“I shall deliver it myself,” she told him with as much authority as she could summon. Reluctantly, he let her pass. She had prepared herself for how strongly standing inside the blind house would affect her. The instant she stepped across the threshold she felt dizzy, short of breath, assailed by panic and the sense that all the suffering in the place was embedded in the rough, cold stone of its walls. What was more, she felt the heavy presence of Margaret Merton, no doubt lingering, a helpless observer, come to see that her daughter’s release was secured. In the darkness Xanthe could only just make out Alice’s pale form.
“Here,” Xanthe said gently. “You must stay strong. I implore you to trust me!” she whispered urgently. She feared that the chance of saving her mother was slipping through her fingers. Might she fail? What if she could not find the wretched silver, and Alice was condemned? The thought that her mother’s life hung in the balance, and that she was the only one who could save her, felt suddenly too great a weight to bear. “Alice, please!”
But, still, the girl would not talk to her.
“Come on, missy,” the constable chivvied. “I’ve better things to do with my day than stand out here in this sharp wind. Give the girl what she don’t deserve and come away now.”
She pushed the basket into Alice’s arms and briefly took hold of her hand. She turned her palm up and pressed into it the coins she had brought with her.
“I will return,” she told her. “I’ll come back so you can tell me. Do not lose hope.”
“Oi!” The constable had lost patience. “You wish to find yourself keeping the wench company all night?”
She stepped out of the jail, the lost souls who had once inhabited it whispering mournfully in her ear as she went, and above them all the sound of Mistress Merton calling her daughter’s name.
* * *
Back at Great Chalfield Xanthe was given little time to think about what she was going to do next. The preparations for Clara’s birthday feast seemed ridiculously elaborate and labor intensive. It seemed this wasn’t just a jolly party for a young girl and her family and friends, but a chance for the Lovewells to wine and dine influential people, and generally show off. Nothing was too fancy, too expensive, too rich, too flashy. Xanthe sensed that Mistress Lovewell fought against some of this excess, displays of wealth not sitting comfortably with her more puritanical way of dressing and presenting her family, but her husband was unstoppable. He wanted the world, or at least the part of it he cared about, to see how successful and grand he was, and he wasn’t going to stint on this opportunity to impress as many people as possible. In his daughter he found an eager supporter. Clara delighted in every bolt of silk brought in to decorate the hall, every crate of fruit arrived from London, every armful of flowers and herbs fetched from the gardens to scent the house. She flitted about, Pepito either in her arms or trotting at her heels, exclaiming and commenting on every item that passed under her nose. While her mother might not have shared her enthusiasm for all the trimmings and show, she was determined that everything should be done well. With Mary as her sergeant major she saw to it that every servant in the house was kept busy for the remainder of that day and well into the night.
Despite being completely exhausted, Xanthe slept badly. Her dreams were filled with pale faces looming at her from the darkness, and she woke from a nightmare where she had been locked up in the blind house herself, knowing no one was going to come to her rescue. And all the while, coloring everything was the knowledge of the danger her mother faced. It took her an age to get back to sleep, all the memories of her time in jail having resurfaced in a way that dreams so successfully provoke. In the daytime she could guard against the feelings those memories brought, could steel herself, distract herself, reason and make sense of things. At night she was assailed without any such barriers, and left feeling the wounds raw and new.
The next day continued at an even more hectic pace. As she went about her increasingly exhausting duties Flora was constantly in her mind. Her hope was that Alice would think about what she had said. Think about her, and decide that she had no choice but to trust the one person who was going to offer her help. Xanthe’s fear was that time would run out. The authorities would not keep Alice in the lockup for long. Soon she would be moved to a city where her trial would be held. And the further away she went the harder it would be for Xanthe to reach her, to talk to her, to gain the vital information needed to clear her name.
Clara’s birthday was one of those rare, bright days when the wind takes a break, the dirty October clouds go somewhere else, and there is just enough frost to touch everything with a crisp sparkle. It was as if the weather was bestowing a little gift of its own upon the birthday girl. The gardens looked enchanting, and the honey-colored stone of the house gleamed beneath the flattering autumn sunshine. Nevertheless, Mistress Lovewell fretted that the wreckage of the stables was an eyesore, that the weather was set to turn again to further ruin the road, and that the colder weather would mean more fires needed to stop guests taking a chill. Between her carping, Mary’s barking instructions at the servants all day long, the impossible workload, the biting cold, and Xanthe not knowing what she was supposed to be doing or how she was supposed to be doing it half the time, she barely had time to draw breath, let alone think of what she was going to do next for Alice. At one point, rushing through the kitchen with a tray of bread, Xanthe slipped and fell, dropping the entire batch.
“Doltish girl!” Mary shouted. “Not content with being the most useless of kitchen maids, now you are set upon wasting good food! Get up, girl. Get up and get on!”
Jayne came scurrying from the pantry and knelt beside Xanthe to help pick up the bread.
“Pay her no mind,” she grinned. “She’s had the mistress on her back since yesterday, and she passes it on to us.”
A nursery rhyme came into Xanthe’s head. “‘Big fleas have little fleas upon their backs to bite ’em, and little fleas have lesser fleas, and so ad infinitum.’”
Jayne let out a squawk of laughter, which drew withering stares from both Mary and Randolph. Together they rescued the best of the bread, putting the pick of the dirtied rolls into the servants’ basket, and the worst into the pig bucket. Xanthe was certain at that moment that a maidservant in Great Chalfield was definitely one of the smallest of fleas.
The feast was to be held at six o’clock. Guests would be greeted at the door by the master and mistress of the house and Clara, on this occasion, and shown into the Great Hall. A feast would be served that would last, she was told, for hours. There would be music and dancing, and Xanthe would be required to sing whenever Master Lovewell deemed the moment appropriate. By five thirty, the hall was at last ready, the food mostly prepared, the house scrubbed and polished, and all of those who might possibly be seen by the guests sent to change into clean aprons, cuffs, collars, and caps. From her attic bedroom she heard the first of the carriages arrive. It was obvious that guests came in families. Unmarried girls certainly couldn’t attend unaccompanied, and in any case, Xanthe imagined the care with which the guest list had been drawn up. Master Lovewell would have been making certain that anyone who counted, anyone who might be of use to him, or who might improve his standing just by visiting his house, would have had an invitation. It passed through her mind that there might well be a judge attending. A judge who might one day hold Alice’s fate in his hands. Would she be able to find him and speak with him? To put in a plea for her, just in case she failed to find the chatelaine pieces? It was unlikely Jayne would know who most of the guests were, and anyway she was too humble in the order of servants to be allowed to wait at table. Xanthe decided she would have to risk asking Mary.
The carriages came in many shapes and sizes but all suggested a level of wealth. In her mind she translated the picture to her own era and saw top-of-the-line Audis, BMWs, Mercedes, and even Rolls-Royces scrunching over the gravel.
One of the smaller conveyances—a modest covered carriage with a single dr
iver, no liveried footmen or flunkies, two black horses, and elegant but understated paintwork of burgundy and gold—stopped a little further from the house than the others, as if aware of its own lack of glamor. As the occupants climbed out she recognized them at once. Master Appleby alighted first, wearing a long cape with fur collar, followed by Joshua, all swagger and open smiles in an emerald-green jacket, and then Samuel, who was dressed in his preferred black, a little gold embroidery on his long jacket his only concession to the occasion. Samuel appeared to hang back from the others as if reluctant to join in. He didn’t strike her as a man who would enjoy a party, unlike his brother, who was already making elaborate bows and kisses over the hands of a red-haired girl and her mother. Even from the distance of her garret window Xanthe could see that Samuel wore an expression that said he would rather be anywhere else. At that moment he raised his head and looked straight at her. It was as if he had felt her watching him. She stepped back into the shadows of the room, telling herself the idea was nonsense. Even so, it truly did feel as if he had seen her—properly seen her—and she felt exposed under such scrutiny.
Jayne burst through the door. “Xanthe, cease your dreaming! Mary is fit to bust waiting for us all. Make haste, now.”
She followed Jayne downstairs. She had been loaned yet more dun-colored clothes, but at least the freshly starched white cuffs and collar lifted the look a bit. It made her think about how the modern notion of vintage clothing never included such humdrum everyday stuff. She had taken care to make sure her locket stayed out of sight, to avoid being questioned about owning something so valuable. Mary must have seen it when she undressed her after the fire, which was no doubt one of the reasons she didn’t entirely trust her. Jayne had helped Xanthe pin her hair beneath the grim cap but had persuaded her she could leave a few curls loose, given that she was as much singer as servant just for this one evening at least. A glance in the long hall mirror as she passed on her way to the kitchen confirmed that Xanthe did look a little less severe. Not that it really mattered. Why should she care about how she looked? The important thing was to go as unnoticed as possible, not to draw attention to herself. Even so, however much she liked to think she was no more vain than anyone else, it was surprisingly hard to go about knowing that she looked drab. More than that, she did not look like herself. Another modern-day idea, it seemed: the importance placed on the individual. A servant was barely a person in the eyes of their superiors, more a commodity. And that low regard appeared to give those same servants little self-worth, as if they understood they were easily expendable, speedily replaced, living largely invisible lives that left no trace.
The heat in the kitchen should have been welcome after the chill of the bedchambers, but it was overwhelming. The intense fire in the hearth seemed to be sucking all the air from the room. The spit had been set in place and on it turned a hog, basted and rotated by Peter, who had been taken from his beloved horses specifically for the task. He worked on with a grim face, resigned to his work, already flagging from the blast of the fire, splattered with spots of fat as the roasting pig spat angrily at him. Randolph looked almost as hot as the hog! He had stripped down to his hose and a thin linen jerkin, and still the sweat made his clothes cling to him in damp, pungent patches. Everyone performed their duties at a breathless run, and it was a wonder no one ran into anyone else. What air remained in the kitchens was heavy with the stink of cooking meat, burned sugar, boiled vegetables, and the acrid tang of sweat that only unwashed bodies could produce. Xanthe was grateful when she was at last instructed to take food up to the Great Hall, if only so that she could gulp fresher air.
The clamor of the kitchen was nothing when compared to the noise of the party itself. Although still early in the evening, there was a hearty buzz of excitement and good humor. It was not sufficient merely to be having a good time, everyone had to see—and certainly hear—that you were having a good time. The hall had been set out with the high table accommodating the family and what Xanthe took to be the most important guests. These included, on Clara’s right, a man with a particularly wide white ruff that somehow made him look as if his head was being presented on a platter. He was middle-aged, and not attractive, and could not take his eyes off of Clara. It did not take a genius to surmise that this was her father’s intended suitor for her. Poor thing. In certain matters she had even less freedom than the servants. Xanthe noticed that the girl’s own gaze repeatedly fell on one of the other tables that lined the room, and one guest in particular: Joshua Appleby. Even from halfway across the room he was managing to flirt with her. Samuel was seated between two women who were trying to engage him in conversation without much success. The room itself did look wonderful. There were flowers everywhere, from pink and white posies on the tables, to swags of ivy and tiny white flowers over the fireplace, to Clara’s requested rose bower above where she sat. Pale green silk had been unfurled on the walls, covering the dark tapestries, giving the illusion of grass or perhaps leaves, so that the whole place felt like a flower-filled garden in summer, rather than an imposing stone house in October. It smelled a great deal sweeter than the kitchens too, with herbs strewn over the floor, releasing their uplifting scents as they were crushed underfoot.
Trays of food were set down upon the tables, following Mary’s instructions, and the servants scuttled back to fetch more. On and on it went, more and more food, more and more drink. There might have been forty people in the room, but Xanthe could not believe even that number could eat everything that was set in front of them. There was a clear beef soup, whole steamed salmon, pies of all shapes and sizes, a centerpiece of four different birds stuffed one inside the other, the roast pork, the whitest of white bread, glazed fruits, flummeries and syllabubs and even jellies. All achieved without a single gadget, let alone a fridge. Following the custom of never drinking water, and given that beer or ale would have seemed a little lowly for such an occasion, everyone was supplied with red wine in their silver goblets or pewter tankards, so it wasn’t long before most of the guests were moving beyond merry into downright tipsy, and fast approaching drunk. After an hour of ferrying food up the stairs, clearing away discarded bones and half-eaten platefuls, and pouring yet more wine, Xanthe noticed Clara whisper something in her father’s ear and he rose, a little unsteadily, to his feet, clanging his bone-handled knife against his silver goblet to gain everyone’s attention.
“My Lords, ladies, honored guests, dear friends,” he addressed the room, beaming, the proudest of proud parents, happy to have his daughter, and his home, the focus of attention by so many people, if only for one evening. “It is a delight of the highest order to have you here tonight, to welcome you to our home, in order that we may give thanks to God for his bounty, and celebrate the anniversary of the day my sweet daughter was born.”
Here he paused to allow clapping and cheers. Clara smiled prettily. She was wearing a dress of the palest pink silk, with tiny green leaves embroidered on the tight-fitting bodice. The style of the time dictated that an unmarried woman could wear a low-cut gown, but she might preserve her modesty with a little lace or gauze tucked into the neckline. Clara had found what looked like fine chiffon, which was so sheer it actually hid nothing at all. It must surely have been the most daring thing she had ever been allowed to wear, and she knew precisely how beautiful she looked.
Her father went on. “They say a man lives on through his sons, and that may be so. Alas, the Lord has not seen fit to bless us with sons, but instead we have the gift of the sweetest, the most charming and dutiful daughter any parents could hope for. And, my friends, my greatest wish is to please her. Why would it not be?” He laughed, encouraging the guests to agree with him. “And my darling daughter tells me it is time for music!”
At this there was uproar—stamping of feet, shouts and cries, and more thunderous clapping. If Xanthe had been expecting some genteel affair with everyone behaving formally and primly she was having her eyes opened to what feasts were like in the seventee
nth century. This was no staid dinner party. There might be important people present, nobles, people of rank and power, but they were here to enjoy themselves, and given the amount of wine they had already guzzled, they were going to enjoy themselves noisily and rowdily.
To her horror Xanthe saw that Clara was on her feet and was beckoning her to step closer to the top table. She had known she would be asked to sing, of course, but had put it to the back of her mind.
“Soon we will have the musicians play and there will be dancing,” Clara said to the room. “But first, something to lift your souls, one and all. See?” She indicated Xanthe with a sweep of her hand. “We have our very own minstrel!”
There was an appreciating bit of oohing and aahing.
“She is newly arrived in Wiltshire, never heard before in this region. I promise you a rare treat indeed!”
Again there was a deal of foot-stamping and cheering.
Xanthe’s stomach clenched. This was not the crowd she had been expecting. She had a horrible feeling “The Willow Song” was not going to find favor with all these half-drunk revelers. How would they have the patience to sit through something so gentle and quiet? And why would they want a sad song to spoil their upbeat mood? The other servants were sent from the room, and a terrifying hush began to fall. After much shushing and admonishments the hall was at last silent. With Xanthe standing at the center of it, without so much as a glass of water, sweat sticking her hair to her neck, her face horribly shiny, she cleared her throat as best she could. This was no time to give a feeble performance. She must not allow nerves to get the better of her. If she let Master Lovewell down in front of all those people he would have no desire to retain to remind him of the humiliation. She took two deep breaths. She had to forget that she was a servant, had to forget that she was hundreds of years from home. She had to forget everything except the song and the music and her own voice.
The Little Shop of Found Things--A Novel Page 21