She helped her mother into the passenger’s seat, handing her some of her painkillers and a bottle of water. The village had woken up properly now, and even so late in the year there were tourists eagerly taking selfies in front of the stunning cottages. Not for the first time, Xanthe wondered at the power of such prettiness to draw people in. It wasn’t simply the charming look of the place, of course she knew that; it was the presentation of an ideal. Chocolate box. A rural idyll. Harking back to a time long gone, when lives were simpler and the sun shone constantly. Except that, as Xanthe had found out for herself, lives were often far from simple, and the winters were just as bitter, the cold just as deadly. She climbed in behind the steering wheel and they set off for Marlborough.
2
The rest of the day was taken up with general shop business. Now that they were open it had to be manned, and as Flora spent most of her time in her workshop repairing and restoring things, it fell to Xanthe to serve customers. Though the summer tourist season was over, most days there was still a steady flow of people. Some were true lovers of antiques. Others were on a day trip and drifted in and out enjoying looking at lovely things with little intention of spending any money. Flora called them “professional browsers.” Xanthe pointed out that they often ended up making impulse buys. With such a new business and their finances still shaky, they couldn’t afford to miss any potential sales. When they had arrived home from Laybrook, Xanthe had taken the copper pot, still wrapped, and squirrelled it away in her room. She wanted to look at it when she would not be disturbed, even if that meant waiting until after closing time. Flora set about the job of cleaning the other pots in her workshop. The cabinet went straight into the shop, where Xanthe found some nice pieces of glass and china to set it off. She tried to stay focused on what she was doing; tried to give her full attention to each customer. She almost succeeded. Almost. But the thought of what the little copper pot might reveal to her preyed on her mind. Until she had a chance to do some research she couldn’t be sure of the date of the antique, but it looked old. Quite possibly seventeenth century. She knew that would be early for such a piece but found herself hoping that this was something rare. Something that could have come from the time she had visited. From Samuel’s time. And as soon as she let that thought form in her head she felt unmoored. She shook her head against the idea.
That night, after a quick supper with Flora, Xanthe disappeared to her room, the singing object remaining an unspoken understanding between mother and daughter. Flora knew Xanthe had found something special and was accustomed to her need for privacy now. Xanthe’s bedroom no longer held the stuffy heat of summer, built as it was into the slope of the roof, but had begun to reveal just how cold it might be in the months to come. She wrapped herself in an oversize fluffy jumper, found at a charity shop, tucking her feet underneath her as she sat on the bed. Slowly she peeled away the bubble wrap to reveal the pot, its bell-like song growing stronger and clearer as she did so. The metal felt cool beneath her fingers, the wooden handle smooth from the many palms that had held it. Lifting the lid, Xanthe inhaled. She had anticipated smelling the dust of ages along with a little cleaning fluid, but there was nothing so harsh. Just the faintest aroma of chocolate. She held the pot up to take in the simple but beautiful shape. Aside from a few scratches and one or two dents—with a rather noticeable one on the lid—it really was in very good condition. She imagined how many people must have used it. Listening hard she could again make out the sound of water, and that rumble that was hard to place.
“Where did you come from?” she asked. “What have you got to tell me?”
Again she waited for a glimpse of a face, or a building. Something. But nothing came. She felt both relief and disappointment. Setting the pot down on her bedside table, Xanthe fed words into a search engine on her phone. She scrolled down past some of the more obvious entries until she found a page she had used before when researching antiques. She read aloud what she found, as if hearing the words spoken would somehow nudge the pot into giving up its secrets.
“‘Early chocolate pots followed a European design, often made from copper, brass, or silver, characteristically with a handle at the side, and a removable finial in the lid, sometimes hinged. The hinge suggests a later date. The earliest pots with sound provenance are dated around 1640, though rare examples may well predate this.’” She looked at it again. The opening in the lid was closed by a removable finial, but it was not hinged. She searched the base of the pot for marks and was able to make out something very faint. She retrieved her magnifying glass from her chest of drawers and looked more closely. As she did so, the ringing became much louder. Uncomfortably so. She squinted through the glass. There was something that could have been an S or possibly an F. She went back to her online search but could find no mention of any named manufacturers of chocolate pots before the early seventeen hundreds. She read that hot chocolate had become popular in the seventeenth century, and that chocolate houses existed before the more widely known coffeehouses, popular as meeting places often for people whose thinking was at odds with the mainstream. As such they had often been forcibly closed down by the authorities. The proprietors of those whose clientele were known to be rebels or dissenters often found themselves standing trial for crimes against the state, yet still the chocolate houses thrived. They were not, it seemed, places for genteel ladies, who would enjoy their chocolate at home, leading to a demand for more ornate and expensive pots in later years. Xanthe closed her eyes but still nothing came. She was at a loss to understand the way the pot was connecting with her. It was as if it was holding back, and she couldn’t see why. This had never happened before. Any object that had sung to her had seemed eager to reveal its story. It occurred to her that if she took it into the garden, closer to the blind house, the pot would probably react. The thought frightened her. Before moving to Marlborough she had only ever heard or glimpsed the stories attached to the things she found. The discovery of the old jail in the corner of the garden behind their antique shop had changed everything. Sitting as it did on an intersection of powerful ley lines, it acted as a portal to times past. If she got too close she might fall back through time again. And go where? To what time? She didn’t know when the pot had been made or who it had originally belonged to. She could end up anywhere. Anywhen.
She placed the pot on her windowsill so that she could still look at it without being close enough to trigger its louder sounds. Puzzled, she quickly changed into the man’s cotton nightshirt she liked to sleep in and jumped into bed before the chill of the room could get to her. She half expected vivid dreams. Dreams that would give her clues as to the history of the chocolate pot and the people connected to it. But instead she slept heavily, deeply and blankly, failing to hear the alarm in the morning so that she awoke to the sound of Flora calling her down for breakfast.
The sun was still shining, so Xanthe tackled the job of winterizing the flower tubs and baskets at the front of the shop. Being outside, doing a bit of gardening, she reasoned, would be helpful for settling her unquiet mind. Wrestling her long curls into a loose ponytail, she pulled an old favorite, a khaki woolen army greatcoat, over her layered T-shirts and tea dress, with thick socks inside her Dr. Martens, and was glad of the extra warmth. As she emptied the old soil from the tubs into a recycling bag, she made a mental note to invest in some fingerless mittens. The geraniums had been frost nipped and were beyond saving, but some of the tougher plants in the baskets could be put away for next year. She decided she would see what the Saturday market had to offer by way of spring bulbs and something for a bit of color through the gloomy winter months.
After an hour of stooping and working with her trowel she straightened up, stretching her aching back. She noticed Gerri cleaning the windows of her tea shop on the other side of the cobbled street and waved. Gerri waved back and came to stand in the doorway. As always she was immaculately turned out in vintage 1940s clothing, her hair expertly rolled, scarlet lipstick flawlessly
applied. Not for the first time Xanthe admired her friend’s ability to bring up two children on her own, run a business, and look so wonderful. Her total commitment to vintage clothing was also impressive.
“Fancy some gardening work over here?” Gerri called, gesturing at her own displays. They did look in need of a bit of attention. Perhaps plants were actually something Gerri wasn’t good at.
Xanthe called back. “I’m supposed to be in the shop, but I can come over after closing time and sort them out for you if you like.”
“Wonderful! What’s the hourly rate for expert gardeners?”
“Oh, two scones and a slice of Battenberg should cover it.”
Gerri laughed but then her expression altered, becoming suddenly distracted and serious. Xanthe saw that she was looking past her now. She sensed rather than heard someone come to stand just behind her.
“You always did have a sweet tooth,” said the horribly familiar voice.
Xanthe’s stomach lurched. Before turning she made sure her face would not give away her shock. When she did turn, she looked her visitor squarely in the eye.
“Marcus. What an unpleasant surprise.”
“Hey, Xan, don’t be like that. After I’ve come all this way, specially to see you?”
“Uninvited.”
Marcus hadn’t changed. He was still a smart dresser. Still bothered about looking cool. Still had that edgy, restless appeal that women loved. That Xanthe had loved. Once. A long time ago. When she had left London she had fervently hoped that she had left Marcus in her past too, for good. She glanced through the shop window. If Flora spotted him there would be a serious scene.
“Aren’t you going to invite me into your emporium? Show me what you’re up to these days?”
“What part of your crazy brain thought I would want you here? Did you imagine me and Mum would welcome you with open arms? Lovely to see you, Marcus! Come in and have a cup of tea, Marcus! Let’s talk about old times, like how you let me take the blame for your drugs stash, you remember? The one that got me sent to prison, Marcus? Just how did you see this going, really?” Xanthe couldn’t hide her anger at his nerve in showing up. She was aware of Gerri still standing in the doorway of the tea shop, watching. Marcus took a step closer and Xanthe’s whole body tensed.
“Come on, Xan, you know I never meant for things to end the way they did. We’ve stuff to talk about, you and me. Unfinished business.”
She was on the point of telling him exactly how finished things were between them when an elderly couple went into the shop. She pushed past him.
“I’m busy,” she said, pointedly shutting the door behind her as she followed the customers in. Marcus was not to be so easily put off, however. Xanthe heard the bell clang as he entered the shop. She continued to ignore him, engaging the couple in light conversation about a set of Victorian prints, while Marcus prowled among the displays picking up random objects.
“We saw them through the window the other day,” the elderly gentleman was telling her. “We’ve thought about them ever since, haven’t we, Mary?”
His wife agreed, adding that they had even picked out a place to hang them in their bungalow in Devizes. Xanthe’s resentment of Marcus was increasing by the minute. These were genuine lovers of antiques who were considering a costly purchase. She should be giving them her undivided attention, not fretting about her loathsome ex-boyfriend, trying to figure out how she could get him to leave before Flora saw him.
She left the couple examining the pictures and hissed at Marcus.
“Will you just leave? We have nothing more to talk about. It’s all been said. There is nothing left.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
Xanthe heard the unmistakable sound of her mother stick-stepping down the hallway from the workshop.
“Just go!”
“Not until we’ve had a chance to talk. You and me.”
Xanthe saw with a sinking heart that she wasn’t going to get rid of him unless she agreed to hear what he had to say.
Seeing her hesitate he added, “Just an hour, Xan? For old times’ sake?”
“If you promise that you’ll leave me alone afterward.” She bundled him through the door. “OK. But not here. I’ll meet you at lunchtime.”
“Name the place.”
She thought of picking somewhere she didn’t normally go. She didn’t want this man in her new life. But then, it might be as well to be among friends. Marcus could turn nasty if he didn’t get his own way. “The Feathers,” she told him. “It’s on the high street. Now go!” She shut the door behind him just as Flora came into the shop. Xanthe was thankful for the distraction of the customers, and drew her mother into the fun of closing the sale and wrapping up the set of prints.
The rest of the morning was mercifully busy, giving Xanthe little time to think about having to spend time with Marcus. As the hours passed she felt her anger grow. How dare he come to her home? How dare he expect anything of her after the way he had betrayed her, after what he had put her family through? And how had she allowed herself to be manipulated into doing what he wanted? One of the worst things about him turning up was that now she found herself having to tell her mother more lies. She knew how much Flora detested Marcus; seeing him again would bring back so many painful memories. Better that she never knew he had turned up. Better that Xanthe deal with him herself. Even so, it was horrible to have to fib to Flora about what she was doing at lunchtime.
“Lovely that Harley’s so keen to have you sing in the pub, wanting to sign you up for an extra stint,” Flora called after Xanthe as she left the shop. “Make sure he agrees to free beer for your family at the next gig!”
“That’d be just you, Mum.”
“Perks of being the parent of a superstar,” Flora joked.
Xanthe closed the door and hurried away to The Feathers. She wished she was going there to sing instead of meeting Marcus. At least she would have the reassuring presence of Harley. Apart from the warmth of his personality and the fact that he was helping her restart her singing career, his interest in local myths and legends gave them another common ground. She had him to thank for discovering the intersecting ley lines in her garden where the blind house had been built. He was someone she could at least talk to about strange things, even if only theoretically, without feeling completely insane.
The pub was about half full, mostly of people eating light lunches, enjoying the good, simple food and the ambience of the ancient, low-beamed building. She found Marcus sitting at the bar, already halfway through what she guessed was not his first pint of beer. Opposite him, Harley stood, polishing a glass furiously, not for one second taking his eyes off Marcus. Despite his burliness, his tattoos, wild beard, and his general hairy biker appearance, Harley was known as a mild-mannered Scottish landlord who kept a friendly inn. This was the first time Xanthe had seen him look menacing. Clearly something about Marcus troubled him.
Marcus spotted Xanthe and raised his glass.
“Here she is! My girl. What’ll you have, Xan?”
Xanthe took in Harley’s reaction to this greeting. His bushy brows lifted in surprise.
“I’m not your girl, Marcus,” she said quickly. “I’m not your anything.”
“Chill! Come on, what can I get you?”
“Coffee, please, Harley,” she said.
“Coming right up, hen,” Harley replied in his rolling Scottish accent. “If y’ve a minute I need to speak with you about Saturday night?” he asked, tilting his head in the direction of the far end of the bar.
“I’ll be a moment,” she told Marcus. “Look, there’s a table over there.” She pointed to a private seat in the corner.
Harley kept his voice low.
“Tell me it’s none of my business, hen…”
“It is none of your business, Harley.”
“But yon fella is trouble. I’ve a nose for it,” he insisted, tapping the side of his nose.
“Thanks for caring,
but I’m OK. Really.”
“Really? Because there’s trouble and then there’s trouble, and he’s not the sort you want messing with your head. I’ve seen his type before. They have a look.…”
She met his gaze. Harley wasn’t a person to mince his words, but even he was reluctant to come right out and say what he was thinking.
“Is it that obvious?” Xanthe asked. Marcus had always prided himself in not conforming to the druggy stereotype.
“I’ve no wish to slander my own hometown and place of my birth, lassie, but I grew up in Glasgow, you know what I’m saying?”
Xanthe reached across the bar and briefly patted Harley’s hand. “It’s OK, I promise. I can handle him.”
“Aye, well, you know where I am.”
Reluctantly, Xanthe joined Marcus at the table. She took off her coat, not enjoying the way he watched her as she did so.
“Looking good, Xan. Even better than I remembered. I’ve missed you.”
“What do you want, Marcus?”
“Hey, where’s the Xanthe I used to know and love?”
“I’m not that girl anymore. Experiences change a person.”
“Things went sour, I know it. But the past is the past.”
“So why did you come? Why not leave well enough alone?”
“We were good together, you and me.” He leaned forward and attempted to take her hands in his. She snatched them back. He opened his mouth to speak again but was interrupted by Harley arriving to slam the tray of coffee things down on the table and glare. Marcus waited until Xanthe’s protector was out of earshot. “Like I said, I miss you. And I wanted to know that you were doing OK.”
“I’m fine. Satisfied?”
“I’m glad, truly.” He paused, taking a swig of his beer, and then went on. “To be honest, things haven’t been easy for me. Not for a while. I made some bad choices, I know, but, well, I got let down too.… I lost the flat. Been sofa surfing since spring.…”
Secrets of the Chocolate House Page 3