Marigold Chain (26 page)

Chloë made a
small helpless gesture. ‘Of course I loved him. Who wouldn’t?’

This time the
silence stretched on and on.

‘
He spoke
of you. Did Giles tell you?’

Her mouth
tightened. ‘Yes.’

‘
He sent
you his love and Giles was to tell me I’m lucky. I imagine you know
what he meant by that.’

‘
No.’ She
clenched her fingers.

‘
I think
you do. He meant I was lucky to have you … so it’s clear that –
‘

‘
Stop
it!’ She stood up, poised for flight. ‘I don’t want to talk about
it!’

‘
That he
loved you too,’ finished Alex simply. And then, ‘You could have
told me.’

Chloë drew a
ragged breath and her hands crept to her mouth. Mr Deveril had
misunderstood and she probably ought to put that right. But the
only thing that counted was that Danny had obviously known where
her heart lay … had probably known for a long time … and said
nothing. Until he lay dying.

‘
Please.’
Her breathing was hopelessly disordered. ‘I can’t do this
now.’

‘
No. But
one last thing – which may comfort you later. You should know that
Danny didn’t die in pain, or alone, or in the dark. He died in
Giles’ arms as the sun came up.’ Alex paused, his mouth twisting
wryly, ‘If go one must, there are worse ways.’

Outside, the
bells of St Mary Overie were chiming midnight but Chlöe did not
hear them. Her ears were filled with Danny’s voice, bright and
eager, on a cold February day at Queenhithe. Something about the
East and the sun. And then the barriers broke at last. For Danny,
for an unfulfilled life and dreams that had never been hers, Chloë
dropped back on to the settle, buried her head in her arms on the
table-top and burst into a storm of deep, painful sobbing.

For perhaps a
minute Alex watched, before he rose and went to sit beside her. He
did not speak but, reaching out, drew her firmly towards him and
held her in steady, passionless arms. It lasted a long time. When
it was over, he passed her his handkerchief and continued to hold
her in silence. Chloë blew her nose, leaning exhaustedly against
the damp warmth of his shoulder and only then becoming aware of his
arms around her and the light pressure of his cheek on her hair.
Yesterday such proximity would have sent all her muscles into
spasm; today it didn’t seem to matter.

‘
You did
that on purpose,’ she said huskily. ‘Thank you.’

‘
My
methods are often debatable,’ he replied tranquilly. ‘I’m sorry I
couldn’t find another way.’ He was silent for a moment and then
said, ‘It will soon be light. Will you come walking with
me?’

She shifted a
little, turning her head to look into his face and felt his arms
fall gently away.

‘
Yes. I –
I’d like that.’

He studied the
flushed, tear-stained face gravely. ‘Come, then.’

Outside the air
was cool and fresh but it was not cold. The streets were deserted
and the cobbles gleamed with dewy dampness. Side by side without
speaking or touching, Alex and Chloë skirted the west front of St
Mary Overie and walked slowly towards the sharp tangy smells of the
river. Reaching it, they stood for a moment looking at the bridge
with its narrow arches and tall houses and shops; then, leaving it
behind them, they turned left along the riverside.

It was quite
different from the noisy, bustling place it became by day when the
banks and stairs swarmed with watermen and porters, seamen and
stevedores; now the water’s edge was crowded with the anchored
sleeping shapes of its usually busy traffic and further out the
larger vessels lay, quietly lit and dreaming, under the moon. The
taverns were shuttered, their music stilled and their customers
gone, and the only sounds that broke the night were the rhythmic
slapping of water on wood or the occasional snore of a boatman
asleep on his barge. Alex took Chloë’s hand and held it in a light,
friendly clasp.

They walked
along Bankside, past the emptiness of the Bear Garden and on till
they came to the Upper Ground. There, as if drawn by some invisible
thread, Mr Deveril turned again to the river and, drawing Chloë
with him, descended the Falcon Stairs.

The steps were
smooth and hollowed, worn away by the passage of feet and by the
water which licked them with such deceptive gentleness. Chloë and
Alex stood one rise above the river and gazed across at the shadowy
warehouses of Puddle and Baynard’s Wharves, behind which rose the
high, gothic splendour of Paul’s Cathedral, towering above the City
like some vast guardian.

They did not
know how long they stood but gradually the light began to change
and, turning eastwards, they watched the pink glow of dawn rise
slowly behind the irregular rooftops of the bridge and the grey,
crenelated walls of the distant Tower.

Her mind far
away, Chloë said, ‘Danny dreamed of seeing the East. Do you think
sunrise is more beautiful there?’

‘
I don’t
know. Different, perhaps.’

She let the
river flow on at their feet for a minute and then, without looking
at him, she forced out the words that needed to be said.

‘
You were
mistaken before. It’s true that I loved Danny and that perhaps he
loved me. But as friends – nothing more. He … he was the brother I
wished I’d had. So our friendship was precious to me.’

Something
indefinable changed in Alex’s expression; and simultaneously the
mood between them shifted.

He looked down
at her and watched as the breeze coiled a strand of hair around her
throat to catch in the marigold chain she seemed always to wear.
Her face, still turned away from him, looked as Rupert had drawn
it; serene and pure but with an earthly reality of flesh and blood
that woke a response that surprised him. Something platonic, born
of the night’s companionship; and something triggered by the drift
of her hair and the line of her neck that wasn’t platonic at
all.

Her words
had released him from the constraint of believing she and Danny had
been in love with each other. Had he still thought that, he could
never have acknowledged what he felt now. He wanted her; and that,
of course, was foolish. What he wanted was no more than a little
basic comfort and the price of finding it with the girl at his side
was too high for either of them. Their hoped-for annulment was not
something to be cast aside on the whim of the moment – especially
when he knew that his desire was not,
could
not be, for Chloë herself. Or could it?
Doubt stirred, clouding the surface of his mind.

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.

~ * * * ~

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.