“There is a cellar beneath the main house where we keep our wine and beer and most of the stores for the kitchen: tallow, lamp oil, candles, flour, and so on. The two cellars are connected by that door there.” He pointed to a plain wooden door just visible in the gloom of the basement. “In here we keep further stores, winter vegetables and salted meats, as well as items for our work that we need only infrequently.”
Xanthe wandered the space, running her fingers over the worn barrels, peering into crates. She identified carrots put into sand to preserve them, apples set carefully apart from one another on a cool stone shelf, another taken up with scallions and turnips. There were crates covered in burlap and labeled GYPSUM or LIME or other items that might be used for the finer aspects of building. The air in the space was dry at least, with no hint of damp, but the height of the ceiling and the darkness all began to work on Xanthe’s deep-rooted fearful memories. While she wanted to gain Samuel’s trust, she hoped she would not have to linger in the dark cellar.
“It is all so … orderly,” she said. “And useful.” She came to stand in front of him, looking at him levelly. “But I don’t think you brought me down here to impress me with your housekeeping, did you?”
Samuel shook his head. He turned to a pile of flour sacks and set to shifting them, one by one, until the floor was revealed. The flagstones beneath were large and smooth and had the appearance of having been laid many years before. Samuel scuffed the small amount of spilled flour and sawdust laid down against any rising dampness. Only now Xanthe could see that there were three small holes in the nearest flag. Samuel took an iron bar from a nearby hook and inserted its hooked end into one of the holes. With some effort he heaved at the flat stone. It scraped against the gritty earth and onto the flag beside it, revealing a cavity beneath. Samuel fetched the lamp and held it so that its faltering light fell at their feet. Xanthe leaned forward and saw that there was a small space cut into the floor, lined with wood.
“What’s it for?” she asked.
“What do you suppose?”
“Valuables, maybe? To keep money?”
“It is indeed for something precious, for it may be all that protects our greatest freedom; that which allows us to follow our hearts and preserve our souls.”
Xanthe frowned, and then, at last, she understood. She recalled visiting a grand house in the north of England, when she was only a child, and being shown just such a place by a tour guide. A hiding place. She shivered as she recalled the purpose for these constructions and the fate of people who might have been desperate enough to use them.
“It’s a priest hole!” she said, dropping to her knees to inspect it more closely. The cavity was barely six feet long and three feet wide. Just big enough for a man to lie down in. It was cut deep into the ground, so that he would also have been able to crouch or sit. The boards that lined it were of hardwood, free from mold or moisture, but affording no comfort. She imagined what it might have been like for a priest to flee for his life to this place, to scramble down into the hole to avoid discovery and evade searching soldiers, no doubt with a jar of ale and a piece of bread thrown in after him, and to have the horribly heavy stones dragged into place above his head. There would have been no light other than that which could enter through the three tiny holes, which might anyway have been covered by sawdust and sacks. It must have been distressingly cramped and claustrophobic.
“But, there would be no air,” she said, shaking her head. “Samuel, how would anyone breathe in such a place?”
“That is something I thought very carefully about when I built this,” he told her.
“You made this?”
Samuel was too busy explaining the finer points of the ventilation system he had constructed to answer such an obvious question. Of course he had built it, Xanthe realized. This must be what the family had argued about the night before. The Applebys were Catholics, though not openly so, and they welcomed a priest into their home to observe mass. A hanging offense, for the priest and for the family. A priest hole was the last resort. If the authorities came knocking at the wrong moment, or indeed anyone who might betray them, their best hope was to be able to hide the priest. Xanthe recalled now that many houses had had priest holes built into them, behind false walls, under floorboards, between rooms. She had been impressed by the ingenuity involved in hiding them so well, and repelled by the idea of being shut away in such a tiny space, but she had never before really considered that someone had to design and build them. And that someone, in this case, was Samuel. As he told her of the vital conduit for air that he had modeled into the structure, with tiny tunnels and grilles that allowed the flow of outside air in two directions, she wondered how many other priest holes he had secretly installed in the houses of his patrons. Was there even one at Great Chalfield?
“You have made others too, haven’t you?”
He sighed and turned to her. “How could I refuse?”
Xanthe reached out and put her hand over his. “You are a brave man, Samuel.”
“Not as brave as the poor wretches who must take to these pitiful hiding places. When the authorities are at the door, or the soldiers are sent to search a house, the priest must stay silent and still in his bolt-hole, not coughing, nor sneezing, nor giving way to panic, else he will be discovered. The hardest part of his incarceration is that he cannot know how long he must abide. And he cannot free himself, for such places, of necessity to make them well hidden, cannot be opened from the inside. We must, as you see, pile all manner of objects upon them, to make their hiding so complete. If, as sometimes happens, the family of the house are taken away, often the servants too, for questioning, the priest may remain here for days. Weeks.” Samuel ran his hand through his hair. “I confess when I first agreed to make them I told myself I was making a place of safety. The sad truth is at times they prove to be nothing more than tombs.”
As if deciding he had said too much, Samuel clapped his hands, rubbing them together against the cold. “Enough of this. Such maudlin thoughts. It was wrong of me to bring you here, to show you.” He began hauling the flagstone back into place.
“No,” Xanthe said quickly. “I’m glad you did. I understand so much more now.”
At last, when she had helped Samuel replace the flour sacks, she said, “Thank you, for trusting me.”
“Knowing what you do, you might choose to distance yourself from us now.”
She shook her head. “Your secret is safe with me, I promise. We will help each other.”
He smiled then and ushered her back up the steep stone steps and into the workshop.
“And now, to work. See?” He pointed through one of the long windows. “The storm is easing. Soon the flood will have receded and I shall have to take you back to Great Chalfield. Let us complete as much of the detail of the screen as we are able.”
Again, they worked well together, absorbed in what they were doing, content to forget the wider world and its dangers and difficulties, more than happy to be in each other’s company. They talked as they worked but only of things related to what they were doing. Of the great houses which they both knew and the treasures within them. Of craftsmanship and skill and the execution of ideas. Of the beauty of an object, of its lasting qualities, of their own likes and dislikes. It was a surreal experience, discussing things that were, for her, antiques but were, for Samuel, examples of modern creativity. When he talked about new techniques and innovations, she had to pick her words cautiously when responding, and it was hard to hold back. She wanted to tell him about styles of art, about methods of architecture, about houses and glorious paintings or movements in silver work or jewelry that had not yet been invented. When she thought about things he would love, of ideas and developments that would fascinate him, it seemed almost mean to keep them from him. But she could not tell him any of it. Ever.
They continued to work for most of the day. Samuel had Philpott bring them some simple food for lunch. Xanthe had already conquered her emb
arrassment the night before and asked Amelia’s grandmother where the necessary house was, so she was able to excuse herself when she needed to and make the stormy journey across the courtyard. The little building that served as the toilets for the house was dark and the roof and door rattled in the wind, but it looked clean enough, and private. She had washed that morning in cold water with fragrant lavender soap. Somehow she always imagined life years ago being for the most part uncomfortable and grimy, but she could see now that this was not the truth of it. Not if a person were lucky enough to be somewhere near the top of the social order, at least. The Appleby household was not full of servants and luxury, but it felt safe, friendly, and comfortable.
At around four o’clock the light of the shortened autumn day began to render detailed drawings impossible to make, so the pair admitted defeat and went inside. The truth was, they had all but finished work on the plans for the screen. There was nothing more she could usefully offer in the way of information on the thing. Which meant there was really no reason for her to stay any longer. As soon as the road was useable again, she would be returned to Great Chalfield.
Inside, they found Master Appleby sitting by the fire.
“Ah, I was beginning to wonder if Samuel would ever permit you to emerge from the studio, Mistress Westlake. Such diligence is laudable, Samuel, but you must guard against becoming a hard task master.” He stood as she entered the room and invited her to take the chair opposite.
Samuel went to the table to pour them both wine. “The plans for the screen are much improved, Father. I could not have produced anything so accurate without Xanthe’s help.”
His father looked surprised at the use of her first name but said nothing about it.
“I am pleased to hear it. As no doubt Master Lovewell will be, both for the sake of the improvements to the Great Hall and for the return of his minstrel. I am told the flood water has receded and the stage was able to pass along the north road earlier today. We shall be able to deliver Mistress Westlake back to her home before dark.”
Samuel opened his mouth to reply to this but changed his mind. What could he say? What possible reason could there be for not returning her? Other than that he didn’t want her to go. Because she could see that he did not. She took a deep swig of wine and then said, “Master Appleby, you have made me so very welcome in your home. And I know you have taken up the cause of Alice on my behalf. Will you not allow me to repay your kindness? Perhaps I might sing for you after supper? Of course it would mean my staying here one more night.…”
Samuel jumped in. “That would be most welcome. Would it not, Father?”
The older man looked hard at his son. He cannot have been pleased to think of his eldest and finest falling for a maidservant, but he must have seen it was becoming a real possibility.
Master Appleby sighed. “It is already late, so perhaps it would be best not to attempt the journey until the morning. And yes, indeed, it would be most diverting to hear you sing again, Mistress Westlake.”
Samuel and Xanthe exchanged the briefest of glances.
“On the matter of Alice,” Master Appleby continued, “I do not, I’m afraid, have encouraging news. I have spoken to the magistrate himself, my business having taken me close to Salisbury this morning. He told me the girl is still refusing to defend herself beyond saying she is no thief. Without anyone to speak for her, and without the missing items being discovered, there is little hope she will be found anything other than guilty. I am sorry for it, but I can do very little to help her.”
Xanthe felt suddenly swamped with guilt. How could she have been so easily and completely distracted from what she had come here to do? All the time she had been enjoying herself working with Samuel, getting to know him, her mother had been in no less danger than the moment she had arrived. She had been much too quick to hand over responsibility for her fate to someone else. What had she been thinking? Flora’s safety, her life, rested in her hands, no one else’s. And now she was deeply ashamed of letting herself lose sight of that.
She was about to question Master Appleby more on what the magistrate had said when the sound of the front door being opened followed by animated voices in the hallway interrupted their conversation.
“Joshua is home,” Samuel noted.
The door was thrown open and his brother came in, his face aglow, his whole being lit up with something. At first she thought it was good humor, then she smelled alcohol on his breath, and detected a note of anger in his voice, however polite his words.
“Father, Samuel, ah, the lovely Mistress Westlake, still with us, I am happy to note,” he said as he all but bounded across the room.
At that moment there was a hammering on the door and seconds later Philpott arrived with a letter for Samuel. He took it from him, breaking the wax seal and unfolding the message to read its contents. His face darkened as he did so.
“Further word from Salisbury,” he told Xanthe, pausing to look up at her. “The date of Alice’s trail has been set. She is to go before the magistrate on Wednesday morning.”
“The day after tomorrow?” she shook her head. “But, that is so soon. We haven’t time.…”
Samuel put a steadying hand on her arm. “All is not lost,” he told her.
“What time is the trial?”
“The court sits at ten. Hers will be among the first cases of the day to be heard.”
“Will she be given a lawyer?” she asked. “I mean, someone to speak for her. Will they call witnesses?”
It was Joshua who spoke up then, his voice for once somber.
“Mistress Westlake, it pains me to tell you this,” he said. “Without support in her defense in the way of proof, there is little a lawyer could do. The trial is merely a formality. It is a process for announcing rather than determining guilt. And,” he hesitated and then went on, “it is the moment in which what is deemed an appropriate sentence will be passed.”
20
Later, when she had time to think about it, Xanthe would be ashamed she had not been more grateful for the care the Applebys had shown her, but at the time she was too consumed with worry to properly appreciate it. As soon as Joshua explained to her how serious, almost inevitable, Alice’s fate was, she had allowed herself to become angry. How could this be justice? Why would no one see how unfair, how unreasonable such treatment was? Was someone’s life really of no more value than a few silver trinkets? Samuel had tried to calm her and reassure her: they would go to the trial and speak up for her. Master Appleby had sent a letter to a man of the law who might be able to think of a defense for Alice, and Appleby had trusted no one but Philpott to deliver it. Joshua had poured wine for everyone and called for sweetmeats from the kitchen.
After two hours of exploring every possibility and finding nothing helpful, Xanthe realized that there was something she could do, but she had to do it without Samuel. She made her excuses, claiming fatigue, which men of the day appeared to almost expect women to suffer from on a daily basis, and went to her room. She sat on the bed, waiting until she heard all three men climb the stairs and go to their own rooms. Only then did she step over to the window, ignore the frantic racing of her heart, open her gold locket, gaze at her mother’s gentle face, and wish herself home.
The journey was startlingly swift. There was the falling sensation and the dizziness, with sounds of distant voices and a rushing of air pressing against her, and then she was once again on the gritty floor of the blind house. She stayed crouched, panting for a moment. When she felt steady enough to get to her feet the first thing that struck her was how cold she was. It might have been summer in her own time, but the thick stone walls of the blind house kept out the heat. The second thing that surprised her then was that she was still fully clothed. She had been in such a hurry to make the leap through the centuries she hadn’t stopped to think that she might arrive naked. Mercifully, her seventeenth-century garments had traveled with her. Running her hands over the skirt, she could detect a roughness
she hadn’t noticed before, as if the fibers had worn or been somehow weakened by their journey through the centuries, but the clothes were still there, still intact. There was so much to process and no time in which to do it. She tried to take stock, then tensed, detecting at once the heavy presence of Margaret Merton. Something shifted in the darkness, though still remained invisible.
“I know you’re here,” Xanthe spoke into the gloom of the little building. “There’s something I need to do. To help Alice. I will go back as soon as I’ve done it, I promise. You are going to have to trust me on this.”
She waited, fearing the ghost would appear and slow her down, or worse, prevent her from leaving, sending her back again, perhaps. The air seemed to thicken, the vibrations subtly alter, but nothing more. How much Mistress Merton could see of what was going on in the past Xanthe could not be certain. She pushed the door open a little further and used the incoming light from the streetlamp on the other side of the garden wall to find the chatelaine. There were just the seventeenth-century parts, of course. The Victorian pieces were still in her room in Great Chalfield. She found the silver chains and clasp lying on the dirt. They were her only way back to Alice and Samuel. She placed them carefully on the right-hand side of the door so she would know where to find them when she needed to return. Then, hitching up her skirts, she pushed the door open and peered out. The garden was mercifully dark, and all was quiet. Xanthe thought about going to get her own phone, retrieving it from where she had left it beside her bed, but the risk of waking her mother was too real. And what if it was out of charge? No, she would stick to her plan and make her way to Liam. There wasn’t time to change into the clothes that she had hidden in the garden. She would just have to hope she wasn’t spotted by anyone she knew, and she was fairly sure that the way she was dressed was not going to be the most difficult thing to explain to Liam.
The Little Shop of Found Things--A Novel Page 26