Read The Property of a Lady Online
Authors: Elizabeth Adler
The Property of a Lady (72 page)
And then Michael raised his sword above his head and
smote Valentin, just the way his ancestors had done in battle.
Valentin fell like a stone at his feet. Genie ran and knelt beside him. She stroked his blond hair back from his brow and put her hand over the gaping wound in his neck, trying to stanch the blood that was pumping away his life. “Why, Valentin? Oh, why?” she whispered, agonized, as her tears fell onto his cold hands.
His gray eyes were calm as he looked at her. “It was all true,” he murmured, “I could never have killed you, Genie.” A faint smile curled the corners of his mouth and his breath rattled in his throat. And then the light went out from his eyes and she was looking at a dead man.
Cal was first down the steps in front of the police. The columned cisterns were now bathed in white halogen light. Some fool had pressed the wrong switch and the sounds of a Bach cantata echoed over the dark water. He looked at Arnhaldt’s body and then at Kazahn with the sword in his hands and the Russian dead at his feet. It was like a scene of vengeance from the Bible. He stared at Genie weeping over the body of Valentin Solovsky and he shook his head. In a black-and-white world, the good guys were alive and the bad guys were dead. And that was the way it should be. Putting his arm comfortingly around her, he led her back up the stairs to safety.
Maryland
It was a week later that Cal went to see Missie again. She knew what had happened but there was something else he had to tell her. And besides, he wanted to be with her when Genie went on television at six o’clock.
She was wearing a violet dress that matched her eyes. Her beautiful silver hair was immaculately upswept, and on the table beside her was the photograph of Misha Ivanoff.
She held out her hand to him and he brushed it with his lips as Nurse Milgrim bustled in with the Earl Grey tea.
“I hope you’re not going to be upsetting her any more,” the nurse said, standing by Missie’s chair ready to protect her if he said one word out of line.
“It’s all been said, Milgrim,” she replied calmly. “It’s all over now.”
“Just one more thing,” Cal said. “We picked up a report from the TASS news agency. It said that the wreckage of a small plane had been found off the Crimean coast. Moscow claims that the bodies of the two people on board have been identified as Major-General Boris Solovsky and his nephew Valentin. Their plane had been lost on a return flight from Ankara, where they had been on a diplomatic mission.”
Missie nodded sadly. “Why must they lie?”
“It was agreed that it was the most diplomatic ending to
the episode. Russia is embarrassed and has apologized to the Turkish government.”
“Poor Alexei,” she said, tears shining in her eyes. “He has lost his only son.”
“TASS also reported that Sergei Solovsky has resigned from his position in the Politburo and has retired with his wife to his country
dacha
. The Soviet people mourn for him in his sorrow.” He hesitated and added, “They are known to be a devoted couple, and we can only hope that they find comfort in each other.”
“I should have told Anna,” she said tiredly. “Maybe then none of this would have happened. Valentin would still be alive and Anna would not have suffered these terrible events.” She shook her head slowly. “I thought I was doing the best for her. I didn’t want to burden her with an old woman’s fears.”
“If it were not for you, Missie, America would have been on the losing scale in the balance of power.”
“It’s strange how the gypsy prophecy came true after all,” she said, half to herself. “She told me a great responsibility would fall on my shoulders, but I never knew quite how great until now.” She sighed. “And what about Ferdie Arnhaldt?”
“He was a megalomaniac, born into a family obsessed with their own power. First Eddie Arnhaldt wanted the mines because he was sick of paying Russia what he considered a ransom for the rights to them. I think he intended Azaylee to marry his son Augie as soon as she was old enough, and then no one could have disputed the Arnhaldts’ claim. But Ferdie went a step further in his madness. He was prepared to kill anyone who stood in his way. Including Genie.”
“Michael Kazahn saved her,” she said. “He is a reckless and very brave man—just like his father.”
“Genie tells me that the Kazahns want you to go and live with them in Turkey.”
She nodded. “Michael telephoned. He wants to send his
plane to fetch me; he has prepared a suite at his house, or I could have the
yali
and just sit and dream my days away on the terrace overlooking the Bosphorus. I can even take Nurse Milgrim if I want.”
“And?”
She laughed. “I’m too old now for such changes. I am happy here with the lawns and the trees and the mallards outside my window. And besides, I have Anna.”
Nurse Milgrim put her head around the door and said, “It’s almost six, Missie. Time for the program.”
Missie reached for the remote and switched on the television. There was an announcement and then the cameras switched to Genie, looking pale but attractive in a black dress and pearls, her blond hair pulled back into a velvet bow. Cal thought she still looked like a girl who would smell deliciously of Chanel No. 5, but she wasn’t the same person he had watched on TV last time. She was no longer the jaunty upwardly mobile girl reporter on her way to a great career and what she was saying bore no resemblance to the snappy “journalese” of her previous reports. There was a sad look in her blue eyes and a faint tremor in her voice as she began to speak, and it was obvious she cared deeply about what she was saying.
“This story began long ago,” she said quietly, “in a fairytale house called Varishnya, lived in by a fairy-tale family. The father was a handsome prince and the mother the most beautiful of all princesses, and they adored their two small children, Alexei and Xenia. And with them in this wonderful house lived their friend, a young English girl….”
America watched, spellbound, as she plotted the story, showing photographs of the beautiful Ivanoffs, careful to say how everyone, including the son, Alexei, had been murdered and the only ones to escape were Xenia and the grandmother with their friend, the young English girl.
Tears stood in Missie’s eyes as she heard Genie explaining
her own long, turbulent life and her efforts to protect their identity.
“And she succeeded,” Genie said, “until one foolhardy act brought the Ivanoffs back into the limelight. Suddenly everyone wanted to know who the ‘Lady’ selling the Ivanoff emerald was, and everyone wanted to find her. Because it seems those stories about the billions in the Swiss banks waiting to be claimed by the rightful heir were true. And there was one more thing the big nations wanted—the right to certain mines in Rajasthan that had been found to contain valuable deposits of strategic minerals.”
She paused, shuffling her notes, and then she looked directly into the camera and said, “I am the ‘Lady’ they were looking for. My real name is Anna Sofia Yevgenia Adair. My mother was the Xenia Ivanoff who escaped from the forest at Varishnya all those years ago.”
Cal glanced anxiously at Missie. She was leaning forward, chin in hand, listening intently as Genie told the story of Ava Adair and their lives. She went on to say that she had handed over the rights to the mines to the U. S. government and that with her billion-dollar inheritance she intended to set up a foundation to help the needy of the world, the refugees, the homeless, the starving children, as well as for education, and that she would be giving up her career in television to run it.
Missie gasped as Genie held up a photograph of her and said, “But it is not me to whom America owes a debt of gratitude. It is Missie O’Bryan, because if it were not for her, none of this would belong to our country. Missie O’Bryan Abrams is the true ‘Lady’ America should honor.”
The picture faded and the announcer thanked Genie and said there would be a discussion on the situation later that evening.
“So,” Cal said, switching off the set, “everything worked out all right, after all.” But Missie was staring silently at
the black screen, lost in her own dreams. He added cheerily, “Genie will be here soon. Why don’t we ask Nurse Milgrim for some tea while we wait?”
He pressed the bell and a few minutes later Nurse Milgrim appeared with a tray. She glanced doubtfully at Missie and then back to Cal.
“There’s no need to be angry with Cal,” Missie said quietly. “I’m just thinking about the past….”
He watched her silently as the minutes ticked by on her little mantel clock, so many minutes, such a long, eventful life. He knew now where Genie got her spirit. Missie O’Bryan, one of life’s great survivors, had taught her to meet the world head on and to follow her heart as well as her head.
He glanced up as the door opened and Genie’s sad eyes met his. His heart lurched as she smiled gamely at him, tilting her chin at the old arrogant angle.
“Okay?” she asked quietly.
“You were great,” he replied simply.
She walked over to Missie, and sinking to her knees, took her hand. They gazed at each other in silence and though neither one spoke, for a few moments Cal felt as if he were eavesdropping on their silent conversation. He knew they had no need for words.
Genie sighed as she rested her head on her “grandmother’s” knee, and Missie stroked her soft blond hair lovingly.
She looked at Genie and then at Cal, and then she picked up Misha’s photograph and looked at it for a long time.
“You know, Misha,” she said softly at last, “sometimes I wonder whether it was all true. Did I
really
love you, and did you
really
love me?”
She replaced the photograph with a sigh. “And sometimes I ask myself whether I based my whole life on the romantic dreams of a young girl.”
She sat back in her chair, her eyes closed, and Genie
stroked her hand gently. She knew what Missie was telling her. That the past was the past. And life was for living. Her glance locked with Cal’s—those lovely red-setter brown eyes—and she smiled.
Special Advance Preview
from Elizabeth Adler’s New Novel
Fortune Is a Woman
Available February 1992 from Delacorte Press
PROLOGUE
1937
When Lysandra’s grandfather, the Mandarin Lai Tsin, knew he had very little time left on this earth, he took her to visit Hong Kong. He was seventy years old, or maybe more, small and thin and very dignified with parchment skin, high cheekbones, and lacquer-black, almond-shaped eyes. Lysandra was seven, her golden hair spiraled past her shoulders in a thousand energetic curls. She had round, sapphire eyes and a delicate creamy complexion, but she didn’t think it strange that she belonged to him. He was Grandfather and she was Lysandra, it was as simple as that.
The journey from San Francisco took six days by flying boat with overnight stops at grand hotels in different cities en route and in that time he talked to her about his business and about China while Lysandra listened interestedly.
“I am an old man,” he said as the flying boat lifted sluggishly from Manila Bay on the last leg of its journey. “I shall not have the honor of knowing you on your long journey through life into womanhood. I am giving you everything you could wish for on this earth—riches, power, and success—in the hope that your life will be blessed with happiness. I have told you everything, Lysandra, with the exception of one Truth. This Truth is my secret. This Truth is written down and locked away in my private safe in my office in Hong Kong. Only if despair overtakes you and your path in life seems unclear must you read it. And if that day should come, Granddaughter, then I pray you will forgive
me and that my Truth will help you choose the right road to happiness.”
Lysandra nodded wonderingly; sometimes the Mandarin was very confusing, but she loved him so much that “truths” didn’t seem nearly as important as the fact that he had chosen her as his companion.
When they arrived in Hong Kong they drove immediately to the white, treasure-filled mansion overlooking Repulse Bay, where many soft-footed Chinese servants met them, exclaiming at the extraordinary blond hair and blue eyes of the child and the frailty of the old man.
After they had refreshed themselves with baths and food, the Mandarin called for his automobile, a long, elegant, jade-green Rolls-Royce, and drove with Lysandra to the Lai Tsin headquarters, a towering pillared building spanning the block between Queens and Des Voeux roads.
Taking the child by the hand, the Mandarin showed her the bronze lions flanking the entrance, the magnificent reception hall with the walls and floors paved in different colored marbles, the tall columns in his favorite malachite, the jade sculptures, the mosaics, and the carvings. Then he walked with her to each office, introducing her to every member of the staff from the lowliest cleaner to the highest taipan in the powerful Lai Tsin empire. Lysandra bowed respectfully to each one, saying nothing and listening carefully, as she had been instructed by her grandfather.
At the end of the day her eyes were blank with fatigue, but all was not yet finished. Ignoring his chauffeur the Mandarin summoned a rickshaw, and followed slowly by the elegant automobile, they jolted through the busy streets. The rickshaw man wound his way expertly through a labyrinth of narrow alleys to a seedy waterfront area, leaving the chauffeur and the car stranded far behind. Finally, after what seemed an eternity to the tired Lysandra, he stopped in front of a faded wooden shack roofed in corrugated tin. She looked questioningly at her grandfather as he stepped from the rickshaw and held out his hand to her.
“Come, little granddaughter,” he said calmly. “This is what I have brought you all this way to see. This is where the Lai Tsin fortune began.”
She held his hand tightly as he walked to the scarred wooden door, noticing that though it seemed flimsy, it was held by thick metal hinges and fastened with strong locks.
The structure had been shored up with bricks and repaired with newer wood and there were spiked metal grilles across the small, high-set windows.
“Only fire could destroy the Lai Tsin godown,” the Mandarin said, his soft voice full of confidence, “and that will never happen.” Lysandra knew he believed the old warehouse would never burn because the fortune-teller, whom he consulted every week, had told him long ago that though there would be fire, nothing of his would ever be harmed again.
The Mandarin rapped twice on the wooden door. After a few seconds there was the sound of strong bolts being drawn and the door was pulled slowly back. A smiling Chinese man of about forty years bowed low as he bid them enter.
“Honorable Father, please enter with Little Granddaughter,” he said in Chinese.
The Mandarin’s face lit with a smile as he embraced the man, then they stood back and looked searchingly at each other.
“It’s good to see you,” the Mandarin said, but from the sadness in his eyes they both knew it would be for the last time. “This is my son, Philip Chen,” he told Lysandra. “I call him my son because he came into our household when he was even younger than you. He was an orphan and still young and unformed and he became like my own child. Now he is my comprador. He takes care of all the Lai Tsin business here in Hong Kong and he is the only man in the world I trust.”
Lysandra’s blue eyes widened and she stared interestedly back at the man as the Mandarin took her hand and walked with her through the long, narrow warehouse. Its shelves were dusty and empty, lit by a single naked lightbulb swinging gently on the end of a long flex. Lysandra peered nervously into the shadowy corners, jumping back suddenly as her eyes met another’s; but it wasn’t the rat or fierce dragon she had been expecting, it was a young Chinese boy.
Philip Chen said proudly, “Sir, may I have the honor to present my son, Robert.”
The boy bowed low as the old man inspected him.
“When I last saw you, you were three years old,” the Mandarin said quietly, “and now you are ten—almost a young
man. Your eyes are steady and your brow is broad. You will do well to inherit the trust we place in your father.”
Lysandra stared curiously at him: he was small and stockily built with strongly muscled arms and legs and he was dressed western-style in cream twill shorts, a white shirt, and a gray blazer with a school crest on it. As the Mandarin turned away the boy’s curious eyes, half-hidden behind round wire spectacles, met hers for a long moment. Then he bowed formally and turned to follow his father and the Mandarin to the door.
“I was hoping to entertain you at my home,” Philip said sadly, “but you are so tired.”
“To see you for these few moments was enough,” Lai Tsin replied as Philip’s head rested for a moment against his shoulder in a farewell embrace. “So that I could thank you for being my good son. And to ask you to guard the Lai Tsin family and their businesses the way you have always done, even though I will not be here.”
“You have my word, Honorable Father.” Philip stepped back, his face stern with the strain of holding back his emotion.
“Then I can die in peace,” the Mandarin replied quietly, and taking Lysandra’s hand he walked slowly to the waiting rickshaw.
As they rode down the narrow street he commanded her to look back at the old wooden godown. “We must never forget our humble beginnings,” he told her softly. “If we forget, we may believe we are too clever, or too rich, or too important. And that would bring bad joss, bad luck to the family.”
A small treasure trove of gifts from the Mandarin’s many business associates awaited Lysandra back at the mansion on Repulse Bay. As she opened the packages, exclaiming with delight over perfect pearl necklaces and exquisitely carved jade figurines, silken robes, and painted fans, he cautioned her again. “Remember, the gifts are not because these people are your friends, but because you are a Lai Tsin.”
Many years later Lysandra had cause to remember his words.
At the end, when the Mandarin lay dying on a cool October day in San Francisco, only Francie, the beautiful western
woman known as his concubine, was allowed at his bedside. She bathed his fevered brow with cool cloths, held his hand and whispered words of comfort. He opened his eyes and gazed at her tenderly.
“You know what to do?” he whispered.
She nodded. “I know.”
A look of peace crossed his face and then he was gone.
The Mandarin Lai Tsin’s bones were not sent back to China to be buried with his ancestors, as was the custom. Instead, Francie hired a splendid white yacht, and decked it with festive red bunting, and, accompanied only by Lysandra and wearing beautiful white mourning clothes, she scattered his ashes far across San Francisco Bay.
It was what the Mandarin had wished.