Hiding her rucksack among the shrubs, she moved cautiously to the door of the jail. She had left it ajar, partly to air the place, but mostly to give herself the sense that she could go in and out, back and forth, easily and whenever she chose. She hesitated, waiting for the presence that she knew must come. And so it did. She felt rather than saw the ghost move inside the little stone building. Mistress Merton was evidently not leaving Xanthe’s actions to chance even then. It was as if her attending this moment, this instance of journeying back in time, was to underline the reasons for her doing it, and to remind her of the threat that would hang, like the sword of Damocles, suspended over her mother until Alice was saved.
Xanthe’s pulse began to race as she stepped inside. The half-light, the stale air, the confined space, all stirred up unwelcome memories. She reminded herself that this was a reality for Alice. That she had no choice. And no hope without Xanthe. With her leather satchel over her shoulder she stood as calmly as she was able, closed her eyes, and waited. Nothing. Nothing happened. What was wrong? Why wasn’t the doorway to the past working? And then it struck her.
“You idiot!” she said to herself, exasperated at her own dimwittedness. In her haste to leave, and her anxiety about being found out, she had forgotten the chatelaine! It was still sitting on the table beside her bed. Cursing her stupidity, she edged back out of the blind house. She would have to go back in and get it. She considered changing her clothes again, but it would all take so long. Better just to make sure she was not seen. She ran across the garden and gingerly opened the back door again. As she started to climb the stairs she could hear Flora arguing with a search engine. It was Xanthe’s good fortune that anything computer-based tended to take up all her mother’s concentration. She made painfully slow progress trying to avoid any creaking floorboards. She had just started up the final flight, which led from the kitchen to the bedrooms, when she became aware Flora had stopped clicking and typing.
“Hello?” Flora said. And then again, “Hello?”
Xanthe froze. Had she been heard? How was she going to explain what she was wearing and what on earth she was doing? Her mind raced, searching for a plausible excuse.
“Hello? Oh, there you are. I wonder if you can help me, I want to place an advertisement in the Marlborough Gazette for this coming Thursday. Yes, on the Events page, I think. We are having an opening day for our new antiques shop.”
Flora was on the telephone! Xanthe felt giddy with relief. As her mother explained to the salesperson what she wanted in the newspaper, Xanthe dashed up the rest of the stairs and snatched up the chatelaine, clipping it to her belt. If felt hot against her side, even through her clothes, and set up a discordant buzz in her head as she slid back down the stairs. She was certain her footsteps, and even her breathing, were horribly loud, but Flora was busy insisting the advertising rates were ridiculously high, and did not hear her.
Outside, Xanthe ran back across the scruffy lawn and all but flung herself through the door of the jail. She was in such a hurry to avoid being noticed by her mother that she had no time to hesitate, no time to be frightened. She simply stumbled to her knees upon the gritty floor, clutched her leather bag to her side and pressed her other shaking hand over the pulsating chatelaine, struggling to catch her breath. She heard Margaret Merton bidding her farewell and Godspeed, but before she had time for so much as one last glance back through the door a heavy darkness descended, a lurching movement threw her onto her side, and in that instant, she was falling back through time once again.
12
Xanthe knew she had traveled, knew that she was no longer in the blind house, but she could not make sense of her surroundings. It was as if she were fighting to wake from a deep, dream-filled sleep. There was darkness, and noise, and a sense of confusion, and through it all she found it hard to draw a proper breath. What if something had gone wrong? Something in the way she had moved back through time? Was she lost in some terrible limbo? She fought against rising panic, struggling to get to her feet. As before, the Victorian parts of the chatelaine had traveled with her and were still in her hand where she had held onto them as she made the jump. Her bag was still over her shoulder. Gradually she became able to discern voices through the muddle of sounds. Shouting, urgent voices. Above everything, unmistakably, came the smell of smoke. She rubbed her eyes and at last was able to see that she was in an old building, much bigger than the jailhouse, though it was hard to tell what it was, exactly, because the space was filled with billowing, choking smoke. Now she could feel the heat. The fire must be dangerously close. She began spluttering and coughing. She must find a way out. She had not made that leap through time only to perish the moment she arrived. The smoke was making her eyes stream, but she could see broad floorboards beneath her feet and concluded she must be on an upper floor somewhere. And there was hay. The hayloft above the stables! In one corner was a bed of pallets and sacking with a rough blanket, but Peter was nowhere to be seen.
From below came shouts, and the sounds of the terrified horses banging against their stalls. Their snorts and whinnies were becoming increasingly frantic. Xanthe could make out Willis’s voice as he tried to calm them, and the clatter of ironclad hooves over the cobbles as they scrambled out to safety. She had to get out before the flames took hold of the wooden ladder and she became trapped in the hayloft. Dropping to her knees in an effort to avoid the worst of the smoke, she scuttled across the floor. It should have been easier to breathe lower down, but the smoke was also billowing up through the gaps between the boards. At last she reached the opening and took hold of the top of the ladder. Already the smoke was making her feel dizzy and she could not stop coughing. Swinging her legs over the edge of the gap, she was about to start lowering herself down the ladder when she heard a whimpering. She peered through the gloom and noticed something moving in the corner of the hayloft. It was a dog. A small, spaniel type. It looked petrified, cowering beside some empty feed sacks.
“Come on, boy! Here, come on, come with me!” she urged it, but it was too frightened to leave its hiding place. Cursing silently, she tugged the scarf from her hair and tied it around her face so that it covered her mouth and nose. She took as deep a breath as she was able and crawled along the floorboards. They were hot beneath her hands and knees, and the fire below rumbled in a way that suggested it would quickly consume the whole building. She tried to coax the little dog forward, but it was too terrified to move, so she had to get right into the corner to grab hold of it. There was too much smoke for her to even try to say something soothing to it now, so she was relieved when it did not struggle, but instead pressed itself against her as she tucked it into the shawl tied around her shoulders and waist. She began her painful journey back toward the ladder, but at that moment a burst of flames shot up through the opening, the ladder itself ablaze. An ice-cold fear gripped her. Strangely, she did not feel panic. Did not have the urge to scream or cry. She was immobilized, as the dog had been moments before, her body frozen with dread. Suddenly, there was an almighty crack as one of the main joists supporting the floorboards gave way. In a heartbeat, the floor upon which she had been kneeling dropped, and she and the dog descended with it. There was no time to think about what was happening. She crashed to the ground, her fall broken by the hay and feed sacks that made the drop with her. She landed heavily, the impact knocking from her what choking breath she had. She was briefly aware of more shouts and cries, of blurred figures looming through the smoke, of terrible heat and the redness of the fire. And then, nothing.
* * *
When she came to, the first thing she noticed was the smell of singed hair. Was it her own? She blinked and rubbed at her stinging eyes, trying to prop herself up on one elbow.
“She’s awake!” said a girl’s voice close by.
Firm hands steadied her. She could make out a large woman standing over her, who spoke with a rolling Wiltshire accent and a gruff, no-nonsense tone.
“There now. Do not distress your
self with effort. Lie still. All will be well, the danger is passed.”
She tried to speak but this only resulted in a painful bout of coughing, which culminated in her vomiting over the side of whatever bed she had somehow been put into. Embarrassed, she dabbed at her mouth with the back of her hand and tried once more to get her streaming eyes to clear. She was in a high, narrow bed in a small room. The window on the far side was open but still all she could taste was smoke. Slowly the second figure swam into focus and she recognized the well-to-do young woman she had seen on her previous visit. She was holding the spaniel. He had lost quite a bit of fur, but looked otherwise unharmed. Xanthe realized that someone had undressed her, so that she now wore only her underwear, vest, and leggings. They must have found her clothes exceedingly strange. A sudden terrible thought gripped her and her hand flew to her throat, relief flooding through her when she found her locket still in place. As her vision cleared further she could see her clothes on the little window seat and her satchel was there too, still buckled up. The room was sparsely furnished, just the bed, a stool, and a chest for clothes. There was a worn but beautiful rug on the floor. She noticed that the walls had no expensive wood paneling, but were just roughly plastered with a lime wash over them. It felt like a second-best guest room. Not posh enough to mark her out as special, but nor was it a servant’s room.
The woman, whom Xanthe thought, now that she could see her better, to be in her fifties, helped her to sit up against the bolsters.
“You’ll be right as rain in no time,” the woman said. “Though heaven knows, God must have been guiding you, for ’tis a wonder you weren’t burned to a crisp,” she added with some relish.
The younger woman stepped forward. “Mary, fetch father. He will want to know that Pepito’s savior is awake,” she said. The maid bobbed a curtsy and went to do as she was asked. “Look, Pepito, here is the one who brought you safe from that terrible fire. You must say your thank-yous like a good little dog.” As she spoke, the dog wagged its tail rather feebly. “There, you see? He’s grateful to you. What a clever boy he is!” she enthused. Xanthe could not help thinking that a clever dog would have found his way out of that burning building pretty quickly, but she thought it best not to say as much. The girl was sweet looking, with chestnut hair smoothly arranged beneath a starched white cap. Her gown was simple but expensive, made of a fine green wool, with a square lace collar and cuffs. She appeared healthy and confident, clearly enjoying the benefits of being a beloved daughter in a wealthy household.
“I’m glad your dog is unharmed,” Xanthe said, choosing her words with great care. Being a minstrel would only grant her so much leeway. She had no wish to say anything that would make her stand out or arouse suspicion. “Can you tell me what time it is?” she asked, aware that for her there were clocks ticking in two different centuries.
“Time? Oh, you mean the hour. Well, it was three in the afternoon when we went to table; Father likes to dine late in the day. That was when I noticed Pepito was missing. And the very moment I missed him we heard cries from the stables. The fire took hold so swiftly, it is a mercy no one was killed.”
“And the horses?”
“All survived, so Willis tells my father.”
At that moment the door opened and Master and Mistress Lovewell came into the room, apparently eager to inspect the curious stranger who had emerged sooty and unconscious, from the flames.
“How fares our mysterious visitor who delivered Pepito from the inferno?” the master of the house inquired. “Ah! You are quite recovered, I trust, Mistress?”
His wife looked less impressed by what she found. “Mistress? Better say vagabond.”
They made an odd pair. He was soft and short and round, his ample belly belted with braid and his clothes showy. Mistress Lovewell evidently preferred to dress plainly, her hair scraped back off her face severely and completely hidden beneath her white cap. She had a hardness about her that started with her angular features and continued through her steely stare.
“Come, come,” said Master Lovewell, “we must extend the hand of charity to one whose acts have benefitted us.”
“We know nothing of the girl,” his wife pointed out, not for a moment taking her gaze off the stranger in the bed.
“Oh, Mother, we know that she saved Pepito,” her daughter put in.
“We know that she acted bravely and selflessly,” Master Lovewell added.
“We know no such thing. She saved herself, and it may be that she saw the dog as a token for trading when her hiding place was no longer available to her.”
“Oh,” the master replied, smiling gently at Xanthe, “I doubt anyone would be capable of such clear and mendacious thought while the fire raged about them. I am certain I would not.”
His wife gave a dry snort. “There are some more suited to mendacity than others,” she said, leaning in to inspect the girl more closely. “Where are you from?” she demanded. “Who is your family.”
Xanthe sat up, doing her best to hit a note that was a blend of humility and honesty. Her voice was unhelpfully husky. “My name is Xanthe Westlake,” she said. They repeated it, puzzled, so that she quickly went on, “I am come from the west to perform at the fair. As for family, I have none.”
“Perform?” Mistress Lovewell’s narrow eyes narrowed further.
“I am a minstrel.”
“How jolly!” declared the master of the house.
“But how came you to be in our stables?” his wife wanted to know.
She trotted out her prepared story, praying it sounded more convincing than it felt.
“The band of players I was traveling with have gone their separate ways. I must find a new troupe, or else, perhaps, a private employer. I was weary when I arrived and did not want to present myself at your door without resting first. I confess I stole into your hayloft for a nap. When I awoke, the place was ablaze.”
“Oh, Mother! The Willoughbys at Harefield Manor have their own minstrel. It would be such a feather in our cap if we were to have one, too,” her daughter insisted.
“There are more important things than expressions of grandeur, Daughter. We have no need of a minstrel.”
“Let us not be too hasty, my dear,” said her husband. “Clara is right in what she says. It would be a demonstration of our elevated status, to have a singer in our employ. Imagine how such a thing would benefit our entertainments.”
“We do not entertain with sufficient frequency to warrant keeping a musician.”
Clara was all but jumping up and down, “But, Mother!”
“Your mother is right, Daughter,” Master Lovewell told her. “But it happens that we are also in need of a maid.” He allowed a little pause for his family to remind themselves of the fact that Alice was no longer available for work, now that she was locked up in the Marlborough jail. Xanthe glanced at the mistress’s face but she was giving nothing away. “I have heard,” her husband went on cheerily, “of those who employ a minstrel who, when their artistic talents are not required, works otherwise within the house. Tell us”—he turned to Xanthe—“have you experience as a lady’s maidservant?”
“Husband, you cannot mean for me to take this … unknown person as my own maidservant!”
“Oh, well, if you are uncertain as to her qualifications…”
“I am uncertain as to everything about her.”
“Then perhaps, work in the kitchens?” He raised his particularly mobile brows, first at his wife and then at Xanthe.
She made sure not to let her disappointment show. She needed to be as close to the mistress of the house as possible if she was to find out what happened to Alice, to find the chatelaine pieces. From what little she knew of the times, kitchen maids were seldom allowed anywhere near the private bedchambers of the family. They were also worked half to death. And yet, it was a chance to remain in the house, and the best offer she was likely to get.
“Oh yes, sir,” she answered brightly. “I am a hard worker as
well as a good singer. I promise I will not disappoint on either count.”
“There, Wife. What do you say about that?”
“I say we are short a maid. Mary can attend me, and you will take up her duties in the kitchens. One month’s trial. Make no mistake, girl, if you are not as you profess to be I shall have you thrown out.”
“As you wish, Mistress Lovewell,” she said demurely. “I thank you for your kindness.”
Clara was all for hearing her sing then and there, but her father pointed out that she was still suffering from a surfeit of smoke. It would be unfair to put anyone’s voice to the test until fully recovered and on best form. Xanthe was permitted to rest for a further hour, after which Mary would fetch her, show her where she would sleep, and then take her to the kitchen to learn her duties.
She waited until the family had left the room, when their dwindling footsteps and voices told her they were safely out of the way, before climbing out of bed. She winced as she stood up. She had been fortunate not to break any bones when falling through the floor in the stables, but she had certainly acquired some painful bruising, mostly on her back and shoulders. Her left elbow was swollen, the joint unhelpfully stiff, and there was a small but nasty burn on her right calf, which had been dressed with a sticky salve and a piece of muslin while she lay unconscious. She hobbled over to the window, cursing her shortsightedness at not bringing a first aid kit, or at least some painkillers, with her. As she unbuckled her satchel she noticed that her hands were trembling. The combination of leaping back through time and narrowly escaping dying in the barn fire had left her shaken. Not to mention the tension induced by the danger her mother was in. The thought of the fearsome ghost watching and waiting sent a chill rippling down her spine. Her own safety was far from assured. Clara and Master Lovewell seemed easy enough to convince of her good character and harmless intentions, but Mistress Lovewell was shrewd and sharp. Xanthe was going to have to tread carefully around her, which was not going to make helping Alice any easier. It looked as if no one had interfered with her bag or its contents. No doubt with a smoldering stable block and a singed spaniel, they had other things to think about. It was a mercy they had not started digging through her possessions. The chatelaine attachments that had traveled with her were still there. She wrapped them inside her headscarf and put them underneath the picnic rug. Next, she looked at her precious flashlight. What if they had checked her things and found it? How on earth would she have explained it? She had been lucky, this time, but to trust so much to chance was a dangerous tactic. She quickly took out the flashlight and tucked it into her bra. Looking out of the window she could see the family walking across the courtyard to examine the stables. The fire damage was extensive, with the roof almost completely gone and one end of the building collapsed. The Lovewells were going to have to spend a fair amount of money to put it right.
The Little Shop of Found Things--A Novel Page 15