Secrets of the Chocolate House

by Paula Brackston

  “So you’ve been? You’ve actually traveled back in time, done your thing there, and returned home, safe and sound and in one piece?” When she nodded he whistled, flopping back in the deep leather sofa, his bushy brows lifting high in astonishment at the thought of what she was telling him. “I mean to say, lassie, I knew that was what you said you were going to do, and that you said you’ve done it before, but after we talked, after the book … and now to have you sitting there telling me you’ve actually done it. Marvelous. Bloody marvelous,” he said.

  “I’ve told Mum as little as possible about my ‘gigs’ in London. If she asks you about it…”

  “I will be vague to the point of unhelpful and change the subject,” he promised. “But tell me, what was it like? How did it feel, to move through time like that? Were there noises? Sounds? It must have been scary as hell.”

  “I am sort of getting used to it.”

  “Imagine that!”

  “But yes, you’re right, it can be scary. Especially when you don’t end up where you think you will. And there are people trying to communicate, calling my name; some of them sound desperate, frightened.…”

  “That must be distressing for you. And then you get there and … what?”

  “Mostly I just have to pitch straight in. To start with I feel groggy, a bit like I’m waking up with a hangover, you know?”

  “I am somewhat familiar with that condition, aye.”

  “There isn’t time to think about it, to be honest. I’m usually just dealing with what’s going on wherever I’ve pitched up.”

  “And the book?” he asked. “Was it of any assistance? Were you able to discover how to use it at all?”

  Xanthe thought about how much the book meant. About what Mistress Flyte had told her. It only revealed its contents to those who were worthy of hearing them. It had chosen her. Having the book come into her possession was a call to arms. The enormity of that returned to her now that she had Harley to discuss it with. “I did find someone who showed me how to use it,” she said. “I couldn’t have done what I did without it, that’s for sure.” Xanthe smiled. “Turns out only the special few can see anything in it at all.”

  “You don’t say?” Harley went a little pink with the pleasure of finding himself to be included in that number. “Well, well!”

  “It seems so. My friend…”

  “The one who you thought would be able to help?”

  “Yes, her name is Louisa Flyte. She explained that the book finds the person it needs to be with. That it found me.”

  The next half hour passed quickly, with Harley quizzing her, hungry for details, and Xanthe finding the process of sharing her experiences hugely helpful. She was unburdening herself, to someone who chose to believe, who genuinely accepted what she was telling him. It mattered. It went some way to stopping her from feeling she was going slightly insane. It even eased her sadness at having to leave Samuel a tiny bit, as if having someone to talk to about him made him still in some way close to her. Still real, if she could sensibly use that word.

  At last Harley slapped his thighs. “Hen, you are a wonder! You set out to save your friend and it sounds to me like you did just that. And what an adventure you’ve had! It’s incredible, and yet it’s all true!”

  “You don’t know how much it helps to hear you say that.”

  There came the sound of brisk footsteps on the stairs. Annie appeared at the door.

  “Any chance of a hand, Harley? Pub’s filling up.”

  Xanthe got to her feet. “I was just going anyway. Sorry to keep him, Annie.”

  “No problem. Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Oh?”

  “The Blues Mothers have canceled on us. I don’t suppose you fancy filling in? This Friday night?”

  Xanthe looked at Harley, wondering how much he’d told his wife about where she was supposed to have been. Did she think she’d just come from doing successful performances in London? Xanthe was uncomfortable with the idea that her lies to her mother on this occasion had involved Harley. It felt wrong, and less safe. The more people shared a secret, the more likely it was to be exposed. Whatever he might or might not have told Annie, it didn’t alter the fact that she owed him, and Annie, a favor.

  “Sure,” she said. “I’d be happy to.” She smiled at Harley and left, grateful for something approaching normal life to be picking up again, if only to help her forget about how final her farewell with Samuel had been this time. As she walked home she found that her mind kept returning to the matter of the missing chocolate pot. It bothered her that she had not kept her promise to Mistress Flyte. At the time it had felt reasonable to ask Samuel to return it. Surely she could rely on him to do as she asked. Now, though, she worried that she should have taken the pot to its proper home herself. Perhaps it mattered that she was not the one placing it where it should be, restoring the order of things. It was more than an insignificant loose end, it seemed. If one of the consequences of her decision was that she did not have the pot, what else had changed? What else had she altered, without meaning to, not only in her present, but in the years between Samuel’s time and her own? She recalled what Mistress Flyte had told her about it being her duty to complete the tasks she was called to in order for things to be as they should. She had worked as much out for herself after the chatelaine had summoned her to action. The more she thought about it, the more she worried that she had been wrong to leave such an important piece of the puzzle to someone else, even Samuel. She should have taken the chocolate pot back to its rightful home herself. And if Samuel hadn’t done it, did that mean he couldn’t? What was stopping him? As she wearily climbed the stairs to her room she did her best to shake off the feeling that there would be consequences to her actions. What was done was done, she was home, she couldn’t go back, it was too late to change things now.

  19

  There was something important that Xanthe badly wanted to do; something difficult but necessary if she was truly to put the events of her trip to Samuel’s time behind her. However, now that she was home, the shop and Flora, not unreasonably, demanded her attention. Added to which, she had committed herself to band practice with Tin Lid. She’d found several texts waiting for her from Liam when she’d returned, the last one just giving the date, venue, and time of the session, saying how much he was looking forward to seeing her there. Xanthe felt she had so much to cope with already, but she couldn’t let him down. And beyond that, she wanted to do it. Wanted to sing. With a band. With Liam. She found the old school hall on the outskirts of the town the following day. The band members were already set up, and Liam introduced them.

  “Spike’s been playing the drums longer than he can remember, but then Spike’s memory’s not the best,” he said, pointing at the slightly plump figure behind the drum kit. “Baz is on keyboards, Mike’s on bass, and then there’s me.” Amid the general greetings and smiles Liam took hold of Xanthe’s hand. It was a small gesture, but a meaningful one. He gave a gentle squeeze and looked at her. “I’m really glad you came,” he said. “We all are. The lads heard you sing at The Feathers. Have you got something you want to do?”

  “We’re a bit rusty on the medieval stuff,” Baz admitted.

  Spike started beating out an ancient marching rhythm. “We can adapt, babe. No worries.”

  Xanthe laughed, feeling herself relax just a little. She had thought about what she would sing and decided against anything from Samuel’s time. The music of his day would be too poignant for her. “Actually,” she said, “I thought I’d do something more in keeping with what you guys normally play. Do you have anything that would suit my voice?”

  This was met with relief and enthusiasm from the whole band. After various suggestions were challenged they agreed on a Fleetwood Mac number, Dreams, found the right key, and sorted out a microphone for Xanthe. She took up her place at the front of the band, next to Liam. Looking at him she realized how much she had missed being a part of a group. She also
realized how much happier she was to be sharing the makeshift stage with Liam rather than Marcus. At last she was able to give herself up to the music, letting the melody lift her, winding her sinuous voice around the lyrics, feeling the combined talents of the band working with her. It was such a sweet release after all the anxiety and challenges of late, she reveled in it. When the number came to an end there was a moment of silence before Spike gave a heartfelt whoop of delight and then the others clapped and congratulated Xanthe, one another, and themselves, on making such a beautiful sound.

  Liam beamed. “You were bloody fantastic!”

  “No,” Xanthe corrected him, “we were.”

  He nodded. “We need to get out there, show everyone what we can do together. I need to find us a gig really soon.”

  “Actually,” Xanthe told him, “I’m supposed to be singing in The Feathers tomorrow night.…”

  Liam’s smile broadened. “Perfect,” he said, holding her gaze, his eyes bright, his expression showing genuine delight. Xanthe knew he was happy with more than just the song, and for the first time she found herself enjoying the way he was looking at her. Found herself in no hurry to leave.

  * * *

  The rehearsal had gone on longer than planned, so that Xanthe fell into bed late that night, waking heavy from sleep the next morning, knowing that there were still many demands on her time. She would still have to put off revisiting Laybrook, just a little while longer. She shivered against the chill of the room, pulled on a warm chunky sweater over a cheesecloth shirt and boyfriend jeans, and pushed her feet into her beloved boots. As she did so, an image flashed through her mind, causing her to gasp. It was very brief, the merest of glimpses, but it was clear. There was no doubting she had just “seen” the chocolate pot. She all but ran down the stairs, out the back door, striding across the frost-crisp grass of the lawn. At the door of the blind house she hesitated just a moment before pulling at the handle. She dragged the door open just enough for the soft morning light to fall into the gloomy space, and as it did so it fell upon the burnished copper of the pot, making it gleam. Xanthe stepped forward and picked it up.

  “There you are,” she murmured to it. She wondered if she had simply not seen it when she had returned. Could it have been there all the time? No, she knew that was not the case. Something had happened, in the past, to bring about its return. Her heart leaped at the realization that Samuel must have taken the pot from the abbey and restored it to its rightful place with Mistress Flyte in the chocolate house. The fact that he had been able to do this reassured her that she had indeed successfully sent Fairfax to the time of the coin, and that Samuel was free to come and go as he wished. As she held the pot she listened closely. There was nothing. Not a sound, nor a vibration. The pot had fallen silent. It had nothing more to ask of her. Her mission was complete. Could her plan really have worked? Was Samuel safe at last? There was one last thing she needed to do, she had to do, to be certain. But that would have to wait. Turning, she left the blind house, happy not to be assailed by pleading voices and whispers as she went. She took the pot upstairs and put it on the shelf in her room. Ordinarily she was quite comfortable selling the found things that had once called to her. Once they stopped singing. But this one was different. This one, Samuel had touched, had held, had been connected to. This one she would keep.

  Having told her mother about her idea for the historical Saturday there was much to be done to organize it, which came on top of the everyday running of the shop, which was getting increasingly busy as people started their Christmas shopping. Flora invited Gerri over after closing so that they could discuss the promotion. Xanthe had been in the shop all day and had barely had the chance to so much as think of what she was going to sing at The Feathers that evening. There was no time for her to drive out to Laybrook as she had hoped. Her very personal and poignant task would have to wait until the following day.

  Over Darjeeling and warm honey flapjacks, Gerri, Flora, and Xanthe sat in the muddled kitchen above the shop and brainstormed plans for the upcoming event.

  Flora stirred sugar into her tea. “I wonder if we could get some of the market stall holders involved? Just a few. They could set up down our little street for that day.”

  Gerri nibbled at one of her own flapjacks, impressing Xanthe with the way her scarlet lipstick stayed put as she did so. “Hmm, we might have a battle with the council about that,” she said. “They have strict rules about pitches and pop-up shops.”

  “What, you mean they’d object to a couple of stalls for a couple of days?” Flora was indignant. “That’s a bit small-minded, isn’t it?”

  “Mum, Gerri knows how things work around here. We’re just the newbies.”

  “Even so…”

  Xanthe sipped tea from a mug commemorating a long-ago royal wedding. “Let’s try and do something that gets as many people on our side as possible. If this little event goes well we can think bigger next time.”

  Gerri nodded. “Took me ages to get the planners to allow me to put tables and chairs outside. Now everyone’s doing it. Be patient but persistent, is my advice.”

  “I think costumes are a good idea,” said Xanthe, safe in the knowledge she had a fair idea how to dress for the seventeenth century by now. She wondered how it would feel, turning the clock back on the whole street. A street that, in fact, had not all been built at that time. The three talked on, making plans, coming up with thoughts and possibilities that would make the event a success. Xanthe was happy to take a back seat, pleased for Flora, relieved to have, for once, done something positive for the business, even if the idea had come out of a lie protecting her own secrets. After an hour she was able to make her excuses and go up to her room to prepare for her evening’s singing. She leafed through the sheet music and lyric notes she had amassed, choosing upbeat, simple songs this time. She would stick with the ancient folk tunes and ballads that she had had some success with already but decided to avoid anything too romantic or sad. She was having a hard time keeping her mood steady as it was. Better to use the music and the audience to lift her spirits rather than to tempt her into wallowing. And then, for the last song of the evening, she would be performing with Tin Lid. The thought gave her courage. As she showered and washed her hair she found herself wondering what Samuel was doing, whether he would be working, or eating a meal with his family, or spending time with his new fiancée. She still struggled to completely accept the fact that he had lived his entire life a very long time ago. To think of him continuing with his life without her was difficult enough: to think of him dead was even harder.

  Night was falling ever earlier as the winter days began to shorten. Xanthe was restless in the time leading up to her performance. She and her mother shared a supper of sandwiches but she found she had no appetite. Flora was chatting on about how having done so much singing recently Xanthe must be well practiced and less nervous about her performance.

  “Actually, Mum, I think I’ll go for a bit of a walk first.”

  “But it’s freezing out there.”

  “Just a stroll down by the river. If I keep moving I’ll keep warm.”

  “You don’t want to turn up all chilled and with a red nose.”

  “I’ll wrap up, I’ll be fine. Don’t fuss.”

  “As if.”

  “I’ll meet you at The Feathers, OK?”

  Xanthe pulled her greatcoat on over a red daisy-print tea dress that had been a charity shop find years before. She had teamed it with opaque green tights as a nod to the time of year, and of course her trusty Dr. Martens. She left her hair loose, her tight curls a little tamed and protected against frizz by a quick application of Argan oil. Outside the air was cold enough to make her breath form puffs of cloud as she strode over the cobbles and out across the high street. She took the little road that led from the side of the inn down toward the river, planning to follow the narrow, fast-flowing stream to the edge of the town and back again. Half an hour’s march without anyone to distract h
er was the best way she could think of to steady her nerves and clear her head.

  She had got no further than the rear of the pub, however, when she suddenly felt she was being followed. She stopped, turning, scanning the narrow street, but there was no one to be seen. She waited a moment, letting her eyes become accustomed to the deeper shadows between the streetlamps, but still there was nobody in the road but her. She was about to move on when she heard a noise off to her left, in the open gateway to the yard behind The Feathers. She hesitated.

  “Harley?” she called out quietly, wondering if he might be out fetching crates from the store shed. “Is that you?” Getting no reply, she told herself she was being silly and turned back toward the river. It was then that rough hands took hold of her arms and she was pulled backward before she had time to do anything about it. She cried out, swearing, trying to twist free, but she was held tight and being dragged into the dark yard. She kicked over a bin as she went, hoping the noise of the metal container crashing to the tarmac might alert someone.

  “Let me go!” she yelled, stamping at her assailant’s feet, but she was too off balance for her heavy heels to find their mark effectively. Suddenly she was spun around and pressed up against the wall of the yard. At last she could see who it was had hold of her.

  “Marcus! For God’s sake, what are you doing?”

  “You were on your way to his place, weren’t you? You were going to see him!”

  Even in the patchy light from the streetlamps Xanthe could see how wild-eyed Marcus was. She knew that look. She’s seen it before many times. It was the face of someone between hits. The face of someone strung out and desperate, a long way from his last line of coke, with the chance of more out of sight. This was bad Marcus, unreasonable Marcus, Marcus who was out of control.

  Xanthe forced herself to stay calm.

  “On my way to see who?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.