She shrugged easily and said with an effort equally invisible, ‘No. But it’s clear that I’d be very stupid to stay here.’
‘You don’t know Alex.’
‘You don’t know my brother. And this, believe me, is the last straw.’
Brown eyes met grey and then Giles acknowledged defeat.
‘Do you at least have somewhere to go?’
She nodded, ‘In the morning. Little Tom’s family will take me in for a time. His mother knows how things are in this house.’
‘Well, then. If you are quite decided, I shall take my leave. I’m afraid that I derive no amusement whatsoever from games of this sort.’
She smiled again, but this time it was tense, automatic.
‘No. I understand.’ She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye – and thank you.’
He bowed and gallantly kissed her fingers.
‘Au revoir, mademoiselle. I shall hope to meet you again in more pleasant circumstances.’ And before she could reply, he turned, nodded perfunctorily to his host, and left.
Chloë faced her brother. ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’
Alex, who had watched all this in dreamy silence, suddenly laughed.
‘What indeed?’ He reached for the dice-box, shook it, and threw.
Freddy peered at the dice. ‘Five and four,’ he announced.
Ashton followed suit and cast a six and a deuce.
‘First throw to Mr Deveril,’ said Danny boisterously. ‘Take a wager, Freddy? I’ll lay ten guineas on Alex.’
‘Can’t,’ said Freddy morosely. ‘And I wouldn’t take you if I could.’
Alex grinned and threw again – a three and a five. Ashton replied with a pair of sixes.
‘One all,’ sang Danny.
Mr Deveril picked up the box for the last time and threw.
‘Quatre trey,’ called Freddy, not to be outdone. ‘Shouldn’t have much trouble beating that.’
It was evident that Ashton thought so too. What his sister thought was less obvious but her knuckles glowed white with pressure as she watched him make the deciding cast. He threw; Freddy and Danny craned over to count the spots, then, ‘Quatre deuce,’ shouted Danny. ‘Alex wins!’
Ashton sat still, frowning at the dice as if staring at them would change the outcome. Then slowly lifting his head, he met Alex’s eyes, and saw, behind the haze of intoxication, pure contempt.
Very carefully, Alex rose and made Chloë a deep if unsteady bow.
‘Madam, I have won your hand in fair play. Will you come with me?’
Shock drained the blood from her skin.
‘N-now? You want me to leave with you now?’
‘Naturally. You just shaid – said – you couldn’t stay here.’
‘I know. But I didn’t expect … I thought that in the morning …’ She stopped and then said desperately, ‘It’s the middle of the night!’
‘Nowhere near it, m’dear. Not much past eleven yet.’ Rocking slightly, Alex held onto the back of his chair and offered her a rare, genuine smile. ‘So will you come?’
Her colour returned and a sort of madness took hold of her.
‘Yes, sir. If you wish. Are we going now?’
He nodded, half laughing.
‘Then I will get my cloak,’ she said calmly and went out of the room.
In the short time she was away, Ashton stared at Alex with bleary hatred but no one spoke. Then she was back, her cloak draped over her shoulders and a small bag in her hand.
‘I am ready,’ was all she said.
Ashton glared at her from beneath lowered brows.
‘Then go – and good riddance! But don’t think you can come crawling back here!’
She surveyed him distantly. ‘I won’t crawl and I won’t come back,’ she said flatly. ‘I would sooner starve in a ditch.’ She looked at Alex. ‘Shall we go?’
He smiled again and scooped up coins and promissory notes haphazardly into his pocket. ‘Upon the instant. Let’s shake the dust of these unhallowed halls from our feet and take to the road.’
And followed by Danny and Freddy, he threw an arm about her waist and swept her out of the house, singing as he went.
~ * * * ~
FOUR
Out in the street the fresh air hit them with instant effect. Alex reeled and Chloë had to exert all her strength to keep him upright. A glance behind showed that Danny and Freddy were having similar problems with each other.
Mr Deveril’s balance returned and he gazed abstractedly at the sky.
‘Then if thou’lt have me love a lass, let it be one that’s kind
Else I’m a servant to the glass that’s with Canary lined,’
he declaimed happily. And then, ‘Are you kind, Marigold?’
Chloë looked at him, torn between laughter, exasperation and something she couldn’t put a name to.
‘Sometimes,’ she grinned. And, as a shiver ran down her back, ‘But this isn’t the time to discuss it. Or to recite poetry either.’
‘Quite right,’ applauded Daniel.
‘Philistine,’ said Alex vaguely, starting to walk.
‘What I want to know,’ said Freddy, ‘is where we’re going.’
‘That’s easy,’ replied Danny. ‘Home.’
Alex stopped so abruptly that Freddy cannoned into him.
‘No, we’re not,’ he said positively. ‘I’m going to be married.’
Chloë’s heart gave a sickening lurch, then resumed its usual beat as she realised how impossible it was.
‘Are you?’ asked Danny with interest. ‘Congratulations.’
Freddy shook his head. ‘Can’t be done.’
‘Why not?’
‘Need a parson – middle of the night – all asleep,’ came the succinct reply.
‘Then we’ll wake one,’ decided Alex.
Chloë found her tongue as last.
‘If you were intending to marry me,’ she said carefully, ‘I don’t think it’s a very good idea. You – we don’t know each other and --’
‘No. So we won’t be disappointed.’ The blurred voice was faintly bitter.
‘But you should think about what you’re doing! You can’t want to be married – not just like that, anyway! And --’
‘I won your hand – and that I shall have,’ said Alex doggedly. ‘I don’t ask you to love me.’
Chloë viewed this demonstration of unexpected lucidity with resentment.
‘I know that – but I prefer to wait. Perhaps,’ she added cunningly, ‘I may marry you tomorrow.’
‘No. Tonight.’
‘But – even if were possible – it’s ridiculous. You’re drunk!’
‘Frequently, darling.’
‘And tomorrow you’ll feel differently.’
‘So?’ His face assumed an expression of total obstinacy. ‘Don’t argue. You can’t run off with me then refuse to marry me. It isn’t done.’
‘Quite right,’ said Danny, re-entering the lists. ‘Ought to get married right away.’
‘If you can,’ added Freddy, faint but pursuing.
‘You are all as bad as each other,’ announced Chloë crossly. ‘You can’t wake a priest at this time of night and expect him to marry you.’
‘Watch me,’ grinned Alex. And then, meticulously, ‘And I’m not going to marry a priest. I’m going to marry you.’
Danny dissolved into a fit of giggles and communicated them to Freddy. Alex remained, swaying slightly, his eyes fixed on his proposed bride.
‘Well, aren’t I?’ he asked with a particularly charming smile.
Something recognised, but as yet totally uncomprehended stirred inside Chloë as she met those quizzical silver-blue eyes … and, swept for a moment to a realm way beyond common sense, she gave way to it.
‘Yes. It would seem that you are. But it would still be best to wait till --’
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ laughed Alex, sweeping her along with him. ‘Now – who knows where we can find a parson?’
Freddy thought. ‘Chaplain – St John’s College,’ he offered.
‘Excellent. Lead on – we follow.’
So, not without difficulty, the little party made its way across St John’s Gardens, led by Mr Iverson. Progress was both slow and noisy and Chloë felt very doubtful that all three gentlemen would retain their senses long enough to arrive at their destination – which, in her opinion, would probably be a good thing.
However, her hopes were dashed when they all came safely to the Reverend Morland’s little house. And then the fun really began for, when their imperious hammering brought no result, they started clamouring and hallooing up at the windows. Chloë perched resignedly on the edge of a water-butt and decided she had lost her senses to be there at all.
Eventually a light showed at an upper window which was then thrown up to disclose a night-capped head.
‘What the – what is going on?’ demanded a thin, querulous voice.
‘Come down and find out,’ invited Mr Deveril.
‘I will do nothing of the kind! What do you mean by waking me at this hour? Is someone dying?’
‘Not that I know of. I want to get married.’
‘You what?’ spluttered the cleric.
‘I want to get married,’ repeated Alex obligingly. ‘Come down.’
‘I most certainly will not. You’re drunk, sir!’
‘I know. Ah well, if you won’t come down – I’ll have to come up.’ And so saying, he seized the thick creeper which enveloped the house and began to climb.
Chloë decided that it was time to intervene.
‘Mr Deveril – if you break your neck you won’t be able to marry anyone.’
Alex peered down from a couple of yards up.
‘I’m quite safe.’ Hanging one with one hand, he took his hat off and tossed it to her. Then he started to climb again, accompanied by a duet of advice from below and recrimination from above.
He had almost reached the window when there was a sharp crack as a branch snapped under his foot. ‘Damn!’ he said cheerfully. There was a scuffling sound as he searched for a new foothold and found it. Then he was nose to nose with the Reverend Morland.
The Reverend retaliated by trying to close the window.
‘Now, now,’ reproved Mr Deveril, grabbing the casement. ‘Where’s your Christian spirit? I am a branch to be plucked from the burning. Pull me in.’
‘You are an ill-conditioned and cupshot nuisance – and you can go back the way you came.’
Alex looked down and shut his eyes quickly as the earth rushed up to meet him.
‘Not entirely true,’ he said weakly. ‘Not at all, in fact.’
And just as Chloë opened her mouth to shout, the Reverend disappeared from view as Alex dived head first through the window. There was a loud crash, then a voice said furiously, ‘Get off me, sir. You are sat on my stomach!’ Upon which Danny and Freddy burst into howls of laughter.
A few minutes later the door opened to reveal Mr Deveril, dishevelled but otherwise unhurt, and behind him the meagre figure of the Reverend Henry Morland, clutching a robe over his outraged person. Daniel and Freddy wandered in, leaving Chloë with little alternative but to follow, while they manoeuvred the protesting cleric into the parlour. Freddy lit a branch of candles and everyone blinked in the light.
‘ …. and moreover I shall complain to a magistrate. Your behaviour is iniquitous! I have never been so scandalised in my --’
‘Enough,’ interrupted Alex. ‘I don’t want a sermon – I want to be married.’
‘And I tell you it’s outside the canonical hour and therefore impossible!’
‘Let’s hope,’ said Mr Deveril silkily, ‘that you are mistaken.’
Chloë sprang forward. ‘It might be best if you let me explain. Sir, the situation is a trifle … peculiar. This gentleman,’ she indicated Alex, ‘has won my hand at the gaming table and --’
‘What? Do I hear you correctly? He won you?’
‘Yes. And so --’
‘From whom did he win you?’
‘From my brother. Mr Iverson will confirm?’
Freddy nodded solemnly.
The Reverend looked inexpressibly shocked.
‘You poor girl! This is barbarous – Sodom and Gomorrah! But you are safe now, my child. None can force you against your will whilst I am here!’ he announced heroically.
Chloë lost a little of her assurance.
‘Ah – yes. Thank you. Only it is not quite so … you see, I … er … I agreed to it.’
A number of conflicting emotions warred with each other in the worthy gentleman’s face and he appeared beyond speech.
Alex laughed. ‘Well done, Marigold. At least you’ve stopped him talking.’
‘Oh be quiet!’ snapped Chloë, incensed.
‘Hussy!’ cried the cleric. ‘Abandoned Jezebel!’
Alex advanced with intent. ‘Will you marry us?’
The Reverend Morland squeaked as a hand grasped his shoulder, then meeting a glittering blue stare, he capitulated.
‘Yes. I w-will,’ he quavered. ‘You deserve each other!’
‘We thank you. Now go and dress. I’m damned if I’ll be married by an unfrocked parson.’
So eager was he to be rid of his unwelcome guests, that the Reverend excelled himself. In rather less than ten minutes he was back, wig and stock askew but otherwise presentable and gripping his bible. Outside, the church clock was striking twelve.
‘Very well,’ he said irritably. ‘Let us proceed.’
Chloë’s face was the colour of parchment but she drew off her cloak, smoothed the long rose-gold hair with hands that shook only a little and stood before the cleric. Alex ploughed an erratic course to her side and dropped his arm across her shoulders.
‘Dearly beloved,’ began Reverend Morland in a tone more properly suited to an exorcism, ‘we are gathered here in the sight of God …’
And fifteen minutes later they were out in the street again with the door slammed and securely bolted behind them. With a sense of complete unreality, Chloë looked down at the heavy and over-large signet ring which adorned her left hand and then at the man who was now her husband. Mr Deveril appeared to be in rapt contemplation of the rime-encrusted trees glinting in the moonlight.
‘A Froggie would a-wooing go, “Heigh Ho!” says Rowley,’ he sang.
To the tune of childish rhymes, they made their way back to Brewer Street and by the time they arrived outside Mr Deveril’s door, where Danny and Freddy took a blithe farewell, Chloë doubt that she could have gone any further. The difference between helping Alex and carrying him was now minimal and she guessed that her brother’s brandy was about to have its usual effect. She propped Mr Deveril against the wall, groping in his pocket for a key which she eventually found and used to open the door.
‘Cock-a-doodle-doo! My dame has lost – has lost …’
Chloë grinned, replaced the key and, shouldering her burden, surged across the threshold. Alex detached himself and stormed the stairs, reciting.
‘The King of France went up the hill with forty thousand men!’ His impetus wore out after the first five steps and he remained poised with indecision.
‘The King of France came down the hill and ne’er went up again.’ He turned round and sat down. ‘I can’t.’
Chloë started to speak and then stopped as a door opened above and light spilled down the staircase. ‘Is that you Mr Alex?’
‘Matt? I thought you’d be asleep,’ said Alex hazily.
‘Did you?’ asked Mr Lewis, descending the stairs. ‘I doubt there’s anyone who’d sleep through the din you were making.’ And then he stood still, looking at Chloë with dawning recognition.
Alex smiled and allowed himself to be assisted up the stairs, saying dreamily, ‘Matt … my old, old friend. Tell Sarah will you?’
‘Tell her what?’
The blue eyes opened briefly.
‘Tell her I’m married,’ he replied, with surprised simplicity
. And then, eluding Matthew’s grasp, slid peacefully to the floor.
*
Alex awoke to a sensation of knives grinding inside his head. He groaned and tried to halt the painful process of returning consciousness by rolling over and burying his head in his arms. His mouth felt as though it was full of sawdust and his stomach full of bile.
‘Mr Deveril?’
The soft-voiced enquiry struck him like a clarion and he groaned again in what he intended as a negation.
‘Mr Deveril? It’s only a headache, you know – you’re not dying.’
Stung to indignation by the unfeeling nature of this remark, Alex replied with a muffled curse.
‘Don’t be vulgar,’ said the voice, warm with barely repressed laughter. ‘That’s no language for a gentleman.’
‘Go away,’ he muttered.
‘No. It’s past two in the afternoon and I have a tisane here which will make you feel much better – but you must sit up.’
‘I don’t want to sit up. I want to be left alone.’
‘Don’t be a baby.’
This was the last straw. Alex opened his eyes and gingerly turned to face his tormentor. A waterfall of hair, gleaming rose-gold and a lot brighter than he thought necessary, dazzled his vision. He shut his eyes for a moment and then, blinking, looked again; brown eyes, flecked with amber. There was something familiar about them too – something he felt he ought to be able to remember but could not.
‘Who are you?’
Amusement gave way to reproach. ‘You don’t know?’
‘I wouldn’t ask if I did.’ He sat up very cautiously. ‘God – my skull’s split.’
‘You shouldn’t have drunk the brandy,’ said Chloë severely. ‘Mr Beckwith had more sense.’
‘He would,’ replied Alex acidly. A strange fact communicated itself to his impaired faculties. ‘We are sitting on the floor. Did I sleep here?’
She nodded, grinning.
‘Why?’
‘Mostly because you passed out - but also because I had your bed. Drink this.’ She handed him a mug.
Alex sniffed it suspiciously. ‘It smells disgusting.’
‘It tastes disgusting too,’ she told him cheerfully. ‘But it truly will make you feel much better. And it’s your own fault, after all.’
Marigold Chain Page 5