She winced and but said, shakily, ‘Oh yes – if I can just lean on your arm?’
‘Don’t be a martyr.’ Scooping her easily into his arms, Giles strode down the street to her door. Then, entering the house, he bore her up the stairs.
Chloë’s heart was beating a fierce tattoo and behind half-closed lids, she wondered – since she knew what awaited upstairs - what she was going to do when they got to the top. Giles pushed the door open with his shoulder and then checked on the threshold.
Just in front of the fireplace stood Mr Deveril, one arm in a sling and the other resting casually on the mantelpiece. He had discarded his coat but the lawn shirt was immaculate, the long hair burnished and orderly and his expression bland.
‘Well, well. Sir Galahad, I presume. Is this a social call?’
Chloë saw the need to remove herself before her duplicity became common knowledge. ‘Mr Beckwith – thank you very much, but I think you should put me down. Now.’
His attention clearly riveted on Alex, Giles did as she asked, saying coolly, ‘Hardly. I’m here because your wife needed help.’
The emphasis on those two words spoke volumes and Alex raised his brows while the ice-blue eyes remained fixed on Giles’ face. With one quick glance, Chloë ascertained that neither man was paying her the least heed. Edging backwards to the door, she removed the key and had shut and locked it behind her before either of them realised what she was about. Then she retreated a couple of steps, key clutched to her chest, and allowed herself to breathe again.
The sound of the key turning in the lock, loud in the tense silence of the room, must have roused them. She heard Giles’ voice. ‘What the -- ?’ and the sound of hasty footsteps. Then the latch of the door rattled as he tried to open it. Chloë swallowed and sank weakly down on the top step of the stairs.
‘Chloë! What the devil do you think you’re doing?’ Mr Deveril’s voice, edged with impatience.
‘Sitting on the stairs,’ she said.
There was an ominous silence. Then, ‘Are you going to unlock this door?’
‘No.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Since I couldn’t bang your heads together, I decided to shut you in.’ She half-wished she could see their faces and then was glad that she couldn’t.
‘Why?’ asked Alex.
‘Your wife,’ said Giles acidly, ‘wants us to kiss and make up.’
There was another silence.
‘If you were thinking of the window,’ offered Chloë helpfully, ‘it’s no use unless you can fly. The door is the only way out – and I have the key.’ She eyed the stout oak frame gratefully.
‘You could put your shoulder to it,’ said Alex to Giles, ‘or your foot. Or we could call Matt.’ The light voice was curiously strained.
The next instant the passage reverberated as the door received and withstood an explosive assault from within.
‘That two-handed engine at the door stands ready to smite … but it won’t work,’ said Mr Deveril. And raising his voice, ‘Matthew!’
Before he spoke, the door on the lower landing opened and Mr Lewis looked up at Chloë from the bottom of the flight.
‘God rot it. What’s to do?’
‘Matt?’ Mr Beckwith’s voice, unusually crisp, drifted down to him from behind the closed door. ‘She locked us in.’
‘And we’d like to be let out,’ added Mr Deveril. ‘So “with forced fingers rude” make her give you the key. We won’t mind if you have to use force.’
‘And get a move on,’ cut in Giles curtly, ‘before we get a full rendition of Lycidas.’
Matthew stared at Chloë incredulously.
‘You’ve not locked Mr Alex up with Mr Giles?’
She nodded. ‘Not the cleverest solution perhaps – but the best I could manage at short notice.’
‘You daft lass – they’ll kill each other.’
‘They won’t. Mr Deveril can’t use his arm. His right arm. So Mr Beckwith won’t touch him, will he?’
Mr Lewis eyed her mistrustfully. ‘Will you hand me the key?’
‘No. But I’ll make it easy for you to give up.’ And she calmly slipped the disputed object into her bodice. ‘Voila!’
Very slowly, Matt’s face split into a broken-toothed grin.
‘Damn me, Mistress,’ he said, his tone at complete variance with his expression. ‘Damn me … aren’t you taking a terrible risk?’
Chloë grinned back. ‘You tell me.’
They surveyed each other amicably.
‘Two massy keys he bore of metals twain - the golden opes, the iron shuts amain,’ declaimed Alex obscurely.
‘Oh for God’s sake!’ snapped Giles.
Matthew addressed the closed door. ‘She’s put the key in her bosom.’
Sudden, total silence. Then, ‘She’s what?’
‘She’s put the key in her bosom,‘ repeated Matt. ‘Do you want me to get it out?’
He was answered, incredibly, by a crow of laughter.
‘Oh Matthew! Check and mate,’ said Mr Deveril unsteadily.
Matt and Chloë exchanged glances.
‘It’s your call,’ he shrugged. ‘I’m going out.’ And he went.
‘Chloë?’ It was Giles voice, quivering slightly.
‘Yes?’
‘I believe I’m going to strangle you.’
With some difficulty, Alex stopped laughing.
‘And since I have only one good hand, I’ll let you. The only question is – do we sink our differences long enough to obtain that satisfaction?’
A second passed, then two, three. Chloë strained her ears.
‘It’s tempting,’ responded Mr Beckwith carefully. ‘You wouldn’t rather call her bluff? Or wait to see what she tries next?’
‘Not really. Unless you’d like the rest of Lycidas?’
‘I wouldn’t. In fact, I give you fair warning, Alex – if you inflict another word of Milton on me, I’ll throw you through the window. Sling or no.’
And suddenly they were both laughing. Chloë listened for a moment, smiling, and then – unable to wait any longer – fished for the key and opened the door. Giles was resting his brow on the heel of his hand, his shoulders shaking and Mr Deveril was leaning weakly back in a chair, his expression brighter than she had ever seen it.
Together they became aware of her and together, after one significant shared glance, they advanced towards her. Chloë looked back with mingled satisfaction and wariness.
Mr Deveril said regretfully, ‘I don’t think you should strangle her, Giles. It lacks finesse.’
‘You may be right. But she said she’d sprained her ankle, you know.’
‘Did she? Did you?’ The light gaze rested on Chloë.
Wariness became mild alarm. ‘Yes – but it’s much better now.’
‘Are you sure? One shouldn’t neglect these things. Perhaps we ought to put something cold on it?’ he asked of Giles.
Mr Beckwith nodded. ‘I take your drift.’
‘Oh no, you don’t!’ Chloë made to remove herself from harm’s way – but too late. A pair of firm hands dropped on either shoulder and held her captive.
‘Definitely a two-handed exercise,’ remarked Alex. ‘Shall we go forth together?’
And forth they went, despite Chloë’s struggles which, though weakened by laughter, were by no means negligible. Each with an arm about her waist, they lifted her off the floor and carried her, protesting all the way, down both flights of stairs and into the street. Then, turning down the side of the house to a point where the building described a corner, they stopped.
Ruffled and breathless, eyes widening in disbelief, Chloë made one last bid for freedom – and failed.
‘You wouldn’t!’ she said. ‘Not in there. It must be three feet deep!’
Mr Deveril gazed consideringly at the snowdrift and then, in the same manner, at his bride. ‘Easily. Possibly more. What do you think, Giles?’
‘Undoubtedly more,’ drawled Mr Beckwith. ‘It’s perfect.’
�
��In that case,’ said Alex, ‘what are we waiting for?’
And with infinite care, they delivered her deep into the heart of the drift.
~ * * * ~
SIX
From the reconciliation, there arose a number of surprising and diversely effective consequences. Mr Beckwith returned to the fold, Mr Deveril stopped playing fast and loose with his limbs and his wife caught a chill.
For Chloë, Giles was a very welcome addition to their small circle. She found him a stimulating, witty companion and, while by no means blind to his attractiveness, was able to simply enjoy his company. That it was otherwise for Mr Beckwith, she had no means of knowing.
For inside a single hour, Giles had discovered that here was a girl with whom he could all too easily fall in love – and the knowledge was a bitter as it was precarious because, of all women, this one was forbidden. She was married – though as yet probably only in name - to his oldest friend. And need not have been had he acted differently.
Mr Deveril continued to spend a good deal of time in the company of his friends but his demeanour glittered a little less than before and Chloë, in the grip of a head cold of epic proportions, could only be grateful. She was grateful, too, for the profound effect her prosaic affliction had on Mr Lewis.
Coming upon her the following morning, complete with pink nose and streaming eyes, the inimitable Matthew had appeared to undergo a change of heart. From a stance deliberately non-committal, he grew, in the space of ten minutes, actively partisan. Suddenly ‘Miss Chloë’ instead of the formal Mistress, she was shooed back to bed and there served with a mug of butter-ale which she found decidedly nasty but which, she was assured, would instantly alleviate her sufferings. And indeed, after a day spent largely in slumber, she was sufficiently recovered to view with loathing another hour spent in her bed.
Secure in the expectation of undisturbed seclusion, she decided there was little point in dressing but she slipped a robe over her night-rail and dragged a brush through her hair before sitting down in front of the fire. Within ten minutes the inactivity was proving too much for her and she prowled restlessly about the room. She was at the window, observing that there were distinct signs of a thaw, when a tap at the door heralded Matt bearing a tray.
She smiled placatingly. ‘I felt better so I got up for a while.’
Matthew grunted and stared disapprovingly at her bare feet.
Chloë glanced guiltily down and said, ‘I haven’t any slippers – but I’m not cold. Tomorrow I’ll be perfectly well again.’
‘Tomorrow you’ll be in bed for a week,’ retorted Matt. ‘Come back to the fire, you daft lass.’
And Chloë, who had not been kindly scolded since she was fourteen, was glad that her nose was already pink and blew it determinedly. She sat down and Matt dumped the tray unceremoniously in her lap, saying crossly that he thought she might be hungry.
‘Thank you. It was kind of you to take the trouble, Mr Lewis.’
‘It’s no trouble. Just be sure you drink the butter-ale,’ he said. And, with an oblique look, added, ‘I reckon you’d better get used to calling me Matt.’
It was the beginning of a curious friendship in which little was said but much understood for, in healing the breach between Alex and Giles, Chloë had taken a load from Matthew’s mind and he was grateful. So when, on the next day, she asked him to find her something to do, she received a slow, wicked grin which, half an hour later and surveying an immense pile of mending, she had no difficulty in interpreting.
‘You’re sure,’ she asked sardonically, ‘that you couldn’t find anything else?’
Matt rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Not unless you’d maybe like my things as well. But I thought you’d prefer to start with Mr Alex’s.’
Her brows rose. ‘Does he have anything left to wear? Do you?’
‘Not much.’
‘I see. I did wonder why he was in such a hurry to be married. Now I know.’
Beginning with two coats, each needing no more than a button, she set to work and, by the time Matthew appeared with her dinner, the pile was considerably diminished. After she had eaten, she set about restoring Mr Deveril’s shirts and when Mr Lewis came back for the tray, she asked him how on earth they had managed before.
‘Poorly,’ responded Matt, sitting down to watch her.
Chloë tilted her head. ‘Wouldn’t you like to learn? Despite all the graces the convent taught, this is the only one I was much good at. Sister Therese said I’d been sent to her as a punishment.’ The brown eyes twinkled engagingly. ‘Do you think I’m a punishment, Matt?’
‘I think you’re a sauce-box,’ grinned Matthew, ‘and that’s just as well. What I don’t need are vapours and hysterics. Mr Alex is enough fireworks for anyone.’
Chloë stopped work. ‘I know he can be wild … but he’s not stupid, is he?’
‘He’s sharp as a Puritan’s nose. It’s a pity he don’t use it to manage his life.’
She looked down at her hands. ‘I shouldn’t have given way to him that night - I know that. But I don’t know what to do about it.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘I don’t think I know that either.’ She met his eyes. ‘Not that I have much choice.’
‘Then you’d better wait it out. It’ll not hurt either of you and, if there was any harm in it, I’d say it’s been done by now. Wouldn’t you?’
Chloë hesitated, unsure of his meaning and therefore acutely wary. Then, shrugging slightly, she said, ‘Probably – but you’d know that better than me. You’ve been with him a long time, haven’t you?’
‘Nigh on fifteen years,’ said Matt. ‘Since Worcester-fight.’
‘Tell me,’ was all she said.
For a moment, she thought he was going to refuse but then, nodding tersely, he began.
‘You’ll know the Scots raised an army in ’51 to put Charles Stuart back on the throne? Under General Leslie, we were – though one or two of us didn’t relish it. So when the King brought Captain Harry with him – Mr Alex’s father – I got my release from Leslie and joined him. I’d been with him before from the first battle of Newbury up to the end in ’46 and he was good. No raw turnips or damp powder in Captain Deveril’s company.’ Matthew paused, remembering. ‘He’d a small troop of horse in Scotland and he’d brought Mr Alex along – fifteen years old, the image of his dad and near as tall. Captain Harry was that proud of him. I mind him bringing the lad to me and saying, “My son, Matt – Alexander Charles Deveril. D’you think we can make a soldier of him?” And he laughed.’
‘And did you?’ asked Chloë.
‘Aye. Took to it like a flea to fur, he did – for all it wasn’t the best of campaigns.’ Matt’s face darkened. ‘The Scots wouldn’t fight and Leslie didn’t make ‘em. One charge and we’d have won the day but no, they wouldn’t budge.’ He moved as though to spit and then thought better of it. ‘When it was all over bar the shouting and he could see the enemy was about to over-run us, Captain Harry grabbed Mr Alex’s bridle and shoved it in my hand, telling me to get him out of there and to safety. Mr Alex yelled that he wouldn’t go and the Captain told him that he would because it was an order from his commanding officer. Then he looked at me and said, “Take care of him for me, Matt – and God keep you both.” And he rode off.’ There was a short silence broken only by the crackling of the flames. ‘He never came back.’
Chloë stirred and, avoiding all the trite remarks she might have made, said, ‘So where did you and Mr Deveril end up?’
‘Paris by way of Felixstowe and the Hague. It was a black time. We were cold, hungry and ragged and there was no one we dared trust. Those months changed Mr Alex. By the time we reached Paris, no one would have taken him for a lad of less than sixteen – which was just as well since we’d only one trade we could ply.’
‘Soldiering?’ asked Chloë.
Matthew nodded. ‘We joined the French army to fight the Dons and by the time Prince Rupert came back from the Ind
ies in ’54, Mr Alex had learned his craft. But we’d had enough so we went back to Paris – which is where Mr Alex met Mr Giles again.’ Matt grinned sourly. ‘We’d timed it well. Lord Southampton had arrived just ahead of us to meet King Charles about a group of Royalist gents calling themselves the Sealed Knot. Not that we knew that till later and by then the three of us were recruited and bound for London. For the next four years we lived disguised as poke-noses, passing information to the King and doing what we could to save loyal folk from discovery. They were good years, too, in spite of the rope being ready to drop round your neck any minute. Mr Alex was particularly good with codes and the like - and they’d never have caught him out but for that turn-coat Wyllis selling Cromwell’s spymaster a list of names. Then we had to leave in a hurry.’
Chloë laughed. ‘Was there ever a dull moment?’
‘Not as I recall. Next we went to Austria where Prince Rupert was raising an army to fight Sweden – and that’s when we picked up Mr Danny. It wasn’t exactly a war, that one – just a few skirmishes. But in no time, Cromwell died and King Charles came back to his throne and by September 1660 we were in London again. And that,’ announced Matthew crossly, ‘was when our troubles really started!’
‘Shouldn’t it have been the other way about?’
‘It should – but it wasn’t. I doubt Mr Alex has mentioned his Cousin Simon?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘His father was Captain Harry’s younger brother and, while the Captain fought for the King, brother Robert didn’t commit himself till he could come down on the winning side. He joined Cromwell after Marston Moor and by the time we were working for the Knot, he’d made himself useful enough to be granted all the sequestrated Deveril property … most of which ought to have gone to Mr Alex.’
Chloë drew a breath of dawning comprehension.
‘And which he expected to regain when the King came home?’
‘Aye – and he’d a right to expect it. Only it didn’t work out that way. Uncle Robert died in ’59, just in time for his son to see which way the wind was blowing. While Mr Alex was still in Sweden, Simon crossed to Hamburg along with Roger Palmer and while the King’s head was filled with Madam Barbara, he made his peace, all manner of promises and heeled himself in with the Duke of York for good measure. By the time Mr Alex got back to England, Cousin Simon was assisting York in the Navy Office and so high in favour there was no shifting him. He wouldn’t give up the land and, having accepted his vows of loyalty, the King couldn’t take it from him.’
Marigold Chain Page 8
