Marigold Chain

by Riley, Stella

  ‘Wasn’t there was some sort of Proclamation?’ asked Chloë, frowning.

  ‘Words on paper,’ snorted Matt. ‘So Mr Alex was left with nought but a draughty run-down place in Southwark and no means to put it to rights. He’d have gone back to France but that the King was full of soft words and promises – like always. At first, he was angry and then he grew bitter; and because, for the first time in ten years he hadn’t got a job to do, he took to the bottle. Not every day but too often for his own good.’ Matt stopped and leaning forward, poked the fire with a vicious jerk. ‘And then he met Sarah Courtney.’

  ‘Ah.’ Chloë met his gaze thoughtfully. ‘You don’t like her.’

  ‘I can’t abide her,’ replied Matt roundly. ‘She’s a selfish, conceited, conniving harpy and, but for her, Mr Alex would have gone selling his sword again last year.’

  ‘Does he love her?’

  Matt shrugged. ‘Maybe. He thought he did, at all events.’

  ‘Enough to marry her, perhaps?’

  ‘Small chance of that!’ snorted Matthew.

  ‘Why not? If she loves Mr Deveril --’

  ‘You don’t know her, lass. She loves two things – herself and money. Mr Alex is a fine-looking young man from a good family but he ain’t rich. That makes him suitable as a lover but no use at all as a husband.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Chloë weakly. ‘I hadn’t realised it was … that Mr Deveril was … I thought that he and Sarah were …’ She stopped. ‘Say something, Matt – before I make an even bigger fool of myself.’

  He grinned. ‘You thought what a nice, well-brought up girl would think. Sarah’s something else. She’s going to marry Graham Marsden on Friday. He’s sixty-odd if he’s a day but worth more than a shiny shilling.’

  ‘Does Mr Deveril know?’

  ‘He knows, all right. I’ve got an idea she told him, then suggested that the two of them just carry on as before.’

  ‘That’s … not very nice.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. My guess is Mr Alex told her goodbye and then got so drunk that he almost killed a man, quarrelled with Mr Giles and married you.’

  Chloë accepted this evaluation without a blink but her expression sharpened a little. ‘And you thought I’d make a nice, temporary safeguard?’

  Matthew looked somewhat disconcerted. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘But given the choice, you’d prefer to see him a mercenary again?’

  ‘Unless things change – aye.’

  She nodded slowly and fixed him with an owl-like stare.

  ‘What you’re really saying,’ she suggested, ‘is that he needs an occupation.’

  A glimmer of approval lurked in the black eyes.

  ‘Now that,’ he agreed, ‘is exactly what I’m saying.’

  *

  When Friday dawned, the promised thaw had become a reality and the exquisite carpet of white had melted into an untidy piebald slush. Water dripped sluggishly from the rooftops and gurgled dirtily down the gutters and, away from the cobbles, the ground had the consistency of gravy-sodden bread. Chloë, on her first outing for almost a week, stepped carefully while casting dubious glances at the menacing sky and then, regretfully curtailing her expedition, headed back towards Brewer Street.

  For the past three days her mind had been occupied almost exclusively by Matt’s revelations. Two points in particular obsessed her. One was the problem of finding suitable employment for an out-of-work mercenary and the other, the possible reasons for Mr Deveril choosing to keep her with him. With the first of these, she made no progress whatsoever; with the second, she eventually decided that there was really only one conclusion. That Mr Deveril’s reasons for wishing to maintain the fiction of wedlock were much the same as those of Mr Lewis.

  She had barely entered their lodgings and not even removed her cloak when Matt walked in and stood looking at her with dour foreboding. He said, ‘We’ve got a problem. He says he’s going to the wedding and I’m not convinced it’s just to dance.’

  ‘Oh.’ Shades of potential disaster crowded Chloë’s mind. ‘How do we stop him?’

  ‘Short of banging him over the head? I don’t know. But I don’t want to involve Mr Giles if I can help it.’

  ‘No.’ A pause and then, hopefully, ‘We could lock him in. It worked before.’

  ‘The mood he’s in? We can’t afford the breakages.’

  Her heart sank still further. ‘He’s been drinking?’

  ‘Only a bottle or two. He won’t pass out any time soon.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’ Chloë thought rapidly. ‘How long have we got?’

  ‘Not long. He’s downstairs taking a bath.’

  She walked to the window and stood looking out, fingers resting lightly on the sill. Then, turning, she gave a rueful smile.

  ‘Get the butter-ale ready. I’m going for a ride.’

  The black eyes narrowed and then widened incredulously.

  ‘You’re going to take Caesar?’

  ‘Well, I don’t imagine Mr Deveril is planning to walk to church. Not in this mud.’

  Matt shook his head worriedly. ‘He’ll be too strong for you. There’s none but Mr Alex ever rides him.’

  Chloë grinned weakly and refrained from telling Mr Lewis that she hadn’t ridden a horse since she was fourteen. Instead, she said, ‘I know. So I should think Mr Deveril will come after me, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘There’s no doubt about it,’ said Matt grimly. ‘Lass – he’ll fillet and bread you!’

  ‘Probably,’ agreed Chloë. ‘But at least he’ll be nice and clean and properly dressed for it.’ And, with apparent irrelevance, ‘I think it’s going to rain.’

  *

  It was undoubtedly going to rain. In fact, it was already beginning to do so in large, spasmodic spots as Chloë and Caesar reached the edge of the common and the skies promised a deluge to come.

  Taut as a bowstring with strain, Chloë thankfully left the town behind her. Matt had been right. Caesar was strong, disliked strange hands and, ridden side-saddle, was almost impossible to manage. The muscles of her arms and shoulders ached with the effort of controlling him and her hands were numb and bloodless from the tourniquet of reins she had been forced to twine around them. Breathlessly, she spoke soothingly in Caesar’s ear and hoped that Mr Deveril arrived before his horse succeeded in breaking her neck.

  She was out in the middle of the clearing when she heard the sound of hoofbeats borne on the wind. Throat tightening, she turned her head and looked; a horseman riding ventre à terre. Mr Deveril. And then the heavens opened.

  Alex approached in a haze of flying mud and came to a slithering halt beside her. He had discarded his sling, she noticed, and the rain was fast ruining his beautifully-feathered hat. Below that she was careful not to look.

  ‘Get down,’ he said.

  She looked then and saw that, though his mouth smiled, his eyes were furious. Chloë’s insides lurched unpleasantly. She ignored it as best she could and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I’d rather not. It’s wet. Did you know that your hat is moulting?’

  There was a brittle pause. Then his teeth gleamed as he said, ‘Should I be surprised? I thought it was part of the plan.’ And dropping from the saddle, he said again, ‘Get down.’

  And this time, with her nerves vibrating like wires, she saw no alternative. She slid unassisted from Caesar’s back and arrived up to her ankles in freezing slush.

  Without a word, Mr Deveril put the reins of both horses in her hands and began the process of changing saddles. Chloë watched in growing irritation while the rain weighed down her cloak, plastered strands of wet hair to her cheeks and began to trickle down her neck. She had been prepared for discomfort. But there were limits – and this unnerving silence was beyond them.

  She said, ‘What’s wrong? I can’t believe that you’re lost for words.’

  Unmoved, he continued tightening the saddle-girths at Caesar’s side.

  ‘There’s no hurry. I’ve a
number of things to say to you. Later.’

  Chloë swallowed. ‘Monologue, then. It’s a pity everybody tiptoes round your feelings. It gives you the idea you can do what you like.’

  ‘It’s a pity,’ returned Mr Deveril, ‘that no one taught you to heed a warning the first time it’s given.’ In the brief glance which was all he gave her, the silvery eyes sliced into her like a knife. ‘The last thing I need is another bloody nursemaid.’

  ‘That’s true!’ Chloë’s smooth, wet face flushed with annoyance. ‘What you need is a straightjacket! My goodness - if you’d only use your brain instead of letting your stomach take over, we wouldn’t be out here getting wet. And if you can’t keep away from a woman who obviously doesn’t want you, then it’s because – despite all the melodramatics – you haven’t got the backbone!’

  Rain dripped steadily from the brim of Alex’s hat. His face was white with temper and a pulse throbbed in his jaw. ‘You’d be wise not to continue taking advantage. If a man spoke to me like that, he wouldn’t still be standing.’

  ‘Don’t hold back on my account.’

  ‘I don’t hit women. Not even silly schoolgirls with ideas beyond their capabilities.’

  ‘I got you here, didn’t I?’ Chloë met his hard stare with one equally challenging. ‘Do you really think I did this for my own amusement?’

  ‘Well is certainly isn’t for mine!’ snapped Mr Deveril scathingly. And with barely contained savagery, he threw her up into the saddle, hurled himself astride Caesar and set off homeward, leaving her with no choice but to trail in his wake.

  The return ride was extremely unpleasant. Rain continued to fall heavily and mud flew against Chloë from the hooves of her borrowed mare and from those of Caesar, whose pace, though fast, was never enough to leave her completely behind. She rode on, grimly bedraggled and chilled to the bone – and preferring both to the tongue-lashing she suspected lay ahead of her.

  When she drew rein in the stable-yard, Mr Deveril had already dismounted and stood waiting for her. He lifted her down with hands that bit like a steel trap and, holding her elbow in the same manner, marched her silently into the house.

  As they gained the top of the first flight, Matthew emerged from his doorway. The lined, brown face was inscrutable as ever and only his prompt appearance betrayed his anxiety. Chloë met his gaze with one equally expressionless. Mr Deveril walked past him without a glance.

  ‘See to the horses – and make sure Caesar is properly rubbed down.’ He flung the command over his shoulder in a tone Mr Lewis had only ever heard on the battle-field and knew better than reply to.

  Upstairs, Alex closed the door, leaned against it and hurled his sodden hat across the room. Then, folding his arms, he stared at his dripping wife with rigidly controlled temper.

  ‘Next time you have an insane desire to risk your neck by interfering in what is none of your business – do it without placing my horse in like danger. You may consider it a justifiable hazard but I don’t.’

  Chloë looked back, too cold and wet to think up anything clever. It seemed the last straw that, while she got soaked and looked awful, Mr Deveril got soaked and looked no less attractive than usual. She unclenched her teeth, felt her nose begin to prickle and sniffed despairingly.

  ‘I’m sorry. I thought it would be all right.’

  The ice-blue eyes flared dangerously.

  ‘Don’t lie. I’m not a fool and neither are you. You knew exactly what you were doing. You wanted to stop me making an appearance at Sarah’s wedding, so you did. On present showing, you’ll be doing my breathing for me in a month. On the other hand, though today the method was probably your own, the idea originated from Matt. Didn’t it?’

  She jumped and the drips that were forming pools around her accelerated their passage. One droplet made its way down the side of her nose, now decidedly pink, and she smeared it aside with the back of her hand.

  ‘If you want to blame anyone,’ she said between chattering teeth, ‘blame me.’ And unable to hold his gaze any longer, she peered down at the strings of her cloak which her frozen fingers had manipulated into a knot.

  For a second, Alex remained quite still, watching her. Then, ‘Oh hell!’ he said. And, moving with suppressed violence, pulled off his coat, tossed it away and closed in on her. ‘Hell,’ he said again, ‘and damnation.’

  Brushing aside her stiff, unskilful hands, he busied himself with the tangled strings. And suddenly, without looking, Chloë knew that the crisis had passed.

  Mr Deveril demonstrated his superiority by quickly undoing her cloak and casting it after his coat. Quite without warning and as much from released tension as from cold, Chloë began to shiver. The blue eyes travelled impersonally over her from dripping rose-gold hair to soggily clinging hem.

  ‘Turn round,’ he said.

  Chloë blinked. ‘W-what?’

  He sighed. ‘You’re soaked to the skin and likely to take inflammation of the lungs if you stay that way. Turn round.’

  Her cheeks flamed and her voice, when she spoke, was an unlovely squeak.

  ‘My lungs are quite healthy – and I can manage, thank you.’

  Patience snapped and became sarcasm.

  ‘If you think that, at a time like this, I’m likely to be mad with lust I can only think that you rate your attractions rather too highly or have forgotten the vital implications. Now – turn round!’

  And helped by his hands on her shoulders, she did.

  With head bent and senses totally disordered, she felt him unlace her gown and slide it from her arms to lie in a heap around her ankles. The shivering intensified.

  Alex untied the tapes of the petticoats and they joined her gown on the floor. Then, leaving her clad only in her shift, he threw open the closet, pulled out a heavy chamber-robe and thrust it in her hand.

  ‘Take off your chemise and put that on.’ His mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. ‘I won’t look.’

  Feeling that this wasn’t the time to argue, Chloë watched him turn his back and did as she’d been told. When she signified her readiness, he came back to her holding a towel.

  ‘Now sit down.’ He indicated a chair beside the fire and, with ruthless efficiency, proceeded to dry her hair.

  Under his hands, the blood began to circulate again in Chloë’s limbs and warmth returned slowly. When he had finished, she took the towel and wound it round her head like a turban.

  ‘Thank you.’ She viewed him consideringly. ‘Should I offer to return the favour?’

  ‘Only if you’re prepared to have your bluff called.’

  ‘And if I am?’

  ‘You’d be disappointed. I don’t,’ he said, ‘have any petticoats.’ And went out.

  Left alone by the fire, Chloë stared thoughtfully down at her hands. There seemed to be at least three Mr Deverils and when you never knew which one you’d meet next, it was not a help.

  Rather desperately, she picked up a brush and started to disentangle her hair.

  ~ * * * ~

  PART TWO

  THE DRAMA

  London, the Channel, Holland & Tunbridge Wells

  February to August, 1666

  ‘Now the times are turned about

  And the Rebels race is run.

  That many headed Beast, the Rout

  Who did turn the Father out

  When they saw they were undone,

  Were for bringing in the Son.

  That fanatical crew which made us all rue

  Have got so much wealth

  By their plunder and stealth

  That they creep into profit and power;

  And so, come what will,

  They’ll be uppermost still:

  And we that are low

  Shall still be kept so,

  While those domineer and devour.’

  ONE

  The Court, having been detained at Oxford throughout January by the birth, three days after Christmas, of Lady Castlemaine’s fifth [and allegedly royal] bast
ard, finally returned to London at the end of the month and settled, bickeringly, into its habitual domicile of the palace of Whitehall.

  On February the tenth, his Britannic and Protestant Majesty, King Charles the Second, made reluctant response to the French proclamation of the previous month and declared war on his Gallic and Catholic Magnificence, King Louis the Fourteenth. The announcements of both sovereigns, being little more than token gestures, passed largely unnoticed by the English populace – who feared the Dutch more than they feared the French and a further out-break of the pestilence more than either of them.

  On the twelfth, Alexander Deveril and his half-French titular wife, together with Messrs Beckwith, Fawsley and Lewis, left Oxford unregretted and unregretting behind them and followed in the wake of the Court. Giles returned to his lodgings in King Street, Danny to his uncle’s home in the Strand and Mr Deveril and party to his house hard by St Mary Overie in Southwark.

  The house at first sight was daunting. Built in the previous century of patterned brick laid between bands of silvering wood, it stood in a small wilderness that had once, long ago, been a garden and behind high, crumbling walls through which one passed by means of an exceedingly rusty gate. It was a large, projectoried building, gabled and irregular with high, twisting chimneys and dark leaded windows. Finial capped dormers peered down from above corbel-mounted oriels and below these, the ground floor boasted wide, square-ended bays between two of which stood an imposing portal topped by a badly weathered cartouche. Chloë stood amidst the weeds of many seasons and viewed it with a sinking heart.