Marigold Chain (45 page)

*

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 desolation.

‘
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.

~ * * * ~

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, regretfully 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.’