Marigold Chain

by Riley, Stella

  For a moment he surveyed her in silence. Then he said, ‘I wonder if you realise what a dangerous game you’re playing? What, for example, if Alex beds the lady he believes is his wife but doesn’t feel it necessary to re-marry her when he learns his mistake?’

  Chloë stared back in astonishment. ‘But I don’t expect him to do so. To be honest, my worst fear is that he’ll be completely furious with me for going behind his back.’

  ‘Your worst fear? What about your reputation?’

  ‘Will be lost. I shan’t mind. Only I’ll have to resign my post with the Queen … and I don’t know how to explain it.’

  Charles accepted without a blink the implication that what would do for the King would not do for the Queen.

  ‘I’m sure,’ he said dryly, ‘that, between us, we’ll think of something. For now, it would be a kindness if you spent this evening with her – as it may be the last time. And I wish you luck with Alex. If he’s lived with you for eight months without learning that you are utterly unique, I think you’re going to need it.’

  *

  Mr Deveril did not return home until early evening. He didn’t bring any fish with him but, seeing that the strain had largely faded from the blue eyes, Matt forbore to comment on it. He also forbore to mention that, though Chloë was at Court, it was not because her duties commanded it; and Alex, restored to an acceptable level of composure, did not trouble to ask.

  He ate a light meal, washed down with a single glass of wine and then, removing himself to the parlour, spent an hour attending to various pieces of correspondence. There was no urgency now, no torment of doubt or impatience; only a quiet thread of hope, nurtured all day and not to be relinquished now. In the end, when you thought with your intellect instead of your emotions, the truth of the matter became amazingly simple. Either your wife was a wanton who would respond to any man as she did to you – or she wasn’t. And since you knew she wasn’t, that left only one possible alternative. Or so it seemed.

  Sealing the last letter, he contemplated the thought, by no means new, that he had made a complete botch of the whole affair in a way that not only showed a lack of back-bone but also made him wonder what had happened to his so-called artistry. Except, of course, that it wasn’t easy to make pretty speeches when one was in deadly earnest.

  The door-bell rang and Mr Deveril swore gently beneath his breath, hoping that his visitor, whoever it was, would not stay long. Then the doors opened and Mr Beckwith walked in.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I hoped I might find you at home.’

  Alex stood up, smiling.

  ‘Well, it’s always nice to be wanted,’ he replied lightly and then stopped, his eyes resting narrowly on his friend’s face. ‘Sit down. You look as if you need a drink.’

  Giles dropped his hat on the table and seated himself on a high-backed chair while he watched Alex pour a glass of burgundy. He said, ‘I haven’t much time. But I thought you’d like to know that Simon is still alive and aboard a ship, about to embark on a new career as a bond-servant in the Caribbean.’ He took the glass that Alex handed him but made no move to drink. ‘Vine is still in the Tower and, in all probability, they’ll tactfully forget about him. I take it you haven’t seen the King yet?’

  ‘No.’ Alex sat down and eyed him thoughtfully. ‘I suppose I must go tomorrow. How did York take it?’

  Giles frowned into his glass as if concentration was difficult.

  ‘As you’d expect. He blustered his way through the full gamut of emotions and ended by feeling sorry for himself.’ He glanced across at Alex. ‘You’re not drinking?’

  ‘No.’ A transient smile touched the sculpted face. ‘Not tonight.’

  There was a long pause, then Mr Beckwith said expressionlessly, ‘That’s a pity. I thought you might like to wish me bon voyage.’

  The light gaze widened suddenly. ‘You’re going somewhere?’

  Giles gave a wry smile and drank his wine. ‘Yes. I’m sailing from Gravesend at dawn.’

  ‘For where?’

  ‘Jamaica.’

  The word exploded between them.

  ‘Jamaica?’ asked Alex incredulously. ‘What the hell for?’

  Mr Beckwith shrugged. ‘The same reasons that take a mercenary anywhere.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant and you know it,’ replied Alex. ‘Why go at all?’

  ‘Because,’ said Giles, with an effort that was beginning to show, ‘I’ve been appointed Simon’s official escort to Port Royal. I’m to get him there in one piece and give a full explanation to Governor Modyford.’

  ‘In which case,’ said Alex blandly, ‘you won’t be staying.’

  ‘Why not? I’d like to recover my skills but don’t particularly want to sell my sword to a foreign power and this seems a reasonable solution. There’s a Welshman, Henry Morgan, who is making something of a name for himself out there and to whom I’m to deliver letters from the King. His exploits are no more piratical than were Rupert’s during the Commonwealth and the rewards are rich – so you might call it a career of sorts.’

  ‘A career,’ said Alex sardonically, ‘amidst all the outcast scum of Europe? I can’t think of anything that would suit you less. So I’ll ask again. Why Jamaica?’

  Giles set his glass down with unnecessary violence.

  ‘Because,’ he snapped, ‘it’s about as far away from England as I can get.’

  Alex surveyed him through narrowed eyes.

  ‘And why would you want to do that?’

  ‘Various reasons – none of which concern you.’

  ‘They do if they’re going to be the cause of you ending up stuck like a pig in some stinking Port Royal pot-house,’ responded Mr Deveril caustically. ‘Don’t be an ass, Giles. I may play merry hell with my friends from time to time – but do you honestly think I’m going to wave a cheery farewell without at least trying to understand?’

  Mr Beckwith stood up and picked up his hat.

  ‘I appreciate that you mean well – but I’m afraid that, in this instance, the only service you can do me is to take my hand and wish me a safe journey. My reasons, even if I explained them, wouldn’t help either of us.’

  ‘Try me. I might surprise you.’

  ‘I think not.’ The grey eyes were hard. ‘My mind is made up and I’ve a barge waiting at the Irongate Stairs. The only way you can stop me is by laying me out and I don’t recommend that you try it.’

  ‘I don’t intend to,’ Alex replied mildly. ‘It would take all night and reduce the furniture to matchsticks. A pointless exercise and Chloë wouldn’t like it.’

  Giles’ lost what little colour he had. ‘Are you going to divorce her?’

  The dark brows soared. ‘Why do you ask that?’

  There was a tiny pause and then, ‘I just wondered if you were thinking of filling Graham Marsden’s shoes.’

  Alex frowned. ‘Hardly.’

  ‘And Chloë?’

  ‘Will remain my wife,’ he said. And thought, ‘I hope.’

  Mr Beckwith’s fingers clenched on the brim of his hat.

  ‘That will be nice for her. Does she know?’

  A faint flush stained Mr Deveril’s cheeks.

  ‘What the hell is this? My relationship with Chloë is none of your business … but you surely can’t have thought I’d go back to Sarah?’

  ‘What I think doesn’t matter,’ replied Giles. ‘But since Sarah believed it strongly enough to come here and tell Chloë that – ‘

  ‘Stop!’ snapped Alex, startled. ‘She did what?’

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘No. Who told you?’ The blue eyes were faintly dazed.

  ‘Your wife.’

  It was the tone rather than the words that gave it away but, before he realised it, Alex said, ‘Chloe?’ And then, blankly, ‘Oh. That’s it, isn’t it?’

  Giles said nothing. And Alex, who felt as if a bottomless pit had just yawned at his feet, didn’t dare speak in case the words tipped him into it.


  After a long, catastrophic silence, Giles said, ‘I should go.’

  ‘No.’ Alex drew a harsh breath. ‘Does she know?’ And then, immediately, ‘Or no. Of course not. You’d never tell her.’

  ‘And neither will you.’

  Mr Deveril’s skin was entirely without colour. He said, ‘Perhaps you should. She might … she might be glad.’

  ‘She won’t.’

  ‘You can’t know that.’

  ‘Yes I can!’ came the furious reply. ‘What are you suggesting – that we let Chloe chose between us? What the hell for? Do you honestly think that if she’d ever given the merest hint of looking on me in that way I wouldn’t know it by now? And she’s your wife!’

  ‘But you love her.’

  ‘Yes. All right - I love her. Now, for God’s sake, leave it.’

  Alex said flatly, ‘So do I.’

  Caught in the act of replacing his hat, Giles stopped short. ‘What?’

  ‘I love her too.’ He paused, then added, ‘But I don’t know if she’ll ever return it.’

  ‘Oh.’ Giles hesitated, put aside what Chloe had told him because it wasn’t for him to reveal and, instead, said bitterly, ‘Well, at least you’ve the right to tell her.’

  ‘I tried.’ Alex’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘I made a complete mess of it. You’d have laughed.’

  ‘I doubt it. There’s very little in this that I find remotely funny.’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’ Another pause. ‘So you’re leaving.’

  ‘I am leaving,’ snapped Mr Beckwith, ‘not because I’m in love with your wife but because I won’t stay here to watch what happens next. You’ll either sort out your marriage – or you won’t. That’s up to you. But I’m going to Port Royal - and you’re going to forget we ever had this conversation. Because, for all the good that’s come of it, we didn’t.’

  ‘I can’t forget it,’ returned Alex simply, ‘because you’re not just my oldest friend but also, possibly, a better one than I deserve. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be stepping aside like this.’

  ‘Don’t cast me in the role of a martyr,’ said Giles, finally putting on his hat. ‘I’ve no taste for sackcloth and ashes. I’m merely doing what needs to be done. And now I have to go or I shan’t make Gravesend in time.’ Then he stopped, suddenly realising that, whatever else lay between them at this moment, some of what Alex had said was true. They had been friends for fifteen years and, after tonight, might never meet again. He turned slowly and looked across the room with a rueful, fleeting smile. ‘I’m sorry. It’s a poor way to say goodbye, isn’t it?’

  For an instant, Alex gazed back grimly and then, crossing to his side, dropped a hand on his shoulder. ‘So would any other be – but we’re not saying it yet. I’m coming with you to Irongate. Unless you’d rather I didn’t?’

  Some of the tension left Giles’ face and he flushed a little.

  ‘God, Alex – I’d welcome it.’

  It was a little after eleven as the two men quitted the house and set off for Bankside and the bridge. For a long time neither spoke, then Mr Deveril broke the silence and opened up a channel of light conversation which lasted them all the way along Thames Street. Then, as they started up Tower Hill, Alex said abruptly, ‘Do you realise that if you’d suggested this a couple of months ago – crazy scheme though it is – I might have gone with you?’

  Mr Beckwith glanced obliquely at him. ‘So what’s changed?’

  ‘I have.’ He gave a brief laugh. ‘It’s ironic, don’t you think? Having wasted five years in bitter resentment, Simon’s banishment means no more to me than the end of a task I’d begun to find irksome. The truth is that he was never important – nor even the house and land; and the things that do matter were always quite outside his reach.’

  It was a full minute before Mr Beckwith made any answer and his face wore a curious expression, as though he were contemplating an absorbing problem. Finally he said, ‘We each have our choices to make. Mine, for the time being, is exile and has the merit of being as temporary as I wish it to be. What of yours?’

  They passed the postern and then turned south towards the river. Alex smiled in the darkness and said quietly, ‘Mine is for my lifetime … if she’ll have me.’

  Even more than the words, his tone was an avowal and Giles at last fully understood – and did not know if he was glad or sorry. He heard himself say, ‘You said you made a mess of telling her. What went wrong? Didn’t she believe you?’

  ‘Not at all. And I made such a fool of myself that she hit me over the head and nearly knocked me senseless.’

  ‘She what?’ Giles was shaken by an unwilling laugh. ‘How?’

  ‘With a half-bottle of claret, if you must know.’ He paused, then said, ‘I haven’t known how to tell her because, as with yourself, she’s never offered me anything but friendship and I’m uncomfortably aware of how little I’ve ever done to deserve anything more.’

  Mr Beckwith wondered why Alex’s lack of conceit always managed to surprise him and why it was suddenly so easy to believe him; and then realised that it didn’t matter. He said, ‘If you’ll take a piece of advice for once, you’ll start by undoing any harm Sarah may have done. And then, instead of using twenty words where three would do, just say it.’

  They arrived at Irongate on the stroke of midnight and at their feet the steps fell gently away where the water lapped rhythmically against the side of a barge, its lanterns lit and its oarsmen waiting.

  ‘I’ll try,’ agreed Alex. ‘And, if she’ll let me, I’ll do my best to look after her.’

  ‘You’d better.’ Giles descended the steps and then, turning, smiled a little and held out his hand. ‘You’re probably the most annoying fellow I ever met - but I suspect I’ll miss you.’

  ‘Bad habits are always the hardest to break,’ said Alex, gripping the outstretched hand. Then, ‘Don’t fall off the map, will you?’

  ‘Never.’ For a moment, grey eyes met blue and then Mr Beckwith stepped quickly into the waiting barge. ‘Make my farewells to Chloë … but don’t, whatever you do, give her my love,’ he said as the oarsmen untied the ropes.

  ‘If that’s what you want.’ Alex looked down at him and smiled. ‘It’s Boot and Saddle – or whatever the nautical equivalent is. Good luck, Giles.’

  The barge was sliding away now, out into the current where it gathered speed.

  ‘Au revoir,’ called Giles in reply, his eyes on the dark, diminishing figure on the steps. ‘Take care.’ And then, since he could no longer see him, he turned his face to the east and sat back, letting the barge carry him swiftly to the sea and the start of a great journey.

  *

  For a long time after the lights of the barge had vanished beyond his sight, Mr Deveril remained on the steps, staring thoughtfully in the direction it had taken. The wind was full on his face but he was hardly conscious of it except to think that Giles would have a slow ride to Gravesend. Time passed … and the clock of St Katherine’s was chiming half past one before he finally stirred to go.

  Without haste, he retraced his steps to the top of Tower Hill and there an unexpected sight met his eyes. Ahead of him and not far away, the sky was lit by a fierce, red glow and streaked with trailing smoke. Just for a second, Alex stood still, staring at it and then he was off, racing with all possible speed along Tower Street. Somewhere on the far side of St Dunstan-in-the-East was fire; and in that location, after a four-month drought and in a freshening wind, it was a recipe for disaster.

  Fire-bells started to toll as he passed the church and he could hear shouts and screams issuing from the afflicted neighbourhood; great tongues of flame leapt up behind the houses in Botolph Lane, silhouetting them in brilliant orange light and he could smell smoke. Then he reached the top of Pudding Lane and stared in disbelief at the pandemonium that reigned there.

  The old, closely-built, wooden houses were as dry as tinder and the fire fed on them greedily, spreading from one to another with astonishing rapidity. Even a
s Alex watched, the wind tossed a shower of sparks cascading down on a house so far untouched and within seconds it was alight, as if composed of touchwood. Half the street was furiously ablaze and the flames were gaining strength with every second – while, as far as Alex could tell, no move was being made to halt their progress.

  The lane was thronged with people whose sole aim appeared to be the preservation of their property. Goods and furniture of all kinds were being thrown from windows or carried from doorways into the narrow street, effectively blocking the way and providing a powder-trail to the houses opposite. With a mocking gust, the wind veered suddenly, sending sparks and flames across the road and then immediately shifted back again. But too late – for already the far side of the street had been ignited.

  His face tingling with the heat and his ears deafened by the crackling roar of the flames, Alex crossed to a group of watchmen who were observing the conflagration with an air of helpless melancholy.

  ‘Buckets, fire-hooks and ladders!’ he bellowed. ‘From the churches, you dolts. St Magnus, St Margaret’s and St Andrew’s. Move!’

  ~ * * * ~

  FOUR

  Chloë’s first waking thought was the recalled disappointment of Mr Deveril’s absence the night before. Then she became aware of a cacophony of bell-ringing that seemed excessive even for a Sunday and, getting swiftly out of bed, she ran to the window to look.

  Across the river from Botolph’s Wharf to Dowgate the sky was black with smoke, swirling in vast clouds from the area around Fish Street Hill and so dense that it completely hid the flames that were its source. Chloë stared at it incredulously and then, realising from the smoke-drift that the wind was blowing the fire steadily westwards to the wharves and her precious cargo, she began to dress in frantic haste.

  Ten minutes later, still engaged in tying her hair back in a scarf, she flew out of her room and collided violently with Mr Deveril.

  Alex caught her deftly by the shoulders, subjected her to a quick, keen scrutiny and then asked crisply, ‘And where do you think you’re going?’