“I had thought the jail occupied,” she said. “I was … mistaken.”
“Had you come to gawk only?”
He watched her reaction to this. Xanthe considered allowing him to think this was the case; that she was just following a morbid inclination to look at some unfortunate people come to grief and incarcerated. It should not matter what opinion this man held of her, but it rankled her, the idea that she should be thought of as so shallow and unkind. Her hesitation gave him his answer.
“No, I thought not. You came seeking one who is of importance to you. What manner of person would that be, I wonder? To find himself brought so low and yet to command the attendance and concern of such an … unusual young maid?”
It struck Xanthe that this man’s interest in her was of an entirely different nature to that of the ruffian she had been grabbed by earlier. His look was one of intense interest, but it was not lustful. Again she had the sense that he knew things about her; but how could that be? She wondered why he had been standing near the jail. It could have been coincidence, of course. The little town, wherever it was, seemed quite busy. He might just have been crossing the bridge as Xanthe appeared and seen her looking at the blind house. Somehow, though, his being there felt more meaningful than that. Might he know something about what had happened to Samuel? She had to tread cautiously. Not knowing what kind of trouble Samuel was in made it hard to tell who might be his friend and who might be his enemy.
“It is true, sir,” she said carefully, “that I came looking for an acquaintance. I had heard he was in difficulty.”
“An acquaintance?”
“I am a minstrel. I meet many people. This person did me a kindness once. I hoped to repay the debt.”
“How curious. What help did you think to bring him? Were you planning to serenade him through the bars of his jail, perhaps?” A slow smile slipped across the man’s face. It did nothing to add any warmth to it.
Xanthe was on the point of gingerly digging further for information about Samuel when their conversation was interrupted by Mistress Flyte calling from the door of the chocolate house.
“Girl! Once again you neglect your duties! I have had cause to speak to you of this before. Come, there is work to be done.”
Xanthe realized at once that the woman was trying to get her away from the unsettling man. She was prepared to pretend that Xanthe worked for her in order to do so. She was risking publicly acknowledging someone she had scarcely met, someone who had just sneaked through her own home with no explanation. Xanthe could not know Mistress Flyte’s reasons for what she was doing, but if she had to choose whom to trust out of the two people she now stood between, it would not be the man whose breath she could feel against her cold cheek.
“Forgive me, Mistress Flyte,” she called back, grateful that she at least knew the woman’s name. Without a backward glance she hurried back into the coffeehouse, where the owner firmly closed the door behind her. As soon as she was inside Xanthe turned, opening her mouth to speak, wanting to question the old woman, but she was not given the opportunity.
“Do not dawdle, girl. There are tables to be cleared and pots to be washed.” Mistress Flyte clicked her fingers at the lad scurrying past with a tray of cups. “Edmund, fetch a clean apron for your new workmate. See that she knows what’s what.” So saying, she walked off to engage a table of regulars in conversation, busying herself with the job of hostess of the establishment.
“Make haste!” said Edmund breathlessly. “The mistress will not tolerate a laggard. Here.” He took an apron from a shelf behind the counter and thrust it into her arms. “Put this on. You can leave your coat and bag over there. And, mind you, don’t drop anything. If you break something it will come out of your pay.”
For a moment Xanthe stood, clutching the starched apron, bewildered. She hadn’t traveled back through the centuries to be a waitress. She was here for a reason, and at that moment she was still no further forward in finding Samuel. She glanced about her. The chocolate house seemed to be getting busier and slightly rowdier as the afternoon drew on. More patrons came through the old door, ducking to avoid its low beam, heading for a favorite corner or table. Edmund threw more logs onto the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. Mistress Flyte seemed to know everyone and made them welcome. Xanthe thought quickly. The woman had obviously been keen to get her away from the eerie stranger but was in no hurry to explain herself, or to question Xanthe. It seemed she was prepared to wait, and it looked as if Xanthe would have to be patient too. If Mistress Flyte had gone to the trouble of taking her in it stood to reason that she would be prepared to help her further. But in her own time. Perhaps, Xanthe decided, she would be more amenable, more willing to give the assistance she was going to need, if Xanthe put in a few hours’ work for her first. It might even be some sort of test.
“Right,” she said to herself, rolling up her sleeves. “How hard can this be?”
After three hours of running this way and that, carrying heavy trays laden with pots, pouring the hot chocolate into cups and tankards with increasingly unsteady hands, suffering variously minor burns and scalds, ribald comments from customers, and chastisements from Mistress Flyte, and even from Edmund, for being slow, Xanthe was worn out. Her feet ached, she was weak from having not eaten, and the pipe and woodsmoke in the room had left her with a sore throat and a fuzzy head. At last her new employer beckoned Xanthe, and she followed her through a narrow door and up a twisting flight of wooden stairs. They came to a small sitting room, neatly furnished with fine pieces; a rug, richly patterned in blues and golds, a chaise longue of darkest indigo damask, two small cushioned chairs by the little fireplace, a gilded mirror above the mantel, two delicate tapestries on the walls, and a writing desk in the corner. There was a bookcase, unusual for the time, with a precious row of leather-bound volumes behind a locked glass door. Xanthe could tell at a glance that this was not the room of a lowly cafe keeper. These were expensive, rare, and luxury items. Something about Mistress Flyte did not quite fit.
There were two small windows giving onto the street below and another view of the bridge and the river. As dusk had already deepened into evening they let in only the faintest glimmer of light from the town lamps. Mistress Flyte lit a spill from the fire in the hearth and applied it to candles set about the room. As she did so, she indicated a chair by the fire and invited Xanthe to sit.
“You appear fatigued, girl. Are you unaccustomed to labor?” she asked.
Xanthe tried hard not to resent the question, sinking onto the softly cushioned seat. “I am a minstrel by trade, ma’am,” she explained.
“Indeed?” Mistress Flyte settled elegantly on the chaise opposite. “And what, pray tell, was a young minstrel, unaccompanied and unannounced, doing in a chocolate house in Bradford-on-Avon, apparently intent on visiting the blind house?”
If Xanthe had been expecting any sort of preamble to this question, any chance to feel her way with the woman, she clearly was not going to get it. While she had been waiting at tables downstairs she had at least had the time to come to a decision about what she would say to explain her sudden appearance. And about how much she would have to risk trusting this singular woman.
“I was, that is, I am looking for someone. I received word that he was in danger. I came to see if I could offer assistance.”
“But you found the lockup empty.”
Xanthe nodded.
Mistress Flyte turned to look into the fire, gazing at the dancing flames. “You are a little late, it would seem. The jail was indeed occupied until early this morning.”
“It was? Do you … do you know who was being kept in there? Did you hear any name mentioned?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, without raising her attention from the fire. “I know the name. In truth, I know the person.”
“Would you tell me who it was? It might be that I was misinformed.…”
“I would prefer you give me the name of the man you so eagerly seek,” she said. S
he turned to look directly at Xanthe then, her expression leaving no room for doubt. If Xanthe wanted to earn her trust then she would first have to confide in her.
“Samuel,” she said as levelly as she could, annoyed at the tremor that crept into her voice as she spoke his name. “Samuel Appleby of Marlborough.”
Mistress Flyte nodded slowly but did not speak. She seemed to be considering what to say, taking time to make up her mind about the strange girl in her home. Xanthe reminded herself that these were dangerous times. To trust the wrong person could prove fatal. A log cracked loudly in the silence. From downstairs came the sound of laughter. Mistress Flyte smoothed the cotton of her skirts with her palms.
“Two nights ago, Samuel Appleby was here, in the chocolate house. He and his friends choose to meet here, even though they must journey some miles. This is a place where it is safe to gather, to exchange ideas, to form alliances. That is to say, it has always been safe. Up until now.”
“And now?”
“There are those who fear change. Those who seek to stamp upon burgeoning shoots of progress and grind them beneath their heel. Such men do not operate alone but are instruments of more lofty estates.”
“The king’s men, d’you mean?”
Mistress Flyte glanced at Xanthe, hesitated, and then continued. “His Majesty sees fit to send his agents abroad, to have them watch for any who might oppose him. Such opposition is no longer tolerated.”
“But Samuel, the Appleby family, they are held in high esteem by many of the king’s supporters. Their work as architects is in great demand.…”
“Which is the reason they have been left alone thus far. However, times change. The king feels more threatened, therefore he will strike before he is struck.”
“What did Samuel do? To cause him to be locked up, he must surely have done more than talk to his friends.”
Mistress Flyte got to her feet and began to pace slowly about the room.
“After the events of last autumn all who are not wholly committed to the king’s views are seen as a threat. All are under suspicion.”
Xanthe had to stop herself asking to what events she was referring. She had left Samuel in the first week of November. It was obviously winter now, but several months could have already passed since she had been here. A quick search of her own memory, of some of the names that Samuel and his brother, Joshua, had mentioned, reminded her of which event she had so closely missed. November 1605—the Gunpowder Plot. The ultimate act of treason, with the king and his family narrowly escaping being blown up by Guy Fawkes and his allies. Of course the situation for Catholics, for dissenters in general, could only have become far worse since that shocking day.
“Your friend,” Mistress Flyte went on, “has of necessity surrounded himself with like-minded men. As I said, they meet here when they can. Not to plot the king’s downfall, simply to ensure the survival of those about whom they care. Those, like themselves, who tread upon the precipitous edges of accepted society. It is, as you pointed out, his work that keeps him from persecution. Indeed, after he was summarily rounded up with his friends and thrown in the jail on charges of sedition, it was his talent as an architect and master builder that saw him freed. Those with him were not so fortunate. Fairfax had no use for them.”
“Who?”
“Benedict Fairfax, whose ambition is exceeded only by his wealth, and that wealth gained through zealous service to the king. A man who ruthlessly pursues his own gains, playing the gentleman when there is not a gentle grain to his rotten soul.” She stopped pacing and faced Xanthe again. “But you will have sensed his true nature, I believe. When you met him earlier today, did you not shrink from his gaze? Did not your very being recoil from his touch?”
“You are talking about the man on the bridge? He was responsible for freeing Samuel?”
“Because it suited him to do so. Just as it suited him to see your friend arrested to begin with.”
“What? I beg your pardon, mistress. I don’t understand.”
“Nor do I expect you to. You will come to that understanding only in time. Know this: If you wish to help Master Appleby you will make an enemy of Fairfax in the doing of it. He will stand between the two of you.”
Xanthe pulled her scarf from her head, wishing she could let her hair out of its tight bun. She rubbed her forehead, closing her eyes, trying to make sense of what Mistress Flyte was telling her. If Samuel was out of trouble it sounded as if his was a fragile safety, and that the threat of being charged with treason and facing a terrible death still hung over him.
“I have to go to him,” she said. “I need to get to Marlborough.”
“You will not find him there. Fairfax had him released only into his own protection, so that he could work on Laybrook Abbey. As long as the work lasts, so will Samuel’s reprieve. I’d wager it will last not a day longer. If you wish to see him, you must travel to Laybrook.”
Xanthe thought about how easily her stay could become prolonged. Samuel was no longer in the jail, perhaps she should be content to know that and simply return to her own time. But no, from what Mistress Flyte was telling her, he was far from out of danger. And besides, the chocolate pot must have brought her to Bradford, to Samuel, for a reason. She would see him, discover what it was she was being led to, do what she could, reassure herself that he really was safe and not still under threat from Benedict Fairfax; then she would go home. She got to her feet. “I have to. I have to see for myself that he is all right, and if there is anything I can do to help him get free of this man.…”
“You? A lone maid? A minstrel? With no family, no influence?”
“I have to try.”
Mistress Flyte nodded and even allowed herself a small smile. “If it were any other I would tell them that to do so would be to seal their own violent fate. You, however, singer of songs, you might just be the one who could bring Fairfax down. You, I will help.”
This puzzled Xanthe. Again she had the impression that her hostess knew more about her than she was prepared to reveal. Why would she think Xanthe was so well suited to rescuing Samuel, particularly when she doubted her own ability to do so? At least, she told herself, the old woman was willing to support her rather than ask awkward questions about how she had come to be in her chocolate house in the first place. Xanthe knew she needed an ally, and this person was, after all, a self-declared friend of Samuel’s. “Thank you. I … I’m grateful. Truly I am.”
“Save your gratitude. We do what we must. All of us. But plans for travel will wait upon the morrow. Tonight, you will work for your supper and lodgings. Edmund will show you where you can sleep after the chocolate house is closed. Come, quickly now, I hear thirsty patrons with money to spend.”
Xanthe followed her new employer out of the little sitting room and back down to the buzz and warmth of the hostelry, spurred on by the thought that the next day she might at last see Samuel.
5
Mistress Flyte’s establishment did brisk business in the evening. Xanthe, already tired from the leap back through time, the emotional upheaval of trying to find Samuel, and the hours she had spent on her feet serving at tables through the afternoon, blundered on, becoming increasingly weary and clumsy. More than once Edmund had cause to snap at her for spilling milk or dropping spoons. Inevitably she managed to break a porcelain cup too, earning a loud tutting from Edmund. Mistress Flyte had less time to talk to her clientele in the evening hours. Instead she was fully occupied with preparing the chocolate. Xanthe watched her heat the milk and then melt the crumbled cocoa into it. The temperature had to be hot enough to dissolve the chocolate, but not so hot as to boil the milk, which would spoil the flavor. The mixture had to be stirred constantly to stop it from sticking to the bottom of the pan. At the crucial moment, Mistress Flyte would add other ingredients, according to the customer’s preferences. Sometimes she grated in a little nutmeg, with care and reverence, as she told Xanthe it was the most expensive spice they had. Other times a cinnamon s
tick was infused in the milk. Sometimes black pepper was added, or cardamom, so that by late in the evening the room was a heady mix of aromas. Some patrons, of course, liked the addition of a tot of brandy or whiskey. This earned the mild disapproval of the proprietor, not because of the effects of the alcohol, for she was no prude, but because, she claimed, it adversely affected the taste of the hot chocolate, masking the depths and subtleties of the cocoa itself.
* * *
Much later, Edmund waited while Xanthe used the necessary house at the far end of the yard and then led her to a small space in the loft and directed her to a straw-stuffed mattress. The room was noticeably colder than the lower floors in the house and had the smell of a forgotten space, more than a little dusty and damp. Edmund handed her two rough blankets.
“You can sleep here. Don’t mind the bats and they won’t mind you,” he teased as he went, leaving her with a stub of tallow candle. Xanthe set the precious light down next to her bed as close as she dared without risking a fire. There was a low window set into the roof which reminded her of her own bedroom back in Marlborough. She felt a stab of homesickness and wondered how her mother was, hoping that her arthritis had not chosen this week to flare up again.
Secrets of the Chocolate House Page 7