He took in her words, struggling to master his emotions.
“You are a fair nurse, and I thank you for your efforts,” he said formally, trying to be the man of the house but giving himself away by his teary eyes.
“She is very weak, you see,” Xanthe explained. “And, there is a sickness in her blood, because of her injuries.”
He looked at Xanthe, his expression imploring. “Is there nothing more you can do? No further remedy we might try?”
Xanthe could not bear to see the heartache on his face, nor to think of this kind woman losing her life to the thugs who had attacked her. She made up her mind.
“Well, there might be something. I would have to … go and fetch it.”
“A medicament?”
“That’s right. I will be gone … a while. I can’t say how long. I will be as quick as I can, but while I am not here you will have to look after your mistress. Keep her cool and quiet. Give her sips of milk if she will take them. Bathe her face and hands. Do you think you could do that?”
He nodded energetically. “It is no more than the mistress would have done for me, were I the one so cruelly used.”
And so it was arranged. They put up a notice on the door of the chocolate house saying it would remain closed until further notice due to Mistress Flyte being temporarily indisposed. The note apologized for the inconvenience caused and assured patrons that once the doors opened again the first rum-laced chocolate would be at the expense of the proprietor. This seemed to satisfy Edmund that if his mistress survived she would have a business to return to. Xanthe made him promise he would not open the door to anyone he didn’t know to be a friend. His only task was to look after his mistress, all else could wait.
Xanthe went up to her attic room. She closed the door firmly, fixing it shut with a chair. She had already said her goodbyes to Edmund, explaining she would slip out of the yard door at the back of the house when she left, and wouldn’t disturb him on her way. He was so earnestly taken up with looking after Mistress Flyte that she was confident he wouldn’t notice that he hadn’t heard the back door slam shut. Xanthe took off her apron and let down her hair. There were so many unknowns, so many things to worry about regarding her journey back and forth that she refused to think about any of them. If she did she would lose her nerve. This was the old woman’s only hope. She had to try. In an attempt to make sure she returned to her attic room, rather than some other part of Bradford, or Marlborough, she had taken the step of moving the chocolate pot upstairs, setting it down carefully beside her low bed. It thrummed as she handled it.
“You’d better bring me back,” she told it, shaking her head at the thought that she needed the help of such a thing in the first place.
At last she could put the moment off no longer. She stood in the center of the room and fished the locket from beneath her T-shirt. In the dim light it still had the ability to gleam. She opened it, looking at the picture of her mother’s smiling face.
“Hi, Mum,” she said softly, and within seconds she felt herself falling, spinning forward through time once again. After a brief but dizzying moment where she feared she would land crashing onto the floor of the blind house, her transition slowed. She could hear the voices, but they were distant this time, whispering and less frantic. It was almost as if they—whomever they were—sensed that this was to be a fleeting journey. That she was not leaving, not properly. That this was all a necessary part of what she had come for. She had no time to understand these things any further, however, as with startling speed she found herself slumped upon the gritty ground inside the little stone building. She waited, giving her mind and body time to adjust, letting the nausea and giddiness recede. Slowly then, she got to her feet. She listened. The voices had fallen silent. The door of the blind house was ajar, as she had left it, so she was able to see that it was dark outside. Thanking her luck, she peered out. The garden was still and empty, save for a hedgehog making its snuffling progress across the lawn. It looked up at her, surprised, and then scuttled away to the cover of the shrubs against the tall wall. The fact that he was not in hibernation suggested it was still autumn. Another relief. Looking at the plants as much as she could tell in the gloom, everything was as it had been when she had traveled back. Gaining in confidence, Xanthe crept out, checking the lights at the windows of the flat above the shop. All were in darkness, except the one on the landing. A motorbike buzzed up the high street, its engine noise slightly muted by the fog that was descending. Everything suggested she had arrived in the small hours of the night. She hurried to the back door, using her own key to let herself in, and tiptoed up the stairs to the bathroom. As she passed her mother’s bedroom she paused, holding her breath as she saw Flora sleeping heavily. The pill bottle on her bedside table suggested she had needed strong painkillers. Had her arthritis worsened? Was she going to be able to manage on her own? Xanthe shook such thoughts from her head. The quicker she did what she needed to do, the sooner she could return to help her mother. She moved on to the bathroom and slid open the door of the cabinet. There were two boxes of antibiotics, both within date. She took the strongest ones, which were capsules and would therefore be easier to empty into a liquid so that she stood a better chance of administering them to Mistress Flyte.
With her precious medicine tucked into the pocket of her dress, Xanthe hurried downstairs. She was on the point of leaving when she remembered a pair of tiny silver scissors that had recently been added to the stock. She thought how useful they would be for removing and preparing Mistress Flyte’s bandages, so nipped into the shop to fetch them, risking switching on the lamp that sat on the desk. It was as she took them out of the glass-fronted case in the bow window that she became aware she was being watched. Slowly she turned. She had to stifle a shout when she saw a face looming at the window.
“Marcus!” she said aloud, a mixture of anger and relief making her forget for a moment that silence was essential. She unlocked the shop door, slipping outside quickly, being careful not to let the bell ring as she did so. “What are you doing skulking around here, frightening me half to death?” she questioned him in an urgent whisper. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“Couldn’t sleep. Nor could you, looks like,” he said, running his hands through his hair. He looked dreadful. Gaunt and pale with dark circles beneath his eyes. It was shocking how much of his youth and health were being sacrificed to his habit. Xanthe remembered how often when they were together he had been unable to sleep and had prowled the streets for hours. She stopped herself from commenting on his appearance, fearing that he might read her noticing as a sign that she cared.
“I’ve told you, Marcus, I’m not interested in having anything to do with you or the band, OK? All that is finished. Why can’t you just go back to London? There’s nothing for you here,” she said, glancing up at the windows above the shop, worried that their words might carry. At least her mother’s bedroom window was shut against the cold night air.
“Can’t seem to tear myself away,” Marcus said, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his inadequate jacket, shifting from one foot to the other. “Could do with a drink,” he added.
“No way you’re coming in.” Xanthe shook her head. “Mum would go mad.”
“So don’t tell her. This is about you and me, Xan, no one else.”
Xanthe realized that he wasn’t just going to go away, just vanish back into the city and out of her life. If Harley hadn’t put him off, if he hadn’t already taken notice of what she’d said, he wasn’t going to give up easily. She tried to think, tried to decide how best to deal with him, but all the time her head was full of what it was she was there for. Of Mistress Flyte dying if she didn’t get back to her soon. Of Samuel, still in danger. Of the fact that she had to get back to the blind house as quickly as possible.
“Look, I don’t have time for this right now.”
“You’ve something else to do at…” he checked his watch, “… two o’clock in the morning?”
>
“Mum’s not good. I don’t want her disturbed again tonight,” she said, inwardly flinching at the lie, hating herself for using her mother’s illness. When Marcus showed no sign of going anywhere she knew she would have to promise him something if she was to get rid of him. It was setting up trouble for the future, but she had to get him to leave so she could slip back through the house. “We can talk again, if you need more convincing. Don’t get your hopes up, I’m not going to change my mind.”
“That’s all I want, for us to talk.…”
“But not now, OK? I’ll meet you in The King’s Arms, it’s the pub at the bottom of the high street.”
“When?”
“Friday. Six o’clock.”
“That’s not until the end of the week. What am I supposed to do until then?”
“I don’t know! For God’s sake, Marcus, I have a life. My mother needs me. We are running a business here.…”
“And I’m paying for a bed and breakfast.”
Xanthe sighed. “Some things never change, do they? Wait here.” She dived back into the shop and took two twenty-pound notes from the cash box in the desk drawer, grateful they didn’t have an electronic till system. “Here,” she said, stuffing the money into his outstretched hand. “Just keep away from here and I’ll meet you on Friday.”
“Friday,” he echoed, backing away up the cobbled street, watching her watching him until at last he turned onto the high street and was gone.
The second he was out of sight Xanthe went back into the shop, locked the front door, and hurried along the narrow passageway that led to the garden. She all but sprinted across the lawn, not giving herself time to worry about how difficult her journey back through time might be on this occasion, or where she might end up. There was no time to hesitate. She had to go back, and she had to go back quickly.
This transition was swifter than any she had experienced before. She barely had time to register the fact that she was blacking out, that she was traveling again, when she found herself back in her attic bedroom at the chocolate house. She was, as always, on the floor, breathless and giddy, but somehow less muddled, less unnerved, and the voices were quieter. Was she simply getting used to it? she wondered. Or could it be that she was, in some small way, beginning to take control of her movement through time? It certainly seemed to her that placing the chocolate pot where she wanted to return to must have had an effect, for there it stood, beside her bed, singing a high, clear note, as if it were a beacon signaling her way home. She shook off the idea that she could even briefly think of the seventeenth century as her home. Of course it was not. But after what Mistress Flyte had told her she knew there was more to her wondrous ability than she had first imagined. The old woman knew what Xanthe could do, and there were others who could do it too. What was it she had called them? Spinners of time? A memory, distant and faint, stirred in Xanthe’s mind, but she couldn’t pin it down. And this was not the time to be trying to find answers to riddles.
She got to her feet, moved the chair from the door, and hurried down to Mistress Flyte’s room. She startled Edmund from his doze on the chair beside the bed.
“I did not hear you come home,” he said.
Xanthe silently cursed herself for not having taken more care and was relieved when he told her how he had hated leaving the back door unlocked for her and was glad they would be able to put the bolt across again now that she had returned. She managed to tease from him the information that she had been gone only twenty-four hours. Mistress Flyte continued to be feverish, drifting in and out of a troubled sleep. She looked worryingly weak.
Xanthe took the antibiotics from her pocket and broke open two of the capsules, emptying the granules into a glass. She had no real idea of what dosage would be right. She reasoned that she should give the strongest dose possible, but Mistress Flyte would never have taken antibiotics in her life before. Would she be more sensitive to them? What if she had some sort of allergic reaction? It was a risk that would have to be taken. She poured in a little warmed milk and stirred.
“Here, Edmund, help me sit your mistress up,” she said, perching on the edge of the bed. Together they lifted up the frail old woman, who moaned as she was moved. With great care and patience, Xanthe spooned the mixture into her mouth, allowing time for Mistress Flyte to swallow the medicine, waiting as she struggled to find each breath in between sips. At last it was done, and they laid the old woman back against the pillows. Xanthe checked the clock on the mantel. “We must give her more in two hours,” she said. “We can let her sleep now.”
“Will it work?” Edmund asked. “Will the cure save her?”
Xanthe put her hand on his arm. “She’s a brave woman, Edmund. She won’t give up without a fight. Come on, let’s get that sign off the door and see if we can keep your mistress’s business running. It’s what she would have wanted.” When he hesitated, reluctant to leave the old woman, Xanthe added, “I can’t do it without you, Edmund. Will you help me?”
He hesitated, then nodded, and together they went downstairs.
* * *
The next day passed in a ceaseless round of nursing Mistress Flyte and working in the chocolate house. To begin with, as with the first time they had held the fort together, Xanthe and Edmund tripped over each other, made mistakes, and spent a fair amount of time making good their slipups and soothing the tempers of less-than-satisfied customers. Gradually, though, they settled into a rhythm, each playing to their strengths. Edmund, it transpired, was quite talented at preparing the hot chocolate, and Xanthe was happy to let him take over. Now that he was over the initial shock of what had happened to his mistress he made no more mistakes, focusing on the delicate task of producing the luxurious drinks to the clients’ specifications with increasing confidence, his natural ability coming to the fore. Xanthe, on the other hand, was far more adept at handling the customers, keeping them cheerful even when things weren’t done exactly as they had been used to. They seemed not to mind the unusual way she spoke, and no one was sufficiently interested in her to question where she had come from. Whenever anyone asked about her employer she told them the same thing, that she had taken ill with a heavy cold and would soon be up and about again.
She only wished she could believe her own words. The thought that time was passing and still she was no nearer helping Samuel was torture for her. She knew she could not leave while Mistress Flyte was so dangerously ill. Whenever possible, she or Edmund sprinted up the narrow wooden staircase to check on the patient. They bathed her, trying to reduce her fever that had her in a relentless grip. Xanthe changed the dressings on her wounds and could see no real change in the injuries. She comforted herself that there was no further sign of infection, but nor was there any noticeable healing taking place. Every two hours she had Edmund help her give Mistress Flyte more medication. Each time they both hoped for, searched for, signs of improvement, but there were none. In fact, by the end of the next day the old woman was so feeble it was even harder to get her to sip the medicated milk. That night, her feet aching from a long day serving downstairs, Xanthe sat in the chair beside the bed and watched the old woman as she slept. Would she ever wake again? Would Xanthe get the chance to question her further about what she knew of the time spinners? Were she and Fairfax the only two, or were there more? And how did Mistress Flyte know about them? Xanthe felt trapped. She could not desert the old woman, but she had to leave for Laybrook soon. Earlier she had overheard a conversation at the fireside between two carpenters who had mentioned Laybrook Abbey. Her ears had pricked up at the name, and she listened in for word of Samuel.
“That paneling was exceedingly fine, mind you,” said one, leaning back in his chair to suck on a clay pipe. “I will not be ashamed to put my name to it.”
“Aye, there is satisfaction in a job well done,” the stouter man agreed, taking a swig from his pewter tankard of chocolate. “And glad I am that it is done, for I would not spend one swift minute longer in that place than my work
compelled me to.”
“Your work or your master.” The pipe smoker shook his head. “I will not miss the company of Fairfax, no more will you.”
“An exacting master.”
“More than that, one who I believe will never find satisfaction in the work of another and will forever berate them, regardless of quality. Only yestermorn he did take me to task for the quantity of wood shavings left over from planing the lumber. Called it wasteful. I asked him what he would have me do, leave the wood the wrong size? He replied the shavings should be swept into sacks and put to some good purpose.”
Both men had given a hollow laugh at this and just as Xanthe had started to think she would learn nothing of Samuel the pipe smoker had spoken again.
“Pity poor Master Appleby, for he must bide longer to see the work complete.”
“Pity him more when ’tis done, for then Fairfax will have no further use for him beyond an offering for the king.”
“You do believe he will do it? After all that Appleby has done to enhance the Abbey? After all the good standing of the family years past?”
“Ha, gone are the days such things counted. When a man has shown his colors, as Appleby has, he has put himself beyond the pale. These times are unforgiving, and no man more suited to them than Fairfax.”
After that their conversation had turned to their own families. Once back in her garret room, Xanthe struggled to keep frustration from getting the better of her. She could not leave yet, but perhaps she could find more answers to the riddles Mistress Flyte had alluded to. She took up the chocolate pot, feeling it tremble slightly in her hands.
“Can’t you show me anything? Surely there’s something I could see, something to make more sense of it all. What do you want me to do?” She closed her eyes, waiting, hoping. There were whispers, glimpses of faces, shadowy and unfamiliar. She saw Samuel’s face then, solemn and distant. And then Fairfax, with his unmistakable pallor and cold eyes. Eyes which, as she watched, seemed to turn toward her. To see her, their pupils widening, his expression altering from surprise to one of intense interest.
Secrets of the Chocolate House Page 10