Xanthe sat back in her chair, staring at him.
“You’ve come here to ask me for money? Un-bloody-believable!”
“No, it’s not that. But I do need to get my life back on track, and that means putting the band together again.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’ve been writing songs again. They’re good, Xan, I know they are. But they’re for you to sing. No one else. Think about it. We can get out there, get performing again.”
For a moment Xanthe was rendered speechless. It wasn’t just the nerve of the man, thinking she would consider having anything to do with him after the way he had treated her; it was more complicated than that. Whatever else had happened, whatever else had gone wrong between the two of them, their shared passion for their music, for performing, for the band, that had been real. And if she was totally honest, she missed that. Missed being part of a band. Missed having songs written that were perfect for her voice. She shook her head, attempting to shake away the memories, reminding herself that there was no room for Marcus in her new life.
“I can’t decide if you’re crazy or if you think I am. After all that happened, after everything you did, you honestly think I’d want to work with you again?”
“Don’t you miss it? Don’t you want to sing again?”
“Who says I’m not singing?” She nodded at one of the posters near the door. It listed the lineup of Friday and Saturday night bands and singers for the coming month. Xanthe’s name was clearly visible.
Marcus frowned and then quickly adjusted his expression. If he had been going to poke fun at her new venue he thought better of it. Instead he smiled at her. “You see? I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t be able to give up on your singing. It’s too big a part of you, Xan. We both know that. I’m so pleased that you are still singing. Really, I am.” He hesitated and then went on. “What happened to you … OK, what I let happen to you. It was bad, seriously bad. If I’d ever thought that something like that could happen…” Seeing Xanthe’s own face darken as she grimly stirred her coffee, he tried a different tack. “I want to make it up to you. Will you let me?”
“Oh? And how do you think you could do that?”
“Like I said, I’ve been writing songs. Songs for you.” He became suddenly animated, his eyes bright with real excitement for what he was telling her. “They are good, I know it. But they need you to be seriously great. Your voice. It would be perfect. Let me play them for you. Just listen to them, then you can decide if you want to sing them or not. I know you won’t be able to resist, not once you’ve heard them. You don’t have to come up to London. We can find somewhere here. Even a one-horse town like this must have a decent keyboard in it somewhere.” He laughed, letting his true opinion of provincial life show again just for a moment.
Despite what she knew of Marcus, despite everything he had put her through, just for a moment Xanthe let herself imagine what it would be like. Let herself think about how great it would be to be collaborating on new material, working with a proper band again. And then Marcus reached across the table again and took her hand, holding it tightly. Something about that gesture, about that connection, brought back all the hurt and betrayal. She pulled her hand back and got to her feet.
“I should never have agreed to talk to you.”
“Wait…” Marcus got up, putting his hand on her arm.
“Go back to London. Don’t come here again.” She snatched her coat off the back of her chair but still Marcus held her arm. When she tried to shake him off he only gripped tighter.
“You can’t just turn me away.…”
A shadow fell over Marcus as Harley came to stand close.
“Oh, I think you’ll find she can, laddie,” he growled.
“Call off your shaggy dog, Xan. This is between you and me.”
Xanthe was spared the trouble of replying. Marcus might have been lean, but he wasn’t small. Nevertheless, Harley picked him up by the scruff of the neck and the belt of his jeans and launched him toward the door. Marcus fell in a heap on the floor, his dignity further bruised by two young women all but falling over him on their way in. He scrambled to his feet, thought about taking Harley on, then thought better of it.
“This isn’t finished!” he said to Xanthe. And then he was gone.
There was a moment’s awkward silence.
“Sorry, Harley,” Xanthe said at last.
“My pleasure, hen,” Harley assured her, clearing the table as he spoke. “Any time.”
“Oh, I think he got the message. We won’t see him again,” she said.
Harley gave her a look that said he thought otherwise.
Xanthe strode back to the shop, her mood darkening with every stride. She wanted to believe Marcus would stay away, but she knew him too well. Harley was probably right. Marcus was a certain kind of trouble, and he wouldn’t give up so easily. As she walked she thought about how the men in her life seemed to cause nothing but trouble, each in their own way. Her father had wrecked his marriage and caused no end of financial difficulties for her and her mother. Her relationship with Marcus had been a disaster that ended up with her in jail for something he had done. Liam was being a good friend, it was true, but Xanthe’s cynical mood questioned even that. And then there was Samuel. The one who still pulled at her heart, but the one who was forever out of her reach. By the time she got back to the shop her face gave away her mood.
“Goodness,” said Flora when she saw her. “That bad?”
“What? Oh, no. It’s all good with Harley. Just … you know, stuff.”
“Right. Stuff,” said her mother, seeing that Xanthe didn’t want to talk about it. “Did you get any lunch? No? Come on then, I was just about to open a packet of soup.”
* * *
It was after midnight before Xanthe managed to get to sleep, only to be woken again an hour later by a cat fight in the garden. Groggy and confused, she clambered out of bed and went to sit at the little window. There was a full moon that shone brighter than the streetlights of the town, so that the walled garden behind the shop was clearly lit. The arguing cats spat some more, their moon shadows jittering as they crouched and growled. Xanthe opened the window and whistled, watching as the distraction of the noise gave the smaller cat the chance to run away. The larger one thrashed its tail from side to side before stalking off, nimbly leaping to the top of the old brick wall and then dropping into the next garden. Xanthe shivered. If she had been dreaming she had no recollection of it, but she was too unsettled to attempt sleep again. And then the chocolate pot resumed its ringing. When she had first brought it to her room its sounds had been constant, so that she had even tried putting it, tightly wrapped, in the cupboard under the stairs. It hadn’t made any difference, so she had retrieved it. It seemed if the found object was near, its singing would reach her, clear as if it was beside her. She knew she should not have been surprised at this: why should such a magical thing conform to the laws of physics, after all? Something that became clear to her was that it sang louder to get her attention if she tried to ignore it, or if she had been out of the house for a while. Like a needy child, it would call to her and would not be quiet until she attended to it. Xanthe ran her fingers through her hair. What was the point of the thing calling to her if it wasn’t going to show her anything? Outside, at the far corner of the garden, the stonework of the blind house gleamed beneath the nighttime illumination. As the garden plants began to die back for the winter, the little building was becoming more visible. Xanthe wondered how long it would be before her mother insisted they could make use of the space, filling it with stock for the shop. How could she explain to her the dangers of doing that? She could hardly tell her that the building was situated on a magical ley line, and that it had the power to transport her back in time. No, she would have to convince her it was irredeemably damp. She felt a burgeoning headache and the noise of the pot was making it worse. Suddenly, her patience ran out. She threw on her chunky jumper, jammed her feet
into her boots, picked up the pot, and went downstairs. She had learned to avoid the floorboards that creaked and how to open the back door quietly so as not to wake up Flora. Once outside, she marched across the wiry grass of the lawn and stopped a few paces short of the old jail.
“Right,” she spoke softly but firmly to the antique in her hands. “I’m not going any closer. No way I’m being whisked off anywhere. So, if you’ve something to share with me, now’s the time.”
She waited, feeling faintly foolish. Nothing happened. She risked taking a step forward. The sound of rushing water returned, louder than before. She closed her eyes. At first all she saw was darkness and blotches of moonlight on the insides of her eyelids. And then the vision hit her. Sharp and clear and shocking. Samuel! Despite the gloom she could make out his dark, shoulder-length hair, his strong, noble features, and his troubled expression. His eyes looked watchful, concerned, his mouth set, whether in anger or determination she could not tell. His hair was disheveled, and the velvet of his black jacket dull with dust. He was somewhere dark, his breath visible in the cold air. She could see that he too was lit by the moon, its rays slanting across his face. As her vision broadened, Xanthe could see that the moonlight was fractured through bars. He was in a jail of some sort! For a moment he vanished from her sight, and all she saw instead was deep, swirling water, dark and dangerous. And then she saw his eyes again, searching, trying to focus, almost as if he could see her.
“Samuel!” she called. “Samuel!”
And he turned toward her, as if he had heard her voice. Her heart lurched as their gaze connected. He seemed to search the darkness, his lips forming her name. Could he see her?
And then the vision stopped. The darkness descended once again. Xanthe opened her eyes, gasping. Although she could no longer see him, she could feel Samuel’s presence, almost hear his breathing. And above all of what she had seen and what she could hear there was an unmistakable, powerful feeling of dread. She could not tell where he was incarcerated. She could not know how long he had been there or if he had heard her when she cried out his name. What she did know, beyond any doubt, was that he was being kept there against his will. That he was hiding very real fear. That he was trapped and threatened, and in great danger.
3
Xanthe had never felt so torn. She had promised herself she would not try to travel back in time again. She had experienced such dark confusion on her last journey home, there had been a moment she feared she would be unable to return. That she might be stuck hundreds of years before her own time, or worse even than that, lost in some timeless limbo. Apart from the risk of the transition, the seventeenth century was hardly a safe time for anyone to be living in, let alone a lone woman outsider who spoke strangely and had no family. And then there was Flora. She needed Xanthe. However independent she liked to try to be, she couldn’t manage the shop on her own. Beyond that, there was the fact that in order to disappear for any length of time, Xanthe would have to concoct a string of lies to tell her mother. And Liam. And Harley and Gerri, who had all become important people in her new life in Marlborough. How could she take a step that would mean she had to deceive all of them? And what if she never came back? Her mother would never know what had happened to her. It would break her heart.
Xanthe knew all this. Her good sense and sound reasoning told her that to risk what she had, to risk hurting the people she cared about in such a way, was out of the question. But … but … When she had left Samuel, she had at least known he was safe. He was with his own family, leading his own life. Now, however, he was clearly in deep trouble. The sense of dread and peril that she had experienced during her vision simmered beneath the surface of her consciousness even now, in daylight, while she tried to go about her everyday life. Her gift might be as much a curse as a blessing, but it never lied. How could she not try to help him? What if there was no one else to go to his aid? His family had been Catholics at a time when that in itself was enough to get a person hanged. Their reputations, their work, their very lives were anything but safe. What if his father and brother were also locked up somewhere, awaiting a spurious trial, with no one to defend them? It seemed that the chocolate pot was directing her back not just to Samuel’s time but to Samuel himself. What was the point of having a gift, of being capable of something as incredible as traveling back through time, if you weren’t prepared to use it? She had come to realize, after helping Alice, that it was necessary that she do what she could to help those who called to her. To help those to whom she was led by the object that sang to her. She had a part to play in making sure history turned into the present, and ultimately the future, in the way that it should. It had been an epiphany for her, realizing that fact, acknowledging it. If she didn’t answer the call, what might the consequences be? Not just for Samuel, but for the order of things. The way things were meant to be. She did not pretend to herself that she fully understood it all, but she knew what was right. She knew what she had to do.
As she dressed to go down to breakfast she was shocked to realize that she had already decided what she would do. What she must do. All that remained was to think of a workable story to tell her mother and summon up the courage to step back inside the blind house.
She was surprised to find the kitchen empty. She knew Flora was up, having passed her bedroom on her way downstairs. Then she heard the front door open and shut, the brass bell announcing Flora’s return. It was strange that she had been out before breakfast. What was more worrying was the furious stamping of her crutches and footsteps as she made her way up the stairs. Something had put Flora in a rage. Something or someone.
“Mum?” Xanthe peered at her as she stood in the kitchen doorway clutching a pint of milk.
“When were you going to tell me?” she demanded. She snatched off the bit of scarf that was tying back her light brown hair and chucked it down onto the table. Her ordinarily placid features were hardened by anger.
“Sorry?” Xanthe tried not to panic, telling herself there was no way her mother could know what she was planning to do.
“I have just seen Marcus in the high street.”
“Ah.”
“How long were you planning to keep it a secret?”
Xanthe winced at the word. “Did you speak to him?”
“I didn’t have a choice! He greeted me like a long-lost friend. Said how he’d loved seeing you again. How pleased he was that you had agreed to meet him.”
“Mum…”
“That man is poison, Xanthe. I can’t believe you sneaked off to the pub with him. Our pub…”
“I didn’t sneak.”
“You didn’t tell me you were meeting him.”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Oh, and that always works, doesn’t it? Hiding difficult stuff until it’s become a disaster, and then you have to tell me.”
Xanthe had to remind herself they were only talking about Marcus. “Mum,” she said, taking the milk from her and setting about making tea, “sit down. I’ll get us some breakfast and I’ll explain everything. Though there really is nothing much to tell.” She waited until her mother had, somewhat reluctantly, taken her place at the table before going on. “He turned up yesterday, out of the blue. He wasn’t going to leave until I’d listened to what he wanted.”
“Which was?”
“Me singing in his band again. Or money. Or both.”
“Good grief.”
“Exactly.”
“I hope you told him to get lost.”
“I told him, and Harley told him.”
“Good for you. Good for him.”
Xanthe put the mugs of tea, box of muesli, and bottle of milk on the table and sat down. A thought had occurred to her. An idea that was at once simple and yet somehow horribly manipulative. “Thing is,” she said, choosing her words with care, “I don’t think he really got the message.”
“What, not even with Harley delivering it?”
“He’s still here, isn’t he?
If he’d properly taken on board the fact that I want nothing to do with him he’d have gone back to London yesterday, surely?”
Flora considered this, taking a sip of her tea. Xanthe was relieved to see her anger was subsiding. She completely understood the way she felt about Marcus and wasn’t surprised at how she had reacted to finding him showing up in their new life. What was harder to cope with was how hurt her mother was that Xanthe had kept a secret from her. A secret that was nothing compared to the one she was in the process of constructing.
Flora shook her head. “He’s got some nerve, coming here.”
“Marcus was never short of self-confidence.”
“Loathsome man. I can’t stand the thought of him hanging around, pestering you.”
“I did tell him pretty plainly. And Harley, well, he has a way of making people see his point of view. Thing is,” she hesitated, taking a breath, “Marcus is pretty boneheaded. He sees what he wants to see. He’s not going to give up easily.”
“Well next time I see him I won’t be caught off guard. I’ll tell him in no uncertain terms where he can go.”
“He thinks he can persuade me. To sing with the band again.”
“He can’t. Can he?”
“Of course not! But…”
“But what? Xanthe, love, you’re surely not thinking of having anything to do with him?”
“No. Absolutely not. But getting him to believe that…” She tipped cereal into a bowl and gave a shrug. “Maybe I shouldn’t give him the chance to keep bothering me. Perhaps if I went away, just for a few days…”
“Away where? And why should you? This is your home.”
“I know, and you’re right, but, well, if I’m not here there’s no point in him hanging around, is there?”
“You shouldn’t have to run away.”
Secrets of the Chocolate House Page 4