A Rather Lovely Inheritance

by C. A. Belmond

  I must have still looked surprised. “Why, darling, don’t tell me the apartment and the villa disappeared, too,” he said, faintly alarmed. “Together they were worth millions!”

  I had to reassure him that they were in the estate, divided among the heirs. I wasn’t ready yet to tell him we were fighting over the villa.

  “Good,” he said briskly. “I hope your legacy gives you a start in life. That’s all any of us ever really needs, if you’ve got a pleasant face and some brains.”

  He returned to the photographs. “So let’s see who else you’ve got in here on this lovely trip down Memory Boulevard,” he said. He paused and sighed at the sight of the dapper chauffeur posing in front of the car.

  “Oh, Giulio,” he trilled. “What a dreamboat he was! No wonder the girls squabbled over him!”

  “What girls?” I asked. Simon had raised the bottle of champagne over the bucket, allowing the melted ice to drip off it while he surveyed what was left inside the bottle.

  “Hmmm,” he said,“at this stage, I don’t see the point of corking up so little of it. Do you?” And he poured out the remaining champagne, going back and forth twice, into his glass and mine, so we’d get the same amount of the last of it. “What were we saying, Penny dear?”

  “You said some girls fought over this guy,” I reminded him.“What girls?” I thought he was going to tell me about the scullery maid or the butler’s daughter.

  He glanced at me in wicked amusement. “My dear, the girls. Les girls. Penelope and Beryl, of course.”

  “What!” I shrieked. I’d had some champagne too, after all. “Did you just say that my great-aunt and my grandmother fancied the chauffeur?”

  “Driver, dear, driver,” he said. “Only the petite bourgeoisie use the c-word. The answer is, hell yes. They fought tooth and nail over him. For a whole year they didn’t even speak to each other. Then the war came, of course—”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I commanded. “If you don’t start at the beginning I’ll scream.” He grinned.

  “You are so like her, after all,” he said. “Well, of course, darling. Giulio was an out-of-work actor not unlike yours truly here. Only if I may say so, I worked my little fanny off to make a modest little success of myself, whereas Giulio, being of a rather highly born family in Italy, was not so inclined to fighting it out in the rough-and-tumble streets day after day. We all thought he’d be the next Valentino. Alas, no. He was not the type to push, and an actor must push, you know. He was flat broke when we found him knocking about London, and we took him in and gave him a hot meal and a hot bath. Penelope had her sugar daddy paying for the car, the clothes, the villa, and any staff she cared to hire, so she clapped her hands like a fairy godmother and gave Giulio a job as her driver so that he wouldn’t starve.

  “It was a good thing, too, because as I said, Penelope hated driving in London. She was just beastly with start-and-stop traffic and lights and pedestrians, and she’d got into trouble one too many times with the London traffic cops. I mean, honestly, out on the open road she was just fine, but—well, anyway, she needed a good driver, and it was excellent cover once they embarked on their love affair. Nobody knew for years and years, not until her bratty little sister took it into her head to fancy him. Beryl was like that, you know. If you don’t mind my saying so, your grandmother was a bit of a dull gal when it came to improvising a life. All she wanted was whatever her sister had. If Penelope had a pair of gold sandals, why then, Beryl had to have a pair of gold sandals. If Penelope had dancing lessons, Beryl had to have them. Do you know that when Penelope came down with mumps, Beryl sulked for weeks and kept trying to catch them so that everybody would fuss over her, too?”

  I couldn’t suppress a giggle at the image of my sensible, stalwart grandmother once being a jealous young girl squabbling and competing with her older sister.

  “But of course, Giulio wasn’t in love with Beryl. He called her an infant, which didn’t go down well,” Simon explained. “However, being a macho sort of male, he couldn’t help being flattered by her attention, and that was all the encouragement she needed to keep it up. Honestly, it was ridiculous after awhile. So Penelope turned the tables on Beryl by flirting with that fellow that Beryl was engaged to and finally married—”

  “You mean Grandpa Nigel,” I said. This was matching what my mother told me.

  “Yes, I do,” Simon said, nodding gravely.“To show Beryl how silly she was being, Penelope pretended to fall for your gramps, but he took it rather seriously and the whole thing got out of hand. Then, as I said before you so rudely interrupted me ages ago, the war broke out, and everything went topsy-turvy.”

  “Why?” I asked. “What happened?”

  “Giulio got called up by the Italian army to go and fight with Mussolini,” Simon whispered, shuddering as if it had happened just yesterday. “Oh, the scenes! The intrigues! Should he go back to Italy? Should he stay in London and sign up with the Brits, and possibly shame his parents? He was their only child who survived—three other infants died at birth or from illness. Well, while he was deciding, Beryl made up his mind for him.”

  “Grandma? How?” I breathed, spellbound.

  “She blabbed to an English soldier and inadvertently reported him as an enemy alien,” Simon announced. “Revenge, darling. Sisters can be like that, you know. They seethe inside and then one day, bang! They take the first opportunity. Poor Giulio, he wasn’t a fascist, but what could he do? He had to leave England before they interned him in some awful jail. But Penelope surprised us all.We knew she adored him, we knew they were lovers, but what we didn’t know was that she really, truly loved the boy and was willing to go to Italy with him, can you imagine, when every British citizen was scurrying out of Italy on every last train, plane or hay-cart?”

  “What happened to them in Italy?” I asked.“When was this? What year?”

  “Oh, 1940. For a few weeks she seemed to just vanish. We were frantic, nobody knew where she was, alive or dead. Because”—here he paused triumphantly and significantly—“she drove into Italy in that car, my dear. That selfsame car. And when the time came, she drove herself right back out of there. How, I don’t know. I heard it was all pretty dicey. Giulio had to go into the Italian army. But his parents died before the war was over. They were old, and the stress, I’m sure, was too much for them. Giulio was reported missing in action, and it broke them, just broke them. Then Penelope got word he’d been killed. She was ready; he’d told her what to do if he died. She took the child back to London for the rest of the war.”

  I nearly dropped my teeth. “Child?” I said as calmly as possible. “Did Aunt Penelope have a child?”

  Simon looked taken aback. “Good God, of course not. She was much too careful for that sort of thing,” he said primly. “No, no. Giulio had a ten-year-old son by an American woman he’d met in Italy, long before he met Penelope. The American gal fell in love with him as only rich Americans can, and she had his baby. But then she didn’t want it. She acted like those people who go on vacation and buy a cat, but when it’s time to return home they simply sail off leaving the pet tied to a fence to starve. She wanted to give it to an orphanage. Giulio, of course, wouldn’t hear of it—family pride and all. So he kept it.

  “He adored the child, who lived mostly with Giulio’s parents in Italy but came to visit at Penelope’s house on the Riviera in the summertime. A beautiful boy he was, with lovely dark hair and blue eyes. Oh dear, what was his name? It will come. I used to bring him little chocolates, too, you’d think I’d remember. Getting old is a dreadful thing, my dear, try not to do it if you can possibly avoid it. I mean, the scientists must have come up with something in their wretched test tubes by now, mustn’t they? But for codgers like me, old age is the only way to go, considering there’s only one other, and fatal, alternative—”

  His teasing tone was meant to distract me, I knew, but I hung on with all my might to this story. “You were saying—the child’s name was—?”
I persisted.

  He snapped his fingers.“Domenico,” he said briskly.“That’s it. Everyone just naturally assumed he was a war orphan when Penelope brought him to London. She positively doted on him. Bought him a darling rocking-horse for Christmas, dressed him in good wool coats in the winter, made sure he got plenty of Italian food so he wouldn’t forget his papa. Ah, me,” Simon sighed, and this time there was no theatricality to the brightness in his eyes. “The war made heroes and fools of us all,” he said. He fell silent, remembering.

  And suddenly I thought of the map in Aunt Penelope’s car, and the little toy soldier I’d found on the floor. Something you might use to distract a child so he wouldn’t notice the grave danger he was in on a long road-trip getaway during a war.

  I had quietly hauled out my little chart of my family tree, and while Simon was talking, I began adding a branch down the middle for Aunt Penelope. It looked like this:

  I paused, but I had to ask. “What became of the little boy, Domenico?”

  Simon shook his head. “Oh, the American woman found out that she couldn’t have another child with her new American husband, so she tracked down Domenico to reclaim him and drag him back to the States. She had the money, clout, and bloodline to do so, I suppose, but certainly it wasn’t fair to poor Penelope. Just broke her heart all over again, like losing Giulio. Penelope tried to keep in direct contact with Giulio’s boy, but the Americans sent back all her letters to him unopened. Beasts. Anyway, we never saw Domenico again.

  “But Penelope had her spies, and she found out that Giulio’s little boy had grown up. Domenico married, and he ran a little grocery store with his wife, and he had a son of his own.”

  “What was the name of Domenico’s son?” I asked.

  “Now you’re really pushing my old gray matter,” Simon told me, screwing his eyes shut, recalling the name like a fortune-teller peering into the past. “Wait . . . wait . . . it’s coming . . . yes. Domenico’s son was called—Anthony. He actually came to live in London, and he fell in love with an English girl. But the poor boy.Then it was his turn for a war.Vietnam this time. Boys like him always say they won’t go, but in the end they go. Point of honor and all that, can’t let their country down. At least Tony managed to survive long enough to come back to England before he died, but all the same, his little English girlfriend was left stranded with his son.You see the way history really works, don’t you, dear? Men keep siring babies and getting killed in wars, and the women and children have to pick up the pieces.”

  I was scribbling rapidly to keep up with Simon, adding more names down the middle:

  I paused, waiting for the name of Anthony’s son. Simon wagged his finger at me.

  “Well, your auntie was a good soul, never forget that. Cleverer and more beautiful than anyone I’ve seen before or since. And she knew how to make a move, and when to make a move. She simply couldn’t sit still when she heard that Giulio’s great-grandchild was living in some wretched one-room flat in London, with a working mama.The English girl who worked in the theatrical agency . . . her name was . . . Sheila . . . she’d had a falling-out with her own fine family, you see, and they wanted her to put the baby up for adoption, but when she refused they just cut her off.”

  He drew his finger across his neck. “Penelope found out about it, and came up with the right solution, of course. She always did, with that fine mind of hers.”

  I had a strange sensation, as if the world had stopped spinning and everything was absolutely still, as if even the furniture was holding its breath, as I was. I was trying very hard to ask the right questions in the right way so that Simon wouldn’t suddenly wake up from his dream of the past and stop talking, when he was right at the point of telling me something I just had to know, yet, almost like déjà vu, had surely heard before.

  “So, what did Aunt Penelope do about it?” I asked quietly.

  Simon straightened up.“I was never so proud of her,” he said.“She just had that light, deft touch of bringing people together without looking as if she were half trying. It’s what made her such a brilliant hostess, and it never served her better. She had a little garden party, and her sister Beryl was there with her son, Peter. Well, Penelope invited Tony’s girlfriend, Sheila, and even loaned her a marvelous tea gown; and she got Sheila together with that dull nephew of hers, Peter; and there they were, getting to know each other over iced tea cakes. And soon enough, Peter proposed. Even so, Penelope had to have a little sit-down talk with Sheila, to convince her that it was in the baby’s best interest to accept Peter’s proposal, and that Tony’s child would be raised with all the advantages of a proper English gentleman . . .”

  He saw the look on my face then, and his eyes narrowed and his voice trailed off warily.

  “My dear girl, what a peculiar shade of pale green you’ve turned,” he said. “Are you about to become ill? You mustn’t do it here. This carpet was given me by an Arab prince—”

  He stopped joking when I didn’t laugh. I’d been with him all the way, but now I was doing a little remembering of my own. He noticed that I was writing, but he politely refrained from trying to peer at the chart.

  “What is it, darling?” he said gently.“Tell Uncle Simon and maybe he can help.”

  I recovered just slightly, enough to say quietly, “I think—I think I know him.Who you’re talking about.”

  “ ‘He who I am talking about?’ ” he repeated, puzzled.

  “The great-grandson of Aunt Penelope’s driver. I think I know his name,” I said in a whisper.

  “Wait, don’t tell me. I, unlike most people, am very good with names,” he said, as if trying to calm me down by making a game of it. “Let’s see, let’s see . . . the handsome Giulio Principe first; then his poor little boy, Domenico; then Domenico’s American son, Tony, who came to London and was smitten with an English girl—and they had a son who I heard of, but never met, called . . .” He paused. He glanced away, and it took him several seconds to remember.

  I’d already drawn the lines, which unexpectedly veered toward Aunt Sheila, connecting her with Anthony.Which then, astoundingly, connected with the last name on the chart:

  Then Simon remembered the name of Anthony’s son, snapped his fingers, and turned back to me triumphantly. When he did, we both spoke at the same time.

  “Jeremy,” we said together.

  Part Nine

  Chapter Twenty-five

  YOU WOULD THINK THAT HAVING SET MYSELF ON A HISTORY-DETECTIVE path researching my own family—I mean, this wasn’t just comfortable dusty stuff about Cleopatra or the Borgias or Pocahontas—you would think that as a sober young woman who’s stumbled onto, if not family skeletons in the closet, at least a few buried bones—well, you would think it would make me so utterly professional, so seriously focused, that I would abandon any previous vanities and keep my nose to the trail like a good bloodhound.

  Well, I didn’t. And there were two reasons why. Both involved the blinking light on my new answering machine the next morning, indicating phone calls that had come in while I’d gone out for my coffee. First there was a message from Erik, my boss. He sounded breathless.

  “Penny darling, it’s red-alert time,” he announced. “Paul’s been nosing around trying to find out what you’re up to. Naturally we fudged for you, said you stayed on in London to do ultra-valuable research. But that little twit producer, Sheri, who was following us around in Cannes, blabbed about your inheritance. Paul didn’t say anything, but you could just see the wheels turning. So, a word to the wise.As for us, we’re still in Spain, so you don’t have to call back. Love and kisses, darling. P.S., Are you rich yet? Hope so.”

  I didn’t feel the usual apprehensive pang in my gut; Paul’s image was fading fast in my mind. “Hell with Paul. I’m not a scared rabbit anymore,” I said aloud.The next phone call was from Jeremy, returning the message I’d left for him last night. He spoke in a short, dismissive business tone that I figured he used on clients that he was telling to go to
hell.

  “Penny. It’s Jeremy,” he said, sounding irritated that I wasn’t there. “Look. Severine called and said the earring isn’t especially valuable.

  I mean it’s not rubies. It’s made of paste,” he said, punching the word with scorn. “So that’s that,” he added flatly. “As for the stolen photo, well, let Rollo go chasing after fake rubies. Serves him right. Look, I have to go out of town for a few days. Harold will keep you apprised of any new developments.” Then, as if he realized what a skunk he was being, he added briefly, “Be well. Good-bye.”

  He might just as well have added, “So buzz off, you dumbo with your crazy theories.” I was understanding him better, though; I knew that I’d instilled some hope in his heart by suggesting that we would turn up something—the jewelry—that would erode Rollo’s claim to the villa.When you convince other people to believe in some dopey theory of yours promising that the sun will come out and everything will be fine, and later, when it doesn’t and it isn’t . . . they will turn on you, because you made a fool of them for having false hopes. Well, I would send Harold my assessment of Aunt Penelope’s London possessions, which totalled a bit higher than Rupert’s . . .and that would be that.

  However, I did have this new bombshell information about Great-Aunt Penelope’s lover and Jeremy’s own bloodlines, for God’s sake. So I immediately telephoned him back, and of course all I got was his answering machine.

  “Jeremy. Penny,” I said.“I found out something important that you should know about. So call me when you return.” I didn’t mean to be cryptic, but it wasn’t the sort of information you could leave in a machine message. Trying to be clear yet discreet is impossible, so you just hang up.

  Only, the nice thing about talking to someone’s answering machine from a place as lovely as Aunt Penelope’s apartment was that I felt like a movie star, sadly but dramatically hanging up a pretty telephone on a theatrical-looking boudoir table-and-mirror, all framed in white and gold. Even being upset in this environment was an improvement over my previous life, where the rat-trap surroundings only reinforced one’s sense of doom. Here, in this glamorous bedroom of a fabulous London house, I could sigh over my troubles like a heroine who’s still pretty sure that things will turn out all right in the end.