He stopped kissing her and pulled away a little, his arm still holding her, but with caution now. He studied her face again, his own expression serious.
“I would not see you harmed or ill used for all the riches in this world,” he told her, his voice low. “But, Xanthe, you stir such passion in me, such desire, such a need for you.… If you wish me gone, if you would save your honor and my heart, then send me away now.”
Now it was her turn to hesitate. Whereas Samuel was trying to check himself to safeguard her reputation, thinking about the morals and social etiquette of the day, she had other, stranger, more confusing matters to consider. Such as the fact that a shared love between them was doomed, for soon she must leave and they would be separated by centuries. And that if she gave in, if she allowed herself to make love with him the way she found she badly wanted to, then her feelings for him would be deeper, her connection with him more intimate, more meaningful. This was not a matter of simple lust, and they both knew it. There was something more emotional taking place. And at the same time, something that could cause them both a great deal of pain. They would be parted, forever, and she would never be able to explain to him why that was. But then, at that moment, she thought of how dangerous and fragile life was, especially for him, especially in his world. She thought about how moments of beauty and love were fleeting and rare. Was it really better to turn away from them when they were offered? Was it really right to pass up on the chance of happiness, however brief? Samuel’s life, like everyone’s at that time, could be snuffed out in a matter of days by sickness, or an accident, something simple and curable and fixable in her own day but that would see him dead and gone for want of antiseptic or antibiotics or anesthetic. How often, in the modern world, were people told to be mindful, to live in the moment, and to be fully present in the experience and wonder of that moment? What sense was there in running away from this moment with Samuel? It would have been so easy to talk herself into doing what, deep down, she knew was something she would later regret. Just as she knew, after what she had been through the past few days, she was in no state to make sound judgments, to act rationally.
Samuel, sensing her confusion, stepped back, letting her go.
“Forgive me,” he said. “It was wrong of me to even consider … and you have suffered today.… I was being, at best, insensitive.”
“No, you weren’t.…”
“I shall leave you in peace.”
“Wait,” Xanthe put her hand on his arm. “I don’t want to be alone. And I don’t want you to go. Could you just stay with me? Could we just…” she struggled to find the words.
With a sigh Samuel slipped his arms around her, lifted her with ease and carried her to the bed. Taking care not to cause her to wince from her bruises, he laid her down and pulled the covers over her. Wordlessly, he removed his boots and climbed on top of the heavy, embroidered bedspread. Instinctively, gratefully, Xanthe snuggled up to him, reveling in the warmth and closeness and reassured that nothing more was expected of her.
“I know not where you come from,” Samuel said, “but I thank God that he sent you into my life. With such a wandering existence as yours must be, we might never have met, our paths coming close yet not converging. I see now how empty my life was before you stepped into it.”
Xanthe breathed in the warmth of him, tracing the pulse in his throat with her finger, watching his life force and at the same time knowing he did not exist in her own world. It was enough to make anyone lose their mind. It was too much to properly take in.
“It does seem as if we were meant to find each other,” she told him.
“I believe that to be true,” he agreed. “I know there are things in your life of which you cannot speak. Secrets. That is not uncommon in these dangerous days. We all must guard our very thoughts. You saw that Alice recognized me, at the trial? The truth is my own mother counted the girl’s family among her friends. She was appalled by what happened to them. To witness her distress was hard for my father, for us all. Our hearts were softened by her suffering, but hardened by the knowledge that we could do nothing to help the family. And that if we tried, we were putting our own in peril.”
“Can it really be so bad? I mean, just by speaking up for people in trouble, could you have ended up prosecuted, maybe executed, too? Your father is well regarded, he has friends at the king’s court because of his work. Why wouldn’t they protect him?”
“Alas, friendships are fickle things when the shadow of the executioner’s axe falls upon them. No person, however well regarded, can rely upon the support of others if his own past includes adhering to a faith that is now seen as traitorous.”
“Your family were openly Catholics once, too?”
“My mother was raised as such, though she, like many others, renounced her beliefs when she married my father and raised us as Protestants. Public Protestants but secret Catholics.”
“Just like Mistress Lovewell.”
“A common practice. A necessary adjustment to the shifting rules of law that determine all our futures.”
“And of course Alice knew about this. That’s why she looked so fearful when she saw you at the trial, isn’t it? She was afraid if you spoke out, your own background would come to light.”
“Which would have served both of us badly,” he nodded. He gazed down at her, his expression earnest. “Do not return to Great Chalfield. Stay here with me. You are no servant, that much is plain as a pikestaff. And when you sing, your voice is something precious. Let singing be your sole occupation.”
She smiled up at him. “Why, Master Samuel, are you suggesting I live here as a kept woman, singing for my supper on a nightly basis?”
He looked confused for a moment, about to protest that he had her best interests at heart, worried that he might have offended her by suggesting something improper.
She laughed. “I’m teasing, Samuel. No need to panic.”
“The truth of it is I do not wish you to step one pace from my side.”
She ran her hand over his strong shoulder. “I have to go back to Great Chalfield,” she told him carefully. “The missing pieces of the chatelaine are there somewhere. Alice hid them outside the house before she was taken. They are the only things that can save her now. I have to go back and find them.”
He thought about this for a moment. If he believed there was, in fact, no hope, he resisted saying so. “Then I will come with you,” he promised. “We will search together.” He frowned. “But I am a selfish fool. I have not so much as let you take the draft that Philpott prepared for you against your pain, nor applied the balm for your bruises. Tell me, where is it that you feel pain?”
She smiled at him. “You have a way of taking my mind off the bits that hurt,” she said.
While looking at her throat and neck he found her locket and paused, taking hold of it, running his fingers over the smooth gold. She wondered, fleetingly, if he might trigger it. And what then? Could he travel back with her? Even after all the craziness that she had come to see as normal, that was too big an idea to comprehend.
“This holds great importance for you. Does it contain the picture of a lost lover, perhaps?” he asked, only half joking.
“Open it,” she told him. She would have done it for him, but dared not.
Carefully he did as she suggested. When he saw the photo of Flora inside he gasped, sitting up to take the candle from the bedside table and hold it closer so he could see more clearly.
“Such fine draftsmanship!” He said. “I have never seen a miniature executed with such precision, such finesse. Who was the artist?”
“Mr. Kodak,” she said, enjoying her own little joke. “That’s my mother. It’s … all I have of her.” Which did not go half way to explaining anything, but it was the best she could offer.
Samuel nodded. “It is a hard thing, to lose a parent.” He must have felt her tense slightly because he refrained from asking all the questions he must have badly wished to ask. Instead he
put the candle back and gently snapped shut the locket. “I can see why it is precious,” he said. “I’m happy we did not let that wretch take it from you.”
“We?” She laughed, and the moment of awkwardness and guardedness was gone. “I seem to remember I was the one who got it back.”
“And was it not I who rescued you from the resulting attack?”
“I didn’t need rescuing. I was managing perfectly well on my own, thank you very much.”
He looked at her then, his expression more serious.
“In truth, my love, you are the one who has rescued me.” He planted the lightest of kisses upon her brow. “Now, sleep. The morning will come soon enough and you must rest. Tomorrow we will search for the chatelaine pieces. All will be well.”
Xanthe closed her eyes but knew that she must not allow herself to fall asleep. Even as she had been telling Samuel that she had to return to Great Chalfield to search for the missing silver, a thought had occurred to her. A thought about how she could most effectively search, about what would give her the best chance of success. In that moment she saw a way, something that could work. It seemed at once both wonderfully simple and almost impossible. Impossible in the sixteenth century, but not in the twenty-first. Once the solution had come to her, she knew she had to try it, despite the risks.
She waited, feeling the rise and fall of Samuel’s chest beneath her head. When his breathing was steady and deep she opened her eyes and watched him for a while, marveling at how beautiful he was. At how close they had grown, and how easy it would be to fall for him. But that would be to fall for a ghost; that was the long and the short of it. She softly kissed his brow and then carefully climbed out of bed. Whatever she had said to him, she knew that trying to find those small pieces of silver in such a big area would be an impossible task, and yet they were crucial. If Alice was to be saved, and Flora’s safety assured, she must find them. She knew what she had to do. She knew where she had to go. And Samuel could not go with her.
The floorboards were cold beneath her bare feet as she moved away from the bed. Leaving Samuel, without explanation, without any word of how she felt, was a hard thing to do. She stood by the window and took hold of the locket at her throat. The gold felt warm in her fingers, warmed from her own flushed skin. She opened the locket, took a deep breath, and focused her attention on home. She made herself look at the fuzzy photo of her mother. The sight of her gave Xanthe a little courage. Courage she badly needed.
And then, as she felt herself begin to grow weak and dizzy, as the shadows of the room seemed to reach out to claim her and she had the sensation she was falling backward, the last thing that she saw before she stepped through time was Samuel’s eyes as they opened and his expression of confusion and fear as he watched her disappear.
24
Xanthe arrived in the blind house dizzy, breathless, and furious with herself for being so careless. How could she have let Samuel see her vanish like that? What could possibly be going through his mind now? He would think her some sort of witch. She got to her feet, a little shaken but determined not to give in to the, by now, familiar feelings that followed stepping through time. She had work to do, and little time in which to do it. She shivered, rubbing her arms against the shock of the cold night air on her bare skin, her flimsy underdress offering little warmth. She was about to walk out into the garden when the heavy door slammed shut in her face, and Margaret Merton appeared before her.
“Your task is not yet complete!” the ghost said, her thin voice cutting through the air as if it were an icy wind.
Xanthe took a step backward. “Alice will not hang,” she said. “She is safe for now.”
“She will perish if her sentence of transportation is carried out! You said as much yourself.”
Xanthe began to shiver, partly from the cold, and partly from the thought of her every move in the past being watched over by this vengeful spirit.
“There is something I must do,” Xanthe explained. “Here, in my time.”
“How can I trust what you say?”
The ghost moved closer, its shadowy form seeming almost to drape itself around Xanthe. The sensation was deeply disturbing.
“I have said I will do what you ask,” said Xanthe. “You have to let me do it my way.”
“Do you need reminding what will happen if you fail?”
Xanthe resisted the urge to scream at the ghoul. She must remain calm. Stay resolute.
“Every minute I spend here is an hour in Alice’s time. We don’t know when her ship is to sail. Do you want to keep me talking, listening to your threats, when all the while she is in greater and greater danger, or are you going to let me do what I have to do?”
There was silence for a moment as Mistress Merton considered this. At last she hissed, twisting into a vortex of shifting air and dust before disappearing. Xanthe waited until she could no longer hear the thud of her own, frightened heartbeat against her eardrum, and then pushed open the door of the jail.
She peered out. Dawn, she decided. Birds were singing, and the day felt as if it were beginning rather than ending. Trusting to hope that her mother would still be asleep, and crossing her fingers that any overlooking neighbors would also be in their beds and not at their windows, she dashed out and retrieved her hidden bag, clothes, and keys from behind the butterfly bush. Back inside the jail, shivering, she pulled on her jeans, sandals and black T-shirt. Only then did she have a chance to properly register what had just happened. Moments before she had been in Samuel’s arms. Moments or centuries, depending on which way you looked at it. She could still smell him on her skin. Her body still held the memory of his body. Was he horrified? Disgusted? Terrified? Did he now think she was some sort of ghost or witch? Was he ever going to even want to speak to her again, let alone give her a chance to explain? And just how was she going to explain?
She picked up the few pieces of the chatelaine that had not traveled with her and dug a little hole in the dry dust of the floor in case Flora chose this day to come poking around inside the blind house. As she handled the chatelaine it began vibrating in her hands and she was terrified it would transport her back again. She dared not hold onto it for a second longer than she had to. Once she was satisfied it was safely hidden she crept outside. It was a relief to be free of the oppressive interior of the cramped building, and to step away from the call of the chatelaine and the company of the ghost. She was assailed by dizziness from traveling through time, and her stomach rumbled and cramped unhelpfully. She ignored it as best she could. She had to be quick. For one thing, she needed to get away from home without being seen. For another, a few hours in the twenty-first century could mean a day back in Alice’s time. The girl could be bundled aboard a ship at any moment. One way or another, time was against her.
Xanthe ran across the lawn and made her way through the house as quietly as she could. She could hear sounds of the ancient plumbing working. Flora was running a bath. It was worrying that she was up so early, as it could mean she was suffering a flare-up of her condition, and she might be anywhere in the building when Xanthe had to try to get back through it. On the other hand, at that moment it allowed Xanthe to get in through the back door and out through the shop without being heard.
Along the length of the high street shuttered windows showed the shops were not yet open for business. A solitary milk truck made its slow progress from doorstep to doorstep, the whistling milkman hopping out to leave bottles for essential early morning tea. When she reached Liam’s workshop it was no surprise to see the curtains of his flat still closed. She hammered on the door for what felt like forever, risking waking the neighbors but reasoning that she was less likely to arouse suspicion in daylight, rather than in the middle of the night when she had turned up on his doorstep last time. At last she heard stumbling footsteps on the stairs inside.
Liam opened the door, half dressed and half awake.
“Xanthe. Another surprise visit. I’m honored.”
; “I need you to drive me out to Great Chalfield.”
“Where we met? How romantic.” He stood to one side. “You know the routine by now: tea first, madcap schemes after that.”
She hurried past him, running up the stairs. “We’ll have to go as soon as possible. That way I’m less likely to be spotted. When we get there I need you to help me find something. Oh, and on the way I need to buy a metal detector.”
“A what?” he asked, not unreasonably, following her into the kitchen and putting on the kettle.
“A metal detector. A good one. You know, the type that can look for specific metals. In this case silver. Otherwise we’ll be there forever turning up bits of nails and rubbish. I need to get back really quickly.”
“Back to the place that isn’t Milton Keynes?”
Xanthe nodded. “Do you think we can buy one somewhere between here and Great Chalfield?” she asked. “We might have to make a bit of a detour. I don’t know, Chippenham? Salisbury?”
“That’s some detour!”
Liam put tea bags in mugs and spooned sugar into both. He glanced at Xanthe. “In jeans today, I see. I quite liked the medieval maid kit.”
“Seventeenth century is not medieval.”
“Course not, how stupid of me.”
“Oh, and please can you lend me the money to buy the metal detector?”
“This gets better and better.”
The Little Shop of Found Things--A Novel Page 31