“Corsham Hall?” Xanthe put down the one she was looking at and lifted the watercolor up to the light. It was unmistakably the grand house she had so recently visited. The original home of the wedding dress. The painting was called Arriving for the Ball and showed carriages drawing up to the front of the house and finely dressed guests making their way through the magnificent front doors. She studied the shape of the gowns, the high waists, the low, square-cut necklines, the long sweep of fine fabric in the skirts. Here was the shape of the wedding dress, no doubt about it. “Is this dated?” she asked her mother, turning the picture over to check the back for clues.
“Not that I could find. The scene looks Regency. Of course it might have been painted later, but my money’s on it being contemporary with the setting.”
Liam peered over Xanthe’s shoulder. “Isn’t it popular now, though, that sort of thing? I mean, it could have been painted a hundred years after it was set. People still like Jane Austen stories well enough for films to be made of the books, don’t they?”
Xanthe and Flora looked at Liam and exchanged surprised glances. Flora laughed, “I didn’t have you down as a lover of costume dramas, Liam!” she said.
He pretended to look hurt. “Don’t you know that I am a multi-faceted modern man?”
Xanthe ran her fingers over the join between the frame and the back of the painting. “I agree with Mum; I think it’s definitely nineteenth century. Probably quite early. Feels old.”
“Oh, very scientific,” Liam teased.
“It just does,” she insisted. “Which means it wasn’t anything to do with Jane Austen, who is a lot more widely known now than she was then. So the question you have to ask is, why was it painted? It’s not a particularly important house. It’s big, yes, but there are lots of grand mansions in the area that are about the same age and style. No, this was most likely commissioned by someone connected to the house.”
“What was the family name?” Flora asked. “Gerri mentioned it.”
“Wilcox,” said Xanthe. “If we only knew what any of them looked like.…” She squinted at the faces of the figures. “Can’t see anyone dressed like royalty. Just a bunch of well-heeled aristos at the start of a classy and expensive social event. Plenty of young women looking for a good husband. A fair amount of handsome young men and…” What she saw then made her stop without finishing the sentence.
“And…?” Liam prompted.
Xanthe, flustered, muttered something about there being lots of footmen and valets but she found it difficult to form a sensible reply. Her attention was entirely taken by the figure standing to one side of the front door. He was tall and lean and immaculately attired in evening dress of the period with tailed jacket, broad silk cummerbund, perfectly cut breeches, and starched wing collar. What marked him out was the light color of his hair, the paleness of his sharp features, and the black leather patch that he wore over his left eye. “Fairfax!” she said to herself, half in astonishment, half in triumph. Now she knew beyond doubt that he and the wedding dress had at least once been located at the same place in the same point in time. Corsham Hall in the early 1800s. That was where and when the gown was pulling her toward. That was where and when she would find Fairfax, she was certain of it. That was where and when she had to go.
7
With a more specific date in mind Xanthe found it easier to prepare for her journey. Later that night, she went downstairs to the vintage clothing room. After thirty minutes’ rummaging and searching, the stock yielded a pale blue striped cotton maxi dress with smocking at the top which more or less conformed to Empire lines in its shape. She found a pair of laced leather ankle boots, wincing at the narrowness of them compared to her preferred Dr. Martens, but satisfied that they looked right enough. A navy shrug of felted wool worked surprisingly well. What proved harder was knowing what to do with her hair. She wrestled it into two plaits and coiled them one over each ear. The effect was without argument the least flattering hairdo she had ever worn, but it was silly to be vain when it would be under a hat anyway. Finding the headgear to hide it was more problematic. What she actually needed was something that could pass as a bonnet. There were any number of cloth caps, bowlers, and top hats, but none of those would do. In the end she took a straw sun hat with a wide brim and tied a broad pink ribbon over the top of it so that it held down the sides, securing it with a bow beneath her chin. Looking in the mirror it was hard not to laugh out loud at her reflection, and yet she was confident she had more or less achieved the look she needed. Having no idea what time of year or what weather she would meet she picked out a woolen wrap that would work as a shawl and a handbag with a brass clasp into which she dropped a drawstring bag containing coins of the right era, a silver-backed mirror which had some value and might work in a trading situation, a box of painkillers, and a small folding knife with a mother-of-pearl handle without any clear idea of what she would do with it beyond perhaps using it to escape from somewhere as it might stand in for a screwdriver or jimmy if necessary.
Xanthe took the clothes upstairs to her room. It was such a relief not to be having to hide everything she was doing from Flora. She didn’t want to wake her, as she knew she was struggling to sleep well after the fire, but in the morning she would show her what she had done to prepare for the journey. She hung her outfit up on the back of her bedroom door and then checked the wedding dress next to it. The beautiful lace of the bodice minutely vibrated beneath her fingers. As she climbed into bed the song of the gown grew louder, as if it sensed something was about to happen at last.
After a day of returning the shop to a state good enough to be opened, she felt slightly better about leaving Flora. It would only be for one night, she had promised herself that. She was so much more sure of what she was doing with the found things and the blind house now. This time would be different. This time Flora would know what was happening. This time, Xanthe would be in control. She would let the wedding dress lead her to its story and to Fairfax; she would find out what she could about what he was doing there, what people thought of him, what he was trying to achieve, and, vitally, where his vulnerability lay. She was painfully aware of the fact that she could do little to rid herself of him on this occasion. She would not face him head-on. Not yet. She knew he would be aware of her presence when she arrived in his time. All Spinners were able to detect others when they drew near. She must not allow frustration and anger to get the better of her. She must view this trip as a fact-finding mission, staying only long enough to arm herself with the information she needed to deal with him, and to see how doing so answered the call of the wedding dress. Then she would come home and she, Flora, and Harley would put their heads together and form a plan. The whole process was much slower than Xanthe would have liked. She wished Spinners would show her something more helpful, some way of getting to Fairfax. Some way of removing the threat that he posed to herself, her home, and those she cared about. But however much time she spent poring over it, studying its pages, willing it to reveal something more to her, all she got was the same story of the young Spinner who killed his abuser. And precisely what use that was she was yet to determine.
On the evening of her departure, Harley arrived to collect Flora, who had happily accepted Annie’s invitation to supper. Xanthe had thought Flora might resist the idea of being out of the house when her daughter was about to vanish through the portal in the garden, but Flora explained she would find it easier to be with friends and be busy. As her mother finished getting herself ready in her room upstairs, Harley drew Xanthe to one side in the kitchen, his voice low as he spoke to her.
“I confess I’m not happy with what you’re doing here, hen. Are you sure you’ve thought this through properly?”
“We’ve talked about this, Harley. I know the dangers. I’m ready for them.”
“The dangers of your actual time travel, aye, but what of your man Fairfax? He’s a nasty piece of work, lass. And he’s not above hurting people to get what he wants
.”
“Yes, I know. It was my home he set fire to, remember?”
“So what do you think you’re going to do? Just march up to him and say ‘Excuse me, Mr. Time-Spinning Psychopath, would you mind handing over that astrolabe of yours so I know you’ll stop messing with the way of things, be a good boy, and leave me in peace? Oh, thank ye kindly!’ I can’t see that ending well, I’ll be honest with you,” he said, his bushy brows meeting in a deep frown.
“I’m not going to confront him, not if I can help it. I need to know what he’s doing in his own time. That way I can find out what he wants from me.”
“You still think it’s the book?” he asked, glancing in the direction of the cheerful singing coming from Flora’s room. “He risked losing it in that fire.…”
“I don’t think he meant to kill me, or destroy the shop. Not this time, at least.”
“Nothing you’re saying right now is making me feel even a wee bit better.”
She put her hand on his. “Don’t worry about me. Honestly, I’ll be careful.”
“I’d sleep a whole lot easier in my bed the night if you weren’t on your own. I feel pretty useless staying here while you go … back there,” he gestured toward the blind house.
“Actually, I think I do have someone helping me,” she told him.
“Oh? How so?”
“The picture of the ball.”
“The one with Funtime Fairfax in it?”
“I’ve been trying to work out how it got there. I mean, I know it wasn’t there before the fire. Mum thinks it was part of Mr. Morris’s stock and we missed it but I know it wasn’t there. We found it, or it found me, exactly when I needed it. When I needed to be sure following the call of the wedding dress was the right thing. It’s the most straightforward clue I’ve been given yet.”
“From another Spinner, d’you mean? But how?”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to drive myself crazy trying to work that out. But it does make sense, if you think about it. After all, if Fairfax can watch me from his time, if he can turn up here when it suits him but have his life somewhen else, well, why couldn’t another Spinner?”
“A friendly one? Aye, it’s a comforting thought, hen. You’re right about that.”
“There’s something else…”
“Oh? Should I brace myself here, lassie?”
“You’ll be pleased.… I’ve told my mum.”
“You have? Everything?”
“Pretty much.”
“A good decision, hen. How did she take it?”
“She was amazing. She is amazing, after all. I … I haven’t told her that you already know, though. I hope it doesn’t upset her that I told you first.”
“She’ll understand,” Harley assured her. “It’s your safety that’s the most important thing to her. She’ll get that I was helping you.”
Xanthe nodded, wanting to believe he was right. “Here, I want you to have this,” she said, dropping a spare key to the shop into his hand. “Just in case you need to, you know, help Mum.”
He closed his fingers around it, nodding, as they heard Flora returning.
“Here I am,” she called as she stick-stepped her way down the stairs, a fresh application of pink lipstick and a pair of oversized daisy earrings straight out of the sixties making her look younger and more upbeat than Xanthe had seen her in quite a while.
“You look lovely, Mum,” she told her, leaning in for a quick kiss and a hug. “Have a great evening.”
Flora leaned in for a hug. “I know there’s no point in my telling you to be careful, but … be careful, OK?”
“I will,” she promised.
“You sure you don’t want me to stay and help you get ready?”
“I’m better doing it on my own, I think. Staying focused, without goodbyes.”
“Fair enough,” her mother said with a slightly forced cheerfulness.
“Just be on your guard, Mum. Anything odd, talk to Harley.”
He offered Flora his arm. “Away with us, then. Annie’ll skin me alive if I get you there late for one of her famous salmon soufflé starters,” he said, steering her down the patched stairs, pausing to turn and give Xanthe an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
As soon as they had gone she hurried upstairs to her room, Pie at her heel. Excitement was mounting inside her, her stomach beginning to churn. It was as though she had been waiting for this moment, the moment to time-travel again, for such a long time. The thought of it, the thrill of it, the wonder of it, grew more intense with each occasion. She began her transformation into a nineteenth-century young woman. As she plaited her hair she noticed her hands had started to shake. As if aware of her nervousness, Pie jumped up to sit next to her on the bed, nudging her arm with her long, delicate nose.
“It’s OK, pooch. You’re going to stay here, safe and sound. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got this. I know what I’m doing,” she added, as much to give herself courage as to reassure the somewhat puzzled dog. She succeeded in working her hair into its coils, securing it with an abundance of pins to guard against collapse. She wriggled out of her clothes and into the outfit, trying not to give in to the niggling worry that it wasn’t as convincing as she had first thought. After tying the bonnet ribbon she decided against looking in the mirror. This was no time to feel ridiculous. She double-checked the contents of her bag. Satisfied she had everything she needed, she moved to her bedside table and picked up Spinners. The thought of being parted from it caused her physical pain. For a moment she held it close to her heart, before wrapping it in a fine shawl and tucking it under a floorboard beneath her bed. Finally, she took the wedding dress down, draping it over her arm, noticing at once the smell of roses. She paused, breathing in the scent.
“OK,” she murmured. “I’m on my way.”
As she descended the stairs the pitter-patter of small paws alerted her to the fact that the dog was following her again.
“Oh no, you can’t come with me, girl. Come on, I’ll get you a biscuit.” She put her things down and nipped into the kitchen for one of Pie’s favorite dog chews and a handful of treats. “Pie?” she called. “Here, look…” She showed her the goodies and tempted her into the sitting room and onto the velvet sofa. “There you go,” she said, stroking her head and putting the treats in front of her. “You stay here. Flora will be home soon.” She waited until Pie was busy chewing and then tiptoed out of the room.
The back door was still propped ajar to help rid the hallway of the smell of smoke. Xanthe slipped out into the cool night, the garden a collection of shadows and soft pools of light where the clouds parted to allow moonbeams to fall. Although the shrubs and flowers were only just showing signs of spring, the sweet smell of roses grew stronger as she carried the dress across the lawn toward the stone shed. Soon she could hear the whispered entreaties of long-lost souls, clamoring to be heard above the high singing of the antique find and the ringing of church bells which were not miles but centuries distant. Unlike on previous occasions, she was prepared for all these things. She expected them. She accepted them as part of the process. She remembered the first time she had discovered the power of the blind house and had experienced the menacing presence of Mistress Merton. She recalled the force with which she had made her return journey after answering the call of the silver chatelaine, when she had been knocked unconscious, bruised and confused, unable to drag herself from the place for several hours. This time she did not feel afraid. She felt determined, focused, able. She knew now that the slight trembling of her hands and the racing of her pulse was not due to fear but excitement. She was a Spinner. This was her calling and her gift. It was what she was meant to do.
She pulled at the handle of the heavy oak door. Winter frosts and rain had seeped into the wood, causing it to swell, so that it took some effort to drag it open. From within came the aroma of damp earth and wet stone. Xanthe held the wedding dress close against her as she stepped inside, allowing the dark interior of the humble bui
lding to cloak her, not resisting it but choosing it. She closed her eyes, focusing all her thoughts on the dress, on the vision of the girl she had seen in the gardens of Corsham Hall, willing it to take her to the right place; to a place of safe landing. To where she needed to be. Just as the myriad voices crying out to her rose to maddening levels she felt herself beginning to fall, having the sensation that the ground under her feet was melting away. And as she let herself fall she was aware of a different energy in the space. It was not threatening, nor sad, but possessed of a vigor and spirit that seemed somehow at odds with the more somber mood that usually accompanied her as she traveled back through the centuries. She had no more time to question this curious aspect of her journey as she sped through nothingness, her senses swimming, descending ultimately into the full dark of swift and brief unconsciousness.
* * *
As she steadied herself, taking a breath, sensing firm ground beneath her boots once more, Xanthe struggled with the one aspect of time spinning she had yet to gain more accurate control over, namely the location of her arrival. She was still, for the most part, at the mercy of the found thing, it seemed to her. It would always take her to a place of importance for its story, but it would not be entirely of her choosing. As she blinked away the bleariness of unconsciousness, she decided that clues to the ability to determine her arrival point must lie within the pages of the Spinners book and she promised herself that she would discover them. She quickly realized that she was in a small street, an alleyway, roughly paved, narrow, and mercifully empty, given that it was daytime. Her sudden appearance would have been easily spotted by anyone had they been nearby, and extremely difficult to explain. As it was, there were no men or women to terrify with her ghostlike manifestation. What there was, however, was a small black dog with white paws.
The Garden of Promises and Lies Page 10