Secrets of the Chocolate House

by Paula Brackston

  “Xanthe, you are being ridiculous,” she told herself, speaking the words aloud in an attempt to shake herself out of her unhelpful state of mind.

  And then a shadow fell across the brewery floor as a figure came to stand in the open doorway, blocking the light.

  And Xanthe turned.

  And there stood Samuel.

  8

  For what felt like an age but could have been no more than a matter of seconds, they stood staring at each other. Xanthe’s heart hurt before she had a chance to guard against her own emotions. So much had happened since she had last seen Samuel. And in that time she had convinced herself of the impossibility of ever being with him. She had accepted it. She collected herself, remembered her resolve, and tried to look at him as an old friend she had come to help, nothing more. There were, she noticed, subtle changes in his appearance; his incarceration, the threat of further imprisonment and possibly execution, and no doubt the stress of working for Fairfax under such conditions, all had taken their toll. There was a wariness about his expression, and there were shadows beneath his soulful eyes, though he was still darkly handsome. His hair was longer and less kempt, falling messily to his shoulders. His clothes showed signs of wear and lack of care. Xanthe thought too that he looked leaner, his black shirt hanging slightly loose on him. She opened her mouth to speak, uncertain what she could say that would be sensible, be appropriate. She got no further than muttering his name before Samuel strode across the room and wrapped her in his arms, pulling her close, murmuring her name into her hair. She breathed him in, allowing herself to give in to that fleeting moment of closeness, recognizing as futile her attempts to pretend, even to herself, that she had succeeded in distancing herself from him completely. What her head had accepted to be true her heart would resist a little longer. At last he stepped back, as if recollecting their situation and what was proper, forcing himself to rein in his own emotions.

  “Let me look at you,” he said. “Are you truly here, with me, or do my eyes play tricks upon me?”

  Xanthe nodded, not blaming him for doubting her. Understanding his wariness.

  “I am here, Samuel. Real as I know how,” she said. Not for the first time she cursed her luck at finally finding a man who could truly move her only to have him inhabit a different century than her own. But that was the reality of it. She had promised herself she would not forget that. She let go his hands and moved away a little, putting on a bright smile.

  “But how do you come to be here?” he asked.

  “By stage from Bradford-on-Avon, and then Rose walked me from the village.”

  “Bradford?”

  “Yes, I went there to look for you. I … I heard you were in the blind house.”

  “But how…? Wait, give me no answer, for I shall not understand it.” He hesitated, glancing back at the open door, and drew Xanthe to the corner of the room, keeping his voice low. “It is not safe for you here, Xanthe,” he said.

  The sound of him speaking her name made her start. She silently chided herself for being so foolish.

  “I know. Mistress Flyte warned me.…”

  “You are acquainted with Mistress Flyte?”

  And then she tried to explain, gabbling on about the chocolate pot, and traveling a great distance to be with him, and seeing Fairfax, and how Mistress Flyte had helped her. Samuel looked increasingly confused.

  “I would have come here sooner,” Xanthe explained, “but something happened. Someone attacked Mistress Flyte.”

  “Dear God, does she live?”

  “Yes, but she was badly beaten. Edmund and I looked after her. I couldn’t leave her until I was sure she would recover. She is still in a lot of pain, but she understood that I needed to get to you.”

  “I am astonished she did not stop you. She knows the nature of the beast who confronts us. ’T’would have been better had she kept you in Bradford.”

  “And what use am I to you there? I went there because I thought you were still in the lockup. Once I knew you’d been freed…”

  “Freed! I am as much a prisoner here as ever I was there. And I am the fortunate one. Others were taken either to the court at Salisbury or to London. Two are even now in the Tower.”

  “Oh, Samuel…”

  “I am blessed with having a usefulness, but no worth beyond it. There is nothing you can do. My best hope is that Fairfax will be too taken up with matters of court to pursue me further. Once I have finished here I should put distance between myself and him.”

  “But where will you go?”

  “We have distant family in Scotland … and yet…” He sighed, closing his eyes briefly. “If I leave he may take his ire out on my father and Joshua. In truth, I know I will not be able to bring myself to do it, though it is what they urge me to do.”

  “They are right, Samuel.” Xanthe was reminded of how different Samuel was to his younger brother, and yet what a close family they were. “It won’t be safe for you here.”

  “What would you have of me? That I become a fugitive? That I skulk in some unknown, dimly lit corner of the land, quaking at a stranger’s footfalls, waiting for desperate news of those I hold dear? I cannot do it. I am deceiving myself to think otherwise.”

  “Then let me help you. Together we will think of something. Fairfax must have a weakness, everyone does. We find out what it is and we use it against him.”

  “I tell you, the man is made of stone, ironclad, protected by a shield of ambition and a guard of high-born allies. Weakness is not any part of him.”

  “I don’t believe that. And there is more, something Mistress Flyte told me about him. It has to do with how I came to be here myself. I wish I could explain it better.…”

  “You have risked much, coming here.”

  “You helped me when no one else would, Samuel. Besides, I … care about you. About what happens to you. And this is something I have to do. I can’t make it any clearer, I’m sorry.”

  Samuel reached forward as if to stroke her cheek but then hesitated, drawing back.

  “Xanthe,” he said wistfully, his face suddenly sad. “I have dreamed of you these past months. Those words I penned, in my letter, they were the sincere outpourings of an aching heart.” He dropped his gaze then, choosing not to look at her, turning away. “But I had thought never to see you again; that you were lost to me for all time. My life continued without hope of you. My obligations, my family…” He raised his eyes again. “There is something I must tell you.”

  The sound of brisk footsteps on the cobbled yard outside the brewery interrupted him.

  “I am missed!” he said. “You must go before you are discovered.”

  “Appleby,” said the unmistakable voice of Fairfax as he came to stand in the doorway, “who is it who takes you from your work?”

  Samuel and Xanthe exchanged worried glances before he stepped forward.

  “I was on the point of returning,” he told his client.

  “Do not be shy, maid, step forward,” said Fairfax. “Let me see you. Ah, we have met, I believe. A stalwart friend you have, indeed, Appleby. I found this young maid searching for you at the blind house in Bradford.”

  Xanthe stood before him, reminding herself of her lowly position in this man’s society but resenting having to humble herself before him. She had to repeat to herself what Mistress Flyte had told her: that Fairfax had the most powerful friends in the land, and that he held Samuel’s fate in his hands. She knew he was playing the part of being surprised. If what Mistress Flyte had told her about him being a time spinner was true, he had sensed her presence. He had known she was close, and he knew what and who she was. It suited him to pretend otherwise. Xanthe decided it was safer not to show that she knew of his capabilities. Better to play along with this particular charade.

  “I came to see for myself that all is well with my friend. I am reassured to find him engaged in work on such a fine house as the abbey, sir.”

  “Master Appleby is a man of talent. I am f
ortunate he is available,” Fairfax said with a thin smile. “But were you not in the employ of Mistress Flyte? I understood she had been ailing recently. I am surprised you can be spared to go visiting at such a time. Does your mistress not have need of you at the chocolate house?”

  “You are well informed, sir,” said Xanthe as calmly as she could. How did he know about Mistress Flyte being unwell? And, more important, did he know what had happened to her? It seemed increasingly likely to Xanthe that he was behind the attack. Mistress Flyte said he was dangerous, but why would he want her dead? “I am happy to say my mistress is completely recovered, so that she was able to permit me to come to Laybrook. For a short visit.”

  “I had not seen you in Bradford-on-Avon before the other day. You do not, I must confess, appear to be a person who would content themselves with a life serving at tables.”

  “I am by trade a minstrel, sir. I take other work as necessity dictates.”

  “A minstrel? Ah yes, I recall you saying as much. That seems a better fit,” he nodded, looking her slowly up and down, taking in her less than convincing historical clothing and inexpertly pinned hair.

  Xanthe bobbed a curtsey. “Forgive me for interrupting Samuel’s work,” she said, making as if to leave, “I shall detain him no longer.”

  “Where will you go? There are scant lodgings to be found in Laybrook.”

  “She stays with my cousin in the village,” Samuel explained, guiding her to the door.

  Fairfax made no attempt to step aside but remained where he was, blocking the exit. “Surely, having come all this way you would wish to spend more time with Master Appleby. To satisfy yourself of his well-being.”

  “I hope to see him at his cousin’s house this evening,” Xanthe said.

  “Alas, that will not be possible,” Fairfax told her, a quite convincing note of regret in his voice. “I find your friend far too valuable to let from my sight. At least until his work here is complete. No, better that you come here. Yes, that would suit all, I believe. I shall have my cook prepare something in your honor, you may dine with us here at the abbey this night, and if I have impressed you sufficiently with my hospitality, mayhap you will in turn gift us with a song or two?”

  Xanthe felt Samuel tense. She knew he wanted her gone from the abbey, out of harm’s way, or at least, out of the reach of Fairfax. She also knew that the only real chance she had of stopping Fairfax from ultimately, at whatever time it suited him, sending Samuel for trial was to get close to the man. To identify his weakness. To find a way to threaten or blackmail or barter with him. Perhaps to play on the fact that they were both Spinners. He had to have some manner of vulnerability, but she wouldn’t find it by keeping her distance.

  “That is a most gracious offer, Master Fairfax. I would be delighted to accept.”

  Fairfax smiled again though his features gained scant warmth from it. At last he stepped aside.

  “Until this evening, then,” he said, bowing as Xanthe walked past him. Addressing Samuel he said, “And no doubt you will work all the better, knowing your friend is close at hand. Come, I wish to discuss the window in the east wall with you. The stained glass is not yet to my liking.”

  Xanthe hurried across the yard, pausing at the gateway to glance back in time to see Samuel standing upon the threshold of the great house. He too turned briefly and there passed between them a look, a brief moment, before Fairfax ushered him inside, and the imposing door closed behind him.

  * * *

  By the time Xanthe had walked back to the cottage opposite St. Cyriac’s church, Rose’s husband, Adam, had returned home. A farm laborer, his day was shortened by the swiftly falling winter nights. As he invited Xanthe inside, the first flakes of snow chased their way into the little house with them.

  In the parlor, Rose was stirring a stewpot which hung above the fire on a heavy chain. The room was smoky but snug. A small man with a thatch of sandy hair, Adam was every bit as tightly wound and nervous as his wife, and Xanthe thought how people of the day were at the mercy of men of power such as Fairfax. They were taking a risk simply by being distant relations of Samuel’s. They were putting themselves further in danger by giving house room to one of his friends. Xanthe told them of her meeting with Samuel and that she must return to the abbey that evening.

  Rose stopped tending the cooking pot. “I’ve never heard it said Master Fairfax had a liking for music.”

  “You must be on your guard,” Adam agreed with his wife. “That man will want you there only to learn what he can of Samuel’s allegiances. Would be better if you left the village, in truth. You can do Samuel more harm than good.”

  “I’m not going to run away. Who else is going to step up and do something? He’s on his own up there. I won’t just let Fairfax make use of Samuel and then send him to the tower.” She regretted her outburst at once, realizing that it could be taken as a direct criticism of her hosts. Who was she to judge them? These people lived under the constant shadow of persecution, which could only have worsened since Guy Fawkes’s attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament and the king himself. “I’m sorry,” she said more quietly. “I didn’t mean…”

  “’Tis no matter,” Rose assured her. “You are afeared for Samuel. As are we all.”

  Adam was unconvinced.

  “I tell you, if you wish to help him you would do better to leave now. Go and petition the king himself if you must, but do not tangle with Fairfax. He will twist your words, he will wheedle from you names and secrets, and before you know it more innocent men will be thrown in the lockups the length and breadth of Wilshire.”

  “I don’t know any names,” Xanthe insisted. “And I won’t know how I can help until I try. Fairfax has invited me into his home. This is the best, maybe the only chance I might get to do something. I must go.”

  There was silence for a moment, disturbed only by the moaning of a thin wind that had risen, and the faint patting of icy snow as it struck the small window in the parlor wall. Xanthe shivered, fighting off the sensation that she was being watched, all the time, her actions and somehow even her thoughts being observed, being noted. She rubbed her arms, but the chill she felt was not induced by the cold of the winter’s night.

  Rose dusted down her pinafore. “Well then, if you are determined, we shall at least see you dressed for the occasion. Come,” she said, leaving the room with a stern glance at her husband.

  Xanthe followed her up the steep stone spiral stairs to the little low-ceilinged bedchamber where she had been given a bed.

  “You will be comfortable here upon your return later this eve,” Rose assured her. “’Tis not luxurious, but there is a good straw mattress and coverlets aplenty against the frosty air. Now, sit upon the bed. I shall fetch some more suitable apparel. And pins for your hair. Many, many pins.”

  It took a full hour of brushing and plaiting and taming before Rose was satisfied Xanthe’s hair looked presentable. She held up a small looking glass.

  “’Tis far from perfection,” Rose announced, “but ’t’will serve.”

  Xanthe turned her head this way and that, peering into the cloudy mirror. Somehow Rose had managed to smooth and twist her unruly blond corkscrew curls into a combination of braids and curls that sat neatly and securely, sweeping up and back, with tendrils left flatteringly loose about her ears and neck.

  “Rose, you have worked wonders,” Xanthe told her.

  Rose insisted Xanthe borrow a crisp white cotton long blouse, a set of starched cuffs, and a high square collar. It sat well beneath her own felted wool pinafore. Rose apologized for not having a spare corset to offer her and inquired cautiously if Xanthe suffered some strange complaint that rendered her unable to wear stays of her own? It seemed easier to just say yes to this, which earned her a pitying sigh and the offer of a lace cap for her hair.

  “Oh no, Rose, this is too precious.”

  “’T’will be easier to muster your courage if you know yourself to be presentable.”

&n
bsp; Xanthe smiled at this, thinking how down the centuries women had made the best of their looks in order to go into battle of one sort or another.

  “I’m a minstrel. We have our own, unusual appearance. And you’ve made such a good job of my hair, I don’t want to hide it,” she said, handing back the lace, which she was sure would have been one of Rose’s treasured and most valuable possessions.

  Adam came to join them on the doorstep. Xanthe buttoned her greatcoat over her dress.

  Rose tucked a sprig of dried lavender into her buttonhole. “Sing well,” she said. “I will sit up for you and keep the fire burning in the hearth.”

  Adam handed her a tallow lantern. “Take the road. The fields will be too uneven in the dark and the snow is starting to lie.”

  “You have both been so kind. Please, don’t worry about me.” As she spoke thick snowflakes landed on her hair and the shoulders of her coat. Adam frowned and reached back into the hall. He took one of his own broad-brimmed hats from its peg and handed it to her.

  “’Tis outlandish for a maid but will keep the weather off better than a bonnet.”

  Xanthe took it gratefully, lifted the lamp high, and hurried off down the narrow street. Her footfalls were silenced by the thin layer of snow, and her warm puffs of breath whipped away by the sharp wind that blew from the east. Snow clouds blocked out the moon and allowed no starlight so that her vision was restricted to the small pool of light from her lamp or the occasional streetlight. As she took the lane out of the village the darkness deepened, and the silence grew heavy. An owl hooted nearby. Her footsteps were muffled by the coating of snow upon the path. She soon came to the gates of the abbey and followed the sweeping drive that cut through its land. Lamps had been lit along the run of road that led to the house, casting their pale golden light upon the snowy ground. There were no winter crops growing here, more importance being given to the visual impact of approaching the great house. Tall trees lined the route, and as she rounded the top bend it was difficult not to be impressed by the sight that greeted her. An extravagance of lamplight illuminated the exterior of the house and candlelight flickered at windows that had not yet had their shutters closed or curtains drawn. The front elevation of the house was almost entirely new, from what Xanthe could see, with the older abbey buildings to the side and rear. The roof was freshly white with snow now, making the tawny stones stand out all the more, the deep, mullioned windows and their expensive glass, some plain, some stained vibrant colors, glowing against their muted backdrop. As she drew closer, Xanthe could see the ends of wooden scaffolding off to one side of the house, indicating the wing on which Samuel and his team of craftsmen were carrying out their improvements and extensions. By the time she reached the sweeping steps that led up to the grand entrance she was especially glad of her lantern, as the snow was falling faster and thicker so that it was becoming increasingly hard to see where she was putting her feet. She rang the bell and did not have long to wait before a liveried footman opened the door, bowing as she passed him. The entrance hall was awash with light, with elaborate candelabra hanging from the high ceilings. The space was paneled with what looked like new woodwork, waxed and burnished to the color of warm honey. There was a floor of pristine flagstones, and tasteful pieces of furniture were set about for show rather than function. Rich reds and deep indigos in the upholstery gave the whole place a sense of expensive taste, wealth, and lavish expense. Ancestral portraits adorned the high walls that rose with the elaborate staircase.