“But this is wonderful! It sounds like the book can really help me. I wish I had looked at it properly when I found it. You say it was waiting to sing to me, but what was it waiting for?”
“For you to come here, my dear. For you to find your way to me.” So saying she closed her eyes, fatigue and pain taking their toll so that she was quickly asleep again, leaving Xanthe to clear away the cups and slip away to her own room to pack her few precious possessions. As she worked, her mind sped this way and that, cursing herself for not examining the Spinners book more closely and for not making the connection sooner. Her thoughts raced on to Mistress Flyte—what part had the old woman to play in Xanthe’s time traveling? She had thought her simply connected to the chocolate pot, to this journey, this story, to helping with Samuel and learning about Fairfax. But if the book had waited for the two of them to meet before revealing itself, then surely she must be more significant than that. Must have a bigger part to play. Xanthe was almost too excited to sleep as she pondered the possibilities of what she would learn when she was reunited with that book. She was exhausted by her duties, fatigued by the cold of the room, weary from worry about Samuel, yet her mind would not be stilled. She marshaled her thoughts. She had come here for her own reasons, no matter what the chocolate pot, or the Spinners, or Mistress Flyte wanted from her. She would put all else from her mind and concentrate on what she had come to do: help Samuel. With this determined thought she chased a fitful sleep through the chilly night.
The next day was much colder, and a slow dawn revealed a rime of frost upon the little houses and trees of Bradford-on-Avon. As Xanthe crossed the broad stone bridge she glanced down at the water below. The river flowed full and silent, deep and deadly cold, making her shiver. She turned up the collar of her greatcoat and stuffed her hands in its pockets. She had Mistress Flyte’s letter safely tucked into one, and the feel of the thick, coarse paper with its wax seal made her think of the note Samuel had written her. It seemed an age ago, though it had only been a matter of weeks for her and months for him. It was still painful to remember their parting, to recall how he had known she would leave him and had written down his thoughts and feelings for her to keep. What he could not have known was that his sweet words were doomed to crumble to dust before the year was out. Xanthe had seen how things she took back with her to her own time gradually disintegrated, not being able to make the journey through the centuries, or at least, not withstanding the effects for long. She had copied his letter, of course, as well as committed his thoughts to memory, but that hadn’t stopped her heart breaking just a little more when the note had crumbled completely, his own dear handwriting lost to her forever. She wondered, not for the first time, if Samuel would even want to see her again. He might not want to have his feelings stirred up when there was no way they could be together. Or would time have altered how he felt? Or perhaps made him less understanding of how he had watched her quite literally disappear? It wouldn’t have been unreasonable of him to have thought her some sort of witch. Why not? Wasn’t she using magic that seemed to draw on something much more powerful than even she herself could explain? What was that if not witchcraft?
Xanthe felt awkward beneath the gaze of strangers as she made her way through the little town. They didn’t know she was a minstrel, so her unorthodox appearance must have appeared curious, must have marked her out as different. As a stranger. She tugged at the scarf covering her hair, trying to make it sit more sensibly. The last thing she needed was unwanted attention or to have to explain herself to people. As she reached the coaching inn where she had been told she could catch the stagecoach that passed near Laybrook she also had to admit to herself that she had no clear plan of how she was going to help Samuel. How was she going to rid him of the threat of such a powerful man as Fairfax? Mistress Flyte had told her she had to get used to not being in control of her own life. She would just have to trust that she had been brought here for a reason. She had been summoned by the chocolate pot. Someone or something believed she had a purpose to serve, a mission to complete in order that history unfolded as it should, and keeping Samuel safe was clearly a part, at least, of what she had to do.
Xanthe sat between two elderly ladies, one of whom appeared to have bathed in copious amounts of lavender, and opposite a stout gentleman who insisted on eating sausages. Soon the air in the carriage interior was a nauseating combination of smells. Xanthe reached across and succeeded in opening the small window in the carriage door, allowing in at least a little breathable air. When one of her traveling companions complained of the draft she swapped seats, which meant she could at least watch the landscape through which they passed. Despite Xanthe’s impatience to get to her destination, the picturesque Wiltshire countryside was a delight, and she felt her spirits raised by it. One of the first things that struck her was how few and far between the houses were. And how few people she saw, either in carriages, on horseback, working in the fields, or in the villages. She recalled that the population of England had only reached the ten million mark at the beginning of the twentieth century. What could it have been in the sixteen hundreds? Whatever the figure, the country appeared almost empty. It wasn’t just the lack of actual people that made it feel so, it was the light touch that they had made upon the land. The stagecoach was traveling on one of the very few roads of any size, and even that was a rough and rustic affair. Most of the farmland was unfenced, giving it an open, slightly wild appearance, and there were far more trees. What Xanthe remembered in her own time as tiny copses or a handful of oaks and ash trees on the crest of a hill were proper tracts of woodland here. To the south, indeed, she was able to see only forest stretching away, dense and ancient. How many trees must have been felled since? Felled and not replaced. Winter had painted the landscape with a palette of soft browns and muted golds, with pale, pale greens where the grass and trees held the frost. Plowed fields had begun to show their winter crops as tough little beets and turnips poked their fat, flat leaves above the frigid soil.
The distance was less than ten miles, but the stage was on a slow part of its route—the ultimate destination London—and stopped twice, allowing what felt like an age for more passengers to board with their luggage. The further east they traveled, the more they found that the road had become boggy and rutted by the winter weather, so that the stage lurched and rattled, further slowing their progress. On rare stretches of good ground the driver whipped up the horses in an effort to make up time. The increased speed felt reckless, but none of the other passengers gave any sign of being alarmed.
At last they drew into the village of Laybrook. Now it was not the differences but the similarities between the modern-day version and this early one that astonished Xanthe. The village was eerily similar to how it was when Xanthe had visited it and found the chocolate pot, with only a few houses missing. One of them, Xanthe noticed, was Esther Harris’s fine home. Being a Georgian addition to the street, it would not have been built for nearly another 170 years, and yet when she and her mother had visited it the house had seemed so antique. As Laybrook had been preserved and kept as authentic as possible in the name of historical heritage and tourism (not to mention its lucrative value as a film set) even in the twenty-first century it had not been spoiled with brash signs, road markings, or wires. She recalled stepping from her black cab and feeling as if she had stepped back in time again. It had made her smile then, wondering how many visitors to the area had the same feeling, and knowing that she was surely the only one for whom time travel was a reality! And now, looking at the little rows of houses, the shop with its sway-backed roof, the two inns with smoke pouring from their chimneys, seeing the old buildings as they had been when recently built, Xanthe experienced a strange disconnect. A sense of not being able to hold on to what was real and what was not. What was her reality, and what was someone, somewhen else’s.
As no one else was getting off, Xanthe was able to swiftly secure her small leather shoulder bag, her only luggage, and step ont
o the muddy street. As she turned around to get her bearings, the stagecoach disappeared on its way with shouts and whipcracks from the driver. The largest of the two inns stood behind her, and a run of cottages and a similar set of little buildings on two other sides, forming something of a central square. Most of the houses were timber framed, showing their beams, some painted black, others natural wood. The spaces in between would have been made of wattle and daub, the plasterlike surface painted. Some were white, others pink, the charming color often obtained by adding oxblood to the wash before it was brushed on. One or two of the larger houses were built entirely of the local golden stone. These were not rough-hewn walls, but stones expertly dressed by skilled masons, making them almost as regular and smooth as bricks. An expensive option, marking the owners out as well-to-do. Xanthe recalled Mistress Flyte’s directions and walked toward a narrow lane, using the spire of St. Cyriac’s church as her landmark. All was exactly as had been described to her. A short row of half-timbered, black-and-white cottages, their upper floors and windows hanging out over the street, was set opposite the churchyard. There were no numbers on the dark wooden doors, so Xanthe simply counted along the terrace until she came to number three. She knocked and waited.
The young woman who opened the door was a tiny creature with watchful green eyes. Everything about her seemed tight and tense, from the neatly pinned cotton cap on her nut-brown hair, to her cinch-waisted apron and her tiny, restless feet. Xanthe put on her friendliest smile and handed her the letter from Mistress Flyte. It was fortunate that Samuel had once mentioned his cousin’s ability to read within the older woman’s earshot.
“My name is Xanthe Westlake,” she said as the woman examined the seal. “You must be Rose. I’m hoping to talk to Samuel.”
Rose shook her head slowly, unfolding the letter and reading as she spoke. “My cousin is not abiding here. His work keeps him up at the abbey.”
“I thought he might be lodging with you and your husband.”
“Master Fairfax prefers he be close at hand. The better to oversee the masons and such, see?”
“Of course.” Xanthe’s heart felt heavy. She had hoped to be able to talk to Samuel away from Fairfax. It seemed strange that he wasn’t even permitted to stay with his family. After all, they were in the same village as the abbey. It seemed Fairfax wasn’t prepared to let him out of his sight at all. She would have no option but to go up to the abbey, even if it meant confronting Fairfax. “Then that is where I must go,” she added.
Rose looked up from the letter. “Mistress Flyte writes you are a good friend of Samuel’s, yet I do not know you. Where was it that you made his acquaintance?”
“At Great Chalfield Manor, earlier this year. Samuel was working on the new screen for the great hall and I was able to assist him.”
Rose was taken aback.
“Well, I never heard of a builder as was a woman!”
“Oh, no, I’m not. I’m a minstrel. I was employed at the house to sing at the birthday party of Clara Lovewell.”
When Rose looked unconvinced, Xanthe tried again.
“As Mistress Flyte mentions in her letter, I have traveled a great distance to see Samuel.”
“She says you wish only to help him. To defend him against any injustice as might be visited upon him. She does not name Master Fairfax, but it does not take a sharp wit to know it is he, the one who has Samuel’s life in his hands. And held tight, at that.”
“I will speak to Master Fairfax. I will plead Samuel’s cause. First, though, I should like the opportunity to speak to your cousin alone.”
“What reason would the master of the abbey have for caring what a minstrel from off should like?”
“None that I can think of. Which is why I would see Samuel first. Rose, I need to get to the abbey without being seen by the master of the house. Do you know a way?”
Rose drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders and took a step back, as if the very idea of going to the place frightened her.
“You wouldn’t have to take me there yourself,” Xanthe said.
“You won’t find the way else,” said Rose.
“Samuel needs my help.”
Rose thought about this. “What can you do?” she asked.
Xanthe hesitated. She could see that, on the face of it, a young woman with no connections was not best placed to do anything of any significance. She couldn’t tell Rose how much she cared for Samuel, or that his feelings for her meant that he would be likely to listen to and possibly consider acting upon any advice she gave. Nor could she tell her that she had unique knowledge that might help him. Knowledge that was for herself history but was for them the future. She knew that the present king would not remain long on the throne. She knew that great changes were coming. If she could make Samuel understand this, perhaps persuade him that in the short term it would be worth him giving up some of his allegiances, putting his political beliefs to one side, and waiting for the moment to come when he could again speak out without fear of prosecution. It wasn’t much, but it might save him; if he was prepared to swear an oath of loyalty to the king, given how much he was in demand as an architect, it might just be enough. And then there was Mistress Flyte’s insistence that Fairfax wanted something from Xanthe. Something that would help him spin time and develop his skills as a Spinner in a way that would fit in with his ambitions. There had to be a way she could use that, perhaps to strike a bargain with him. Aside from that, Xanthe believed that everyone had their weak point, their flaw that made them vulnerable. The more she could find out about Fairfax, the more likely it was she could find a way to use it against him if she had to. She put her hand on Rose’s arm.
“I confess I am not yet certain, but I do have a plan. I know I am a stranger to you, but I think you believe Mistress Flyte to be a woman of good standing, and that is her letter of recommendation you hold. And Samuel chose me for his friend, did he not? If I don’t try, once Fairfax has no further use for him, well, I fear he will not be permitted to return home.”
She let the unspoken threat of a trial and execution hang in the air between them. Rose decided. She tucked the letter into her pocket, tied her shawl at her waist, and stepped forward, closing the door firmly behind her, leading the way without another word.
Laybrook Abbey was less than a quarter of a mile from the center of the village, and as they used a shortcut across the estate land instead of using the road and private approach, in no time at all they had reached the edge of the kitchen garden. The house was as unusual as it was imposing. Xanthe knew from what she had read after her twenty-first-century trip to the village that it had been a functioning abbey, housing a community of nuns, until the later part of the sixteenth century. After Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries it was a wonder the original building had survived at all, but it had, so that the larger portion of the house consisted of a Gothic structure, tall and angular, enclosing a set of cloisters around a courtyard. The more modern building that had been added gleamed golden beneath the chilly winter sun. Construction work was in evidence on all sides. This was an ambitious project indeed. Xanthe noticed that most of the work on the walls and windows had been completed, the scaffolding reaching roof level. A band of men crawled all over the steep slopes hammering stone tiles into place. Glaziers set about their work on the grander windows, some of which had stained glass. Masons could be heard hammering their chisels. However grand, the house was nearing completion. Samuel’s presence would not be required for long. Weeks possibly, more likely days if he was not required to directly oversee all the works. His main expertise was for the construction of the interiors. How near to completion might that be?
Rose put a finger to her lips, signaling for Xanthe to stay silent as they made their way through the vegetable beds, past the fruit trees, and under an archway in the tall wall of the garden. This led into a courtyard around which the functional buildings that served the great house were arranged. There was a bakery emitting glorious smell
s of bread fresh from its oven; a washhouse, where maids labored, carrying baskets of laundry and pails of water; a hoarde house, where fruit and flour and vegetables were stored; a blacksmith’s forge, fashioning shoes for the horses and plows for the fields; and a brewery in the far corner. Rose hurried to it and ushered Xanthe in. She spoke quickly to the elderly man who was tending the barrels of ale. After an exchange of tense whispers he left to go toward the main house.
“You are to wait here,” Rose said, nervously glancing about her as if Fairfax might materialize from the shadows. “Taylor has gone to fetch Samuel. He will come when he can slip away unnoticed.”
Xanthe squeezed Rose’s hand. “Thank you,” she said.
The young woman shook her head. “You are Samuel’s friend. It is for him to send you away, which he will, for if he cares about you he will want you as far from Benedict Fairfax as you can be.” She went to leave and then paused. “Come to us, after you have seen him. You can stop this night.”
And then she was gone and Xanthe was left with her thoughts. She felt a nervousness that was less about being somewhere dangerous and more about being, at last, at the point of seeing Samuel again. She had considered how he might react to her returning, but she had done her best not to think about how seeing him, hearing him, standing close to him, would affect her. She had spent weeks telling herself that she had to forget him. That there was no possible way they could be together. That she had to weather the heartache and let him go. And now here she was, risking so much, traveling so very far, in order to help him. She began to pace up and down, her feet thudding on the washed and swept flagstones of the floor, the strong smell of barley and alcohol causing her stomach to lurch, her heart jittery, her nerves jangling, as if she were a teenager on a first date.
Secrets of the Chocolate House Page 12