* * *
Liam was still holding her hand tightly when they found themselves standing on a narrow cobbled street with sharp sunlight affording them no hiding place. Xanthe saw a young couple walking away from them and was thankful for the way love made the pair oblivious to the sudden appearance of two people only a few short strides away. She motioned to Liam to remain silent until the strangers had turned the corner out of sight at the end of the street.
She looked at him then. “Are you OK?” she asked gently. She knew him well enough to be certain he would play down any unfamiliar and disorienting feelings he was experiencing. She also knew how unsettling and alarming time travel could be. Watching people she cared about experience it was new for her, and she felt the responsibility keenly.
“I’m good,” he insisted, even though she could detect a slight tremor in his voice and noticed that he was a little unsteady on his feet.
“Take a moment,” she said. “You might be a bit … dizzy.”
He managed an unconvincing but nonetheless brave smile. “You don’t say?”
She studied their surroundings. This was not the alleyway she had arrived in on her recent journey, but it was familiar to her. There was something about the curve of the little street, the windowless walls of the backs of the buildings that ran along it, the unevenness of the cobblestones. Suddenly, unexpectedly given the warmth of the day, she saw the scene beneath a light covering of frozen snow. Now she knew it for the place where she had once found Mistress Flyte, beaten near to death and left to perish. Which she would have done, had not Xanthe and Edmund found her. “This way,” she said, leading Liam toward an old wooden door that was set into the wall on their right. She had her hand on the latch when it was abruptly pulled open, startling both of them.
Mistress Flyte stood in the doorway. For a moment her elegant early-nineteenth-century attire threw Xanthe, who had just been recalling her dressed for the 1600s. She realized she was staring at her. The old woman frowned.
“I have been waiting for you,” she told Xanthe. “I had not, however, been expecting a fellow traveler. Who are you, sir? Miss Westlake, was it your wish to be accompanied?”
“It was. Mistress Flyte, this is Liam.”
Liam held out his hand before remembering what he was supposed to be doing. He executed a clumsy bow. “A pleasure to meet you, madam,” he said.
“Liam who? What business has he here? How do you know him, that you would trust him with the secrets of a Spinner?”
“For our current purposes,” Xanthe told her calmly, “he is Liam Westlake, my brother. And we are both grateful to our aunt for inviting us to escape the unpleasantness of a summer in London by offering to accommodate us for a few weeks here in Bradford,” she explained.
“Indeed,” said Mistress Flyte. There was a pause in which Xanthe thought that she might just refuse to play the part, and then she stepped back, holding the door open. “Family are, of course, always welcome,” she said.
They followed her through the rear yard behind the tearooms, through the back door and the main part of the café, threading their way quickly between the little tables with their white linen covers and colorful china. Xanthe was aware of Liam’s astonishment as he took in the real people in their real clothes inhabiting the real nineteenth-century world he now found himself a part of. She knew he would need time to adjust and adapt, but time was not on their side. He would have to learn fast.
Once upstairs, Mistress Flyte rang for Polly and asked her to fetch tea, letting her know that their guests would be staying for a while. Beds would have to be prepared. Liam would take the spare attic bedroom. Xanthe would have the daybed in the sitting room. The maid looked flustered at the thought of so much extra work, so that Xanthe felt compelled to reassure her that she would help and that they would be dining out often. As soon as they were alone and seated, Mistress Flyte began to speak, expressing her concerns with some vigor.
“You have overstepped the bounds of behavior expected of a Spinner,” she told her. “Plainly put, it is not for you to decide who might and who might not traverse time. This … person…” Here she waved a hand dismissively at Liam.
“My good friend,” Xanthe put in, noticing the minute reaction from him.
“… that is of no importance! To trust a non-Spinner with your gift in such a way is ill-advised and quite possibly reckless.”
Xanthe was taken aback. She was unaccustomed to Mistress Flyte criticizing her actions and decisions in such a way. She had hoped for support from her friend.
“I disagree,” she replied, firmly but calmly. The old woman was silenced by this declaration long enough for Xanthe to put her case. “As a Spinner I am charged with using my gifts to their best advantage. I have tasks I must carry out. I have to use my wits and good sense to do those tasks. In this instance, I must face Fairfax.”
“Which you have done on a previous occasion and with success. Alone.”
“I was not, actually, alone,” she said, remembering how Samuel and his family had risked so much to help her. “Nor was I particularly successful. If I had been, he wouldn’t still be threatening me, would he?”
“He has been using his own talents as a Spinner to attempt to achieve his goals. How will an ordinary person be able to confront him and come off unscathed by that encounter?”
“Here, in the time he’s chosen to settle, to make his name for himself, to gain that position in society and the influence and security he craves, he has to be seen to be acceptable, respectable, behaving within the laws of the time. He won’t be able to actually use his Spinner talents here. Not directly, not to stop us. I need Liam’s help to take the astrolabe from him. It will be well guarded, and he will be watching my every move. I might be able to do it on my own, but what if I fail? No one I care about would ever be safe again. I’m not prepared for them to pay the price of my poor judgment. And, aside from that, I won’t allow Fairfax to get his hands on Spinners.”
“He must not have it!”
“Well, we agree on that, at least. It’s possible, of course, he won’t be able to read it, but I don’t want to rely on that, do you?”
Mistress Flyte shook her head. “The risk is too great.”
“Exactly. Which is why I have brought someone I trust to help me stop him. And, there’s another aspect of him having the Spinners book that makes it more important that he can’t get what he wants.”
When Mistress Flyte waited for her to continue, Liam spoke up.
“He might need Xanthe to read it for him. He might keep her here just for that. He could threaten her family if she didn’t cooperate. She would be his prisoner. I’m not going to let that happen. No way.”
“Whilst I applaud your devotion, young man, allow me to harbor doubts that your abilities will match your ambition.”
“Xanthe is very important to me, Mistress Flyte. I will do whatever it takes to protect her.”
The old woman considered this for a moment. “Yes, I can see that you will. And you are correct, child,” she said, turning back to Xanthe, “when you say that Fairfax remains single-minded in his desire to further his own cause regardless of the harm he may cause. He has no respect for the laws and morals which guide and govern a Spinner. After your last visit he came here.”
“I worried that he might. I met him on the bridge. I can’t imagine he was happy about the way I left.”
Mistress Flyte allowed herself a small smile. “He was, shall we say, displeased at being thwarted. He spoke plainly of his intentions, knowing that I would relay his words to you.”
“He mentioned the book specifically?”
She nodded. “Have you brought it with you?” she asked, her ordinarily inscrutable expression allowing an iota of anxiety to reveal itself.
Xanthe’s hand went to the bag at her shoulder in an instinctively protective gesture. “I have this time. I think I might need it.”
“What I still don’t get,” Liam leant forward on the narro
w gilt chair, “is why he wants it so much. I mean, he can do the time traveling thing, as long as he has his astrolabe. Sounds like he’s pretty well set up here already, marrying into a good family … Why risk going to Xanthe’s time? He’s really vulnerable there. Why go to all the hassle of trying to get her and the book here, and keep them here … what for?”
Mistress Flyte folded her hands neatly in her lap. “The truth of that, young man, is something we have yet to discover. What is clear, however, is that if you are not to be considered a foreigner here—and quite possibly a madman attracting unwelcome attention—you must guard your tongue and attend to your manner.”
“I’m sorry, did I just say something rude?”
Xanthe shook her head. “You just don’t sound very nineteenth century. We talked about this, remember?”
“OK.” He held up his hands in a gesture of submission. “I know, I have to be the mysterious and moody type. All dark stares and grumpy silences.”
“Silence will suffice,” Mistress Flyte told him. “For there is not time enough to school you. The wedding gown called you here, Xanthe. Its story will play out, and Fairfax’s part in it also.”
“Do you know when the wedding will be?”
“The date is fixed for the last Saturday of July. Two weeks hence.”
Xanthe got to her feet. “In that case,” she said, opening the carpet bag and taking out her cache of silver, “we need to go shopping.”
* * *
Mistress Flyte, unsurprisingly, turned out to be capable of highly effective haggling, so that Xanthe was given a good price for the pieces from the silversmith in the high street. It was strange watching things she had found and bought in her own time in the hands of someone living two centuries earlier. She felt a momentary stab of worry that these things did not belong where they had ended up. That by bringing them here she had somehow upset a delicate balance that was beyond her understanding. As if sensing her concern, Mistress Flyte spoke quickly to her as she took her arm upon leaving the shop.
“It is not for you to question, child. You have answered the call as a Spinner. You are where you are meant to be, at the time you are required to visit. If you stay true to your task you will not do anything that is not already expected of you.”
“Thank you. It helps to hear that. Especially from someone who knows what it is to be a Spinner.”
The three of them made their way to Pinkerton’s. They had earlier decided that Mistress Flyte should present her niece, establishing her bona fides, and then take Liam to the tailors at the other end of the street. The proprietor was delighted to see Mistress Flyte, who had spent good money in his shop over the years. He did his best to mask his surprise at seeing Xanthe again, the businessman in him evidently overcoming any doubts or qualms he might have had the moment she began listing all the items she would need to buy from him.
“The mail coach lost our trunk and even my small valise,” she explained. “My poor brother and I have nought but what we wear. We have a busy social program ahead of us and we must be properly attired. It was such a relief when our dear aunt informed us Bradford boasts a very fine dressmaker. Though, hearing how in demand your gowns are, I was concerned you might be too taken up with other customers to help us.”
“Fear not, for you have come to the right place, Miss Westlake,” he assured her. “Here at Pinkerton’s we pride ourselves not only on the quality of our gowns and accessories, but on swift service, catering to the every need of our patrons. We have had the honor of providing many exquisite dresses, chemises, redingotes and spencers for Miss Flyte, as I am sure she will attest … we shall be equally honored to meet all the needs of another family member. You say she is sister to your mother? Are the Flytes, then, a large family? A London family, if I have it right?” Mr. Pinkerton was a slender twist of a man, whose beautifully tailored clothes were deliberately understated, presumably so as never to outshine his patrons. His face was not unattractive, but had over years worked itself into the habit of appearing attentive and refined, and the lines of that effort were etched into it. Xanthe thought he was probably in his forties, but he had a dryness and a spareness about him that somehow made him look worn down. She wondered if he secretly loathed spending his days pandering to the whims and fancies of wealthy women. She wondered if he had a wife of his own or was happy to retire to his apartments upstairs and be free of females. He certainly had very little patience to spare for the young shop assistant, Constance, who wordlessly obeyed his every instruction.
Mr. Pinkerton picked up his order ledger from the high counter at the back of the shop. He took a pencil and began writing down the items that would form Xanthe’s new wardrobe.
Mistress Flyte ushered Liam, who had successfully remained silent so far, toward the door, calling over her shoulder as she did so. “Cut no corners, Mr. Pinkerton, but be circumspect. My niece’s trunk may yet be found, and my sister would not countenance undue spending.”
Xanthe shot Liam what she hoped was an encouraging smile as he left. She had been impressed at how quickly he had recovered from the shock of his first stint of time travel. She found that already she was beginning to lose her concern for having brought him, the sense of responsibility lessening, so that instead she felt glad he was with her. Felt supported and reassured by his being there. She became aware Mr. Pinkerton was waiting for her to speak.
“Well now,” she said, doing her best to play the part of a young woman excited at the prospect of new clothes, “let me see. I shall need two day dresses, one lighter for warmer days, perhaps a muslin, the other cotton, I think. Have you cotton prints? Yes? Excellent. And a gown for the evening, something elegant and simple.”
“May I suggest something from the new French range, direct from Paris?”
“Alas, time is against us, Mr. Pinkerton. I must fall upon those items you have made that might be altered for most of my clothing, certainly the small clothes, chemises, hose, and such like, and the day dresses. Might there be some to suit, do you think?”
“Undoubtedly, Miss Westlake,” the dressmaker wrote quickly as he spoke, “and we have some finely stitched shawls to complement your choices. And there are two long coats I am certain will suit very well indeed. And a short spencer, naturally, perhaps in velvet?”
“Lovely. Will I be able to take something with me today, do you think?”
The next half hour was spent in discussing the details of what was needed, with Constance sent back and fore to the stockroom, Mr. Pinkerton scurrying up and down the wooden ladder to the high shelves of fabric, trimmings, and lace, and Xanthe enjoying the surreal experience more and more by the minute. It was decided she would be fitted out with one ensemble from stock, the small alterations being undertaken that very afternoon. She would then return later in the week for a second fitting of the dresses that had to be made, having chosen fabrics in stock, rather than wait for them to be shipped from London or Paris, however desirable those alternatives might be. When the shop owner held out a box of lace for her consideration she experienced a shudder of recognition, for it was the very one that formed the bodice of the wedding dress. She touched it gently, feeling it warm quickly beneath her fingers, its singing picking up at once. It was a powerful reminder of why she was there. Of the fact that, however diverting and pleasant the dress shopping might be, there was a serious reason for it.
“That is a little elaborate for me, I think,” she said. “But it is very beautiful. I imagine it is popular.”
If Mr. Pinkerton remembered her asking him about it the first time she came to his shop he showed no sign of it. “Indeed, it is the most fashionable and most requested of all our laces, for it has been chosen by none other than Petronella Wilcox for her wedding gown. You are, of course, familiar with the residents of Corsham Hall?”
“Naturally. Though the groom-to-be is not a Bradford man, is that right?”
“Benedict Fairfax, dear me no. He hails from the other side of the county. A queer fellow, if I
may venture, but wealthy. They say he has more than ten thousand a year, though no one here knows his family. Indeed, little is known about him at all.”
“And yet he is to marry a local beauty from the finest family in the region. Is that not a little … strange?”
Mr. Pinkerton seemed about to gossip further but then checked himself, perhaps remembering that although Mistress Flyte was a regular customer, he did not know this strange young woman at all. He could not risk speaking out of turn.
“I am sure Miss Wilcox’s father is most happy with the match,” was all he would say on the matter, carefully steering the conversation back to dresses and ribbons.
Xanthe knew she had to make as much use of the dress shop as possible for reaching Petronella. It was the thing they had in common. It was, she believed, her best chance of meeting the young woman and forming a quick friendship with her.
“Tell me, has Miss Wilcox completed the fittings for her dress yet? There must be a great deal of work for you to do, to produce something that will surely be the talk of the town for months to come.”
But Mr. Pinkerton’s tongue was not to be loosened by flattery. Running a tape measure along her arm he said flatly, “A fashion house must guard close the privacy of its patrons. Loyalty is all,” he added, as if concerned that he had previously been too forthcoming with his opinions about the betrothal. After recording measurements in his ledger he moved to the counter and opened a larger, leather-bound record. “Let us arrange your appointments for fittings. We can have the dresses ready for you to try tomorrow morning. Shall we say eleven?”
Xanthe interrupted him. “Oh, what charming braid that is.”
The Garden of Promises and Lies Page 16