Marigold Chain (11 page)

‘
Well,
well. Sir Galahad, I presume. Is this a social call?’

Chloë saw the
need to remove herself before her duplicity became common
knowledge. ‘Mr Beckwith – thank you very much, but I think you
should put me down. Now.’

His
attention clearly riveted on Alex, Giles did as she asked, saying
coolly, ‘Hardly. I’m here because
your
wife
needed help.’

The emphasis on
those two words spoke volumes and Alex raised his brows while the
ice-blue eyes remained fixed on Giles’ face. With one quick glance,
Chloë ascertained that neither man was paying her the least heed.
Edging backwards to the door, she removed the key and had shut and
locked it behind her before either of them realised what she was
about. Then she retreated a couple of steps, key clutched to her
chest, and allowed herself to breathe again.

The sound of
the key turning in the lock, loud in the tense silence of the room,
must have roused them. She heard Giles’ voice. ‘What the -- ?’ and
the sound of hasty footsteps. Then the latch of the door rattled as
he tried to open it. Chloë swallowed and sank weakly down on the
top step of the stairs.

‘
Chloë!
What the devil do you think you’re doing?’ Mr Deveril’s voice,
edged with impatience.

‘
Sitting
on the stairs,’ she said.

There was an
ominous silence. Then, ‘Are you going to unlock this door?’

‘
No.’ She
drew a deep breath. ‘Since I couldn’t bang your heads together, I
decided to shut you in.’ She half-wished she could see their faces
and then was glad that she couldn’t.

‘
Why?’
asked Alex.

‘
Your
wife,’ said Giles acidly, ‘wants us to kiss and make
up.’

There was
another silence.

‘
If you
were thinking of the window,’ offered Chloë helpfully, ‘it’s no use
unless you can fly. The door is the only way out – and I have the
key.’ She eyed the stout oak frame gratefully.

‘
You
could put your shoulder to it,’ said Alex to Giles, ‘or your foot.
Or we could call Matt.’ The light voice was curiously
strained.

The next
instant the passage reverberated as the door received and withstood
an explosive assault from within.

‘
That two-handed engine at the door stands ready to
smite
… but it won’t work,’ said Mr Deveril. And
raising his voice, ‘
Matthew!
’

Before he
spoke, the door on the lower landing opened and Mr Lewis looked up
at Chloë from the bottom of the flight.

‘
God rot
it. What’s to do?’

‘
Matt?’
Mr Beckwith’s voice, unusually crisp, drifted down to him from
behind the closed door. ‘She locked us in.’

‘
And we’d
like to be let out,’ added Mr Deveril. ‘So “
with forced fingers rude
” make her give you the
key. We won’t mind if you have to use force.’

‘
And get
a move on,’ cut in Giles curtly, ‘before we get a full rendition
of
Lycidas
.’

Matthew stared
at Chloë incredulously.

‘
You’ve
not locked Mr Alex up with Mr Giles?’

She nodded.
‘Not the cleverest solution perhaps – but the best I could manage
at short notice.’

‘
You daft
lass – they’ll kill each other.’

‘
They
won’t. Mr Deveril can’t use his arm. His
right
arm. So Mr Beckwith won’t touch him, will
he?’

Mr Lewis eyed
her mistrustfully. ‘Will you hand me the key?’

‘
No. But
I’ll make it easy for you to give up.’ And she calmly slipped the
disputed object into her bodice. ‘
Voila
!’

Very slowly,
Matt’s face split into a broken-toothed grin.

‘
Damn me,
Mistress,’ he said, his tone at complete variance with his
expression. ‘Damn me … aren’t you taking a terrible
risk?’

Chloë grinned
back. ‘You tell me.’

They surveyed
each other amicably.

‘
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain
-
the golden opes, the iron shuts
amain
,’ declaimed Alex obscurely.

‘
Oh for
God’s sake!’
snapped Giles.

Matthew
addressed the closed door. ‘She’s put the key in her bosom.’

Sudden,
total silence. Then, ‘She’s
what?
’

‘
She’s
put the key in her bosom,‘ repeated Matt. ‘Do you want me to get it
out?’

He was
answered, incredibly, by a crow of laughter.

‘
Oh
Matthew! Check and mate,’ said Mr Deveril unsteadily.

Matt and Chloë
exchanged glances.

‘
It’s
your call,’ he shrugged. ‘I’m going out.’ And he went.

‘
Chloë?’
It was Giles voice, quivering slightly.

‘
Yes?’

‘
I
believe I’m going to strangle you.’

With some
difficulty, Alex stopped laughing.

‘
And
since I have only one good hand, I’ll let you. The only question is
– do we sink our differences long enough to obtain that
satisfaction?’

A second
passed, then two, three. Chloë strained her ears.

‘
It’s
tempting,’ responded Mr Beckwith carefully. ‘You wouldn’t rather
call her bluff? Or wait to see what she tries next?’

‘
Not
really. Unless you’d like the rest of
Lycidas
?’

‘
I
wouldn’t. In fact, I give you fair warning, Alex – if you inflict
another word of Milton on me, I’ll throw you through the window.
Sling or no.’

And suddenly
they were both laughing. Chloë listened for a moment, smiling, and
then – unable to wait any longer – fished for the key and opened
the door. Giles was resting his brow on the heel of his hand, his
shoulders shaking and Mr Deveril was leaning weakly back in a
chair, his expression brighter than she had ever seen it.

Together they
became aware of her and together, after one significant shared
glance, they advanced towards her. Chloë looked back with mingled
satisfaction and wariness.

Mr Deveril said
regretfully, ‘I don’t think you should strangle her, Giles. It
lacks finesse.’

‘
You may
be right. But she said she’d sprained her ankle, you
know.’

‘
Did she?
Did you?’ The light gaze rested on Chloë.

Wariness became
mild alarm. ‘Yes – but it’s much better now.’

‘
Are you
sure? One shouldn’t neglect these things. Perhaps we ought to put
something cold on it?’ he asked of Giles.

Mr Beckwith
nodded. ‘I take your drift.’

‘
Oh no,
you don’t!’ Chloë made to remove herself from harm’s way – but too
late. A pair of firm hands dropped on either shoulder and held her
captive.

‘
Definitely a two-handed exercise,’ remarked Alex. ‘Shall we
go forth together?’

And forth they
went, despite Chloë’s struggles which, though weakened by laughter,
were by no means negligible. Each with an arm about her waist, they
lifted her off the floor and carried her, protesting all the way,
down both flights of stairs and into the street. Then, turning down
the side of the house to a point where the building described a
corner, they stopped.

Ruffled and
breathless, eyes widening in disbelief, Chloë made one last bid for
freedom – and failed.

‘
You
wouldn’t!’ she said. ‘Not in there. It must be three feet
deep!’

Mr Deveril
gazed consideringly at the snowdrift and then, in the same manner,
at his bride. ‘Easily. Possibly more. What do you think,
Giles?’

‘
Undoubtedly more,’ drawled Mr Beckwith. ‘It’s
perfect.’

‘
In that
case,’ said Alex, ‘what are we waiting for?’

And with
infinite care, they delivered her deep into the heart of the
drift.

~ * * * ~

From the
reconciliation, there arose a number of surprising and diversely
effective consequences. Mr Beckwith returned to the fold, Mr
Deveril stopped playing fast and loose with his limbs and his wife
caught a chill.

For Chloë,
Giles was a very welcome addition to their small circle. She found
him a stimulating, witty companion and, while by no means blind to
his attractiveness, was able to simply enjoy his company. That it
was otherwise for Mr Beckwith, she had no means of knowing.

For inside a
single hour, Giles had discovered that here was a girl with whom he
could all too easily fall in love – and the knowledge was a bitter
as it was precarious because, of all women, this one was forbidden.
She was married – though as yet probably only in name - to his
oldest friend. And need not have been had he acted differently.

Mr Deveril
continued to spend a good deal of time in the company of his
friends but his demeanour glittered a little less than before and
Chloë, in the grip of a head cold of epic proportions, could only
be grateful. She was grateful, too, for the profound effect her
prosaic affliction had on Mr Lewis.

Coming upon her
the following morning, complete with pink nose and streaming eyes,
the inimitable Matthew had appeared to undergo a change of heart.
From a stance deliberately non-committal, he grew, in the space of
ten minutes, actively partisan. Suddenly ‘Miss Chloë’ instead of
the formal Mistress, she was shooed back to bed and there served
with a mug of butter-ale which she found decidedly nasty but which,
she was assured, would instantly alleviate her sufferings. And
indeed, after a day spent largely in slumber, she was sufficiently
recovered to view with loathing another hour spent in her bed.

Secure in the
expectation of undisturbed seclusion, she decided there was little
point in dressing but she slipped a robe over her night-rail and
dragged a brush through her hair before sitting down in front of
the fire. Within ten minutes the inactivity was proving too much
for her and she prowled restlessly about the room. She was at the
window, observing that there were distinct signs of a thaw, when a
tap at the door heralded Matt bearing a tray.

She smiled
placatingly. ‘I felt better so I got up for a while.’

Matthew grunted
and stared disapprovingly at her bare feet.

Chloë glanced
guiltily down and said, ‘I haven’t any slippers – but I’m not cold.
Tomorrow I’ll be perfectly well again.’

‘
Tomorrow
you’ll be in bed for a week,’ retorted Matt. ‘Come back to the
fire, you daft lass.’

And Chloë, who
had not been kindly scolded since she was fourteen, was glad that
her nose was already pink and blew it determinedly. She sat down
and Matt dumped the tray unceremoniously in her lap, saying crossly
that he thought she might be hungry.

‘
Thank
you. It was kind of you to take the trouble, Mr Lewis.’

‘
It’s no
trouble. Just be sure you drink the butter-ale,’ he said. And, with
an oblique look, added, ‘I reckon you’d better get used to calling
me Matt.’

It was the
beginning of a curious friendship in which little was said but much
understood for, in healing the breach between Alex and Giles, Chloë
had taken a load from Matthew’s mind and he was grateful. So when,
on the next day, she asked him to find her something to do, she
received a slow, wicked grin which, half an hour later and
surveying an immense pile of mending, she had no difficulty in
interpreting.

‘
You’re
sure,’ she asked sardonically, ‘that you couldn’t find anything
else?’

Matt rubbed his
chin thoughtfully. ‘Not unless you’d maybe like my things as well.
But I thought you’d prefer to start with Mr Alex’s.’

Her brows rose.
‘Does he have anything left to wear? Do you?’

‘
Not
much.’

‘
I see. I
did wonder why he was in such a hurry to be married. Now I
know.’

Beginning with
two coats, each needing no more than a button, she set to work and,
by the time Matthew appeared with her dinner, the pile was
considerably diminished. After she had eaten, she set about
restoring Mr Deveril’s shirts and when Mr Lewis came back for the
tray, she asked him how on earth they had managed before.

‘
Poorly,’
responded Matt, sitting down to watch her.

Chloë
tilted her head. ‘Wouldn’t you like to learn? Despite all the
graces the convent taught, this is the only one I was much good at.
Sister Therese said I’d been sent to her as a punishment.’ The
brown eyes twinkled engagingly. ‘Do
you
think I’m a punishment, Matt?’

‘
I think
you’re a sauce-box,’ grinned Matthew, ‘and that’s just as well.
What I don’t need are vapours and hysterics. Mr Alex is enough
fireworks for anyone.’

Chloë stopped
work. ‘I know he can be wild … but he’s not stupid, is he?’

‘
He’s
sharp as a Puritan’s nose. It’s a pity he don’t use it to manage
his life.’

She looked down
at her hands. ‘I shouldn’t have given way to him that night - I
know that. But I don’t know what to do about it.’

‘
What do
you want to do?’

‘
I don’t
think I know that either.’ She met his eyes. ‘Not that I have much
choice.’

‘
Then
you’d better wait it out. It’ll not hurt either of you and, if
there was any harm in it, I’d say it’s been done by now. Wouldn’t
you?’