“I had to know if it was there.”
“Right.”
“And now I do.”
“So you can.… send someone else to get it?” He was trying his utmost to keep up.
“Something like that. The important thing is that it is there, and I know it is there.” As Liam chewed his bacon sandwich she went on. “One more thing,” she said, wiping mustard from her lip. “Please, don’t tell Mum you’ve seen me.”
“OK. Any idea how long I’ll have to keep it a secret? Or don’t you know when you’re coming back?”
“Mum’s expecting me on Monday afternoon. God, that’s tomorrow. How can it all be so soon and yet…” She left the sentence unfinished. She would have to deal with the confusion and bewilderment of the time differences between the centuries on her own. “Have you seen her, apart from at the market yesterday?” she asked. “Since I went away. Would you say she is coping?”
“Called round the afternoon you went wherever it is you didn’t go. She was in her workshop, removing old paint off a chair like a woman possessed. Very focused on the shop opening. Seemed more than fine to me.”
“Thanks. For calling in.” She looked at him closely then. He was still undeniably good-looking, and kind, and funny. And she knew that he was interested in her. That he was beginning to care. She was aware she was comparing him to Samuel. Liam looked up and caught her studying him, making her blush. “I’m sorry,” she said for the umpteenth time. “For dragging you into all … this.”
He gave a shrug. “What are friends for,” he said again.
Once they were back in the car, speeding toward town, she allowed herself to let go of some of the unbearable tension she had been holding inside her. She now knew where the pieces were. She would go back, fetch them, return them to Mistress Lovewell in a way that suggested they were never stolen in the first place, and then Alice would be released. And she would see Samuel again, provided he wanted to see her. What could she say to him? How could he take her into his home again, having watched her dissolve in front of him? What could he tell his family about her now?
“You OK?” Liam asked, glancing at her.
“I will be. Once I’ve figured it all out.”
There was a short pause and then he said, “You can trust me, you know. If you need to tell me … stuff.” He reached over and put his hand on hers.
She gave him a small smile. “I know. And maybe I will be able to tell you. One day.”
“One day,” he repeated, slowly removing his hand and returning his attention to the twisting road home.
By the time they reached Marlborough it was nearly nine, and the town was awake but moving at Sunday speed. Liam drove straight into his yard and parked up in the workshop.
“Do you need a lift to a train station, or somewhere?” he asked.
“Actually I need to get something from home. Or rather, from the garden behind our shop. I’ll … go on from there.”
“There’s a door in the wall at the back of your house? I didn’t realize.”
“It’s sort of hidden,” she told him, uncomfortable with having to tell yet more half-truths.
“And you’re sure you don’t want your mum to know you’ve been around?” When she nodded he shook his head. “OK, you’re the boss. Come on.” He started for the street, and when she hesitated he called over his shoulder, “You’ll need a decoy, don’t you think?”
When they arrived they found the shop door propped open. From inside came sounds of the radio and someone sweeping. By the look of the shop itself Flora had been busy putting an extra bit of elbow grease into making the place look good for the opening. It tugged at Xanthe’s heartstrings to think of it all going on without her. She had to tell herself she would be home in a few short hours, just one more day. Liam gave her a reassuring wink and a smile and then walked into the shop ahead of her. She slipped in and hid under the sturdy Victorian desk that they had kept as our counter.
“Mrs. Westlake?” Liam called out. “Flora, are you at home?” He continued through to the back of the shop.
From her hiding place Xanthe heard her mother emerge from the workshop, surprised and pleased at the sight of her visitor. She was impressed, and even a little appalled at how charming Liam was, and how quickly he persuaded Flora that it was a Sunday, and too lovely a morning to be stuck inside working, and he insisted she join him for a glass of something cold at the little cafe down by the river behind his workshop. However dedicated her mother was to the shop she allowed herself to be persuaded. Xanthe waited, heart thudding, as they walked past her, Flora on her sticks, chatting all the while, locking the front door as she left. Only when she was convinced they were not going to return for some reason did Xanthe unfold herself from under the desk. She dashed upstairs and grabbed her peasant skirt, quickly wriggling out of her jeans and stepping into it. She added her cheesecloth shirt and tied a scarf around her hair. She would have to rely on her artistic profession to excuse her bizarre appearance again.
Outside the garden was full of sunshine and birds, their cheerfulness at odds with the weight Xanthe felt in her heart. It seemed so wrong to be lying to people she loved. Whatever her reservations, though, as soon as she stood inside the blind house again she felt the powerful pull of the past and heard the chatelaine begin to sing once again. Quickly, she dug in the dust and uncovered the chatelaine. She brushed the dirt from the grooves of the silver, closed her hands around the gritty metal. She was at the point of shutting her eyes when Mistress Merton appeared before her.
“I can see her still, still feel her despair. She languishes in another place of squalor and filth!”
“They will not hold her long in Salisbury.” Xanthe faced the ghost calmly. She knew what she had to do and there was no time to argue about it. No time to waste being scared. “I am going back now,” she said. “And I have to know you won’t harm my mother while I am gone. Promise me.”
“When my daughter is safe, so will your mother be,” the ghost insisted.
There was nothing more to be said. Xanthe rubbed the chatelaine with her thumb, closed her eyes, and allowed herself to be transported back through the centuries once again.
25
As she traveled back the thing that worried her most was where, exactly, she would emerge. She never felt she had any control over it, but this time she focused as strongly as she was able on the missing chatelaine pieces, holding a picture of the bridge in her mind, willing herself to arrive near them. She offered up a hasty prayer that she would be set down at least in sight of where they were. She tried to push to the back of her mind the fear that Alice, in such desperate circumstances, might somehow call her directly to her. What use would Xanthe be alongside her in a prison cell? Or, worse, aboard a transportation ship somewhere in the Atlantic? Surely she could not have been sent away so soon? She could not know. All she could do was hope.
Which was why she almost whooped with relief when she opened her eyes to find she was lying in the grass only a few strides from the little stone bridge. To know that she could in fact, exert some influence over where she ended up was huge. Her head felt groggy, her vision slightly blurred, but she didn’t care. She was so close to putting things right. This was not the time to give in to fatigue or trivial complaints. It was daytime, the air crisp with a frost just thawing. She hauled herself to her feet and hurried to the water’s edge, stepping carefully down the muddy river bank. She ran her hands over the damp stones of the underside of the bridge, trying to locate the exact spot, looking for the familiar padding of mosses. Somewhere nearby, crows cawed as if disturbed by someone. She could not afford to be found. Not now. Not while she was so close to succeeding. She scrabbled at the stones and at last felt the hard, smooth nub of the scissors handle. It took a deal more scratching and tugging before she was able to shift the tiny stones and mud around them and pull the silver pieces free. She quickly dunked them in the stream, rubbing off the grit and grime until they shone as good as new. Her gyp
sy skirt had an ornamental pocket that was helpfully deep. She tucked her treasures deep into it, scrambled up the bank, and ran toward the house. As she ran she had to face the fact that she had no proper plan beyond returning the chatelaine attachments to Mistress Lovewell’s bedchamber and placing them in such a way that they could have been lost, rather than stolen. To do this she must enter the house unseen. If any of the Lovewells or Mary saw her, she would no doubt be shouted at for going missing and then either sent packing or put to work. She had time for neither. She made for the stables. There were ladders up against the damaged walls now, and piles of wood and stone, as rebuilding work had already begun. Thankfully there was nobody there at that moment, though she could hear voices and hammering coming from inside. She made her way around the side of the stricken building, taking care to keep out of sight of the windows of the house itself. She was just about to make the dash across to the low-roofed dairy when footsteps behind her made her wheel around.
“Oh, Peter!”
“Where have you been?” the boy asked, excited at finding a runaway. He cast a surprised glance over her outlandish clothes but said nothing about it. “Everyone has been searching for you. They said you’d probably stolen something that would later come to light, but I said no, you were no thief. I said you were a wandering minstrel and it was only to be expected you would go roaming again. Mister Willis agreed with me. I was right, wasn’t I?”
She smiled at him. “You were. I’m not a thief. And, yes, I will need to move on, very soon.”
“But I wanted to hear you sing again,” he said, his face falling as he kicked at a small stone.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But my stay here could never be permanent. I must find a troupe of players, and that means traveling to a city.”
“If that is so, what is it that brings you back to Great Chalfield?”
“Well, I left my things here. My bag. My boots.” She wriggled her toes in her sandals to make her point.
Peter laughed at the sight of such peculiar footwear. “Why, yes, I can see you cannot walk far in those!” he agreed.
“I must take my things without being seen,” she explained. “Will you help me, Peter?”
He nodded without hesitation.
“I don’t want to get you into trouble,” she said.
“Fear not on my account, for I come and go into and out of the house without being seen as I please. I am very good at it.”
Xanthe recalled him finding her in the paneled reception room the first time she had come to the house. He certainly had had no more business being there than she. She remembered too what he had said about knowing where to find stubs of candles. Not something he should have been doing, and yet he had never been caught.
“Very well. Will you go ahead of me, check that there is no one I will meet on my way?”
He nodded again and then scampered across the yard, darting behind the dairy. She followed, struggling to keep up with his nimble little legs. He led her through the herb garden, past the water pump—after first checking there was no one using it—and to a door at the rear of the house that was seldom used. It was unlocked, and he waved her in. As they went up a back staircase she whispered, “Where are the master and mistress?”
“Taking their breakfast in the Great Hall. They had guests staying, Lord and Lady Pemberton. Nothing is too much trouble for them,” he said, not pausing as he scurried up the slippery, twisting wooden stairs.
She could see that he was taking her straight to the attic, but she needed to stop at the mistress’s bedchamber. She put a hand on his arm.
“Wait. Please, wait here. There is something I must … see to. But you must not speak of it. Can you do that, Peter? Can you keep a secret? Someone’s very life may depend upon it.”
“I am not a child,” he insisted. “I know how to keep a secret.”
She nodded, smiling at the thought that it was precisely because he was a child that he would be able to do so. He waited at the end of the long landing while she went to the front of the house on the first floor. As she passed the top of the main staircase she could hear sounds of conversation and laughter. The hosts were still busy entertaining their guests. A fleeting glimpse of Mary carrying fresh linen into another bedroom made Xanthe jump, but she was not seen. She all but ran into the mistress’s room. She had thought about what she was going to do, so she went straight to the dressing table. Jayne had told her this was where the mistress sat every night before bed. This was the exact place where she would remove her chatelaine. It was different from a modern dressing table, having no fixed mirror, and drawers instead of a knee hole. Xanthe took the scissors and needle case from her skirt pocket and reached down behind the cupboard. The gap between the wooden back of the furniture and the wall was, as she had hoped, only just wide enough for the pieces to fit. By giving the dressing table a hard shove she was able to jam the chatelaine attachments in place, hidden, yet secure, and very difficult to see. A whistle from Peter alerted her to someone coming. She ran from the room, charging along the landing, and was on the point of crossing the top of the main stairs when she heard the unmistakable voice of Mistress Lovewell.
“Girl! What are you about? How came you back into this house, and without word or explanation? Master Lovewell, husband, come quick!” she called. Within moments the master, Clara, and the guests all appeared at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at her.
Master Lovewell was keen to make light of the situation. Anything to save face in front of his noble friends. “Ah-ha! Our missing songbird has flown back to us. And dressed as if for some performance, I believe. I am happy to see her once again. You were present at Clara’s birthday celebrations, Lord Pemberton. You will recall the beauty of our minstrel’s voice, no doubt?”
The guests nodded, but Mistress Lovewell would not be so easily put off dealing with the errant servant.
“She is a feckless maidservant, no more no less, and one who has yet to earn our trust. I would remind you she claims to be a friend of a proven thief.”
“Come, come, my dear,” Master Lovewell said, putting a hand on his wife’s arm. “One bad apple need not spoil the whole barrel, not since the apple has been removed. The maid was doubtless returning to her duties.”
“She has no business being near our private rooms. What were you intent upon, girl? Speak up now, or it will go badly for you.”
If Xanthe had wanted witnesses to the finding of the pieces, the Pembertons would serve very well indeed. She took a deep breath and said as clearly as she could, “I went to find the silver scissors and needle case. I know where they are.”
There were gasps from the Lovewells and murmured questions from their guests.
“It is as I thought!” the mistress declared.
“I know where they are because I have spoken again to Alice.” Another lie. When did she become so adept at duplicity? It was terrifying. “She is certain she knows what befell the missing pieces, and she has directed me to look where I might find them.”
“Ha!” Mistress Lovewell shook her head. “The word of one thief to another.”
“We are both honest people, mistress. I promise you. Let me show you now where you may find your silver.”
The mistress opened her mouth to protest but her husband saw an opportunity to display his fair-mindedness, to show himself in a good and kindly light in front of his guests. “Come,” he said, taking the mistress’s arm and beckoning to the others, “let us go up and have this matter happily settled once and for all.”
They trooped into the bedchamber, by now accompanied by Mary, who had heard the commotion and come running. Clara edged her way ahead to peer more closely at her clothes. Xanthe heard Lady Pemberton mutter “shocking” under her breath as she passed.
“Well?” The mistress of the house indicated the room with a sweep of her arm.
“Better you discover them for yourself, mistress. Alice believes that during a moment’s inattention on her own part they slipp
ed down between the dressing table and the wall. Would you care to look?”
“I would not!”
“Oh, Mother,” Clara stepped forward, pushing Pepito into her father’s arms. “Let me.” She leaned over and reached her hand and slender arm down into the barely existent gap. “I can detect nothing.… Oh, wait … what is this?” And with that she pulled out the silver pieces and held them up for all to see.
“Well done, Daughter!” Her father dropped the dog in order to applaud, and the Pembertons joined in.
Clara returned the attachments to her mother.
“As ever they were, Mother,” she told her.
Mistress Lovewell turned them over in her hand. She looked up at Xanthe and her face plainly said that she knew she had been tricked, but that she lacked any evidence to prove it.
“And now at last,” Master Lovewell was herding everyone back toward the door, “life may resume normality.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Xanthe said, stepping in front of him, “but for Alice, that depends on you now. Will you send word to Salisbury of her innocence?”
“Well, I…”
“She has been convicted,” Mistress Lovewell insisted. “She is beyond our reach.”
“But she has committed no crime,” Xanthe insisted. “Master Lovewell, are you not a man of influence? The court would listen to you, would they not?”
He glanced at Lord Pemberton, torn between his desire to appease his wife and his wish to look good in front of his influential and powerful friends.
“It is possible, if I were to write a letter.…”
“Husband, do not concern yourself. The matter is out of our hands. And besides, with the stables in disarray, the horses moved, some unfit for use, who would undertake such a task? There is no one.”
“I will take the letter,” came a voice from the doorway.
Xanthe’s heart lurched, and she turned to see Samuel standing there. “Samuel,” she murmured.
The Little Shop of Found Things--A Novel Page 33