“I’m off now,” she said casually. As she hugged her mother goodbye she had to fight the urge to hold on to her just a little longer. This was supposed to be a simple trip an hour’s drive away for a couple of nights. Flora couldn’t know, must never know, how much danger her daughter was likely to be in.
“Spend wisely,” Flora told her. “Remember our budget. And bring back lots of lovely things!” she added with a smile.
“Yes, yes, and yes. If Marcus turns up, don’t tangle with him.”
“All right.”
“Just tell him I’m not here and send him away. And don’t go overdoing things, Mum, OK?”
“Stop fussing. Off you go. Text me when you get there,” she called after her.
As Xanthe went out she wedged a folded piece of card into the bell on the shop door so that it wouldn’t give her away when she returned in a few hours. She had decided it was unlikely Flora would notice it wasn’t working since it was so near to closing time.
The drive to Devizes took longer than usual because of what passed for rush-hour traffic. Xanthe thought of the gridlock she had been used to in London and told herself she had no right to be impatient. By the time she arrived at the auction house the building was closed and empty. She chose an out-of-the-way spot and parked her taxi before calling a mini-cab. She met the driver at the entrance so that it wouldn’t look odd leaving her own car there. The closer they got to Marlborough the more nervous Xanthe felt. By the time they reached the outskirts of the town it was already dark. She asked the driver to stop near the church at the bottom of the high street, pulled on a bobble hat to hide her distinctive curls, and made her way back to the shop, keeping to the side roads and shadows. Her own cobbled street was deserted, Gerri’s tea shop and all the other small businesses locked up and in darkness. She had always known this would be the most nerve-wracking part of the fabricated story she had told Flora, but knowing it didn’t make it any easier to cope with. She waited outside the shop, straining her ears for any sounds, any clues as to where inside her mother might be. She was about to unlock the door when she remembered she was supposed to send a text. She checked her watch. A plausible amount of time had passed for her to have reached Bristol. Feeling ridiculous and dishonest, she took out her phone and wrote a quick message to Flora saying she was safely arrived and that the B and B was nice. Flora replied cheerily, wishing her luck at the fair and saying she was about to have a long soak in the bath. Xanthe waited a further ten minutes to be sure her mother would be happily wallowing, more than likely with some of her favorite music playing, and therefore unlikely to hear footsteps downstairs.
Once in the shop Xanthe removed the cardboard that was preventing the bell from clanging. She hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, having no idea what she would say to her mother if she appeared. The gurgling of the aged plumbing system and her mother’s wavering soprano voice from upstairs reassured her enough to dash to the back door, go through it, and hurry to the dark corner of the garden to retrieve her bag. Her hands shook as she changed her clothes, a combination of the cold night air and her own nerves making her tremble. She hid her phone in the clothes she was leaving, switching it off. She had decided to say the battery died and that she got a new one later while she was in Bristol. She glanced up at the house. The curtains were drawn at all the windows. Finally, she buttoned up her coat and took the chocolate pot out of its wrapping.
“OK,” she whispered to it, running her fingers over the smooth copper, struggling to master her anxiety at what she was about to do. “Show me,” she said. “Show me Samuel. Make me believe.”
She closed her eyes. The by-now familiar sounds started faintly then grew stronger. She saw stone walls, glistening wet, once again lit by moonlight. There was a figure moving in the darkness. Was it him? She couldn’t be sure. She opened her eyes, took a breath, and pulled open the door of the old jail. In a panic she checked for her precious locket and was comforted to find it still securely on its chain around her neck. She took a deep breath. The smell of damp earth greeted her, and a musty warmth that should not have been there. As if the tiny building was inhabited by warm, unwashed bodies. She shook off the idea that another fearsome ghost might be waiting to meet her. “Not this time,” she told herself, her low voice deadened in the ancient, windowless space. With her bag over her shoulder, clutching the chocolate pot tight, she stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind her, letting the darkness envelop her. She did not have long to wait. All at once the voices started up. Urgent. Pleading. Some wailing, others crying. Xanthe held her nerve and did her utmost to ignore them. She must think of Samuel. Only Samuel. It was for him she was risking everything.
She began to sway, dizziness almost overwhelming her, bile rising in her throat, the taste of it in her mouth acrid and bitter. She had the sensation of falling, and yet she could still feel the gritty earth firm beneath her booted feet. One voice rang out clear above the others. A man’s voice. A man who wasn’t Samuel.
“I am waiting for you. I am waiting!” he called.
Panic at the thought that she had been tricked and that she would not find Samuel at the end of her journey almost made her run from the old jail, but it was too late. The sounds, the voice, the very air around her seemed to stretch out of shape as she tumbled back, her mind losing its grip on consciousness as she did so, the last awareness of her own time being the low growl and then the terrified hiss of a stray cat in her garden.
4
Xanthe opened her eyes. She was aware she was lying on a hard, stone floor, somewhere cold and enclosed. It was so dark she could only just make out solid bare walls around her. With mounting dread she attempted to make sense of her surroundings, pushing herself up onto one elbow. For a moment she feared she had arrived in a jail or dungeon. How would she explain her sudden appearance to an incredulous jailer? Had she made the enormous leap through time successfully, only to find herself trapped with no one to help her, unable to save herself, let alone Samuel? Through the fabric of her blouse she checked that her gold locket was still in place. Feeling the smooth bump of it against her skin reassured her. Whatever else she could or couldn’t do, as long as she had her mother’s special gift to her she could return home. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Xanthe smelled not the musty dampness of a cell, but the sweetness of apples. And pears. She could taste the acidic blend of fruit in the chilly air. Above this, there was the faint tang of onions, and the dry, warm earthiness of hessian sacks of flour or wheat. A storeroom then. A basement hoarde house. She recalled that when the chatelaine had drawn her back through time it had always taken her to a place where there was something she needed to see. Something connected to its story. Some clue or revelation.
She got to her feet, her eyes at last adjusting to the gloom. There was a slender, glassless window high up, which let in some daylight. She could see now that the space was orderly and well kept, free from cobwebs or dust. Turning, she saw a steep flight of wooden steps leading up to a heavy door, with light showing at its edges. As she climbed the steps she could hear the murmur of voices above. She leaned against the worn wood, listening. It was hard to make out words. The sound was more of a room full of people, some laughing, the occasional louder outburst, much general chatter. She lifted the heavy iron latch and pushed the door open a little. The room was low ceilinged, with heavy beams, and filled with rustic wooden furniture: tables, benches, and high-backed settles. A pungent fug of smoke hung in the room, supplied in part by the large open fire in the deep-set hearth, as well as by the many pipes that were being puffed upon, sucked, or chewed. For a moment Xanthe thought she had arrived in an inn, but then the truth struck her. It was so obvious she felt foolish for not working it out sooner: she was in a chocolate house! She stepped silently through the door, closing it behind her. She wanted to scan the room for any familiar faces. If she was close to where Samuel lived she might well see someone she had met on her earlier visit. But it was difficult trying to peer through t
he low light and smoky atmosphere of the space to study people without herself being seen. As she began to move cautiously around the room, keeping to the shadows and avoiding meeting the eye of any of the patrons, something struck her as odd. While the place had all the appearances of an inn, it smelled different. Here there was not the aroma of whiskey or sour ale. Nor the whiff of vinegary wine. There was none of the ribald coarseness she might have expected in a tavern, nor any drunken brawling or rowdy behavior at all. Instead there was an intensity to the discussions and conversations around her, almost a secrecy to the way the patrons huddled in small groups, deeply engaged in their talk.
A tall, skinny lad darted between tables delivering trays of cups and pots of chocolate. Xanthe sniffed. She could detect spices, cinnamon mostly, she thought. Perhaps also nutmeg and ginger. Looking more closely now she could see that there were copper pots and ceramic ones too, some on the tables, others at the counter which ran across the far end of the room, close to the door. Behind the counter was an elegant if aged woman who appeared to be in charge. She stood straight backed, keenly observing all that was going on in her establishment, occasionally issuing orders to the boy who ferried trays and pots back and forth, sometimes taking money from customers or engaging them in conversation. Even at first glance, Xanthe felt there was something about this woman, something singular beyond her faded beauty and regal demeanor. At that moment the woman turned and picked up a copper pot, swirling it by the wooden handle before expertly pouring a cup of velvety hot chocolate into a fine china cup. With a start, she recognized that this was the chocolate pot. Her chocolate pot. It looked younger, of course, less worn and a little shinier, but it was unmistakably the same one. Xanthe could even hear the high-pitched note of its song as it called to her. It had the same distinctive curve to the spout, the same dark brown wooden handle. She was uncertain of what to do next. Clearly this was where the pot had its origins. Its story was to be found here, and no doubt the owner of the chocolate house would have her part to play, but what of Samuel?
“Here, girl!” A gruff voice commanded Xanthe’s attention only seconds before she felt an arm around her waist. She stumbled as the man seated at the nearest table pulled her closer to him. “I can find ye some’t better to do than stand gawkin’!’” he laughed. Now that she was nearer the cups and pots on the table she could detect the faint smell of brandy. Clearly some patrons liked their chocolate laced with something stronger after all.
Xanthe smiled as she uncurled his arm from around her waist, not wanting to draw any further attention to herself. She reached over and picked up the large chocolate pot.
“Let me fetch more for you, sir. Can’t have you sitting there thirsty, can we?” she said, slipping beyond his reach toward the counter. She heard his fellow drinkers laugh. As she was making her way toward the counter, planning to dump the pot and slip through the front door, she glanced out the window, and what she saw made her stop in her tracks.
“What’s up, girl?” the man at the table wanted to know. “Changed your mind? Decided to come and sit on me knee instead, ’ave ye?”
While he laughed loudly at his own suggestion, Xanthe did her best to steady her nerves. Through the square panes of the little window she could see a broad bridge spanning a deep river. And on that bridge, set into its low wall and built of the same heavy, gray-brown stone, was a dome-roofed jailhouse. A blind house with fast-flowing water beneath it. Surely this was the one where Samuel was held! This was why the pot had brought her to the chocolate house. It made perfect sense. Spurred on by the thought that she was so close to Samuel, Xanthe strode up to the counter. If the woman behind it was surprised to see her she did not show it. Instead she studied Xanthe with a sharp gaze, almost as if she was trying to place her. Xanthe searched her memory but was certain she had not met the woman on an earlier trip, though it was possible she had been a guest at Clara’s birthday party. In which case she would have seen Xanthe perform as a minstrel. She experienced a shiver as she came within reach of her own chocolate pot, and its song grew louder, more insistent, more urgent.
“The gentleman at the table over there would like more,” she told the woman, setting the pot down on the counter.
She turned to go, but the proprietress called her back.
“Stay!” she said, her voice surprisingly melodic and youthful. “Why the haste? Will you not give me your name?”
Xanthe considered simply ignoring her. Just marching on out through the door and not looking back. It would certainly be simpler than trying to explain where she had come from, or why she was there. But if her other journeys back through time had taught her anything it was that she could not help anyone on her own. She needed allies. She certainly could not afford to make enemies. She paused, her hand on the door, turning to reply as lightly as she could.
“Forgive me, I am needed elsewhere. Urgently.”
The woman came out from behind the counter and walked to stand close enough to Xanthe for her to be able to smell expensive perfume. Evidently the chocolate house business paid well. In fact, the woman did not have the appearance of someone who worked catering for others at all. There was something more refined, something more sophisticated about her.
“I do not doubt it,” the woman said. “There will always be those who have need of your assistance.”
Xanthe looked at her then. It seemed to her an odd thing to say. Did the old woman mean Xanthe’s assistance in particular, or was she simply making a general statement? As Xanthe hesitated, the proprietress held out a graceful hand.
“Louisa Flyte,” she said. “This humble chocolate house is both my living and my home. You are welcome. Will you not take a cup of chocolate to sustain you before you leave?”
Xanthe took Mistress Flyte’s hand and felt her firm grip. For a moment the two looked each other directly in the eyes. The older woman’s might have been dulled with age, but they had about them a noticeable strength of gaze and a quiet confidence. Xanthe felt her very soul being scrutinized. A little uneasy, she withdrew her hand.
“Neither yourself nor your establishment appear humble to me,” she told her, remembering that formal good manners and flattery were the norm in the sixteen hundreds. “I thank you for your welcome and your kind offer, but I cannot linger.”
“Where is it that you hurry to? I can have Edmund show you the way to the stage post, perhaps?”
Xanthe gave herself away by glancing in the direction of the little jail. She opened the door, speaking as she went. “No need. Thank you again,” she said, closing the door before Mistress Flyte could ask any more questions. As she crossed the street she felt the woman’s eyes upon her. The day was very cold and dry, with a clear sky, the sun beginning to lower. Xanthe registered the chill of the air against her skin. It made her walk faster, imagining Samuel locked in the damp, cheerless prison, surrounded by wet, heavy stones, the roar of the river beneath him. She had never seen a blind house built on a bridge before. Its location gave it a particularly lonely and isolated appearance. Nervousness gripped her as she drew level with it. Suddenly she was assailed by doubt. What would Samuel think of her appearing in his life again? Would she really be able to help him? What could she do? She had come without anything that could be called a plan, trusting only to her previous experience, hoping her knowledge of the time and the area would be all she needed to be of use. Now, though, she doubted herself, wished she had thought through what her next steps would be.
Before she had time to question the wisdom of her own actions further, she was there, standing at the door to the jail. A door which, to her surprise, was not wooden, but made entirely of thick iron bars. While this gave even less shelter from the low temperature of the day, it at least allowed a little more light into the building. It also allowed Xanthe to see inside. And to see that the jail was completely empty. No Samuel. No one at all. She gaped at the nothingness in front of her. She had been so certain of finding him. While part of her felt hope—he must have bee
n freed—another part felt panic. Had he been moved to the county jail in Salisbury? Or elsewhere? And when had he been taken? He might already have stood trial for something. She might be too late to help him at all. Now what was she to do?
“Oh, Samuel,” she murmured, “where are you?”
It was then that a shadow fell over her and she became aware of a tall figure standing close. A sense of unease took hold of her. Remembering that she had to appear of no interest, of no importance, had to pass unseen wherever possible she tried to ignore the strength of this unsettling feeling. Given her circumstances, it was natural to be on edge. She shouldn’t read any more into her reaction than that. Even so, it was hard to shake off the intense and immediate anxiety this stranger triggered inside her. She attempted to slip away, not knowing where she was going, only knowing that she needed to find a quiet place to gather her thoughts, and to put some distance between herself and this man. But as she moved he stepped in front of her, blocking her path.
“Mistress, you appear perplexed. Do you, perhaps, search for someone?” he asked.
There was a flash of memory in the recesses of Xanthe’s mind. Something triggered by the man’s voice and, now that she looked at him, something familiar about his lanky, angular physique and long, straw-colored hair. She searched her memory in an effort to place him. He wore a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes. His clothes were not flamboyant, but they were expensive and fashionable. His jacket was quilted, cut tight to his body, worn beneath a short cape which was flung off his shoulders. The buckle of his belt gleamed the way only good quality silver could, and the leather of his long boots was supple and fine. These were the clothes of a successful man. A man of some standing and wealth. A man, therefore, of influence and power, and as such, someone Xanthe would do well to be wary of. She looked at him more closely but was certain they had not met before. Why, then, did he seem so familiar? Why did he spark such a reaction in her? She noticed that he was looking at her in a way that was similar to how Mistress Flyte had studied her. As if they knew her somehow. Almost as if they were not surprised to see her.
Secrets of the Chocolate House Page 6