As always, she felt a thrill at entering the fray, pitched against another keen buyer, both of them hoping to secure a quality item and a good price. For her though, this was personal. An object that sang to her could not be missed. It had its story to share with her, and though part of her feared what it might reveal, what it might ask of her, the greater part knew she could not turn away. This was a part of her. Her as she always had been, with her gift showing itself when she was only a child. And her as she was now; a Spinner. The two things could never be separated, and she could never be separated from either of them.
“575 pounds,” she heard the auctioneer say as the bidding slowed slightly.
Across the room her competition made himself obvious, stepping forward just enough for her to see him. It was a deliberate move. She knew the man, and knew him to be the owner of a high-end interior design business who bought choice pieces for discerning clients. No doubt he had someone specific in mind who would pay handsomely for such a rare antique gown, perhaps to dress a bedroom, or as part of a display in a hotel or restaurant, or even a boutique. Xanthe told herself better to be matched against a dealer than a private buyer for such a romantic lot. A person might fall in love with the dress and pay silly money for it; a dealer would, ultimately, only part with as much as would leave room for a profit on his investment.
She held up her hand for the auctioneer to see, signaling clearly she would go to £650. The auction room was quiet now, all attention focused on the dueling bidders. The dealer hesitated, narrowing his eyes at Xanthe. Would pride push him to go further? Just as it seemed he would go again he shook his head, turning back to his catalogue, both her and the dress dismissed. She was so relieved she barely heard the auctioneer’s gavel descend with a smart rap upon his desk. A little dazed, she held up her buyer’s paddle so he could see her number and watched as the wedding dress was taken down. After a few steadying breaths she forced herself to concentrate on the following lots. She had already parted with a chunk of money. To redeem herself she must find things her mother would approve of. Things that would sit well in the shop, sell well, and raise their own profits, and build on the success they had already achieved.
The remainder of the morning passed swiftly. The Wilcox family had amassed an impressive trove of wonderful things down the generations. There were splendid collections of fine bone china, often consisting of 24 place settings; richly colored Persian rugs; glorious damask curtains to fit windows far too big for most people’s houses; handsome chests of drawers in glowing mahogany; ebony sideboards; faded but still beautiful oil paintings and watercolors; enough silver-ware to stock a small hotel; chairs, beds, stools and whatnots, and a heartbreaking collection of teddy bears. It was nearly three o’clock by the time Xanthe was able to step out of the auction room and find a quiet spot at the rear of the house in which to sit and eat her packed lunch. She settled on an iron bench set into the outside wall of the enormous kitchen garden. The stones had been warmed by the sunshine and she leaned back against them, enjoying her sandwich, able at last to think about the wedding dress that had sung to her. It was a beautiful thing, and would look marvelous in their new vintage clothing room. She thought she might even dress the window with it to advertise their new collection. But she knew, of course, that first, before it could become simply another found thing to be admired and ultimately sold, it had its story to tell her. Its secrets to share. And, more than likely, something to ask of her. She found her hands were trembling as she held her sandwich now. And this time she knew this was not caused by anxiety but by excitement. Of course the dress needed her. Of course it was calling her not to itself now, in the present, in her time, but back to then, where and when its story had its heart. And when was that? The auctioneer had described it as Edwardian, and its style did seem to fit with that. It had a high waist, a fitted bodice, and a long, slim silhouette. The details in the fine needlework of the bodice were exquisitely worked, with tiny silver beads threaded into the embroidery. The sleeves were long and sheer with more lacework at the cuffs. The fabric, from what Xanthe could tell from where she had been sitting, had survived in very good condition. It had evidently been looked after exceedingly well in the generations that followed its original owner. She wondered who the young bride had been, and whether or not others had worn it too. It was likely to have belonged to a member of the Wilcox family, so the wedding must have taken place in the great house. Was that a glamorous and lavish event, or had the unfortunate bride married at the start of the First World War, perhaps, in a quiet, poignant family ceremony? She realized that she wanted to know, and that what she was feeling now was the thrill of anticipation of what lay ahead. Was this what it meant to be a Spinner? Did this shift from apprehension to thrill signify that she had truly accepted her new purpose?
“Mind if we join you?”
She looked up to see a plump, middle-aged woman in a colorful anorak standing in front of her, a frailer, pink-cheeked friend at her side.
“Not at all,” she replied, scooting along the bench to make room.
“Here we are, Sandra, ooh, lovely to rest our feet. A marvelous sale, but my word, so much walking, and so many stairs!”
After exchanging pleasantries the women turned their attention to their picnic lunches and Xanthe was left in peace. The interruption to her thoughts brought her back to the task in hand. She was there for stock, first and foremost. She was a businesswoman. The Little Shop of Found Things needed her too. She picked up her catalogue and her pen and worked through it making notes next to the lots she had successfully bid for. Whatever lay ahead for her as a Spinner, she had to prioritize business right now. Some of her purchases had been made with Flora very much in mind. She had found a pair of bedside tables that would be greatly improved by painting; a glazed corner display cupboard missing a hinge; a tapestry footstool in need of re-upholstering; and a Georgian silver creamer with a sizeable dent in it. She knew Flora would happily work her magic on all these treasures. She had also secured a box of silk scarves, some of which looked rather promising; a small trunk full of clothes that appeared to date around World War II; a porcelain vase with an attractive thistle pattern on it; two silver berry serving spoons; a Chinese fan; two velvet cushions, and a box of assorted 1930s costume jewelry. Not a bad haul.
The sun disappeared behind an unhelpfully dense cloud, causing the temperature to drop, reminding Xanthe that spring had not yet properly arrived. She got up, dusting crumbs from her lap, and said goodbye to her fellow antiquers. Even in the flatter light of the afternoon, the garden was lovely. The area the public had been allowed access to for the sale was limited to that immediately behind the main part of the house. There was a sweeping lawn, accessed by broad steps, which led to an impressive planting of topiary, which had been roped off for the day. The wall against which the bench was placed formed the end of the vast walled garden that would have provided fruit, vegetables, and flowers for the great house in its heyday. Its boundaries were made of the same creamy stone as the house, tall and capped with flat, pale coping stones. Xanthe noticed an entrance to it a little way off and could not resist a peek. The wrought iron gate was securely locked. As she reached forward and touched the dark, expertly worked metal she felt it vibrate very slightly. The cool bars warmed suddenly beneath her hand. She leaned forward for a better view of the enclosure and was astonished to see the garden transform in an instant. What had only seconds before been a dormant, largely bare collection of flower beds and planters, with leafless espaliered pear trees and empty glasshouses, became a verdant, floriferous, blossom-filled spectacle of color and blooms and abundant plants. She gasped, seeing at that moment a young woman standing among the roses, a wooden trug basket hanging from her arm as she snipped some choice buds. The woman was wearing a broad straw hat, her dark hair tucked up under it, and a long primrose yellow dress. Suddenly she raised her head and then, seeing Xanthe watching her, smiled brightly. She was a remarkably beautiful girl, and it was such a warm, spontaneous expre
ssion that Xanthe found herself smiling back as a reflex. And then, in a heartbeat, things changed. The sky darkened and the woman, surprised by the sudden alteration, pricked her finger on a rose thorn. She exclaimed, pulling her hand back, glossy droplets of blood falling onto the bodice of her dress as she did so.
“What a lovely garden,” said a now familiar voice behind her.
She whipped around to see her lunchtime companions had also come to peer in through the iron gate.
Sandra nodded. “I bet it will be pretty as a picture in the summer,” she added.
Xanthe turned back to look again. The woman had gone. As had all the blooms and summer abundance. Once again the garden was bare and slumbering. She felt her grip on the gate tighten as she heard the unmistakable high-pitched humming of a found thing singing to her. The wedding dress was calling to her, and it had to be connected to the vision she had just glimpsed. Connected to the lone figure with her vulnerable openness to strangers, and the dark, somber warning of blood that had been spilled.
3
As Xanthe had hoped, Flora approved of her finds and was excited about setting to work on them. Together they shifted things around in the workshop to make way for the new projects, conjuring up space where none had been before, taking care to allow Flora to work, as her crutches meant she required extra elbow room. They decided she would prioritize the smaller pieces, which could be quickly done and then moved into the shop. The costume jewelry would not turn much of a profit, but it had been bought at a low price and a little bit of bling went a long way to brightening up displays. The velvet cushions needed careful cleaning and would then sit nicely on the Victorian chairs Flora had already repaired. She was particularly impressed with the silver jug, happy to rise to the challenge of painstakingly knocking out the dent to restore it to its former glory.
“Excellent selections, Xanthe, love. I should let you go off on your own more often. Lovely things, and all within budget.”
“See, I am to be trusted.”
“Yes, well, I wonder what would have happened if the bidding had gone mad on that wedding dress, hmmm?” her mother teased.
“It will be the perfect feature for our vintage clothing display, Mum, and…”
“Stop,” she said, holding up a hand, “you don’t have to convince me. I know the drill. You keep the object until it stops singing to you and then it goes on sale with everything else. I actually think you got it for a bit of a bargain, so it will more than wash its face. Eventually.”
She smiled at her mother’s use of the phrase so well known in the antiques trade, meant to suggest that a sale item would at least cover its costs and turn a modest profit.
Xanthe had planned to sort through the box of jewelry when she was manning the shop through the remainder of the afternoon, but instead she was kept busy with customers.
“Don’t complain about that,” he mother laughed when they finally turned the CLOSED sign on the door. “It’s great that business is picking up so soon after the winter lull. Must mean our reputation is spreading. And it’s a surer sign of spring than any amount of cuckoos calling. Come on, time to knock off. I’ll be kind to you and let you cook.”
She gave her a wry smile. “Supper will have to wait a bit. I need to get this lot sorted and priced up,” she said, indicating the box of strung beads, jet brooches, paste bracelets, and assorted rings. “And I really want to take a closer look at that wedding dress.”
Her mother looked at her knowingly. “OK, new plan. Give me that,” she insisted, taking the box of jewelry from her and tucking it under one arm in the awkward but effective way she had of carrying such a thing while using her sticks. “I’ll sit upstairs and sift through it for half an hour, then I’m ordering pizza. When it arrives, you have to stop and come up and eat it. Deal?”
“Deal. Thanks, Mum.”
Xanthe needed no further prompting to hurry into the second room of the shop. As soon as she stepped over the threshold she could hear the gown singing to her. She took it from the box in which the auction staff had expertly packed it, and slowly removed the layers of tissue paper encasing it. The light in the little room had yet to be perfected, and dusk had already descended outside, but even so, the tiny silver and translucent beads on the dress seemed to glint and gleam. With great care, she unfolded the precious garment, aware of it almost trembling as she held it up. She thought it to be around a British size ten, made for someone with slim shoulders and long legs. It was thrilling to think of a bride walking down the aisle in it, and she was greatly relieved that there wasn’t the heavy sadness attached to it that she felt with some of her found things. She found a padded hanger and slipped the dress onto it before hooking it onto the top of the door. She stood back to take it all in. There was a fairly high neckline, modest and trimmed with lace, with sleeves set to sit on the points of the shoulders. The sleeves themselves were long enough to cover the backs of the hands and made of very sheer fabric, possibly some manner of voile, embroidered with tiny roses here and there. The bodice of the dress was richly worked with the beautiful beads that she now realized were also stitched to form patterns of tiny tumbling roses. The dress was cinched in tightly below the bust, a broad ribbon of doubled lace forming the shape, and then the skirts fell in a beautiful, flowing sweep to the floor. It occurred to Xanthe that there were signs the dress had been altered in places. Could these have been repairs or adjustments made to accommodate a second bride who chose to wear the dress? Perhaps more than one daughter in the lofty Wilcox family had been married in it. She reached out and touched the delicate fabric of the sleeves, listening to the high notes only she could hear, wondering what it was the dress had to tell her. As she did so the sound shifted and then became bells ringing, clear and bold. She gasped as a realization came to her.
“Those bells,” she muttered to herself, remembering again how she had heard pealing the other evening as she had left The Feathers. Even then, even at that distance, the dress had been calling to her, drawing her closer, waiting for her to find it. She had longed for something to call her back to the past, and now she had something with a particularly powerful connection emanating from it.
Excitement mounting, she renewed her examination of the beautiful object. The style did seem to be Edwardian, but there was something unusual about the neckline, and the way the bodice was attached to the skirt. She tried to recall what she knew about fashions in that time but could picture only leg of mutton sleeves and high collars. She recalled the Queen Mother’s wedding dress, and could see similarities. The intricate lacework. The slender silhouette. It struck her then how different wedding dresses of the day were to what people were wearing in general. In fact, they seemed to hark back to the style at the beginning of the previous century, with its elegant Empire lines. She was aware that the Arts and Crafts movement of the late 1800s drew upon medieval styles and shapes for its inspiration. But that didn’t seem to fit with this garment either. At least, not quite.
She leaned closer, searching for clues. Could it be that part of the dress was in fact older than the rest of it? The lace of the bodice, she decided, was the thing that didn’t seem to quite fall easily into a style she could put a date to. It was then, when she was at her closest to the thing, that she became aware of a wonderful scent. She inhaled carefully, trying to place it, wondering if it were possible that perfume could stay in the fabric for over a hundred years. Of course she knew it could not. The glorious scent of roses that she was now experiencing was simply another way of the treasure calling to her, provoking her senses, trying to connect with her. She thought of the girl she had glimpsed in the walled garden of Corsham Hall standing in the rose beds, and felt with a fierce certainty that this dress and that young woman were indeed inextricably linked.
* * *
The arrival of Helga had slightly more of an impact than either Xanthe or Flora could have anticipated. This was in part due to the fact that she turned up much earlier than they were expecting, so that th
ey were eating breakfast, with Flora still in her pajamas, but mostly because she brought with her a small, wiry, exuberant bundle of energy that was her pet whippet, Pie.
“Don’t mind her,” Helga said, pausing for a burst of her trademark laughter as the dog tore through the upstairs rooms, a black-and-white blur. “She’ll settle down in a bit. Just exploring her new surroundings.”
“She’s very lively,” said Flora, moving back against the fridge to allow the careening creature to fly past.
Xanthe couldn’t decide if their visitor was genuinely oblivious to the extreme nature of her dog’s behavior, and the very real hazard it presented to her mother, or if ignoring it was just her way of coping with the fact that she couldn’t control the dog. Helga sat heavily on one of the pine kitchen chairs, giving a sigh of relief as she did so.
“The traffic between me and you was ghastly,” she told them. “Not what I was expecting at all.”
“We don’t have a commute so we’ve never really noticed,” Xanthe pointed out, fetching an extra cup and pouring coffee. “It’s generally better after the school run is over, I expect. Would you like some breakfast?”
“Heavens, yes! I’m famished,” she said, spooning sugar into her drink. “Don’t worry, I’m the least fussy eater you could ever find. I’ll eat anything. So will Pie.”
Xanthe and Flora exchanged glances. Happily, there was fresh bread and locally made honey, so they were able to offer something less startling than some of Flora’s more usual meals.
Helga was a large woman, not fat, but sturdy, with broad shoulders upon which, according to Flora, many troubles had been placed. She had weathered a difficult childhood, a bad marriage, needy children who grew into problematic adults, and the loss of both her elderly parents in the same year. Through it all she had remained determined and positive, refusing to ever give in to self-pity. She was, Xanthe decided, a woman for whom the word “stoic” could have been invented. She appeared to favor clothes chosen for comfort rather than style, and wore no makeup. Her short, almost bristly hair was worn in a choppy pixie cut that many women her age might have shied away from. On her it looked right, somehow. Practical, and more than a little peculiar. After a bit of clearing space, moving breakable things out of the dog’s way, and finding another plate, the three were able to enjoy a pleasant breakfast. As promised, the whippet did calm down and sat beside Flora, gazing up at her with soulful eyes.
The Garden of Promises and Lies Page 4