Escapade, page 23
She did not dare look sideways at the balconies, for fear of losing her balance, but Lady William’s house faced across the Ottangolo to where the Great Street entered it. Her friends would be on the balcony there. Might she be able to catch their attention, give some kind of signal for help? But this, too, would mean stopping the procession. And that might so easily precipitate just the kind of anti-British riot they feared.
Not much comfort to think of British troops on duty up at the palace if trouble were to break out at the Ottangolo. The streets were so packed with people that there was no chance of help arriving in time.
Looking ahead, she could see that the first musicians had reached the Ottangolo. A wave of cheering greeted them, almost drowning the strident sound of their instruments. It was too noisy to think. The carriage lurched a little as the first of the mules entered the square. She made herself fix her eyes steadily, straight ahead. Soon she would be able to see Lady William’s balcony, but what good would that be?
The light was changing. How strange. The gold and silver of the postillions’ gala dress no longer gleamed in the sun. She could see heads on balconies across the square turning upwards to scan the sky anxiously. And now she could see Lady William’s balcony, ahead and just to the left, with its gaily dressed group of people, all looking upwards. Lady William, Forde, Fagan, Charlotte rather in a corner, with John Thornton beside her. His head was bandaged. But where was Peabody?
Killed, she thought. And nobody told me. So nothing matters. The carriage moved into the square and she hardly noticed, looking straight ahead at desolation.
It had stopped, and she was still upright. Bartolucci raised his baton for the first chorus. There was a crash and a searing flash as lightning streaked down the statue of Saint Rosalia and so down behind her. Shocked by the scorch of its passage, she leaned forward, instinctively clasped the handrail, and felt it give totally under her hand.
* * *
Charlotte admired the cool authority with which Lady William collected up her little party after the explosion, saw to it that John Thornton’s head was bandaged, and marshalled them to the carriages that would take them to the Ottangolo. ‘That’s a great lady,’ she told John Thornton.
‘You would do it just as well, if need were.’ He smiled at her, and her heart lurched in her breast. Absurd. Ridiculous.
What was she imagining now? She felt colour flood her face. He had knocked her down, fallen on her, squeezed her ribs and crushed her dress. And everything had changed between them. But had it? Did he feel it too? How could she tell?
‘Does it really not hurt?’ She made herself ask it casually, as he stood back to let her go first on to Lady William’s balcony.
Not the least in the world. I’ve a hard head.’ He took her arm to steer her into the furthest corner of the balcony, and again she felt an electric shock run through her.
What is happening to me? She must not let it show. ‘I think there is a storm coming,’ she looked up at the darkening sky. ‘The air feels strange.’
‘Just the air? Charlotte —’ But a servant approached them, handing out little parcels of streamers to be thrown at the procession. ‘Lady William thinks of everything,’ he said.
‘Yes, but I don’t like it.’ Peabody had come up on the other side of Charlotte. ‘Such a chance to throw something else. This doesn’t strike me as at all the happy crowd Brydone describes.’
‘Well, it’s not the real occasion,’ said Thornton. ‘But, surely, with the Queen ill… ’
‘Is there any news of her?’ asked Charlotte.
‘Just the same, I believe. I wish they had cancelled this frolic.’
‘The King said his wife would wish it to go ahead.’
‘If we could only see down the Great Street.’ Peabody sounded anxious. ‘I’m told the float is immensely high, and the lead singer stands at the very top.’
‘We’ll see soon enough,’ Thornton told him. ‘The music is getting nearer.’
‘If you call it music,’ said Charlotte. ‘I hope poor Beth isn’t supposed to sing against that. Look, here they come!’ There was a ripple in the crowd, where the Great Street entered the square, and then the first drummers entered, the crowd falling back before them, so that people were squeezed close against the buildings. ‘Goodness, I am glad we are up here,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Thornton agreed. ‘They all look cheerful enough so far, but what a muddle.’ They could see little scuffles breaking out all round the square as people who had been in the front row got pushed back into the crowd. ‘Just so long as nothing goes wrong — Oh, here it comes!’
The musicians had managed to form into ragged ranks across the square, leaving an aisle so that the pairs of huge mules could go straight across. And at last the huge float came into view at the corner.
‘Oh my goodness,’ exclaimed Charlotte. ‘Look at poor Beth!’ And then, ‘The sun’s gone in.’
‘Yes,’ said Thornton. ‘If it rains, we won’t move until everyone else has gone. Better get wet than get crushed, don’t you think, Peabody?’
‘He’s gone,’ said Charlotte. ‘Something’s wrong with Beth, I think.’ The float was still moving slowly forwards towards the centre of the square, and all the time it was getting darker. The din of drums and trumpets was suddenly stilled, there was a little hush across the clamorous crowd, and into the silence came the tearing crash of thunder, with its simultaneous lightning flash. For an instant, the float was lividly lit, and she saw Beth’s figure sway, dark against the light, clutch the rail below her, fall.
‘It gave way.’ Thornton had his arm round her, holding her tight, as panic struck the crowded balcony. ‘I think someone caught her.’ It was dark now, and out of the darkness came rain in torrents. ‘Don’t move, Charlotte,’ he said. ‘Not yet. I’ve got you.’ They were both straining their eyes to see what was happening on the float.
‘John, it’s on fire!’
‘Made of wood,’ he said. ‘And the statue metal. Madness. If I could only see… Charlotte, I’m almost sure someone caught her as she fell.’
There were screams now from the float as well as from the square, where people were fighting to get away from the flames that licked around the base of the huge carriage.
‘Thank God for the rain,’ said John Thornton. ‘I think we should start down now. It looks as if the worst was over here.’ The last spectators were vanishing through the big door into the house. ‘Keep close.’ His arm made it impossible to do anything else, and she was glad of it. They were both soaked to the skin, and rivulets of water were running from her hair.
‘I hope there is a back way out,’ said John Thornton.
‘But, Beth,’ protested Charlotte. ‘We must find out what has happened to her.’
‘Peabody will be with her.’ He said it with absolute certainty. ‘Don’t mind too much, Charlotte.’
‘Mind? Why should I mind?’ But they were in the crowded salon now, and she was not sure if he heard her as he tried to make a reasonably civil way for them through the vociferous groups of people. Those who had managed to keep dry wanted to stay, those who had been drenched wanted to get home at all speed.
‘This way.’ John Thornton had spoken quickly to a servant, now pushed her through an inconspicuous service door concealed in a corner behind a Chinese screen.
It led to a different world: a dark, filthy corridor, then a steep little stair. ‘Careful.’ He let go of her to lead the way. ‘It’s slippery.’
With grease, she thought, and it stank. It led straight into a vast kitchen where drenched servants were too busy running about and swearing to notice them. A back door gave on a courtyard full of stinking rubbish, and so into an alley. It was still pouring with rain, but they were beyond caring.
‘Are you cold?’ he asked.
‘No. Yes — a little. It doesn’t matter. Where are we going, John?’
‘I’m taking you home,’ he told her. ‘You’re drenched. Peabody will bring Beth, I’m sure of it. Don’t worry. It does no good.’ He had her arm, hurrying her along a narrow lane into which soaking people were crowding as they escaped from the chaos of the Ottangolo. He took a right turn to get further from the crowd, then a left. ‘Can you go faster? I want to get across the main road before it gets too crowded.’
‘It’s my skirts.’ They were soaked and clinging round her, shortening her stride.
‘Hitch them up.’ He hardly slackened speed to let her do so, urging her ruthlessly to a near trot.
She saw his point when they reached the main road to the east and saw it already filling up with fugitives from the Ottangolo. Very soon it would be impassable.
‘Could you understand what they were saying?’ she asked as they plunged into another alley on the seaward side of the street.
‘I rather think the fire is out.’ They were away from the worst of the crowd now and he shortened his stride to hers. ‘What a blessing I know you for a good walker, Charlotte. We haven’t a hope of finding a carriage.’
‘Of course not. Besides, it’s warmer walking. If only we knew what had happened to Beth.’
‘No use worrying,’ he said again. ‘Right, here.’ He was guiding her expertly through the maze of alleys. ‘Lucky thing I have amused myself walking about this town. And I think the rain is beginning to slacken. Are you very cold, my poor Lotte?’
‘No, just drowning.’ Tears started to her eyes at his use of the childhood name.
‘Oh, my poor child.’ He saw, and misunderstood. ‘You must not mind it so much. He’s years too old for you, and, if you ask me, something of a bully.’
‘I know,’ she told him. ‘Beth will deal with him admirably. What in the world makes you think I care about Nathan Peabody, John?’
‘But you did,’ he said.
‘I thought I did.’ She admitted it ruefully. ‘He set me right. Bully’s not just the word — bossy, perhaps? He told me I couldn’t hold a candle to Beth, and of course he was right. But then I don’t want to. I’m very happy as I am. As me: Charlotte Pennam Comyn. When this is all over, and we know Beth is all right, will you take me home, John?’
‘Of course I will.’ He stopped, dropped her arm, pulled her round to face him. ‘Charlotte, do you mean… Can you really mean?’
‘Well, of course I do. How can I put it more plainly.’ She smiled an invitation.
‘Charlotte!’
Swept into his arms, lost in his embrace, she pulled away at last. ‘You taste of salt,’ she said. ‘Is it rain or tears?’
‘Both, I think. I’ve loved you so long, Charlotte. I think I had given up hope.’
‘I didn’t know. You were so matter of fact, that day at Windover. I thought it was just our families, our banks… Oh, what a waste of time.’
‘Don’t think that, Charlotte. Never think that. We love each other better now.’
‘Yes,’ thoughtfully. ‘Yes, that’s quite true. Well, one thing, I’m grown-up now. I wasn’t before. Oh, there is so much I want to tell you, John.’
‘And I you, but not, perhaps, here in a stinking Sicilian alley. Time to go home, love, and find out about Beth and Peabody.’
‘Do you think she will like living in New Bedford, Massachusetts?’
‘I wish I knew. But I’m sure they’ll manage.’
20
Beth’s fall had been broken by the group of sopranos just below her, but she was winded for a moment, aware only of screaming and confusion all around. Rain was catapulting down now, there was another growl of thunder, she pulled herself together and began to apologise to the women she had fallen on. None of them seemed to be seriously hurt, which was a miracle, she thought. But they were all close to hysteria, and no wonder; there was a hiss and crackle as fire from the dry timber of the under-carriage met the downward plunge of the rain. There was only one way out, at the front of the float, and the members of the orchestra were crowding towards it, trying to protect their instruments from the rain, fighting each other to go first.
‘We’d best wait a few minutes,’ Beth urged the panic-stricken women around her, but they were beyond reason, and pushed past her towards the savage crowd at the exit.
‘No, Beth, this way.’ Peabody’s voice, she would know it anywhere. She looked about her, saw his head, topping the side of the cart. ‘Can you reach me?’ he asked. ‘Trust me?’
‘Of course.’ She pushed one of the high stools the singers had used over to the side of the cart, climbed on to it and faced him. Not high enough. She reached down to tear savagely at the skirts of her drenched muslin, and, liberated, got a toehold on the uneven side of the float, lifted herself bodily to the edge, and perched there, high above the crowd.
‘Do just as I tell you.’ His hand was warm on hers. ‘It’s a climb down, I’m afraid, but there’s a kind of workman’s ladder. I’ll go first. Do just as I say.’
‘Believe me, I will.’
The rain sluiced down; she could hear screams and the crackle of flame further back along the carriage side; she put hand and foot meticulously where he told her, thinking of nothing else, and found herself at last on the flagstones of the square. The crowd had fallen back from around the burning carriage, leaving a little space where they faced each other.
She was going to thank him, but, ‘No time,’ he said. ‘Quick, this way.’
And again she obeyed him instinctively, letting him put a firm arm round her, steer her through the crowd. ‘Head on my shoulder,’ he told her. ‘I don’t want you recognised. Be a clinging woman for once.’
They were in the thick of the panicky crowd now and she was glad enough to obey. Besides, she was in no state to be recognised. She had a horrid feeling that her torn skirt was now split to the waist, revealing more bare leg than she cared to think about. What an absurd thing to be thinking. She was alive, and so was Nathan.
She kept her head meekly down on his shoulder, but could feel that the crowd was a little thinner, the paving had changed under her feet, they must be in one of the alleys that led off the square.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘Head down,’ he told her. ‘To my rooms, they are nearest. I want you off the streets. God knows what will happen if the crowd’s mood takes a superstitious turn.’
‘ “Dastardly British,” you mean. “An affront to Saint Rosalia?” I’m keeping my head down, but I can still talk.’
‘You’d thought of that too?’
‘Yes. When I found the handrail had been tampered with. I was trying to stand alone, but that lightning flash —’
‘Tampered with? That’s what was wrong! I could see something was, by the look of you.’
‘I’m glad you did. I never did like crowds, and they were in a fine panic on that float.’
‘If that had been the worst of it,’ he said. ‘I had visions of you being sacrificed to Saint Rosalia.’
‘Sacrificed?’
‘The Neapolitan crowd tore an innocent messenger to pieces a while ago. Here we are. At my back door. Quick, now, in with you!’ He whisked her through a gate, across a yard, and into a kitchen that smelled of garlic and red wine. A fat woman, stirring something on a brazier turned and exclaimed at sight of them.
‘Quiet, Maria.’ Nathan spoke in surprisingly good French. ‘The crowd is in an ugly mood. I have brought the signora here for safety. No one must know.’ He turned to Beth. ‘Maria speaks French but no English.’ Was it a warning?
‘Then no one will.’ She beamed at them both, gap-toothed. ‘You can trust old Maria. And would the signora perhaps like to borrow a dress?’ She was looking with frank amusement at Beth’s legs. ‘It will go twice round you, I’m afraid.’
‘Never mind,’ said Beth. ‘I’d be more than grateful, Maria.’
‘I’ll fetch it directly. The other servants are out, signor, watching the procession as you so kindly permitted. No need to fret about anything. Give the signora a glass of wine, she looks as if she needs it.’
‘I certainly do.’ Beth found she was shivering and moved forward to the warmth of the brazier while he opened a dark bottle. ‘Can we trust old Maria?’ she asked when the woman had gone.
‘For the moment, absolutely. In the long run, not at all.’ He filled a goblet with red wine and handed it to her. ‘You are well and truly compromised, my dear friend.’
‘You sound very pleased with yourself.’
‘I am. Bring your glass, come up to my rooms. Maria will not disturb us there.’
‘Not even in the interests of my modesty?’ She had stopped even trying to hold the soaking muslin together.
‘No indeed. She knows better. Besides, think how she is enjoying herself, wicked old thing. But if it bothers you —’ He had led her out into a wide front hall, reached down a cloak from its peg — ‘Here. But remember that I have seen your splendid legs often enough, in travesty, on stage.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but that is different.’ Wrapping herself in the cloak, she was grateful for its warmth.
‘I know. This way.’ He ushered her up a marble stairway and into a long first-floor apartment. ‘Keep away from the windows,’ he instructed.
‘You think there may be some shreds of my reputation left?’ ‘I don’t give a damn for your reputation, Beth. It’s your life I care about.’
‘I thought you were dead,’ she told him. ‘When the news came of the explosion.’
‘Then you have some idea of how I have been feeling. Beth —’ He held out his hands to her.
‘Yes.’ She put hers in his, let the borrowed cloak fall to the floor, felt her body answer his. How long? She had no idea. In the end: ‘I’m sorry about my past,’ she said.
