Bride of Dreams, page 9
"But I want to come with you." She had never before argued a point so hard with him.
He sighed and shrugged. "They told me I should soon be sick of your megrims," he said. "Am I to endure these fidgets for nine whole months? If you wish me to bring you the news, tonight, you had best leave off quarrelling with me and make yourself a little agreeable, for a change. I am not the man to bear with a parcel of ill humours merely because you are breeding. And do not put yourself into a fret after I leave, either, or you may harm my heir." And without more ado he rang for a servant and ordered the carriage to be brought round.
Perhaps luckily, she was too angry for speech. If she had said anything, she would probably have thrown in his face the falsehood of her claim to be pregnant, of which he had made such use against her. But this would merely be to draw down disaster on herself before it was necessary. And the more he talked of her pregnancy, the more she recognized just what the inevitable day of reckoning would be like. If he should ever imagine that she had deceived him on purpose . . . It did not bear thinking of.
"In the sullens now?" He bent, carelessly to kiss her cheek. "You had best have a more loving greeting for me when I return."
Left alone, she sat, for a long time, gazing tearlessly out across their terraced garden. She was frightened, she admitted to herself at last, horribly frightened. What would this brutal stranger she had married do to her when he discovered she had made a fool of him? A darkening of the air aroused her from this miserable reverie and she heard, suddenly, an outbreak of terrified speech from the servants' quarters, which looked out the other way, towards Vesuvius.
She had hardly paid attention when her husband dismissed the rumours about the volcano so casually, but now she began to wonder if he had been right, or merely, as usual, convinced of what suited him. She had got used, by now, to the white plume of smoke that always hung over the beautiful, dangerous mountain, and even to the occasional showers of red hot stones that rose from its crater. But surely today's smoke was heavier, and there was something strange, too, about the atmosphere. For days now, the air had been heavy and both the sun and moon had had a curious reddish look. The servants had made no secret of their fright, and had only stayed because they were more frightened still of their master.
As the day wore on, heavy clouds gathered on the horizon, but were soon illuminated by the flickering of multi-coloured lightning. It grew dark unnaturally early and the first of a series of mild earthquakes sent the servants panicking from the house. Ignoring them, Amanda stayed on a verandah that looked out towards the mountain and watched with awed fascination as the gathering darkness showed up a cloud of fire above its crater. There was a continual rumbling now, as of thunder, and from time to time another slight tremor shook the earth beneath her. But she found it impossible to care what happened to her, and watched with a curious detachment as a new crater opened on the side of the mountain and a stream of red-hot lava poured slowly down from it. Behind her, the house was quiet now, but she could hear, from the road beyond, the sound of hysterical talk, the screams of frightened horses and the crying of babies, as more and more of the inhabitants of the village fled for their lives. Listelessly, she thought that perhaps she ought to join them, but did nothing, merely sitting there and gazing at the red cloud above the mountain. She had often been tempted, since her marriage, with ideas of suicide, but strong religious principle had always held her back. Now, with fresh disaster ahead she found it impossible to care whether she lived or died. She would never kill herself, she knew, but must she struggle to remain alive?
She was still sitting there, looking out into the gathering darkness, when a terrified servant rode up with a note from Lord Meynel. He had been, he wrote, unavoidably detained in Naples, and would spend the night at their town house. A postscript referred casually to the talk of a possible eruption; Sir William, who was known for an expert in the volcano's behaviour, said there was nothing to fear. She might rest easy and he would join her in the morning.
Glancing sardonically from his letter to the lurid spectacle of the volcano, Amanda became aware that the servant was still standing in front of her, his teeth actually chattering with fright. He was urging her, she realized, to make her escape with him. Lord Meynel had taken the carriage, but his horse was strong. He had no doubt that he could take her up behind him as far at least as the outskirts of Naples.
She thanked the man and dismissed him: "Milord says there is nothing to fear."
All the servants went in dread of their irascible master, and this was an unanswerable argument. Still the man hovered, longing to be gone yet not liking to leave her. She took pity on him. "You will carry an answer to milord for me," she said, and wrote rapidly. 'I am glad you tell me there is no danger.' she said, 'For, truly, otherwise, I might have been afraid for my life. I shall hope to see you tomorrow.' As she sanded and sealed the note, she was aware of a soft dust in the air, and the man, hysterically pointing, showed her how close the stream of molten lava had come to the house. She laughed at his fears. "Do you not see," she said, "that the house is on a hill? The lava will flow harmlessly around me and down into the sea. But do be gone and tell my lord how you left me. If he thinks it necessary, he can send a boat for me." In her heart of hearts she hoped her husband would be too busy with his drinking and his friends to take this precaution.
The man left at last, with many protestations of reluctance, and Amanda prowled about the house, wondering at what she had done. The die was cast now and she was convinced that unless her husband was sober enough to arrange for her rescue, she would certainly perish that night. For some time, there had been no more sounds of life from the road that ran below the house; the fugitives from the village must be well on their way to Naples. Instead, the thunderous noise from the volcano had redoubled in volume and the earth shook almost continuously. Amanda noticed that her hands were shaking, it seemed, in sympathy. She was actually hungry. She had not eaten all day and found a curious meal of cold macaroni, fruit and wine in the dank and deserted kitchen. The food and drink revived her and, suddenly, she found herself anxious to live. Death was so absolute. Suppose . . . there were so many things she might suppose. Faced with her own death, she was able to contemplate the possibility of her husband's. How foolish to die unnecessarily here when a few years might see her a widow, free . . . In the past, she had always shrunk from this idea as heartless, but now, condemned to death by her husband's carelessness, she faced the possibility, and found it – possible. Her hand had stopped shaking. She finished her glass of wine, left the kitchen and hurried back to the verandah. A terrifying sight met her eyes. A stream of molten lava was flowing down the road past the house; the whole verandah was inches deep in soft ash, and from time to time the more distant rumbling of the volcano was accented by the crash of a red hot stone falling nearby. The wooden stables at the far side of the garden were burning already. It was only a matter of time before the house, too, must go up in flames. It was an end to detachment. Suddenly, passionately, she wanted to live. It was one thing to have sat safe indoors and dreamed of romantic extinction by a volcano: nobody likes the immediate prospect of being burned to death.
There was no time to be lost. She hurried round to the other side of the house, only to discover that the stream of lava split at the hillock on which it was built and flowed past on either side. No escape that way. Her only hope lay in the cliffs and the sea. The servant she had sent could not possibly have reached Naples yet, or sent help, but she might be able to get away in the little boat Lord Meynel kept in the cove below the house. She breathed a quick prayer, left the shelter of the verandah, and ran for her life.
Luckily for her, she knew the little path well and her feet found their way almost automatically, leaving her free to watch for and dodge the red hot stones that were falling more thickly now. As for the ash, she was covered in it at once, but to her relief it had cooled as it fell and was only pleasantly warm on her face and hands. She pulled her scarf more tightly round her hair and hurried forward.
Reaching the top of the cliff at last, she gazed down the steep path to the little cover. Blank disappointment whitened her face. She had been so sure that the boat would be there, but some other fugitive must have thought of it first. The cove was empty. For a moment she gave way to despair, but the very fact of trying to escape had strengthened her will to live. She turned and walked doggedly forward along the cliff. She did not believe in rescue by her husband. He was doubtless drinking deep with Nelson and the other British officers. Help, if it came, would come by accident. She shook a cloud of ash off her scarf, tied it more tightly over her hair for fear of cinders, and set forward resolutely along the rocky path. She had never been this way before and her progress was slow and uncertain in the half light. At last, turning a corner, she stopped with a gasp. She had forgotten that a small stream ran out to sea here through a volcanic fissure in the cliffs; now, below her, she could see its course outlined in molten lava. There was no hope of passage this way. In order to get to the further cove, she would have to go back to the house and start again down the path along the next spit of high land.
She had been frightened before, now she was desperate. But there was nothing else for it. She turned at a gasping run, back along the path to the house. Going this way, she was more aware than ever of the increasing hail of hot stones and warm ash. She had been hit one or two glancing blows already but was too frantic to notice the pain of her burns. Reaching the house once more after what seemed an eternity of desperate struggle, she was amazed to find it still standing and not, miraculously, yet on fire. An overwhelming temptation seized her. Here was shelter, however temporary. Why not go in, lie down on her own comfortable bed, and sleep. In the morning, she might be safe – or dead. She hardly cared which.
She was standing there, torn between her longing for rest and the unwelcome duty of living, when she saw a light flickering in one of the downstairs windows of the house. Someone must be there, risking his life to look for her. She ran towards the house, then stopped. It might be a looter. She had heard plenty of stories about the criminals who took advantage of these times of chaos and disorder to line their pockets and who would think nothing of disposing of anyone who interrupted them. Still, whoever it was must have some idea of the best way to escape . . . besides, after the past hours of lonely terror, the idea of human company was irresistible. She ran towards the house.
As she approached, a man's figure appeared in the dark doorway onto the verandah. A candle in his hand, he looked anxiously out into the darkness. Flickered in the draught the flame made strange shadows on his face. Certain that he could not see her, Amanda drew a few cautious steps nearer. From his silhouette, it looked as if he was in coat and knee breeches, the garb of a gentleman, and spelling safety. But it was hard to be sure. Then, as she watched, he shrugged, apparently deciding that what he had heard had been mere imagination, and turned back into the house. "Mandy," she heard him calling softly in English, "Amanda, are you there?"
"John!" She broke into a sobbing run. This time he had heard her and met her, open-armed, in the doorway.
"Mandy!" For an exquisite, timeless moment she was in his arms. Then he held her off, to look at her. "You are not hurt? Where have you been, Amanda? I was nearly giving up in despair. But are you hurt?" he asked again anxiously.
"Nothing to signify. Nothing matters any more, now you are here. Oh, John," for one more moment she let her head rest on his shoulder. "Is it a miracle, or is it really you?"
She heard him laugh in the darkness. "Something of both, I think. I collect you did not know that I am Second Lieutenant on the Agamemnon now. I was dining with Captain Nelson and the other officers at the Ambassador's, met your husband, heard you were here – and here I am."
"And Lord Meynel?"
"Too far gone with drinking your health to care for your safety." He did not try to disguise the scorn in his voice. "Oh, Amanda—" He broke off, then continued in a different tone: "The question now is what is best for us to do." His arm was still supporting her as he turned a little away to look out into the gathering darkness. "No hope of finding our way now. I have a boat in the cove beyond there," he pointed to the cliffs to the north of the path along which Amanda had come. "The crew have orders to wait offshore till I return – or till morning, and have been bribed, I think, sufficiently, even for Neapolitans. But we will never find the way in the dark. It is a lucky thing for us that the moon is full. I think we must risk waiting till it rises. We will rest for two hours or so, have something to eat, and start out when the moon is up. It is a fortunate thing," a considering glance took in the stables, now burning fiercely, "that your house is built of stone. I think we may do well enough yet. So, come, show me the way to your kitchen before I faint with hunger on your hands."
She could not help laughing. "Oh, John, I am glad to see you. And, do you know, I believe I am hungry too. I am afraid there is little enough to eat, though. I had nothing but cold macaroni for my luncheon."
He made an expressive face. "That will not do for me. But look," he reached down a huge side of smoked ham from the chimney, cut off two thick slices and told her to find him some eggs, while he got the fire going. "And now a bottle of wine," he said. "This is probably the one time in our lives we shall dine alone together. Let us enjoy it, Mandy."
"Oh, John." For a moment, she was close to tears, then with an effort imitated his briskness as she fetched her best glass and silver. They carried their steaming ham and eggs into the saloon and John insisted that she eat hers on the big sofa. "You will need all your strength before the night is over."
"I wish we could stay here and chance it."
"So do I, but you know it is impossible. Oh, Amanda," he had finished his meal now and came across to take away her plate. "Amanda, how could you do it?"
She made no pretence of misunderstanding. "John – I could not help it. Or thought I could not. If you had been nearer – but he saw to that. He sent you away on purpose, you know, and stopped your letters to me. You did write to me?" she asked pitifully, the tears once more near the surface.
"Of course I did. By every packet."
"I should have known. But I had none of them. Your aunt heard nothing either. It was as if the sea had opened and swallowed you. And he made me all kinds of promises . . . and mother was in debt . . . and we were turned out of the house. Oh, John, I was mad, I know, but, at the time, it seemed there was nothing else to do. I . . . I did not rightly know what I was doing."
He had stayed close and comfortingly beside her; now he settled on the arm of her sofa. "I understand," he said. "Or almost. You were a child, Amanda. It was a wicked thing."
"Yes. I did not know . . . my mother should have told me. But what is the use of blaming her? It was my fault, and I am paying for it."
"Is it very bad?"
"Oh, John." Suddenly, the long misery rose up in her and she turned, sobbing, into his arms.
"Amanda," he was holding her tightly now, "do not cry so. I cannot bear it."
She raised huge, tear-drenched eyes to his. "I . . . I cannot help it." She did not know how like she looked to the child he had teased, and, a little, bullied, and loved, so long ago. And, as for her, she had forgotten everything in the safety of his embrace.
He gave a little groan. "Amanda, my love, my darling." His lips found hers in a kiss that was salt with her tears. For a long, timeless moment he held her so, then, very gently, pushed her away and raised his head from hers. "Amanda, forgive me. I must have been out of my mind."
She pressed closer to him, smiling up through the veil of tears. "Then so am I. Oh, John, if this is madness, it is also the only happiness I shall ever have. Hold me, John, hold me tight." And then, hoping to prolong the moment's ecstasy: "How angry you were with me last time we met. I thought you would never forgive me."
"Forgive you! I shall never forgive myself for letting myself be gulled into leaving you alone, unprotected, a helpless child, with no one to turn to but that harpy of a mother. Oh, forgive me, Amanda."
"I could forgive you anything," she said.
Outside, the thunder of the volcano was unabated, but they had forgotten it, forgotten everything in the intoxication of this meeting. Here, in this room full of flickering firelight, was their world – each other. He was down on the sofa beside her now, his arms close and warm around her, his hands urgent against her torn dress, his mouth speaking to hers. Here was home, here was happiness.
At last she lay there, utterly quiet, spent with ecstasy, in his arms. But now he raised his head to look at her strangely in the flickering light of the fire. "Amanda, I am so ashamed."
She smiled up at him. "Ashamed? So should I be, John, but I tell you, I am not." Relaxed, utterly content, she found the idea merely absurd. "Oh, John," she whispered, "I did not know it could be like this."
"Amanda." It was a groan.
"Do not sound so. At least I shall have this to remember when – oh, John, must I go back? Can you not take me away? Now, tonight?" She knew it for madness even as she spoke.
"You forget," his arms about her were infinitely gentle, "I am a poor man, Amanda. If I were only rich, I would beg you to flout the world for my sake and come away with me. Somewhere, I am sure, we could be happy together. But how can I ask it, when I have nothing to offer you but the pay of a second lieutenant?" In both their minds was the thought that even that would be jeopardized if he were to disgrace himself by running off with the wife of a married man, and a baronet at that. And she could not help knowing, reluctantly, in her heart, what it must cost him even to make the suggestion. All his life he had longed for a glorious career in the Navy and now with the outbreak of war, his chance had come. She could not ask him to give it up for her sake. For herself, after what she suffered with her husband the idea of penury and disgrace with him seemed like purest heaven. But for him it must mean the end of all his hopes. She could not ask it of him. Instead, she smiled up at him bravely. "At least we have had this," she said. "I know now that there is such a thing as happiness. Now kiss me, John, quickly, for the moon has risen."
