Marigold Chain

by Riley, Stella

  ‘God, no! They think they’re going to douse it with those daft bloody machines,’ snorted Matthew. ‘Man – you’d as well try to do it by spitting!’

  Mr Deveril smiled grimly. ‘All right. You carry on here. I’m going to see York.’

  It was not hard to convince the King’s brother that stronger measures were necessary; he had realised for himself that their only hope lay in the use of explosives but, with the Aldermen against him, his power was limited. He did, however, call out the troops – and after that Alex had a very busy afternoon.

  While Mr Deveril dashed from one fire-post to the next, Chloë stood at Bankside in a crowd of strangely silent onlookers and watched the blaze gain in strength until she could bear it no longer. It was then that she became aware of the large number of refugees sitting huddled along the waterfront, pitifully clutching their few belongings and too dazed to move further. Chloë stopped, looking at them. There seemed to be a great many children, some of them very young and all of them hungry, holding fast to mothers who stared blankly out of dark-rimmed eyes filled with shock. Her heart wrung with pity, Chloë did not hesitate. She walked straight home to her kitchen and confronted Mistress Jackson.

  ‘Pack up as much food as you can and take it to Bankside. There are people with nothing but what they stand up in and the children are starving. Get Naomi to help you.’

  ‘But Madam, we can’t feed them all – there’s too many of them!’

  ‘I know that,’ replied Chloë tersely, ‘but we can at least try. Take everything you can spare and divide it into small parcels to make it to further. Go on!’

  *

  As Monday night drew on the fire raged with greater and greater intensity, filling the sky with a brilliant, blazing light visible for forty miles. By daybreak on Tuesday, Cheapside was in ashes and the fire was moving north to Aldersgate and west to encompass the decaying, gothic splendour of Paul’s Cathedral. It was also spreading towards Tower Street … and it was this that, around noon, finally produced the order Mr Deveril had been seeking since Sunday.

  Although the wind had begun to show signs of abating, the fire continued to burn towards Cripplegate and the Tower; and the White Tower was London’s main arsenal, containing enormous supplies of gunpowder. So when the flames reached Tower Street, His Majesty hesitated no longer but issued an order for the necessary demolition to be accomplished with explosives.

  Receiving the news, Alex remarked that it was about bloody time and set off eastwards to lend a hand. He arrived to find the King personally supervising the unloading of the gunpowder, his wig lightly dusted with ash and his well-kept hands engrained with dirt. He surveyed Mr Deveril with unaccustomed gravity and said, ‘They tell me you’ve done sterling work so far. But do you know how to lay a fuse?’

  Alex nodded. ‘Yes. I’ll see to it. But you should move back beyond Water Mark Lane, sire. You’re in too much danger here.’

  Charles replied, ‘So are many of my people. And if these men can hazard their lives, the least I can do is to be here with them. Now – the barrels are ready. Shall we begin?’

  So begin they did, His Majesty assisting with his own hands and only retiring when Alex and the men working with him flatly refused to proceed until he did so. After he had gone, Mr Deveril lit the first slow-match, watched with clinical interest till he was satisfied that it would achieve its objective and then moved very fast indeed, stopping just once to scoop up a small dog that strayed across his path.

  He made cover just as the explosion occurred, hurling himself violently around a high wall to land, complete with dog, on top of Charles Stuart – while, behind him, the houses came down with a deafening roar and filled the air with slivers of flying timber. Over the head of the dog – which was trying to lick his chin – the King’s dark eyes met Mr Deveril’s light ones.

  Charles said, ‘This is a particularly ugly little dog.’

  Alex stood up and examined the dirty bundle of fur.

  ‘It is, isn’t it? Fortunately, my wife has a fondness for waifs and strays.’

  An odd smile crossed the swarthy face. ‘Has she? But I was under the impression that you wanted to be free of her.’

  ‘Once, sire.’ Alex looked back steadily. ‘But it was a mistake. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I should get back to work.’

  The King nodded slowly. ‘When this is over, come to Whitehall. I’m in your debt.’

  Mr Deveril smiled, his teeth gleaming white against the smoke-blackened skin.

  ‘Then perhaps Your Majesty would be gracious enough to have this conveyed to Southwark.’ And he held out the dog.

  *

  Alex worked on till just after four in the afternoon and then, when the wind was almost gone and he could scarcely keep his eyes open, he set off home. This time Chloë was too busy doing what she could for the refugees to do more than attend to his immediate needs of food and hot water and, having slept for five hours, he was wakened by Naomi with the gloomy news that the wind had risen again. Alex cursed wearily and started to dress.

  At the foot of the stairs he came upon Chloë, her face drawn with fatigue and her hair in riotous disorder. He examined her for a moment in critical silence, then took her hand and led her out into the garden.

  ‘Come on. You’ve been doing too much.’

  She frowned irritably. ‘And you haven’t?’

  ‘Shrew,’ said Mr Deveril unemotionally, tucking her hand through his arm. ‘Which reminds me – what happened to the nice present I sent you?’

  ‘It’s in the kitchen, sulking because I gave it a bath.’ She looked up at him. ‘You know there’s hardly any food to be had? They say most of the corn was lost.’

  ‘It was – but there should be new supplies by tomorrow. The King has ordered food to be brought in from the country.’ He steered her along Bankside and then said with suppressed violence, ‘Damn this bloody wind! I thought we were free of it.’

  ‘Is the Tower safe? They’ve been blasting round it all afternoon.’

  ‘I know. And I hope it’s safe. I’m sick of playing with matches.’

  The pit of Chloë’s stomach fell away and she said, ‘Of course. I should have known you’d have something to do with it. Some people have all the fun.’

  Alex glanced sharply down at her pale face and would perhaps have spoken had not his attention been diverted by a sudden, stunned gasp issuing from the group of spectators gathered just ahead of them on the Falcon Stairs to watch the last blazing hours of Paul’s Cathedral.

  ‘The roof! The roof’s melting!’

  And indeed it was. Flames burst from the belfry and from the lofty, pointed windows beneath, flickering round the crumbling buttresses and curling through the framework of the once magnificent rose window; and the vast expanse of roof, its wooden rafters aflame from within, assumed an exquisite sheen of shimmering silver as the six acres of lead were transformed into a state of molten fluidity. Then down it came in a terrific, shining cascade; every gargoyle and gutter spouted a gleaming shower to fall down the hill, while the timber frame gave way with almighty groan and the stone pinnacles and transom beams began to split and crack like volleys of artillery.

  Chloë’s fingers clenched tight on Mr Deveril’s arm and her eyes were utterly stark.

  ‘But it’s stone! How can it burn like that?’

  ‘It’s stone,’ agreed Alex dryly, ‘but the Paternoster Row merchants are using the crypt as a safe storehouse for their wares.’

  She stared at him. ‘What wares?’

  ‘Books. They’ve crammed it with books and manuscripts. Enough to burn for a week.’

  *

  By dawn on Wednesday the wind had mercifully dropped again and by noon, the blaze was finally under control and in a fair way to being put out. Leaving others to douse the last few pockets of flame, Mr Deveril turned his attention to the depressing necessity of clearing up the mess and it was this, now the danger and frantic activity were over, that revealed the awful extent of the d
esolation.

  ‘I hope to God,’ said Alex bitterly to Matthew, ‘that when they re-build, this time they’ll do it in brick.’

  Meanwhile, streams of food-laden carts were trundling their way to the fields around London where the refugees camped and, in Southwark, Chloë found her burdens eased by the establishment of special markets. Forced to pay six shillings for a pair of eels that a week ago would have cost but two, Mistress Jackson produced a lengthy diatribe against profiteering. And then Matt returned and Chloë asked where Mr Deveril was.

  ‘God knows,’ came the dour reply. ‘The last time I saw him, he was at Newgate. He’s doing the things nobody else is bothering with. You know he can’t help himself.’

  And although it was the truth and she knew it, it did not bring any comfort; so that she toiled dispiritedly on, too tired to think and too nervous to rest, until finally at just before ten o’clock, Alex came home.

  ~ * * * ~

  FIVE

  Chloë had just reached the foot of the stairs when the door opened to admit Mr Deveril and for a second she remained poised while, across the space of the hall, her eyes met his. Then, without stopping to think, she crossed the tiled floor to enclose him in her arms and lean her brow against his shoulder.

  Bemused, startled and too tired to trust his own judgement, Alex held her in a light clasp and said a trifle unsteadily, ‘I apologise for the smell.’

  The rose-gold head moved in denial.

  ‘Must you hurry back,’ she asked, her voice muffled against his chest, ‘or have you time to rest properly?’

  ‘All the time in the world. I’m purely an emergency service – and, God willing, the emergency would appear to be over.’

  He felt the tension seep from her body.

  ‘Thank God. All those poor people … Alex, some of them have nothing left.’ She paused and stepped back, eyeing him guiltily. ‘What am I doing? You’ll be asleep on your feet if I keep you standing here much longer.’

  Alex retained one of her hands and, smiling a little, said, ‘Do you know … I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you use my name.’

  A faint flush stained her cheeks.

  ‘Yes. Well, one way and another it seems a bit late to be upholding the formalities,’ she said. And then, seeing the question in his face, added hastily, ‘But we can’t talk about it now. Go away upstairs while I see about some hot water and meal for you – and then I don’t want to see you up again before tomorrow evening at the earliest.’

  Laughter stirred in the compelling eyes. ‘As you wish. But on one condition.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you’ll sup with me tomorrow – before Fate can devise any new catastrophe to prevent it.’

  And because it mattered so supremely, Chloë stopped trying to pretend and offered him the unvarnished truth.

  ‘You know that I will. You had only to ask.’

  *

  After a deep and dreamless night’s sleep, Chloë awoke charged with vitality and full of plans. She began her day with a visit to the kitchen to discuss the evening’s all-important menu with Mistress Jackson – a proceeding which, due to the depredations on the larder, was not particularly easy. Then, passing Mr Lewis with a cheery greeting, she stepped out into the untamed garden in search of flowers to grace the table. Matt watched her go with a satisfied gleam in his eye and then took himself off to see what help might still be needed on the ravaged north bank.

  Chloë returned with her arms full of wild roses and assorted greenery which she spent a pleasant hour arranging in vases to set around the dining-room and parlour. Then, that done, she bade Naomi bring up some hot water and vanished into her bedchamber to begin the most vital preparations of all.

  First she washed her hair, rinsing it in lavender-scented water and wrapping it tightly in a towel. Then she took a long bath. Surprisingly, she was neither nervous nor afraid – only excited and eager, like a child on its birthday. The knowledge that the annulment papers were locked safely in her drawer gave her confidence and a sense of freedom; she could do what she wished and it would hurt no one. The only thing that mattered was that she should look her best for this, the most decisive night of her life.

  Choosing the right gown was difficult but she finally settled on the glowing peacock brocade and spread it across a chair while she attended to her hair. This she left loose, simply brushing it back from her brow and confining in beneath one thick plait.

  By the time she was ready it was nearly half past five. Chloë cast a last searching glance at her reflection, raised her fingers fleetingly to the delicate marigold chain around her neck and then went downstairs to check that all was well in the kitchen and discover if Mr Deveril was awake.

  He was; and not only awake but already down and awaiting her in the parlour, one foot on the window-seat and his gaze resting on the garden. Then he turned to face her and most of Chloë’s blithe confidence trickled away.

  Though still a little fine-drawn, he had recovered all his usual poise and air of self-containment; and he was, as Chloë had known from the first, the most spectacularly – and therefore alarmingly - good-looking man she had ever seen. The blue-black hair fell in waves to his shoulders and, against the snowy linen of his shirt, his skin was faintly tanned; his black brocade coat was unlaced and his only ornament, the heavy signet ring that habitually graced his left hand. But it was his eyes that commanded her attention; aquamarine over steel … clear, alert and faintly smiling.

  Alex bowed and raised her fingers to his lips.

  ‘Hello,’ he said simply. ‘You look beautiful.’

  Chloë coloured and fixed her gaze on the hand that held hers.

  ‘Th-thank you. Have you been waiting long?’

  ‘A life-time,’ he said, lightly ambiguous. And then, as her eyes flew back to his, ‘But it was undoubtedly worth it.’

  Unable to decide how to take this, Chloë cast desperately around for something to say that would steer the conversation into safer channels until her nerves settled. Mr Deveril watched in some amusement and then helped her out.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, releasing her hand. ‘You’re surprised that I still have a decent coat to my name.’

  That produced a tiny laugh. ‘Is it the only one?’

  ‘Not quite – but it’s by far the smartest. I was hoping to impress you.’

  ‘You succeeded,’ she replied truthfully. ‘So well that I hardly know what to say to you.’

  There was a moment’s pause, then Alex said, ‘Am I so formidable? I don’t mean to be.’

  An almost indiscernible note of appeal threaded the charming voice but, before Chloë could respond to it, Naomi was at the door informing them that supper was ready. Chloë thanked her, then looked dubiously back at Mr Deveril. He bowed again and offered his arm with a bitter-sweet smile. ‘Well, my lovely wife?’

  And that, of course, set the final seal on her confusion.

  Facing her across the polished table, Alex sensed her unease and set out to dispel it with a gentle flow of talk. Adroit and skilful, he chose topics of mutual interest, drifting from one to another and avoiding potential pitfalls with an ease that gave no hint of the very real concentration he was having to employ. He spoke of Giles’ departure for the Caribbean – but nothing more than that - and, for a time at least, felt her relax as she shared his own sense of loss; and then a casual reference to the King set her on edge again and left him wondering what he’d said.

  The meal seemed never-ending and he began to wish that Naomi would stop bobbing in with some additional delicacy. Chloë was merely toying with her food and he could cheerfully have tossed every carefully-chosen dish through the window; but while his own glass stood virtually untouched at his elbow, he watched Chloë absently sipping from hers and started to hope that perhaps Candy wine might succeed where he was apparently failing.

  Naomi made her final entrance to place a dish of sweet-meats on the table and then withdrew, regret
fully closing the door behind her. Both she and Mistress Jackson knew a good deal about the state of affairs between Mr Deveril and his lady and both were romantically curious. Mr Lewis, of course, knew more than either of them – but was close as a clam.

  With an imperceptible sigh of relief, Alex leaned back and looked at his wife.

  ‘What’s the matter, Marigold?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Chloë untruthfully. ‘Would you like some brandy?’

  ‘No.’ His tone was mildly amused. ‘You’re looking at me as if you expected me to pounce on you – or say something outrageously unacceptable. I think I can promise not to do either one. And I’m not drinking because – as you said yourself – we can’t hold a proper conversation if I’m never entirely sober. But if I’ve said something to upset you, I’d really like to know what it is.’

  ‘I’m not upset,’ she said absently. And thought, ‘Why can’t you just pounce? I never realised how difficult this was going to be – and pouncing would solve everything. But that’s not going to happen, is it? Firstly, because this is all too restrained and polite and we’re sitting here like people in a play; and secondly, because – for all you know to the contrary – I might hit you over the head again.’ Aloud, she said, ‘I think I’m nervous. You said we should talk and you were right. But I don’t know where to begin – so perhaps you should do it.’

  ‘I’m not sure I know where to begin either,’ he said quietly, ‘but I can try.’

  He thought for a moment, aware that there was really only thing he wanted to say but that if he said it now, he risked a similar reaction to when he’d blurted it out before. This time he had to get it right. This time, nothing could be left to chance. This time she had to believe him. And that meant clearing the ground first.

  He said, ‘I think perhaps we might start by exploding a few misconceptions – if you don’t mind humouring me?’ Chloë nodded and, leaning back in his chair, hands clasped lightly on the table, Alex said, ‘That night on the Falcon Stairs, I told you that you were the last woman I’d kissed. Did you believe me?’