Shadow of a Lady

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “Yes.”

  Helen sensed something odd in Charlotte’s reaction but was too grateful for the shawl one of the maids had silently passed up to her to think much of it. She wound it round her shoulders and tied it behind her, leaving her hands free to take the pistols. “I can use them,” she said in Italian. “My father taught me.” It was more, she knew, than Charlotte could, and she found herself wondering why Charles had not brought his men.

  He was speaking to her now, under his breath, in English. “Does this door lock on the outside?”

  “No.” She thought for a moment. “But the wine cellar does.”

  “Where?” His gaze at the disarmed men was unwavering.

  “Across the hall. Just behind us.”

  “Good.” And then, in Italian, “You,” to Carlos. “Take whichever of their pistols you prefer and help me get them into line.”

  “I’ll help.” It was the old major dome, who had been incapably drunk but seemed to have recovered himself in the course of the crisis.

  “Good,” said Charles.

  “And so will I,” said one of the younger soldiers. “I wanted no part of this.”

  “Is it true?” Charles asked Helen without taking his eyes off the officer, who was swearing steadily and horrifyingly under his breath.

  “I think so,” said Helen. “He was just sitting, quiet, in a corner. I thought he must be very drunk.”

  “No,” said the young soldier.

  “It’s true,” Lucia spoke up. “He tried to make them leave me alone.”

  “Very well. You three then, get them in line, with their officer at the head. I don’t want to lose sight of him.” By now, the scene in the kitchen had sorted itself out surprisingly. The women had withdrawn to the corner beside the stove, where they huddled together, sobbing and whispering. The other two menservants were standing in front as if belatedly to protect them. The soldiers were struggling to their feet, fighting the drink that had incapacitated them, still not quite sure what had happened.

  Except the officer, who had the most at stake. He was himself again, a terrified self, white and sweating. Helen looked at him coldly. She could see his desperation and was afraid of what might be its results. “What you have done cannot be forgotten,” she told him across the room. “But I have no recollection of what you said.”

  It settled something for him. She could see the desperation drain away. The scene in the kitchen might be explained as a misunderstanding, those fatal words about the Queen never could. His own men would not betray him, the servants would not be believed, only Charlotte and Helen could ruin him. “And the other signora?” he asked now.

  “Will do as I say.” Helen was beginning to think that Charles’s men were a long time in coming, and, in fact, to suspect that they did not exist. She moved across the hall and unbolted the heavy cellar door. “This way,” she said. And then, to Charles, “There’s wine down there, of course.”

  “Of course,” he said, as the file of men began slowly and cautiously to edge past him and down the cellar steps, shepherded by Carlos, the major domo, and the one sober member of their group. Ex-member, Helen thought, watching the bitter looks that were cast at him as he stood there, pistol cocked, their enemy. The last three men to move had had time to sober up a little and one of them aimed a quick, surreptitious kick at him. For a moment, the whole situation was explosive. Then Carlos lifted his pistol and brought it down with all his strength on the attacker’s head. He fell like a log.

  “Pick him up, you two,” said Charles calmly, “and take him along with you. We don’t want him here.” And then to Carlos: “Thanks. That was quick thinking.” He followed the last two and their unconscious burden into the hall, swung the great, iron-studded cellar door to behind them, shot the bolt, and fastened the large metal hasp. “Have you a padlock for this?” he asked Helen.

  “Yes, signor,” the major domo answered as he moved across the kitchen to fetch the huge lock, which had been thrown down on a bench. “They made me open up,” he said.

  “Yes. There’s no other way out? No opening for barrels?”

  “Thanks be to God, no. But the signora’s wine . . .”

  “They’re going to have a hard time getting it open in the dark. By morning, I hope we will have help.”

  “Help?” The old man was puzzled. “But the signor’s men?”

  Charles laughed. “You are all my men,” he said. And then, raising his voice. “Charlotte, you can come back now. They’re all safely stowed.”

  “Thank God for that.” Charlotte appeared from the salon. “I was just beginning to wonder how on earth to make a noise like an advance guard of sailors.”

  “You mean you’re alone?” Helen had not believed it could be as bad as that.

  “Sole alone.” And, in Italian, to the soldier who had changed sides, “I think you had best stay on duty at the door. And, I wonder, had you considered going to sea?”

  The man’s face lit up. “With you, signor? A thousand times yes. I’ve made too many enemies tonight. . . .”

  “That’s what I thought. So you’re the best man to guard them. Give us a call if you hear anything out of the way, but frankly I think they’ll fall asleep pretty soon. What were your servants thinking of to let them at the wine, Helen?”

  “I suppose they did it for the best.” Her voice shook. Now that the crisis was over, there was time to recognise the pains that were racking her. She pulled the borrowed black shawl more closely around her. No time for that now.

  But Charles was giving her a quick look. “Come and sit down. Charlotte, take her other arm.”

  “I ought to change.” She would not think, except practically, about the moment when her dress had been torn off her, about the spectacle she must have presented.

  “You ought to go to bed,” said Charles, “but, first, if you have the strength, we must talk for a moment.” What was the matter with his voice?

  “Of course.” She would always have the strength, for him.

  “Good.” He and Charlotte were guiding her down the hall to the chaise longue in the salon. “Charlotte . . .” When had they got onto first-name terms? “Could you find Helen some brandy, do you think?” He laughed. “Without going down to the cellar for choice. And a wanner shawl?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  They were alone. He held up a hand. “Hush! I must speak before she comes back. Helen, Trenche came to Naples yesterday.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. I met him in a tavern. He was drunk as an owl and talking—in English, thank God—as if he’d never stop. Helen, how could you?”

  “How could I?”

  “All of it. Any of it. It makes me sick. But there’s no time for that. What I came to tell you is that you are safe. I had him pressed. He’s on his way to the Channel Fleet at this moment.” He was speaking throughout as if every word hurt him. “He won’t do much talking there. Or won’t be believed. But, Helen,” he said again, “how could you? Trenche!”

  She ought to ask him what Trenche had said, what lies he had told, but the pains were coming thick and fast now. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Charles—” It ended in a gasp that was almost a scream as the pain ripped through her, blacking everything out for a moment. When the world cleared again, Charlotte was beside her, wineglass in hand, looking if possible even more white and drawn than she had before. Charles had disappeared, and as another pain sobbed through her, Helen was glad of it.

  But there he was, returning with the old cook, who looked even more frightened than Charlotte. “We must get her upstairs,” said Charles.

  “No!” Once again it was almost a scream. “Just go away,” Helen begged. “All of you. And leave me alone. Please.” The pains were coming faster now. There was no time to think of Charles, or Trenche. . . . No time to do anything but feel the sweat pour down her face, and grasp, when the pains were strongest, at the edge of the chaise longue. “Charlotte. Make them go away.”

  “Yes, de
ar. In a moment.” Was it possible that Charlotte had still not realised what was happening? Charles knew, of course, but then he knew so much . . . and so much of it so intolerably wrong. She remembered how, just a few nights before, she had found herself wishing Trenche were dead at her feet. Now, she almost wished she had killed him. The pain engulfed her again; the room was emptier now, only Charlotte beside her, and Charles, hesitant, at the door.

  He was pushed aside. “This is no place for a man.” Old Angelina bustled into the room, summed up Helen’s condition with one expert, comprehensive glance, and turned back to Charles. “Get the women heating water,” she said. “And you,” to Charlotte, “fetch the bundle the signora and I prepared. And the cradle. God knows how soon we will need it.” She was bending over Helen as she spoke, timing the pains that racked her. And then, as the other two mercifully disappeared on their errands, “Thank God I wasted no more time. He fooled us properly, that Englishman of yours, signora. But what’s been going on here?” Bending to examine Helen, she had become aware of the torn dress, the awkwardly tied shawl.

  “Soldiers,” Helen gasped. “Looking for him.”

  “Where are they now?” Angelina was deftly unknotting the shawl, and Helen felt an instantaneous relief. “That’s better. Now, the corsets, and you won’t have to waste these pains of yours. The sooner it’s over, the better. But, these soldiers?”

  “Locked in the cellar.” It was easier to talk now. “Signor Scroope arrived just in time. But, Angelina, don’t let him . . .”

  “He can guard the soldiers,” said Angelina briskly. “That’s man’s work. The signorina shall help me. She may as well learn. They did not hurt you, signora? Those ruffians?”

  “No. They were just beginning . . .”

  “Well,” said Angelina briskly as Charlotte appeared laden down with the cradle and the bundle on which she and Helen had worked all summer. “After such an experience, no wonder if the signora is before her time. Is the hot water coming?”

  “Soon,” said Charlotte. “The fire is low.”

  “It had better be soon.” And then, to Helen: “Don’t be frightened. It is better with water and rags and cradles, but it is just the same without. I bore my Angelo in a cave in the woods, and neither of us any the worse. At least you’re not in a cave, signora, but in your own house.” She was searching quickly in the bundle as she spoke. “Here, bite on this.” It was a knotted piece of cloth whose use Helen had never understood. “You do not wish the men to hear you scream.”

  “Just don’t let them in.”

  “I should think not. Now, signora, you may begin to push when you wish to.”

  After that it was work, and pain, work and pain, with the sweat running clown her face in the hot little room, but always the comforting certainty of Angelina’s presence, her calm voice, heard in the intervals of comparative ease, directing Charlotte, whom she was keeping at the other end of the room. Once, the door opened, the water was brought, and its bringers sent promptly to the rightabout. Once, Helen opened her eyes. “What time is it?” she asked.

  “Who knows? Midnight, perhaps. Those ruffians in the cellar are quiet at last, but the signor and that soldier are on guard outside. Carlos has gone for help.”

  “Not a doctor,” whispered Helen.

  “Why should we need a doctor? There!” As the pain suddenly exploded through Helen’s whole body. “I thought it would not be long now.”

  Centuries later, or it might have been as little as ten minutes, Helen was lying, weak, expended but content, listening to her child’s first squall. “A boy of course.” Angelina held the wizened object up proudly. “What else would give its mother so much trouble?”

  “Let me have him? Just for a moment?”

  “Oh, very well. Here!” The child had been quickly washed and swaddled in one of the shawls Helen had made. Its tiny, wrinkled red face and furiously shut eyes were like nothing and no one Helen had ever seen. Then, it opened clear blue eyes and stared at her with what seemed dislike. “Good God,” she said. “My father.” How she had dreaded a likeness to Trenche. “Charles,” she said. “After him.”

  “Yes, yes.” Angelina retrieved the warm bundle. “After the grandfather and the rescuer; that is good. Now, signora, sleep and sleep and sleep.”

  But something she had said had rung an alarm bell in Helen’s brain. “Ask Lord Merritt,” she said, as sleep engulfed her, “what name . . .”

  “Yes, naturally. When he gets here.” Drifting down and down into sleep, Helen tried and failed to unravel the strands in the old lady’s tone.

  But waking, what felt like aeons later, she still remembered. . . . Did Angelina suspect Charles Scroope of being the father of her child? Madness to have suggested Charles as its name. But surely there would be time to change it. . . . She slept again and was awakened at last, firmly, by Angelina. “The little Signor Carlos is hungry,” she said.

  “Not Charles,” said Helen.

  “Yes, Carlos.” Angelina was still holding the tiny, mewing bundle. “We christened him at once; it is always so with children born ahead of their time. Other names may be added later, but Carlos he is. And hungry.”

  Feeling the angry tug at her nipple, Helen found herself suddenly a different person. She was no longer Helen Telfair, or Helen Merritt, but something quite different, the mother-of-Charles. Or whatever more tactful name she would persuade Lord Merritt to call him. Henry, of course. It had all been worth it, amply worth it. “Charles,” she whispered over the tiny, down-covered head, slept again, and did not even notice when Angelina tiptoed in and took the sleeping baby away.

  Chapter 14

  “CALLED it Charles!” Lord Merritt was in a fury. “As if things weren’t bad enough! Thought I was lucky to get you out of Naples; away from the titters. Didn’t know the half of it. What kind of a figure do you think I cut now? You and that captain of yours. Talk of the town. And now the child named for him. Passes everything.”

  He must be angry indeed, thought Helen, to achieve so many complete sentences in a row. But, admit it, he had cause. The fact that it was his own fault he had cut so unheroic a figure would not make him any happier. “Truly, my dear,” she said now, pacifically, “I had no thought of Charles Scroope when I suggested the name. It was for my father—and you, of course. He is not to be Charles, but Charles Henry.”

  “Christened Charles.” Lord Merritt was not one to let go of a grievance easily. “Interfering old bag of bones, that Angelina. Sooner she goes back to Torre del Greco, the better.”

  “It’s always done here, with a premature birth.”

  “Premature!” And then, grudgingly: “True, there’s no scandal on that count. Volcanic eruptions; attacks by soldiers; very good cover. Count yourself lucky.”

  “Lucky!” She could hardly believe her ears. But then, he had not been there that horrible night when she had thought herself and Charlotte doomed to death, and worse. No use discussing it with her husband, who all too evidently wanted to minimise the danger to which he had left her exposed. Well, it was understandable enough. The military police had searched their town house, the Palazzo Trevi, the day before they visited the Villa Emma. He had been there, cooperated in the search, and then gone off to join King Ferdinand on Procida, without, apparently, a thought for his wife and the danger she might be in, unprotected at the Villa Emma.

  “Oh well,” he said now, on a slightly more friendly note, “All worked out for the best in the end. Meant to tell you. Letter from Uncle Henry; delighted with our marriage; no more trouble about his will; heir or no heir.”

  “Oh.” Helen put a hand to her brow, taking it in slowly. “When did you hear that?” she asked.

  “When?” It took him aback. “Just the other day.” Airily. “Last post in . . . can’t precisely remember.”

  She had heard this kind of shuffling lie often enough. He must have known when he left her to her fate at the Villa Emma that he had no more need of her or of the child. Had he perhaps kno
wn as long ago as when Vesuvius had erupted? It had puzzled her that there had been no news from the all-important uncle for so long. “Just the same,” she said now, “I hope you will write your uncle at once about Charles Henry’s birth. It might”—she paused to search for a word—“consolidate the position.”

  “Con . . . Mighty lot of long words. Married a bluestocking after all. Laugh of the club when I get back. But, yes, I’ve written Uncle Henry.”

  “I hope you said the child was named for him.”

  “Think I’m a fool, don’t you. Course I did. Didn’t say anything about the Charles. Sooner it’s forgotten the better. Baptised a Catholic too. Don’t know what you were thinking of to let it happen.”

  “I wasn’t thinking at all,” said Helen. “I knew nothing about it.”

  “Playing the invalid,” said her husband. “Just like a woman. Lots of fuss and nonsense. Soldiers a bit excited . . . fools of servants gave them drink . . . talked it over with the King . . . let off with a warning. Pity about Trenche though. Liked to see him hang, after all the trouble he’s caused. What do you think of that fire-eating captain of yours going straight to de Medici? Englishman. English justice. Safe on an English ship. Wouldn’t say a word more. Not even to me afterwards. Funny thing,” he went on, “almost seemed as if Medici was pleased.”

  “Very likely he was.” Helen did not need to conceal her relief that Charles had dealt so capably with the problem of Trenche. “After all, Naples and Britain are allies; the affair of Trenche might easily have caused trouble. I always thought that escape of theirs must have been connived at from very high up indeed.”

  “Don’t say such things!” He flared up at her. “Idiotish woman. Never learn sense? Hobnobbing with those young revolutionary devils . . . Trenche . . . Eruptions . . . Getting me into trouble every day of your life. Constantly making excuses for you. King Ferdinand calls you—” He thought better of it. “Never mind that. The Queen don’t speak of you. Lady Hamilton’s given you up. Came to suggest you’d better move out of her villa.”