A Christmas Escape (11 page)

“And if it's not finished?” Charles asked her.

Bretherton shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I think we should listen to Latterly. What did Stefano say? He's the only one who has actually lived here.”

“He said we should go down to the sea as quickly as we can,” Charles replied. “All we should take is some food and water. And warm clothes, I should think. It gets a lot colder after dark.”

“It's only morning!” Isla protested. “How long will it take us? Surely it isn't that far? I can remember coming up in the pony cart, it only took…what…half an hour?”

“More like an hour,” Quinn told her.

“Even so, that was uphill,” she pointed out. “If it took us twice as long, that's only two hours.” She looked at Charles. “That's hardly until dark.”

“It may not be so simple,” he tried to explain. “We might not be able to follow the direct route down. Better we take supplies, and don't need them, than don't take them and do.”

“I'll carry yours, with pleasure,” Bretherton told her. “And I'm sure Latterly will take Candace's. Quinn can carry his own…or not, as he chooses.”

Quinn stared around at each of them. “I'll go ahead, if you like? See if I can get someone to come back for you with a horse and cart.”

Charles suddenly remembered very vividly seeing the wound in Walker-Bailey's neck and the icy realization that he had been murdered. One of them gathered here in the room had killed him. He had never considered it even possible that it had been Stefano or Finbar; it could not have been young Candace; and he knew it was not himself.

On the other hand, Bailey and Quinn clearly loathed each other. Bretherton he did not want to suspect, but he could not help observing that he was fairly obviously in love with Isla, and loathed Bailey for the way he treated her.

Isla was trapped in a marriage she hated, and it had come to a crisis with Bailey's decision to sell the house she loved, perhaps the only reminder of happier days. It was also close to the churchyard in which her family, including her only child, was buried. The house, the garden, must be full of memories for her. The thought of other people living there, changing it, maybe even cutting down her favorite trees, roses, places where her child had played, was a unique kind of pain.

Could she have turned on him finally? It was certainly not impossible.

“Thank you,” he replied to Quinn as courteously as he could. “But I think we should all stay together.” He tried to make himself smile. “If one of us is hurt, we may need the strength of all of us to help. We stand a far better chance together.”

“Stand a chance?” Quinn said incredulously. “For God's sake, man, it's a few miles' journey down the mountain! And a good enough road all the way. Why on earth should we not make it? Stop talking as if it's a route march through enemy territory. If you're so nervous about it, let Bretherton take charge. He's a military man, used to danger and leadership. Bretherton?”

Bretherton hesitated only a moment. “I think we should all play our parts, and I'm perfectly happy to follow Latterly. I agree with him. We need to stay together. And quite honestly, Quinn, I think it is a bit of a route march through enemy territory. That mountain needs to be taken seriously.”

“We've only Latterly's word that Stefano said we should go,” Quinn pointed out.

“And that's enough for me,” Bretherton said immediately. “Regardless, how long do you want to stand here arguing about it? Let's get the food and water and an extra jacket or two, and start on our way. Ten minutes here or there could make a difference.”

“The mountain's quiet,” Quinn pointed out. “It hasn't done anything for several minutes. In fact, all the time we've been arguing about it.”

For a moment Charles thought Bretherton was going to lose his temper, but with a considerable effort he reined himself in. Charles admired him for it, but it was also an indication of his self-control, his single-mindedness where Isla was concerned. He was a man of little imagination, not much conversation, but he did not lose sight of what he wanted.

Military rank could be purchased, and usually was. But Bretherton seemed to be one of those who had risen from the ranks on merit.

If you want to stay here, then do,” Candace said. “I'm going down the mountain while I can.”

That seemed to be enough; Charles and Bretherton began to collect the supplies that Stefano had already put aside and added extra clothes to them. With a sigh, Quinn gathered his own. Charles carried food and water for Candace, but she insisted on taking, at the very least, her own coat. They set out less than ten minutes later. And as if to confirm their decision, when they started along the road that led eventually to the sea, the mountain sent up another huge arc of lava. They could see where it landed on one of the slopes on the seaward side and immediately set fire to the bushes farther down.

They all stopped and stared at it. It was beautiful and incredibly destructive, possessing a violence none of them had seen or even imagined before.

“Come on,” Charles urged. “It's not getting any better. We must keep going. Candace and I will lead. Quinn, would you bring up the rear, so if anyone falls you'll notice?”

“Of course,” Quinn agreed. “You're right. We should keep going with all the speed we can make.”

They spread out a little bit. The road was still fairly level and the going was relatively easy. It would get harder when they reached steeper slopes in the descent.

In the background the mountain kept on rumbling, falling silent, then belching smoke and starting again. There seemed to be ash everywhere, like a fine grit. Charles could feel it on his skin, occasionally in his eyes and in his mouth. The smell of sulfur was quite pungent when the wind stirred and blew from the direction of the mountain.

Candace walked close beside Charles. She refused to cry, but he could see the desolation in her face. He ached to be able to do something about it; but whatever he said, it would change nothing. How did people bear it when it was their own child who was so hurt? He had known this girl only two days, and yet he felt her grief more deeply than he would have imagined possible.

Why couldn't he think of anything to say? If he even told her he cared, how could she believe him? He did not dare leave her to walk alone, but maybe she would greatly have preferred it. Was he an intruder she put up with rather than make a fuss, while they were all trying to escape the volcano?

Or perhaps she was hardly even aware of him.

“He was a great man,” he said suddenly. “I hardly knew him, and I miss him. I can't imagine how you feel.”

She kept her face turned away, so he wouldn't see her tears, but she put her hand out and took his. She kept hold of it, even though it was awkward having to match his pace to hers so they were not walking out of step with each other.

They kept going in silence for more than half a mile. Bretherton and Isla were ahead of them. Charles turned to look behind and check that Quinn was still there, keeping up.

The mountain fell quiet for a while. Was it dying down, all over, and they were running for nothing? Or was it building up to a really major eruption, one that would send a huge lava flow halfway down to the sea?

Suddenly Candace spoke again, quickly, letting go of Charles's hand so she could face him more easily.

“Somebody will be glad Uncle Roger is dead, you know?” she said with anger hardening her voice.

He was startled. “Really? Why?”

“He was owed a lot of money,” she replied. “I mean a real lot. Maybe it was more than someone could afford to pay.”

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“He was angry,” she said. “Anyone who didn't know him wouldn't have seen it. But I did. He never used bad language, he just said ‘It doesn't do.' That meant it couldn't be allowed. It was unacceptable. ‘Unacceptable' was the worst word to Uncle Roger. It meant you were finished.”

“Do you know who it was?” It wouldn't have anything to do with this now, here on Stromboli, but if she wanted to talk, then he was happy to listen. It was better than grieving silently, feeling as if she were alone.

“No. But it was somebody who cheated him, I do know that. He said he didn't know yet how to prove it.” She thought for a moment or two. They walked perhaps another twenty yards. The path was twisting and turning more here, and the wind was blowing the smoke their way.

Ahead of him Charles could see that Isla was getting tired. They had gone no more than a mile and a half, much less than halfway. Still, that was good progress, if the mountain stayed quiet.

“I don't think he cared about the money,” Candace went on suddenly. “I think it was the dishonesty that annoyed him. It was something to do with Grandmama. Maybe the money was owed to her; and since she died about three years ago, of course the debt would come to Uncle Roger.”

“That means it is owed to you now,” he said gently. “Your uncle told me you have no other close family.”

She stared at him in surprise. “I never thought of that. I suppose it would. I can hardly collect it, though, because I don't even know who it is that owes it, or how much it is.”

He should not have been surprised. Finbar would want to protect her as much as possible. Why had he even told her about it at all?

“How did you know about it?” he asked, then instantly realized how insensitive he was. He could so easily sound as if he were criticizing Finbar, who had no chance to defend himself or explain.

“Oh, it was by accident, really,” Candace answered. “We were talking about Grandmama, and he got angry. I thought he was cross with me, and he had to explain that it wasn't me, it was someone else. He wouldn't tell me what it was, just that she never knew about it, and he was glad of that.”

“But he didn't say why, or what the nature of it was?”

“No.” She smiled a little ruefully. “You couldn't make Uncle Roger tell you something if he really didn't want to. He thought Grandmama was marvelous, more completely alive than anyone else he knew. So she was. I'd love to be like her one day.”

Charles wanted to change the subject from Finbar. “Tell me about her,” he asked. “What would you like to be that was like her?”

“Funny,” she said immediately. “I never knew anyone who could make people laugh the way she did. I love to hear real laughter that's not unkind. Mr. Bailey used to laugh, but it was horrid. The sort of laugh you give when someone else makes a fool of themselves.”

She was right: Bailey had had no joy in him, not that Charles saw, anyway.

“What else about your grandmother?” he asked.

“She enjoyed things, all kinds of things—old things she'd had for a long time, like music, paintings, places she'd been to lots of times. But she loved new things, too, things she'd never seen before or tasted, new inventions. And she loved clothes. She was very beautiful, my grandmama. At least I think so.” She smiled, as if revisiting memories with pleasure. “She loved hats. She used to wear great big ones, the bigger the better. And flowers—I mean in the garden, not on hats. She would walk around the garden and talk to blossoms, tell them they were beautiful.”

Eccentric, he thought, and happy.

“I think you could very well grow up to be a lot like her,” he said.

“I won't be as beautiful as she was,” Candace said with regret. “You can get away with all sorts of outrageous things if you're really beautiful, you know.”

“No, I don't know,” he said sincerely. “But I think you don't mean beauty as much as charm.” He looked at her. “And I think you could grow up to be quite as charming as your grandmother. You are well on the way to it now.”

She walked a step or two, carefully watching where she was putting her feet. Then suddenly she turned and smiled at him. “Do you think so? I mean…really?”

“I have no doubt,” he answered.

Half an hour later they stopped for another rest. Everyone was weary, but most especially Isla. She was probably over forty, and very unused to this type of physical exercise. And that, of course, was added upon the loss of her husband only hours ago, and the still very real threat of the volcano. It had remained fairly passive for the last hour or so, but the air was full of ash and dust, and every now and then there were rumbles in the distance. They had traveled quite a long way, but in a semicircle, as the incline of the land made the road easier. They were closer to the sea, but still close enough to the caldera that the danger was real.

They each took a small portion of food, but thirst affected them far more than hunger.

“That's enough!” Bretherton said sharply, when they were all upending bottles to quench their thirst.

Quinn glared at him. “It's only water. You're not in the army now. For God's sake, man, you can't give orders to everyone.”

“And where are you going to get more water, when it's finished?” Bretherton inquired.

“From the village well, like anyone else,” Quinn replied.

“When we get there,” Isla said unhappily. “It's still an awfully long way. I feel as if I've been walking for hours. I know I haven't, but it feels like it, and it won't get a lot easier.”

“Have a little more?” Bretherton offered her his water.

She stared at it, then reached out her hand to accept.

Candace turned to Charles and looked at him in amazement. He could see her intense disapproval. There were offers one did not accept. Her expression was momentarily exactly like Finbar's.

Isla smiled and pulled her arm back. “Later, maybe,” she said graciously. “I really don't need it now. But thank you.”

Candace met Charles's eyes again and her expression again spoke her entire opinion.

Charles hid a smile.

Bretherton kept looking toward the mountain, still spewing smoke and ash. “I think we shouldn't stop for too long,” he said, putting away the water.