Inside it was worse. Layers of dust mantled a vision of sparsely-furnished and decaying grandeur and the light, dimly filtering through smeared and grimy windows, touched fraying brocade curtains, balding Kurdistan rugs and festoons of cobwebs on the panelled walls. It was gloomy, forbidding and cold.
Alex stared at it as though he were seeing it for the first time and then turned to Chloë, who was.
‘Oh Christ!’ he said with an unheard-of ring of feeling. ‘I’d forgotten what a mausoleum it is. Do you want to go and stay with Julia?’
‘While you and Matt stick pins in the curtains and sweep the dust under the carpet? No, thank you.’ She peered at a particularly large cobweb strung between the carved beams of the ceiling. ‘I think you must have spiders the size of bats.’
‘Probably. If you move the webs, the house falls down.’
‘Let’s hope not,’ grinned Chloë. And then, ‘I’ll need help. Can we afford a strong, healthy girl?’
‘Just about. The question is, will we find one who can cope with you and Matthew?’ He held up a warning hand. ‘No – don’t say it. I can guess.’
At which even Matt cracked a smile.
*
On the following day Mr Lewis produced a sturdy, smiling damsel named Naomi and possessed of a head of hair that would, as Mr Deveril pointed out, make her an asset to anybody’s cornfield. All that mattered to Chloë was that her new handmaiden was industrious, capable and willing. Within four gruelling days, assisted by Matt, they had removed every vestige of a cobweb, swept the house from top to bottom and washed all of the windows. And in the uncompromising light of day, Chloë made an unexpected discovery.
The house was beautiful. Shabby and neglected, bereft of many of the pieces of furniture and paintings that had once graced it, the structure itself, when clean, revealed a variety of exquisite features in nearly every room. Initials twined with lovers knots in her bedchamber; the wide hall and broad, oak staircase; the dining parlour with its carved beams and double linen-fold panelling; and the graceful parlour, its ceiling painted in muted reds and blues and where, pulling down a moth-eaten tapestry from above the fire, Chloë found a stucco over-mantel depicting Persephone at the birth of Spring. Around it in silver tracery were the words, ‘Thou art fairer than the evening air, clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.’
When shown this, Mr Deveril whistled appreciatively and ran one finger delicately over a semi-naked dryad. ‘Why did I never see this before?’
‘Because someone with terrible taste hung a poor representation of the Battle of Jericho in front of it.’
Alex looked closely into the face of Persephone.
‘Be grateful. If it’s valuable – and I think it may be - it would probably have gone to provide cannon for the King. Like everything else.’
Chloë said, ‘The words round the edge. Is that poetry?’
‘Marlowe,’ said Mr Deveril absently. ‘Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter when he appeared to hapless Semele, more lovely than the monarch of the sky … and so on and so on.’
Chloë opened her mouth, closed it again and then said, ‘How do you do that?’
‘Do what?’
‘Remember endless screeds of poetry.’
He turned from Persephone, shrugging slightly.
‘Fifteen years of moving around, living in army billets.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Aside from drinking, whoring and gaming, reading is the only leisure activity left to you,’ he said impatiently. ‘So I read such books as came my way and when there were no new ones, I read them again.’ He paused. ‘You look surprised. No doubt you thought I was more the drinking, whoring and gaming type – in which, of course, you would be mostly right.’
*
Having cleaned the house, Chloë enlisted Matthew’s help in removing sundry items of furniture from rooms she did not need for use in those she did. In this way, four bedchambers were made habitable and the parlour granted a degree of comfort that had seemed unthinkable only a few days earlier.
For nearly a week they lived on dishes from the cook-shop before Chloë, tiring of this arrangement, took the notion to invade the hitherto unused kitchen and take over the catering herself. Without informing Mr Deveril, she decided to make her culinary debut on a day when Giles and Danny were bidden to supper and, assisted by a faintly dubious Naomi, she made her preparations.
At first all went well and Naomi, waiting at table, served a well-roasted goose and a spicy rabbit hash. The trouble, when it came, was caused by a mutton pie which perished unsampled when the oven burst mysteriously into flames. Hopeful of rescuing the pie, Chloë threw open the oven door then, scorched and coughing, hastily kicked it shut again; and dislodged an avalanche of soot from the chimney.
It dropped into the fire, releasing clouds of smoke, formed a black crust on a simmering pot of fricassee and filled the air with gently descending flakes which came tenderly to rest on the fruit tartlets, on the dish of cheeses and on Chloë. By the time the dust finally settled, the entire kitchen appeared to have been showered with volcanic ash and Naomi, arriving to find her mistress black-faced and choking in a room laden with smoke, uttered a hearty shriek and ran for help.
Within seconds Mr Deveril was in the doorway, closely followed by Giles and Danny. He checked on the threshold and then strolled on, blue eyes interestedly inspecting the damage, before coming to a halt by the table. He gazed down on the spotty tartlets and then across at his equally spotty wife, standing like Dido among the ruins of Carthage.
‘”The blasted hearth laid low in horrible destruction.” Does anyone,’ he asked unsteadily, ‘fancy a sooty tart?’ And gave way to laughter.
Two days later, Mistress Jackson was installed in the kitchen.
*
Balked of employment in this field, then magisterially despatched by Mr Deveril on a tour of silk-mercers and milliners in the company of his determined and energetic sister, Chloë retaliated by bending her fertile brain to an enterprise of a very different nature suggested by the cost of dress materials.
The state of declared, if not actual, war between England and France showed every sign of hitting fashionable Londoners where it hurt most. Prices were already rising and Lyons silk and Nantes velvet were being bought in enormous quantities before the expected scarcity became a reality. Chloë, bullied by Julia into paying thirty pounds for length of figured brocade, shuddered and then bombarded her companion with a series of detailed questions on the types, qualities and origins of every fabric she saw.
Born of her impending annulment and Mr Deveril’s straitened circumstances, a fascinating idea had taken root but she took her time before tentatively broaching the subject with her husband. His reaction was irritatingly predictable – a mixture of amusement and impatience. It was a pipe-dream, a fantasy, a flight of schoolgirl romance, he said. It was impractical, foolish and probably impossible. Chloë demanded reasons and was given them in a stream of concise and numerically listed points; then, warming to his theme, Alex subjected her to a relentless inquisition from which she emerged battered and depressingly aware of her own ignorance but fundamentally unconvinced. She sought information in Tom Blanchard’s small but well-stocked library and then, rejuvenated, took her problem to Matthew. And Matt, after a long and persuasive discussion, reluctantly agreed to make enquiries.
Strangely, it was in Mr Fawsley that she found her first real supporter. Danny had offered his services as guide and mentor in the intricate ways of the City and with this aim in mind, called for her on the morning of Shrove Tuesday and found himself escorting her on a tour of the wharves between Blackfriars and Dowgate. Standing on Queenhithe and uncomfortably aware of language colourful enough to make a sailor blush, he was moved to remonstrate.
‘This isn’t a part of London that ladies visit,’ he announced. ‘Let’s go.’
Chloë removed her gaze from the Betsy-Rose whose holds were disgorging a multiplicity of barrels and tarpaulin-covered boxes and l
ooked absently at Daniel.
‘There’s no need to be embarrassed,’ she said. ‘I’m not listening. What’s a fishmonger’s daughter?’
‘Never you mind,’ frowned Danny, taking her arm in a firm grip and leading her back in the direction of Thames Street. ‘Why on earth did you want to come here?’
‘Research,’ said Chloë. ‘I’m considering making a little investment.’
The frown faded and he looked suddenly interested. ‘In what? Shipping?’
‘In a way. I’ve a dowry of eight hundred pounds and it seems a pity not to put it to work. I thought I might perhaps buy a cargo.’
‘And sell it where?’
‘Tangier. The garrison there might be glad of a few home comforts the Navy doesn’t provide, don’t you think? Then on to Genoa for velvet and Tunis for silk and home for a nice profit.’
Danny looked faintly disappointed. ‘Why not the East?’
‘Or the moon?’ grinned Chloë. ‘Because everything has to start somewhere. But today the Mediterranean, tomorrow - - ‘
‘Russia,’ said Daniel dreamily. ‘China, the Indies.’
‘Why stop there?’
‘I daresay I shan’t,’ he replied simply. ‘Since I was old enough to make sense of them, I’ve always loved maps and books about far-flung places. Places I want to see for myself … places so different from here that you can hardly imagine them.’
‘You’re serious,’ she said slowly. ‘I didn’t think you were serious about anything.’
‘About this I am.’ The cheerful, freckled face showed rare determination. ‘And one day I’ll go – you’ll see.’
*
On the first day of March, Matt sought out Chloë and informed her that he had found a Captain – one Nathaniel Pierce – who was willing to undertake her commission for a return of forty per cent. Two hours later the three of them sat facing each other in Chloë’s restored parlour.
Their discussions, arduous and complex, were made lengthier by the Captain’s tendency to digress or reminisce every second or third word; but eventually they reached agreement on all the major points and drew up lists of items and quantities to be purchased for the outward voyage to the English garrison at Tangier. It was decided that this part of the venture should be handled jointly by Captain Pierce and Matt with Chloë taking care of all finances and paperwork. The proposed route was to take The Black Boy on from Tangier, through the pillars of Hercules to Genoa where Pierce would buy velvet and any other materials he considered to be of the right quality and price. From there he would sail down the coast of Italy to Naples for tortoiseshell and perfumes, then across the Tyrrhenian Sea to Bizerta for oranges, figs, almonds and silk and back home with all possible speed. He hoped to sail within a fortnight and return by the middle of August. Matthew was plainly sceptical.
‘There’s Dutchmen in the Channel and Frenchies further south. How do you plan on avoiding trouble?’
The Captain tapped his nose.
‘There’s ways. The Black Boy is fast and well-armed for a merchantman. And we carry a full set of flags. You can leave that part to me – it won’t go amiss. We were at war with the Dutch last year as well but I still ran half a dozen trips into La Rochelle – and that was trickier by far, I can tell you!’ He laughed and settled back in his chair. ‘Not but what they didn’t nearly have us one time. I remember it like yesterday. There we were, out in mid-channel … ‘
Chloë and Matt exchanged glances while the Captain droned happily on; then, seizing her opportunity when he paused for breath, Chloë asked quickly, ‘Do many English merchant ships sail the Channel these days?’
‘Not many, Mistress Deveril. But a few do – and do it successfully. Sam Vine, for one … and I’d give a lot for a look at his holds. He sails the Arabella for Lord Gresham – but you don’t make his kind of money by running another man’s business, no indeed! I’d stake my right arm he’s either smuggling or breaking bulk.’
‘Breaking bulk?’ queried Chloë.
‘Aye, Madam. Selling a portion of his cargo on his own account – like my Lord Sandwich was caught doing with captured prize ships last year. I’ll go bail Vine is such another. A young friend of mine – a slip of a lad merely – sailed with him one season and told me that there was a strange air aboard the Arabella. Secretive, he said. Then, the next voyage, he didn’t come back. They said he’d been lost in a heavy sea … but I always wondered if he’d learned things he wasn’t supposed to. Vine’s a chancy bastard to cross – if you’ll forgive the expression, Mistress.’
Chloë forgave the expression, smothered a yawn and began tactfully moving the Captain towards the street. Just less than half an hour later, when the door closed behind him, she leaned against it laughing weakly while Mr Lewis sank down on the foot of the stairs.
‘Rot me,’ said Matt bitterly, ‘if I ever met a set of pipes so full of wind. The man’s got a tongue like a fiddler’s elbow. Aye – it’s all very well for you to laugh. You haven’t got to go shopping with him.’ He eyed her sourly. ‘Not but what his clack won’t have its uses once he’s away to sea.’
Still laughing, Chloë sat down beside him. ‘How?’
Matthew favoured her with an acid grin.
‘No one in their right mind is going to take him prisoner. He’d talk ‘em to death.’
She leaned forward and buried her head in her arms.
‘I know,’ she said unsteadily. ‘I know. But I just hope I never have to introduce him to Mr Deveril.’
Matt’s eye brightened perceptibly and he drew a long breath.
‘Now that,’ he said wistfully, ‘is a sight I’d pay money for.’
~ * * * ~
TWO
With reluctance, Chloë undertook the task of acquainting Alex with her plans and was relieved to find them met with nothing more than a slightly derisive shrug and a very firm order not to visit the docks or have anything to do with anyone of the maritime persuasion unless Matthew was at her side. Then, with his usual efficiency, he fulfilled the legalities that placed Chloë’s dowry at her disposal and calmly withdrew his interest.
Sitting in front of a pile of lists and accounts in the small room she had appropriated as a sort of office, Chloë stared irritably at her neat columns of figures and wished Mr Deveril would achieve consistency. One could, at a pinch, come to terms with the temperamental wildness coupled with occasional, effortless charm - or the clever, frequently acid tongue and the rare, irresistible smile. One could even get used to the demonic good-looks. But not when the demon displayed traits of endearing humanity … such as laughing himself silly over a ruined dinner.
There was worse to come. On the day The Black Boy sailed for Tangier, Mr Deveril strolled into Chloë’s ordered sanctum and informed her that she was going to Court.
‘And don’t tell me you’ve nothing to wear. I’ve seen the bills.’
Chloë opened her mouth to point out that she’d ordered only two gowns, one of which she was currently wearing and instead heard herself say weakly, ‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather not go at all.’
Alex shook his head, his mouth curling pleasantly.
‘This isn’t an invitation, Marigold – it’s a royal command. The King is curious, so you’re going to Whitehall – powdered, perfumed and dressed to kill – to satisfy him.’
‘What do you mean – he’s curious? About what?’
‘About you - or rather us - and why we want an annulment.’
Her eyes widened. ‘How does he know about that?’
Impatience stirred. ‘How do you think? I told him. We want an annulment and Charles is the person best-placed to help us get one.’
She turned this over in her mind for a moment and then said, ‘It’s probably another stupid question but … do you actually know His Majesty?’
‘Yes. I won’t pretend he’s an intimate acquaintance but I’ve known him since Worcester and I can assure you that he’s not at all frightening.’
Chloë felt li
ke shouting, ‘Not frightening? He’s the King, you idiot!’ But said dryly, ‘I’m glad to hear it. And the whole court isn’t frightening either, I suppose?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s a run of the mill occasion with, I presume, all the usual faces. The worst it’s likely to be is tedious.’ His expression became the one which usually heralded one of his more outrageous statements. ‘And only think – if we’re lucky, His Highly Susceptible Majesty will take such a fancy to you that we’ll find ourselves sundered in record time so you can be Queen of the May.’
She eyed him witheringly. ‘In that case, how can I refuse?’
‘Just what I’ve been trying to tell you,’ said Alex. ‘You can’t.’
Later, en-route in hot-footed panic to see Lady Julia, Chloë wondered whether Mr Deveril was in a greater hurry than previously to have their union annulled – and, if so, why. She also finally and with reluctance admitted to herself that it wasn’t what she wanted. She told herself it wasn’t that surprising. For the first time in years, she was happy. She had a home she enjoyed caring for, friends she valued and a small business venture she hoped would prove profitable. She had every reason to be happy. It was nothing at all to do with the difficult, charming man who had just talked her into what might well be the most terrifying evening of her life.
Lady Julia, as it turned out, was not impressed.
‘So?’ she asked calmly. ‘I told you it wouldn’t be possible for you to hide yourself away here in London. I’m only surprised that it’s taken Alex so long to do something about it.’ She laughed. ‘Don’t look so scared. There’s nothing to worry about.’
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ agreed Chloë sourly, ‘except that the only gown in any sense suitable is that green brocade you made me buy. And it isn’t finished yet.’
‘Is that all? We can soon change that. Come on – smile! Lots of girls would give their eyes for this chance.’
‘Well that just shows how unworthy I am. I’ve got my priorities all wrong.’
Marigold Chain Page 10
