The Little Shop of Found Things--A Novel
Page 36
They were just moving an umbrella stand full of walking sticks and canes into position when the door opened, the bell ringing loudly. Liam stood holding a large, square, flat parcel.
“I met a delivery man looking a bit lost at the top of your street. Think he was panicking about bringing his van down here, so I signed for this for you,” he said cheerfully.
“Oh!” Flora clapped her hands together. “I know what that is. I was hoping it would turn up in time. Set it down on the desk, would you please, Liam?”
He and Xanthe exchanged smiles as he passed her. Since she had arrived home she had been avoiding seeing him. They had spoken on the phone once or twice and he’d been sensitive enough to pick up on the fact that she was not yet ready to tell him any more about where she had been. She was thankful he had not pressed her, as she had no idea what she was going to tell him. There were moments when she thought it would be a huge relief to share it all with someone, but then the reality of trying to explain, to make them believe, it was too much to face. Too big a mountain to climb when she was still struggling to put one foot in front of the other on level ground.
“Pass me the scissors, Xanthe.” Flora held out her hand. They watched as she snipped the string and tape and peeled off the wrapping around the box. At last the contents were revealed. It was a new shop sign. It had a scumbled white background, with the grain of the wood showing through it. On top of this, in beautiful black cursive lettering, was written THE LITTLE SHOP OF FOUND THINGS. Here and there loops and swirls were picked out with a tiny bit of gold leaf.
“It’s gorgeous, Mum. Perfect.”
Flora beamed. “I sold two of those mirrors you put up for auction online. Thought I’d invest the money wisely.”
“I’ll hang it up for you,” Liam offered. “Where’s your ladder?”
It was good to have his help and his easy presence. The closer they got to the advertised opening time the more jittery Flora became and the less Xanthe wished to be there. Liam’s cheerfulness kept them both in check. There was just time to smarten themselves up, which meant lipstick for Flora and some balm dragged through Xanthe’s hair. At ten minutes to ten Gerri came across the street with trays of chocolate brownies and shortbread and a tea urn to keep everyone supplied with Darjeeling through the day. Finally, the moment had arrived.
“Ready?” Flora asked.
“As I’ll ever be. You?”
She nodded, and turned the sign on the door to OPEN.
Within minutes, people started to drift in. Some were locals, come to see what the newcomers had been up to. Others were market day shoppers happy to browse. There were tourists with plenty of time to linger and ask questions about the stock. Gerri did a brilliant job of keeping everyone fed and watered, and Liam made himself useful fetching and carrying. By twelve o’clock there was a real crush. Flora’s discount fliers had proved popular, with customers eager to claim their 10 percent off whatever they bought. The smaller items were good sellers, as Flora had known they would be. Then a collector swooped on the Minton, and someone else bought the largest mirror. Two of the painted chairs went, and a lovely pink-and-blue quilt. They were so busy it took Xanthe a while to notice an elderly gentleman taking an interest in the chatelaine. She stepped over to answer his questions.
“It’s not entirely Victorian, is it?” he asked.
“It’s not. The clasp itself, and three of the chains, and the scent bottle, they are much older,” she told him.
“Early eighteenth century?”
“Actually, early seventeenth.”
“Good gracious. What sort of provenance do you have for it?”
It was a reasonable question. The value, in fact the desirability, of an antique was as much dependent on its history, and the verifiable authenticity of that history, as it was on how it looked and felt.
“Well, those silver pieces aren’t hallmarked,” Xanthe said, “which fits with the era, as does the thickness of the silver. The later design echoes the pattern, but it can’t match its simplicity. And, well … let’s say I met a relative of someone who inherited it.”
“A descendent?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
The old man studied her face, trying to decide, no doubt, if she was spinning a story for the sake of a sale, or if her claim was genuine. He gestured at the cabinet. “Could you take it out? I should like to hold the piece and examine it more closely, if I may.”
She fetched the key. Lifting the chatelaine from its bed of velvet for just an instant she fancied she felt something. But, no, it was just the anticipation of what it used to do, not what it did anymore. She passed it to the customer, who studied it carefully.
“It is very fine. And very pretty. My wife and I are celebrating our silver wedding anniversary next month and I was looking for something special to give her.”
“It is special,” Xanthe said quietly. “Very special.”
He read the price on the label. She had added only a thirty percent markup, as they needed to get some cash flowing into rather than out of the coffers. The customer looked up at her then. “I say, you have a charming shop, and a very good eye. I’ll take the chatelaine. Rest assured, it will be greatly valued.”
Flora watched Xanthe take it to the counter and find tissue paper and a box for it.
“Are you OK with that, Xanthe?”
“Completely fine, Mum, honestly.”
At that moment the door was flung wide open and Harley arrived, carrying a case of prosecco, Annie following with glasses.
“Good morrow, lassies,” Harley said. “A little something here to launch your new venture.” He gave Gerri’s teacups a horrified glare. “You canna set a ship sailing without a drop of bubbly, for pity’s sake. Annie, where are ye with those glasses?”
Soon everyone in the shop was sipping the sparkling wine. The level of chatter increased, and there were one or two impulse purchases prompted by the booze. Xanthe sidled up to Harley.
“This is really good of you. Thanks,” she said.
He winked conspiratorially and whispered, “Wine loosens purse strings as well as tongues, ye ken? Mind you, looks as if it’s all going well enough already. You’ve the makings of a solid little business here, lass.”
“I hope so. Mum’s worked so hard.”
“Aye, you can see she’s passionate about it. And you? When will you get back to what stirs your heart?” he asked.
For a moment she thought, madly, that he was talking about Samuel, but of course he wasn’t. He had not asked for any more explanation about why she needed the metal detector so badly, though she wondered if he had questioned Liam. Of course, he was referring to her singing.
“Are you short a singer again, Harley?” she asked, smiling.
“Oh, we’re fine. Thanks for asking. But we’ll always make room for you, hen. Just say the word, and the spot is yours. You’ve the voice of an angel and it’d be a sin not to use it. In fact, you should be singing whenever the opportunity arises. And this, if you don’t mind my saying, is just such an occasion.”
“What?”
“Oh, aye. You’ve got to bless your mother’s new business with a song, lassie. Nothing less will do. Now then!” He put down his glass and tapped the heavy ring on his finger against it to get everyone’s attention.
“Harley, no, please.…” She tried to get him to listen, but he was unstoppable. She saw Liam look toward them and smile. Were they in this together? Had they planned it all along?
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Harley’s voice boomed around the small space. “I am delighted to inform you that, in honor of the opening of this new and frankly bloody marvelous wee shop, Miss Xanthe Westlake will now sing for us! Come along, lassie!” He pulled her forward into the center of the room amid much clapping and cheering from everyone else present.
For a moment she froze. She was not prepared, she had not had time to build herself up or warm her voice. She had not practiced or even thought about singing in
public again so soon. She caught her mother’s eye and it was hard to ignore the pride she saw there, the joy and the love. Flora so wanted her to sing. How could she disappoint her? This was her day, she had earned it, and Xanthe would not be the one to let her down. Besides, Harley was right, it did seem fitting: Flora’s passion celebrated with her own. A show of what they could do together. Her vision of a new life for them both, and Xanthe’s determination to embrace that life, completely, which meant being there with her, it meant being open to new friendships, it meant being ready to love again, however painful that might be. It meant, for her, singing.
“OK,” she said at last, clearing her throat and downing another mouthful of prosecco. “Just the one song today. This is something that means a lot me. It’s a very old song, more than four hundred years old, in fact. And it brings back memories for me of a very special place.” She did not add that Marlborough was that place, and not the Marlborough they knew. The song, with its medieval tune and ancient words, would take her back, just for a moment, to long ago, when the town was half the size, and there were no cars or electric wires or lights, no phones or internet. When the world was much smaller and quieter, but no less colorful or challenging. When Samuel lived and breathed and loved. She opened her mouth and began to sing. And as she sang she closed her eyes and into her own, secret vision came Samuel’s face, clear and strong and wonderful, and she knew then, as she sang on, that one day, somehow, through another found treasure that would speak to her, she would find a way to return to him.
For I loved my love but I left my love,
Though it broke my heart to go.
And he’ll yearn for me, and he’ll wait for me,
Though the winter chill his bones.
For I loved my love, but I left my love,
Else the gallows they would claim me.
And he’ll sigh for me, and he’ll wait for me,
For my love has a heart that is true.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My grateful thanks to Patsy and Robert Floyd, the current owners of Great Chalfield Manor. They were excellent hosts and shared a wealth of knowledge about the gorgeous house, its history, and the local area. I hope the liberties I have taken with the building and its history do not make them wince too much, and that they feel I have caught the essence of the place in this book.
Many thanks to Helen McCook for telling me about chatelaines.
A special mention must go to Melanie Williams for helping me explore Wiltshire. Some say mini-break, I say research trip.
Thanks as always to the team at St. Martin’s, particularly my tireless editor at Thomas Dunne, Peter Wolverton, and assistant Jennifer Donovan. Starting a new series raised all sorts of challenges for us, and I’m grateful for their insight and perseverance. And for meeting each new idea with equal parts willingness and enthusiasm.
And heartfelt thanks to the design team, for the lovely cover, and the all-around general gorgeousness of the finished book.
And I’d send tea and shortbread if I could to all those behind-the-scenes people who each play their vital part in bringing the book into being, getting it out there, and getting it noticed. Thank you.
ALSO BY PAULA BRACKSTON
The Return of the Witch
The Silver Witch
The Midnight Witch
The Winter Witch
Lamp Black, Wolf Grey
The Witch’s Daughter
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PAULA BRACKSTON is the New York Times bestselling author of The Witch’s Daughter, The Winter Witch, The Midnight Witch, The Silver Witch, and The Return of the Witch. She has a master’s degree in creative writing from Lancaster University in the UK. She lives in Wales with her family. You can sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
St. Martin’s Press ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Acknowledgments
Also by Paula Brackston
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE LITTLE SHOP OF FOUND THINGS. Copyright © 2018 by Paula Brackston. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photographs: shop © Anna Stowe/Alamy Stock Photo; smoke © Romolo Tavani/Shutterstock.com; sign © Roberto Castillo/Shutterstock.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Brackston, Paula, author.
Title: The little shop of found things: a novel / Paula Brackston.
Description: First edition. | New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018018746 | ISBN 9781250072436 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781466884106 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Witches—Fiction. | Fantasy fiction. | England—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Historical. | FICTION / Fantasy / Historical. | FICTION / Romance / General. | GSAFD: Occult fiction. | Love stories. | Historical fiction.
Classification: LCC PR6102.R325 L58 2018 | DDC 823/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018018746
eISBN 9781466884106
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
First Edition: October 2018