A Christmas Escape

  A Christmas Escape is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Anne Perry

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  ISBN 9780553391411

  eBook ISBN 9780553391428

  randomhousebooks.com

  Book design by Karin Batten, adapted for eBook

  Cover design: Belina Huey

  Cover illustration: Aleta Rafton

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  A Christmas Escape

  Dedication

  The Christmas Novels of Anne Perry

  About the Author

  Charles Latterly stared across the untroubled sea at the shore they were fast approaching. The mountain rose sharply, as symmetrical and uncomplicated as a child’s drawing. The sky above was midwinter blue. At home in England they would be expecting snow at this time in December, but here, so close to Sicily, the wind off the salt water was mild. The small boat barely rocked.

  He had been looking forward to this break from the reality of London, work and the routine of his life, which lately had seemed more meaningless than ever. The recent death of his wife had given him an acute feeling of loss, but not in the way he had expected. There was no deep ache of bereavement. It forced him to realize that perhaps he had felt alone for a long time.

  Would three weeks on Stromboli, a volcanic island in the Tyrrhenian, accomplish anything, change anything inside him? Would it heal the sense of helplessness, the bitterness of endless small failures? Maybe. It would certainly give him a long time to think, uninterrupted by the petty details of life.

  He was in his midforties, yet he felt old.

  They were almost at the shore. He could see men on the wharfs busy unloading fishing boats. There were small houses along the front, and streets leading inland, climbing quite steeply. It all looked simple and homely, probably much as it had done for two thousand years or more.

  The mountain was bigger than it had seemed at a distance. It towered above them, almost bare of vegetation except for patches of grass. The terrain looked smooth, even gentle from here.

  It was time to pay attention to landing. The boat was only feet away from the wharf edge. Ropes were tossed and made fast. A man shouted in broken English for Charles to get out, to hold on so he didn’t slip. They were all cheerful, smiling to make up for the words they didn’t know.

  Charles thanked the men in polite English, and accepted a steadying hand so as not to fall on the wet stones. He should make an effort to learn a little Italian. It would be a courtesy.

  Someone passed him up his case. He had brought only the necessities: a minimum of clothes, a pair of boots, toiletries, and a couple of books. His intention was to spend his time walking as much as possible.

  He knew that the hostelry where he was staying was quite remote and a long way from the port village—too far to walk with a case—so he hired a pony cart and driver to take him up the side of the mountain.

  It was a pleasant ride, although the rough roads were quite steep in places. As they moved away from the water’s edge, Charles realized that the landscape was actually far more varied than he had thought. The central cone of the volcano was not as symmetrical as it had seemed from below, at sea. It towered above them, bare toward the top, as if shorn of its grass and shrubs. Yet it had a kind of beauty that was brave but also almost barbaric.

  His driver nodded. “She sleep now,” he said, showing gaps in his teeth as he smiled. “She wake up. You see.”

  Charles thought that he would rather not, but it would be impolite to say so. They were passing through rolling grassy country now. He imagined that in the spring and summer it would be full of flowers and butterflies, probably bees. A good place to walk.

  They passed a few small settlements, some of whose narrow streets were cobbled, others, merely dry earth. The limestone houses were whitewashed. They looked as if they had been there forever. Women were busy with picking herbs or gathering in laundry. Children played, running and hiding, fighting with sticks for swords. Old men stood by a fountain on the street corner and stopped their conversation long enough to look briefly at the passersby.

  As they drove, the driver gave commentary Charles did not understand, though he smiled and nodded at suitable intervals. He was relieved when they finally arrived at the low, rambling house well beyond the villages that was to be his home for the next three weeks.

  “Thank you,” he said as the man handed him his case. He paid the agreed amount and, as the pony and cart set off back toward the shore, he turned to look for his host.

  The low midwinter sun cast a warm light on the stone house, slight shadows hiding blemishes and giving it an infinitely comforting look.

  Then a man came out of the door and hurried toward him, a broad smile on his face, his hand held out.

  “I am Stefano,” he said cheerfully. “You must be Signor Latterly, yes? Good. Welcome to Stromboli. Is beautiful, yes?” He waved his arm in a broad sweep to include the huge, looming mountain and the arch of the sky, which was already darkening in the east. The fire of sunset in the west was painting the sea with color. A faint wind stirred, carrying the scent of the grasses.

  “Yes, it is,” Charles said quickly. “I look forward to exploring.”

  “Tomorrow,” Stefano agreed. “You have come a long way. Now you are tired. You eat. I have something for you. I show you your room. Yes? Come.” Without waiting for Charles to reply, he led the way past the front of the house, along a small passage between buildings, and out into a courtyard with a bubbling fountain in it.

  Charles had no time to look at it or admire the stone fish that formed its base. Stefano briskly led him into another open-air passage at the far side of the courtyard and opened the second door along.

  “This is your room,” he said with a flourish. “You are welcome. Kitchen is that way.” He pointed. “Come when you are ready. I make you something to eat, yes?” He patted his ample stomach. “Nobody sleep well empty. Not good. I look after you, you leave Stromboli a new man!” He smiled widely. “Yes?”

  “Yes…yes, please,” Charles accepted, walking past Stefano and inside. He set his case down, staring around him. The room was small, containing a bed, a table and chair, and a washstand. There was also one chest of drawers and a makeshift closet composed of several hooks behind a curtain. The floor was tiled in a warm earth shade. There was a bathroom through a small door, to be shared with his immediate neighbor. He did not care for that, but it was acceptable. It was all immaculately clean. The cool air through the open window smelled of dry earth.

  He unpacked, changed his shirt for a fresh one, and washed the other. When he was ready, he left his room and walked along the passageway to the kitchen as Stefano had indicated.

  Stefano looked up from the bench where he had been chopping a fine green herb. There was a piece of broiled fish on a plate on the bench beside him, garnished with bright red tomato.

  “You are hungry?” Stefano said cheerfully. “Fish? A little vegetable? Bread? Yes?” He held out the plate and gestured toward a table with a chair pulled up to it. He took a carafe of red wine and poured two glasses full. “A little raw still,” he said, putting one glass on the table in front of Charles and the other in the second place, where he sat down himself.

  “Eat,” he encouraged. “Give thanks to God, and enjoy.” He reached across and took one of the slices of fresh crusty bread, dipped it in olive oil, and put it into his mouth.

  Charles found himself doing the same. He must have been far hungrier than he realized. The food was delicious and he ate it all without giving it thought.

  “You like to walk?” Stefano asked cheerfully.

  “Yes, indeed,” Charles agreed. “How far up can I go?”

  “All the way up to the crater. But you have to be very careful. Never go up alone, in case you fall. Always take someone with you, and let me know.”

  “Is it dangerous?” Charles said with some surprise.

  “It’s rattling and making noise most of the time,” Stefano answered. “Just take care. Don’t go too close to the crater. It’s always a good idea not to climb close. You hear me, signor? Don’t worry, lava doesn’t come this way. Just rocks now and again. We hide in cellar. Come out again.”

  “Yes,” Charles agreed quietly. “Of course. I hadn’t thought of going to the crater anyway.”

  Stefano’s face split in a wide smile. “Of course not, not tonight, anyway. But it will call you. You’ll go to it one day.”

  Charles stood up slowly. The meal had been excellent, and suddenly he was very tired. Nothing seemed as good as the idea of sleep.

  He slept very well. The long train trip here had been pleasant from Paris to Milan, then south to Rome, and then Naples, and on south again. It had ended with the journey over the open water. But when he awoke to a small room full of sunlight, where everything was unfamiliar, it seemed less like an adventure. Now Charles simply felt a very long way from home, and hopelessly trapped. Stromboli was an island. No one came or went exce
pt by sea. Everyone here was a stranger speaking a language he did not understand.

  He lay still, staring at the white ceiling. Then he turned over and looked at his watch sitting on the table beside the bed. It was half past nine!

  He sat bolt upright, threw off the bedclothes, and stared around, remembering where everything was: the ewer of water, the bowl, the bathroom next door, the clothes he had hung on the hooks behind the curtain.

  In fifteen minutes he was washed, shaved, and ready to look for breakfast. Now that he thought about it, he was actually very hungry.

  He went out and started to walk in the direction he remembered from last night. Everything looked different, larger in the bright sunlight of the day. As soon as he passed the line of bedroom doors and crossed the paved yard with its softly bubbling fountain, he looked up and realized how large and how close the mountain was. Its enormous cone loomed up into the sky, paler than he expected. At first he thought it was covered by snow, then he realized it was ash.

  “It’s sort of beautiful, in an odd way, isn’t it?” A girl’s voice came to him from a few feet away.

  He turned around quickly. He had not been aware of anyone else there.

  She smiled with a little shrug. It was a movement both gawky and graceful. She was tall and slim, and—he guessed—about fourteen years old. She had honey-brown hair, bleached lighter on top by the sun, almost gold. She was too young to have it pinned up. It was in a thick braid. Perhaps she was going to be a beauty, but all he noticed now was the dark blue of her eyes and her hopeful smile.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. You’ve just arrived, haven’t you.” It was a conclusion rather than a question.

  “Yes…” Charles agreed.

  “I’m Candace Finbar.” She held out her hand straight in front of her, just as if she were a boy.

  He took it and felt her firm, cool grip. “I’m Charles Latterly,” he responded. “I’m happy to meet you, Miss Finbar.”

  She raised her chin a little and looked at him with considerable dignity. “You may call me Candace.” Then she laughed at herself.

  “Thank you,” he said perfectly seriously. “Since we are being informal, you had better call me Charles, or you will make me feel very old and I’m not in the mood for that.”

  “Do you like to climb? I do. It’s a volcano, you know? It’s not dead. It erupts quite often.” Then she shook her head. “But there’s no need to be afraid of it. At least that’s what Uncle Roger says. It’s been grumbling on for three thousand years, according to Stefano. But the villages are all still here.” She looked around at the courtyard where they were, and the white walls of the surrounding house with its extra bedrooms and the sheds of various sorts. The walls were unblemished by fire or smoke.

  She faced Charles again, smiling. “Even though we’re closer to it than other villages, it’s mostly just like a lot of old people: It complains and uses some harsh language, but it doesn’t really do anything.”

  “Oh dear!” he said, with amusement now. “Is that your experience of old people? Sound and fury, and no substance?”

  A faint blush colored her cheeks more deeply than the gold of sun- and windburn.

  “No, that isn’t fair,” she said honestly. “It’s only some. I get fed up with Mr. Bailey and Mr. Quinn making sideways remarks at each other that never really mean anything. We know them from back home in Buckinghamshire, but they’ve never behaved this badly before. If I acted like that, Uncle Roger would tell me to grow up and not be so silly. I think sometimes that he’d like to tell them, but of course he can’t.”

  “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?”