In the silence that followed his speech even the fire seemed to quieten. It was clear Samuel had been conflicted about building the jail, but in the end he had done what he had to. How could she judge him? She had not lived through an era where a monarch could send people to the executioner for holding beliefs other than his or her own. Or for refusing to uphold the rule of law. Or even for not declaring oneself fully as supporter of the crown in every way.
Xanthe wanted to say something to make him see that she understood.
“Samuel…” she began, and he started, surprised at her using his name. She got no further, however, as there came sounds of someone entering the house, the front door banging open and then shut, wind rattling anything that wasn’t tied down in the hallway, shouted greetings, Philpott’s trotting feet, and then the door of the sitting room being thrown wide. Joshua, clothes wet, hatless hair disheveled, eyes bright, strode in.
“Hell’s teeth, what a tempest rages without, Samuel … oh!” He stopped, taking in the curious sight of his brother sitting on the floor with a woman, both of them rain-damp and sticky with honey and crumbs. “What’s this? A new fashion of entertaining, brother?” He laughed, tugging off his gloves and dropping them carelessly on a chair. “I know you, do I not? Why yes, it is our little songbird. What strong wings you must have, to have flown against this stormy blast.”
Samuel scrambled to his feet, plainly cross at being teased by his younger brother.
“Your mouth opens and nonsense falls out of it, whatever the weather, Joshua,” he snapped, pushing his hair off his face and dusting down his velvet jacket. He was taller than his brother and slightly broader at the shoulders. There were small similarities about their features, but otherwise there was nothing to suggest they were related at all. Xanthe noticed that the instant he was in Joshua’s company the other, more inhibited, more unreachable version of Samuel reappeared. “Mistress Westlake is here to help me with the drawings for the screen. She has seen the one at Drillington Hall. Now, if you’ll excuse us.” He held out his hand and helped Xanthe to her feet. She let him lead her past his smirking brother and out of the room.
They walked along a narrow hallway and through two more doors. She had the impression that the home of the Applebys was a fine example of a townhouse of the day, but a long way from the grandeur and space of the Lovewell’s manor house. The studio was at the back of the building and formed one side of a small courtyard, one other side being the rear of the house itself, and the two others high brick walls, one with the gateway that led through to the stables and barn. There was a small herb garden, cobbles set in careful geometric patterns, an espaliered fruit tree, and some rose bushes beside a seat. Somehow she doubted the men spent much time drifting about among the flowers. The studio was one large, airy space, the room without a ceiling and open to the rafters. Priority had been given to light rather than warmth, with as much in the way of windows as could be fitted in. There were desks and cupboards on one end, with drawing boards and tables at the center, while the far end, more than half the building, was taken up with carpenter’s tools, samples of wood and marble, bits of slate, tiling, stonework, and just about anything that might one day form part of a building. Samuel and his father might not actually heft the stones themselves anymore, but they clearly liked to work their designs closely with the materials, using this type of stone or that type of wood to inspire and inform their work. She could smell sawdust and plaster and the wood itself.
Samuel seemed not to notice the cold, but it made Xanthe start rubbing her arms. It did not help that her clothes were still damp. He had been in such a hurry to escape his brother he’d forgotten all about Philpott’s dire warnings of lethal chills. Xanthe decided she would wait a while to bring up the subject of Alice again. She needed to get him on her side before asking for his help, and she was not even clear in her mind what that help would look like. How much power and influence did the Applebys have?
“Here,” he said, unfurling drawings on the central table. “These are the altered plans I have worked since we spoke. See, I have adjusted the angle on the arch above the doorway. And to balance it, the uprights are more slender … here and here. Is it as you recall?”
“Wow. I mean, yes, much more like it. It’s going to be a nightmare to actually make, isn’t it? All that cutaway wood … Really fragile for something so big.”
“It is a challenge, certainly. And the wood the carpenter must work in is unhelpfully prone to splitting.” He went to a corner where pieces of dark wood were leaning against the wall. He selected a section that had already been planed but not carved and brought it over for her to look at.
“But it is beautiful,” she said, running her hand over the burnished surface. The rich brown glowed with flashes of deepest red. She smiled at him. “It will reward the effort, don’t you think?”
He looked up from the wood sample and did not answer straight away. His expression of surprise and interest made her realize it was probably the first time he had ever seen her smile. Her time at Great Chalfield, her time in his time, had been so fraught, so full of anxiety, with the possibility of being caught out in a lie always with her, as well as the likelihood that she could fail Alice and that Flora would pay the price for it, not least because she might accidentally step back to her own century, all these things meant she must have looked constantly tense, worried, even frightened. But then, with Samuel, in his home, sharing a love of beautiful things and exquisite craftsmanship, just for a moment, all of that had slipped her mind. It was just him and her, in his place of work, in his life, sharing his hopes and dreams, glimpsing what it meant to be him in his world that was so strange to her, and yet in some details strangely familiar, too.
“You have an eye for such things,” Samuel said at last. “It is not something given to all.”
And so they turned all their attention to the work at hand. She was given fresh paper and pen and ink, which she began with messily and clumsily. Samuel was patient, letting her find her way with the drawing pen made of wood and swan’s feather, until slowly her drawings started to make sense. He made his own sketches from her descriptions too, and they talked about how best to achieve the look of the original piece. The storm buffeted the building, making the roof creak and the branches of the fruit trees strain against their ties to scrape at the walls and windows. The relentless rain continued all afternoon. There was a small stove in the studio, but it gave out a feeble heat which was hopeless in such an open, drafty space. Xanthe found that she did not care. She quickly forgot about the cold, and an hour passed, and then another, as together they worked on, totally absorbed in what they were doing, removed from the world and all its worries.
The heavy skies and gathering gloom had already forced Samuel to light lamps when Philpott entered the room apologetically.
“Forgive me, Master Samuel, but your father is returned. He brings news of the road north—it has flooded two miles out of Marlborough, and he informs me there is no possibility of either horse or carriage successfully making the journey back to Great Chalfield today.”
Samuel and Xanthe exchanged glances. She had almost forgotten she would have to return to the Lovewells that same day. Now, it seemed, she would not have to, after all. She felt a little flutter of happiness at the news, quickly followed by a nervousness when she realized it was staying in Samuel’s company that made her feel that way.
Philpott asked, “Shall I have Amelia prepare the guest bedchamber, sir?”
“What? Oh, yes. We will convey Mistress Westlake home in the morning. No doubt the storm and floods both will have abated by then.”
“No doubt, sir. Also, Master Appleby requested that supper be served as soon as possible, and asks that you and your … guest join him in the dining hall at your earliest convenience.”
“We will come this minute,” said Samuel, putting things away as he spoke. “The light is too poor to work further as it is.”
“How early it gets dark in
October,” Xanthe murmured, seeing her own face reflected in the black glass of the window.
Samuel gave a light laugh. “I have surely kept you here too long,” he said. “Do you not know this day is the first of November?”
“Already? The time is passing so quickly,” she said, fighting a jolt of panic at the thought that for herself, and for Flora, the clock was ticking.
They trooped back into the house and went to the sitting room. Joshua was nowhere to be seen, but Master Appleby was standing by the fire, warming his hands over the flames.
“Ah, Samuel, there you are. Good. I must dine soon lest I faint for want of food. All day at the home of Lord Avebury, discussing plans for the east wing and not offered so much as a crust of bread.” He stopped, noticing Xanthe, taking in her unpinned hair and shabby maid’s clothes. He did not ask why she was there, so she guessed that he already knew why Samuel had brought her to the house. He frowned, turning to his son. “Your guest looks every bit as in need of food and rest as I. You have been a poor host, I fear.”
“Father, Mistress Westlake has been of tremendous assistance to me with my work on the screen for Great Chalfield. I confess I had not noticed how time had passed.”
Master Appleby took a step toward her. He seemed to be studying her closely, and she sensed he was less than pleased about having his son spend so much time alone with a maidservant. She expected to be sent to the kitchen for her food and dismissed for the evening. Instead, he took her hand, bowed briefly over it, and then smiled, the same face-transforming smile that his son had inherited.
“I hope you will forgive Samuel’s social ineptitude, mistress. Allow me to right his wrongs. You are most welcome in our home. The inclement weather prevents us from returning you to the care of the Lovewells this night, but I trust you will be content to remain here a little longer. Let us go to table. Samuel, fetch your brother, if you please. And instruct Philpott to send for Amelia’s grandmother, so that she may stop the night here.”
“Amelia’s grandmother?” Samuel asked.
“Yes, for pity’s sake, would you so recklessly risk Mistress Westlake’s reputation? She cannot spend a night alone in a house peopled entirely by men. Amelia, as is her habit, will return to her parents’ house after dark. Show some concern, Samuel, some interest in the good lady’s well-being. In truth, mistress, at times I despair of my son’s ability to conduct himself in company. Now, will you join me?” He offered his arm, which she took, and he escorted her to the dining room.
If any space in the Appleby’s house could be said to encapsulate the difference between their home and that of the Lovewell’s it was this one. No Great Hall for them. This was not a room for showing off, nor for entertaining on a grand scale or demonstrating wealth and status. This was a room for intimate dining, for the sharing of food with family and friends, for quiet meals and close conversation. It was large enough to accommodate a long, oak table at its center, around which were ten chairs, plain ones at the sides and more elaborate carvers with arms at either end. The walls of the room were paneled not with the dark, somber wood used at the manor house, but with soft, light oak, waxed and burnished to allow its natural color and richness to glow. At the far end of the room was a deep fireplace with a stone mantelpiece above it. Set into one side were two mullioned windows that overlooked the green and the other handsome town houses outside. On the other long wall were oil paintings, portraits of slightly austere ladies in plain but elegant clothes and similar men. Ancestors, Xanthe decided. The room was lit mostly with candles in pewter sticks on the table, or iron sconces on the walls. The feel of the room was warm, relaxed, and friendly. The table was laid with good quality pewter, with simple wooden or plain silver spoons. People would have their own knives. The only concession to luxury was the glass goblets, which were palest blue and had small red stones set into the stems. The floorboards were bare, so that their footsteps rattled as they entered the room. She was given a seat halfway down the table. Joshua arrived and amid good-natured jostling everyone took their places, Master Appleby at the head of the table, Samuel to his right, next to his guest, and Joshua to his left. Philpott and the maidservant, Amelia, brought watered wine in a carafe; warm bread; a thick, beefy broth in wooden bowls; a dish of mashed vegetables; a large grilled trout dressed in an herb sauce; and two roasted birds that looked too small to be chickens. Xanthe guessed at guinea fowl. There was also a bowl of apples and a truckle of cheese with a shiny yellow rind. It was good, wholesome food, carefully prepared, the level of meat showing this was an affluent household but one that did not believe in excess or waste.
Philpott addressed the master of the house. “Grandmother Garvy has arrived, sir. She will sup with us downstairs before Amelia leaves for home and will sleep in the attic bedroom. Will there be anything more, sir?”
“Nothing, Philpott. Get you to your supper, man. We will not be late up tonight I think.”
Joshua gave a light laugh at this. “So say you, father. Samuel mayhap has plans to keep our guest awake until dawn breaks so as to further bother her with details of his beloved screen.”
Samuel refused to take the bait. “Some of us keep work in the forefront of our minds, brother.”
“Oh? Are you accusing me of shirking my duties?” he asked with a grin, tearing off a chunk of bread and dunking it in his broth bowl.
“Unlike you, Joshua, I take little interest in the business of others.”
“Ha!” Master Appleby put down his wine goblet. “You will not persuade your brother of the good sense of that, Samuel.” Xanthe wondered what he meant by this, but he did not elaborate. Instead he turned to her and said, “You see we are a home without the improving presence of a woman, Mistress Westlake. My dear wife was taken into the Lord’s loving arms four years since, and I fear we are rough company without her. My sons are all but feral at times.”
The idea of such well-mannered men being described as wild made her laugh out loud. She felt all eyes watching her then. It was hard to keep thinking, every minute, of how a seventeenth-century girl would react, would behave. Would someone in her position, someone from the servant classes, who had nothing and nobody, would she think these people unrefined? Would she allow herself to laugh in their company? There was a very good chance she would give herself away with everything she did and said. She had to hope her being a minstrel, and therefore someone already outside normal society, would excuse most of her strangeness.
“Please do not concern yourself on my account,” she told Master Appleby. “I have been shown every consideration.” The language felt strange to her, overly formal, and not, in fact, what she had been using with Samuel. Had he noticed? They had been so busy working, perhaps he had not been paying attention to the way she spoke. She saw, in that moment, that she had the attention of the whole family. She could not let the opportunity pass. “I wonder, Master Appleby,” she went on carefully, “have you heard of the young woman from Great Chalfield who stands accused of theft? Her name is Alice, and I believe, indeed I know her to be innocent.”
“Master Lovewell did mention something of the matter, though I’m afraid he does not hold your opinion of the girl. Seems she will not speak up for herself, beyond insisting on her lack of guilt, and the mistress of the house is adamant no one other could have taken the pieces of her chatelaine. They were of some value.…” He let the statement hang, shaking his head as if to say this was enough to explain everything that had happened. And everything that would happen to Alice as a consequence.
Samuel surprised Xanthe by saying, “I have agreed to look into the matter, Father. Mistress Westlake is distressed that the maidservant is being treated unjustly.”
“Why, Samuel,” Joshua poured himself more wine, “do you see yourself as a gallant knight, galloping to the defense of a damsel? Or two damsels perhaps.” He paused to look Xanthe over in a way that was all too familiar and not in any way limited to the 1600s. “The evidence before me suggests it is our guest you wish to
help. An understandable wish, if I might be permitted to say so.”
Samuel narrowed his eyes at his brother. “The day has not yet come when you require permission to say whatever fevered thoughts come into your mind.”
“Brother, have I hit the nub?”
“Joshua,” Master Appleby flapped his napkin at his son, “mind your manners. Samuel, I shall make inquiries regarding the case, though you know as well as I, there will be little I can do if no evidence is brought forward to support Mistress Westlake’s belief in the girl’s innocence.”
Xanthe put on her best smile. “I would be so very grateful, Master Appleby, if you could try.”
She felt all three men staring at her then and became suddenly painfully conscience of her loose hair. She knew enough of the customs of dress of the time to know that it was quite shocking to be at dinner with men, unchaperoned, in such a casual and unladylike state. Somehow adding a bright smile only made it worse, made her seem as if she were flirting. Why had she not taken time to read up on seventeenth-century etiquette before landing herself among people who noticed such tiny details and read enormous amounts of importance into them? It did not help that everything she was given to drink seemed to contain alcohol. Useful for steadying the nerves but potentially hazardous when it came to playing a part she knew so little about. She did her best to look a little more serious and tried not to meet anyone’s eye.
“I wish only to help someone who has no one else to stand for her,” she said quietly. “It surely cannot be her fault that she has lost her entire family and finds herself alone. Who better than to take up her cause than me, a young woman who must also find her way in the world without the support of wealth or kin? After all, are we not measured by the way in which we treat the most vulnerable members of our society?”
At this, Xanthe felt a subtle shift in the way she was being regarded.
“Quite so,” said Master Appleby, sufficiently reassured of her good character to continue with his meal.
The Little Shop of Found Things--A Novel Page 24