As she had predicted, Flora was pleased to see Liam and more than happy to forego having her company for dinner if it meant she was going on a date with him. Xanthe was still a little too shaken to be bothered by her mother’s shameless matchmaking. Shaken and perplexed. It wasn’t just the scare about being followed, or her irritation at Liam being thoughtless enough to creep up on a woman walking home alone in the dark. It wasn’t even her ever-present state of alert regarding Fairfax. What continued to rattle her was that moment when she had turned, seen Liam, known it was him, known she was safe, and yet still felt filled with dread. It was that glimpse of a darkness about him that she could not easily dismiss. Was it perhaps a premonition? Was he in danger? The thought that Fairfax might use her loved ones to get at her was not new. After all, was that not precisely what he had done with Samuel?
After a brief chat and a couple of phone calls, Liam booked them a table at the Italian restaurant down by the river. Half an hour later they were seated at a table in the window overlooking the early spring bulbs lit by fairy lights, the moon on the narrow water glinting in the background. Liam hungrily scanned the menu.
“I love Italian food. Proper portions. Bring on those carbs!”
“There’s a man immune to fashionable diets.” She was relieved to find that her own appetite was returning at the sound of all the tempting dishes on offer.
“I plow my own furrow,” he said.
“Happily, red wine is now thought to be essential for long life.”
“Is one bottle enough?” He signaled to the waiter and ordered some Chianti.
Xanthe wished she could just relax, forget about complicated, impossible things, forget even about Spinners, ignore the constant pull she felt from it, and simply enjoy the moment, putting all else from her mind. She became aware of Liam studying her. “What?” she asked, meeting his gaze.
“You look thoughtful.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Depends what you’re thinking about.”
“Pasta.”
“And?”
“Garlic bread?”
He frowned at her. She made a point of closely examining the menu again but knew he was too perceptive to move on without questioning her further. He had noticed her demeanor and wouldn’t be so easily convinced that nothing was the matter.
“Hey, I’m sorry about earlier,” he said, “scaring you like that…”
“It’s fine, forget it.”
“I was an idiot.”
“Granted.”
“I aim to make it up to you with fabulous food, fine wine, and erudite conversation.”
“Good luck with that.”
He hesitated before reaching across the table and touching her arm. “Seriously, what’s up?”
She knew him well enough to be sure he wouldn’t let it go. What could she tell him? That she had been scared because she thought a ruthless, violent man from four centuries ago was stalking her? That she was worried because she had experienced a premonition of something bad happening to someone close to her, quite possibly Liam himself? She steered for safer ground.
“I saw Harley earlier. We were talking about booking the band for performances at The Feathers. Made me realize how … unavailable you’ve been lately, when it comes to Tin Lid.”
“The workshop has been hectic, you know that.”
“I do, but that doesn’t really matter to people who book us, does it? They want to feel we are serious, committed, you know…”
“Has anyone else said anything? Mike? Any of the others?”
“I haven’t discussed it with anyone else. Why would I do that?”
“You discussed it with Harley,” he said, sitting up a little straighter and withdrawing his hand.
“Because Annie asked him to see if we could fill a slot Friday week,” she explained, beginning to wish she hadn’t brought it up. There was a moment’s silence during which she allowed herself to be happy that Liam had accepted her reason for being distracted. At the same time she felt a niggling regret at somehow making him be the cause of it. “It doesn’t matter.” She tried a smile. “You’re right: It’s a temporary thing. Once you’re less busy with work we can pick up the pace a bit.”
“Actually, I’d been meaning to tell you I got a call from Sharon at The Bull, out at Laybrook. She’s interested in booking us some time over Easter.”
Xanthe experienced a jolt at hearing the name of the village. Laybrook was where so many things had happened. It was where she had first encountered Fairfax. It was where she had lost her locket and almost become stranded in the seventeenth century. It was where she had met Samuel’s fiancée and accepted that he and she could never be together. And, most poignantly of all, it was in the churchyard of St. Cyrian’s in Laybrook that Samuel had his grave. She silently chided herself for being so sensitive. In her own time Laybrook was one of the prettiest villages in the county and home to some extremely popular pubs which would be perfect venues for band performances. Even so … “Maybe we shouldn’t book any new gigs until we’re back in the swing of things again,” she suggested. “Once you’ve got more time we need to spend some sessions working on new material, don’t you think?”
He gave a shrug and a nod. “OK, if that’s what you reckon. I’ll have a chat with the lads on Sunday. Now, I refuse to talk business any more until I get some food!”
The following morning was a thoroughly convincing spring day. The garden behind the shop was filled with birdsong and sunshine fell through the long windows of the first-floor living room, shedding beams of light in which dust motes danced. Flora put down the phone as Xanthe came to stand in the doorway.
“Well,” she said, hands on hips, a surprised expression on her face, “a voice from the past.”
“Oh?”
“Do you remember Helga Graham?”
“Your old school friend? Hard to forget her.”
“Is it the copper red hair or the rattling laugh that makes her stick in the mind, d’you think?”
“Both. And her habit of smoking French cigarettes. How did she even get this number?”
“Your father gave it to her.”
“Uncharacteristically helpful of him.”
“Not really. He couldn’t stand her. Probably put her in touch to spite me. But I liked her. She has character. When we shared a student flat a hundred years ago she was fun.”
“So why has she turned up now? You haven’t seen her for years.”
“She wants to come and stay!”
“Really? What prompted that?”
Flora gave a shrug. “She just said she’d heard about me and Philip splitting up, that you and I had moved … wants to come and see our new home … sort of thing. We have exchanged Christmas cards over the years.”
“Still, seems a bit out of the blue. And we haven’t got a spare room.”
“That doesn’t matter.” Flora smiled. “She can sleep in here. The sofa’s perfectly comfortable for one person.”
Xanthe took in the muddle that was their living room. Even though nine months had passed since they had moved in there were still boxes in corners, chairs stacked up, and all manner of office chaos littering the space. Her mother saw the look on her face.
“She’ll be fine,” she assured her. “Helga’s not the fussy type, and it’ll only be for a couple of nights.”
“Well, she can’t smoke in here. She’d set fire to something for certain. When does she want to come?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
“Blimey, that doesn’t give us long to get this lot sorted out.”
Flora pointedly fluffed up the cushions on the sofa. “She wouldn’t want any fuss. I think it will be rather nice, catching up with an old friend. Especially without your father to roll his eyes at her like he used to.”
Flora showed no sign of finding discussing her ex-husband painful anymore. The divorce settlement had at last been agreed on and all but completed. The first part of the divorce decree had been granted; a significant legal step in the process. Xanthe recalled the day the paperwork had arrived from the solicitor and remembered how subdued Flora had been for the entire weekend. Now though, it felt as if she was properly moving on, putting her marriage behind her. Perhaps she was right. An old friend visiting their new place was another step away from the difficult bits of her old life while holding on to some of the better bits. There was surely more room for friendships now. Old connections being reforged with their new life.
“You’re right,” she said, pulling her hair back to secure it into a band. “It will do us good. The two of you can have a good catch-up and we can take her out a bit. Somewhere nice to eat, perhaps. Maybe a walk up by the white horse. Does she like walking?”
Flora frowned. “Can’t picture it, somehow, but who knows. It’s been years.” The clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour. “Shouldn’t you be on your way? You’ll need a bit of time to look around the sale before it starts.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve studied the catalogue and planned my campaign. And Gerri’s given me her thoughts on what to look out for. I’ve even put together a packed lunch to keep me going. I have a feeling this one will attract the trade in numbers.”
“I hate the way the London dealers only venture out for the high-end sales and then swan around snapping up all the best pieces because they plan to charge city prices.”
“Do swans snap?”
“You know what I mean.” Flora threw one of the scatter cushions at her.
Xanthe caught it, brushing off the small puff of dust it sent up. “I will beat them at their own game.”
“Just don’t…”
“… blow the budget. I know, I know.”
However well planned she thought her day had been, the drive to the sale venue took longer than she had expected. Her trusty black cab was running smoothly after having spent some time in Liam’s workshop, but it made no difference to the journey time. The traffic farther west was heavy, with lorries making their way to the motorway and the first holidaymakers of the season adding to the lines of cars and caravans filling the roads. By the time she turned through the charming gatehouses and sped along the tree-lined drive of the big house it was already nearly ten o’clock. As she had feared, there were lots of vehicles in the car park that had the look of dealers’ wheels. She would have to choose her stock with care. No point bidding on the obvious, safe sellers; they would likely reach higher prices than was sensible with so many traders chasing the same lots. She parked between a large van and a jeep with a trailer, which did nothing to allay her fears.
The car park was in fact a small field near the stables, a little way apart from the main house. This was a private property, not owned by the National Trust nor opened to the public, so it wasn’t set up for hordes of visitors, as the temporary signs put up for the sale attested. The route took Xanthe across a spotlessly clean and beautifully maintained stable yard. There were no horses in residence, but it wasn’t hard to imagine how impressive the place would have looked filled with carriages and the horses to pull them, liveried footmen and ostlers and grooms hurrying with quiet efficiency about their work. There was an archway through which the carriages must once have entered, having allowed their passengers to alight at the house. It was only once she had passed under the creamy stone of this portal that she got her first view of Corsham Hall itself. It was splendid enough to make her stop in her tracks, shielding her eyes against the sharp morning sun to better take in the grandeur and scale of the building in front of her. It struck her in that moment that what she was looking at was the quintessential example of a fine Georgian mansion. Its proportions were classically perfect, with three stories of long windows, balanced by a porticoed main entrance sporting fine Doric columns, approached by a flight of broad steps. It was constructed of flawless pale golden stone which showed no signs of weather, no crumbling or distressing, just a smooth beauty that had withstood time and the elements wonderfully well. As she gazed up at the impressive facade a woman with a soft French accent paused behind her, commenting on the loveliness of the place. Her companion’s reply was to point out the impossible cost of the upkeep of such a place; the maintenance of the buildings, the heating bills, the work and staff needed to keep up a house of such size and importance. Xanthe wondered that the house had remained so long in private ownership, as most stately homes of its ilk that she had come across had long ago been taken up by trusts or preservation organizations. That or turned into luxury hotels. The thought made her wonder how the family—she recalled Gerri saying their name was Wilcox—had succeeded in hanging on to it as long as they had. And what had brought the current owner to this point? There was an inescapable sadness to selling off the entire contents of such a historic and significant home. She always sensed a different feel to sales that followed the death of the last inhabitant of a place compared to sales that were to disperse goods and raise money while members of the family still lived. What, she wondered, had made them give up such a heritage?
She followed the crowd of buyers and browsers up the wide steps and through the imposing double doors. Her mind kept traveling to times past, imagining the footmen and butlers and maids scurrying about as the upper classes, dressed in their finery, went about their glamorous lives. How many important aristocrats had visited this house? How many giggling girls had swept out of the entrance in rustling silk gowns, hurrying down the steps to waiting carriages that would whisk them away to grand balls in other equally grand houses? How many messengers had hammered on those very doors bearing news from the Napoleonic Wars, or details of the Crimean campaign, or updates on the health of the king or queen of the day? So much history was held within those fabulous walls. So many lives lived to the rhythms of bygone eras, so many hearts beating to times spent and gone. She realized that she was experiencing more than a pleasant bit of daydreaming; she was yearning for the past. It was as if her Spinner self craved it. As if the past were a long-lost lover and she felt the separation keenly. Xanthe knew, if she was completely honest with herself, that she was hoping something at the sale would sing to her. More than hoping, she was praying for it, to whatever deity watched over Spinners and their journeys. She needed a found thing to call her back. She accepted that she was no longer waiting for something to find her; she was actively, fervently seeking it out.
The entrance hall was no less jaw-droppingly splendid than the exterior of the house. She tried to take it all in: the grand staircase, the larger than life-sized portraits, the marble floors … she made herself dizzy twisting her head this way and that, trying to see everything while still moving on toward the ballroom where the auction would take place. She felt annoyed with herself for not having come to the viewing day, which would have allowed her plenty of time to examine the lots before the bidding started. She had thought that studying the catalogue would be good enough, but now she began to doubt the wisdom of that. The house was vast. There would be so many interesting things to see, and little time in which to examine them properly. And now that she had arrived late she had put herself at a further disadvantage. She moved to a corner of the hallway and pulled the catalogue from her bag, flicking to the second page to remind herself of the most imminent lots that she had marked out. She was interrupted by a familiar voice at her shoulder.
“Ah, the lovely Xanthe Westlake. Such prettiness in such sublime surroundings, dear heart. My morning is complete.” Theo Hamilton greeted her with his customary effusiveness. On this occasion he sported a mustard velvet jacket with polka-dot cravat at his throat.
“Looking dapper as ever, Theo.” She put on her best smile. “Are you here for something in particular or just hunting for the unexpected?”
“A little of both. I confess I am in love with a Louis XIV chiffonier. Alas, I fear it will be hotly contested.” He turned to wave pointedly to another dealer on the far side of the hall. “So I must allow myself to be the plaything of serendipity. I will go where I am sent.”
She smiled at how flippantly Theo threw out the idea of chance leading him to the best buys when she herself was the one who could be pulled irresistibly to certain items. It was as she formed this thought that she became aware of a slight dizziness and the sound of distant bells ringing. The dizziness could be explained by an insufficient breakfast, or it could be the start of an object singing to her. The bells were a surprise, not only because she had never been called by such a sound before, but because she now realized they were the same bells she had heard when leaving The Feathers. The pealing she had taken for her mother and her friends practicing at St. Mark’s had in fact been an aural glimpse of something that was singing to her. It made sense, now, that they had sounded odd on that occasion. Something in that great house, about to be auctioned. But what? And where? She needed to shake off Theo and start searching.
“Well, don’t let me keep you from those happy discoveries,” she told him, moving toward the ballroom.
Theo was not to be so easily got rid of. “But tell me, darling girl, how is your mother? The shop still afloat?” Without waiting for an answer he went on. “I bumped into your father the other day. I must say his auction house goes from strength to strength. I paid a ruinous price for a chaise. He must be fair raking it in. I mentioned how I had run into you at Great Chalfield and found you buying such charmingly girlish things. A chatelaine, wasn’t it? How much did you part with for that piece? Remind me.”
“More than I should have,” said Xanthe without missing a beat. “Luckily for me we sold it for a seriously masculine profit. Now, I’m sorry, Theo, but I have other soppy purchases to make.”
“Bon chance!” he called after her as she strode away.
She ground her teeth, determined not to let the man provoke her into a bad mood. The bells in her head were now accompanied by a high-pitched buzzing, and the dizziness had increased. At the entrance to the ballroom she paused at the pop-up desk to get her bidding number and paddle, before hurrying to the far side of the enormous room, which was already filled with eager auction goers. She cast about frantically for a sign of what could be calling to her, but there were too many people to see much, apart from the lots which were being taken up onto the temporary stage where the auctioneer sat. She found a spot against the wall and opened her catalogue again, flicking through to see if there was something that could be triggering such a strong response. She was relieved that at least this time, despite the unusual sounds, there did not seem to be the awful fear and dread attached to the object as there had been to the chatelaine. Nor was there even the urgency with which the chocolate pot had sung to her. This found thing, whatever it was, appeared to be announcing its presence with strength, importance, clarity, and insistence, as the sensations and sounds were growing more powerful by the moment.
Xanthe found the mysterious object in the catalogue at the exact moment the auctioneer announced it, so that he appeared to be reading over her shoulder, causing her to shiver. There was no photograph with this particular lot, which was why she had not noticed it when she had first gone through the listings. She looked up as the auctioneer spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen, a beautiful lot here,” he intoned in his calm, professional voice. He pointed his gavel to the right as the assistant held up the item. There was a collective gasp in the room. Even the stony hearts of the dealers could not fail to be moved by the delicate beauty of the antique wedding dress in front of them. “An Edwardian wedding gown, believed to date around 1908. The lace is still in fair condition, showing some repairs. The embroidered bodice is particularly fine … what am I bid? Who’ll start me at 300 pounds? Anyone?”
In the pause that followed, Xanthe’s head was filled with a cacophony of bells, along with the more familiar high notes in which her found things usually sang to her. The dizziness continued and was accompanied by a slight blurring of her vision, into which fragments of images danced. She glimpsed a face, flowers, a swirl of water, a sweep of lawn, each snatched vision tumbling one upon the other in just that brief moment.
The auctioneer continued.
“I have 275 pounds on the internet, who’ll give me 300 pounds? Thank you, 300 pounds I have. And fifty. 400 pounds. And fifty…”
Xanthe craned her neck to try to spot the bidder. It seemed to be a two-way tussle between a buyer on the net and another in the room. The piece was climbing with alarming speed. She held her nerve, waiting until the first bidder dropped out. At £500 she made her move.
“A new bidder,” declared the auctioneer, acknowledging her bid.
As always, she felt a thrill at entering the fray, pitched against another keen buyer, both of them hoping to secure a quality item and a good price. For her though, this was personal. An object that sang to her could not be missed. It had its story to share with her, and though part of her feared what it might reveal, what it might ask of her, the greater part knew she could not turn away. This was a part of her. Her as she always had been, with her gift showing itself when she was only a child. And her as she was now; a Spinner. The two things could never be separated, and she could never be separated from either of them.
“575 pounds,” she heard the auctioneer say as the bidding slowed slightly.
Across the room her competition made himself obvious, stepping forward just enough for her to see him. It was a deliberate move. She knew the man, and knew him to be the owner of a high-end interior design business who bought choice pieces for discerning clients. No doubt he had someone specific in mind who would pay handsomely for such a rare antique gown, perhaps to dress a bedroom, or as part of a display in a hotel or restaurant, or even a boutique. Xanthe told herself better to be matched against a dealer than a private buyer for such a romantic lot. A person might fall in love with the dress and pay silly money for it; a dealer would, ultimately, only part with as much as would leave room for a profit on his investment.
She held up her hand for the auctioneer to see, signaling clearly she would go to £650. The auction room was quiet now, all attention focused on the dueling bidders. The dealer hesitated, narrowing his eyes at Xanthe. Would pride push him to go further? Just as it seemed he would go again he shook his head, turning back to his catalogue, both her and the dress dismissed. She was so relieved she barely heard the auctioneer’s gavel descend with a smart rap upon his desk. A little dazed, she held up her buyer’s paddle so he could see her number and watched as the wedding dress was taken down. After a few steadying breaths she forced herself to concentrate on the following lots. She had already parted with a chunk of money. To redeem herself she must find things her mother would approve of. Things that would sit well in the shop, sell well, and raise their own profits, and build on the success they had already achieved.
The remainder of the morning passed swiftly. The Wilcox family had amassed an impressive trove of wonderful things down the generations. There were splendid collections of fine bone china, often consisting of 24 place settings; richly colored Persian rugs; glorious damask curtains to fit windows far too big for most people’s houses; handsome chests of drawers in glowing mahogany; ebony sideboards; faded but still beautiful oil paintings and watercolors; enough silver-ware to stock a small hotel; chairs, beds, stools and whatnots, and a heartbreaking collection of teddy bears. It was nearly three o’clock by the time Xanthe was able to step out of the auction room and find a quiet spot at the rear of the house in which to sit and eat her packed lunch. She settled on an iron bench set into the outside wall of the enormous kitchen garden. The stones had been warmed by the sunshine and she leaned back against them, enjoying her sandwich, able at last to think about the wedding dress that had sung to her. It was a beautiful thing, and would look marvelous in their new vintage clothing room. She thought she might even dress the window with it to advertise their new collection. But she knew, of course, that first, before it could become simply another found thing to be admired and ultimately sold, it had its story to tell her. Its secrets to share. And, more than likely, something to ask of her. She found her hands were trembling as she held her sandwich now. And this time she knew this was not caused by anxiety but by excitement. Of course the dress needed her. Of course it was calling her not to itself now, in the present, in her time, but back to then, where and when its story had its heart. And when was that? The auctioneer had described it as Edwardian, and its style did seem to fit with that. It had a high waist, a fitted bodice, and a long, slim silhouette. The details in the fine needlework of the bodice were exquisitely worked, with tiny silver beads threaded into the embroidery. The sleeves were long and sheer with more lacework at the cuffs. The fabric, from what Xanthe could tell from where she had been sitting, had survived in very good condition. It had evidently been looked after exceedingly well in the generations that followed its original owner. She wondered who the young bride had been, and whether or not others had worn it too. It was likely to have belonged to a member of the Wilcox family, so the wedding must have taken place in the great house. Was that a glamorous and lavish event, or had the unfortunate bride married at the start of the First World War, perhaps, in a quiet, poignant family ceremony? She realized that she wanted to know, and that what she was feeling now was the thrill of anticipation of what lay ahead. Was this what it meant to be a Spinner? Did this shift from apprehension to thrill signify that she had truly accepted her new purpose?
“Mind if we join you?”
She looked up to see a plump, middle-aged woman in a colorful anorak standing in front of her, a frailer, pink-cheeked friend at her side.
“Not at all,” she replied, scooting along the bench to make room.
“Here we are, Sandra, ooh, lovely to rest our feet. A marvelous sale, but my word, so much walking, and so many stairs!”
After exchanging pleasantries the women turned their attention to their picnic lunches and Xanthe was left in peace. The interruption to her thoughts brought her back to the task in hand. She was there for stock, first and foremost. She was a businesswoman. The Little Shop of Found Things needed her too. She picked up her catalogue and her pen and worked through it making notes next to the lots she had successfully bid for. Whatever lay ahead for her as a Spinner, she had to prioritize business right now. Some of her purchases had been made with Flora very much in mind. She had found a pair of bedside tables that would be greatly improved by painting; a glazed corner display cupboard missing a hinge; a tapestry footstool in need of re-upholstering; and a Georgian silver creamer with a sizeable dent in it. She knew Flora would happily work her magic on all these treasures. She had also secured a box of silk scarves, some of which looked rather promising; a small trunk full of clothes that appeared to date around World War II; a porcelain vase with an attractive thistle pattern on it; two silver berry serving spoons; a Chinese fan; two velvet cushions, and a box of assorted 1930s costume jewelry. Not a bad haul.
The sun disappeared behind an unhelpfully dense cloud, causing the temperature to drop, reminding Xanthe that spring had not yet properly arrived. She got up, dusting crumbs from her lap, and said goodbye to her fellow antiquers. Even in the flatter light of the afternoon, the garden was lovely. The area the public had been allowed access to for the sale was limited to that immediately behind the main part of the house. There was a sweeping lawn, accessed by broad steps, which led to an impressive planting of topiary, which had been roped off for the day. The wall against which the bench was placed formed the end of the vast walled garden that would have provided fruit, vegetables, and flowers for the great house in its heyday. Its boundaries were made of the same creamy stone as the house, tall and capped with flat, pale coping stones. Xanthe noticed an entrance to it a little way off and could not resist a peek. The wrought iron gate was securely locked. As she reached forward and touched the dark, expertly worked metal she felt it vibrate very slightly. The cool bars warmed suddenly beneath her hand. She leaned forward for a better view of the enclosure and was astonished to see the garden transform in an instant. What had only seconds before been a dormant, largely bare collection of flower beds and planters, with leafless espaliered pear trees and empty glasshouses, became a verdant, floriferous, blossom-filled spectacle of color and blooms and abundant plants. She gasped, seeing at that moment a young woman standing among the roses, a wooden trug basket hanging from her arm as she snipped some choice buds. The woman was wearing a broad straw hat, her dark hair tucked up under it, and a long primrose yellow dress. Suddenly she raised her head and then, seeing Xanthe watching her, smiled brightly. She was a remarkably beautiful girl, and it was such a warm, spontaneous expression that Xanthe found herself smiling back as a reflex. And then, in a heartbeat, things changed. The sky darkened and the woman, surprised by the sudden alteration, pricked her finger on a rose thorn. She exclaimed, pulling her hand back, glossy droplets of blood falling onto the bodice of her dress as she did so.
“What a lovely garden,” said a now familiar voice behind her.
She whipped around to see her lunchtime companions had also come to peer in through the iron gate.
Sandra nodded. “I bet it will be pretty as a picture in the summer,” she added.
Xanthe turned back to look again. The woman had gone. As had all the blooms and summer abundance. Once again the garden was bare and slumbering. She felt her grip on the gate tighten as she heard the unmistakable high-pitched humming of a found thing singing to her. The wedding dress was calling to her, and it had to be connected to the vision she had just glimpsed. Connected to the lone figure with her vulnerable openness to strangers, and the dark, somber warning of blood that had been spilled.