A Rather Lovely Inheritance

by C. A. Belmond

  The only subdued-looking photos, actually, were of Grandmother’s wedding. Aunt Penelope was standing outside the front door of this very apartment, posing in a pale organdy gown, carrying a spray of roses and wearing the kind of hat that English girls wear to weddings. Only in these shots did she look a little dowdier and somewhat glum. Especially at the church, when she was glancing off-camera, looking as if her thoughts were miles away, even when she was posed next to Grandmother Beryl, who looked very solemn in a lovely white crocheted gown with a halo of white flowers and a spray of veil.Weddings weren’t so much fun for single people back then, either, I supposed.

  I flipped the page. It was fun to identify young Aunt Penelope in the familiar rooms in either this apartment or the villa.There were lots of landscape pictures of the seaside, too. I especially liked one with her in a white bathing suit, standing ankle-deep in the surf, smiling back at whoever was taking the picture. She looked happier in that setting, more relaxed.

  Then came a snapshot of her in a fancy-dress costume and positively loaded down with spectacular jewelry—an elaborate necklace that looked like diamonds and other precious stones, with matching drop earrings. Her costume was a Venetian masquerade ball gown of patterned brocade, with a golden firebird eye-mask on a stick that she held just away from her face. The dress was an off-the-shoulders affair with puffy sleeves, and she was sitting in a chair in the library, the one against the wall with a window on one side and a painting of a Madonna and Child on the other. Light coming in from the windows made her jewels sparkle.

  And lo and behold, in the very next photo, there she was in the car! The old Dragonetta currently rusting in the garage. Only here, it wasn’t old and rusty at all, it was new and shiny, and she was wearing a jaunty cloche and touring coat and gloves, but she wasn’t driving the car. She was sitting in the passenger seat, parked in that circular driveway at the villa.A dark-haired, uniformed chauffeur with a dashing little moustache and a lean, elegant physique was standing just outside the driver’s side, with his foot up on the running board, as if he were about to climb in the car and drive her off. There were lots of pictures of other men, especially an older guy with gray-black hair and a matching handlebar moustache. He showed up again and again, very well-dressed in dinner jackets, morning coats, silk top hat. He seemed older than the others in Great-Aunt Penelope’s crowd—a bit severe-looking, often holding in his well-manicured hands a plump, expensive-looking cigar, whose plume of smoke rose visibly alongside him, making him look sophisticated and mysterious.

  As I turned the pages I also found many photos of the elegant piano-player, who clowned a lot for the camera; he was slim, wiry, and a fastidious dresser. He was photographed in lots of exotic settings, wearing a wide-brimmed Asian hat in one, wearing a solar topee while sitting atop an elephant in another, and taking a touristy rickshaw ride in another.

  Then there seemed to be a gap in time, and voilà! Color photos appeared. Snapshots of my parents, looking young and newly wed. A few kiddie shots of me. And Jeremy with Uncle Peter and Aunt Sheila. The ladies had been exchanging photos for years and years. Then, later, a picture of Great-Aunt Penelope sitting in her library again, looking older, gray-haired and sadder, gazing back at the camera almost as if challenging it.

  Eventually the album ran out of pictures. But there were yellowed newspaper clippings that were truly astonishing—for apparently Great-Aunt Penelope had done a fair bit of acting in her time, in small theatres, and received some good, respectable notices on her performances, mostly singing and comedy bits. The newspaper had black-and-white reproductions of the framed picture on her boudoir table, so it must have been her publicity photo. The whole thing got me so excited that I felt a momentary pang of regret when the phone shrilled to interrupt me, even though it was the call I’d been waiting for from my mother.

  Harold had already beaten me to the punch about Jeremy’s real father, by e-mailing Dad’s lawyer. Mom told me that my father would join us in a minute, so I should wait for him to discuss the will. I was only too happy to quiz her about Aunt Penelope’s life, under the guise of trying to shed light on what I’d been sorting out here. I bubbled over with excited questions that she answered obligingly.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me Aunt Penelope had this great life and did all these things?” I rhapsodized.

  My mother was amused at my wild enthusiasm for Aunt Penelope’s world of the twenties and thirties, and she gamely tried to fill in the details when I peppered her with more questions. But her tone changed when I hit pay dirt.

  “It’s funny that she never married,” I said.“With all these fascinating men milling around her villa.Wasn’t she ever even engaged?”

  “Yes,” my mother said, pausing delicately.

  “Really?” I said, flipping the pages. “What was his name?”

  “Well, darling,” my mother said after hesitating again,“actually she was engaged to Grandpa Nigel.”

  “What?” I shouted. “Your father?”

  “But it was only for a week. Really, he lost his head momentarily. He and your Grandmother Beryl had already been courting for a year, so of course he married Mother.”

  “Ye gods,” I said. “You mean Grandma Beryl and Great-Aunt Penelope duked it out over—Grandpa?” It wasn’t possible. Mild-mannered Grandfather Nigel, in his moth-eaten blue cardigan, pottering around in the garden watering the petunias, falling asleep in his lawn chair after lunch?

  “Oh,Aunt Penelope was a terrible flirt in her day. She didn’t mean it seriously. She wanted to teach her little sister Beryl a lesson for flirting with her beau, and the whole thing got out of hand.They fought like cats, then didn’t speak to each other for a whole year, and after that it was tense for a time. Sisters can be like that, you know. But they reconciled and settled down. Well, Aunt Penelope never ‘settled,’ but she had a serious beau for years and years.”

  “Who?” I demanded.

  My mother sighed. “I remember one man in particular, because there was always a flurry when he was around.After all, he’s the reason Aunt Penelope got the money to buy all her nice things—the apartment, the villa, the clothes.”

  She stopped, as if that ended that.“What do you mean?” I prodded.

  “Oh, darling, you know,” she said evasively.

  “No, I don’t,” I said. I knew she had to be helped along. “Are you saying Aunt Penelope lived in sin with a rich guy or something?”

  “How funny you are, to talk about it in those old-fashioned words,” my mother said in that tone she uses when she implies that she can’t quite believe I’m her daughter because I’m being so tactless.“No, they never ‘lived together.’ People didn’t do that in those days, especially a man in his position. He was very important in politics, I think. Much older than her. He was married, I’m afraid, so they had to be discreet, but he took good care of her.”

  “Mom,” I said, “are you telling me now, after all these years, that Aunt Penelope was a ‘kept’ woman? I mean, took money to be a man’s mistress?”

  “Of course she didn’t take money!” my mother exclaimed. “But in her day, the hostess of an important man had a lot of power and responsibility—and expenses, which naturally he covered—to help him entertain famous people, you know, heads of state, influential businessmen and journalists, sought-after artists, musicians, scientists. Her house, her clothes, her table setting—all this must be done correctly.”

  “Ho-lee cow,” I said. “Was this guy famous in history?”

  “No. A financier, a behind-the-scenes man. I don’t even remember his name. Now stop being silly,” she said.“Remember, it was a different era then. And the wars meant dreadful shortages of food, fuel . . . and men.Women worked, but they didn’t necessarily have ‘careers’ like now, and they still needed financial and social protection from men.”

  “Hey, I bet I know who he was!” I shrieked, flipping the pages of the book back. The older man with the handlebar moustache. The one who looked so
sure of himself. I described him to my mother and she said it sounded right.

  “It’s odd,” my mother mused. “I thought she’d sold that villa years ago. In fact, I always got the impression that she’d spent all her money. Looks like she managed it rather well. Ah, here’s your father now,” she said pleasantly, as if we’d been having an ordinary old boring chat about the weather.

  My father was in a business mode today, having dug out his royalty files and publishing contracts to have lunch with his publisher, so he was less interested in Great-Aunt Penelope’s love life and more concerned about what was going on with the will.And I, after all, was the only one who’d talked face-to-face with Jeremy’s mother. I explained all about how Rollo had dug up the truth about Jeremy.

  “That Rollo is a bad apple,” my father said unexpectedly. This surprised me. It wasn’t like him to criticize his in-laws, or anybody, for that matter. He generally had a live-and-let-live attitude.

  “What does he do for a living?” I asked.There was a pause.

  “Nothing,” my mother said. “Well, he’s a collector. He buys and sells antiques.”

  My father coughed. “Whether they belong to him or not.”

  “Well,” my mother said quickly, “that can be a hazard of the trade. They can’t always authenticate things . . .”

  “You mean, stolen stuff?” I demanded.

  “It wasn’t exactly stolen. It’s just that they couldn’t trace the ownership all the way, and it only happened once, and he gave it back as soon as he found out,” my mother amended. “It happens to museums all the time.”

  “I didn’t know what to make of him,” I admitted. “Sometimes he seems sinister, and sometimes he seems vulnerable and a little pathetic.”

  “He’s all of that, I’m afraid,” my mother said. “Just be diplomatic with him.” When I described that whole scene at the villa, they tsk-tsked about Rollo’s shenanigans. They fell silent when I told them what Aunt Sheila had confessed.Then they asked careful, circumspect questions. My father kept saying about Jeremy, “Poor boy. Poor boy, what a shock.”

  Something suddenly occurred to me now. “Mom,” I said slowly, “Jeremy was born before Aunt Sheila and Uncle Peter got married. How come you never told me that?”

  My mother cleared her throat, and under her usual vague tone I detected a guilty note. “Oh, darling, I was in New York when Peter told me they’d eloped, with only a few friends at the ceremony, since she was so estranged from her family. He was always fuzzy about the date, so I suspected they’d had the child before they married. To be honest, I was rather pleased that my stodgy brother had done something romantic for once in his life.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Parents seem so nice and dull, but then it turns out that they’ve been harboring the most astonishing secrets, which you find out about only by accident.

  “Now, Penny,” my mother said, “you must let Jeremy know that we don’t care a fig about such nonsense, that he is still one of us and we will help him fight to get what Aunt Penelope wanted him to have. You must go out of your way to let him know that all this makes no difference to us whatsoever.”

  “But you must also expect it to make a great deal of difference to him,” my father warned. “It’s only natural.”

  “Okay,” I said, then added daringly, “I’m thinking of staying on here in London awhile longer. In Aunt Penelope’s flat. At least until this will business gets a little more sorted out.”

  I explained that I could keep working from here. My parents listened attentively and exclaimed that they thought it was an excellent idea. My father then asked me when I’d last spoken to Jeremy, and I said, rather awkwardly, that he wasn’t taking my calls.

  “Keep trying, dear,” my mother counseled.

  After we hung up I carried the photo album into the kitchen with me. I made some hot cocoa, which always helps me sleep, and I took it and the album into the library, where I sat on the sofa and had another look at Aunt Penelope’s sugar daddy—the older man with the handlebar moustache and the proud look of a dignitary. Yes, he looked like the kind of man who would use money and influence to solve most of life’s problems.

  But now I felt less inclined to envy the dead. They had become too real, I suppose. I felt strangely excited and yet scared somehow. This business of dabbling in another person’s life was fine when it was just history, but when it was somebody you were related to, it was a lot more intense. I wanted to be with someone young and alive, as I was.

  I dialed Jeremy’s number again, and got the same message.And still the same feeling that he was at home, listening. I tried to sound patient and sympathetic, as instructed by my parents. “Jeremy, it’s Penny,” I said. “Please call me. I’m staying on here in London. And I spoke to my parents.We’re all on your side. Let’s fight this fight together.” Since it sounded so dumb, I ended my message there.

  He didn’t call that night. I put the album away and climbed into bed, but I was still too wide-awake, and I tossed around for hours, waiting to fall asleep.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE NEXT DAY DAWNED ONE OF THOSE MISTY MORNINGS THAT LONDON is famous for, chilly enough to make you wear layers of clothes even though it’s summer. I put on my raincoat, took one of Aunt Penelope’s umbrellas from the umbrella bin in the hallway, and set out. I’d found a cute little café not far from the apartment, where the coffee was spectacular. But no matter how early you arrived the tables were always occupied, so I picked up a cup-to-go and a croissant. These I brought home, planning to eat while reading the newspaper.

  I was already becoming accustomed to the fact that there never seemed to be anybody else out walking on this lovely, tree-lined street. Yet whenever I went out I had the strange feeling that somebody was watching me, even though I saw no one, not even at the windows.

  Upon my return I charged right over to the answering machine I’d installed, hoping to find a blinking light indicating that Jeremy had finally returned my call. But there was nothing. I began to feel truly annoyed. Common courtesy and all that. I sat at the kitchen table and chewed, feeling lonely for the first time. I wished Erik and Tim were around. London would be fun with them. But the coffee revived me, so, feeling very brisk, I decided that I would spend the morning at the library.

  The doorbell rang, and I rushed to it, thinking it might, after all, be Jeremy popping in for the moral support I’d promised him in my last message. But it was the cleaning lady Rupert told me about. I’d forgotten about her, but there she stood on the doorstep, smiling expectantly.

  “Pleased to meet you, miss,” she said. “I’m Elsie.” She was small and neat, with light brown hair held back by a black band, and twinkly hazel eyes behind wire-rimmed eyeglasses. “Your great-aunt was a marvelous person, and she will be missed by all who knew her,” she assured me.

  Then, when she was certain that I still wanted her to continue working here, she set about, very businesslike, as a person who knew this apartment better than I did. She told me that she had a key, but did not want to use it unless she had permission from me. I told her that was fine, yet I hesitated about leaving her alone this first time. I tentatively mentioned that I was on my way out, and she said encouragingly, “Have a good day, miss.”

  When I returned it was past noon and raining lightly. I was preoccupied with my research, so I came in quietly. Elsie was in the bathroom, running water to clean the tub, and humming to herself. So I did not notice the man who was sitting in one of the wing chairs in the library until he spoke and nearly scared the daylights out of me.

  “Penelope, hel-lo,” he said, rose and came loping purposefully toward me. It was Rollo. His clothes were expensive, yet they had a shark-like sheen to them, the kind that crooked politicians, arms dealers, and other dubious moneymen wear. But he also had a rumpled, sad-sack, slightly alcoholic quality that made him seem like a stray dog scrounging for scraps. His eyes had those great pouchy bags under them. He was carrying a large bouquet of flowers, like an anxious
suitor.

  “Mum asked me to pay a call,” he said, holding out the flowers to me.Twelve beautiful pale pink roses, the antique kind that are so hard to get now, delicately fragrant.“Your charwoman was good enough to let me in out of the rain.”

  Elsie in fact appeared right now in the hallway and took the flowers from me, to put them in a vase. “I’ll be off, dearie,” she said. I followed her to the kitchen and asked what the “payment arrangements” were, and she smiled and said, “End of the month, love.”

  I returned to the library, where Rollo was comfortably ensconced in the wing chair again. I wondered how on earth I would dislodge him. But I was mindful of my mother’s advice to be diplomatic, especially when he winked and said, “So you’re occupying the apartment already, eh? Don’t worry, darling. We don’t mind in the least. But Penny, dear,” he said pleadingly, “Mum and I don’t live far from here. Won’t you please stop in and say hello to her? I’ll explain that you’re in a tearing hurry.Then it’s over and done, and you won’t have the visit hanging over your head, filling you with dread.” He lowered his voice. “My life will be a living hell if I can’t convince you,” he confided.

  “Do you promise to stay out of my garage over there in Antibes?” I said a trifle tartly. He stared at me at first, then decided it was a joke and guffawed.

  “Ah, certainly, darling. Don’t hold that against old Rollo,” he said with a wink.

  “Good,” I said, making a mental note to tell Elsie never to let anyone in again. But she had already gone out.The main thing was to get Rollo out of the apartment.Then I could make my excuses. I picked up my jacket and put it on again. He followed me out.

  An elderly couple was coming up the steps, nodding politely to me as if they knew who I was, but giving Rollo a doubtful look as they passed. I didn’t want to stand there and have an argument with Rollo about going to see his mum, under the watchful eyes of people who lived in the building.Yet I felt like a teenage girl who desperately doesn’t want her neighbors to think that the guy she’s with is her date. Rollo took advantage of my embarrassment, quickly seized me by the elbow rather roughly, with a surprisingly firm grip, and speedily propelled me into the backseat of a waiting silver car parked at the curb.