Shadow of a Lady

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “Has anything happened?” Helen asked Sir William.

  “A few more arrests.” He did not pretend not to understand her, and she was grateful to him. “And no one released. Nor any chance of it for some time, I am afraid. But rely on me to do my very best, when I can, Lady Merritt.”

  “Thank you.” It was as much or more than she could have hoped for.

  “Lady Hamilton spoke to me,” he went on. “She has the softest heart in the world, and, I sometimes think, the best understanding. She told me to give you her kindest love, and tell you she too would do what she could, when she could.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Helen was dangerously near to tears. “Tell her—oh, give her my best love, and thanks.”

  “Interesting about that volcano.” Sir William tactfully changed the subject. “Wouldn’t you say there was more smoke than usual, Merritt?”

  “Can’t say I’ve noticed it much,” said Lord Merritt. “Always look the other way myself.”

  “I’ve thought so ever since we arrived,” said Helen. “Sir William, you don’t think there’s going to be an eruption, do you?”

  “Oh no, nothing of the kind.” He was quick to reassure her. “Just a little extra activity; maybe something to do with the spring equinox. There’s no accounting for the habits of volcanoes, though I find it one of my greatest pleasures to try to do so.”

  Helen, who knew that he had written several learned papers on the subject for the Royal Society, of which he was a Fellow, was only partly reassured. “But you do think there is more smoke?” She pressed him.

  “A little more than usual, perhaps, but nothing like what there was before the eruptions in sixty-nine and seventy-nine,” said Sir William. “I shall make you my assistant, Lady Merritt, and ask you to keep notes of any activity you see. If the plume of smoke were to double itself, or if there were any great expulsion of stones, then I would suggest that you pack up and come back to Naples. But best of all, send for me, and I will come and advise you. There will be no need, I am sure; but I would really be grateful if you would keep daily notes for me. They would be a blessing for my next paper, and you are ideally situated out here.”

  “I hope ‘ideally’ turns out to be the word,” said Helen dryly, but Sir William contrived to leave them both very much reassured. After all, he should know what he was talking about. Luckily for their peace of mind, they did not hear him when he turned to Lord Merritt in the carriage as it drove away. “We must watch that volcano,” he said. “Frankly, I don’t altogether like the look of it. At the first alarm you must be sure and get Lady Merritt back to Naples. I have always thought Torre del Greco a dangerous site, and am only sorry I did not have the chance to advise you before you took that house. Though it’s charming, of course,” said the old diplomat, “quite charming.”

  “Country air. Just the thing. But could move them back, if you think so.”

  “Oh, no need for that,” said Sir William, the diplomat again prevailing. “I really think the ladies are better out of Naples for a while. And if Lady Merritt sends me out weekly bulletins I asked for, I shall have plenty of warning if there should be trouble.”

  “Good.” Lord Merritt was delighted to put the whole vexatious business out of his mind. He did not admit, even to himself, what a relief he found it to be back once more in his comfortable bachelor existence, with Price as an admirable substitute for Trenche. He would certainly do nothing unnecessary to hurry the two girls’ return, though naturally he would not dream of leaving them exposed to danger.

  In fact, Helen was soon able to convince herself that there was no cause for anxiety. Had she and Sir William imagined that extra large plume of smoke? Keeping a meticulous daily journal for him, she found herself noting, every day, the same occasional clouds shaped like little trees. The weather was calm and dry, and she felt wonderfully placid. Since the moment when she had felt the burden she carried stir to life inside her, everything had been changed. Now she knew that she had been right in what she had done. Whatever happened to her, the child must come first. She was sitting on the terrace overlooking the inlet one fine June morning when Charlotte joined her with a hurriedly opened note in her hand. “What’s the matter?” Helen asked. “Not bad news from Naples?”

  “Not exactly.” But Charlotte was obviously in a state of suppressed emotion. “It’s—oh, Helen, could you possibly manage without me for a couple of days?”

  “Without you? What in the world do you mean? What’s happened? Who’s that from?”

  Charlotte, who had been white, flushed crimson. “It’s—it’s Captain Forbes.” She said it as if it explained everything.

  “Captain?” asked Helen. And then, her amazement mounting, “You correspond with him?”

  “Never before. Believe me, Helen. But”—her colour was higher than ever—“he did say something, just before we left the Trojan. If ever his prospects improved, he said . . . Helen, forgive me for not telling you, but it seemed so uncertain . . .”

  “And now he’s a captain?”

  “Yes, he was made after the evacuation of Toulon. You must have missed it in the Gazette. He went home with dispatches . . . Not good news, of course, but his part in it was gallant. He’s got his own command now, the smallest ship in the fleet, he says, and—he’s in Naples for two days.”

  “He should come here.” But Helen knew it for impossible.

  “He can’t leave his command. He writes that Lady Hamilton invites me to stay. He begs me to come. Helen, you’d have Rose?”

  “And no carriage,” said Helen.

  “Oh.” Charlotte had not thought of this. “But I’ll send it back directly. Lady Hamilton will send me home in one of hers when . . . when he’s gone.”

  Her tone more than her words told Helen how important this was to her. She looked up at the sky. “Plenty of time for you to drive in today,” she said. “And if you send the carriage back first thing in the morning . . . ”

  Charlotte bent swiftly to kiss her. “Bless you . . . I’ll never forget . . . He’s ordered to the Channel Station. Anything may happen. We might never meet again. But at least I’ll have had this.”

  “Yes.” Helen was beginning to think that the “something” Captain Forbes had said must have been something indeed. “You’re sure?” she felt she must ask it. “I mean—going in like this—it’s as good as a declaration.”

  “That’s what I want,” said Charlotte simply. “And,” she looked down at the note in her hand and flushed again, “so does he.”

  “Then I’m so happy for you.” Helen stood up to return the kiss warmly. “I always liked Mr. Forbes. But, Charlotte, you won’t do anything rash, will you?”

  “You mean m . . . m . . . m . . .” It was the first time Charlotte had stammered in the whole conversation. Then, surprisingly, she laughed. “You’re a fine one to talk, Helen, but no, I promise I won’t marry him on the spot.” Her face clouded. “He’s got nothing but his profession. If peace should come, my mother’s influence might be all important. We can’t afford to alienate her. His family’s as good as ours.” Proudly. “As if I cared.”

  “But your mother will.”

  “Yes. I thought I’d give him a letter for her. In case he gets sent home . . . And write myself, of course. And, Helen, will you?”

  “Yes, dear, of course I will. When you get back, we’ll think it out together.” Odd to realise that as Lady Merritt she had, inevitably, an influence with Mrs. Standish that she could never have dreamed of as Helen Telfair. If Mrs. Standish had forgiven her for being Lady Merritt. There had been no mail from England since the news of her marriage, so she had still no idea of how it had been received. But the air was getting cooler. “You’d best pack, love, and be off. I expect he’s waiting for you at Lady Hamilton’s.”

  “That’s what he says. Oh, Helen, I’m so happy.”

  “And I’m so happy for you.” But alone on the terrace, after Charlotte had gone glowing and sparkling off in the carriage, it was hard to
be happy for herself.

  It was very strange to be alone at Torre del Greco. What had been peace and quietness in Charlotte’s company was now plain, bleak loneliness, and she actually found herself regretting that in the end she had insisted on Charlotte’s taking Rose with her. It had seemed essential at the time. Mrs. Standish would be angry enough over the engagement to Forbes. It must at least be entered into with the fullest possibly ceremony. Besides, she herself would not altogether have liked the idea of Charlotte’s driving into Naples with only Italian servants.

  But she found she did not much like being alone at Torre del Greco with them either. Was she imagining things, or was there a feeling of tension in the house tonight? Certainly her light supper was served with unusual promptness, and she had hardly risen from the table when she heard the group of servants from the village saying good night to the couple who slept in. All imagination, of course. Very likely there was some local celebration in the village, one of those saint’s days she had never heard of, and they were eager to be off to it. But their voices, dying away through the trees, sounded subdued.

  Maria, the cook, came in to ask if there were any further orders, and Helen found herself on the verge of some foolish question, but bit it back. “I shall go to bed early,” she said instead. “Light the lamp upstairs, Maria, and then that will be all.”

  Bed was what she had wanted. It had been a long day and it was no use pretending that she did not get extra tired these days. Her mind kept harking back to Charlotte and Mr. Forbes—Captain Forbes new, she reminded herself. Strange to think that there had been times in Naples when she had thought Scroope showed signs of caring for Charlotte, had actually suffered, and been ashamed of, pangs of jealousy on that account. Horrible. She blew out the lamp and made herself lie quiet in bed, courting sleep, trying to forget everything but the child she carried. Suddenly, she was sitting up, sweating with fright. The whole bed had moved under her. Not imagination, but earthquake, which, she knew, was often the herald of an eruption. And now a red glow lit up the ceiling. She fumbled her way out of bed and to the window. Yes, it was indeed Vesuvius, its plume of smoke turned to fire, and the whole landscape strangely illuminated. As she watched, a fountain of fire and one vast fireball shot out of the central cone. The noise was as horrifying as the flames and brought with it shivering memories of the Trojan’s gunfire that disastrous day in December. But this was no time for wretched memory: she must decide what to do.

  What could she do? She had no carriage, not even a horse, nor was there any to be had in the village. She had been mad to let Charlotte go, but there it was. Nothing for it but to say a childish prayer, get the best night’s sleep she could, and wait for rescue in the morning. Would the servants come back, she wondered. No doubt they had read the signs early in the day; hence their hurry to get home. But the village was nearer the volcano than the villa. And, besides, it was to the villa that rescue would come. She fought down the temptation to go and make sure that Maria and her husband were safe in their quarters at the back of the house. To do so would only add to their terror, and very likely precipitate a flight that might be avoided.

  There was absolutely nothing she could do. She got back into bed, thought, or imagined, that the light had dwindled, and at last, fitfully, slept. Waking, her first anxious thought was for the volcano. Hurrying to the window, she was relieved to see no flame. The whole top of Vesuvius was hidden by thick mist, and she told herself that she must write a note to Sir William about this. It was a strange morning. The sun had a curious dark reddish look, doubtless due to the mist, and there was an unusual chill in the air.

  She wrapped herself in the swansdown negligee her husband had bought her, and called down for Maria, and breakfast.

  No reassurance here. Maria appeared with stale rolls, watery coffee, and the news that none of the other servants had returned from the village. “The wells have dried up,” she broke out with it at last, “and the great fountain hardly flows. They will stay home today and look after their own. When the carriage comes back, the signora had best make haste to Naples.”

  But the carriage did not come back. All that day, the fifteenth of June, Helen watched and waited and tried to make herself stay calm for her child’s sake. Inevitably, as time passed, anxiety for Charlotte was added to that for herself. Had some disaster struck her on the way into Naples? It was all too easy to imagine an attack by panic-stricken peasants; the invaluable horses carried off; and Charlotte . . . what might not have happened to Charlotte?

  From time to time, the house shook with a fresh earthquake, and Helen tried to remember what Sir William had told her about these. Were they an alternative to an eruption, or its precursors? Maria, bringing a plate of cold spaghetti for her lunch, reported that an immense stone had fallen through the roof of one of the stables, and followed up this news with an ultimatum. “Angelo says we must go, signora. His mother is alone in the village. The church bells have been ringing all day. He says when you have eaten, we go. Will you come, or wait for the carriage here? Our house is on the other side of the village, away from the carriage road.”

  “How far?”

  “Half an hour. Maybe more for the signora. The path from the village is steep and not easy.”

  Helen remembered the rough road from village to villa and her heart sank. If the path was worse than that . . . Besides, she was surely safest here, where her husband would look for her.

  And if Charlotte had not reached Naples, for whatever reason, she must be here so that no time would be lost in sending out search parties for her. “I shall stay here, Maria,” she said. “Is there food in the house?”

  “Si, si,” Maria launched into a long catalogue, growing more unintelligible by the moment as her dialect broadened with fright and hurry.

  Impossible to eat the unappetising spaghetti, with the old woman standing over her, jabbering. Helen pushed away the plate. “Go now, you and your husband,” she said. “I will eat this later. Just now I feel sick.” It was true enough; the nausea that had passed with the third month had returned with a vengeance.

  “Si,” Maria nodded her head vehemently. “For the bambino’s sake it is best the signora stay here . . . Who knows, a stumble on the rough path to my mother’s house . . . ” She gasped with fright as a new tremor shook the house. Helen, looking beyond her to the window, saw the darkening sky rent with what looked like lightning.

  “You’d best go at once,” she said. “Tell the head man in your village, as you go through, that I am here.”

  “Si, si.” But Helen thought that in her eagerness to get away the woman would have promised anything. She made a point of going out to the servants’ quarters to say good-bye to Angelo and reiterate her request to him, but got the same eager, unconvincing reply.

  As they hurried away up the rough road to the village, Helen wondered if she had added one more to her chapter of mistakes. But what else could she have done? Watching the ruthless pace that Angelo set, with Maria stumbling after him, she knew that in her condition she could not possibly have kept up with them, and knew, too, that they would not have waited for her. Better, surely, to be here, in her own house, than out there, left behind, alone in the rapidly gathering darkness. The lightning had stopped for the moment, and the whole sky was dominated by the huge, mushroom-shaped cloud that hung over Vesuvius.

  Shadows crept out from the corner of the room. Soon it would be dark indeed. She made herself go out to the servants’ quarters and found, as she had expected, that nothing had been done about replacing the working candles she and Charlotte used. For a horrible moment, she thought the supply had been exhausted, then remembered that Rose, exclaiming over the predatory habits of Italian servants, had locked up an invaluable pound of the best candles in a cupboard. And, looking for it, she now realised that something Angelo had kept hidden under his ragged cloak must have been the windproof candle-lantern that Sir William had given her, but at least an old-fashioned substitute hung from a hook on the
wall. If she needed to move around in the dark, this would have to do. But much better not. It was getting darker all the time. No more hope of rescue today. And now, at last, she was hungry. She would eat something, take a book, tinderbox, and a branch of candles to bed with her, and hope for the best. Wryly she remembered all those times on the Trojan when she had thought she would give anything to be alone; thought too, suddenly, of something else.

  It was something Maria had said. The risk to the “bambino” of the rough walk to her mother-in-law’s house. Here, if she only survived, was her reason, ready-made, for what she must call a premature birth. It was June now, and only she and her husband knew that the child was due to be born in September. And if she did not survive, nothing would matter at all. It was curiously steadying to think like this, and she turned with a will to the question of food. More than anything, she longed for some of Maria’s good hot soup. Surely that was one of the words she had understood in that excited catalogue of what was available? But in the kitchen, cold disappointment awaited her. She should have realised what that dreary spaghetti meant. Maria had let the kitchen fire go out.

  It was completely the last straw. Helen found herself, a while later, sitting on a stool, her head in her hands, at the dirty kitchen table. It was very nearly dark now, or would have been if a fresh fireball from the volcano had not cast its sudden light through the room. It lit up the earthenware bread bin in the corner, and she made herself stand up and feel her way over there in the renewed darkness. The bread felt hard, but did not smell bad; she wondered about cheese, and cursed herself hungrily for those uncounted moments of despair in which she had let full darkness creep up on her. She could light the lantern and take it out into the cold larder. There might even be butter. Something rustled against her skirts. A rat? For a horrible moment she was back in the stinking cable tier of the Trojan. Then, reason reasserting itself, she realised that it was too small for a rat. Only a cockroach. She leaned forward, reaching for the tinderbox, and lit one of the branch of candlesticks that she had luckily put down on the kitchen table as she collapsed. It was to see the flagged floor alive with scurrying roaches.