Secrets of the Chocolate House

by Paula Brackston

  “Ooh, what have I done to deserve that?”

  “He feels guilty about being responsible for me going away again.”

  “So he should. I shall enjoy letting him squirm through the main course, then forgive him over pudding.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Xanthe laughed, thankful the awful conversation was over. She got up. “I’ll make us a cuppa. Then bed. I’m plum tuckered,” she said, a little too brightly, keen to move the moment on.

  “I’ll have chamomile,” said Flora. “By the way, I’m looking forward to my surprise,” she added.

  Xanthe paused on her way out of the room, trying to work out what her mother was referring to and then remembering, just in time, the conversation they had had when she’d emerged from the blind house. She had hinted at a Christmas present, and beyond that, a surprise connected to the period clothes she had been wearing. “Oh, you’ll have to wait a while yet,” she said.

  “I’m intrigued. Is it something to do with the shop?”

  “You’ll have to wait and see,” she insisted, briskly stepping from the room before Flora could press her more. In the kitchen she filled the kettle and struggled with a mounting sense of everything getting on top of her again. Just when she thought she had all the most difficult aspects of what she was trying to do planned out another element demanded her attention. Another of her lies nearly caught her out. Finding a gift for her mother wouldn’t be difficult, but what about the rest of it? How was she supposed to make sense of her clothes and of building up to a reveal of something special when there was nothing? She would have to come up with something. She knew Flora well enough to know that she would not forget, that she would continue to ask questions. Her own behavior had been too strange for her mother to just let the thing drop. As Xanthe made the drinks she added sugar to her own tea, realizing she would have to stay awake long enough to come up with something.

  15

  Xanthe need not have bothered with sugaring her tea in an attempt to stay awake and think, as sleep proved largely impossible. The chocolate pot set up a near constant ringing, distracting her from the business of dreaming up a surprise for Flora. When she had at last come up with something workable and tried to get to sleep her mind was too busy, her thoughts too hectic, to allow sleep to come. She went over and over everything she needed to do before leaving; all the necessary steps to keep her complicated secrets. And then she thought about Samuel, and about Fairfax, and about the plan she had struck upon. It was risky, she knew that, but she could not think of another way. She feared Fairfax was not a man who would ever give up. She had to offer him something he desired beyond anything else. She had realized that he did not, in fact, want her, he wanted what he believed she could give him: dominion over time. It had occurred to her that the astrolabe could do this for him. True, he had not completely mastered using it, but he was quite obsessed with the idea of having it, or at least he had been until he had got hold of Xanthe. What if she could give it back to him? What if she could then somehow show him how to use it? Whether or not he would be able to do so safely she couldn’t know. She was convinced, however, that he would jump at the chance to have it in his possession again. All Xanthe had to do was convince him that the way she had thought of getting it was feasible. Because it would be highly risky, particularly for him.

  When she did succeed in getting brief snatches of sleep she was assailed by dreams. She hoped to have some sign of Samuel; that he was well. Instead all she saw was Fairfax’s gaunt face looming at her out of the darkness, his eyes unblinking, so that by the time she woke up the next morning she had the eerie feeling that he was watching her every move. She passed the day in an agony of anticipation, wishing she could leave then and there, but knowing she must wait until the evening. A busy day in the shop helped a little, as did a short conversation with Gerri. Xanthe had popped over to the tea shop to buy some toasted sandwiches for lunch. The tables were all taken with customers enjoying Gerri’s excellent home-cooked food. Despite how busy she must have been, Gerri looked as perfectly turned out and unflappable as always. She smiled at Xanthe as she saw her enter the tearoom.

  “I was just coming to see you,” she said, deftly slicing a lemon drizzle cake into generous pieces. “You seemed tired the other day, a little down, perhaps. I was worried.”

  “Oh, just a few things on my mind, you know, running a business, Mum, usual stuff.…”

  “If you’re sure…?”

  Xanthe nodded. “I just came to let you know I’m going up to London for a couple of days. Singing.” The lie did not taste any more palatable on the second time of telling, especially when Gerri was so pleased for her friend.

  “A bit of London glamour for a day or two will perk you up,” she said, turning to warm more teapots with water from the huge copper urn behind the counter.

  “Yes, I expect so. Um, I was wondering…”

  “Would you like me to pop in and see Flora while you’re away?”

  “That would be great, but actually, I have a business proposition for you.”

  “Ooh, now I’m interested,” she said, wiping her hands on her spotless apron and giving Xanthe her full attention.

  “It’s just a very unformed idea really, but I’d love you to put your mind to it. I want to run an early Christmas promotion, something to start off the present shopping, and I struck on the notion of a themed Saturday with maybe all the shops in our little lane taking part.”

  “Wow, that sounds ambitious. But you know me, always happy for a bit of dressing up. What sort of theme?”

  “Seventeenth century.”

  “Oh, lovely!”

  “You think?”

  “I do! I could look up some recipes. The Stuarts loved their puddings and tarts.”

  “Did they?”

  “Food history is one of my hobbies.”

  “I can’t imagine you have time for a hobby!”

  “Well, I can pass it off as work, can’t I?” She stepped past Xanthe and delivered a tray of tea things to the corner table. Returning, her expression was quite lit up, already enthused by the idea. “I could get the children to dress up too, help with serving. We’d need to get flyers out, maybe an ad in the paper. I wonder if I could call in a favor from an old chum of mine at Radio Wiltshire.…”

  Not for the first time that week Xanthe saw how lucky she was to have made such good friends in Marlborough. “I knew you’d be full of ideas,” she said.

  “When were you thinking of doing it?”

  “How about the second weekend in December? That gives us a couple of weeks to get everything sorted. Oh, don’t mention it to Mum yet. It’s a surprise. Something I want to share with her when I come home.”

  After her conversation with Gerri the afternoon was easier, her concern about Flora and her worry about making good all her promises and excuses lessened slightly. It also helped to think that she would at least be doing something good for the business. And that would definitely please her mother.

  At six-thirty Flora was ready to leave for her supper at The Feathers.

  “You will take care of yourself in the big city, won’t you?” Flora stood in the shop doorway, coat on, bag over her shoulder, clearly a little reluctant to say goodbye.

  “Mum, I am a Londoner, remember? Six months away hasn’t turned me into a country bumpkin,” Xanthe told her.

  “Yes, but you haven’t been there in a while. And you’ll be distracted, and a bit nervous, I should imagine.”

  “I will be fine. Now go, you’ll be late. Don’t want to keep Harley and Annie waiting.” She gave her mother a hug and adjusted her woolen scarf a little. “You are the one who needs to take care. Make sure you take your extra medication.”

  “I’m allowed to fuss over you, I’m your mother. It doesn’t work the other way around. Not yet, at least,” Flora said. She seemed on the point of going but then hesitated, scrutinizing her daughter’s face. “Are you all right, love? You look very pale.”

  “Co
uldn’t sleep.” Xanthe shrugged. “You know how I get before a performance.”

  “I wish I was going with you.”

  “And leave the shop to do what, exactly? Now, go. Have fun. Eat lots.”

  She stood at the door and watched her go, the clicking of her sticks upon the cold cobbles echoing down the narrow alleyway. At least this time Harley would keep an eye on her. He had tried one more time to warn Xanthe about going back before confessing to his own excitement at even talking about it. There was little he could do to help, much to his frustration. At least that meant he had happily agreed to getting a little closer to Flora if only to ease Xanthe’s worry about leaving her.

  Closing and locking the door, Xanthe forced herself to put her own problems to the back of her mind and focus on what lay ahead. She marched through the shop and upstairs to her bedroom. She quickly changed into her seventeenth-century costume—Rose’s blouse, her own pinafore dress and leggings, and Samuel’s cape. Already the garments she had brought forward with her through time appeared faded, their hems starting to fray, the lining of the cloak beginning to split and degrade. She double-checked the locket was in place, having earlier fixed the broken link in the chain. She picked up her bag, carefully tucked the Spinners book inside it, and last took hold of the chocolate pot. The note it emitted was so high and so piercing it caused her to wince.

  “OK,” she told it quietly. “I’m on my way.”

  Taking care to leave the doors closed and locked as they would have been had she left through the front door to take a mini-cab to the train station, Xanthe went out into the garden. It was already properly dark and very cold. Her breath preceded her as she hurried across the lawn, tightening Samuel’s cloak around her and hitching her old leather bag over her shoulder. This time she did not hesitate. She was a woman with a mission and a clear plan of how to succeed. This time, she would be in control.

  * * *

  Xanthe had expected to feel disorientated and confused when she arrived back in the seventeenth century. She sat still, kept her eyes closed for a while, willing her thundering heart to steady and slow, taking control of her ragged breathing. She knew she needed to take a moment to recover from the singular journey. She clutched her bag at her side and felt the shape of the precious book safe inside it. As she slowly opened her eyes she found she was once again in a dark, cold place. There were stones beneath her, but dry ones. She had not, she realized with relief, arrived in another blind house. She could make out the outline of a window, even though there was little light coming through it, suggesting dusk or dawn, she couldn’t tell which. The space was very quiet and she was certain straightaway that she was alone, save for a scurrying mouse nearby. As she got to her feet she tried to identify what it was she could smell. There was a mustiness, not unlike a mill or stable, but something else. Apples. She blinked, squinting into the gloom and at last could make out shelves and barrels and sacks. She was in another hoarde house or cellar. But whose? Where? It felt a little familiar, but it was too dark to be certain. The sound of a door opening, the wood scraping against the flagstones and the hinge creaking in protest, caused her heart to thump again. She stayed motionless, hoping that the darkness would conceal her presence. Light fell through the doorway as someone came to stand at the top of the flight of steps, candle held high. Xanthe could see, behind the flickering glare of the flame, the figure of a woman. She found she was holding her breath. Only when the woman spoke did she exhale.

  “Well, girl, are you to skulk in the shadows all evening?” Mistress Flyte asked.

  Xanthe felt her relief quickly outweighed by frustration. She was in the chocolate house again, in Bradford. Safe, but miles from Samuel. But then she needed to talk to Mistress Flyte about the book. Was that why the chocolate pot had chosen to bring her there again?

  She stepped forward.

  “Good day to you, Mistress Flyte. I am pleased to find you looking so well. Are you fully recovered from your injuries?”

  “I have survived worse,” she said simply. And then she turned to leave, calling back, “Make haste. You of all people know that time does not tarry.”

  Xanthe followed her upstairs, through the busy chocolate house where she glimpsed Edmund fetching and carrying pots and cups, on up the next flight of stairs, and into Mistress Flyte’s sitting room. The old woman set the candle down on the mantelpiece. A lamp burned on the table, and the fire gave off its own glow. Mistress Flyte seated herself on the neat cushioned chair within reach of the warmth from the hearth. Xanthe put down her bag, removed her cape, and sat opposite her host. She noticed with some astonishment that the color of the velvet cloak was beginning to refresh and return to its original richness. As always, she felt a little light-headed after her journey, and was glad of the warmth of the fire and the safety of sitting with a friend. More than that, she was with someone who understood where she had come from, and why she had come. She noticed that her host’s face still showed some bruising, and her hand was still bandaged.

  “Tell me, mistress, have you heard any news of Samuel?” she asked. As she formed the questions she realized she had no notion of how much time had passed since her last visit. Had it been hours, days, or weeks? Could it have been months? Nothing seemed fixed or reliable anymore. Might she be too late? The thought made her stomach lurch. “What day is this? How long … how long have I been gone?”

  “From what I understand, you left the abbey a week ago.”

  “You heard this from Samuel? You’ve spoken with him?”

  “Not directly. It was his brother who came here. Two days ago.” She held up her hand to stop Xanthe’s question. “His brother lives. He is yet kept at Fairfax’s home. His work on the abbey is not complete.”

  “When I left, they were fighting.…”

  “Joshua Appleby told me some of what had happened. Including the matter of you inflicting a grievous wound upon Fairfax.”

  Xanthe flinched at the memory of it. While she had good reason to hate the man, the thought of cutting anyone like that, of doing lasting damage, was awful.

  “His eye…” she started.

  “Will not be of use to him further.”

  “Oh my God.” Xanthe shuddered with guilt at what she had done, and fear at how angry she might have made him. Would he demand revenge? And would he look for that vengeance upon her or Samuel?

  Mistress Flyte leaned forward and took up the poker, prodding more heat from the fire.

  “Save your sympathies for another more deserving of them,” she said. “Fairfax brought about his own suffering. As he ever does. For now Samuel is safe, as the work continues. In addition, Fairfax knows young Appleby has a further value.” She looked up then, meeting Xanthe’s anxious gaze. “He surmises that Samuel will bring you back within his reach. Is he mistook?”

  “I have to go back and put things right.”

  “You consider yourself able to do so? Have you not to this point only served to make the situation worse?”

  “I was unprepared, I didn’t really know what … who I was dealing with.”

  Mistress Flyte sighed. “Why cannot the young learn from their elders? Why must they insist upon burning their fingers on the glowing embers rather than considering the wounds of others as evidence of such folly?” She jabbed at a log, sending sparks spitting, before returning the poker to the hearth. “Tell me then, young Spinner, how it is you plan to get the better of Benedict Fairfax?”

  “When I was at the abbey, Fairfax told me what had happened to him. He told me how he was on the point of being executed. He even showed me the scar on his neck from the noose. He said he had an astrolabe, and that it enabled him to spin time. Nothing else works for him.”

  “Which is why he is so interested in you.”

  “He was; he may not be now that I have half blinded him.”

  “You still hold the secret to manipulating time. He has tasted the intoxicating power of that gift. He will overcome his anger at you to get what he wants.”<
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  “He wanted me to stay with him here, in his time. He wanted me to become his wife.”

  Mistress Flyte gave a dry laugh. “Many young girls would be tempted by such a fine match, however corrupt the man.”

  “I am not in the market for a husband. And if I was, it wouldn’t be someone…”

  “… who plans to kill the man you love?”

  Xanthe caught her breath. “I was going to say, it wouldn’t be someone who lives in a different century to my own. I have a life, a home, someone who needs me.”

  Mistress Flyte nodded. “What is it, then, that you can offer the man if not yourself?”

  “I have to strike a deal, I know, and if I am not to be part of that deal, I have to give him the only other thing he truly wants.”

  “Which is?”

  “The astrolabe.”

  “I believe he has amassed a collection of the things.”

  “I don’t mean just any astrolabe, I mean the one that he used. The one that saved his life.”

  “But you cannot know where to search for it. It would be impossible to find. Fairfax has come back from a future point and changed the order of things, so he cannot know that it will ever come into his possession again. The last time anyone can be certain of where it was, was at the point and place of Fairfax’s scheduled execution. A time that has not yet come to pass. The only way to get it would be to…”

  “… to travel forward to that date.”

  For once Mistress Flyte’s mask of composure slipped and revealed the shock she was feeling. “You cannot mean,” she said, lowering her voice as if she feared being overheard, “to take Fairfax with you to locate the astrolabe specific to his own tale, to take him to the point of his death…!”

  “I admit, the idea is not without its risks, particularly for Fairfax. And now that he has altered things, well, we can’t even be certain he will end up on the scaffold, can we?”

  “If the world were rid of the man it would be a better place!” the old woman snapped, jumping up from her chair. “I am not concerned for Fairfax’s welfare any more than you are yourself. What I cannot countenance is using your gift as a Spinner to enable the man to travel through time, first as your guest…”