Xanthe had no choice but to be shepherded indoors. She remembered with a sinking heart that she had promised to sing for the Applebys. It was the last thing she felt like doing, and besides, she needed to speak with Samuel. Needed to explain her plan, to sound him out about it, to convince herself that it wasn’t a mad and dangerous idea. As she drew level with him she took the folded piece of paper from her pocket, wishing she had written her notes more clearly, and pressed it into his hand.
“Read this,” she said. “Please.”
Wordlessly he took it from her and tucked it into the breast pocket of his black velvet jacket.
In the dining hall, Master Appleby was doing his best to make his guests feel welcome. There were three well-dressed men, prosperous, Xanthe judged, but not nobility. The reason for the gathering was evidently to strengthen connections, one man being an importer of marble, another a wine merchant, and the third a master mason. The introductions made, they went to the table, where a fine spread was provided, with an abundance of meat and fish. Joshua was in his element with their guests, full of witty remarks and easy laughter. Samuel became even quieter in such lively company. When they had dined, Xanthe sang for them, doing her best to put her heart into it. She was a performer. She had to ignore her own tiredness, her own anxiety and tension, and focus on the song. She closed her eyes as she sang a gentle ballad, letting the notes soothe her and calm her. After that she treated the guests to something a little more daring and upbeat, which was very well received.
The evening wore on, and even when all the food was eaten and what Xanthe considered to be unhelpful amounts of wine drunk, still the visitors showed no sign of leaving. Master Appleby looked tired, but Xanthe could see he would never be so rude as to suggest the visit should come to an end. It dawned on her then that they were waiting for her to go to bed. That there was probably another phase to the evening that could not begin with a woman present. A woman they were no doubt wishing would see sense and leave them to their men’s ribald talk. Exasperated, she saw that there was going to be no chance of her talking to Samuel, no possibility of waiting for a quiet moment when everyone had gone home.
She got to her feet, her chair scraping against the flagstones.
“If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have an early start in the morning,” she said, bobbing a polite curtsy. She left the room to murmured thanks and slightly slurred farewells. Samuel caught her at the door.
“We will talk further in the morning,” he told her, lightly placing his hand on her arm. It seemed he had forgiven her for her earlier disappearing act. “Courage,” he said. “All is not yet lost.”
Weary from the long, confusing, and demanding day, Xanthe was annoyed to find she still could not sleep. She was too restless, too anxious. At last she climbed out of bed, wrapping herself in the crewel bedcover, and took up vigil by the window. She dozed fitfully, half worrying and half dreaming about the day to come. By the time the sky outside began to lighten slightly she had snatched no more than two hours’ sleep. She heard the clock in the hallway strike six and then sounds of the household stirring. Hours of sitting on a hard wooden chair in the chilly room had left her aching. She got up stiffly, rubbing her neck and shoulders, thinking of her mother and wondering how she was and praying she had not been suffering another flare-up while Xanthe was not there to help her. She jumped when someone knocked on the door.
“Who is it?”
“Samuel. Forgive the hour, but we must leave before seven. I have something for you,” he said.
She opened the door and saw he had some clothes draped over his arm. He held them out for her.
“I believe we will fare better if you are not seen first as a maidservant,” he said. “I had Grandmother Garvy fetch a gown and cape for you. And a headdress. I hope I have not offended you.”
“Of course not. Thank you, Samuel. It was very thoughtful of you,” she said, taking the clothes from him. “My note, about the Benefit of Clergy…”
“Yes, I have read it, of course.”
“And?”
“And I would not give you false hope, Xanthe; our mission is a difficult one with little chance of success.”
“But it could work, don’t you think?”
A shout from downstairs snagged Samuel’s attention.
“Forgive me, I must answer my brother. We will discuss the matter on our journey, but, I have to tell you, there is no certainty in anything you suggest.”
She nodded. “I know. But I have to try.”
She refused his offer of Amelia to help her dress but happily accepted the suggestion that Amelia bring her up a tray of breakfast. They arranged to meet at the stables in an hour and he left her to get ready. She laid the clothes out on the bed. There was a fine cotton underdress, a cream petticoat, a stomacher, a long kirtle, a laced velvet bodice, and a snood with a decorative band for her hair. It was something of a struggle getting everything on by herself, and she was glad of Amelia when she arrived with eggs and hot milk. She helped her tie the stomacher in place, laughing at her clumsiness, and then battled bravely with her hair. It took a fair amount of pins to get it fixed firmly, but once the headdress was tied and pinned on top if felt secure. She drew Xanthe over to the looking glass and she was surprised at the results. Instead of a lowly maid, scruffy and shapeless in drab colors, she was transformed into a well-to-do young woman of the day. The combination of layers was quite flattering, with part of the petticoat and the underdress showing through the cut of the dark green kirtle. The bodice was a lighter shade of green with a lovely shimmer due to the nap of the velvet. There was a tiny bit of embroidered braid at the square neckline, matching the piece at the front of the snood, which was far more flattering than the horrid cap she had been compelled to wear before. Amelia had done a good job with her hair, smoothing it into a neat coil beneath the headdress, which was set back on her head so that at least it was not all hidden, giving a much less severe look.
As Xanthe reached the top of the stairs she heard voices. The tone of them caused her to hesitate. That and the fact that she heard her own name mentioned. Samuel seemed to be taking her part.
“I gave my word I would not see Mistress Westlake stand alone in this matter.”
“Noble of you brother,” said Joshua, the growl in his voice suggesting this might, for him, be a very late night rather than an early morning. She wondered if he had left the house after they had all gone upstairs. Reveling seemed to be Joshua’s way of shaking off a bad mood, by all accounts. “To take up the cause of a young woman of such scant acquaintance.”
“She has no one other to assist her. Nor, it seems, has Alice while she stands accused of theft.”
“Theft from the Lovewells, or had you forgotten that?”
“I had not.”
“They are our most important clients to date, Samuel. It would ill serve us to displease them.”
“You consider me unaware of our position?”
“I believe you may have put it out of your mind, while your attention is taken by such a striking and intriguing maidservant.”
“Is that your true objection, Joshua? That she is a servant?”
“You know that I would not brook such an objection!” Joshua’s voice was raised now. “You know where my true allegiances lie, brother, but still I must keep the interests of the family, of our business, to the fore. Even if you will not. I may not have your talent, but it is I who watches over our finances when you and father consider such things beneath your artistic natures. And I tell you now, pit yourself against the Lovewells and we will be the poorer for it. Not merely for the loss of their own business and patronage, either. For if they choose to spurn us because you have caused them embarrassment, others will follow.”
“I care not for the Lovewell’s pride!” It was Samuel’s turn to sound truly angry. “I will not have my actions dictated by such people.”
“Such people? Do not set yourself above them, Samuel. You forget how much our families h
ave in common.”
Xanthe stepped on a creaking stair tread and the conversation stopped. She appeared as casually as she could, trying hard to give the impression she had not heard what they had been saying. Joshua bid her good morning and then took himself off. Samuel stood and stared at her, taking in the transformation.
“You look … exceedingly well,” he said at last.
She was unable to hide a small smile. Part of her wanted to laugh at his feeble attempt at a compliment, part of her was pleased he had noticed. But this was not a day for thinking about herself, and any happiness was a fleeting thing. Under everything was the knowledge that Alice was a step closer to her possible doom, which meant disaster for Flora, and still there seemed to be precious little any of them could do about it.
Samuel offered her his arm and together they went out of the front door. It was a surreal experience, stepping into the waiting carriage, settling onto the small, padded bench seat while Samuel sat opposite her, the driver flicking the reins and urging the two, sleek, black horses into a brisk trot around the green and onto the high street.
Xanthe leaned forward in her seat.
“Please tell me, Samuel, what do you think about using the law of Benefit of Clergy? Do you think it might work?”
“It has certainly been used for centuries, but usually in defense of men.”
“But there is nothing written to say women can’t use it, too.”
“Your friend told you this?”
She nodded, adding, “The test seems to be that she must read a passage from the Bible.”
“The neck psalm.”
“Sorry?”
“The fifty-first psalm is known as such because it is the one required to be read, and, if annunciated correctly, can save a fellow from the gallows. Miserere mei, Deus, secundum misericordiam tuam-‘O God, have mercy upon me, according to thine heartfelt mercifulness.’ It is not unheard of for the accused to learn the passage by heart so that he may appear to be able to read and deliver the words that will save him.”
“You do know about this rule, then?”
“I’ve heard of it, but there are risks, Xanthe. You have to understand that.”
“But Alice was brought up in a well-to-do family, she must be able to read.”
“Let us hope so. The courts have become wise to such tricks as memorizing the psalm so they will now more commonly choose a verse at random. An unschooled villain would certainly be caught out by pages of Latin.”
“Latin?”
“A Bible in any other language is rare indeed.”
“But, prayers, readings in church, what language would they have been in? I mean, what language are they in?”
He raised his eyes at her not knowing this. “Why English, of course.” Out of habit he lowered his voice a little before adding, “Unless a person follows the Catholic faith.”
“Yes! Of course. Everything would be in Latin.” She sat back in her seat, shaking her head and allowing herself a small, hopeful smile. “For once Alice’s beliefs might actually help her. She should be able to read any passage they throw at her.”
“And therein lies a part of the risk,” Samuel reminded her. “For the daughter of a traitor, the orphan of a condemned family, for her to use the very thing that saw them executed as her defense … it is a dangerous path to tread, Xanthe.”
“I know. I know. But what else can we do?”
“Let us try all other avenues open to us first. I will speak for her. I will attest to her good character, to the lack of evidence. Only if these entreaties fail, in that case, I will claim Benefit of Clergy on her behalf.”
They fell silent then, and both sat watching the landscape of Wiltshire as they rattled through it along the stony road.
There were moments when Xanthe could almost forget that she did not belong there, in that time, with those people, that it was all an incredible, impossible, magical journey. And then there were moments when she felt as though she had stepped through one of Mr. Morris’s mirrors into another reality. It could not be real, and yet it was. She was in a carriage speeding along the rough, wet road south from Marlborough. She was sitting opposite a disturbingly attractive and enigmatic man. She was the only hope Alice had of not going to the gallows. And her own mother’s safety, possibly even her life, depended upon her succeeding. This was her reality for the time she was in it. It was not a dream. Every lurch of the carriage that jolted her body told her that. Every pinch of fear she felt when she thought she could be exposed as a liar and a fraud. Every knot in her stomach reminded her she might fail Flora and watch Alice hang. Every time her blood stirred when Samuel’s eyes met hers. It could all go so terribly wrong. She could be hurt. She could cause hurt. There would be consequences to her actions. And what then? What if she did keep Alice alive? Would that somehow change the future? She was meddling in something much bigger than she had a hope of understanding. What if by doing some small good thing she altered the course of history and made something terrible happen? She felt as if she were in deep, fast-flowing water and might go under at any moment. What had ever made her think she was up to the task she had been given? She blinked away tears, staring determinedly out of the window, aware that Samuel was watching her closely.
“Do not distress yourself,” he said gently. “The weather has eased, the roads are clear, we will make good time to Salisbury.” When she only nodded in reply he went on, leaning forward in his seat. “All is not lost, Xanthe, I promise you.” He watched her for a moment longer. “I know how your fear for your friend troubles you, and yet I sense there is more. Something of which you do not, or cannot, speak.”
“Samuel, I—”
He held up a hand. “I would not cajole you into telling me that which you would rather hold to yourself. I say only that I sense a secret, a thing that is burdensome for you to carry. I would share that burden. I hope the day comes soon when you will trust me sufficiently to let me help you carry it.”
He sat back in his seat and turned again to watch the countryside as they hurried through it. Xanthe had the impression he was no more able to focus on the prettiness of the scenery than she was. He was doing his best not to press her for answers when he evidently had plenty of questions he longed to ask. He could not have known how grateful she was for his thoughtfulness. Could not have known that she would have had to answer any questions about herself with nothing but lies. And that she did not want to lie to him. She truly did not.
At last the rain stopped completely. The broad skies of Wiltshire emerged blue and clear after days hiding behind a layer of gray that had effectively blocked out all the worthwhile sunlight. As the final, most stubborn clouds disappeared, everything was revealed as bright and richly colored, the landscape changed from dull browns and somber, muddy hues to clear golds and fresh, sharp greens. It was unsettling to have changed not only century but season. She had left home at the height of an English summer and stepped not only into the distant past, but into late autumn. It was strange to discover just how much that small alteration affected her. Even a city girl, it seemed, traveled through the seasons of the year at some deeper level than merely registering the temperature or changing her wardrobe. When she had left Marlborough there had been leaves on the trees, roses blooming, and blackberries ripening in the bramble-filled garden. Now the branches of the oaks and ashes were almost bare, and there was a sense of the darkness of winter approaching.
Perhaps she had already taken on some of the concerns and fears of a seventeenth-century woman. Would the winter be harsh? Would the harvest be enough to last to summer? Would fever and flood visit the household? Would there be enough tallow and candles to light their way through the long, bleak nights? How would she cope, she wondered, if she found herself unable to return home but had to live out her life there, in those conditions, in those far-off, brutal days? She thought of how her mother would have suffered had she been born then, without modern drugs to combat her arthritis. Thought about the wisdom teeth
Xanthe had had extracted when she was eighteen. Thought about the time she had broken her wrist falling from a tree when she was nine. Thought about the croup she had suffered as a toddler. Would she even have survived to adulthood?
She looked at Samuel again. He could not have been more than twenty-five, but he had an older soul. It was as if his life, the very fragile nature of existence in his time, made each of those years heavier. A young man of the same age in Xanthe’s day might not long have left university, might be in his first proper job, just setting out on his career, building a long, prosperous, privileged future. What did the future hold for Samuel in such unsettled times, with only the most basic of medicine to keep him and his loved ones alive? A cold shudder passed through her, and with it a glimpse of deep, fast-flowing water, and a terrible sense of pressure upon her chest. She gasped, trying to shake off the vision, wondering what on earth it was meant to show her.
“Xanthe? Are you well?” Samuel asked.
“Yes, sorry. Just a little…” she searched for a harmless, coverall word, “fatigued.”
He nodded at this, as if it were a common condition for a woman.
She was glad he did not talk further, because her heart was pounding. The glimpse of a possible future—for who, herself? Samuel?—had been so powerful, it took her some time to steady her breathing and feel calm once again.
At last the countryside began to change. The road grew both wider and busier. There were carts and carriages of all shapes and sizes, and people walking toward the city. The farmland gave way to businesses and small dwellings: a cooper, a tannery, a smithy. Then a coaching inn. Streets, some cobbled or paved in one manner or another, some just mud, or so it seemed to Xanthe. This was not a little market town like Marlborough, but a thriving city. The buildings were a mix of timber—mostly painted white with black beams, steep gables, and mullioned windows—or more expensive red brick. The older timber houses were showing their age, with sway-backed roofs and leaning walls. The smarter, younger brick ones stood straight and tall, often two stories clear of their older cousins, with longer windows, showing off the wealth of their owners in the cost of the glass alone. Even on such a cold day and with their own windows closed, the smell of the city was something that could not be ignored. It was so sour that it turned Xanthe’s stomach, so putrid that it made her think of aging roadkill or a long-forgotten rubbish bag, with memories of overflowing rock festival toilets. A glance at the street explained where most of it was coming from. A ditch to one side was nothing more than an open sewer, with chamber pots and kitchen slops being emptied into it. There were rotting vegetables from stalls and thrown from inns, and a quick count showed two dead cats, a decomposing dog, and several flattened corpses that were probably rats, no doubt casually dispatched by local people as part of their everyday tasks.
The Little Shop of Found Things--A Novel Page 28