A Christmas Escape (2 page)

“Mr. Bailey and Mr. Quinn staying here?” Charles inquired.

Candace shrugged again. “Yes. We've been here for about a few weeks now. Most of us are leaving after Christmas. You'll get to meet them. You won't really be able to avoid it. Colonel Bretherton's all right. He's a bit stuffy, and he never really knows what to say, but he's quite nice.”

“Dear me. And Uncle Roger?” he added.

She realized he was teasing her and responded with spirit, as if she liked the acceptance it implied.

“Oh, he's fine. I like Uncle Roger. Which I suppose is a good thing. He's my guardian. My grandfather was his brother, but he died when he was a young man. Uncle Roger took care of my grandmama, his sister-in-law. I don't think he always approved of her, but he really loved her anyway.” She said that with evident satisfaction and looked straight at him, waiting for his reply.

He wondered what had happened to her parents that she had a great-uncle as guardian at such a young age. Then he was surprised that it should even cross his mind, let alone matter to him. With her soft face and eager eyes and the beginning of such individual grace, she seemed to him very vulnerable; he wanted to think someone was not only duty bound to care for her but also well able to.

However, it was absolutely none of his concern, and it would be intrusive to ask.

“I'm glad Uncle Roger is not like the mountain,” he said as gravely as he could, hoping she would understand what he meant.

She giggled, and then stifled it immediately. “He is, a little bit,” she replied. “Like it now, anyway.”

He raised his eyebrows in question.

She accepted the invitation eagerly. Clearly she had been waiting for it.

“All old and living quietly in the sun, not making any fuss,” she told him, watching his face to see how he took it.

He found an answer far more easily than he expected to. He was not in the least used to conversing with fourteen-year-old girls, especially not as if they were old friends.

“I think I should like him,” he said honestly. “I'm glad he is here with you.”

“So am I. He even walks up the hill sometimes.” She looked beyond him at the great silent mountain. “There are some nice ways to go, lots of grasses and things. And you can see way over to the water. It gives you the feeling of being like one of the ancient goddesses, who could see all the world just by looking around them.” A shadow crossed her face. “Mr. Bailey climbs right up to the crater,” she said with a sniff. Plainly she did not like Mr. Bailey. “Stefano tells us not to; it's dangerous. The mountain is asleep, he says. It's not dead!”

Charles turned and looked up into the shining silence.

“Do you think it would get offended,” she asked him, “if we go up there and walk all over it, stand on the edge, and look down inside it? It seems sort of intrusive, don't you think?”

Charles turned back to look at her. She was perfectly serious. To her the mountain was an entity and deserved respect. A curious child.

“I hadn't thought of that,” he replied. “It's a long way up. And according to what I've heard, it does erupt fairly often, and has as far back as records go.”

Candace nodded, her expression showing that she was happy with his understanding. “The noises it makes sound to me like Mr. Bailey when he is asleep,” she added, then giggled again.

“You think that's a good description, don't you?” he observed.

“Yes…I'm sorry. Is that rude of me? Please don't tell Uncle Roger I said so.” She looked at him with a flicker of anxiety.

“I wouldn't dream of it,” he promised. “I shall no doubt meet Mr. Bailey and form my own opinion of him. I might agree with you.”

“And don't be too hard on Colonel Bretherton,” she urged. “He's quite nice, if you give him a chance. He really likes Mrs. Bailey. I think he's sorry for her.”

“Is something wrong with Mrs. Bailey?” Charles asked.

She rolled her eyes and gave him a withering look. She did not bother to reply.

“I see,” he said quietly. “And Mr. Quinn, what is he like?” He didn't really care, but he was amused to hear her opinion of everyone.

“Oh, he's a writer,” she said without hesitation. “Everybody says he's terribly good.”

“Everybody?”

“Well…except for Mr. Bailey,” she said, biting her lip. “He keeps making remarks that could have different meanings. He says that the book is so terribly clever, it's as if Mr. Quinn had been there himself—only the way he says it, it sounds as though he doesn't mean it. That he means something else entirely.”

“Well, maybe Mr. Quinn was there?” Charles suggested. “Couldn't he have been?”

She laughed. “Hardly! Actually the book he's famous for is wonderful. I wasn't supposed to read it because it's very grown-up. Uncle Roger says it's much too risqué for me. But I think it's marvelous.”

Now Charles was really interested. How had this at once innocent and precocious child come across a copy of this apparently unsuitable book?

“So you've read it?” He feigned a degree of innocence himself.

She bit her lip. “You think I shouldn't have? I was told not to.” She looked at him with a certain defiance, her dark blue eyes meeting his unblinkingly. Then she smiled and turned away. “It isn't really bad, you know. It's just…about a woman who cares very much about being alive. It's full of laughter.”

“What is it called?” He knew he had not read it himself because he had not read anything purely for pleasure in years.

“
Fire
,” Candace replied.

A memory came back to him of a conversation he had half listened to at some party or other. “
Fire
,” he repeated. “By Percival Quinn?”

“Yes, yes,” she responded eagerly. “You do know it!”

“I know
of
it. It's quite famous, although very recent. Well, well! So we have Percival Quinn here. How interesting…”

She pursed her mouth. “Don't be too pleased. He's not nearly as interesting as the book. Honestly, I'm not being mean—he really isn't. That's more or less what Mr. Bailey keeps saying.”

“Perhaps he's shy? Mr. Quinn, I mean.”

She rolled her eyes again, gently this time, as if she were being very patient with someone a trifle slow-witted.

“They don't like each other, Charles.” She tried out his name shyly, but with a touch of pleasure, as if she were being grown-up, equal for the first time. “What they say to each other is really all about themselves and how they feel. Our neighbor back home has children who do that. They're about eight!” She giggled again.

In spite of himself he smiled, almost laughed. “But it's a good book? Did you read enough of it to know what it's about?”

“Oh, yes! It's the story of an old lady. She's remembering all the wonderful things she did in her life. The people she loved and hated. All the admirers she had. You don't always know if she really did what she's describing, or if it's just that she wanted to—but it seems like she saw everything, tasted it all, and had such fun!” She looked up at the mountain, then back at Charles. “I'd like to be like her, always really alive, never taking anything for granted, never being ordinary. She'd have liked it here. She'd have liked that mountain. But she wouldn't have been satisfied unless it erupted, sent fire and boiling rocks all over the place. Not hurt anybody, of course. But…but made an exhibition of itself! Really…blew a hole in the sky!”

Charles liked her analogy. It was melodramatic but full of hope, excitement, and hunger for life. These were all the things he had stopped feeling a long time ago. An outrageous thought occurred to him.

“What do you suppose is on the other side of the sky?” he asked her, then instantly wished he had not. It was stupid, and would confuse her. She would think he was not taking her seriously, and—for all her imaginings—she was very serious, as only those at the beginning of life can be.

She stared at him. “What a wonderful thing to say!” she exclaimed. “You're not really old at all, are you!” Her smile was beautiful. “I never thought of that. The other side of the sky. One day I'll write a book and that is what I'll call it. I'll go around the world looking for the answer, like Lucy in Mr. Quinn's book. I'll never stop looking, just as she didn't. Do you think that if you spend all your life looking for answers, when you die then you find them?”

“It's as good a description of heaven as any I've heard,” he admitted. “Better than angels sitting on a cloud playing a harp, anyway.”

“Oh, that would be terrible!” she exclaimed in horror. “I don't like harps all that much. Couldn't I have a trumpet? Or drums? I like drums.”

This time he laughed outright, picturing her sitting on a cloud with a full set of kettledrums, and all the other angels with their hands over their ears.

“You think I'm silly…” She was uncertain of herself now, watching for his reaction.

“Not at all,” he denied. “If you are good enough to get to heaven, then you should be able to play any kind of music you want to. Your cloud sounds like a lot more fun than one with only harps. Aren't you hungry?”

“No. I had breakfast an hour ago. Didn't you? Oh! Of course not. You've just got up. I'm sorry. Now it's too late.” She looked crestfallen. “But I'll take you to the kitchen. I'm sure Stefano will get you something really good. He makes the best bread in the world.”

“I think I would like the best bread in the world,” Charles accepted. “In fact I would accept even the second best.”

She turned and gave him a hard, sober stare. “He doesn't have that,” she said, then burst into laughter.

C
harles did indeed have an excellent breakfast of fresh crusty bread, slightly salty butter, and thick dollops of homemade apricot jam. Stefano watched him eat it with almost as much relish as Charles actually eating it.

When he had finished, he stayed to watch Stefano preparing luncheon. Stefano took his choice of tomatoes, some fresh green leaves, and other vegetables Charles was not familiar with. As he watched the Italian consider each leaf, each herb, before accepting or rejecting it, he began to appreciate how much Stefano enjoyed creating dishes that would dazzle all the senses. The meal was designed to please the eye with its riot of color: reds and greens, yellows, oranges, and pale greeny-white. There was a variety of shapes and textures. Every so often Stefano would pop something into his mouth to make sure the taste was the best he could find.

“There!” he said eventually, looking at Charles and beaming with satisfaction. “They will like, yes?”

“It's beautiful,” Charles said honestly. “I hope we deserve it.”

Stefano shrugged his plump shoulders. “Not matter,” he said happily. “Is good. Is enough. Not taste it properly is a shame, but their shame, not mine. I try something else next time, maybe.” He laughed. “Maybe not. Is good for you. Vegetable is also good for you.” He moved over to a wide porcelain tub with a wooden lid. From inside he took some very large, already cooked prawns. “You like?” he asked Charles.

“Oh, yes,” Charles agreed heartily. “Of course I like.”

Stefano took one, cracked it to remove the inner flesh, and offered it to Charles. “You tell me, is good enough for our guests?”

Charles ate it enthusiastically. “Oh, very definitely,” he said with a smile. “Are they good enough for these? If not, then we had better keep them for us.”

“You are a bad man, signor
,
” Stefano said happily. “You tempt me. Perhaps we should try another, yes? Just to make sure…”