Secrets of the Chocolate House

by Paula Brackston

  The seller smiled. “Lovely, isn’t it? Old pieces like that sit really well in modern rustic kitchens. People will pay a premium for the history now. They enjoy something that shows it was loved and valued.”

  Xanthe nodded. “Pity the hinges aren’t original, though. That would certainly make it more valuable.”

  The seller shrugged, sipping her coffee. If she was annoyed at being outwitted she was too much the businesswoman to let it show. “I could do you a good price on the whole lot,” she suggested.

  “I’m not sure I could sell the snuffbox. Redwoods are out of fashion at the moment. I like the bobbins.” She didn’t add that she knew Flora would be able to repurpose them as light pulls without too much effort.

  “Anything else take your fancy?” the seller asked. “Always happy to do a discount for trade, if the purchase is worthwhile.”

  Xanthe moved along the three tables that formed the stand. As she brushed past a hanging rug she detected the smell of woodsmoke and incense. Patchouli and vetivers, she decided, conjuring at once a picture of the bohemian hippie home it might have inhabited. She rejected a stack of pretty quilts, reasoning that they would most likely require mending and cleaning. Sewing was not her mother’s strong point now that her hands troubled her, and dry-cleaning would add to the final sale price of the items. The more Xanthe looked the more interesting finds revealed themselves, though still nothing that sang. For once it was a relief to simply enjoy the treasure hunt. She knew she would have to buy the silver-topped ebony cane the minute she spotted it, and could not hide her delight in a pair of small Staffordshire poodles in creamy-white china, their black eyes and noses and red collars still bright and their topiary tails perfectly intact. It became clear the samovar was too much of an outlay for one piece; she would do better to take a selection of good sellers.

  It took a further half hour of offer and counteroffer, of negotiation and refusal, of air being sucked through teeth and heads being shaken until at last a deal was done. The two women shook hands, both ultimately pleased with the bargain that was struck. As the seller wrapped Xanthe’s purchases, Liam came to stand beside her.

  “How goes the treasure hunt?” he asked.

  “Very well.” Xanthe gestured at the pile of stock she had acquired. “Pretty much done.”

  “All from the same stall?”

  “It works like that sometimes, if the seller has similar taste to ours. Now I just need to choose some china for Gerri and then we can go.”

  “I have not been idle. There are two stalls selling china. Follow me,” he told her, clearly pleased with his own little bit of successful hunting.

  Xanthe drew a blank with the first vendor but the second had some quality stock.

  “That’s nice,” she whispered to Liam, pointing at a matching cup, saucer, and plate in chalky white with deep red roses on it.

  “Don’t you need a proper set? Where’s the rest of it?”

  “It’s called a trio. Better buying them like this, so we get lots of different designs. It’s a thing nowadays. People like to mix and match. These are Royal Albert. That one over there is probably Worcester.”

  “A trio,” Liam muttered. “Who knew.”

  Xanthe selected two trios of Royal Albert china, the teacups a particularly pleasing shape, the Worcester, and two Laura Ashley. She struck a good deal on half a dozen breakfast plates too. They were not valuable, but in good condition and had an appealing bluebell design on them. She also found Gerri two large oval serving plates with sprigs of holly painted around the edges. It was easy to imagine them laden with freshly baked mince pies, making Xanthe suddenly realize how hungry she was.

  With the china packed up and paid for, it was finally time to leave. As they crossed the room again, Xanthe’s eye was caught by a stall partly hidden in the corner. It consisted entirely of rails of vintage clothing. She would dearly have loved to go and browse, to find things new to her for her own collection. She rarely shopped for clothes, and even from the other side of the room she could make out some gorgeous velvets and warm tweeds. She made herself resist, determined to keep her mind on business. Even so, a small idea began to take root in her mind, and she promised herself she would give it proper consideration later on. Together, she and Liam carted the found things out to the camper van. Xanthe felt a lightening of the weight upon her shoulders at the sight of all the new goodies she would be able to take back to her mother. Flora would be cheered by the new stock. The silver-topped walking stick needed some repair, as well as the Victorian footstool that would benefit from reupholstering. Her mother would approve of being able to add value, and both were things she could happily tackle, along with the bobbins. Most of the rest of the haul, including the poodles, the rest of the treen, two silver serving spoons, a string of jade beads, a box of assorted picture frames, and some colorful prints showing different varieties of roses, would all need nothing more than a bit of spit and polish.

  As Xanthe settled Gerri’s box of china onto the floor in the back of the VW, she glanced up through the window. She noticed a distinctive church spire in the distance. It took her a moment to recognize it. When she did she experienced a jolt of anxiety, a stab of fear for Samuel. It was St. Cyriac’s church at Laybrook, which was only a couple of miles from Ditton. With the trees bare and the sky clear it was easily visible. Looking at it transported Xanthe right back to Rose and Adam’s cottage in the village. To Esther Harris’s house, where she had found the chocolate pot. To Laybrook Abbey. To Benedict Fairfax. To Samuel. She turned, determined to remain focused on what she was supposed to be doing. It was then she saw the pub at the bend in the road. It was nothing special in itself; there were any number of pubs in the area called The Swan, and this one, while clearly very old with timber frame and some black beams visible, was not particularly pretty. What chimed in Xanthe’s memory, however, was its position, with the front door directly off the road. She remembered seeing it before, not in her own time. She had seen it with Samuel, on a journey from Marlborough to Great Chalfield. She was certain of it. Samuel had remarked not upon the pub—or inn as it then was—but the two unassuming cottages opposite it. One of them had been in the process of being built. It had no roof at that point, but was otherwise complete. She clearly recalled him telling her with unmasked pride that this was one of his commissions as an architect. He wanted to show her that he built more than jailhouses or extensions and improvements for rich nobles. This cottage had been commissioned by a kindly widow who had given up her Marlborough house to her son and his family and charged the Applebys with the task of designing and building a modest home for her to enjoy the countryside without being too far from town. Samuel had told her that as soon as he had finished the work he was then doing he would see that the cottage was finished. But Fairfax had called him away to work on the abbey and not allowed him out. The widow’s little house would have had to have waited until after Xanthe had seen Samuel at the abbey. Until after Fairfax had released him from his tasks at the abbey and Samuel was again free to work elsewhere. She shut the door of the camper and crossed the road so that she could see the other side of it as it curved away from the pub. What she saw puzzled her. There was the neighboring cottage, a little older than Samuel’s, still standing and still inhabited. Of the widow’s cottage all that remained were a few stones of the original walls, overgrown with brambles and ivy. Xanthe tried to make sense of it. Perhaps it had fallen into disrepair and been pulled down. It was possible. Maybe there had been a fire. Or perhaps it had never been lived in at all; never been completed. A charge of icy fear shot through Xanthe’s system as a terrible explanation for the disappearance of the cottage came to her. The shock of it must have shown on her face, as Liam peered at her with concern.

  “You all right? You look rather shaky.”

  “Would you mind if we took a short detour, not go straight home, I mean?”

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “I just … I need to see something. To check s
omething. In Laybrook. OK?” She was already climbing into the VW.

  Liam hopped into the driver’s seat. “Always happy to visit Laybrook,” he said cheerfully, but his expression remained one of concern.

  The journey to the village took less than five minutes. Xanthe had not the patience to use the car park and then walk in. She knew parking in the center was discouraged in order to leave room for residents, as well as to preserve the illusion of a timeless place. None of this mattered to her at that moment. There was something she had to do, and the more she thought about it the higher her anxiety levels rose. She directed Liam to a space at the side of the road, and without further explanation strode down the street and through the lych-gate at the entrance to the churchyard. The frost of earlier in the day had melted beneath the November sunshine so that the tombstones gleamed dully. Xanthe scrunched along the damp gravel path, moving quickly from the area of the churchyard where more recent burials had taken place, hurrying round the north end of the church, all the while searching for older headstones, squinting to read the faded inscriptions.

  “Too new, too new, eighteenth century, nineteenth again…” she muttered to herself as she moved between the crooked rows of graves.

  Liam caught up.

  “Are you looking for something in particular? Can I help?”

  “I don’t know if this is the right place, or even if it would be here.… I’m not sure. It’s just that … oh, these are earlier. Look, this one is 1699.”

  “Wow, some of these are pretty ancient. And very faded. Not surprising given that they are more than three hundred years old, I suppose. Bound to be heavily weathered.”

  There was a slightly damaged mausoleum which caught Xanthe’s eye. It was the sort of thing a well-to-do family might pay for. She moved toward it, hardly daring to read the lichen-patched lettering.

  “Watson,” she read with relief. “Right date though,” she said to Liam, pointing at the figures showing it to be the first half of the seventeenth century.

  He leaned closer to read the inscription. “Must have cost a fair bit back then, I’d have thought. Were they rich, the people you are looking for?”

  “Not rich, no, but successful. Comfortably off. Well regarded. At least, they were…” But had they remained so? If Fairfax had carried out his threat to have Samuel prosecuted, even if he had escaped the extreme fate of a traitor, he and his family would have fallen from grace entirely. In the end they would have more than likely had humble resting places.

  And then she saw it. A modest headstone, leaning at a slight angle, set a short way apart from the rest of the monuments. She had to force herself to walk toward it, had to make herself step close enough to read the inscription. She knelt in front of the grave and rubbed at the moss that was obscuring some of the inscription. The letters were faded, patchy and worn, but still legible. She felt her heart tighten. She told herself it was nonsense to be so moved. Reminded herself sternly that of course Samuel was dead, and that accepting that was part of what it meant to have the gift—or the curse—of being able to spin time. Even so, it was beyond unsettling to stand in front of the grave of someone who meant so much to you.

  Liam had come to stand beside her. In a soft voice he read the wording on the tombstone.

  “‘Here lies Samuel Appleby of Marlborough. Beloved son, cherished brother, a man of talent and a master builder. Delivered into the arms of our Lord…’ Sounds as if he was well loved, don’t you think? Xanthe?” Liam put his hand on her arm.

  But Xanthe was no longer listening. As Liam had been reading she had found the courage to look at the headstone herself and to force herself to read Samuel’s name. What she had not expected, what now caused her to have to quell a scream, was the date. In faint but clear numbers, the year of Samuel’s death was carved into stone, waiting for her, unmistakable and horrifying: Spring 1606. He had not lived to a happy old age, had not enjoyed a long and successful life and career, had never married or raised a family. Had not, in fact, survived vengeful Fairfax. There was no avoiding the awful truth: according to this irrefutable evidence, Samuel had died only a matter of weeks after Xanthe had abandoned him to his fate.

  14

  She had to go back. Xanthe saw now that she could not simply leave whatever it was the chocolate pot had taken her to. She had not completed her mission. The first time, when the chatelaine had sung to her, she had been challenged with rescuing Alice, and she had not stopped until she had achieved her goal. This time she had returned to her own era by mistake. She had left Samuel, and however much she was needed by her mother and her own life, he needed her more. She reminded herself that the things she did on her journeys back through time were crucial because they brought about the present as it should be. As it had to be. If she refused the call to action, if she failed in her task, things would never be right. She had not fully taken on board what this meant until now. Until she had stood in front of Samuel’s grave. She had left things unfinished and this was the result. Not only had Samuel died young, but he had not lived the life he was supposed to have lived. The order of things had been upset, ripped apart. The cottage that he had shown her with such pride, had never been finished. It had never become the home it was meant to be, housed the gentle widow, survived as the neighboring cottage had, through the centuries. Because Samuel had not lived to complete it. What else had this rupture on the fabric of time resulted in? What other things, things she could not possibly know, had not happened or never existed because Fairfax had changed history? The effects would surely go beyond anything as simple as a cottage not being built. What about the people Samuel would have employed? Dear God, she thought, what of Samuel’s descendants?

  In that moment, reading the brutal truth of the date on his tombstone, realizing how far and wide the consequences of failing in her mission might be, Xanthe understood what it meant to be a Spinner. More than that, she understood that what she felt, her personal position in what she was called upon to do, mattered very little. There was far more at stake than her feelings. There was an obligation for her to use her gift, to do her duty. She had to go back.

  Once again, Liam had shown himself to be a sensitive friend. It must have been obvious that Xanthe was upset, but he did not press her for an explanation. During the drive back to Marlborough he kept up a harmless chatter in an attempt to calm Xanthe and to show she didn’t have to explain herself. Xanthe’s mind was whirring. She felt furious with herself. She had believed Samuel would be all right because she was overcome with managing her own life. She had not allowed herself to think Fairfax might have killed him or had him killed because she could not see what she could do to prevent it. Refusing to look at the truth was no longer an option. She would have to go back to Samuel’s time and she would have to do so straightaway. Which meant dreaming up more lies to tell her mother. It also meant leaving Flora when her health was not yet returned to its best strength, and the business needed her. The thought of such shoddy treatment of the person who meant the world to her caused Xanthe physical pain, but she had no alternative. If she did not go back, Samuel would die young and die violently, one way or another, at the hands of Benedict Fairfax. Xanthe let rage fuel her. She could not, would not, let that happen. One other thing she knew for certain: she could not go back without a plan. All she had done before was end up making things more difficult for Samuel and having him put himself in danger to help her. This time would be different. This time she would put herself in a strong position so that she could deal with Fairfax. Even as she thought about this she began to see something she could offer him. Something she could give him he would find impossible to resist. Something that would secure the safety of Samuel and his family forever. It was risky. More than that it was probably extremely dangerous, but it was the best chance she had. The time had come to use her gifts, to test her ability to spin time to its limits.

  As Liam helped her carry the last of the new stock into the shop he put his hand on her arm.

  �
��Are you OK? You seemed really shaken back there.”

  She nodded. “I’m fine, honestly. Take no notice, just a silly thing … something about history, you know, tombstones…” She knew she wasn’t being convincing.

  Liam waited, watching her face closely. For once his own expression was serious. “There was someone once,” he told her, all his earlier flippancy on the subject gone. “Someone who mattered. But it didn’t work out. And it was a while ago.”

  “Oh.”

  “Just so you know.” And then he rubbed his hands together, his more usual lightness returned. “Right, give me the keys and I’ll get to the important business of the day and see what your lovely little taxi needs to get her running again.”

  After her time spent studying the Spinners book, and ruminating on the way Fairfax worked, Xanthe had hit upon an idea for safeguarding both herself and Samuel. She knew Fairfax was not to be trusted. His word was too flimsy a thing to rely on for everyone’s future survival. If she could use her skill as a Spinner to put some distance between him and the Appleby family, so much the better. And for her, a distance of time would be easier to achieve than a geographical one. She need only make sure that Fairfax was unwittingly guided by the way she spun time to where, and more significantly when, she wanted him to end up. Once she had the idea properly formed in her mind she felt galvanized, determined, completely certain that she should and could return to Samuel’s time. What had to be seen to first, however, was how she could leave, what she could tell her mother, and how she could be sure Flora would manage without her while she was away. Again. More lies. More tying herself in knots trying to do the right thing for the people she cared about. At least this time there was one crucial difference from the other occasions when she had had to dream up an excuse for being away. This time she had someone she could confide in. Someone she could ask for help without having to tell a collection of half-truths and falsehoods. Harley.