Secrets of the Chocolate House

by Paula Brackston

  On the way home Xanthe began to feel calmer. If Samuel was safe, there was no reason for her to return to the past. No reason for her to take the risks that she had done before, for him, for Alice, and for her mother. The chocolate pot was where it belonged. It no longer sang to her, no longer thrummed with an urgent message. Xanthe had done what was required of her. Whatever Mistress Flyte had told her about her calling as a Spinner, there was no necessity for her to risk traveling again. Surely she had played her part. It was over. She would not have been surprised to find Spinners blank next time she opened the book. Perhaps she should put it back in the shop and see if it found someone else? She decided if it was blank that was what she would do. She had her own life to think about now, in her own time. With Flora. With the shop. With the band.

  Marlborough was properly awake when Xanthe swung the black cab off the high street and down the cobbled lane. Passing the shop she saw lights on upstairs. Flora was up. She would need an explanation for finding her daughter out and about before breakfast. Xanthe drove to the small parking area for residents at the far end of the street. She locked up the taxi and headed back toward the shop. She was glad there was so much to be done for the business. She needed to keep busy and to keep her mind off Samuel. The Christmas trade would soon be revving up, and there was the historical weekend to organize. She wished now that she had chosen a different era, Victorian perhaps, anything other than Samuel’s time. It was too late to change things now. Gerri and Flora were already making detailed plans. Xanthe would just have to ride it out, see the event as a final farewell to her wonderful adventure. And now she was singing again, and thankful for that. With Tin Lid, and Liam, to push her to take on more gigs she would scarcely have a free moment. She would throw her energies into the life in Marlborough that she and her mother were building. Samuel, Mistress Flyte, and the Spinners would all have to stay in the past where they belonged.

  * * *

  Two days before what everyone was referring to as “the medieval fair” (despite Xanthe constantly reminding them that it technically wasn’t) Gerri came over for supper so that the three of them could discuss final details for the event. Xanthe opened the shop door to let her in.

  “Brace yourself,” she told her, “Mum’s in a Christmas cooking frenzy.”

  “I thought your mum didn’t really cook.”

  “She doesn’t, but she does Christmas. Last year it was a plum pudding,” she said, leading her through the shop and up the stairs, which were festooned with quantities of tinsel.

  “How did that turn out?”

  “Mercifully Mum got carried away with pouring brandy over it and the thing was lost to the flames.”

  In the kitchen Flora appeared as if at the center of a storm cloud of icing sugar, a red and white Christmas hat keeping her hair off her face, and an apron shaped like a Christmas tree bearing the brunt of the fallout.

  “Ah, Gerri, a professional! Just the person I need,” she said, thrusting forward a batter-covered wooden spoon. “Try this. Tell me what you think.”

  “Mum, let Gerri get her coat off at least.”

  Gerri handed Xanthe a bottle of red wine and smiled at Flora. “OK, happy to help. Um, can you give me a clue … what is it going to be?”

  “Stollen. Made from an authentic German recipe.”

  Xanthe raised her eyebrows. “You actually followed a recipe?”

  “I looked at one. All seemed simple enough. Though I did have to improvise a bit. Well…?”

  There was a moment heavy with expectation as Gerri took the spoon and tried the mixture. “Hmm, good consistency…”

  “Yes…?”

  “Plenty of dried fruit, I like that. Candied peel … A bit of cinnamon in there.”

  “I did use cinnamon. It’s the Christmas spice, don’t you think?”

  Gerri nibbled a little more and frowned. “There’s something else. I can’t quite place it.…”

  Xanthe groaned, being all too familiar with her mother’s fondness for using unexpected ingredients.

  “Try and guess,” Flora insisted. “Go on, you being an expert.…”

  Gerri’s face registered surprise and a little puzzlement. “I want to say mint, but…”

  “That’s it! Well done.” Flora went back to beating the mixture some more.

  “Really, Mum? Mint? In stollen?”

  Gerri shrugged. “It’s … different. What made you choose it?”

  “It rather chose me, in fact. I only glimpsed the label, saw the first two letters and thought I was adding mixed spice. But I can really see it catching on. Now, Xanthe, love, have you finished with the oven? I want to get this in.”

  After a fair amount of clearing and juggling of dirty dishes and packets of ingredients, Xanthe put the shepherd’s pie she had prepared onto the table and they all sat down to eat. Liberal quantities of Shiraz oiled the wheels as they went through an exhaustive checklist, ticking off all the things that were already settled, circling the one or two tasks that remained to be done. Flora squeezed a little more brown sauce onto her plate.

  “I must say, Gerri, I am impressed,” she said. “You are the living embodiment of the idea that if you want something done you ask a busy person.”

  “I’ve really done very little,” Gerri insisted. “Xanthe’s the one with all the ideas, and you’ve seen to the lion’s share of the advertising and promoting.”

  “Mum loves to organize,” Xanthe said. “Though some might call it being bossy.…”

  Flora rolled her eyes. “We must each of us play to our strengths. You’ve been busy with running the shop and with your singing, which is as it should be,” she added quickly. “I like to plan things. We’ve got a lot riding on the success of this day. People are watching the pennies; they need a little persuading to part with them. And with Christmas being make or break for many small businesses, we have to compete. We’re newcomers. We need to do a bit of flag waving to get noticed. This is very tasty, Xanthe, by the way.”

  Gerri nodded. “It’s nice to eat something that I haven’t had to cook myself for once.”

  “How are the recipe tryouts going?” Xanthe asked.

  “Some more successful than others. The children have been very keen on helping me with the puddings. Tommy declared my marchpane roses the best sweets ever, and Ells is very keen on anything custardy, so she’s enjoyed some of the tartlets. They are less happy about the idea of roasted sparrows with the heads still on.”

  “Good grief!” Flora was horrified.

  “Fortunately, Waitrose was fresh out of sparrows.”

  Xanthe took another swig of Shiraz. “Best to steer clear of anything that still has the head attached,” she suggested.

  Gerri laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m sticking to mostly simple recipes. Some of the things people loved in the sixteen hundreds would cause an uproar now, and rightly so. Poor sparrows.”

  “I guess it’s no worse than eating chickens,” said Xanthe.

  “Ellie is teetering on the edge of being a vegetarian herself. It’s a good thing I make more cakes than anything else. Here,” she pulled another sheet of paper from her bag. “I’ve made a list of the food I’m doing. Most of it is already prepared. I’ve got a few hours more baking to do tomorrow though. I’ve gone with things that lend themselves to a bit of a buffet; things people can nibble at. I’ll cut the bigger pies and tarts into small slices.”

  Xanthe and Flora leaned over the list of recipes. There were lemon possets, ham-hock pies with cranberry middles, pear tartlets, apple puddings, ginger biscuits shaped like lions, and tiny homity pies made with root mash and savory pastry.

  Xanthe could not help but think of Clara’s birthday party at Great Chalfield. Working as a kitchen maid for such an important occasion in 1605 had given her firsthand experience of what wealthy people of the day chose to eat. She wished she could share what she knew with Gerri, explain to her precisely what it felt like to toil away in the big kitchen of such a house and to wait o
n the gentry while they feasted. She herself had eaten some of that food. She recalled the roasted meat and sweet pickles with lots of raw fruit. People used to believe that cooking was a quick way to make some foods decay, as the evidence of their own eyes showed them that a baked apple spoiled far more quickly than a raw one carefully stored in a cool hoarde house. And yet they loved their puddings, as Gerri’s selection suggested.

  “Wow, Gerri, this is terrific,” she said, promising herself that she would one day share what she knew with her friend. One day. “These will really give the thing an authentic feel.”

  “You’ve put so much work into it,” said Flora.

  “I’ve loved every minute. Makes a change from lemon drizzle and chocolate brownies.”

  Xanthe put down her fork. “If you ever stop making lemon drizzle cake we’ll have to leave town. Mum’s hooked on yours; we’d have to find another baker.”

  “No need for panic; I’ve got one in a tin in my bag. Thought you might be running low.”

  Flora dabbed at her mouth with a paper napkin. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Gerri. Addicted indeed! At least I get some exercise to burn off all those sinful calories. Which is where I’m off to right now, in fact.”

  “Mum, I’m not sure bell-ringing counts as a workout.”

  “Says she who’s never tried it. We’re having a run-through with the hand bells tonight. You wait until Saturday, then you’ll hear what I’ve been practicing so hard. She got to her feet, hooked her bag over her shoulder, and shrugged on her warm, quilted coat. “I shall leave you girls to your nattering. Just make sure there’s some of that cake left for when I get home.” So saying, she stick-stepped her way down the stairs.

  “She’s a marvel, your mum,” Gerri said as they heard the bell of the shop door clanking.

  “Don’t let her hear you say that. It will either make her cross because she doesn’t want to be seen as a martyr, or go to her head. Depends which day you say it. But yes, she is a marvel. I’m so glad she’s found new friends and a new hobby.”

  “Had she ever shown any interest in bell-ringing before?”

  “None at all. I think she’d have done whatever her new friends suggested, to be honest. It’s as much about doing something without me as it is about meeting new people or doing something fun.”

  Xanthe cleared away the plates and picked up the bottle of wine. “Come on, bring your glass, let’s move to the sofa.”

  She went through to the sitting room, which was in its usual state of chaos, so that she had to clear a space on the coffee table to set things down.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” she told Gerri, removing a stack of unframed botanical prints from the sofa and giving the worn green cushions a quick pat.

  “Nothing like a velvet sofa,” said Gerri, flopping onto it, kicking off her shoes, and curling her feet up underneath her.

  Xanthe went to the window to close the curtains. “Oh, look! It’s starting to snow.” Small but determined flakes were falling onto the cobbles of the street below. Xanthe felt the usual excitement stirring in her. What was it about snow that did that to a person? She couldn’t help imagining how the Wiltshire landscape would look in her own time under a covering of icy whiteness. She had, of course, seen it thickly coated with a deep fall in the seventeenth century. The strangeness of this fact, that she was, in some ways, more familiar with where she lived as it had been four hundred years ago than it was in the present day, brought on a sense of disconnection. A momentary feeling that she was not sure where she truly belonged anymore. It was easy to feel rooted in her own time while she was talking to her family and friends, planning ordinary things in everyday life, things that made sense. But at other times, when something jolted a memory or triggered a recollection, she felt unmoored. She might have completed her recent task successfully, but she was still a Spinner. Would she always feel like this now? she wondered. Was this what her future held? She thought then of her favorite carved white horse, high upon the hill. She had been too busy to visit him recently and she missed the sense of peace she found up there, close to the ancient chalk figure that kept watch over the valley. Over the centuries. She decided she would make time to go there after the historical event, perhaps on the Sunday. She needed space to clear her head. Needed that different perspective to help her find her way forward.

  She joined Gerri on the sofa, reaching over to top up both wineglasses. “It must feel odd being child-free for a couple of days,” Xanthe said. “Do you ever get used to it?”

  “Not really. Their father doesn’t have them often enough or regularly enough. Never a man for commitment, obviously. One of his failings as a husband and father. And human being, come to that. But the kids still love him, and he’s still their dad.…”

  “We haven’t got many good examples of men between us, have we? There’s your ex, my ex, my own father.…”

  “From what I could see your ex is very attractive in a dangerous sort of way.”

  “Yes, well, the clue is in the description.…”

  “And your parents’ marriage was good for years, I suppose.”

  “Until it wasn’t.”

  “It’s enough to make you give up on them, isn’t it?”

  “Gerri, you are young and clever and gorgeous and one day someone worthy of all that will come along.”

  “Hmm, I wish I could believe that.”

  “There are good men out there too.”

  “Name three.”

  “OK … Harley. He’s been great, supporting me with my singing, and … everything.”

  “And Annie seems happy enough with him; always a good sign. OK, I’ll give you that one. Next.”

  “Um.”

  “See, you’re struggling already.”

  “Father Christmas?” They both laughed before Xanthe, a little shyly, suggested, “Liam?”

  “Ah-ha! I knew it.”

  “Knew what?”

  “That you’d fall for him.”

  “You asked for three good men! I didn’t say I was interested in him.”

  “Xanthe, please. He’s good-looking, single, solvent, fit…”

  “Are you sure you’re not keen on him yourself?”

  “… he plays in his own band, which he’s invited you to join…”

  “We both like music…”

  “… he’s clearly keen on you.”

  Xanthe had no answer to this. She knew it to be true. She shook her head, though. “I’m not looking for a relationship,” she insisted, thinking about everything that had happened in her life in a few short months. “I’m not ready for someone new yet.”

  “I can see Marcus would be a difficult person to get over, particularly if he’s going to keep turning up here. But from what you’ve told me he was bad news, Xanthe. You deserve someone who will treat you well.”

  Xanthe sipped her Shiraz, content for that moment to let Gerri think it was Marcus she needed time to heal from. What she hadn’t realized until then, faced with Gerri’s challenges, was that there was something different about the way she thought of Liam. During the time they had spent together there had been a subtle shift in their friendship. She could see that now. There was something new in the way that she responded to him. Something altered in the way she felt about him. She thought about the dear little golden horseshoe upstairs on her bedside table. She raised her glass. “Here’s to good men, then,” she toasted, and Gerri joined in.

  21

  Xanthe stood in front of the tallest of the many mirrors that still filled the second downstairs room in the shop. She experienced a tremor of excitement as her seventeenth-century reflection gazed back at her. She had secured her hair up beneath a mop cap that Flora had obtained from the fancy-dress shop where she had found her own outfit. Xanthe could not help comparing it to the one she had borrowed from Samuel’s kitchen maid. Flora had insisted she let spirals of her dark blond hair fall out from under it in a way that was flattering but far from authentic. She still had Rose�
�s blouse and decided as she hadn’t been able to return it she would wear it, one last time. It was so fragile that when she had slipped her arms into the sleeves the seams had torn a little. She regretted agreeing to borrow it from Rose, sorry that she had not been able to return it. Xanthe wore her own pinafore that had already served her well. It would be strange mingling with other people openly dressed in such a way. For everyone else it was a fun day to celebrate the advent season. For her it was a powerful reminder of her most recent adventure. Only Harley would know where she had traveled in this very outfit. Where and when. She was aware of the need to ground herself in her own time. Her own place. Her own future. With a small smile she touched the horseshoe pin she had decided to fix to her pinafore.

  “Xanthe?” her mother called from the front of the shop. “Are you ready? We need to open up.”

  “Coming!” She took a steadying breath, speaking to the old-fashioned version of herself. “Right, this needs to be a success. To business.” While trade had been good, the shop was still a new venture and they needed all the sales they could get. It was vital that their time and what funds they had been able to invest in the event paid dividends.

  In her rented costume, Flora made a passable Stuart woman of some wealth. Her dress was made of a damask fabric more suited to curtains than clothes, but it was an attractive burgundy and the right cut and shape to give the desired effect. Flora had borrowed some of the costume jewelry from their stock to set it off, finding a chunky gilt pendant and rings with glass rubies. Her face glowed with excitement. “There you are. There’s no time to fiddle about, come on. Gerri’s already got the cafe open. Look, she’s written up a special blackboard with the menu on it and directing people to the shops for free samples up until lunchtime.”