything went wrong, if she ever needed him, she should call …

She glanced at the letter still clutched in her hand… “We are watching you,” it said tauntingly; “we will take our revenge …” And Rogan was alone at the farm with only the nurse and old Monsieur and Madame Joliot to save him.

Picking up the telephone, she called her bank and asked them to have ten thousand dollars ready for her by lunchtime. “In small denominations,” she told them, and no, she didn’t care what the exchange rate was, or how expensive it was to buy dollars with francs right now; she needed it today.

The approach to Luzy St. Pierre was tree-lined, making the gathering dusk even darker, as Poppy stopped the car opposite the old stables. With the black leather gladstone bag clutched in her hands, she stared nervously across the road. The stables had once belonged to an old
maison bourgeoise
that had burned down years ago and, like the rest of the outbuildings, they had simply been left to rot. The roof had been destroyed by years of winter gales and bad weather and now the walls were buckling alarmingly.

A faint aroma of horse still hung around the place as Poppy stepped through the mounds of straw and dead leaves, glancing fearfully over her shoulder. In the last of the daylight she could just make out the old iron manger. She put the bag hurriedly inside it and fled, twisting her ankle painfully on the treacherous overgrown path. Wrenching open the car door, she hurled herself inside, and half sobbing with fear, she switched on the ignition. Not daring to look back, she drove through the village of Luzy St. Pierre, heading home to her baby.

The nurse always kept Rogan up late on Friday nights so Poppy could see him before he went to bed, and he was waiting for her when she opened the door. He was wearing the little white rompers she’d bought him in Paris just last week and his blue eyes lit up when he saw her. His arms reached out and Poppy picked him up and crushed him to her. His tiny fingers tangled in her hair and he gurgled with delight and she knew without any doubt that there was one thing in her life that was more precious than money. Her son.

Luchay squawked loudly, as if reminding her, and Poppy laughed in relief. “You too, Luchay,” she called, “you, too, are more precious than gold.”

The next letter arrived on her desk exactly a month later. It was almost identical to the first.

Poppy thought of what to do; it seemed obvious that the demands were not going to stop. They weren’t satisfied with ten thousand, now they wanted twenty … and the more she gave, the more they would want. It was a never-ending cycle.

It was Thursday morning; she had until tomorrow night to act. Picking up the telephone, she requested the bank to have twenty thousand dollars ready for her the next day. Next she called the Hotel Bristol and booked a suite. She chose the Bristol because it was discreet and expensive and very proper, and she felt sure there would be no criminals staying at that hotel. Then she telephoned Montespan and asked the nurse to pack some things and bring Rogan to Paris. They should catch the three-fifteen from Orleans and a car would meet them at the station to take them to the hotel. She would meet them there.

It was a long time before she could bring herself to pick up the phone and call Franco and when she did, tears coursed silently down her cheecks.

“Poppy?” he said. She didn’t know why it was that just hearing his voice saying her name could bring back all the emotions she had thought buried, but she knew then there was no way she would ever stop loving him.

“Franco,” she whispered. “I hadn’t meant to call, but you said if I was ever in trouble …”

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he said sharply.

“It’s … I’m being blackmailed,” she said. “I don’t know what to do.”

She told him someone was threatening to tell Greg Konstant who she was, and where she was living, and also to expose their relationship. She had already paid ten thousand dollars and was about to pay another twenty.

“Don’t worry, Poppy,” he said, his voice sounding distant. “I’ll take care of it.”