The Little Shop of Found Things--A Novel

by Paula Brackston

  “Xanthe? Xanthe, are you awake?” Her mother’s voice broke into her muddled thoughts and she hurried to her room. Flora only ever called out at night if she was in serious difficulty.

  “Mum? You OK?” Xanthe could see at once that she was not.

  “Oh, Xanthe, love … my back is really bad tonight. I need to take my medication, but I can’t sit up on my own. My silly hands…” She struggled to push herself up, but her fingers were bent over, locked firmly and useless. Xanthe had seen them do this before and knew that only painful manipulation would straighten them again.

  “Here, let me help you.”

  She slipped her arms under her mother’s and counted before lifting. As she moved her carefully up and back, an action in which they were both well practiced, she thought how awful it would have been if her mother had called and found no one there. What would she have done? She would have had no way of finding her daughter. The terrifying thought of being stuck in the past struck Xanthe anew, but there was no time to dwell upon it. Flora was in a great deal of pain.

  “Ow!” she cried out as Xanthe tried to set her back on the pillows.

  “Sorry, Mum,” she said.

  “Not your fault,” Flora gasped.

  “There. That OK?”

  Flora nodded, eyes shut tight against the pain. Xanthe fetched fresh water and passed her the arthritis tablets. Her mother fumbled with them awkwardly, her hands rendered little more than painful claws. It was all Xanthe could do to resist putting the pills into Flora’s mouth herself to spare her the struggle, but she knew better than to try. Her mother still had her pride.

  “And the painkillers,” she said.

  She handed her two. Flora took them clumsily, trembling, swallowing them quickly.

  “Another one,” she said.

  “You sure? They’re pretty strong. Doctor Jones said—”

  “Doctor Jones isn’t the one in agony!” she snapped, and then made a tremendous effort to speak more gently. “It’s fine, Xanthe. I know what I’m doing.” She took the extra tablet and closed her eyes. Carefully, Xanthe sat on the edge of the bed. Together they waited for the pain to subside. Xanthe knew from past experience that there was nothing more she could do. Slowly she reached out and took hold of her mother’s hand. Flora’s skin was clammy, making Xanthe wonder how long she had held out before calling for help. After ten minutes or so she opened her eyes again and gave a weak smile.

  “Sorry,” Flora said.

  “Don’t you dare apologize.”

  She frowned. “You’re dressed. Why are you dressed? It’s the middle of the night.”

  Xanthe looked down at her clothes. It was impossible to pass them off as nightwear. There were even bits of hay stuck to her from her time in the stables. She shrugged as casually as she could.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” she said. “Thought I’d go and … tidy up a bit in the garden.”

  “In the dark?”

  “There’s a moon. And streetlights.”

  “Our neighbors will think we are bonkers.”

  “Hopefully.”

  Flora smiled at this, a better smile this time. A true, heartfelt smile. She was too wrung out from the pain and the medication to talk more, so the two sat holding hands until she drifted off to sleep.

  Back in her room Xanthe peeled off her grubby clothes and clambered, exhausted, into her own bed. She might only have been up for a couple of hours after her night in the stables, but she felt weary to her bones. It was as if her journey back and fore through the centuries had left her suffering from an extreme version of jet lag. The suddenness of the way in which she had returned still felt like one of the biggest shocks. Why had it happened when it did? What had caused her to be flung forward across time like that? She tried to remember exactly where she had been and what she had been doing. She had been in the dairy, looking out of the window, worrying about being discovered. She had been excessively tired, weary, and feeling homesick, and had taken hold of her locket. She remembered that clearly, the feel of the old gold in her fingers, recalled looking at her mother’s picture inside it and thinking of her. Was that what it took to bring her back? To focus on something from the present, something found where she lived, given to her in her home, by the person who mattered most to her in the world? The idea certainly did not seem the most unlikely thing that had recently happened to her. Once again she found herself trying to make sense of the impossible. She realized that one of the most incredible things was how quickly she had begun thinking about such astonishing events as normal. Such as the fact that she had just traveled back in time. Again. And the fact that she had spoken with people who lived their lives centuries ago. Such as the fact that she had been sent back by a ghost on a mission to help her daughter. Thinking about the girl, Xanthe found it hard to put from her mind the desperation on her face and the despair in her voice as she was being taken away. She could not rid herself of the thought of how terrible it would be for her, locked up in a damp, cold, dark jail that would have made the one she herself had once inhabited seem luxurious by comparison.

  At last sleep claimed her, profound and heavy, so that she remained unaware of the figure sitting on the end of her bed. Margaret Merton frowned as she watched Xanthe sleep. She knew the girl had failed her. Had failed Alice. She had returned too soon, and her daughter was still captive, locked away, awaiting her lonely, violent fate. It occurred to Mistress Merton that she might have done better to more clearly instruct Xanthe, to impress upon her the fact that she must succeed at all costs. That she should not return until Alice was safe. She had pleaded with her, had revealed her own despair, but that, it seemed, had not been enough. If Margaret had still possessed a heart, it would have been heavy with sadness at the realization that altruism, doing what is right, acting out of Christian charity and goodness, these things had proved insufficient. The girl would have to be compelled to go to Alice’s aid. And it was up to Margaret to find a way to compel her.

  * * *

  Xanthe was in such a deep sleep it took some time to realize that the hammering she could hear was not part of a dream, but someone at the door. Blearily, she grabbed the nearest garment, which was her tea-dress, from the hanger on the back of the door and hurried barefoot down the stairs.

  “OK, I’m coming!” she called to the insistent visitor. Peering through the glass, she recognized the stout, velvet-jacketed figure at once. Theo Hamilton. What on earth had induced him to make the journey so far out of London twice in one week?

  “Xanthe! Lovely girl, I thought for one awful moment I had the wrong address and would find myself alone and adrift in the Wiltshire wilderness,” he said, sweeping past her into the shop.

  “Theo? A bit early for a visit, isn’t it?” she said, dragging her fingers through her ringlets, in a futile attempt to look less as if she had just that moment staggered out of bed.

  “I always imagined country types were up with the lark,” he said. “Or the cockerel, possibly. Really, darling, this is quite a respectable hour, even by Chelsea standards.”

  Xanthe glanced at the ormolu clock. Ten thirty! How long would she have slept if Theo had not arrived, she wondered.

  “Would you like tea?” she asked, trying to pull herself together and wake up sufficiently to deal with someone she did not entirely trust.

  “I would die for tea, but later, lovely girl. First, lead me to the mirrors!”

  “The mirrors?”

  “Your mother has me in a positive froth of excitement over them. I know, I know, I should feign boredom and lack of interest to stop you girls hiking the prices, but oh, what’s the point? We’re all in the same business. You know if they’re worth something and so do I, so no charades needed. Now, lead on, do.” He flapped his hands at her.

  The mirrors. At last Xanthe began to make sense of why Theo had dragged himself from the city. Flora must have offered him the mirrors as a job lot. And without consulting her. Xanthe felt a stab of hurt that her mother should have made
such a decision alone. Or at all. It was certainly a quick way to make money, but Theo would offer only a fraction of their value if he was buying all of them. While she knew they were precariously short of money she could not help but be resistant to the notion of passing them on to a dealer for a pittance and letting him make a handsome profit. It was bad business, and it rankled her. She could not help feeling it was the sort of desperate bit of selling her father would expect of them. It was amateurish. As she led Theo through the main shop and into the second room her mind was working hard to find a reason why she could not sell them to him after all.

  “Oh! Yes, indeed. Yes,” he gasped as they entered the room. He darted from one mirror to the next, exclaiming at each one, his grin growing broader by the minute. He chatted away to his own reflections as he browsed. “Oh, a lovely piece.… Shame about the silvering on that one.… Hmmm, pretty.… Oh, I know just the home for that one.… And you will do very nicely for Marlon’s new bistro.…”

  The more he enthused the more Xanthe loathed the thought of him having the mirrors. She could all too easily imagine him gloating to his clients back in Chelsea, not being able to resist crowing about how he helped her and Flora out by taking a lot of rubbish just to get one or two good pieces because they so badly needed the sale. And word was bound to get back to her father.

  After a while Theo stopped rifling through the collection.

  “Well, Xanthe dearest, I’ll be straight with you, there are some nice ones here, very nice, but most of them … well…” He waved his arm as if to indicate the majority of the mirrors and gave her a look of distaste.

  “So just make me an offer for the ones you like,” she suggested.

  “Oh no, that’s not what we agreed, your mother and me. She explained your … predicament, and of course I’m happy to help out an old friend. We people in the trade must stick together. But, oh no, it wouldn’t be worth my trekking all the way out here just for one or two pieces.”

  “But you’ve just said that most of them are not worth much.”

  “Well, they’re not. Not as a bunch. But I suppose I’ll find homes for them eventually, so my trip will be a sound investment. But that’s the key word, isn’t it? Eventually. Seems to me I have time on my side, Xanthe, darling, and you do not.”

  She did her best not to let her expression show how much she hated what he was attempting to do. There was nothing friendly about it. She looked at the many mirrors filling the room. It must have taken Mr. Morris years to amass such a collection. He might not have had a very discerning eye, but she felt, she sensed, that he made his selections based on what he loved. On what spoke to him. Theo liked to have everyone believe he adored beautiful things, but he was driven by money, pure and simple, that much was clear to Xanthe. The way he had sneered at the lesser pieces made her squirm. It was not right that he should take them, not if he truly had such a low opinion of them. Not after all Mr. Morris’s care. Not when even the lowliest of them must have meant something to someone once.

  Xanthe shook her head and folded her arms.

  “I’m afraid I can’t sell them as a job lot, Theo. You know I’d be throwing money away.”

  “That’s not how Flora felt when she invited me here. Perhaps you should consult her before you start making rash decisions.”

  “It would be rash to let the whole collection go for a pittance.”

  “As I understand it, your circumstances are somewhat … reduced.”

  She shrugged, trying to look nonchalant but not entirely succeeding. “Cash flow problems, nothing more.”

  “I’ve seen bigger businesses than yours go under for want of ready money, Xanthe. If you so easily underestimate the importance of cash flow, you must be even more naive than I thought,” he said, inflicting upon Xanthe the same sneer he had earlier bestowed upon the mirrors. That churlish expression was the final push she needed to make her decision.

  “I’m sorry, you’ve had a wasted journey,” she told him.

  He gasped, seeing that she meant what she said. “Have you any idea how long it takes to drive all the way out here? I want to speak with Flora. She’s the one who asked me to come. She’s the one who talked me into even considering this lot,” he said dismissively.

  “My mother isn’t well. She’s had a flare-up.”

  “But surely, a quick word…?”

  “She was awake half the night in agony. We’ve only just got the pain under control. You really want me to wake her up now just so you can tell her that her daughter won’t do business with you?”

  Theo considered this. At last, knowing he was defeated, he strode past her. On his way out he paused and turned.

  “It doesn’t do to make enemies in this business, Xanthe,” he said. “Remember that.”

  He slammed the door behind him, leaving the old bell clanking dully. Xanthe wondered if the noise roused Flora. She felt suddenly exhausted and stood staring at the dusty collection of mirrors she had just, on point of principle, defended. Had she been right to do it? Were their circumstances truly so dire that they must abandon all professional integrity? She stepped forward and laid a palm against the cool glass of one of the largest mirrors, a full-length one framed in bird’s-eye maple. A tired-looking version of herself gazed back at her.

  And then, without warning, the image shimmered and altered, distorting and transforming until the face that looked at her was no longer her own, but that of Margaret Merton.

  Xanthe gave a cry and staggered backward. As she did so the whole angular figure of the ghost formed in the looking glass. Formed and then stepped forth.

  “No!” Xanthe could not help herself shouting. “Not here, too!” She had convinced herself that the specter inhabited only the blind house, and the realization that she might appear elsewhere, particularly in the house itself, was horrible.

  “You abandoned her!” Mistress Merton’s voice was shrill with anger. “You left my child, let them put their rough hands upon her and take her away!”

  “There was nothing I could do.” Xanthe backed away until she reached the stack of mirrors propped against the opposite wall and could go no further. “I did try. I promise you, I did. I was looking for the missing pieces of the chatelaine. I tried to get into the house to search for them, but…”

  “You came back!” In the sharp glare of the electric light the dead woman was revealed in more unforgiving detail. Xanthe could see now that the scars on the left side of her face were burns and that the dirt on her clothes was mostly scorching or soot. Had she been in a house fire, she wondered. Is that how she had died? She could also see a deep crimson stain that covered most of the bodice of her pinafore and dress. It had not been noticeable in the half-light of the nighttime garden and jail, but now it was unmissable and disturbing, as Xanthe was certain it must be blood. What had the woman been through to end up in such a condition?

  “I didn’t mean to come home,” Xanthe insisted. “I was thinking about Mum.… It just happened.”

  “You must return. Go back to Great Chalfield.”

  “I can’t do that, I’m sorry.”

  “Finish the task. I tell you there is no other who might do it. Without your help my daughter will hang.”

  Xanthe gasped. She had known, of course, that Alice could be sentenced to death, but to hear it stated, to hear the words, was still shocking. Even so, she shook her head. “You don’t know how dangerous it was. I was nearly found out. I don’t belong there, and that’s obvious. If the mistress of the house had seen me … I’d just end up in prison, too. And that wouldn’t help anyone. You have to understand, there is nothing I can do.”

  “You must prove my daughter’s innocence.”

  “I have people I care about, too. What if something happened to me when I was back in the past? What if I got locked up, or worse? What if I was stopped from coming home? I have to think of my mother first. You must see that. She only has me. She can’t manage on her own. She needs me.”

  The ghost hes
itated and fell silent for a moment. At last she said, “Your love for your mother is a match for that which I hold for my daughter. That is plain to see.”

  “Yes,” Xanthe nodded. “Then you must see that I can’t leave her.”

  “I see that you would do anything to protect her. Anything to keep her out of harm’s way.”

  Xanthe felt the hairs at the nape of her neck stir, and when she tried to speak again her mouth was dry. “Does she need protecting?” she asked quietly. “Is she in harm’s way?”

  There was a long, ice-cold silence. Margaret Merton held Xanthe’s gaze as she spoke. “I believe I have made clear the situation, and clearer still my intentions. I will do anything, anything at all, in order to save Alice.”

  “Are you threatening my mother?” Fury was taking the place of Xanthe’s earlier fear. “What? What would you do? What could you do?”

  “You think a spirit has no power of action? I may be unable to travel back to my own time, no matter how much I wish it. I have no influence over events then, which is why I must have your assistance. But be assured, I can effect matters in this day. I may cause things to happen as I wish. When I wish. How I wish.”

  Xanthe searched her mind for her previous encounter with Mistress Merton, trying to recall anything the ghost had done besides scaring her. Had she actually done anything physical? Had she pushed Xanthe back into the blind house, or merely scared her into toppling backward?

  Margaret, watching her, guessed what was in Xanthe’s mind. She saw her doubt and knew that she remained to be convinced. To this end, Margaret turned quickly, a blur of tattered garments and insubstantial form, whipping the air about her into a whirlwind such that Xanthe felt the force of it. And that force dislodged the full-length mirror from which only minutes before the phantom had stepped. The mirror lurched forward and before Xanthe could react, before she could even attempt to save it, it crashed to the ground, the frame splintering, the glass smashing, the noise of it shattering the quiet of the morning as Mistress Merton vanished.