She would not faint. She would not be sick. She made herself sit for a moment, her hands flat and firm on the table top, her feet gathered close under her, away from that horrible army of beetles. Then, slowly and carefully, she picked up the tinderbox and put it in the unfashionably useful pocket of her dress. The bread went under her arm. Her hand shook as she picked up the heavy candlestick. Did it shake too much? Could she safely carry her one, precious lighted candle upstairs? Suppose she were to trip over her own skirts? She moved the candlestick to her left hand, tucked the bread more firmly under that arm, lifted her skirts with the other hand, took a deep breath, and rose.
The light had caused a wave of movement in the surrounding army of beetles; her rising caused another. Just for a moment the path to the kitchen door was clear, and she walked across it, candle in hand, the rustle of the cockroaches louder in her ears even than the rumble of the volcano.
Safe (if safe was the word) at last in her bedroom, she lit all the other candles, realised that she had left Evelina downstairs, and knew that there was no question of going back for it . . . A new fireball lit up the room; the candles sickly pale in contrast. The bread lay, grey-brown and unappetising, on the table by the bed. She should have brought up a glass of wine to help it down. But how could she have? And nothing would take her downstairs again to that sea of cockroaches. Besides, she could not eat; not now. Exhaustion overwhelmed her. If she was to die, why not die in her sleep?
And if she was to live, so too must the child she carried. She stood up shakily, like an old woman, and made herself undress, take off the tight corsets that combined with her fashionable high-waisted gown to conceal her advanced stage of pregnancy, and put on the floating befrilled nightgown that Lord Merritt had bought for her in the first flush of their marriage. And at last, creeping gratefully into the chill of her bed, she thought how strange to find her first consideration always the child. Trenche’s child.
Chapter 12
ALL night, Vesuvius thundered, but Helen slept the sleep of exhaustion. When she woke at last, it was to a new sound, a crackling. Fire?
Getting fast but shakily out of bed, she had to steady herself by a table against wave after wave of dizziness. The light was strangely dim this morning; the crackling seemed louder than ever. She tottered over to the window and looked out along the ridge of promontory towards the village and the volcano. Nothing but a pall of smoke, and, horribly, the smell of burning. The air was hot, and she did not stop to put on a negligée before hurrying across the hall to look out of the window of Charlotte’s room, which faced up the little valley that ended in their inlet of the sea.
Now she was going to faint. The valley held a stream of molten lava that moved slowly but relentlessly down towards the water. As she watched, horror-struck, a giant hiss and a cloud of steam told her that the two had met. Above the level of the lava, trees, ignited by its heat, burned fiercely. She thought with horror of the village, higher up the hillside. Had its inhabitants seen their danger in time?
And what of her own? Moving, stiff with fear, to the window on the north side of the house, she saw that here too the lava was almost down to sea level. She was isolated by the burning flood. And all the time, a fusillade of molten rocks from the volcano splashed and sizzled into the water, where it was not yet heated by the influx of lava. If there had been a chance still of escape by land, she did not think she would have dared take it. Nothing for it but to stay where she was, and thank God that the Villa Rosa was built of marble with a tiled roof.
But the outhouses where the servants kept hens, goats, and, she suspected, a forbidden pig, were wooden. They lay beyond the servants’ quarters. She could not let the unfortunate animals burn to death in their sheds. She would go first and make sure that all was well there, then make herself eat something, and take stock of her position. Surely, now that the lava had reached the sea, its level would not rise much more? But might not she, like the animals, burn to death in her marble oven?
She would not think about it, nor let herself admit that the air was hotter than ever. She went down through the kitchen, where not a cockroach stirred this morning, and out down the marble-roofed arcade that divided the servants’ quarters from the garden. A stone, landing with a crash on the roof, gave her the speed of terror. The out-buildings were not alight yet, but screams from the animals showed that they knew their danger. She opened the rude latch of the henhouse, watched its occupants flutter and screech their way into the surrounding bushes, and wondered as they went whether she had not saved them from one death merely to condemn them to another, more lingering one.
The goats were in the next shed, baa-ing with fright, and when she opened their door they headed straight down towards the tip of the promontory. Would they perhaps plunge into the sea if all else failed? She had hoped against hope that she had merely imagined the illicit pig, but there was no mistaking its anguished squeals. She had never liked pigs, since she had been knocked down by a bad-tempered sow as a child, but she could not leave this one to its fate. Standing well back, she pushed clear the stick that held the door closed, and watched the immense beast force its way through, and head, like the goats, straight down the spine of the promontory. Should she follow them? Were they perhaps wiser than she? But a flaming stone falling on the henhouse settled the question for her. If it had hit her, she would be dead now. She got herself quickly back into the shelter of the marble arcade and so to the house.
Had she really meant to eat something? What did one do when facing death? It would be sensible, she thought, to get dressed, just in case of some miraculous rescue, but even as she thought this, she found that she had collapsed, shaking with reaction, on the chaise longue in the salon. What she could do, she had done. Now there was nothing for it but to wait, and for the moment she knew that she simply had not the strength to get herself upstairs to her room. Besides, reason came to fortify exhaustion: she was obviously safer down here on the ground floor.
Time ebbed and flowed around her. Sometimes the fusillade of rocks seemed to slacken, but there was no question but that the all got steadily hotter. It began to feel breathless in the house, and she longed more than anything for a drink of cold water. Would the well be boiling too? She found she had not even the strength to go and find out.
She ought to eat something, for the child’s sake if not for her own, but was it really worth the effort if they were both going to be dead so soon? She half rose, then thought better of it and sank back on the chaise longue. Idly, she wondered about her husband, about Charlotte. What could have happened? But it was hard now even to worry about Charlotte. Was death really so selfish? It was almost pleasant to feel herself drifting off into a kind of half-consciousness, part exhaustion, part faintness . . . Nothing more she could do . . . And all those plans of hers had come to this. Strange to remember a bright morning, one autumn at Up Harting, when the sun sparkled on the dew and she had turned impulsively to Miss Tillingdon: “I am going to do something—to be something before I die,” she had said. And Miss Tillingdon, suffering, she remembered, from one of the chills that plagued her, had wrapped herself more closely in her faded pelisse and breathed a warning. “Oh, Helen, don’t be so certain . . . Helen . . .”
“Helen!” But it was another voice now, a real one. “Helen!” Nearer now. “Are you there?”
Charles Scroope. She had known it on the first syllable. Slowly, shakily, she got to her feet, the loose folds of her nightgown billowing around her. “Yes,” she called. “Charles! Here!”
His face was black with smoke, and white dust lay like powder on his hair. Entering the room, he brought a smell of singeing with him, but neither of them noticed it. “Thank God,” he said.
“You came.” She hesitated towards him, and would never be sure whether she fell into his arms, or they came out to find her. Either way, it felt like home, like safety. For a moment she thought she felt his lips, lightly on her hair, then he had picked her up and deposited her firmly on the
chaise longue.
“Of course I came.” He was on the floor beside her, her hand in his. “As soon as I got Charlotte’s message.”
“Charlotte? She’s safe? Thank God.”
“Delayed.” He explained. “In the panic. By the time she reached Naples, Lord Merritt had gone with Sir William to Posilipo. Sir William thought it was safer there.” Scorn burned in his voice. “It seems to have occurred to no one that you might not be entirely safe out here. Well,” with an attempt at fairness, “Sir William thought the main threat to Naples itself. And so did the Neapolitans. You should have seen the panic in the city—and out of it. Most families slept in the fields last night, and the night before, come to that. They must be blessing St. Januarius this morning that the disaster has struck here.”
“How bad is it?” She made herself ask it.
“As bad as possible. The village has gone. There’s no way through by road.” And then, quick to sense her reaction, “It could be much worse. Most of them escaped in time.”
“I hope Angelo got his mother out,” she said.
“Angelo?”
“The cook’s husband. They left last night.”
“Yes, they’re safe. They told me you were here. Alone.” Furiously. “But at least Angelo persuaded his cousin to bring me round by boat.”
“By boat?” So far, she had simply accepted his presence as the miracle it was. Now she began to understand.
“Yes. They’re waiting down by the point. The water’s too hot in the inlet. I’m afraid it might melt the pitch between the planks. Besides, they’re under the shelter of a rock. They didn’t much fancy running the gauntlet to get here.”
She had by now identified the smell of singeing. It came from the left sleeve of his uniform, and she saw that he held that arm awkwardly. “You’re hurt?”
“A trifle. But I think we’d best wait a while before we try to get down to the boat. If you think you can manage it. It’s rough going, I’m afraid.”
“I shall have to manage.” Extraordinary to find herself reading his thoughts. Unspoken between them was his inevitable awareness of her condition. She had seen his one quick glance, had wondered whether this was more than she could bear, and tried and failed to think of something light and easy to say. She should have dressed, she thought lazily, and then, what did it matter? What did anything?
“When did you last eat?” His abrupt question brought her out of the dizzy fit.
“I’m not sure . . . Maria brought me some spaghetti . . . But that was yesterday. They’d let the stove go out.” She was ashamed now of her own uselessness.
“I thought so. Wait here while I forage.” He disappeared, to return almost at once with a glass of madeira. “Drink it slowly,” he advised. “It will give you the strength to eat. Your kitchen’s a scandal.” He was being determinedly matter-of-fact, “If I had your cook on board, he’d be cleaning the heads.”
“There are cockroaches.” She could speak of it now. “That’s why I gave up last night. Oceans of them.”
“Bound to be.” His voice came from farther off. “Food in a minute.” He returned in a surprisingly short time with a wickerwork tray, which he carried awkwardly, taking as much of the weight as possible with his right hand. “Riches,” he said before she could comment on this. “The servants’ hoard. I don’t wonder you couldn’t find it in the dark. But what a blessing they forgot it.”
“They took my lantern,” she said, as he poured chianti from a flask.
“Better eat something first.” There was heavily smoked ham, almost fresh bread, and goat’s milk cheese, and she thought it the best food she had ever tasted. “That’s better.” He too had eaten hungrily, and she wondered if his last meal had been any more recent than hers. He got up and moved over to the window. “The dust’s thicker than ever; and the stones fall as fast. I wish I knew more about volcanoes.” He had come to a decision just the same. “We’ll give it half an hour. Then we must go, whatever happens. How long will it take you to dress?”
Thank God those rigorous corsets laced up the front. “Ten minutes.” She looked down, surprised now at her own lack of embarrassment, at the grimy frills of her nightgown. “I had to let the animals out,” she said, as if that explained everything.
“Yes.” He poured her a careful half glass more wine. “Drink that, rest a little, then change into your heaviest clothes and we’ll go.”
“Heaviest?” It was now almost intolerably hot in the room.
“Muslin might catch fire,” he said impatiently, and then, on the same wave of anger, “Helen, I have to know. I’ve torn myself to pieces wondering. Why did you do it?” And then, quickly. “Oh, God, I know I’ve no right to ask, except the right of one who has always loved you. I told you, remember, that day at Wimbledon, that I was always yours. It was true, Helen. Do you remember?” And then, bitterly, “Did you remember, when you accepted that idiot? Helen, how could you do it?”
She looked down at herself, then across, very straight, at him. “Do you not see that I had no choice?”
“Dear God.” If it only confirmed what he had suspected, it still struck him white. “Helen, you of all people. I can’t believe it.”
“No?” Suddenly all the bitter loneliness of it rose like bile in her throat. “Nor could I for a long time. But you must see that the child had to come first.”
“Whose child?” There it was, the inevitable first question, and more to follow.
She rose unsteadily to her feet. “That I am not going to tell you,” she said. “Nor anything else. Believe what you will of me but, Charles, for the child’s sake, for mine, for the old days, keep my secret.”
“You insult me.” But the rage had gone out of Mm. “Of course I’ll keep it. But Helen—when? Surely that you can answer?”
“September, God help me.”
“And your marriage in February. Helen, I still can’t believe it. Lord Merritt! Did he get you drunk? Force you?”
A great wave of bitter relief flooded through her. So that was what he believed. Well, let him. Best so, however intolerable. “I told you I would say no more.” She moved shakily away from him towards the door, “I must dress, and we must go, and neither of us will ever speak of this again. Please, Charles?” When had she started using his first name?
“Never.” It came out with the force of an explosion. “And for your sake, Helen, I’ll never trust another woman.”
“Thank you.” It was almost a relief to meet anger with anger. But upstairs there was a moment when she was tempted just to fall on the unmade bed and let herself die there. She did not do it. Both Charles and the child would die with her . . . and there were the unknown boatmen down at the point. Once again, she felt the responsibility of life thrust upon her.
Mercifully, she was used to dressing herself, since she had not dared trust Rose with her secret. It hardly took her the ten minutes she had promised, and she was doing up the top button of a heavy serge riding habit when she heard Charles’s voice at the bottom of the stairs. “Helen! I think the stones are fewer. Are you nearly ready?” Was there a hint of apology in his voice?
No time to think like this. She picked up a tricorne riding hat and leather gloves and went steadily down to join him. “Yes, I’m ready. Shall we go?” There was to be, her tone said, no more talk between them.
“Yes.” He accepted it. “I really think we have a chance now. And”—he had given her one of his quick comprehensive glances—“I’m glad you’re dressed for it.”
“And you’ve no gloves.” She reached into a drawer where Lord Merritt kept the heavy hand-knit string ones he used for fishing. “Here.”
“Thank you.” It was intolerable that after what had passed between them his touch should still send that shiver of fire through her. But they would have fire enough shortly. Might it not, after all, be best to die now, here, together? “Let’s go,” she said.
The dark sky was lit from time to time by livid flashes of lightning. Stones still f
ell, but they were smaller now and possibly less hot. The sheds behind the house were blazing merrily and so were trees here and there down the promontory where a particularly hot stone had fallen. And, from the inlets on either side, steam was beginning to rise. “No time to linger.” Charles took her arm to guide her down the rough path.
“It’s too narrow. I’ll be better on my own.” She dared not let herself submit to that firm yet gentle guidance. If she did, if she let the current run free between them, she would sob out her whole story before they got to the boat.
“As you will.” His tone was cold as he dropped back to walk behind her.
After that, nothing mattered. If a crevasse had opened at her feet, she thought she would have fallen into it gladly. If one of the rocks that fell around them had hit her, she would have been thankful, so long as it had done her business at once. But all the time she was thinking this, her feet, more hopeful than she, were finding their careful way along the path that got progressively more difficult as it neared the point. She and Charlotte had never come this far, and she did in fact have to accept a helping hand from Charles, who went ahead as the path plunged steeply downwards from rock to rock towards the little sheltered cove where the boat was waiting. But by now she was beyond feeling even anguish at his touch. She simply moved behind him like an automaton, putting her feet where he told her to, sitting down from time to time on warm rock to ease her way down from one level to the next.
And now, suddenly, there were shouts from below. The boatmen had seen them coming and were hailing her determined progress with cries of admiration. No wife or daughter of theirs would ever have dealt with the precipitous descent. More important, they were hurrying to push their boat out into water that here, mercifully, did not steam. She was shaking in every limb when they reached the tiny, pebbled beach. “Thank you.” She turned to Charles.
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