Leonie (76 page)

Amélie turned over and closed her eyes. Wasn’t that enough for any woman?

Hilliard Watkins sauntered through the graceful columned inner courtyard of the Palaçio d’Aureville, a book tucked under his arm, searching for a shady place with a bit of breeze to take the edge off the unwavering heat of the day. He nodded a polite good morning to the two old ladies, neat in crisp linen with upright Boston backs and sensible New England shoes. They seemed completely unaffected by the heat, their only concession being shady straw hats that they always wore, indoors as well as out. Their brother was a different matter: the old man had a twinkle in his eye behind the gold-rimmed spectacles and there was a rakish tilt to the brim of his panama. Hilliard bet
he’d
been a bit of a boy in
his time, though the old girls had him under their thumb now; still, Hilliard had seen him in the bar alone at night when the ladies had gone to bed, enjoying a couple of brandies and a chat with Jordan, the barman.

The Peabodys were his only fellow guests in this grand hotel in the last week of its season.

Hilliard paced the long shady marble terrace that faced the sea. Deep awnings protected the rows of plate-glass windows from the direct rays of the sun, but even in their shade there was no breeze. He leaned on the rail and stared at the sea, heaving sullenly under the brassy sky. The heat was relentless. There was nothing for it, his room would be the coolest place for a quiet read.

“Mr. do Santos?”

The old lady stood straight-backed in front of Roberto, her straw hat squarely on her head, immaculately shod feet planted firmly apart. Behind her lurked her brother, more stooped than his sisters, a blue-veinedness to the nose giving a clue to his fondness for after-dinner brandies.

“Mr. do Santos, my brother believes there is going to be a storm.”

Roberto offered her a chair. “I’m afraid it’s to be expected at this time of year, Miss Peabody. It’s the end of the season you know.”

“You misunderstand me,” she replied crisply, “not a regular storm … a hurricane.”

Roberto looked at her in surprise. What could this stiff Boston lady know about hurricanes?

“All the signs point to it,” Miss Peabody continued firmly. “My brother says that he can feel it in the air. He’s had experience of these storms.”

“Yes, yes,” the old man dithered behind her. “The South China Seas, you know, I was there for many years—”

“Quiet, Henry, when I’m speaking.” His sister cut him off in midsentence and taking off his gold-rimmed spectacles Henry began to polish them agitatedly on an immaculate white handkerchief.

“We would like to know what precautions you intend to take against the storm, Mr. do Santos.”

“I’m afraid I hadn’t thought about it, Miss Peabody, there has been no warning of any hurricane activity heading this way. However,
the hotel has storm shutters and sandbags are prepared for the windows, and, of course, all portable pieces—furniture, flower tubs, and suchlike—would be brought indoors. I feel the hotel would be reasonably secure in those circumstances. But as I said, we’ve had no hurricane warning.”

“It’s coming,” said Henry suddenly. “It always starts like this. Take my word for it, Mr. do Santos, and make your preparations now. We’ll be in for it by nightfall.” He beamed at them from behind the spectacles. “It’ll be like old times,” he said excitedly. “I remember in ’seventy-nine when old Cooper and I were exploring the islands—”

“My brother used to be in the Foreign Service,” Miss Peabody cut him off again smoothly. “We shall leave you to take care of things then, Mr. do Santos.”

Despite her authoritative manner she was a lady in her seventies and Roberto felt responsible for her. “If you are concerned, Miss Peabody, you could leave now for the north; there is a train leaving in an hour’s time for St. Augustine.”

“We have booked for a further week and we intend to stay, thank you, Mr. do Santos.”

Henry followed his sister out of the room. “It’ll be a bit of fun, won’t it,” he whispered conspiratorially. “I think I shall quite enjoy a hurricane.

Edouard lugged a final sandbag into place in front of the big windows that led onto the seafront terrace, wiping the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief. It would have been a hell of a lot easier if they weren’t down to a skeleton staff with the hotel closing next week. On the other hand, imagine the panic if the hotel had been filled with guests. He shuddered at the thought.

Raising his head from the pile of sandbags, he glanced along the terrace. All the white wicker furniture had been carried indoors and every flowerpot and tub that could be moved had been locked away in the storage rooms. The awnings had been folded back and clipped firmly into place, though he supposed they would be the first to go in a storm. He shrugged philosophically, hoping that that was the worst they could expect.

Although it was only four in the afternoon, it was twilight. There was still not a hint of wind and in the breathless silence, no birds sang. He thought of Xara and Amélie in Key West and hoped they were all right. Roberto had assured him that the coast
watch had said that there was no danger for them that far south, and that even Miami would only catch the tail of the storm. Looking at the sky, Edouard wondered how accurate that forecast could be.

Inside, the hotel lights blazed, sparkling on the black-and-white marble floor of the lofty hall, but the hotel was shuttered and silent. Roberto roamed the empty halls. He had sent the daily maids home and the only other live-in staff who hadn’t already left for the seasonal break were Michel, the chef, and the two underchefs, and Jordan, the barman. And, of course, their four last guests of the season.

He closed the big doors firmly, dropping the iron bar into place. That was that, everyone was inside now. There was nothing more they could do.

The Misses Peabody sailed down the grand stairway, Henry following, his panama tilted at an even more rakish angle than usual.

“It’s almost five o’clock,” announced Miss Peabody. “We shall take tea, if you don’t mind, in the small salon.”

Roberto smiled. “Of course, madame.” No hurricane was going to upset Miss Peabody’s routine.

By six o’clock the wind was howling and the rain could be heard lashing at the shutters. In the background was the booming noise of the sea, hurling itself in great curling waves against the shore. At exactly six-thirty the electricity failed and three immense candelabra were placed in the hall. By their flickering light the two Misses Peabody and Henry, with Hilliard Watkins as a fourth, played interminable rounds of bridge, sipping the champagne Edouard had provided to boost morale and nibbling sandwiches as though on some elegant picnic. The wind had risen from a low rough gusting growl to a high keening whine, slashed with rain, and Roberto prowled the hotel uneasily. It was unnerving only to be able to hear what was going on and not to see it.

By nine o’clock it seemed that the wind could surely get no higher; shutters and doors rattled, and over the top of the wind they could hear crashing noises as trees, planters, fountains, and, for all they knew, even the garages and outbuildings were ripped apart and hurled into the storm. Every now and again a stronger
gust rattled the heavy wooden doors like a warrior demanding entry.

Roberto knew what Edouard was worried about. At eleven o’clock it would be high tide. There was no way to know how high the sea was, but by the sound of it, it must have already covered the beach and be washing over the long sloping lawns that stood between it and the terrace. If the wind were still blowing like this with a strong incoming tide …

Henry Peabody lay full length on a couch in the hall, snoring gently. Six glasses of champagne had made him sleepy, and two each for the sisters had had the same effect. They dozed, upright in twin chairs on either side of their brother.

Roberto became aware of the silence as he had never before in his life been aware of it. His eardrums almost ached from it. There had been no slackening of the force of the wind, no lessening of its pitch—it had simply stopped.

Henry Peabody sat up yawning, and taking out his handkerchief, began to polish his spectacles. “We’re in what’s known as the eye of the storm: the vortex. The wind will be raging all around us a few miles away. Of course, it will return, blowing from the opposite direction this time, but it would be quite safe to take a look outside and see what the damage is.”

Edouard and Roberto stared at him in amazement. Henry Peabody was turning out to be a mine of information.

The indigo sky was calm and starlit. There was no trace of even a breeze and the air was warm and heavily humid. Flickers of blue lightning played soundlessly across the sky and hundreds of birds twittered noisily, whirling and swooping, huddling along the edges of rooftops and on the now leafless trees.

“The poor things have been swept along for hundreds of miles,” said Henry, picking his way down the marble steps, “from wherever the hurricane last crossed land.”

A scene of devastation met their eyes. Trees had been uprooted and flung into the overflowing pools. Heavy stone urns had been hurled along the pathways and smashed. The terrace was littered with broken tiles and was awash with a river of rainwater that the sodden earth and overflowing drains had been unable to absorb.

The ocean hurled itself toward the shore with a continuing frightening roar. Huge waves surged onto the lawn less than a hundred yards away, running fast as the tide gained momentum. Even without the wind the ocean was a force to be reckoned with
and Edouard’s eyes met Roberto’s worriedly. “We’ll need more sandbags on the seaward windows,” said Edouard, “and we’d better be quick.”

Helped by Hilliard Watkins and the chef, the two underchefs, and the barman, they lugged the heavy bags into place. “That’s the lot,” panted Roberto, sweating from the effort. He accepted gratefully the cigarette Hilliard offered and leaned against the rail of the terrace, staring out at the white-foamed sea.

“All we can do now,” sighed Edouard, “is wait.”

The sudden gust of wind hit them with tremendous force, sending them reeling in front of it, running helplessly, throwing them to the ground.

Roberto lay there stunned. The wind snatched the breath from his mouth and he gasped, hiding his head in his arms. Peering through his fingers he could see Hilliard on all fours, crawling toward the corner of the hotel, and Edouard clinging to the terrace rail at his side.

“Grab the rail,” shouted Edouard over the wind, “until we get to the corner, then crouch down and make a run for it.”

They inched their way clutching the rail as the wind hurled itself at them from the sea and the rain began, slashing horizontally, blinding them. The pounding waves sounded ominously nearer.

“Go on!” yelled Edouard. “Run now.” He watched Roberto disappear into the rain and prayed he’d make the shelter of the corner. He could see the white edges of the waves as they poured across the lawns below him. “My God,” he gasped, “it’ll be over the terrace in another few minutes.” He launched himself after Roberto, gasping for breath, running sideways like a crab, pushed by the wind. Bending his head and doubling into a crouch, he forced his way to the corner where Roberto and Hilliard were huddled together in the comparative calm of the lee of an archway. They waited, panting, in their temporary shelter, deciding what to do next.

“Do you think we can make it to the main door?” asked Roberto.

“We have no choice,” replied Edouard grimly. “If we stay here we’ll drown.”

Keeping their backs against the wall, they edged sideways along the east wing of the hotel, floundering and slipping in the mud,
until they came to the wreck of the once pretty formal garden that lay between them and the hotel door.

“There’s nothing for it but to crouch as low as we can and push forward,” called Roberto, heading out into the night.

They
could
do it, thought Edouard, head down and shoulders bent. He could still make out Roberto in front of him and slightly to his left, but there was no sign of Hilliard.

The uprooted palm tree came at them with the force of an express train, catching them unawares as they struggled, blinded by the rain and the dark. Roberto saw it first, a looming dark shape heading at them from the darker night. With a cry he thrust up his arms in a futile gesture as though to catch it. It struck Edouard and Roberto simultaneously and they went down like dominoes under the blow.

The wind tossed the voices around him and Edouard gradually made out figures crouching over him in the rain.

“We’re trying to lift the tree, you’ll be all right,” yelled Hilliard. “Don’t try to move yet.” Edouard was suddenly aware of water surging around them and realized that the sea had already swept over the terrace. His shoulder hurt and blood was trickling into his eyes from a wound on his head.

Heaving and straining, they freed Edouard first. He had been pinned by the upper part of the tree and had taken a glancing blow to the head, but most of the weight had hit his right shoulder. His arm hung limply from the broken bones. It was Roberto who had taken the full brunt of the heavier part of the tree, and he was still trapped.

“You must help Roberto,” cried Edouard. “For God’s sake, help him.…” The wind gusted his words into the black night.

“We’ll bring him next,” shouted Hilliard. “You must get back before the sea gets us all.”

With a man on either side for support they stumbled, half-crouched, toward the door, every step an agony for Edouard. Wrenching it open, they pushed Edouard inside and disappeared back into the storm. Edouard leaned against the door, panting. Sweat and rain mingled with his blood and dripped onto the elegant marble tiles. The old ladies dozed on in the flickering candlelight.

The pain in his shoulder was intolerable and Edouard bit his lip to keep from crying out. Oh, God, what about Roberto? If they didn’t hurry it would be too late. They would all drown. Even as
he thought it there was a crash and the tinkle of broken glass as the sea hurled itself at the shuttered, sandbagged windows.

The door burst open once more as rain and wind swept through the hall, extinguishing the candles, rattling the chandeliers, and sending glasses and small objects crashing to the floor, before it was forced shut under the combined weight of four men. Miss Peabody’s voice sounded calm and unfaltering in the darkness. “Is anyone there? What’s going on?”