And, “Well done,” said he, helping her into the boat. Did the boatmen speak English? There was so much that she would have liked to say, and nothing that she dared, or could. Charles had settled beside her on a rough plank below which water showed. “It’s nothing,” he said. “She sprang a little, coming.” He was bailing already with an earthenware mug as he spoke.
“I’ll help.” The men were pulling strongly at the oars, glad to get away from the burning shore.
“You’ll rest. Besides,” he smiled momentarily, the old smile, “there’s only one mug.”
The boat ride, if uncomfortable, was mercifully short, merely taking them a little way up the coast to the next harbour. Here, they found one of Scroope’s lieutenants standing, pistols in hand, beside a hired carriage. “Lucky you left me, sir.” He saluted. “It’s been hard work to hold them—and repel boarders.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Scroope looked doubtfully at Helen’s wet skirts. “I wish you could change.”
“But I can’t.”
“There’s a rug in the carriage,” said the lieutenant. He was still holding the pistols on the little crowd of wretched refugees from Torre del Greco. “Best waste no time, sir.”
“No.” Scroope helped Helen into the surprisingly roomy carriage.
She paused for a moment on the step. “It’s so large. Could we not take someone?” And then, “Angelo!”
He was pushing his way towards them through the crowd. “It’s not for me,” he said. “We’ll manage, Maria and I, but my mother. She’s worn out.” She was beside him; a little wrinkled walnut of a woman in shabby black.
“The carriage holds four,” said Helen. “Please—” she had nearly called him Charles in front of his officer.
“Yes.” She recognised the decisiveness that must have carried him through many a crisis at sea. “It would be wicked not to use the place.” And then in Italian to Angelo: “In with her then, quick, and help my man keep the others back, or we’ll none of us get away. But where do we take her?”
“She is in the hands of God,” said Angelo.
“I’ll look after her.” Helen too spoke in Italian as they helped the old woman into the carriage. Charles and the lieutenant followed quickly; the door was shut, the relieved postillions cracked their whips, and the crowd, impressed by the show of good feeling, parted before them.
It was a strange enough ride. The old lady, who had probably never ridden in a carriage before, sat shaking with exhaustion and fright, telling her beads over and over. The lieutenant, obviously very much in awe of his captain, sat beside her, holding her up when she began to slide downwards on the seat. And Helen, who had thought this would be a chance to make things at least a little easier with Charles, recognised the impossibility of saying anything, propped herself in her corner, and inevitably slept. Waking at last to a sense of immense peace and well-being, she found herself safely propped in Charles’s good arm. Across the carriage, the young lieutenant was doing the same kind office for the old lady, an expression of comic embarrassment on his face. Helen, who had only half opened her eyes, decided to close them again.
But she was awake when the sound of church bells, ringing now in thanksgiving, told her that they were nearing Naples. She made a pretence of coming to herself, moved quietly away from that blessed, encircling arm, and spoke. “Thank you.” What more, what less could she say?
“You feel better, I hope.” Charles’s voice was formal, reminding her of the young officer across the way, who was still uncomfortably supporting his charge.
“Much. I can manage now.” She intended to tell him a great deal in this simple sentence, and was almost sure that he understood.
“But what do we do with the old lady?” asked Charles.
“Bring her home with me,” she said, and then hated that use of the word, to him. “I said I’d look after her,” she went on determinedly, “and I will.”
So when they drove up to the house Lord Merritt insisted on calling a “palazza,” it was the lieutenant who got out first, with the semiconscious old lady in his arms. Helen had passionately hoped that her husband would still be at Posilipo, and she would have time to rest and recover herself a little before she faced him with the knowledge between them of how he had failed her. But there he was, coming out onto the tiny carriage sweep, stopping to gaze with something like disgust at the lieutenant’s burden. Helen and Charles exchanged one long, speaking look that seemed to her to say everything and nothing, then he too had jumped lightly down and was holding up his hand to her.
She had not realised what she looked like until she saw her husband’s expression. But after all, if Charles’s face was black with smoke, and his clothes and hair white with dust, so too were hers. Lord Merritt’s horrified expression made everything suddenly much easier. “Don’t touch me, dear.” With a great effort she let go of Charles’s hand and stood unaided. “I’m filthy beyond words, and tired beyond anything. A hot bath, and I will exchange my adventures for yours. I am delighted to see you safe,” she added.
“And I you.” His tone was strange. “But what in the world is this?” His gesture indicated the old woman, practically a bundle of rags in the lieutenant’s arms.
“Angelo’s mother. You remember Angelo? You hired him yourself for the Villa Rosa. He begged me to bring her. The servants will look after her, I am sure.”
“Begged you to bring her?” Querulously. “This old bag of bones?”
“Because the village of Torre del Greco does not exist any more.” She tried to keep the impatience out of her voice. “And because if we had not taken up a fourth in the carriage, we might have been mobbed.”
“Can’t understand a word!” His tone was more irritable than ever. “Servants enough already, eating us out of house and home.”
“This is not a servant,” she said. “This is the man who fell by the wayside.” And then, aware that once again he had totally failed to understand her, she did the only possible thing. She swayed on her feet, and it was all too easy to do it. The disconcerting thing (yet how pleasant) was that it was Charles, not her husband, who caught her. And then, blessedly, she heard Charlotte’s voice, raised in quick question.
“Not hurt.” Charles Scroope’s arms were gently around her. “Just exhausted. If I could take her straight to her room?”
“Of course.” Charlotte was in control. “This way.”
But there was one more thing she must do. She opened reluctant eyes. “Dear Charlotte . . . The old lady . . . She’s Angelo’s mother.”
“Lot of nonsense,” said Lord Merritt, and Helen let consciousness go.
She lay, somewhere between sleeping and waking, for several days, submitting to the ministrations of Charlotte and Rose, and someone else she could not in her half-conscious state identify. At last, waking with a clearer head and aware that the tide of fatigue had ebbed a little, she smelled coffee, opened her eyes, and recognised Angelo’s mother sitting by the bed, cup in hand.
“Va bene,” said the old lady. “The signora is better. I said it would be so. And no need for doctors either.” She dipped a roll in the coffee and fed Helen expertly as she might have a child.
“No doctor?” Helen was puzzled for a moment.
“No,” said the old lady in her quick, peasant Italian. “I told the other signora it was best not. Am I not, I, Angelina, doctor and nurse in my own village—and midwife too.” Here was the heart of the matter. “I thought from what Maria told me that all was not quite right. You are best without a doctor. You saved me, signora; I will save your good name, if I can.” And then, deftly inserting another morsel of delicious bread and coffee. “That’s right. Cry quietly; it will do you good; then sleep and wake better. There is plenty of time to think what we will do.”
“Who else knows?”
“The old woman shrugged. “I think, no one. English young ladies know nothing of these matters. And my lord has been away since the day after you returned,”
“Oh.” He
len digested this for a moment. Then, “He knows,” she told this surprising new ally.
“That is good. Then we shall do well enough. And here, in good hour, comes the signora.” She rose to her feet, courteously but not at all like a servant, and handed the half-empty bowl to Charlotte. “I told you all it needed was time and my herbs. See; she is herself again.”
“Oh, thank God.” Charlotte looked drawn and anxious. “I’ve been so worried about you, Helen.” She took the bowl and continued to feed her, and Helen realised that this must have been going on when she was half-conscious. “But all the doctors are worked to death since the eruption, and Angelina seemed sure she knew what she was doing. That’s an extraordinary woman.” Angelina had quietly vanished. “She was quite fierce when I said yesterday that I thought we really should get a doctor. We agreed in the end that we would give it one more day, and, thank God, here you are.”
“How long?” asked Helen.
“Five days. It’s felt like an eternity. If you’d not recovered I’d never have forgiven myself.”
“Not your fault,” said Helen. “How were you to know that the volcano was going to erupt?” And then, as it all came back to her, “But, Charlotte, Captain Forbes . . . Did you see him?”
Hot colour flooded Charlotte’s face, and she held out her left hand to show a slim, old-fashioned ring on her engagement finger. “His mother’s. I got here just in time,” she said. “He was under orders to sail, but awaiting dispatches from Sir William to Admiral Hood. Helen, I’m so happy. That’s just why I’ve felt so terrible about you. To have sacrificed you to my own happiness . . . I don’t know what I’d have done.”
“Well,” said Helen bracingly, “isn’t it lucky the question doesn’t arise. But, seriously, Charlotte, I’m delighted for you. I always liked Captain Forbes.”
“Thank you.” She smiled a little tremulously. “So did I.”
“And what are your plans? Selfishly, I hope I’m not going to lose you.”
“No plans for the moment,” said Charlotte. “Captain Forbes does not approve of women on board ship, and after our experiences I confess I am inclined to think he is right.”
“In wartime certainly,” said Helen. “When peace comes, it might be another matter. But that seems far enough off, I’m afraid. Tell me,” she made it casual, “talking of husbands, where precisely is Lord Merritt?”
Charlotte coloured again, but this time less happily.
“He’s at Caserta with the Court,” she said. “He left the day after you came back. He said there was no use his dangling about here while you were ill. Helen, I’m afraid he did not much fancy your being rescued like that.”
“He would have preferred me to burn to death?” asked Helen dryly. And then, “Well, it’s understandable enough. One has to see that he did not cut a very gallant figure.”
“No,” said Charlotte. “To tell you the truth, Helen, I was relieved when Captain Scroope was ordered away. That first day, with everyone calling to congratulate Lord Merritt on your miraculous rescue and talking about gallant sailors and I don’t know what, I was a little afraid of what he might do. You can understand that he didn’t much like it. And after all,” fairly, “everyone did think that the threat was to Naples.”
“Yes. I’m tired, Charlotte dear. I think I’ll sleep a little more.” And, alone at last, she lay with her face in the pillow and silent tears trickling down her cheeks. Charles Scroope had sailed away, and she would never be able to thank him.
Lord Merritt came back a week later, with Price, as always, in attendance, Helen, watching them ride up to the house side by side, recognised the change in their relationship that she had feared. They were talking like friends, not master and man. But when she went into the hall to greet her husband, she found Price so completely back in his unobtrusive role of servant that she thought she must have been imagining things. It was easy to do, in her present state.
“There you are.” Lord Merritt did not ask how she was. “Came for some clothes. Got a villa. Caserta. Handy for the hunting.”
“How very pleasant,” said Helen. “When do we leave?”
“Not we.” Lord Merritt pouted. “Don’t understand. Women! Never do. Sir William’s ill.”
“I beg your pardon?” For once, Helen did find it impossible to understand her husband’s inarticulate speech.
Price took a respectful step forward. “If you’ll excuse me, my lady, I think my lord would say that it is the merest hunting box he has taken. Not at all suitable . . .” He paused for a significant moment and she felt, for the first time, that he disliked her as much as she did him.
“That’s it.” Lord Merritt took up the tale, “Hamilton’s ill. Someone’s got to keep the King company. Mere shooting box. Room for Price and me.”
“I see.” Helen saw more than she liked. Price must have coached her husband in what he was to say. It implied a degree of ascendancy that Trenche had never attained. Price had used her absence in Torre del Greco to some purpose. And there was nothing she could do about it. “I’m so sorry about Sir William,” she said now.
“Nothing serious,” said Lord Merritt. “Old man. Lady Hamilton most devoted. Queen sends every day. Lot of fuss.”
The two men did not even stay for a meal, and Helen, watching them ride away, side by side again, could not help contrasting Lady Hamilton’s situation with her own. If only she had managed her marriage so well . . .
Old Angelina, finding her sitting at her window in tears, gave her a brisk scolding. “You have been ill long enough. It is time to show yourself, to receive visitors, and above all to go out in God’s good air. You are not ill now, and you know it. Pray if you like, but do not cry; it is bad both for you and the child.”
“Thank you.” She knew the advice was good, but had to make a strenuous effort to obey it. It was high summer now, and Naples was empty of people since everyone who could had left for the comparative cool of the country. No wonder. Naples, in this hot weather, stank. Lady Hamilton, paying an unexpected call when she had come into town on business of Sir William’s, exclaimed at finding Helen and Charlotte there at all. “I hardly believed it, when they told me up at the palazzo,” she said. “But of course, your villa was destroyed, was it not—and Lord Merritt’s place at Caserta is hardly the thing . . . I have it—” she rose with her rather heavy grace—“I will speak to Sir William tonight. You must have our other villa. You cannot possibly stay in town through August and September.”
“It’s wonderfully kind of you.” Helen found herself near to tears. “But, my husband—”
“Has not thought about it one way or another, I expect. Don’t worry, child. I’ll take care of Lord Merritt.”
“Thank you.” The tears that came too easily these days lurked in the corners of Helen’s eyes. “You’re so kind . . .” It was a blessed relief to find that Lady Hamilton had apparently forgotten that unlucky scene about Trenche.
And yet, poor Trenche . . . When they were alone she asked Charlotte if there had been any news of the prisoners in the Castle dell’Ovo and Charlotte shook her head. “None,” she said. “Nobody dares ask. Nobody speaks of them. Helen, do you not think Lord Merritt might do something? With the King?”
“He might, but he won’t,” said Helen bitterly. Price would never allow it. Why should he? He was very well off as things were.
It was blessed relief to be safe at the Villa Emma, away from the prying eyes of Naples, and yet not so far from town but that they could get back if necessary. “But it will not be necessary,” said Angelina. “I, Angelina, will do everything that is needful, and the signora will find herself much better than if she let some man attend her. Besides, it has to be a surprise, has it not?”
“Yes.” Helen blessed the day when she had taken up the old lady in her carriage. After her experience with the doctors who had attended her mother, she was much more inclined to trust to the experienced ministrations of Angelina. If she had been doubtful at first, it had been be
cause Angelo’s mother seemed such a very old lady, but then, she had not known at the time that Angelina had spent the last twenty-four hours tending the wounded of Torre del Greco. Now, rested and refreshed, she was looking younger every day, and Helen and Charlotte agreed that she was very likely not much more than forty.
If Lord Merritt was anxious about how his wife would manage in her hour of crisis, he gave no sign of it. A brief note, so coherent that she was sure Price had dictated it, had informed Helen that he approved of her move to the Villa Emma, and announced that he was accompanying King Ferdinand to the island of Procida for the September pheasant shooting. Putting the letter away with a sigh, Helen recognised that her husband would always fail her in a crisis. If only her vital twenty-first birthday was sooner than November. But she sat down, just the same, and wrote a note to Mr. Furnival, the lawyer, to give him her new address and announce that she expected her first child in November. “Perhaps we shall share a birthday.” She did not like lying to Mr. Furnival, whose letter of congratulation on her marriage had been couched in heart-warmingly friendly terms, but it had to be done. She was only relieved that he was so far away, and it could be done in writing.
Charlotte, it seemed, felt very much the same. “Thank God we’re not in England.” She looked up from the letter she was writing to her mother.
“You’ve not heard yet?”
“About my engagement? No. But I have no hope. I never told you,” she coloured crimson, “what she said when she heard of your marriage.”
“Dear Charlotte! I can imagine.” Unspoken between them was their knowledge of Charlotte’s happier position. She might be marrying a poor man, but he was the one she loved. It made Helen wonder, as she had many times, whether Charlotte suspected the state of affairs between herself and Charles Scroope, and whether that accounted for a particular, gentle sympathy in her manner these days. But then, there was her condition, too, to account for that. She was very large now, and grateful that life in the country made it possible to wear the loosest of coolly flowing high-waisted gowns. Angelina continued encouraging. She had somehow slipped into the way of helping Helen to dress and undress, and it was she who decreed that there must be some relaxation in the tight lacing of those essential corsets. “We must not harm the little lord,” she said, and once again, Helen agreeing with her, thought how strange it was to be going through all this trouble for Trenche’s child.
Shadow of a Lady Page 16