Shadow of a Lady

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  It was the very next day that they had news of the escape from the Castle dell’Ovo. One of the men had ridden into Naples to do the households errands and came back full of it. “Only think, signora, the Giordano brothers have escaped from dell’Ovo! They made a rope of their sheets and climbed down into the sea. Michele and another man got clean away, but Annibale hurt himself falling, and was caught.”

  “What other man?” Helen felt cold as stone.

  “It is not known, signora. There is much talk in Naples, but all of it quiet . . . quiet . . .”

  “Then we had best not talk of it here,” said Helen. She was sitting alone on a terrace overlooking the garden and wished, after the man had left her, that she had asked him to send Angelina to her with a shawl and (she shivered in the warm air) some comfort. Why was she so sure that the nameless third who had escaped must be Trenche? Gradually, she worked it out. Impossible that the escape had not been connived at. How could three prisoners get away from that impregnable sea-bound fortress without help either from outside or in? And everyone knew, though nobody mentioned, that de Medici, the chief of police, was the Giordano brothers’ patron. Had he found their imprisonment, and Trenche’s, equally embarrassing, and arranged this means to get rid of all three?

  Please God he had not stopped at letting them out, but had got them out of the country too. Only now, when she was afraid that he had escaped, did she realise just how much, in peace of mind, Trenche’s imprisonment had meant to her.

  It was getting dark, and she was shivering more than ever. Time to go in and face the inevitable discussion of this extraordinary escape. She rose, slowly, as she did everything now, and was preparing to move across the shadowed terrace to the lighted doorway of the salon, when a rustling below the balustrade stopped her where she stood. Someone was climbing up the great vine that grew all over that side of the villa. She ought to do something. Scream. Go for help. She stood there, paralysed, immobile, waiting for the disaster she now knew she had expected.

  “Helen!” Trenche’s voice, very low, from among the vines almost level with the balustrade. “Thank God I’ve found you alone. You must help me! Food; money; clothes . . . I’ve nothing. Help me now, and I promise you will never hear from me again.”

  “Stay where you are.” She moved closer to that rustling patch of vine. “If anyone else knows you are here, I can do nothing but give you up. But if I can, I’ll help you. God knows I’ve tried, all this time!”

  “Tried!” His voice cracked with bitterness. “Trying wasn’t much use to me, Helen Merritt. If the Giordanos had not had friends, I’d still be rotting there in prison. No doubt you hoped I’d be there forever, or better still, secretly killed. Well, you were unlucky! I’m here, and if I’m caught, I’ll talk. And you, dear Helen, will provide the corroborative evidence. You look, my lady, rather large for someone who was married only in February.”

  God, how she hated him. If she could have said the word, there and then, and had him dead at her feet, she thought she would have done it. But she was helpless and knew it. “Hush,” she said. “There’s no time for talk; no time to convince you that I did try. Wait at the bottom of the vine. I must think what to do for the best”

  “Don’t take too long about it.” It was a threat.

  “I won’t. Believe me, I want you safe away from here as badly as you could wish.” Her tone must have carried conviction, because she heard him begin to work his way carefully back down the vine.

  “I’ll give you ten minutes.” His voice came up to her, muffled through the leaves.

  Ten minutes. But how would he measure time, out in the dark there? She was standing, wringing her hands. She must not panic. She moved into the empty salon, grateful that Charlotte must still be upstairs, and rang the bell. Her mind had made itself up, it seemed. “Send me Angelina at once,” she told the man who came.

  “Yes, signora?” Mercifully, Angelina could not have been far off.

  “Angelina, once again I need your help. There is a man waiting at the bottom of the great vine. It is death to help him, but I must. He can ruin me. He wants everything . . . food, money, clothes, shelter. The money I can provide, but how can I hide him here?”

  “You cannot, of course. I had been thinking it was time I visited Angelo and Maria. They are rebuilding their house. They will be glad of another pair of hands, and no one will think of looking for him at Torre del Greco. I will bring you food and wine at once—you are always hungry these days, naturally. Give it to him, and what money you think he needs, and tell him to stay quiet in the shelter of the vine until I come for him. He speaks Italian?”

  “Yes.” How dangerously much Angelina must know or suspect, and what a redoubtable ally she was proving.

  The ten minutes must have been more than over when Helen returned to the balcony, but all was quiet. “Are you there?” She leaned down to whisper it.

  “Yes. Where else? Cold and hungry. Can I come up now?”

  “Only to get the food. I will not have Miss Standish involved in this. And, besides, I cannot trust the servants. I have money for you, food and wine—” She heard the vine rustle as he began impatiently to climb. “Here!” She reached down to give him her purse. “It’s all I have, but I will be able to send you more if you need it. An old lady—her name is Angelina—will come for you as soon as she can, to the foot of the vine. Her son and daughter-in-law are at Torre del Greco, rebuilding their house. She says they will hide you.”

  “And you hope there will be another eruption?” His voice was savage.

  “It’s the best I can do. Take it or leave it.” She made her voice indifferent as she handed down the food and opened wine bottle.

  “Oh, I’ll take it. For the time being. But for your own sake you will have to arrange to get me away. Best on an English ship—one of those tame captains of yours surely will take me for the sake of your beaux yeux.”

  “Why do you hate me so?” she asked, and then wished she had not as his voice came up to her, venomous through the darkness, spitting out the pent-up venom of his months of imprisonment. In that dark solitude, he had convinced himself that she had known of the impending arrests and arranged for him to be included. Impossible to convince him otherwise, and dangerous to stay here trying. “Hush! I hear Miss Standish. As you value your own life, be quiet, and wait.”

  She had not, in fact, heard anything, but returned to the salon just as Charlotte entered from the stairs. “Do you know where Angelina is?” she asked. “I’ve been looking all over for her. She promised me some salve for my burn.” Charlotte had spent the afternoon in the sun, and was regretting it at leisure.

  “Oh, I am sorry. She must have clean forgotten. She came to me for permission to visit Angelo and Maria. . . . They are rebuilding their house at Torre del Greco. . . .” The sentences came out breathless, and to her ears unconvincing.

  “At this time of night?” Charlotte’s tone was indeed surprised. “What a redoubtable old lady she is. But I hope she’s not had bad news?”

  “Do you know, I did not think to ask.” Absurd not to have arranged some story with Angelina. But at this very moment, the old lady herself appeared, wrapped in her fusty black shawl, the salve in her hand.

  “Here, signorina.” She handed it to Charlotte. “In my hurry I almost forgot. Maria needs me,” she explained now to them both. “But it can be nothing urgent. I will be back in two days, perhaps three.”

  “Take the mule, Angelina,” said Helen. “And travel swiftly. We will miss you.”

  “For three days you will do very well without me.” It was meant to reassure Helen and very nearly succeeded, but with her time so near it was impossible not to fret herself almost to fever point at the absence of her one ally.

  Chapter 13

  TWO days dragged by, and still there was no sign of Angelina. Increasingly anxious as her time grew near, Helen was exhausted with the effort of pretending to Charlotte that there was nothing the matter. But at least there was one
excuse for admitted anxiety. The man who had gone shopping in Naples that morning had returned with the news that the third escaper had indeed been Trenche. The hunt was up, both for Trenche and Michele Giordano. His unlucky brother, Annibale, was back in prison awaiting his long-delayed trial, his prospects infinitely worsened by his attempted escape, but the other two had apparently got clean away.

  Charlotte and Helen were sitting down to their frugal supper that evening when they heard what sounded like a considerable body of men riding up to the main entrance on the other side of the house. “What in the world?” Helen broke off at the sound of violent knocking at the door.

  “I don’t know.” Charlotte looked as frightened as Helen felt. Visions of brigands, banditti, or armed refugees from Torre del Greco hovered in both their minds. For the first time. Helen found herself actually wishing for her husband’s presence.

  “Signora.” Carlos, the man who had been to Naples, appeared at the door. “It’s the military police!” He too was visibly frightened. “They want to search the house. For those two men.”

  “Oh!” Helen rose ungracefully to her feet. After all, now she thought about it, it was logical enough—all too logical, in fact, that they should look for Trenche here. What a mercy that she had not for a moment considered trying to hide him in the villa. “Very well,” she said. “Send in the officer in charge. We will naturally do everything we can to help him.”

  The officer seemed courteous enough, and was apologetic when he saw Helen’s condition. “You will understand, signora, that we are searching everywhere that those two might be.”

  “Of course. The house is small. It is impossible that they should be hiding here without our knowledge, but search for yourselves. We will feel safer so. They must be desperate men!” It was all too easy to sound frightened.

  The search was prolonged, alarmingly thorough, and ended in the kitchen, where, Helen suspected, the servants were plying their unwelcome guests with placatory wine. She did not like the idea of this, and was wondering whether it would be cowardly, or wise, to retire upstairs with Charlotte and put a chair against the bedroom door, when the officer returned, less civil than before, and all too evidently the worse for drink. “One of your servants is missing,” he said, without preamble or much pretence at politeness. “Why?”

  “Not a servant,” said Helen. “A guest. An old lady I brought with me from Torre del Greco. She helped nurse me in my illness after the eruption. Now she has gone back to visit her son and daughter-in-law, who are rebuilding their house there. Her daughter-in-law needed her.” Too late she saw the danger of this.

  “Who brought the message?” His voice was thick with wine. “That’s what your servants are wondering.”

  “A man.” His slow speech had given her time to concoct her story. “He did not know the house, and came to me on the terrace here. I sent for her at once. The servant—Carlos—will remember that. It was late in the evening, and Maria took the mule and went at once.”

  “And the man with her.” It was not a question. “I wonder, signora, just who that man was.” He leaned towards her, his breath heavy with wine and garlic. “You will describe him for me?”

  “I didn’t see him.” This, at least, was true. “He spoke to me from the foot of the vine out there.” She led him out onto the terrace, hoping that the cool evening air might sober him a little.

  “He did not climb up the vine to speak to you?” The man moved closer than she liked, took her arm in a rough grasp, and urged her over to the vine. “It looks strong enough to climb. In the morning, we will see.”

  “You cannot stay here all night.” This was Charlotte, sounding extraordinarily like her mother, the dominating British aristocrat.

  “You think not, signorina? I believe you will find yourself wrong.” But her authoritative tone had made him drop Helen’s arm. “We will be no trouble to you ladies.” He had remembered who they were. “Your servants will arrange sleeping quarters for us. No need to trouble you further. At least, not until morning.” The threat in his voice was hardly veiled. “For tonight,” he turned at the sound of a scream from the servants’ quarters, “I had best see that my men behave themselves.”

  “You had indeed,” said Helen. “My husband is your king’s friend. If any harm befalls a single member of my household, I warn you, King Ferdinand will know of it.”

  “Old Nosy,” said the man affectionately. “But will he do anything about it, signora?” He sketched a faintly mocking bow, and left them.

  Alone, the two girls looked at each other in horrified silence for a few moments. Then, “That scream was Lucia,” said Charlotte.

  Lucia was the youngest of the serving maids, probably not more than fourteen. “I know,” said Helen. “Will he stop it, Charlotte, and, if not, dare we intervene?”

  “I don’t know.” They waited, silent, listening.

  Another scream, again unmistakably that of the child who helped in the kitchen. Helen looked down at herself. “You go and lock yourself in your room, Charlotte,” she said. “I must do something. And they won’t hurt me.”

  “No,” said Charlotte. “I’ll come too. You can’t stop me, Helen. And, besides, with two of us. . . .”

  Witnesses. She might be right. Another scream settled it. Helen led the way down the narrow hall that led to the servants’ quarters. Pausing in the open doorway, she saw with a breath of relief that the orgy was only beginning. The soldiers were sitting very much at their ease around the kitchen table, bottles of wine and the remains of an immense dish of spaghetti testifying to the warmth, whether real or feigned, of the servants’ welcome. The two older maids were comfortably established in the laps of a soldier each; only Lucia was fighting like a cat, while Carlos, whose fiancée she was, stood in the background, fury and fear fighting each other in his face.

  “Stop it!” Helen spoke as one of the two soldiers who were amicably fighting each other for possession of Lucia pulled the shawl away from her brown shoulders. “You!” She turned to the officer who was watching with an amused grin. “Stop them.”

  “Why?” He yawned and picked his teeth. And then, smiling blandly, “If we find tomorrow what I expect to find, you are all as good as dead anyway.”

  “And if you do not,” said Helen, “my husband will tell your king how his officers abuse women.”

  “Let him.” The man was too drunk to care. “Old Nosy won’t mind. He’s had enough women himself, in his time. Well, can you blame him with that Austrian bitch for a wife?”

  There was a sudden silence. He had gone too far and knew it. Looking around, “I did not say that,” he said.

  “No?” said Helen. “Let your men go on abusing that child and I will report you to de Medici.” She regretted the words the moment they were spoken.

  “Will you?” He was dangerous now, a man afraid. “In that case . . .” He had been sitting at the head of the table, but now rose and began to weave his way towards where she and Charlotte stood in the doorway. “In that case . . .” His men were watching him with lazy interest. “What an unfortunate thing that you refused to let us search your villa. Naturally, in a case like that, there may be a little violence.” He smiled a vulpine smile. “Nobody sorrier than we shall be tomorrow morning, but the enemies of the King must be tracked down. Anyone who opposes his officers is his enemy. So!”

  The men had taken their cue and were rising to their feet, drunkenly and slowly. Lucia screamed again. Helen and Charlotte stood silent, paralysed. Then, “Run for it,” Helen whispered to Charlotte as the crowd advanced on them. “I’ll hold them for a moment.” And then, louder: “Are you men? Will you kill my child?” She felt Charlotte move away from behind her, and recognised a moment of surprise. She had wanted her to go, but had still not expected to be left to her fate. She raised her voice. “You have wives,” she said. “Some of them perhaps in my condition. What would they say if they saw you now?”

  It made them momentarily hesitate, but the officer had too
much to lose. “They’d say, ‘Rot the British!’ ” His Italian verb was stronger, and Helen realised that fear had combined with drink to deprive him of what reason he had. “And so do I!” he went on. “I lost my son at Toulon. They left him behind, the scum. And now is the time for the reckoning. Your child shall pay for mine, signora!” The courtesy title mocked her as he moved swiftly forward to seize her arm and pull her into the room. “Mine first!” His tone warned back his followers, who were crowding round him as he pulled her forward to the table. “We’ve all night,” he went on. “Plenty for all, before she snuffs it. And the little English lordling.” He pushed her roughly back against the table, put his hand to the neck of her flowing muslin dress, and tore it off her with a sound that caused a sudden, startled silence in the room.

  And into it, “Don’t move, any of you, or you’re dead!”

  Pulling the rags of her dress around her, Helen swayed dizzily to her feet and gazed at Charles Scroope who stood in the doorway, a pistol in each hand with, incredibly, Charlotte beside him, also armed. “Here to me,” he said. “Quick!” And then, unerringly picking out Carlos from among the menservants, “You, go the rounds, disarm them and bring their weapons to me. The rest of you, keep still if you want to live.”

  Carlos mercifully had stayed sober. He wove his way carefully among the soldiers, who were only slowly realising what had happened, giving them no chance to move behind his back. The pile of weapons at Charles’s feet grew. “Charlotte,” he said, “give Helen the pistol and tell my men to come in.”