Xanthe peered out through the window. There had been no more snow, but the day was still bracingly cold. Any idea of outside seating or stalls had been altered; signs had quickly been drawn up to coax people inside instead. Each of the shops in the little alleyway had agreed to join in, and Gerri would be trundling in and out of them with trolleys and trays of food to try. She was already loading up the first trolley, with the able help of a local girl taken on for the day, and the less skilled but hugely enthusiastic assistance of Tommy and Ellie. Further up the street the art supplies and framing shop had put paintings and prints in its window that, if not exactly seventeenth century, had the right sort of look. The sweetshop near the top of the alleyway needed no alterations to look as if it had come from another time. All the shopkeepers had agreed to dress up and sported an array of costumes, some homegrown, others hired, none stupidly expensive, and all showing a deal of creativity and fun. Xanthe and Flora had both been touched by how willingly their neighbors and fellow shop owners had entered into the spirit of the thing. It felt good to be doing something for their immediate community and helped to make them feel that they belonged. Xanthe and Gerri had been out earlier that morning putting up blue, red, and gold streamers, and all the windowsills were decorated with holly. Most of the town already had its Christmas decorations up, although the official switching on of the lights was not for another week or so. There was a generally festive air, which Xanthe hoped would encourage shoppers to make some purchases, rather than simply browse.
“Here, let’s move this closer to the door so people see it more easily,” said Flora. Xanthe turned to find her attempting to push a hefty wooden coffer across the floor.
“Mum! Don’t try to shift that on your own,” she said, hurrying to help. The heavy box was big enough to sit on, solidly made, and would have housed all manner of valuable things in its time. The wood was naturally such a dark brown it was almost black. The pattern on all four sides was quite rustic, but nicely carved, with deep scallops overlapping and ears of corn at each corner. The lid was finger-snappingly heavy.
“That is a lovely piece,” said Flora, straightening up to admire it. “And perfect for today. I’d stake my reputation on it being pre-1700.”
“Let’s hope someone thinks it will make a perfect Christmas present. Though it will have to be someone with pretty deep pockets,” she added, looking at the four-figure sum on the price tag.
“Worth every penny. A solid investment, in every sense.”
Liam appeared at the door, staggering under the weight of two large boxes.
“Oh, are those from Harley?” Flora asked.
“He spotted me on my way and I offered to drop them in. Where d’you want them?”
They found a space on the desk that was also the counter. The contents clanked as he set the box down.
“Thanks for bringing it over,” Xanthe said. “You always seem to get roped in to help somehow.”
“I volunteered this time, remember? Who could pass up the chance for a bit of free food and booze? Though I’ll leave the dressing up to you, if you don’t mind,” he said, pointedly gesturing to his own favorite soft leather jacket. He’d put a sheepskin-lined hoodie underneath it, and was wearing a plain black beanie over his cropped hair, which suited him well. He evidently expected to have to be sent out into the cold throughout the day.
“I owe you.”
He grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ll think of a reward later.”
Xanthe made a face. “Mead or apple puddings are what’s on offer. Just so you know.”
Liam took in the costumes and decorations. “All looks very medieval in here. You antique women know your stuff.”
“The sixteen hundreds were not, strictly speaking, medieval,” Xanthe reminded him.
“And if you go on calling us ‘antique women’ you might not get your mead,” Flora added before bustling off to readjust a display of pewter tankards and copper cooking pots that were not quite to her satisfaction.
Xanthe unpacked the shot glasses they were going to use for the free drinks. Liam helped her set out the bottles.
“Hey, this stuff is quite strong,” he said, studying the label. “Didn’t monks used to drink it? They must have been permanently half cut.”
“They made it to sell, mostly. And anyway, people drank more alcohol than anything else in the seventeenth century. Milk was for babies and invalids, and water was downright dangerous, though they didn’t know that, exactly. They thought it was too ‘cold’ to be good for them.”
“Maybe life wasn’t so bad back then after all.”
“Believe me, it’s not as much fun as it sounds.” When he gave her a look she hurried on. “Actually, they did have hot chocolate, those who could afford it. They drank it good and hot. It was really delicious, apparently.”
At that moment Gerri appeared at the door carrying a tray of tiny jars. “Possets!” she explained, plonking the tray down on Flora’s beloved blanket chest. “I’ll bring the apple puddings over later; they’re just warming through.”
Gerri, as Xanthe could have predicted, was beautifully turned out. She had opted for the guise of a seventeenth-century cook and had gotten her costume spot-on. She had an immaculate, starched white pinafore over a wheat brown dress that fell to just above her ankles. The fall of the skirt suggested she had found the perfect petticoat so that it achieved the shape that was fashionable at the time, swelling out gently over the hips and falling straight. Even her shoes looked right, soft leather with hard soles and buttons that looked as if they needed hooks to work them. She had detachable white cuffs and collar too, and a cap that sat securely on her sleek hair that would not dare show so much as a single stray wisp.
“You look fantastic,” Xanthe told her. “And so do the little ones! Remind me to talk to you about an idea I’ve had, when we get a moment. A business proposition.”
“Oh, that sounds intriguing. Tommy, darling, those puddings are for customers. Come on, I’ve got hot chocolate on the go for you back in the tea shop. Do you want me to fetch you a cup, Xanthe?”
“Ah, no thanks, I’m fine right now.” Just the idea of drinking freshly made, high-quality chocolate unnerved Xanthe a little. She knew the taste would forever take her back to Mistress Flyte’s chocolate house. Every time she thought of the mysterious old woman she found herself with more unanswerable questions, many of which asked something of herself. About what her role as a Spinner might be in the future. About whether or not she could truly accept another challenge, with all that was at stake. With all the risks that were involved.
“Right!” Flora clapped her hands together in a determined fashion. “I do believe we are ready.” Xanthe and Gerri nodded their agreement. As if on cue, two of Flora’s new friends arrived carrying hand bells. With a great deal of giggling they went back outside and rang them in a well-practiced round, signaling the start of the fair. Soon shoppers were drawn down from the high street, attracted by all the noise and the bright colors of the decorations. Flora and the other shopkeepers welcomed them along the length of the little lane, explaining there were free refreshments for browsers up until lunchtime and ten percent off all marked prices throughout the day. Soon the shop was filled with keen treasure hunters, Christmas shoppers, and general browsers. An hour later the steady stream of people showed no signs of stopping. Among those nudging their way through the door Xanthe spotted Harley and Annie. Harley had embraced the theme in his own individual way and was wearing a multicolored jester’s hat, complete with bells. It looked wonderfully incongruous with his biker’s leather jacket and Viking beard.
“Wow, Annie, he’s let you out of the pub!” Liam teased.
She laughed. “Only because we’ve got extra Christmas staff on at the moment.”
Harley shrugged. “Let’s test them out before the season gets properly under way. Find out what they’re made of. Now, have ye any of that mead left, or have all these thirsty punters drained the last drop already?”
> Liam stepped forward, brandishing a bottle. “It’s good stuff. Here you go.”
Harley necked a shot, shuddering, causing the bells on his hat to jingle. “What a vile concoction that is. Best taken swiftly so ye can ne’ taste the stuff.”
As Annie drifted off to look at some jewelry and Liam went to help Gerri with more trays of tartlets, Harley beckoned Xanthe into a quiet corner.
“How have ye been, hen? No more treasures singing to you?”
“No, and I’m not sorry about that.”
“I don’t blame you. Still, it can’t be easy, settling back down to what passes for normal life around here after, well, all you’ve experienced. Not sure I could do it, not just like that, you know?”
“The business has kept me occupied,” she said, gesturing at the bustle in the shop. “That’s helped.”
“Aye, well, if you need to talk. About … things…” He put a hand on her shoulder. “You know where I am, hen.”
“Thanks, Harley. You don’t know how much it helps to have your support.”
“Och, what did I do? Mind, should ye ever need a traveling companion.…” He tapped the side of his nose in a conspiratorial manner, his jingling hat making his seriousness more than a little ridiculous, but nonetheless sincere for that.
The day passed in a blur of activity. At one point Xanthe had to force her protesting mother to sit down for ten minutes and eat something. Gerri’s food was a great hit, and people took to the idea of spending time, asking about the antiques and collectibles while enjoying a glass of mead and an unusual snack. Liam stayed all day, fetching and carrying trays of food, clearing away glasses, and carting the larger items sold from the shop to people’s cars. One customer, a glamorous young woman, particularly enjoyed having Liam help her pack her purchases into the back of her BMW. She flirted with him shamelessly, maintaining eye contact and resting her hand on his arm at every opportunity. Through the shop window, Xanthe found herself watching the two of them together and felt her stomach tighten. The woman took a pen out of her bag, lifted Liam’s hand, and wrote something on it. Her number, Xanthe guessed. Liam smiled and waved as the car drove slowly away over the cobbles. As soon as it had turned the corner into the high street he looked at his hand, licked his thumb, and casually rubbed away the number. Xanthe’s stomach relaxed a little.
It wasn’t until six o’clock when they finally shut the door of the shop and turned the sign to closed that she and her mother had a chance to talk.
“Well, Xanthe love, that was fantastic!” Flora threw her arms around her daughter in a celebratory hug.
“All the hard work paid off, Mum.”
“Teamwork, that’s what made it special. We must do something to thank Gerri.”
“She told me she sold out of just about everything. The historic food was a real hit. She shut up an hour ago and took the children home. They were so good; it’s been a long day for them.”
“We’ll have to make it a regular event. A pre-Christmas date all the locals can look forward to.”
“Not to mention boosting our bank balance. Sales have been terrific.”
“Told you I’d sell that coffer. The man who bought it lives in a gorgeous seventeenth-century house just outside Marlborough. Said it was going in his hall. I even got full price for it.”
Xanthe smiled. “He probably didn’t think it quite proper to haggle with you dressed like that. You do look quite the lady of the manor.”
Flora gave a little lopsided twirl on one crutch and Xanthe said a silent grateful prayer that her mother’s health had held up and not spoiled the day for her.
“I’ve had another idea for the shop,” Xanthe told her.
“Oh, another money spinner?”
Xanthe felt herself react to the word and quickly brought her focus back to the business.
“I hope so.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Well, Mr. Morris’s mirror collection is at last getting smaller.”
“Thanks to the power of the internet and some extremely competitive pricing.”
“I believe we can put that room to better use. What do you think of the idea of vintage clothing?”
“You mean, as in most of the clothes you own?”
“Sort of, but not just wearable things. Beautiful, collectible pieces too. We could give the whole room over to it, make it a collection people would travel to see, if we can source quality items, not just jumble sale stuff. I thought I’d pick Gerri’s brains about it.”
“You know, I think you may be onto something there. Let me give it some thought when I’m not so exhausted. And yes, talk to Gerri.” She put her hand on her daughter’s arm. “I love that you are enjoying our little shop,” she said. “That means so much to me.”
At that moment the door opened, the bell ringing almost wearily from so much activity. Liam stuck his head through. “Do you want these streamers taken down? It’s starting to snow again. They’ll be a soggy mess by morning.”
Flora made as if to go outside.
“No, Mum. Liam and I can manage. You go and put your feet up.”
“But…”
“We’ll be in for a glass of something in a bit. Go on.”
Outside, the winter darkness was offset by a single streetlamp and the tiny fairy lights that the shopkeepers had set about their windows. There was not the slightest breath of wind, so that the snow fell soft and silent, each flake glinting for the briefest moment as it landed. Most melted away, but some were starting to stick. Liam had fetched the stepladder and moved it from place to place letting down the streamers while Xanthe packed them into a box.
“You’ve been such a help, Liam. I honestly didn’t think we’d be this busy.”
“Not a problem. I’ve been fueled by mead and Gerri’s cooking. Here, last one,” he said, dropping the scarlet crepe paper.
Xanthe watched him as he folded the ladder and leaned it up against the side of the shop. She tried to imagine Marcus spending the day being supportive and useful but couldn’t. She wondered, fleetingly, if Henrietta helped Samuel with his work, and was surprised to find the thought of him no longer caused her any inner turmoil. Surprised and relieved.
Liam came to stand next to her.
“Another successful event on your hands,” he said. “First opening day, then your gigs at The Feathers, singing in London, and singing with Tin Lid, of course.”
Xanthe smiled. “Still a highlight,” she assured him.
“You make a very good medieval person.”
“Seventeenth century.”
“That.”
He reached forward and touched a lock of her hair that had fallen from beneath her cap.
“You’re getting snowed on,” he said.
“So are you,” she pointed out. “We should go in.”
“Wait. I’ve something I wanted to…” He dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out a somewhat squashed twig with small green leaves and white berries.
Xanthe peered at it through the darkness.
“That is the saddest piece of mistletoe I’ve ever seen.”
“I’ve been waiting for the right moment.”
“It’s hardly Christmas yet, Liam. And anyway, in the seventeenth century people didn’t use it in the way we do now. Pagan traditions were frowned upon, and…”
“Xanthe,” he interrupted.
“Yes?”
He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her toward him, holding her close.
“Fortunately, we’re not living in the seventeenth century,” he said. He raised the mistletoe sprig high and leaned in for a soft, tender, lingering kiss.
For a moment Xanthe thought to pull back, but then, as she felt his mouth on hers, his strong body warm against her, felt safe and close and wanted as he held her, she found that she didn’t want him to let go. Didn’t want the kiss to stop. She felt herself responding to the sweet moment.
When at last he broke away he kept her close, making no effort to ste
p back. Instead he looked into her eyes, searching, trying to read her reaction. Xanthe didn’t quite trust herself to speak, unsure of how she felt. Liam grinned, waving the mistletoe gently. “I reckon this thing’s good for at least one more kiss. What do you think?”
Xanthe hesitated and then slowly slipped her arms around him inside his warm jacket.
“I think it might be,” she said. And this time she was the one who did the kissing.
* * *
As soon as it was light the next morning, Xanthe pulled on warm clothes, shrugging her army greatcoat on top, twisted her hair up beneath her broad-brimmed hat, and grabbed a pair of fingerless mittens. She left the house quietly, not wanting to wake her mother, who was sleeping deeply, recovering from the hectic day before. Xanthe fetched her cab and drove down the high street. The town itself appeared to be moving at Sunday speed too, with most shops still shuttered and silent, and only the occasional dog walker up and about. Snow had continued to fall throughout the night in a gentle fashion, so that the roads were still clear but the countryside had received a light dusting, like a sprinkle of sugar on one of Gerri’s cakes. The car’s elderly heating system struggled to raise the temperature of the interior and keep the windscreen clear. Xanthe drove with purpose, knowing exactly where she wanted to go, spurred on through the chilly morning by the thought of spending a little time with the great white horse she had become so fond of. Unsurprisingly, there were no other cars parked in the space at the top of the hill. She locked up the taxi and followed the narrow path that led out to the chalk figure. As always, as the vista was revealed to her she felt her spirits lift. Even with the air still heavy with snow clouds and the dawn only recently broken, she could see for many miles in all directions. See the cottages and farms like toy buildings in the distance. See the patterns that the hedges made as they poked through the fragile layer of snow. The landscape was reassuringly familiar, even dressed as it was in its winter clothes. She walked to the head of the great horse. The snowfall was not nearly enough to blur the edges of the artwork as they were cut deep into the soil.
Secrets of the Chocolate House Page 34