The Little Shop of Found Things--A Novel

by Paula Brackston

  The cook, known only as Randolph—she never knew if this was his first or second name—paused to look at what had taken the girls’ interest.

  “Only our master would see fit to employ the most expensive builders twixt here and London to build a house for the horses!” he snorted.

  Jayne smiled. “I believe it to be one of the master’s better decisions!”

  “Ha!” Randolph was clearly enjoying the chance to have a good moan about his boss. Something else that hadn’t changed over centuries! “Master Lovewell sees only another opportunity to flaunt his riches. It would not surprise me were he to have marble pillars fitted in the stalls.”

  “I shouldn’t mind if he did,” said Jayne, “so long as ’tis the Appleby brothers who must put them there.”

  The cook shook his head. “They are too grand to heft stone, even if it were marble. No, they will set some lowly mason to the heavy work and return to enlarging the master’s house.”

  At this Jayne sighed. “As if there are not rooms enough for us to be tending.”

  “Hush now! Jayne, remove your nose from the master’s business and return to your own!” Mary had entered the kitchen without being noticed and clapped her hands, sending most of the servants scuttling. “Shame on all of you for your mean words. The master deserves our respect, and he shall have it from you, girl, have I to beat it out of you.”

  Randolph frowned at her. “Master Lovewell acts only to feather his own nest, to please himself, to raise his own family up. He cares not who he stands upon to get that elevated view. Why you see fit to defend him I cannot fathom. You owe him nothing.”

  “I owe him my living. The roof above my head. The food in my belly. A place of safety in a time of turbulence. And we’d all do best to remember that,” she said pointedly.

  Later Xanthe thought about what Mary had said. In the early seventeenth century the laws to protect property were stricter than those protecting a lowly person against misuse, and the penalties harsh. Members of a household, whether lowly kitchen maids or more important staff, they all depended on the good nature and integrity of their masters. To lose your job meant being turned out of your home too, often with nothing and nowhere else to go. If you had the good fortune to work for someone who treated you well, you could not afford to be choosy about how they wished to spend their money, or whether or not you actually liked them. Was that why no one had felt able to speak up for Alice? They all seemed to respect her, to think well of her, or to be fond of her, but none of them had done anything to keep her from jail. To do so would be to risk too much. They had too little. They knew they stood scant chance of making a difference. It seemed to Xanthe that Alice was not the only one who was trapped. There might not be stone walls and iron bars surrounding Jayne and Randolph and Mary, but they too were imprisoned, in a different way, each held in their place with precious little chance of ever escaping. And entirely at the mercy of those for whom they worked.

  Xanthe learned that the main meal was usually eaten in the middle of the day, with a lighter supper taken in the evening. So it came as something of a surprise to see the amount of food they were to take up to the family. There were three “courses,” which were actually served at the same time, this not being a formal occasion. The first was a side of salmon with whole pike beside it, then a venison stew served up with an enormous cob of fresh bread, followed by a truckle of hard cheese and a dish of preserved strawberries and quinces. Nobody drank water if they could possibly avoid it, so instead jugs of weak beer were fetched, together with a carafe of watered-down red wine that smelled terrible.

  By now Xanthe herself had a terrible thirst, and when she asked Jayne if she could have some water the maid shrieked with laughter. She had to quickly explain it was to keep her singing voice sweet. At that Jayne took her a bit more seriously and offered her a ladle of frothy milk. Her stomach clenched at the warm, pungent drink, but she was able to keep it down. She needed something and could not imagine only drinking alcohol. She would also have to choose what she ate with care, as much of the food was unfamiliar to her. She had already had to use the “necessary house” at the far end of the kitchen garden and had no desire to be making frequent dashes there because of an upset stomach.

  Even though they were not entertaining guests, the Lovewells still took their meals, light or otherwise, in the Great Hall. Xanthe followed Randolph up the steps from the kitchen, along the passageway, negotiating several heavy doors, all the while carrying a weighty tray of food. She was only entrusted with the bread, she noticed, with Randolph taking the meat, Mary the fish, and a boy she did not know hurrying behind with the drinks. Jayne and Mary had already set out the table, so this was the first time Xanthe had been in the main room of the house. It was double height, the ceiling vaulted into the rafters of the house, and had a minstrel’s gallery at one end. There was an enormous fireplace set in one wall, big enough to get half a tree in at a time, with a mighty stone lintel above it. Everything about the room was solid, sturdy, on a grand scale, giving the impression not just of wealth but of permanence.

  The Lovewells might be newly raised up in status but they were here to stay. They would make their family important, respected, influential, and a permanent fixture in society. On one side of the great hearth a floor-to-ceiling window was set in a generous bay, complete with beautiful glass that was of the quality that did not distort anything seen through it. Each pane was encased in finely worked lead, with the family crest set at the center of the window. Two of the other walls, the one opposite the fire and the one at the top end, were hung with richly colored tapestries, chosen for warmth and decoration, no doubt, but also for the symbolism in the scenes they depicted. Xanthe was too busy trying not to trip or drop anything to get a proper look at the one to her right as she marched past, but she could see a religious theme, merged with scenes of nature and abundance. Across the far wall the main table was placed, slightly raised, lifting the family quite literally above everyone else.

  “Ah!” exclaimed Master Lovewell when he saw Xanthe. “Here is our songbird. Fully restored to good health, I trust?”

  Jayne gave her a shove forward so that she was standing in front of the top table, opposite the master of the house.

  “Yes, thank you, sir,” she said, trying to sound appropriately humble and taking care to lower her eyes when she spoke to her employer, as she had seen the other servants do.

  “Excellent.”

  “Oh, Father,” said Clara, struggling to restrain the wriggling spaniel on her lap, “let us hear her sing!”

  Mistress Lovewell gave a disapproving look. “There is surely no cause for celebration and merrymaking, Clara. Our stables are in ruins, we shall have to find a deal of money to repair them, and we were spared loss of life only by God’s grace.”

  However pious Mistress Lovewell tried to sound Xanthe could not help noticing that she mentioned the financial cost of the fire before worrying about anyone being hurt. Perhaps she would have taken a different view had the house itself been ablaze.

  “But, Mother, do you not wish to assure yourself of the quality of her voice? We should not risk embarrassment, after all. Let us be certain of her talent before setting her before any guests.” Xanthe was astonished to see Clara give her a sneaky wink. It seemed the young lady was smarter than Xanthe had first thought, and more than capable of manipulating both her parents.

  Her father saw the sense in what she said and, first taking a deep swig of his wine from a silver goblet, smiled warmly. “Well, child, are you recovered sufficiently to bestow the gift of your voice upon us?”

  This was an important moment. Xanthe felt her mouth dry at the thought of what was at stake. If her singing failed to please them it was doubtful they would permit her to stay. She took a steadying breath or two, squared her shoulders, readied herself to give a performance that would secure her position in the household, and opened her mouth to sing.

  It was then that she saw it.

  T
he tapestry behind the top table, the one now directly in her line of vision just beyond the family who were looking at her so expectantly, was a colorful scene of biblical characters, probably taken from one of the famous parables. It was not the main picture that caught her eye, though, but the broad, intricately decorated border that made her gasp. The border was worked with a tangle of woodland plants, weaving and twining together. There was a profusion of brambles with cruel thorns and glossy-leaved vines, and among the dense foliage and choking tendrils were tiny birds. Birds that looked to be singing, even though it was dark as night. Xanthe knew with absolute certainty that this was what the chatelaine had shown her. The very first glimpse she had had of Alice’s story was not, in fact, of a nearby patch of woodland; it was right here, inside the Great Hall of the big house. It was that very tapestry.

  “Well?” Mistress Lovewell said, her stern tone jolting Xanthe from her thoughts. “Have you voice or not?”

  She quickly pulled herself together. Though her heart was racing at this new discovery, and her mind frantically trying to figure out how it might be of help, she forced herself to think only of her singing, and found it helped to imagine she was singing for her mother. To recall how Flora’s face lit up when she listened to her daughter. She chose “The Willow Song,” reasoning that it was very popular, and had nothing bawdy about it that might offend her new employers.

  The fresh streams ran by her, and murmer’d her moans

  Sing willow, willow, willow

  Her salt tears fell from her and soft’ned the stones.

  Let nobody blame him, his scorn I approve

  Sing willow, willow, willow

  He was born to be fair, I to die for his love.…

  She had begun a little hesitantly but slowly grew in confidence, encouraged by the looks on the faces of her small but important audience. When she had finished Clara let go of Pepito to clap enthusiastically.

  “Oh, that was a delight! You must sing for me on my birthday, don’t you think so, Mother?”

  And so it was agreed. Xanthe had passed the test. She would be required to sing for Clara’s guests when they came to celebrate her birthday in three days’ time. Xanthe left the Great Hall feeling both relieved and confused. Her place at Great Chalfield was secure, at least for the moment, but she would soon have to prove herself all over again by singing in front of a much larger audience. More importantly, another piece of Alice’s mystery had revealed itself to her. After three more hours of hard work Xanthe was at last allowed to go to her bed, where she turned over and over in her mind what the true significance of the tapestry might be.

  15

  However tired she was, Xanthe could not afford to let herself fall asleep. Her bruises were aching less, but the burn on her leg still smarted, which in any case did a fair job of preventing her from sleeping properly. She dozed fitfully, listening to Jayne’s soft snoring, waiting until the house was quiet and she was as sure as she could be that everyone else was sleeping soundly. Wearing her borrowed nightdress, she took her flashlight from its hiding place and crept out of the little garret room, holding her breath as she tiptoed past Mary in the next room, and padded down the stairs. The house itself felt like it was sleeping. It was in total darkness, with the cloudy night merely a suggestion of a lighter black through those windows that had no shutters. There was a gusty October wind blowing outside, and the house creaked and groaned as it was buffeted, like a galleon tossed on a stormy sea. As Xanthe descended to the ground floor, the faint smell of dampness and of lavender unsuccessfully masking that of chamber pots was replaced by the scent of woodsmoke and extinguished candles. The smooth floorboards felt warm beneath her feet, but the stone flags of the Great Hall were cold enough to make her gasp. Every door wanted to scrape the floor as she opened it, and every hinge seemed determined to make a noise. She crept into the cavernous space of the hall, which seemed even larger in the dark, its ceiling invisible in the blackness above. From the tapestries, faces of the saints and the saved peered down at her as they were picked out by the narrow beam of her flashlight. With the fire no more than ash, the temperature in the room had dropped sharply, making her wish she had paused to put something on top of her shabby linen nightdress.

  She stopped at the point in front of the top table where she had sung earlier and directed the flashlight upward and forward. Spotlighted by its harsh beam, the songbirds seemed almost luminous against the dark background of the forest where they had been placed. Xanthe searched for a meaning, a significance beyond the symbolism of purity and innocence and nature they might have been originally used for. What had they to do with Alice? What had they to do with the chatelaine? What had they to do with Xanthe? Nothing suggested an obvious connection. She walked around the table, slipping behind the heavy wooden chairs so that she might touch the tapestry. Running her hands over its densely stitched and woven surface she could trace the outlines of the birds with her fingers. They had been exquisitely worked, the tiny stitches carefully re-creating the appearance of feathers.

  “What is it?” she whispered. “What secret are you hiding?”

  Somewhere in the passageway a door slammed, startling her so much that she dropped her flashlight. She fell to her knees and just managed to take hold of it as it started to roll between the chair legs and under the table. She remained crouched, her heartbeat thudding in her ears, waiting, listening. No one came. It was only the wind keeping her company. She stood up again and went back to studying the wall hanging. Following the border, she reached the corner, which was briefly disturbed by a forceful draft coming from the window. Carefully, she turned up the heavy edge, wondering if there might be a name or a signature of some sort on the back. Nothing. Just as she was beginning to think the whole thing was a dead end, she noticed some loose stitches. It seemed odd, such carelessness in a work of such precision and fine craftsmanship. Looking closer she found that there was a wayward thread coming from the turned-up hem of the hanging. It struck her then that it had not worn loose, nor come free just through wear and tear, nor from being moved, perhaps. No, the way the long thread was out of its keeping stitches, the way the whole hem appeared poorly secured and in danger of dropping, all seemed to point to it having been deliberately undone. With another quick glance toward the door to make certain she was not about to be discovered, Xanthe took hold of the flashlight between her teeth so that she had both hands free. She unfurled the rolled hem as gently as she could, knowing that she would have to tuck it back up again and secure it without the help of a needle. At first she thought she was going to draw another blank, but then her fingers touched something hard, something almost sharp, hidden in the folds of fabric. She probed cautiously and took hold of what was inside. Her heart sank as she realized that it was not the missing needle case and scissors. The shape and texture of what she could feel was all wrong for that. She pulled out the hidden item and snatched her flashlight from her mouth, shining it on the object in her palm.

  Beads. Silver chain.

  A crucifix.

  It was a rosary! The beads gleamed dark red and were quite possibly semiprecious stones, probably garnets. Similar stones were set into the little silver cross at the end of the chain, too. No doubt about it, it was a rosary used for counting prayers. Catholic prayers. In a steadfastly Protestant household. At a time where following the wrong religion could get you into all manner of trouble. She wracked her brains for remnants of history lessons, attempting to recall what the penalties for practicing Catholicism were in the reign of King James I. Most of her knowledge of the past came from the antiques she had grown up surrounded by, along with the ones she had studied, bought, and sold over the years. She was unclear as to the details, but the Stuarts had been Protestants, and as far as she could remember, Catholics did not have a good time of it when James was on the throne. Was the possession of a rosary enough to get you hanged? It seemed possible. She recalled what Willis had told her about Alice’s family all being executed as traitors. Wa
s this thing Xanthe now held in her hand all it took to get a person tried for treason? Had it been Alice’s? Perhaps a final legacy from her mother, one that she could not bear to part with, but that just might get her hanged? Xanthe tucked it back into the hem of the tapestry. It was a good hiding place, and there was nothing to be gained by moving it. The consequences of it being found among her own possessions did not bear thinking about.

  As silently as she was able, she hurried back out of the Great Hall, up the stairs, past the large, slumbering shape of Mary, and back into her own chilly bed. She huddled beneath the rough blankets, shivering, rubbing her arms in an attempt to warm them. So, it seemed Alice was a Catholic after all, and she had continued to hold to the faith, knowing the risks. Now Xanthe understood why she might have taken the needles and scissors. Not to sell, but to use. To stitch and unstitch her precious heirloom, the one connection she had left to her family and her faith, into that clever little hiding place. She thought about the loose thread. Had Alice been disturbed one day putting the thing back? That could explain the undone stitches. It might also explain why she had not had the chance to return the silver pieces to her mistress’s bedchamber. Which meant she had to have hidden them somewhere else.

  But where?

  * * *

  The next morning, as a gray dawn struggled to lift the gloom of their bedchamber, Jayne shook Xanthe awake.