Marigold Chain

by Riley, Stella

  Stretching out his free hand, he brushed the hair back from her cheek and waited as she turned towards him, her eyes dark and faintly questioning. He looked back at her, giving her time to read his intention, time to move away if she wished and then drew her slowly into his arms. His lips trailed lightly from temple to jaw and finally found her mouth where his kiss, at first gently persuasive, gradually deepened into something quite different; something deeper that hovered on the brink of something much more. And, beneath it, without even realising, Chloë let him know that what he wanted, he could have.

  Of their own volition, her hands rose to tangle themselves in his hair; sparks rushed along her veins and sensations she’d half-experienced only once before and still hardly recognised flooded her body. There was no room for conscious thought. She simply melted against him.

  In the end, ironically, it was her response which at once freed and betrayed her for Alex, who had sought one discovery, had found two. Lifting his head, he stared down into her dilated gaze, his hands sliding to her shoulders.

  ‘It was you,’ he said at last. ‘That night in Oxford with the fellow who’s name I’ve forgotten. It was you, wasn’t it?’

  Chloë looked back with a sort of random interest. ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  He shrugged slightly and, his mind not entirely focussed, said absently, ‘Probably because you’re the last girl I kissed.’

  She stared at him. ‘Oh.’ A pause, and then, ‘So you haven’t been -- ?

  ‘No.’ This wasn’t a conversation Alex wanted to have – particularly now. It was nothing to do with embarrassment. Simply that the celibacy that hadn’t bothered him in the least for six months was suddenly becoming an issue. To divert her, he said, ‘Why didn’t you ever mention it?’

  ‘It was just a bit of foolish mischief,’ she said, flushing a little because although it was true, it wasn’t the reason for her silence. ‘It didn’t mean anything and I didn’t think you‘d remember. Does it matter?’

  And Alex, meeting the anxiety in her eyes, thought that it very probably did – as did her response to him and his to her – but that it was not the time, while their nerves were stretched and heightened with so many emotions, to attempt an analysis. He smiled reassuringly and drew her hand through his arm to go back up the stairs.

  ‘No, Marigold. It doesn’t matter. Come … let’s go home.’

  And slowly, their faces turned to the dawn, they retraced their steps; and did not look back.

  ~ * * * ~

  EIGHT

  As lovely day succeeded lovely day in that cloudless, blazing June, Chloë cast herself into a frantic orgy of activity. She swept and polished, dusted and sewed – anything in fact, however trivial or unnecessary, that might occupy her mind or tire her body so that she would be too busy or too exhausted to think. It did not work and she wondered dully why it seemed to do so for Alex and Giles, once more taken up with Prince Rupert’s mysterious assignment. For her, from the time she rose to the time she found herself unable to sleep, every day was a battle to avoid the only thoughts that held any significance. Like twin goblins, they shadowed her steps and turned her world into a dark place where she dwelt alone with the nagging ache of Danny’s death and the soul-destroying void of a hollow marriage.

  Alex had kissed her and she did not know what – if anything – that meant, since he had subsequently neither referred to it nor shown any inclination to repeat it. The only thing that she was certain of was that her feelings for him which, before that kiss, had been largely controllable, had now swelled to a tumult of longing that threatened to overwhelm her.

  It was perhaps fortunate that across the river in Whitehall, Queen Catherine was also beset with troubles. The palace, as everyone knew, had been set by the ears when Lady Castlemaine had told the Queen that if His Majesty had taken cold from the night air, it was because he visited other ladies after departing from her house. Unfortunately, she had said it within the King’s hearing and Charles, usually placid to the point of indolence, had actually been sufficiently stirred to deliver a stinging reprimand and bid her remove herself from Court.

  Wild with anger, Barbara had gone to lodge in Pall Mall, leaving poor Catherine to indulge in the rosy hope that she was rid of her thorn at last. Alas, she was soon disillusioned. Within three days, Barbara was back, bolder than ever and boasting that she had brought the King to heel; and the collective, sniggering rumour that hurt Catherine more than her return was the widespread whisper that her ladyship had achieved this by threatening to publish Charles’ letters to her.

  Disappointed and sickened, Catherine felt she could no longer tolerate the hateful presence without the support of someone she both liked and trusted. With a sort of pathetic defiance, she offered Chloë a position in her household and Chloë, glad of anything that might fill her days, accepted and then walked out into the bright afternoon sun to find a boat which would take her home.

  She had mistimed it, she realised, by about five minutes. Cousin Simon was just settling into a barge as she came down the steps. He hailed her with languid delight, informed her that he was going to Trinity House, and insisted that she allow him the pleasure of taking her to Southwark. Since it was on his way and no other craft was available, the watermen having gone into hiding again to avoid the Navy’s latest large-scale press, Chloë was forced to stifle her polite refusal. Disdaining his arm, she stepped into the boat and sat down facing him. The waterman set out towards midstream.

  Simon smiled benignly and Chloë was reminded of a cat when it stole a morsel from the pantry. ‘I thought,’ he said, eyeing her gown, ‘that our period of full mourning was over.’

  ‘It is,’ Chloë replied stonily. ‘Danny Fawsley is dead.’

  The smile disappeared and his eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Old Sir Roger’s nephew? Really? I had not heard it. It must have been very sudden.’

  ‘It was.’ She looked at her hands and concentrated on keeping her voice steady. ‘He died at Harwich on June the fifth.’

  ‘At Harwich?’ The drawling voice sharpened. ‘But this is dreadful – I really had no idea. I can scarcely believe it … the poor boy was so young.’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ said Chloë, ‘I’d as soon not discuss it.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course.’ He dabbed his eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. ‘You must excuse me – I am somewhat overcome. The sudden anguish, you know. One really feels that one should go home and change.’ He looked with a pained expression at his red velvet. ‘But what can one do? I am expected.’

  Chloë stared across the bright, rippling water, crowded with lighters and barges, to the imposing façade of Arundel House and wondered bleakly if Simon ever entertained a thought that did not come back to his raiment.

  ‘My spirits,’ he continued plaintively, ‘are quite worn down. You can have no notion of the problems one is surrounded with – my tact and discretion are at breaking point. And now you tell me young Fawsley is dead. It is too much. I really believe I must seek the Duke’s leave to go to the country for a time before I become quite ill. One does one’s best and one hesitates to complain but with the Duchess about to give birth any day and the Duke so preoccupied with Lady Denham – she wants him to own her publicly as his mistress, you know – the burden of responsibilities falling on my shoulders is quite crushing. I have even,’ he concluded pettishly, ‘had to miss two fittings with my tailor.’

  ‘What a shame,’ said Chloë automatically. She turned to the waterman, told him to set her down at the Falcon Stairs and watched as he began to steer cautiously across the river, her interest in Cousin Simon’s idle discourse registering at several points below zero.

  Pausing, Simon eyed her with a measure of suave gravity and said, ‘I hope you will feel able to offer my condolences to Alex. I hesitate to do it myself – out of motives of the purest delicacy you, understand – but one would not wish to be thought lacking in any attention.’

  The barge slid to a halt at the stairs and C
hloë immediately stood up.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll tell him.’

  ‘So kind,’ sighed Simon. ‘He must be quite downcast. I do trust that he hasn’t allowed the news to overset him. But then, he is so very hardy, is he not? Not one to entertain sentiment. You have no idea how I envy him. My own sensibilities are so very strong.’

  ‘Yes. I noticed that. But Alex, fortunately, is too busy to be overset.’ She climbed out on to the steps and her voice became noticeably astringent. ‘He hasn’t visited his tailor either. Thank you for the ride. Goodbye.’ And before he could reply, she had turned and was mounting the stairs.

  *

  At that moment, Mr Deveril and Mr Beckwith, having returned from a two-day expedition, were just entering the parlour. While Alex called to Naomi, Giles sat down by the empty fireplace and stared abstractedly up at the decorative over-mantel. Both men looked extremely tired.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ said Giles at last. ‘Whether by sabotage or accident, it shouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘No.’ Hands pushed deep in the pockets of his blue riding coat, Alex gazed out of the window. ‘Chicheley thinks the same. He was virtually in tears.’

  ‘Understandably,’ agreed Mr Beckwith grimly. ‘Quite apart from the wasted money, the replacement time will be considerable. The Loyal London was due to join the fleet within the week – but without guns she’s less than useless. And if they wait to cast new ones, the fleet will be at sea before they’re ready. If this is another attempt - - ‘ He stopped as Naomi came in bearing wine and glasses.

  She set it down and hovered uncertainly, plainly wondering if she should pour.

  Alex turned round and waved her aside with sudden, irritable impatience. ‘Leave it – we can manage.’ He watched her go and looked back at Giles. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I was going to say that if it is another instance of sabotage, it will prove uncommonly effective.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Alex dryly. ‘And if not, then our gun-makers are hellishly careless. Either way, it’s equally incredible. Castings occasionally prove faulty, we know – but not to this extent. And how, without leaving any clue of your activities, do you tamper with each of eighty guns so that every one appears perfect until it’s test-fired?’

  ‘God knows. But if it was deliberate, someone made a damned good job of it. They’d shattered like glass.’ Giles sipped his wine and then went on, ‘It was in the smelting – it has to be. The proportion of copper to zinc, perhaps – or maybe there were impurities in the metal. I doubt that, though. Every timber and nail of that ship is the very best quality – including, one would suppose, the gun-metal.’

  Mr Deveril sat down and looked thoughtfully into his glass, the blue eyes shadowed with fatigue. ‘So. We can rule out faulty materials – probably. Workmanship then … also unlikely since no one man worked on all of them. Which brings us back to – ‘

  The door opened again and Chloë walked in.

  ‘Oh Christ!’ said Alex. In one fluid movement, he was out of his chair and across the room. ‘It’s not bloody open day. What do you want?’

  She stared at him. ‘Nothing that can’t wait.’ And turned to leave.

  It was Giles who stopped her.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘He’s just tired. We both are. Do you want me to leave?’

  She turned back, shaking her head. ‘No. It’s merely that the Queen has asked me to join her household and I’ve accepted. She’s going to Tunbridge Wells the week after next and wants me to go with her. I thought Mr Deveril might like to know.’

  ‘At any other time,’ drawled Alex, ‘Mr Deveril would be fascinated. But not just now because we’re really rather busy. So if there’s nothing else?’

  For the first time in months, Chloë lost her temper.

  ‘Not quite,’ she said unsteadily. ‘I’ve a message for you. Your cousin sends his condolences and congratulates you on your lack of sensitivity. He wishes he had it. As it is, he’s tortured with sartorial anguish because he’ll have to appear at Trinity House in a red coat. I wonder,’ she finished lethally, ‘if your family has a monopoly on dramatic trivia?’

  And she walked out.

  Giles swung round to face Alex. The ice-blue gaze held a strange expression but Giles ignored it. ‘For God’s sake! I know you’ve had no sleep for the best part of two days but do you have to be so bloody nasty?’

  ‘Apparently, I do,’ snapped Alex. ‘And I don’t have to excuse myself to you. So now I suggest you try applying your brain to what she just said. Cousin Simon is on his way to Trinity House.’

  ‘What’s new about that?’ Mr Beckwith’s voice was tight with control. ‘He’s on York’s staff.’ And then stiffened as the significance of it dawned on him.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Alex. ‘He’s on York’s staff.’ He met Giles’ eyes steadily and there was a long, heavy silence. ‘It’s like finding the last piece of the puzzle has been in your hand all the time.’

  Giles turned away with a dismissive shrug.

  ‘An over-statement, surely? As Chloë pointed out, Simon’s mind doesn’t function beyond the confines of his wardrobe. I agree that we should check on him, just as we’re checking others – but I imagine he’s no more likely to be our clever friend than one of the King’s spaniels.’

  ‘Don’t under-estimate him,’ said Alex. ‘Remember that before ‘59 he moved in Parliamentary circles but had the wit and address to effect a perfectly timed volte-face.’

  ‘And he holds your father’s estates and you don’t like him,’ supplied Giles, ‘so you’d find it convenient to brand him traitor.’

  ‘I don’t deny it – which is why I want us to discuss it very carefully.’ Alex dropped his hands on the table and rested his weight on them. ‘We know our man is close to York – and who is closer than Simon? He knows everything the Duke knows, has access to any document you care to name and is trusted despite a very dubious past. If he were really as effete as he seems, what use would he be to York? And his father was one of Richard Wyllis’ closest friends.’

  There was a pause, then Giles said, ‘A lot of people liked Wyllis – Rupert, for one. And since the Sealed Knot was betrayed all of seven years ago, I’m inclined to believe your notion of a connection between that and the present situation is a trifle fantastic. I’m sorry, Alex. I think you’ve got to accept that you’re just biased.’

  With a violent twist, Alex wheeled to face him, eyes blazing with weary frustration.

  ‘So are you – in the opposite direction. Why can’t you trust my judgement for once?’

  ‘Because you’re too damned clever,’ replied Giles truthfully. ‘But it isn’t your judgement I’m questioning. It’s your motives and eventual intentions.’

  ‘Why? Because I’m sometimes rude to my wife and undisguisedly jealous of my cousin? Because I don’t serve honour the same way you do, you believe I don’t serve it at all – never mind to the best of my ability?’ Alex’s mouth curled in something not quite a smile. ‘So my temper and behaviour are frequently are not all they might be – I’m impatient, intolerant and generally not fit to live with – my God, don’t you think I know that? But we’ve known each other for fifteen years, Giles. I may not have many virtues, but surely I have enough to be credited with at least some proper feeling. So why is it so bloody difficult for you to at least give me the benefit of the doubt?’

  Very slowly, Mr Beckwith rose and looked at him.

  ‘In the general way, it isn’t. In this instance, however, I think you must admit that the facts are against you. Frankly, I think it’s a combination of our useless efforts and wishful thinking. And I’m not helping you conduct a personal witch-hunt.’

  ‘I see.’ The moment of appeal gone and already regretted, Alex’s tone became completely impersonal. ‘Then I’ll just have to help myself, shan’t I?’

  *

  It was much later that evening before Mr Deveril finally found the opportunity for a quiet chat with Mr Lewis. He explained his
theories in much greater detail than he had troubled to do for Mr Beckwith and when he had finished he looked into the shrewd black eyes and said with only faint mockery, ‘So there you have it. My Cousin Simon – if it is my Cousin Simon – is sitting hidden, secure as Zacchaeus up his tree. What we have to do is shake him out of it.’

  The seamed, weather-beaten face remained expressionless.

  ‘And did you,’ asked Matt, ‘have any idea of how? Bearing in mind that if it’s not him and you show your hand, the little maggot will take to the heather and leave you worse off than you are now?’

  ‘Quite,’ said Alex with a grim smile. ‘You wouldn’t also like to point out that I’m allowing my imagination to run away with me – that I’m merely prejudiced?’

  Mr Lewis moved as though to spit and then thought better of it.

  ‘No. Are you?’

  The smile became a shade less grim. ‘I don’t think so. At least, I hope not.’ There was a pause, then, ‘Very well. I wondered,’ said Mr Deveril invitingly, ‘if you’d like to come house-breaking with me?’

  Finally Matt spoke.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked with dour humour. ‘Why not? It’s about the only lunacy we haven’t tried before.’

  *

  Five nights later, with cloud obscuring the waning moon, two black-clad figures in soft boots made their way discreetly to the Strand and scaled the wall of one of the houses there. Once inside the garden they stopped for a moment, apparently listening, and then separated without a word to circle the darkened house until they met again at the rear.

  ‘Anything?’ asked Alex.

  Matt shook his head. ‘No lights and quiet as the grave.’

  ‘Right. My side, then – and into the library.’

  Silently, they made their way round to the east wing of the house and then Alex led the way slowly along it, counting windows as he went. At the fifth one he stopped and, producing a slim but stoutly handled knife from his pocket, inserted it carefully into the casement and proceeded to work at the catch. Standing beside him, Matt kept a watchful eye on either end of the house and strained his ears for sounds from within. The click of the latch as it yielded to the knife seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness and he turned his head to find Mr Deveril grinning at him in the faint silvery light.