“Happen a fire would make a good distraction. All the better for you.”
“What? You think I started it? No! I promise you, I did not.”
“’Tis curious the fire began when it did, then.”
“I don’t know how the fire started, but you will find another explanation. I would never do such a thing.”
“She saved Pepito,” Peter reminded him. It was only later she would remember how the boy looked when he spoke. He looked … ashamed. Guilty, perhaps. At the time it meant nothing, but she would later recall that Peter loved to steal stubs of candles from the house. She knew he hated the dark: it made perfect sense. For a naked flame and an attic full of hay are a dangerous combination, especially when in the hands of a young boy.
“What of it? What better way to win favor with the family?”
She took a step forward, knowing she had to convince him.
“Willis, I could no more start a fire in those stables than you could. I would never risk harming the boy. You must see that.”
He considered this. She could tell he was remembering the night she had stayed, the time she had spent with Peter. At last he seemed to satisfy himself that she was not capable of putting a small boy’s life in danger, not if she were truly come to help Alice. He nodded at Peter.
“Give him the victuals,” he said. “We’ve not time to stop, mind. Everything’s to be moved from here over to the grain barn. Though it’ll be the devil’s own job to keep the mice from the master’s leather.” He shook his head in dismay.
“And the horses?” she asked. “All are well?”
“They are. Will likely set them back, that’s certain. A scare like that…” He left the thought unfinished and moved on. Peter followed, peering under the cloth, hungry for the contents of the basket.
Xanthe waited until they had their backs to her and then slipped behind the barn. She knew she would soon be missed and must return to the kitchen, but she wanted to look once more at the stables. Why had the chatelaine brought her precisely there? The first time she had arrived on the road as Alice passed in the carriage. She had thought that might have been connected to the vision of the dark woods with the birds apparently singing at night, but there weren’t many trees by the road, only the ditch and open pasture. The second time she had arrived directly inside the manor house. What was it about the hayloft? She feared she might never find the answer, as the whole thing had collapsed into the building. Nothing up on that level had survived. Even the window in the end wall, surrounded by wattle and daub and timbers rather than stone, had fallen, charred and ruined, to the floor. She turned and stood facing across the sweeping countryside, as if she had been looking out of the window. On the occasion when she had arrived in the house she had been looking southward, so that she had witnessed Alice being taken. Perhaps she was not supposed to notice something in the hayloft, but something she could see looking out of it. The swath of green swept downward, the direction being the same Alice had taken when she ran to get away from the men taking her to jail. The land was well grazed by sheep, with some impressive trees here and there. In the distance Xanthe could see a track and a stream meandering along the valley. There was a copse—could that be linked to the woodland the chatelaine had shown her? It was possible, but she could see nothing remarkable, nothing that meant anything, nothing obviously significant.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of horses’ hoofbeats and men’s voices coming from the front of the house. It seemed the Lovewells had visitors. She was unable to see them from where she was and was glad she would not be spotted by people coming out of the front door to greet the new arrivals. She found she could get into the stables and decided to creep through the ravaged building, so that she might make her way back toward the kitchens without being seen. The fewer people she had to encounter the better, unless they could be in some way useful. At this point she needed to be as invisible as possible, until she was more certain of whom she could trust, and who might be able to help her. The inside of the stables still stank of smoke and wet wood where the fire had been doused. It was surprising that the whole building had not been lost. The fact that the main part of the stables were built of stone rather than cheaper wood and lathe and plaster was what had saved it. The interior that remained was in a poor condition, however, with heaps of charred harness and blankets, piles of sodden hay, and everywhere blackened pieces of beams, rafters, and floorboards. At times she had to lift a fallen floorboard to go on. She picked her way through the debris and had nearly reached the doorway on the other side, clambering over the remains of a manger, when a voice startled her so much she almost lost her balance.
“Take not another step!” commanded the man who had just entered the building through the carriage doorway. “Not a single one!”
She stood as still as she could, at the same time trying to turn to see who was shouting orders at her. There came a young man, well dressed, slightly dour-looking. As she turned, the manger shifted under her hand and she stumbled, falling back against an upright beam which wobbled, causing a shower of filthy ash and wet charcoal to rain down upon her. When it stopped moving she held her breath, waiting to see if more would fall. As the cloud of dust and ash cleared, the stranger came into view, climbing over the wreckage on the floor.
“Here,” he said, reaching out to her, “take my hand.”
She did as she was told. She expected him to carefully help her out, but instead he hauled her across the debris, pulling her from where she stood with such force and so little care that she could not stop herself from shouting.
“Hey! Steady on!” She protested as she was all but dragged from the corner of the stall, wincing as the burn on her leg brushed against a charred plank of wood.
She would have said more but at that second there was a terrifying rumble and a large section of the stone wall came crashing down, sending up plumes of mortar dust and more ash. When it settled she saw how close she had come to being crushed. If she had not been pulled out when she was she would have ended up underneath most of what fell.
The stranger was still holding her hand.
“You are unharmed?” he asked.
“Yes,” she coughed, then tried again. “Yes, I am. Thank you—”
“Do not waste what breath you have on thanking me, mistress,” he interrupted. “I would rather you put your mind to your own safety, so that you might not cause any further devastation.”
“What?” She wiped grit from her face, her hand coming away smeared with soot, and she realized she was covered in the dark residue of the fire.
“Your actions not only placed your life in peril, but have brought about further damage to the building. Damage that will not be put right without both cost and effort,” he insisted, gesticulating at the gap where the wall used to stand. He let go of her hand and regarded her with a stern stare. She considered he might not have been quite so sure of himself had he been able to see that he too was reduced to looking quite ridiculous, being similarly covered in wet soot and ash. “If you care not for your own neck,” he went on, “spare a thought for the work of others and, I pray you, resist adding to their burden if you are able.”
“Now wait a minute,” she said, snatching the ruined cap from her head and attempting to shake ash from it and from her hair. “You make it sound like I was trying to get myself killed. For heavens’ sake, I was just running an errand from the kitchens. I don’t know what you’re doing in here, but it seems to me that I’m the only one trying to do any work.” His clothes, even through their layer of soot, did not have the appearance of those worn by someone who spent his life toiling in the fields or acting as a servant to others. His frown had altered into a look of puzzlement, and only then did she realize that her little outburst was full of modern phrases that must have made him think her decidedly strange.
The sound of laughter came from the doorway and another young man entered. Xanthe recognized him as one of the three she had seen visiting the
house the last time she had been there. Now that she looked more closely she remembered the other one, too. He was the reason she had hidden in the dairy. He was the one she had feared might have seen her.
“For truth, brother, what curious creature have you cornered here?” asked the newcomer. There wasn’t much of a family resemblance. This second one looked younger, fairer, and had an easy smile. The first had dark looks to match his temper.
“A person endeavoring to bring the remnants of the rafters down upon her head,” he said.
His younger brother gave a wide smile. “It seems she near succeeded, judging by the state of her.”
Xanthe frowned, jamming the cap back onto her head. This only amused him more, causing him to start laughing again.
His brother shook his head. “Joshua, I have not time for such … foolishness.”
“Come, Samuel, you are not currently giving the appearance of seriousness yourself,” he said, raising his brow a little.
At this, the older brother looked down at his filthy clothes, took out a handkerchief, wiped his face, and gasped in irritation at the soot that came away.
The younger one continued to laugh even as he bowed toward Xanthe with mock formality, pointedly taking off his velvet hat, which he swept low, then replaced firmly on his head, backward.
With a sinking feeling, she reached up to pat her own cap and found that she had indeed put it on back to front. She removed it, stuck her chin in the air, turned on her heel, and strode with what little dignity she could muster out of the disintegrating building, the sound of Joshua’s laughter accompanying her and Samuel’s glare following her as she crossed the yard back toward the house.
14
Mary would not allow Xanthe to set foot inside the door.
“What manner of calamity has befallen you? Such a state! Get out before you press soot and filth upon the rest of us,” she snapped. “Jayne, for the sake of us all, take her to the pump. And do not return until you are in a fit condition!” she added, pushing the young maidservant out toward Xanthe and slamming the door on them both.
Jayne trotted off ahead. “We must be quick,” she said as she ran toward the water pump behind the dairy. She grabbed the handle and began pumping water from the spout. “Mary will set about us if we tarry. Here, place your hands beneath the spout. We can do nothing about your clothes until they are cleaned, at least.” She spoke as she worked, her tiny body so much stronger than it looked. Xanthe soon learned that Jayne did everything at double speed. She had so many duties, was supposed to be in so many places at once, her only hope of getting everything done was to work at a run. Xanthe tried to imagine a modern teenager doing all that this scrap of a girl had to do. Tried and failed.
The water was so cold it sent painful shocks up Xanthe’s arms as she used it to rub the grit from her hands.
“Your face, too,” said Jayne. “Heavens, whatever were you doing to get in such a messy state?”
“I tried to walk back through the stables. I … didn’t want to be seen by the visitors,” she explained, reasoning that servants were accustomed to keeping out of sight.
“Oh, you mean the Applebys?” Jayne could not hide her interest and even blushed prettily.
“They are brothers?”
“Master Samuel and Master Joshua Appleby, yes,” she said, a wistful note in her voice. “They are here with their father. Engaged by Master Lovewell to undertake improvements to the house. They construct such fine buildings! The most sought after of master builders in the country, some do say.”
Somehow Xanthe thought Jayne’s interest in the young men had little to do with their profession. “They were looking at the damage done to the stables. Perhaps they will help with rebuilding those, too,” she suggested, handing Xanthe her blackened cap.
Xanthe took it between finger and thumb, horrified at the sight of the wretched thing.
“I do hope so, for then they should be right here outside the kitchens for many weeks to come!” Jayne beamed at the thought.
Xanthe tried a smile. “So which of the brothers do you favor?” she asked.
“I?” She turned even pinker. “’Tis not for the likes of me to think of them so!”
“Maybe not, but, well … if you had to say?” She leaned in so that the maid could whisper.
Jayne glanced back at the house with a giggle, then blurted out. “Joshua! Oh! He is a fine young man, do you not think so?”
“I haven’t known him long enough to form an opinion.”
“But you have eyes to see! His are the very bluest, like the sky at midsummer. And he has the brightest smile, did you not notice?”
“I had other things to think about,” she told her, indicating her ruined apron.
Jayne took that from her, too. “I will lend you one of mine. And another cap. We can wash these later, so Mary will have no cause for handing out punishments. You don’t wish to go without your supper, do you?”
“She would do that? For a bit of soot?”
Jayne gasped and shook her head. “What manner of household do you come from where maidservants might ruin the clothes they have been given and not feel the weight of their actions? Or were you treated differently because you are a minstrel as well as a servant?” She offered her a clean corner of Xanthe’s apron for drying her hands and then took her up to the attic room they were to share. She skipped up the two flights of stairs and was barely out of breath when they reached their humble quarters. Xanthe fell to a bout of coughing, trying to get the last of the smoke from her lungs. She could happily have flopped onto the mattress and slept again, but there was no chance of that. Jayne bundled her into a fresh apron, making her promise to return it in good condition so that she would not get into trouble. She struggled to set another cap upon her head.
“I never did see such curls!” she said. “Mistress Clara will be wanting hers tonged and teased to be just so, mark my words. Makes me pity Mary this once, that she will be the one to have to try to please her. She has not Alice’s touch with dressing ladies’ hair.” At the mention of Alice’s name Jayne’s natural brightness dimmed.
“You must be worried about her,” Xanthe said gently. “You shared a bedchamber and worked together. You were friends, I should imagine?”
“Such a kind, sweet girl,” she said, her eyes filling with tears.
“You do not believe her to be guilty of stealing?”
“Never! She was good, and honest, and could not do such a thing! It has all been a terrible misunderstanding.”
“But the pieces of silver, the chatelaine attachments … they are still missing.”
“That is precisely what they are: missing. Not stolen! Yet Mistress Lovewell appears determined to see Alice branded a thief and sent away to some dreadful fate.”
Xanthe put a steadying hand on the girl’s arm. “We must do what we can to help Alice. The house was searched for the missing items, wasn’t it?”
“The master had us turn it upside down! But we found nothing. And since nothing else is missed, and only Alice was permitted in our mistress’s chamber…” Jayne sniffed loudly, wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “And now poor Alice sits in the lockup in Marlborough, alone and terrified, with no one to come to her aid! Mary says she will be soon taken to the inquest in Salisbury and judgment passed before we can do so much as take her food!”
Xanthe took Jayne’s hands and squeezed them. “This is not justice, Jayne. And Alice is not without friends. Do not give up hope. We will help her, you and I.”
They would have talked further, but Mary’s stern voice carried up the stairwell, demanding they return to their duties at once.
As the morning went on, Xanthe did her best to fetch, carry, and clean without revealing her lack of experience, trying all the while to fathom what she must do to prove Alice’s innocence. She’d come this far—and it was very far!—but what now? She could not take herself off to town and hire a lawyer to defend the girl. No more could she
face Mistress Lovewell and remind her she had no proof and insist she withdraw her accusations. And it was fantasy to think she could reach the lockup and somehow release Alice from what she knew to be a strong and secure building. More and more it seemed to her that the answer lay with finding the missing pieces of the chatelaine. And her best chance of knowing where to look was to talk to Alice. If she had not taken them, she might at least have an idea of who else could have, or where they might be. However tense Xanthe’s own situation, however bewildering her tasks and exhausting the work, it was so much worse for Alice. Every time she thought of her locked up in the dark—cold, hungry, scared, and trapped—her chest tightened and she felt panic rising inside her, robbing her of breath. It was as if their connection was strengthened by their shared experience of being incarcerated. Of hearing that door slam shut, the lock turn, and knowing that they were alone and confined. And no amount of weeping or shouting or pleading would change that. The idea of such powerlessness, such helplessness was in itself a terrifying thing. On top of which, the closer Alice’s fate came to being sealed, the greater the danger for Flora. Xanthe found that every time she let her thoughts turn to her mother she was consumed by a feeling of desperation. She had come here in order to protect Flora, but she felt so far away from her. Mistress Merton had clearly demonstrated what she was capable of. Would Flora be safe in the house with her? How long would the ghost wait for Xanthe to do what she wanted? Might she not lose patience, or hope, and take her frustration out on Flora? Xanthe’s mind was jolted back from such thoughts by Jayne’s excited voice.
“Look!” Jayne beckoned to her and pointed out of the kitchen window. “The Applebys!”
Sure enough, the brothers were there, taking measurements of the wreckage of the stables. Their father had joined them and seemed to be directing the work. He looked prosperous but not grand. When Master Lovewell appeared, there was a marked contrast between the two older men. Where the architect wore his clothes with understated elegance, Master Lovewell was all show and bluster, trying much too hard to pass himself off as nobility. He might have been the richer man, but he was a strutting bantam cockerel beside the master builder’s subtle but powerful hawk. Xanthe wondered how they were viewed by their own society. Which one was more respected? Did money talk louder than intelligence and refinement in the seventeenth century? Probably. Why was it that the things her own time had in common with this slice of the past were mostly the things everyone would be better off without? Were people only capable of passing on the worst of themselves to future generations?
The Little Shop of Found Things--A Novel Page 17