Marigold Chain (22 page)

‘
No,’
agreed Chloë. ‘One of them is sitting on the Lord Mayor’s
hat.

‘
And that
is the least of our worries. Birds have some nasty
habits.’

The words had
barely left his mouth when there was a loud splat from somewhere
near at hand and turning, they saw that one particular nasty habit
had been delivered on the table in front of Lady Sarah who was
staring at it with picturesque revulsion.

It was too
much. Their powers of endurance severely over-strained, Chloë and
Alex collapsed into helpless laughter.

*

Later on,
still hiccupping faintly, they said goodbye to Lord and Lady
Falmouth and climbed into their carriage. It was a little after
nine o’clock and, remembering that Mr Beckwith was supping with the
Blanchards, Mr Deveril suddenly decided to visit his sister. He
therefore ordered the coachman to take them to Wych Street and,
sweeping Chloë with him, entered Julia’s house happily chanting,
‘
Oh Woe and thrice, thrice
Woe
!’

One look at
their faces was enough to prompt Sir Thomas into begging for a
description of the evening’s glories and, nothing loth, Alex
proceeded to oblige him. By the time he reached the part played by
the oak tree, Julia was helpless with laughter and her husband
actually crying; but Giles, who at first had been equally amused,
abruptly found himself watching Chloë. And Chloë, of course, was
watching Alex.

He knew what
she was seeing. He’d seen it himself countless times in the past
but never in the last six years; never since they’d all returned to
England and Alex had discovered that, despite his father having
died for the King and he himself having spent half his life
fighting to see Charles returned to his throne, his own birth-right
had been handed over to Simon Deveril. Worse still, the King he
still served lacked the power to set things right. And so, since
then, Alex’s wit had always contained a thread of bitterness and
was rarely completely free of mockery. The part of him that enjoyed
the ridiculous and rejoiced in the absurd had been locked away
behind impenetrable barriers … and wouldn’t have surfaced now,
Giles thought, had the evening’s debacle not been floated on a
glass of wine too many.

Chloë sat very
straight, her cheeks faintly flushed and a light in her eyes that
Giles had no difficulty in interpreting. He felt as if a knife was
twisting in his stomach. She was sensible and level-headed, yes …
but that was no protection against Alex at his most magnetic. He
had tried to warn her not to be blinded by the good looks and easy
charm … but it was happening anyway, right now under his nose. He
wondered if she realised it … or if Alex had any idea what he had
done.

Alex had
just launched into a rendering of
Oh Men
of iron!
and, though he glanced at Chloë, he didn’t
appear to notice the candle lighting her gaze. Giles wanted to
shake him – to break the spell and make him stop. But Julia and Tom
were still laughing and Giles was too well-bred to make a scene –
particularly one he’d have difficulty explaining. He looked back at
Chloë and saw a change. Her back was still straight but she no
longer looked at Alex. Instead, her eyes stared down at her hands,
gripped so tight in her lap that the knuckles glowed white. And
Giles had his answer.

Chloë took a
long breath and recovered her composure. It was hard, when one was
no silly romantic girl, to accept that one could fall heedlessly in
love at first sight. Common sense said that it was quite
impossible; it warned that there was no future in it and that epic
love stories belonged in poetry.

It made no
difference. The fact remained that she had fallen in love with Alex
Deveril at their first meeting and had known it from the second;
and that was why she had allowed herself to be rushed into
marriage. One might be twenty and practical but there were times,
even so, when one’s vision overcame one’s judgement. In the space
of a painfully exquisite moment in the frosty moonlight of an
Oxford street, she had allowed herself a moment of hopeful
indulgence and it had proved too strong a temptation.

With the
morning had come a return to uncompromising reality. He had been
drunk, she had been stupid and there was no basis for a
relationship between them – now or ever. Furthermore, her feelings
for him were unreasoning and she knew it. The only sane course was
to terminate their crazy marriage and put aside the knowledge that
she’d met the only man she wanted and that he was not for her.

But the
marriage had not been terminated and gradually, over the weeks, had
come some of the understanding she had lacked. His brusque,
unexpected kindness on the day of Sarah’s wedding when she had
deliberately goaded him into losing his temper; the laughter in her
sooty kitchen and the necklace at Whitehall which, she had later
realised, had been given because he knew she was frightened. He was
sometimes intemperate, often utterly provoking and always
unpredictable. But he was never truly unkind or mean-spirited. He
was like a fascinating puzzle that one could never quite unravel.
And though she knew he did not love her and almost certainly never
would, she also knew that her heart was given irrevocably – and
that he must never know it.

From across the
room, Giles still watched her and thought he understood. For an
instant, his nerves felt raw and a blind anger consumed him.
Abruptly, he rose from his chair, made an excuse and left swiftly
before anyone could question him. There was a limit to his powers
of endurance and concealment and he knew that he had reached
it.

Walking to his
lodging, he gave careful thought to the situation and, by the time,
he entered his rooms, had reached the only possible decision. He’d
tried to stay away from Chloë as far as it was possible but it
hadn’t done any good. It was time to put real distance between
them. An hour later he was riding hard eastwards out of London,
having left a brief, untruthful letter of explanation to be
delivered to Mr Deveril. At Chatham he changed horses and,
obtaining the information he wanted, rode on through the early
hours of the morning.

By six
o’clock he was in Canterbury and just before eight he reached Deal.
He was only just in time. The
Royal
James
and her squadron were under canvas and preparing
to sail. Giles hired a ketch, instructed its owner to signal the
flagship and had himself rowed out and taken aboard.

Having
spent his last hours of preparation in the irritating
half-expectancy of receiving fresh orders, Rupert was busy and not
in the best of humours. He greeted Giles curtly and with some
surprise but, having completed a
feu de
joie
of orders, he took him below and announced that
he could spare him just ten minutes.

‘
Two will
do,’ responded Mr Beckwith in level tones. ‘I haven’t come to bring
you a report. As yet there’s nothing to tell. I’m here because I
want you to take me as a super-numerary.’

‘
I
thought,’ said the Prince crisply, ‘that I had made it plain that
you could be of more use to me in London.’

A tinge of
colour stained Giles’ cheeks.

‘
You did,
sir. But Alex can handle it – and, if he finds anything, I can
always go back. I’m not proposing to join your command permanently.
Only for a few weeks.’

The dark eyes
examined him thoughtfully. ‘Why?’

‘
Because,’ replied Giles concisely, ‘I’m in love with Alex’s
wife.’

His Highness
did not appear surprised. ‘And?’

His attitude
threw Mr Beckwith slightly off balance.

‘
And
what?’

The Prince made
a gesture of impatience.

‘
I’m
presuming there must be more to it than that,’ he said, ‘because
you already knew this when I saw you last month, didn’t
you?’

Giles drew off
his gloves and turned them over and over in his hands.

‘
Yes.
You’re right, of course. The difference is that a month ago, I
didn’t know she cared for Alex – and now I do.’

‘
I see.
And Alex?’

Mr Beckwith
shook his head and, tossing his gloves on to a table, turned to
look out across the Downs.

‘
If he
felt anything for her, he would see it – just as I have. But he
doesn’t. Last night, quite by accident, she saw him at his best but
that’s a rare occurrence these days. Unless something changes and
Alex starts to appreciate what he has, Chloë’s going to spend her
life hoping for something that will never happen. And I don’t want
to watch it.’

‘
Are you
saying,’ asked Rupert, ‘that you would be happier if you knew you
had no hope?’

Giles turned
round and his eyes were bleak.

‘
I’ve
none anyway. Alex is my friend.’

The Prince
stared back for a moment, a wry smile touching the corners of his
mouth.

‘
Quite,’
he said at length. ‘It’s an impossible position – and by no means
as unique as you may think. If it’s any comfort, you may be assured
of my sympathy.’

Somewhere in
Giles’ tired brain recollection stirred, only to be dismissed.

‘
Thank
you, sir. Then I may stay?’

Rupert nodded
and the smile became a grin.

‘
Yes. But
you’ll have to put up with cramped quarters. I’ve taken on eleven
others as well as yourself – and Pepys will probably have a seizure
when he finds out.’ He opened the door to go back on deck and then,
turning round added quietly, ‘And you were quite right. Her name
was Mary.’

~ * * * ~

By the
time Mr Beckwith joined Prince Rupert and set off southwards to
intercept the Duc de Beaufort’s French flotilla, Danny and Freddy
had already been assigned, separate and sad, to the fleet. Freddy
lay aboard the
Portland,
while to Danny went the honour of serving under Rear-Admiral
Sir John Harman in the
Henry
.

On May the
thirtieth word reached Whitehall that, contrary to previous
tidings, the French were fixed at La Rochelle with every appearance
of remaining there. Having already divided the fleet, this was
certainly irritating; but when further news told that the Dutch had
put to sea on the twenty-ninth with some ninety ships, it was seen
to be critical.

The King
ordered the immediate recall of Rupert, and Sir William Coventry
swiftly drew up the necessary papers and carried them to the Duke
of York for signature. It was close on midnight and the Duke was
abed but he dutifully appended his seal and, yawning, added the
advice that Albemarle would do well to remove from the Downs to
Gunfleet.

Desirous of
despatching the orders by special courier, Coventry set off for
Goring House only to find that the Secretary of State, Lord
Arlington, was also in bed. Sir William wasted twenty precious
minutes attempting to persuade his lordship’s servants to wake him
before giving up in furious disgust and having the papers forwarded
by express post. By the time they were handed to Rupert on the
first of June, he had reached the Isle of Wight.

Albemarle,
meanwhile, had weighed anchor early that morning on a fresh,
south-westerly wind and was starting for Gunfleet when his scouts
fired a warning that the enemy lay to their leeward, mid-way
between Dunkirk and North Foreland. He instantly summoned a Council
of War and this proved a sore trial for everyone present. Sir John
Harman and many of the other senior commanders expressed grave
doubts about the wisdom of giving battle. The wind, they said,
though in the right quarter, was too strong and would result in
loss of formation and an elevation too acute for the use of their
lowest gun-decks; and they were substantially outnumbered.
Albemarle brushed their qualms aside and then when, tempers rising
they persisted, came perilously close to openly ascribing their
reservations to cowardice. The meeting was concluded in a mood of
resentment and rigidly controlled anger.

At an hour
before noon, the fleet formed into line of battle and bore down
upon the disarmed and unsuspecting enemy who, caught in the act of
weighing anchor, were forced to cut their cables in order to meet
the attack. But, as Harman had said, the wind proved a mixed
blessing and within minutes the English van had outstripped its
centre while the rear became a uselessly straggling muddle. With no
attempt to send in fire-ships, they sailed south-east down the
Dutch line to engage its rear under Admiral Tromp; only then, with
masterly aplomb, de Ruyter brought his van and centre into
play.

The
ensuing mêlée lasted for some three hours while the smoke-laden air
was rent with cannon-fire and the screams of the wounded until, at
about two in the afternoon, Albemarle tacked back to the
north-east. This manoeuvre successfully completed their disarray by
causing the van and the rear to change places, whilst carrying them
directly into the Dutch centre. Not surprisingly, this reversal
caused total confusion during which the
Henry
and the
Swiftsure
became isolated from the main
force.

A feral gleam
lit Harman’s eye as he assimilated his position.

‘
Crass,
bloody stupidity!’ he swore, in what Mr Fawsley could only assume
to be a comment on Albemarle’s tactics. And then emitted a stream
of orders to minimise their danger.