Across the piazza Signore Tarpetta watched. Someone brought him a chair so he could sit and rest his leg. The happy party of women did not care that he disapproved. He might think of himself as a padrone, but it was obvious to Phaedra that the women obeyed another power, and her name was Carmelita Messina.
Eventually the women drifted away, carrying their water and chatting excitedly with one another.
“Their men will return in the boats soon. They must cook the midday meal,” Carmelita explained.
Phaedra stood. “I thank you for joining us, so I could meet the women. I am going to walk down to that tower before I return to the villa.”
“I will come with you or you may not find the footpath that takes you there. If Tarpetta follows, pretend he is not there. He will be a fool to do so with that leg but such a man often proves he is stupid.”
He proved it today once more. Phaedra thought he had declined to follow until she and Carmelita were on the promontory’s footpath. Then she spied him limping onto the docks so he could keep an eye on them.
“How did he hurt his leg?” she asked.
Carmelita stepped through the portal, into the tower. “He was a soldier and among the ones who came for Julia’s husband at our house in Naples. He betrayed us. We fought them, although it was hopeless. I hit him with a heavy iron pan, here.” She pointed to her knee. “Better if I had aimed for his head.”
“So now he follows you everywhere?”
“He is following you, not me. But he hates me, because I was the one who made sure Signore Greenwood met Julia. She had nothing after her husband was executed as the republic fell.”
“If he is jealous he should hate Greenwood, not you.”
Carmelita led the way up winding stone stairs. “He dares not hate Greenwood. Like so many others, he grows fat from the Englishman’s money.”
They climbed up to the top of the tower where there was a square room. Small windows pierced each wall. One faced the sea and another gave a clear view of the mountainside.
“That one was where they stood watching the sea for Arabs or pirates who might attack the port,” Carmelita explained. “Now, this eastern one here—they watched for something else, no? An army coming over the hill, or trouble in the town.”
Phaedra looked out the western window. The view of the sea was endless, and miles of the coast on either side were visible. She moved to the eastern one. The sun hovered directly over the peak of the mountain.
This tower had been built for military reasons. During the dawns at midsummer, however, the sun might first appear directly in line with this window.
There was not much to explore in the guard’s room. The stone walls rose up and curved to form a ceiling, much like the old Norman churches back home. Aside from a blanket on the floor, it was empty and surprisingly clean.
Carmelita toed at the blanket and revealed the straw under it. “Lovers come here,” she said. “Down through the ages, this tower has had night visitors.”
When she and Carmelita emerged outside again, the straight, staunch figure of Signore Tarpetta could still be seen on the dock.
“How does he grow fat from Mr. Greenwood?”
“I do not know. He lives well, though, and other than a poor pension from the army he has no living. They know each other. One can tell from the way they acknowledge each other on the rare times you see them meet. Greenwood is probably paying him to see we do not interfere with his important friends, or maybe just to stay away from Julia.” She shrugged. “Now, let us find you a donkey boy. Even I will not walk all the way up to that villa.”
As they walked down the promontory, Lord Elliot appeared on the docks. Suddenly Signore Tarpetta’s arm and two men’s eyes were aimed at the promontory path.
Lord Elliot strode back down the dock and aimed north to intercept them.
“Who is that?” Carmelita asked. “Has your lover come for you?”
“He is not my lover.” Phaedra felt her face warming.
Carmelita laughed. “But he would like it, no? And he is so handsome you are tempted, I think. But see how stern he stands there, waiting for you. You had best watch your step with this one, Phaedra Blair.”
Phaedra introduced Carmelita once they reached Lord Elliot. He responded graciously but he could not hide his displeasure.
“You had us all worried, Miss Blair. It is not advised to walk into the town alone.” Lord Elliot’s tone edged near a scold.
“I doubt any harm will befall people who visit this town.”
Lord Elliot looked at Carmelita. “You have my gratitude that you offered Miss Blair your assistance and company.”
“I do not need either assistance or company,” Phaedra said. “I am glad to have made a friend, however, and I hope to see you again, Carmelita.”
Still tight with pique, Lord Elliot walked over to some donkey boys to hire their mounts.
“I will leave you now so that you can deal with this man,” Carmelita said. “If you need to borrow an iron pan, let me know.”
CHAPTER
NINE
I will write the letter to the superintendent this morning,” Matthias said. “Although the letters of introduction that you brought from England should suffice. I am perhaps vain in thinking mine will ease your access to the work sites more quickly.”
“You know him personally. I will be glad to have your letter.”
Elliot managed to keep half his mind on these preparations for his visit to Pompeii. The other half kept seeing the balcony hanging over the top of this loggia.
Last night Phaedra had left her doors open.
Had she done it as a dare? A statement of indifference? He only knew for certain that it had not been an invitation.
He smoked a long cigar out there during the night, looking at the dark beyond her open shutters, unable to resist the excruciating tease her proximity created. The only sounds from within had been the soft sighs of a contented woman sleeping too damnably well.
He had finally retreated to his own chamber in an attempt to thwart the ruthless impulses that she goaded. When sleep finally relieved him it had been deep and long and lasted past dawn. He had woken to discover Phaedra missing.
She had left the villa again. He had told her not to. After searching for her yesterday he had laid down a few laws. She had wasted no time disobeying them.
“If you would like, Miss Blair can remain here while you go to Pompeii,” Matthias said casually. Too casually, as if he comprehended what distracted his old student.
“She is determined to go herself.”
“She does not require your company to do that. It is apparent she vexes you. I could escort her, separately, to spare you the inconvenience. As for that business you told me about Sansoni, I am sure that he would accept my proxy authority should he even become aware of the switch.”
“I am sure he would not. I gave my sworn word. I am stuck with her for the duration.”
His word to Sansoni did not really have much to do with his refusal of Matthias’s solution. Nor, at this particular moment, did the need to control Phaedra’s plans for that memoir affect his decision. Not directly, at least, although it was all of one cloth. His vexation with Miss Blair had taken on other colors and shadows. He wanted to control much more than when and how she published a book.
“Since you are determined to keep her with you, allow me to suggest some inns that might be suitable for a respectable woman.” Matthias launched into a town by town litany of tourist facilities.
Toward the end of the recommendations Elliot’s attention was diverted to the hillside. Whitmarsh was hiking up from the town, his fair face flushed from the exertion.
“Too steep even for you, eh, Whitmarsh?” Matthias called. “No wonder you are so late returning from your morning exercise.”
Whitmarsh bent over, grasping his knees while he caught his breath. He waved Matthias into silence while he heaved. “Trouble…the town…tower…” Frustrated by his lungs’ refusal t
o work, he pointed down the hill.
Elliot and Matthias went to him. Elliot peered down. The town was alive with a lot of activity. He focused on the tower. A large group had collected at the promontory path.
Whitmarsh took several deep breaths, collecting himself. “That hill can kill you if you start out at a run.”
“Which is why you should not run,” Matthias said. “Why did you?”
Whitmarsh pointed again. “Miss Blair is down there, in that tower. They want to arrest her.”
She was going to be the death of him.
Elliot ran up to his chamber to fetch his pistol so that his exasperated reaction might not become a literal truth. He emerged to find Whitmarsh checking his own firearm.
“One wonders what she did,” Matthias mused as they headed down the hillside.
Elliot could only imagine.
“As best I can tell, they think she is a witch or something,” Whitmarsh said between deep inhales. He had not entirely recovered from his climb and descending carried its own strains.
“Hell,” Elliot muttered.
“Our duty is clear, gentlemen,” Matthias intoned. “We must not allow them to arrest her. What with that Sansoni fellow looking to make trouble the way you said, Rothwell, and the primitive notions of religion and justice in these parts, if they take hold of her, matters could get out of control.”
Elliot’s deep exhale had little to do with the rapid way they aimed down to the bay and tower. If Phaedra had not been so deliberately willful and had stayed in the villa, three men would not now be marching into trouble.
His anger proved a poor defense against the other reaction weighing like lead in his chest. This was not London, but an isolated hill town in a foreign land. Phaedra’s attire and behavior made her vulnerable. There was nothing comical about an accusation of witchcraft in this place. She was in real danger.
They reached the low lanes and cut through the piazza in front of the church of Santa Maria. Freshly painted and decorated wagons stood there, waiting for the morrow and the procession for the feast of San Giovanni.
Matthias led the way around the bay. A crowd of men blocked the path on the promontory. Not only the old and infirm formed this little mob. Some of the fishermen had decided the drama at the tower was more interesting than casting their nets in the sea.
Emotions ran high among the men. Guttural curses rang. Dark eyes flamed. Hands gestured everywhere. A well-dressed man stood in the center, his weight propped on a thick cane, exhorting his friends on.
Matthias cocked his head, listening, collecting evidence.
“She was seen at the window at dawn,” he muttered. “Praying to the rising sun, or something like that. Tarpetta, that lame fellow there, also watched her in the town yesterday, trying to corrupt the women. As far as I can make out, he is accusing her of sorcery, prostitution, and heresy.”
“Heresy?” Whitmarsh asked.
“Let us make our way to the front of this crowd,” Elliot said. “Whitmarsh, we should keep our weapons out of sight for now.”
With military postures they bumped their way through the men. Their presence did nothing to calm the situation.
A scene fit for an opera waited on the promontory. The men had massed at the town’s end because their way to the tower was blocked by a large group of women. The females were equally agitated and spoiling for a fight. Every one of them had taken off her kerchief or veil and let down her hair.
Carmelita Messina stood at the rear of the women, positioned as the last line of defense. Blonde hair streaming and black dress flying, she looked like a priestess to Phaedra Blair’s religion.
She held a large, shallow iron pan in her hand. She occasionally brandished her weapon in the direction of Tarpetta, who did not take the taunts with grace.
A lone man stood between the men and the women. The town priest held up his arms, one in each direction, as if he alone kept the two waves of anger from crashing against each other.
“It is certainly colorful,” Whitmarsh said dryly.
Unfortunately, it was also potentially dangerous. Elliot peered up at the tower. At the same time Phaedra peered out a high window. She noticed him. He tried to communicate reassurance.
“Let us see if we can sort this out peaceably, Greenwood,” Elliot said. He stepped boldly between the factions. With Matthias at his side, he approached the priest.
Greenwood chatted with the padre while the men’s anger warmed their ears. The news was not good.
“The sorcery charge is due to the ritual with the sun, on this of all days. It is the solstice, give or take a day,” Matthias reported. “The charge of prostitution is a general one. Her appearance, her presence alone in the town, etc., etc. Regrettably, the ladies’ support has only confirmed her corrupting influence in the minds of the men. There were, I gather, some odd conversations in the bedrooms of this town last night.”
“And the heresy?” Elliot asked.
“Miss Blair tried to explain the business with the sun in more detail than was wise. A dissertation on the commonalities among world religions was probably not in her best interests.”
Elliot imagined an accusation being relayed by the women to Carmelita and translated up to Phaedra. He pictured the lengthy explanation coming back through the chain, paragraph by long paragraph, stripped of any sense as it passed through each link until it arrived at the men. The wonder was the charge was heresy and not lunacy.
The priest was an elderly man, white-haired and soft-faced. The town’s abandon of order distressed him. He spoke to Matthias and joined his hands in an expression of prayer, rocking them to and fro to emphasize his pleading.
Elliot understood the priest well enough. “Tell him I am not leaving Miss Blair to the whims of a mob.”
“He is correct that our presence here in the middle is only inflaming matters, Rothwell,” Matthias said. “The men think we usurp their power and the women, well, they do not think good of any man at the moment.”
The last part was true. The women eyed him as the enemy. They threw out seething challenges that were undoubtedly rude insults. If he got past them, Carmelita of the Iron Pan waited.
He retreated, and pulled Matthias aside once they had squeezed past the men again. “I need to get to that tower to speak with her.”
“That tower was built for defense. There are only two ways to approach it. This spit of land and the sea.”
“Then I have to get there by sea.”
Phaedra peeked around the edge of the window. The stalemate below continued. Whenever the men seemed to lose interest in their siege, Signore Tarpetta urged them on.
Elliot and Mr. Greenwood and Mr. Whitmarsh had left. They probably expected this little conflagration to burn itself out. With the priest urging reason she would have expected it to as well. Unfortunately, she suspected this was not really about the odd Englishwoman in the tower this morning.
The lines were drawn about other things. Ancient practices and recent events fed this fire. She worried that the women would pay dearly in the days ahead for this orgy of rebellion, even if she herself was spared.
She hoped Carmelita would not pay with her own freedom. She admired the blonde woman waving her iron pan. Carmelita announced she was not defenseless with the gesture. She also made sure that Tarpetta remembered his own crimes and why she would not allow the town to yield to his power.
This was all his fault. He had seen her walking in the town at earliest dawn. He must have followed again, and watched her at the tower’s high eastern window when the sun crested the mountaintop.
The sun had moved a lot since then but the confrontation below refused to end.
She hurried over to the western window. Carmelita had called up a warning earlier to watch for an attack by sea. One boat had ventured nearby to assess that approach an hour ago, but she had thrown down loose stones from the building and discouraged them.
Another one approached now. It did not come from Positano’s docks.
Instead it aimed from the west, as if visitors from Capri were coming to see the Norman tower.
Three men stood in the bow of the boat while servants from the villa rowed. Elliot, Whitmarsh, and Greenwood had come to the rescue.
They brought their craft as close to the tower as possible. Mr. Whitmarsh waved. Mr. Greenwood called up to her. Elliot almost smiled, but his mouth never got past a hard, straight line.
“Now you see what I meant, Rothwell. If one could enter the tower easily from the sea, it would have been worthless to its purpose,” Greenwood said.
“It was a splendid day to row out, in any case,” Whitmarsh said. “It appears no one guessed we would double back. The docks remain empty.” He gazed up at her. “That window appears much farther up when one is this close. We brought some provisions, Miss Blair, but I doubt our plan to get them to you will work.”
A roar of shouts poured in the tower from the other side. Phaedra ran over and looked out. The men had moved much closer to the priest. The women huddled closer together.
She returned to the sea window.
Elliot bent and lifted a long rope and hook. “Stand back, Miss Blair. Move well into the tower. If I can get the hook in, secure it as best you can.”
“Lord Elliot, I do not think you will be able to—”
His glare silenced her. She moved to the other side of the tower.
Three times she heard the hard noise of metal hitting stone, then the heavy splash of the hook landing in the water. It did not appear their plan would work.
Suddenly the big iron hook appeared at the window. It hung in the air for a long moment, then began falling. One of its three hooks caught the sill of the window and held.
She ran over, unhooked its point, and moved it through the window until it bit deeply into the stones of the wall.
She looked out. All three men pulled on the rope to test its security. Satisfied, Lord Elliot jumped out of the boat and onto the strip of beach. Whitmarsh handed him two big baskets.
“Send up the food first,” she requested. “I have not had anything to eat today.”
“No doubt you thought the sun god could not be kept waiting.” Elliot worked on the basket’s handle. “When I was a disobedient child, I was sent to my chamber without supper. Perhaps a little hunger is in order for you today too.”
Lessons of Desire Page 11