Marigold Chain by Stella Riley Page B

the
rime-encrusted trees glinting in the moonlight.
    ‘ A Froggie would a-wooing go, “Heigh Ho!” says
Rowley ,’ he sang.
    To the tune of
childish rhymes, they made their way back to Brewer Street and by
the time they arrived outside Mr Deveril’s door, where Danny and
Freddy took a blithe farewell, Chloë doubt that she could have gone
any further. The difference between helping Alex and carrying him
was now minimal and she guessed that her brother’s brandy was about
to have its usual effect. She propped Mr Deveril against the wall,
groping in his pocket for a key which she eventually found and used
to open the door.
    ‘ Cock-a-doodle-doo! My dame has lost – has lost
… ’
    Chloë grinned,
replaced the key and, shouldering her burden, surged across the
threshold. Alex detached himself and stormed the stairs,
reciting.
    ‘ The King of France went up the hill with forty thousand
men! ’ His impetus wore out after the first five steps
and he remained poised with indecision.
    ‘ The King of France came down the hill and ne’er went up
again .’ He turned round and sat down. ‘I
can’t.’
    Chloë started
to speak and then stopped as a door opened above and light spilled
down the staircase. ‘Is that you Mr Alex?’
    ‘ Matt? I
thought you’d be asleep,’ said Alex hazily.
    ‘ Did
you?’ asked Mr Lewis, descending the stairs. ‘I doubt there’s
anyone who’d sleep through the din you were making.’ And then he
stood still, looking at Chloë with dawning recognition.
    Alex smiled and
allowed himself to be assisted up the stairs, saying dreamily,
‘Matt … my old, old friend. Tell Sarah will you?’
    ‘ Tell her
what?’
    The blue eyes
opened briefly.
    ‘ Tell her
I’m married,’ he replied, with surprised simplicity. And then,
eluding Matthew’s grasp, slid peacefully to the floor.
    *
    Alex awoke to a
sensation of knives grinding inside his head. He groaned and tried
to halt the painful process of returning consciousness by rolling
over and burying his head in his arms. His mouth felt as though it
was full of sawdust and his stomach full of bile.
    ‘ Mr
Deveril?’
    The soft-voiced
enquiry struck him like a clarion and he groaned again in what he
intended as a negation.
    ‘ Mr
Deveril? It’s only a headache, you know – you’re not
dying.’
    Stung to
indignation by the unfeeling nature of this remark, Alex replied
with a muffled curse.
    ‘ Don’t be
vulgar,’ said the voice, warm with barely repressed laughter.
‘That’s no language for a gentleman.’
    ‘ Go
away,’ he muttered.
    ‘ No. It’s
past two in the afternoon and I have a tisane here which will make
you feel much better – but you must sit up.’
    ‘ I don’t
want to sit up. I want to be left alone.’
    ‘ Don’t be
a baby.’
    This was the
last straw. Alex opened his eyes and gingerly turned to face his
tormentor. A waterfall of hair, gleaming rose-gold and a lot
brighter than he thought necessary, dazzled his vision. He shut his
eyes for a moment and then, blinking, looked again; brown eyes,
flecked with amber. There was something familiar about them too –
something he felt he ought to be able to remember but could
not.
    ‘ Who are
you?’
    Amusement gave
way to reproach. ‘You don’t know?’
    ‘ I
wouldn’t ask if I did.’ He sat up very cautiously. ‘God – my
skull’s split.’
    ‘ You
shouldn’t have drunk the brandy,’ said Chloë severely. ‘Mr Beckwith
had more sense.’
    ‘ He
would,’ replied Alex acidly. A strange fact communicated itself to
his impaired faculties. ‘We are sitting on the floor. Did I sleep
here?’
    She nodded,
grinning.
    ‘ Why?’
    ‘ Mostly
because you passed out - but also because I had your bed. Drink
this.’ She handed him a mug.
    Alex sniffed it
suspiciously. ‘It smells disgusting.’
    ‘ It
tastes disgusting too,’ she told him cheerfully. ‘But it truly will
make you feel much better. And it’s your own fault, after
all.’
    ‘ I know.
I