Escapade, page 16
‘But she hates Napoleon.’
‘He is married to her granddaughter. And, do you not think she hates Lord William too?’
‘I know she does.’ She looked back at Charlotte and John Thornton. ‘You don’t really think… ’
‘I am desperately afraid, Miss Prior. If there were a British ship in harbour, I would see you two on to it. I would see you on to an American one, come to that. Our countries may be on the verge of war, as I very much fear, but you would be much safer there.’
‘You sound very sure.’
‘I am sure. I do earnestly beg you to believe that. I am telling you this, partly to warn you, and partly in the hopes that you may have some influence with the Queen.’
‘I? Absurd.’
‘I’m not so sure of that. Poor woman, you have to be sorry for her. She is so very much alone. Her husband is a cipher; her daughter and her husband have taken the British side. I wonder what would happen to them… It was touch and go, you know, whether the Duke would be arrested when the five barons were.’
‘Her own son-in-law? And daughter? And their little boy?’ But she was remembering what Charlotte had said about the Queen. ‘Charlotte thinks she is a little mad,’ she told him.
‘Acute of Charlotte. A little mad and very dangerous. I am taking it for granted that you will pass on this warning to your friend Forde, though I would as soon you kept my name out of it. Perhaps if the Queen sees the British taking extra precautions it will make her think again.’
‘If it does not precipitate the explosion.’
‘I think that is the risk we have to take. Miss Prior, I do beg you, if you get the chance, take it. Try and turn her mind.’
Try and turn a whirlwind. But what was the use of saying it?
13
Left to ride with John Thornton, Charlotte was both disappointed and embarrassed. It was the first time she had been alone with him since the night at Monreale, and she found it awkward enough. Here he was, behaving as if nothing had happened, making polite remarks about the weather and the view. She found it maddening. She looked back; the grooms were far behind, and anyway she was sure they spoke no English. ‘Oh, come on, John, ask it,’ she burst out. ‘You must want to know what really happened the other night.’
‘Only if you want to tell me.’ He, too, had glanced quickly first forward to the other two and then back to the grooms. ‘It is none of my business, after all. Except as an old friend of your family.’
‘Do you write to my parents?’
‘Not so far. Nor did I see them before I came away. It was all arranged in such a hurry, in London. Have you written to them?’
‘No, I haven’t.’ She was suddenly conscious-stricken. ‘They will be worrying, I am afraid.’
‘I am sure Miss Prior has written. I hope you realise just how much you owe her, Charlotte. And, yes, since you have mentioned that unlucky night at Monreale, there is something I want to say to you about it. Your assignations with von Achen are entirely your own affair — though a shocking mistake, in my opinion — but to use Miss Prior as cover was a disgraceful thing to do. Her reputation cannot stand it, don’t you see? Forde has been keeping away, has he not? And the talk in the salons has not been pleasant. The Queen’s invitation might have done something if it had not been that the King had heard the talk too. So now there is still more talk. I have to say that it was a miracle she managed to extricate herself… If she did.’
‘Of course she did.’ If Charlotte was sure of anything, she was sure of this. But he had opened her eyes to what she had done to Beth, and she did not like what she saw. ‘I’m ashamed,’ she went on. ‘Truly ashamed. I never thought. It all happened so fast, that night at Monreale. I was desperate. And she never said a word of blame. Oh, John, what can I do to set things right?’
‘Nothing, I think. Done’s done. Anything you say now would only make matters worse.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Unless of course you were to announce your engagement to von Achen. Tell the whole story. And I should hate to see you do that.’
‘I should hate to do it. That’s all over. I’ve been a perfect idiot, but it is all over.’
‘I’m glad. And do write to your mother.’
‘Yes, I will. I’m ashamed about that too. I was all wrong about her, you see. My grandmother had told me a pack of wicked lies. Beth set me straight about it. But I can’t tell mother what I thought: it was too horrible. So I’ve put off writing.’
‘She will be worrying. Even if Miss Prior has written, she is bound to be worrying.’ His tone was reproachful, and she knew she deserved it.
‘I’ll write tonight. What a mull I’ve made of things.’ She was looking ahead to where Peabody had put a hand on Beth’s bridle. ‘It would serve me right —’ She paused. ‘Could you not tell Mr. Forde the truth, John?’ she asked. ‘In strictest confidence.’
‘You’re not thinking! How could I tell him without explaining who you are, and then all that Beth has done for you goes for nothing. I like Gareth Forde well enough, but I would not trust him with a secret. Nor do I think it would do any good. It’s not the truth he cares about, but what the public thinks. His prime consideration is to keep in with the Bentincks, and you know what a starchy lady she is. If she cuts the connection, don’t think he won’t. He cares only for himself. If you ask me, Miss Prior is better off without him. What a woman! It would have been worth coming to Sicily, just to hear her sing Violante the other night. There were tears in my eyes at last, and I was not the only one. I hope you realise how lucky you are.’
‘Oh, I do!’ But she was oddly disconcerted, just the same, and glad when she saw Beth and Peabody turn to ride back towards them. And Thornton, watching her colour rise and her eyes sparkle as they approached, came to a disconcerting conclusion of his own.
But there was one thing he could do. When he and Peabody were riding home after leaving the two women, he said, as casually as he could manage, ‘By the way, I made bold to ask Miss Pennam what really happened at La Favorita the other day and she absolutely supports the story of the brief visit and the strong smell of paint.’
‘I am sure she does, and so must we.’ It was not quite an answer, but they rode on very well satisfied with each other.
* * *
Beth was glad to be appearing at the theatre before the next conversazione, so that she would have a chance to get the feel of the public. In fact, her greatest anxiety was for Charlotte. Normally, when Beth sang, Charlotte joined the Falconis in their box, but there had still been no word from Lisa. It came at the eleventh hour, in a note not to Beth but to Charlotte, confirming that they would send the carriage for her at the usual time. There was no message for Beth.
It sent her off to the theatre in a great worry, and the eager questions of her fellow actors did nothing to reassure her. ‘You’re the talk of the town, my dear,’ Bartolucci told her. ‘I just hope it works out for the best. I am sorry now that I did not follow my first instinct and have you sing Violante again tonight, to confound the lot of them.’
‘I’m glad you did not,’ She only had a small part, with one tremendous aria. ‘I am not sure I could have carried it.’
‘I think you can carry anything, signora.’
She could only wish she shared his confidence, but when she made her first entrance, it was to a wave of applause that stopped the performance.
After that, it all seemed easier, and she was happily aware of singing her best. ‘Everyone is here,’ Bartolucci told her, when the curtain fell at last. ‘I’m told that stiff Lady Bentinck was applauding with the rest. By the way, you have not forgotten our final rehearsal for the Rosalia Festival? There is talk in town of an invitation to the royal review. But we must have that rehearsal; there is no possible way I can change the time.’
‘Of course not. I promise I will be there. Don’t listen to the talk of the town, Signor Bartolucci.’ But she knew that what she had just said would be town talk tomorrow, or more likely, tonight, on the Marino.
Changing out of her costume, she wondered how she and Lisa Falconi would meet. It was going to be more than awkward if Lisa meant to cultivate Charlotte and cut her. So it was a relief to find Falconi himself awaiting her at the stage door. ‘I am to escort you to the conversazione,’ he told her. ‘And make an apology for my wife. She is an idle, good-for-nothing girl and tells me she never answered your last note. But you are going to forgive her, are you not?’
‘Of course I am, signor. I am only grateful to my good friends for standing by me so faithfully.’ She was glad to have the chance to say this.
‘I think we should be apologising to you, Miss Prior, for the behaviour of someone we will not name. I am only glad it all ended so well. I am sure you will understand better now why we are so eager for a constitution, some check on absolute power.’ He had been leaning close, to speak low, as he guided her through the crowd to the carriage, now helped her in. ‘You sing better every time I hear you.’ She thought he meant it.
The conversazione was more crowded than usual, and she felt herself at once the focus of all eyes. It is not everyone who is said to have rejected the advances of a king. She wondered how King Ferdinand felt about it all, and comforted herself by the thought that he probably just found it comic. Surprising how much she had liked that boorish man.
No time to be thinking of that now. Falconi had her firmly by the arm and was guiding her through the crowd to where his wife was talking to Lady William. He was plumping her right into it, she thought, and was grateful. She also thought, for a breathless minute, that Lady William might turn away, but if she had considered it, she changed her mind, and they were soon carrying on a civil, uninteresting conversation about the performance.
Forde joined them almost at once and she wondered bitterly if he had been waiting to see what Lady William would do. He soon had her alone, on the pretext of finding her an ice. ‘I am delighted to see you well enough to sing.’ He had her in a corner by the ornate table where refreshments were served. ‘I trust that means that you are receiving again.’
‘Of course I am.’ Surely he knew that she would have received him at any time. How far apart they had drifted and how strange not to mind it more.
‘Then if I may, I will call tomorrow, and hope to find you alone.’ And that was an instruction, if ever there was one.
‘I shall do my poor best,’ smiling at him. Had she really been intending to discuss Peabody’s warning with him? She thought that she should be glad he had not called sooner. ‘I think the Duchess of Orleans is wanting a word with you,’ she told him now, and turned away to talk to John Thornton, whom she found most timely at her elbow.
* * *
But if she did not mean to talk about Peabody’s warning with Forde, with whom could she? The answer was obvious: no one. And where did that leave her? Back at home, she said an absent-minded good night to Charlotte, and retired to bed, but not to sleep. This was the first real chance she had had to think about what Nathan Peabody had said to her, and the more she thought, the more it frightened her. Because she knew that he had been afraid himself. She knew so little about him. He was American: he was older than he looked, but, she thought, still young in his enthusiasms. He had come to Sicily by way of France and Naples. And he had been fully dressed that night at Monreale. Charlotte had not been the only one to keep an assignation there. And what he had learned had frightened him. He must have brought messages. From Napoleon? From Murat? Very likely from both. Secret messages to the Queen? He had been very much the prime mover of the whole Segesta trip, she remembered. And at his secret meeting — with Castroni, perhaps, or his representative — he had learned enough of the Queen’s plans to frighten him, to make him speak of the Sicilian Vespers.
Face it. They had massacred the hated French all those years ago. This time would they be throwing in their hands with the French and massacring the English?
She suddenly realised that she even knew when it would happen, which was obviously more than Peabody did. The Queen had insisted that she and Charlotte come to the review of the royal guard. That must be when it was planned for, and the Queen’s party would be protected. Presumably a simultaneous rising would deal with the British troops at Messina. Deal with. Kill. She faced it coldly. And Peabody wanted her to turn the Queen’s mind!
If it could be done, it must be done soon, with time for a message to reach Messina. But how? Racking her brains, she thought of the alternatives. If she were to warn Forde, she knew well enough what would happen. He would use the information to disgrace the Queen. He might even let the attempt be made, with preparations ready to scotch it. Then the massacre would work the other way. The pretence of Sicilian independence would be ended, and the Queen would be lucky if she was only banished to Vienna.
She did not want to tell Forde. She did not trust him; that was the long and the short of it. Peabody was right. An appeal to the Queen was the only hope, but how to get to the Queen? It was one thing to be summoned to the palace, quite another to ask for an audience. Who could speak for her? Not the Falconis, they were of the British party themselves, would have no influence with the Queen. She thought of the Duchess of Orleans, but felt her a cipher, manipulated by her husband, who had also thrown in his lot with Bentinck and the British. How odd not to be able to turn to the very people who were threatened, because she could not trust them either. But she had seen enough of the lord-of-creation behaviour of British officers in Palermo to know that she could not.
Flora Cottone. It came to her as the first light began to seep through the shutters. Flora Cottone had pointed out her family’s country house on the way to La Favorita. There had not, of course, been time to call on the way back. She and Charlotte would call on them, and they would start early, so as to be out when Forde paid his threatened call. Threatened? Yes, she thought that was the word.
* * *
‘The Cottones?’ Charlotte was surprised but compliant. ‘Yes, of course I remember about them, but, Beth, why?’ She very obviously had other plans for this fresh September morning and Beth found herself wondering what they were. But there was no time for that now.
‘Because I want to,’ she said uncompromisingly. ‘And, Charlotte dear, I want to start early, before there is a chance of callers. Please.’ Charlotte was not always the most punctual of people, particularly when her heart was not in it.
‘If you really want to go.’ Charlotte was still meek from her scolding by John Thornton the day before, and made a sacrifice of her hopes that Peabody would call.
So they set out in good time for the drive through the town to the Porta Macqueda and the road to Colli. The preparations for the Rosalia Festival were finished now, arches overhanging the road all along the way were trimmed with artificial flowers and lights to be lit when the great day came. If we all live till then, thought Beth, and realised for the first time that the Queen must have planned this whole festival for the chance it gave her to get loyal troops into the town for the royal review. And that was not a cheering thought.
The Villa Cottone was a startling red building set well back from the road, and Charlotte was still giggling over the statues that ornamented its entrance as Beth sent in their names. ‘Hush,’ she said repressively, and Charlotte looked startled, and suddenly sober.
The Marchesa Cottone was sitting among a crowd of children on a terrace at the back of the villa, where a cool breeze came in from the sea. ‘I am afraid my daughter is not here,’ she explained, after the first greetings. ‘She is in attendance on her majesty at La Favorita all this week. She will be sad to have missed you.’
‘I was afraid of that,’ said Beth. ‘I do very badly want to see her.’
‘Do you?’ The Marchesa looked thoughtfully at the children. ‘I am sure that can be contrived. Will tomorrow be soon enough?’
‘Today would be better.’
‘Very well.’ She clapped her hands and gave swift orders to the servant who appeared. ‘Now, you must take some refreshment after your hot drive, and tell me how you are finding life in Palermo.’
‘Interesting,’ said Beth, and got a long grave look from her hostess.
‘I am sorry my husband is not here to meet you,’ the Marchesa said as servants poured iced drinks for them all. ‘He has gone tunny fishing with the King; I doubt they’ll get much sport so late in the season, but it is a party of pleasure they all enjoy. I don’t expect Rinaldo back until tomorrow night at the earliest.’ And having provided Beth with this useful bit of information, she turned to condole with Charlotte over the Segesta trip. ‘Though I think you would have found it dull enough when you got there,’ she told her. ‘A lot of columns lying about every which way. If you really want to see something magnificent, you should make the trip by water to the cathedral at Cefalu. I am told that is something quite out of the ordinary, though in a sad state of disrepair. The Sicilians are a wretched, idle set of fellows, I’m afraid. I can’t tell you how we long, my husband and I, to be back at our real home in Naples. But what is the use of longing? If the King and Queen can make the best of things, here in Sicily, so must we, but it is a miserable come-down just the same. I hope one day to be able to entertain you ladies in proper style at our country house in Capodimonte, Miss Prior, and hear you at the San Carlo. The theatre here is nothing but a hovel compared to that magnificent building, but what can you expect of so barbaric a race? Oh — no need to pull faces at me, Miss Prior, you must know by this time that the Sicilian peasants one is served by speak nothing but their vile patois. They have no idea of bettering themselves. Thought for them is wasted thought.’
