Fortune Is a Woman - Elizabeth Adler [5]
Ah Fong, the Chinese houseboy who had been with Francie for more than twenty years, opened the door to Annie and told her that Francie was upstairs, comforting Lysandra.
“Tell her not to hurry. I’ll wait,” Annie said, crossing the hall to Francie’s small sitting room.
She poured herself a large brandy, took a seat, and glanced around appreciatively. There were three other large reception rooms in the house, as well as a library stocked with more than twenty thousand books, and the Mandarin’s study, which was as bare and austere as a monk’s cell. But Francie’s own small room was feminine and cosy. The paintings she had collected from all over the world jostled for space on the walls, a collection of precious white jade filled a tulipwood Sheraton display cabinet, and books and magazines spilled from shelves onto chairs and tables. The pale rugs were Turkish Ottoman Empire, the amber sofas were deep and draped with soft paisley throws, and the heavy gold-silk curtains were drawn against the cold misty San Francisco night.
She glanced up questioningly as the door opened and Francie came in.
“Lysandra is sleeping at last,” she said with a sigh. “She’s going to miss him, Annie.”
“Aren’t we all?” Annie said sadly. “And I can think of hundreds more who had cause to be grateful to him. He was a great man.”
She tossed the newspaper over to Francie. “Did you read this? It’s the Chronicle—but it’s the same in all the others.”
“I’ve read it.” Annie watched her anxiously; she looked calm and composed, but her beautiful heart-shaped face had lost its color and she noticed that Francie’s hand shook as she carefully folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. She thought Francie was still as lovely as the day she had met her; her blue eyes were dark with sadness, but they still had that same sapphire intensity of youth. Her long, smooth blond hair was swept up at the sides with sparkling jeweled combs and coiled into a chignon at the back, and her white fine-wool crepe dress emphasized her slender, graceful figure.
“Better have a glass of brandy,” Annie suggested, adding bluntly, “you look ill.”
Francie shrugged. Refusing the brandy, she sank back into the soft cushions of the sofa.
“I asked him not to leave his money to me,” she said. “I have more than enough, as well as this house and the ranch. There were many bequests, a substantial amount—ten million dollars—to the Chen family in Hong Kong, but he left the bulk of it to Lysandra. A personal fortune of three hundred million dollars and a business worth at least three times as much.” She fingered the single strand of enormous pearls at her neck worriedly. “The mansion on Repulse Bay and all his art treasures and priceless antiques were donated to Hong Kong as an art museum, with an endowment for future acquisitions. And, of course, the Mandarin Foundation is already autonomous.”
Annie looked at her, stunned. “I didn’t realize how much money he had. I mean I knew he was rich … but …”
“Oh, Annie,” Francie exclaimed, her blue eyes full of pain, “the sad thing is that it couldn’t buy him the things he really wanted. An education, culture—and acceptance. He was forced to get his learning from the streets and he acquired culture by his instinct for beauty. But he was never accepted. I blame myself for that. If it were not for me, then at least the Chinese would have accepted him.”
“That may be true, but San Francisco society never would. And that’s what he wanted. For your sake.”
Francie took a parchment scroll tied with red tape from the pretty little Empire desk by the window and as she unrolled it Annie saw the Lai Tsin chop, the great gold seal.
“He wrote his will himself in Chinese,” Francie told her. “I want you to hear what he says.”
The Mandarin had written each fine brushstroke of the Chinese characters as exquisitely precise as a miniature painting.