Secrets of the Chocolate House

by Paula Brackston

  Welcoming lamplight shone through the windows of Samuel’s fine town house, guiding her up across the green. She knocked, expecting Philpott to let her in, so she was thrown when Samuel himself opened the door.

  For a moment they stood looking at each other saying nothing. It was Samuel who found his voice first.

  “I am happy to see you returned safe and well,” he said.

  Xanthe attempted nonchalance and gave a shrug. “I told you not to worry about me, remember?”

  Samuel recovered himself enough to recall his manners. Stepping aside he beckoned her. “Forgive me, I should not keep you out on such a chill night. Come, Philpott is fetching supper for us all. Father and Joshua will be delighted to see you again.”

  Xanthe stepped into the hall but put a hand on his arm.

  “I can’t stay, Samuel,” she said gently. “Can we talk? Just for a moment, and then…”

  “… then you will leave me again? ’Twas ever thus,” he replied, his own attempt at levity no more successful than hers. He led her not to the sitting room, then, but through the house, across the courtyard, and into his studio. The space was barely any warmer than outside, but it was quiet and private. And, Xanthe told herself, it was Samuel’s place. It was the right place in which to remember him. It was the right place from which she could leave him. The smell of the wood and plaster and resin and ink took her back to the first time he had shown her his studio and shared his passion for his work with her. How much had happened since then. How far they had both come in so many ways. She made herself concentrate on what she needed to explain to Samuel. There were so many details that were impossible to share with him, the barest facts would have to do. At least, by now, he was quite accustomed to her being mysterious and evasive. She walked slowly around the studio as she spoke.

  “Fairfax has what he wants,” she told him. “He will be away for some time.”

  “Away? Where has he gone?”

  “Oh, far enough not to bother you or your family. For a while.” She stopped and smiled at him. “It will be all right now, Samuel. I promise you. You can get on with your life. You have his letter, and by the time he returns, well, he will have other things to think about, and you will have restored the family name with the people who matter.”

  “Yet again, I am in your debt,” he said, watching her closely. She sensed he was looking for any sign of how she felt about him, any chink in the armor she had put on to protect herself from more heartache. “And you, Xanthe?” he asked. “You are … content to return to your home once again?”

  “I came here to let you know about Fairfax, Samuel. That’s all there was left for me to do. Although, there is a small favor I need to ask of you.”

  “You have only to say it.”

  “It might seem a little odd.… When next you are at the abbey, I left something there. A copper chocolate pot. You will find it in Fairfax’s observatory. It needs to be returned to the chocolate house in Bradford. Could you do that for me?”

  “I return to Laybrook on the morrow; I will find the pot the moment I arrive at the abbey.”

  “It is really important. To me.”

  “I will do as you ask without delay. You may depend upon it.”

  She nodded, satisfied that he understood how much her strange request mattered.

  Samuel took a step closer to her. She could detect the sandalwood soap he used now, sense the warmth of him. When he spoke his voice was low and tight with emotion. “I think you will not come here again.”

  She met his gaze then, thinking of how the four paces between them might as well have been four hundred miles, because the four centuries that separated them were a distance they could never cross for more than brief snatches of time.

  “Be safe, Samuel,” she said. “Be happy.”

  He lifted his hand as if to take hers but did not. “I would with all my heart that things were other than they are, but God, fate, and whatever it is that sent you to me, decrees otherwise. We have different lives to live, you and I. In our worlds that are worlds apart. Let us live them without regret. Without reserve,” he told her slowly. When she nodded her understanding he went on, “Do you wish me to walk you to the blind house?”

  “No, thank you. I think, this time, I will leave from here. If that’s all right with you?”

  “I would prefer it,” he said, gesturing at his studio with a wave of his arm. “That way I shall think of you as being here, whenever I am at my work. I might fancy, at times when I am alone here, that you are at my shoulder.”

  “I will be,” she said, “as long as you remember me.”

  He held her gaze, his dark eyes somber.

  Xanthe expected him to leave her then, or at least turn away. But she saw that he was waiting for her to go. He had seen her vanish before, both times when she had not meant him to, when he had not understood. Now, this time, he would watch her and that was how they would part.

  She could put off the moment no longer. Xanthe slipped her finger beneath her collar and hooked out her gold locket. It felt warm. Still looking at Samuel, she clicked it open. In her peripheral vision she saw her mother’s face smiling from the tiny photograph. She took one last lingering look at Samuel.

  “Goodbye,” she whispered. And as she felt herself falling through time she heard his voice following her.

  “Farewell and Godspeed!”

  And then the other voices, the cries and whispers and entreaties of myriad people lost and wandering and in need, drowned him out, and he was gone, and Xanthe tumbled through the centuries again.

  * * *

  On this occasion the transition from Samuel’s time to her own was swift and less disorienting than Xanthe had anticipated. She had learned that when her task was complete and the found thing that had sung to her fell silent, the final journey home was usually quite brutal, leaving her bewildered and unwell. She recalled coming home after the chatelaine was done with her and how she had had such a bad fall in the blind house that she had lain there for hours. This time was painless and calm. Xanthe was confused by this. What did it signify? What was different this time? Perhaps she was simply becoming more adept at moving through time, more practiced at making the necessary transitions. She dusted herself off and felt around on the floor of the little building for the chocolate pot. There was some light coming through the gap around the door, suggesting morning sunshine outside, but it was still hard to see much. Frustrated, she took her torch from her bag and searched again. Nothing. It was gone. Could Flora have come in and taken it again? She checked her bag for Spinners and was relieved to find that at least the book was where she expected it to be. She would have to find a safe place for it in the house, probably in her own bedroom. She felt the need to keep it close. Switching off the torch, she gave herself a moment to prepare her story in her mind. Next, she pushed the door open a fraction and peered out, relieved to find the garden empty. She crept toward the house, reassuring herself that at least her coat covered her unusual clothes, but still anxious about bumping into her mother while coming from the direction of the garden. She paused at the back door, which was firmly closed against the cold of the day. She put her ear to the old wood and listened hard. The radio was on, a talk program. Xanthe recognized it as one her mother regularly listened to while working, which meant she must be in her workshop rather than the shop itself. If she could sneak through and appear as if through the front door … She turned the handle and slowly pushed the door, wincing as it creaked a little. She heard a voice, her mother’s, chatting in answer to the reporter on the radio. Flora’s habit of holding one-sided conversations with radio and television reporters was an old one and at that moment Xanthe blessed her for it. She was too taken up with indignation at some recent political outrage to notice her daughter slip along the hallway into the shop. Xanthe saw that the sign had been turned to closed and the row of clocks declared it to be one-thirty. Lunchtime. Xanthe made a point of opening and closing the shop door noisily, the aged be
ll sounding its welcome.

  “Mum?” she called out cheerily. “You there?”

  “Hi, Xanthe, love. I’m in the workshop!” Flora’s voice sounded stronger, back to her more upbeat, resilient self.

  Xanthe went to her, shaking off the growing self-hatred that came with the moment of presenting her mother with lie upon lie about where she had been and what she had been doing.

  “One last time,” she said to herself under her breath. “One last time.”

  Flora greeted her warmly, hugging her in a way that reassured Xanthe the pain from her arthritis had receded.

  “Well?” Flora pulled back to look at her daughter. “How was it? Tell me everything. What was the turnout like? And the pub?”

  “Oh, it was a bit more low-key than Harley had led us to expect, but nice enough.”

  “Nice? That doesn’t sound very rock and roll.”

  “It was fine, Mum, really. Just what I needed. Nothing flash and intimidating. Friendly people…”

  “And Harley’s friend, what was his name?”

  For a moment Xanthe panicked, unable to recall what she and Harley had dreamed up. She told herself her mother had obviously forgotten too, so it didn’t matter. “Richard, yeah, nice bloke.”

  “So, a nice bloke with a nice pub. That’s … nice.” Flora smiled.

  Xanthe was relieved to see that it was a teasing smile, not a doubting one.

  “Yes, so, maybe I’ll go there again.”

  “I tried to phone you twice, just to see how you were getting on. Your phone is always switched off. Honestly, I don’t know why you bother having the thing. I can never get hold of you while you’re away.”

  “Sorry, Mum. I just needed to stay focused. And, well, sometimes hearing a sympathetic voice, you know how that can make it harder to be strong. Sometimes.”

  “Well a text message would have been nice, just to let me know how you are.”

  “Sorry,” she said again, cursing the way that her own phone seemed to work against her.

  Flora smiled then, her features animated. “Actually, I have something to tell you. I haven’t been moping around here like Billy no-mates while you’ve been away.”

  “Oh?”

  “No. Look at these.” She held her hands palms up.

  Xanthe was at a loss.

  “Go on,” Flora insisted, “look closely. What do you see?”

  “Um. blue paint … beeswax … blisters?”

  “Yes!”

  “How did you get those?”

  “Bell-ringing, of course!” She waved her calloused hands pointedly. “Graham let me loose and it was such fun!”

  “And it was OK, pulling the ropes? I mean, your hands…”

  “As you can see, they need to toughen up a bit. Only beginners get these, actually. Should stop once I’ve mastered the technique. And they play handbells too. Like Sheila said, I have a natural ear. I think you’d be impressed.” She grinned broadly, enjoying her daughter’s surprise. “What’s more the shop has been hectic too. Sales are up. And I finished painting that little chest of drawers. You know what they say: if you want something done, ask a busy person.”

  The two fell to talking easily about how busy the shop had been and how many things Flora had been able to work on in the evenings without Xanthe there to distract her. If she thought her daughter’s reluctance to talk about her singing was strange she didn’t press the point. Xanthe decided her mother was probably being tactful, not wanting to make a big thing of it, just happy she was singing again. Perhaps she believed it would take time for Xanthe to build up her confidence and she needed to allow for that. To discover that Flora had made new friends and found a new hobby in her absence was immensely cheering.

  After a half hour of catching up Xanthe said she would nip upstairs to change and then reopen the shop. As she got to the door she asked as casually as she could, “Mum, have you moved the chocolate pot again?”

  “What? No, haven’t touched it. I thought you took it up to your room.”

  “You’re right. Must be up there somewhere.”

  “Can’t you find it? Can’t you hear it singing?”

  It was only when Flora asked this question that Xanthe realized something was not right. If her task was incomplete the object that had called to her would continue to sing and hum and vibrate, that much she knew. If she had succeeded in her mission then it would fall silent, become simply another antique curio. But the chocolate pot had disappeared. What could that mean? She became aware that her mother was waiting for an answer.

  “Oh, I’ve probably hidden it in a cupboard,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You know, put it out of earshot one night when it was keeping me awake. I’ll find it in a minute.” Seeing Flora’s uncertain expression Xanthe sought to change the subject. “By the way, you remember that surprise I was planning?”

  “Ooh, yes!”

  “Well, I can share it with you now. Gerri and I have been hatching a plan for a historical Saturday promotion for Parchment Street. All of us in seventeenth-century costume, showcasing our older antiques, Gerri cooking cakes and puddings of the time.… She thinks she can get her friend on Radio Wiltshire to cover it. Should make a nice change from the usual run-up to Christmas stuff. Help us find a few new customers. What do you think?”

  “That’s a wonderful idea! Now I get the clothes, which were outlandish even for you, I have to say. But why were you planning it in the garden shed?”

  Without missing a beat Xanthe replied, “Mum, I know nothing gets past you; I have to go to some lengths to keep a surprise a surprise. Didn’t think you’d come across the bits and pieces I’ve been putting together if I kept them out there.”

  “Ha! I’ll know where to look next time you’re acting suspiciously,” Flora laughed, causing Xanthe a momentary flash of panic and making her wish she’d thought of something else to say. At least Flora was now focused on planning the event. “We will need to put a notice in the paper, and some flyers, I think. And you and I will have to dig through all the stock, see what’s relevant, make a special display in the window. And maybe a discount for the weekend…”

  “So you like the idea, then?” Xanthe felt her spirits lifted by her mother’s instant enthusiasm.

  “Love it. More than that,” she stepped forward and put her hand on Xanthe’s arm, “I love that you thought of it.”

  “It’ll be fun. Seventeenth century and making money, what’s not to like?” she said before slipping away to change her clothes. Once back in her room she sat on the bed for a moment, her head in her hands. She suddenly felt utterly exhausted. All that she had done in the seventeenth century; the ever-present fear of making a mistake and the possible consequences for Samuel, for herself, for Flora; the journeying through time itself; the lies upon lies upon lies that she had to tell her mother; the worry about her mother’s health; and the heavy weight of heartache over finally parting from Samuel, all combined to drain her of every last ounce of strength and energy. Wearily, she untied her laces, kicked off her boots, took Spinners from her bag and hugged the book tightly, then pulled a woolen blanket over herself, curled up on her bed, and slept.

  * * *

  That evening Xanthe decided she needed to talk to Harley. The cold weather had begun to adversely affect the temperature in the attic bedrooms, so that she found herself digging out warmer garments. She selected a vintage corduroy pinafore, pulling it over a seventies flowery blouse and on top of that a deep red alpaca cardigan. Black leggings and woolen socks felt like the final acceptance that winter had arrived. She hurried downstairs and explained to Flora it was only polite to report back to Harley on how the gigs in London had gone.

  Flora laughed at this idea. “Well, I hope he can get more out of you than your own mother can! Perhaps a decent glass of wine will make you feel more like talking about the performances. He’ll want to know, I mean, it is his friend’s pub after all.”

  Xanthe endured another onslaught of guilt
as she agreed with Flora.

  “Let’s have a bite to eat before I go,” she suggested.

  “I do eat when you’re away, you know,” Flora assured her.

  “I know, I just … I like looking after you, Mum.”

  “It’s not your job.”

  “I don’t see it like that, really I don’t.” Noticing the sadness in her mother’s expression Xanthe tried to lift the mood. “If it was a job it would be better paid! Think I’ll stick to singing and antiques to earn my living, thanks very much.”

  Flora relaxed, sitting down at the table. “Mind you, that doesn’t mean you can’t cook your own mum a plate of spaghetti bolognese from time to time. Have we got any Parmesan?”

  Xanthe made herself feel significantly better about her treatment of her mother, about all the disappearances, the coming and going, and of course the secrets, by making them both a tasty meal. She fought off her own impatience at wanting to talk to Harley about all that had happened. Flora deserved something of her; it wasn’t fair that her needs so often seemed to slip down Xanthe’s list of priorities.

  When she eventually got to The Feathers, Harley was delighted to see her and abandoned poor Annie to manage the bar without him.

  “Seriously, Harley?” his wife protested, not unreasonably. “It’s getting really busy.…”

  “I’ll be back directly, hen, I promise,” he assured her, leading Xanthe upstairs to their comfortable if slightly chaotic sitting room. There were two overstuffed leather sofas and more motorbike memorabilia than there was sensibly room for. Xanthe sunk into one deep, squashy sofa and Harley took the one opposite her, perching on the edge of his seat. He was so eager to hear what she had to tell him he didn’t even offer her a drink.