“Pie!” Xanthe instinctively shouted the whippet’s name, causing it to bound over to her, tail wagging excitedly, apparently having suffered no ill effects during its unexpected spot of time traveling. “My God, what are you doing here?” Even as she formed the question she understood what had happened. The unaccustomed, agitated presence in the blind house now made sense. The dog must have abandoned its treats to follow her, wriggling through the slightly open door to the garden, and running into the stone shed at the last moment. The enormity of what had just happened was hard for her to process. She had taken objects with her back in time on each occasion without difficulty, but the fact that another living thing could travel with her was a revelation. It meant that it wasn’t necessary to be a Spinner to make the journey, so long as you were with one, in the blind house, and being called by a found thing that was singing. More pressingly, she knew that Flora would miss the dog as soon as she returned home after her supper with Annie and Harley. She would be frantic. A search would be set up. With mounting frustration, Xanthe saw that she would have to cut her trip short, or at least keep it as short as possible. She silently cursed herself for not making sure the back door of the house was shut. Pie, as if sensing she was in trouble, flattened her ears against her head and gazed up at Xanthe in a way that was hard to resist.
“It’s OK,” she said with a sigh, stroking the dog gently, “it’s not your fault. I should have been more careful. Looks like I’m going to have your invaluable help this time, eh? I can’t wait to tell Harley about this!” As she said the words another consequence of Pie having followed her hit home. She could bring someone with her! The dog had suffered no ill effects, so surely it would be safe to bring a human. “Mum!” she murmured to herself, excitement growing at the thought that she could actually show Flora what it was she did. Suddenly Pie’s impulsive behavior seemed like less of a nuisance and more of a blessing. Having no lead, she had no choice but to trust to the dog’s desire to be with her. She straightened her bonnet and smoothed down her skirts before addressing her unexpected companion. “Come along, then. Stay close, little one. At least there won’t be any traffic.”
When they emerged from the quiet of the alleyway into the broad, busy street, Xanthe realized the inaccuracy of this statement. It was true, there were no cars of course, but there were carriages of all shapes and sizes, flying up and down the cobbled road without any apparent system, whizzing past elderly pedestrians, and hawkers with handcarts, and darting small children, and striding businessmen, at dangerous speeds. No one else seemed in the least perturbed by what looked to her to be a highly dangerous situation. Pie was alarmed by the horses and started to bark at them, causing a passing couple to turn and mutter their disapproval. Xanthe scooped up the dog, tucking it under her arm, and set off with a purposeful stride along the edge of the street. She reasoned that if she looked confident and as if she were going about her legitimate business she would appear less suspicious and out of place, even if her clothes were not as perfectly in keeping as she would have wished. As she walked she looked about her, searching for what it was the wedding dress wanted her to notice. On her previous trips she had always arrived within sight of something significant, but that significance had not always been immediately obvious. She had hoped to turn up in the garden of Corsham Hall, but here she was in a small town. It looked familiar and yet not. She reminded herself that if this was indeed the early 1800s there would have been a great deal of changes and new building before her own time, so it was not surprising that it was hard to place. She scoured the street. For most of the length of it there were buildings of pale golden stone on either side, most of which were shops, some were inns, others offices of some sort. Halfway down, the buildings of the far side gave way to railings which first enclosed a small park and then the edge of a churchyard, with the imposing church set back among tall yew trees. The evergreens gave no indications as to the time of year, but the fullness of the blossom on the flowering rhododendrons suggested late spring or early summer. It was certainly quite warm. Xanthe’s felted shrug began to make her feel clammy. She slowed her pace a little, breathing in the aroma of warm bread from the bakery, and pausing outside a silversmith to read the name of the proprietor and study the pretty pieces on display. Nothing spoke to her. Nothing seemed connected to the dress. Or to Fairfax. Pie wriggled in her arms as they approached a butchers’ shop.
“This is no time for snacking,” Xanthe told her. As she glanced at the sausages that were the focus of the dog’s attention she saw, reflected in the windowpane, the shop on the opposite side of the street. Its name was reversed, so difficult to read, but what it sold was so beautifully arranged in its bowfronted window it caused her to gasp. Clutching Pie tightly, she turned and dashed across the street, dodging a smart gig pulled by a wild-eyed chestnut horse, and avoiding a cart laden with potatoes. She reached the shop a little breathless and stood gazing at the display. This was clearly a dress shop of great elegance and no doubt expense. There were two mannequins clothed in summer outfits of muslin and cotton and voile, one accessorized with a parasol, the other sporting an elaborate straw bonnet. They were beautiful, exquisitely detailed, and finely worked, but what had caught Xanthe’s eye, what now made her smile broadly, was the bolt of fine white organza, partly unrolled, the fabric spilling prettily beneath a small sample of the most delicate, most intricately patterned lace. The exact same lace of the Corsham Hall wedding dress.
She took a step back and looked up at the sign above the shop, tweaking the brim of her bonnet to shield her eyes against the strong sunshine. PINKERTON’S FINE FASHIONS AND HABERDASHERY was inscribed in flowing letters, sophisticated gilding making the words look every bit as important as they sounded. Xanthe pushed the door and went inside.
The interior of the shop more than lived up to the promise of its facade. Tasteful use had been made of the space so that while there was plenty of tempting stock on display, the room felt refined and uncluttered. A broad, high counter of burnished walnut ran across the back of the shop, and behind it a wall of small cupboards, each with brass handles and label plates bearing cursive descriptions of the contents: buttons, tortoiseshell; fasteners, silk; binding, one inch; hooks, small; and so on. The underneath of the counter was glass-fronted and housed a splendid collection of ribbon of all widths, colors, and textures. These had been ordered by hue, so that they presented the whole spectrum of vibrant colors and their more subtle pastel cousins. The left wall was taken up with bolts of fabric lain horizontally on shelving that appeared to slide out when required. The far side of the shop was given over to three more beautifully dressed mannequins. Two wore day summer dresses of muslin of powder blue and palest mint green, one with a full-length open-fronted pelisse as a layer against chills. The third displayed a silk gown that looked suitable for a ball, perhaps for a more mature lady, with a voile insert, or chemisette, which adapted what would otherwise have been a revealing neckline. Beside these exquisite outfits there was a regal blue-and-gilt chaise. Xanthe imagined highborn and wealthy customers sitting there having dresses brought to them, choosing fabric and designs, the cost of which must have been considerable.
“May I be of assistance?” A man’s voice, low and soothing, alerted her to the fact that she was not alone. Her improvised bonnet effectively blinkered her, so that she had to turn around to see the chicly dressed figure who had bobbed up from behind the counter. She watched him take in her imperfect ensemble and the dog she was holding and saw his expression harden from one of obsequious welcome to displeasure.
“Good morning to you,” she said, attempting to rediscover the patterns of speech that sounded overly formal to her own ears but that she hoped would pass for authentic in the time she was now inhabiting. It was only after she had uttered her greeting that she wondered if it was, in fact, morning. The man did not react so she pressed on. “There was an item in the window which caught my eye. You have a sample of particularly fine lace in your display.”
“The Wilcox family of Corsham Hall?”
“It could be no other.”
Xanthe moved closer to the window and leaned toward the lace, listening to the high notes of its song as it sensed her presence. The shopkeeper sprinted from his place behind the counter in a flash, placing himself between her and the fabric as if he feared her touch might somehow contaminate it.
“I must tell you that such workmanship commands a high price.” He paused, apparently not wishing to give offense, yet willing to risk it to protect his precious lace and no doubt the superior reputation of his shop. Xanthe evidently did not look like the sort of woman who could afford to buy anything more than a yard of ribbon.
“I would expect nothing less than the best of everything for the Wilcox family,” she told him. “Which is of course why the bride-to-be came to Pinkerton’s for her wedding dress.” As he beamed at the compliment she asked, “Remind me, if you would be so kind, what is the date of the wedding?”
Here his professionalism reasserted itself. “I fear I am not at liberty to divulge details of a client’s account. You must surely understand that Pinkerton’s prides itself on its unfailing discretion.”
“Of course, I merely…”
But he had made his judgment of Xanthe. He held up his hand. “I believe there are other establishments to be found in Bradford-on-Avon which might be better suited to your … requirements,” he told her.
“Bradford? This is Bradford-on-Avon?” She could not stop herself asking. She needed to be certain.
The shopkeeper, understandably, viewed Xanthe as if she had taken leave of her senses, for why would she not know where she was? Wordlessly he opened the door and stood holding it open. Clearly, their conversation was at an end.
Xanthe bobbed him a shallow curtsey and hurried outside. She looked at the street anew, trying to see in it buildings that were familiar to her. But she had only ever seen the small town in the seventeenth century. She wished now she had been there in her own time, as it was known for its graceful Georgian houses and streets. And its river. She strode out, heading down the hill, which must surely mean toward the Avon. Two more turns and she could smell the water and then see the bridge. The bridge with the domed blind house, the cruel little jail, built into it. The blind house that had, briefly, held Samuel. Now it was all so clearly the same place she wondered she had not spotted it at once. If she had arrived within sight of that bridge she would have known instantly. It was a reminder of how much building had gone on in the intervening centuries that the little town had grown almost beyond recognition. Pie had become tired of being carried and leapt from her arms, trotting off down the cobbles in the direction of the bridge.
“Pie, wait!” Xanthe ran after her. The sunshine had brought out more people so that she had to utter beg-pardons and excuse-mes as she weaved her way through the couples and families intent on taking in all that Bradford had to offer. Pie came to a halt at the blind house, pushing her nose through the heavy bars of the door, wagging her tail as if responding to someone inside. Xanthe grabbed her collar.
“I can’t cope with you running off like that. Here, keep still.” She untied the ribbon that was keeping her hat on her head, bending down to secure it to Pie’s collar. Unfortunately, the ribbon was a major part of what transformed a modern straw hat into a bonnet, so that it now flapped with its wide brim unfashionably shady and broad. Trying not to dwell on how she looked, Xanthe peered inside the lockup. She was surprised to see that it was in fact empty. She looked at the dog in a new light. Was she too somehow sensitive to things that had gone before? To people who were no longer there? She picked her up again and turned on her heel, eager to see the other building that had played such an important part in her life. There it stood. The pretty chocolate house looked almost completely unchanged. The heavy stone tiles of the swaybacked roof still sat low over the honey-colored walls. The small square windows, two up two down, were slightly more dipped at the top and their frames painted with thick black paint, but otherwise looked as they had done when Xanthe first found the place. There were baskets of flowers on the windowsills and at the wooden and glass front door. She experienced a pang of sadness, and recognized it as a nostalgia, a slight longing, for her friend and mentor, Lydia Flyte. How much she had learned from the old woman. How close she had come to losing her. If it hadn’t been for her the Spinners would have been even more of a mystery to Xanthe. And, of course, she would not have learned the very best way to make the perfect hot chocolate, seventeenth-century style. It was then that she noticed the words on the sign hanging above the door and her heart skipped a beat. She kissed Pie’s head in celebration.
“Well, girl, looks like you are about to meet someone very special,” she said, before walking briskly in the direction of the place that now declared itself to be THE BRIDGE TEAROOMS—PROPRIETOR: MISS LYDIA FLYTE.
8
The alterations inside the building were more marked. The smell of tobacco smoke and brandy and spiced chocolate had melted away. Breathing in, Xanthe detected only lavender from the floral displays, and cinnamon and lemons from the cakes on offer. Gone was the rustic furniture, the copper pots, plain painted walls, curtain-less windows, and simple decor. The workaday humble interior had been transformed into a place of delicate prettiness and charm. Gaily patterned fabrics were draped at the windows. Fresh white tablecloths covered the small, slender-legged tables. The settles had been replaced with elegant chairs, cushioned with embroidered linen. The fireplaces were still important features, even on a summer’s day, making the space warm and aired and dry, but their mantels were no longer simply oak shelves. Instead they now sported carved wooden or marble surrounds, with artfully placed pieces of decorative china, such as chintz plates or graceful figurines. The counter was taller, rebuilt in burnished mahogany, with a spotless glass cabinet set into it the better to display an impressive variety of cakes and pastries, all set upon fine bone china. But the most noticeable difference between the seventeenth-century chocolate house Xanthe had first found and this eighteenth-century tearoom was the ambience. Gone were the men who had patronized the original establishment, and with them the air of secrecy and tension that had flavored their meetings and discussions. Here now were almost exclusively women, mostly from the higher-ranking classes, turned out to be noticed in polite local society, enjoying the company of their friends. No longer was this little building a home to political intrigue and ferment, but instead it seemed to be a respectable place of simple pleasures for well-to-do ladies, where the most dangerous topic of conversation might be barbed gossip.
As striking as these changes were, Xanthe paid them little attention. She scanned the room, taking in the refined women seated at the tables, searching for the person she hoped to see, only half daring to believe that she was right; that Mistress Flyte herself would be the same, unchanged and recognizable. And that she would know Xanthe. There was not time to process all the possible permutations of time spinning that could have brought her friend to this moment, for suddenly there she stood, only a few paces away, as real and full of life and vibrant presence as Xanthe had always known her. For an instant she was not sure the old woman recognized her, for she showed no sign of surprise at her being there. But then she recalled how she had always known when Xanthe was near. Always expected her. As would any Spinner who sensed the close proximity of another. As would, no doubt, Benedict Fairfax.
Before either of them had a chance to speak, a young woman possessed of a bright energy ran toward Xanthe, flapping a linen cloth at Pie, an ex
pression of undisguised disgust on her face.
“Shoo! Out with it! Such animals are not permitted here, no, no, no!” The girl looked to be in her teens, little more than five feet tall, with tight black curls pinned beneath a spotless white cap, her cheeks flushed with exertion and alarm at the sight of the dog.
“Never mind, Polly,” Mistress Flyte addressed the waitress. “My good friend will not allow the hound to set its paws upon your clean floor. Is that not so, Miss Westlake?” She smiled at Xanthe now, genuine affection showing on her elegant face.
Xanthe turned to the girl. “Have no fear on that score, Polly. I will keep her well behaved and well away from the cakes. I wish only to talk to your mistress a short moment.”
“Come,” Mistress Flyte beckoned, “let us step to my rooms and leave Polly to her work.” So saying she turned for the stairs and Xanthe followed, the serving girl frowning after her as she went, evidently not entirely trusting the word of this curious stranger with the outlandish hat.
The small sitting room had changed less than the downstairs and it occurred to Xanthe that this was because some of the things it contained had been out of place when she had first seen it. She remembered thinking that certain pieces of furniture, certain decorative items, had looked as if they didn’t quite fit, somehow. They had been too fine, too delicate, and too expensive for the era and the level of society which their owner had then inhabited. Now that disconnect made sense. The gentle curve to the legs of the Georgian chairs, fitting at the start of the nineteenth century, had jarred even to her eye in 1605 precisely because they were out of their own time. George the Third would not come to the throne for another century and a half. The style of furniture associated with his reign had not, during the time of the chocolate house, been dreamt of. There were small additions and changes. The colors of the room were lighter, the fabrics more delicate and more expensive. Pale blues replaced the indigos, silk damask replaced the tapestry upholstery on the chairs and chaise. Mistress Flyte sat straight-backed, hands in her lap, on one of the fireside seats, indicating that Xanthe should take the other.
The Garden of Promises and Lies Page 11
