As Xanthe had hoped, Flora approved of her finds and was excited about setting to work on them. Together they shifted things around in the workshop to make way for the new projects, conjuring up space where none had been before, taking care to allow Flora to work, as her crutches meant she required extra elbow room. They decided she would prioritize the smaller pieces, which could be quickly done and then moved into the shop. The costume jewelry would not turn much of a profit, but it had been bought at a low price and a little bit of bling went a long way to brightening up displays. The velvet cushions needed careful cleaning and would then sit nicely on the Victorian chairs Flora had already repaired. She was particularly impressed with the silver jug, happy to rise to the challenge of painstakingly knocking out the dent to restore it to its former glory.
“Excellent selections, Xanthe, love. I should let you go off on your own more often. Lovely things, and all within budget.”
“See, I am to be trusted.”
“Yes, well, I wonder what would have happened if the bidding had gone mad on that wedding dress, hmmm?” her mother teased.
“It will be the perfect feature for our vintage clothing display, Mum, and…”
“Stop,” she said, holding up a hand, “you don’t have to convince me. I know the drill. You keep the object until it stops singing to you and then it goes on sale with everything else. I actually think you got it for a bit of a bargain, so it will more than wash its face. Eventually.”
She smiled at her mother’s use of the phrase so well known in the antiques trade, meant to suggest that a sale item would at least cover its costs and turn a modest profit.
Xanthe had planned to sort through the box of jewelry when she was manning the shop through the remainder of the afternoon, but instead she was kept busy with customers.
“Don’t complain about that,” he mother laughed when they finally turned the CLOSED sign on the door. “It’s great that business is picking up so soon after the winter lull. Must mean our reputation is spreading. And it’s a surer sign of spring than any amount of cuckoos calling. Come on, time to knock off. I’ll be kind to you and let you cook.”
She gave her a wry smile. “Supper will have to wait a bit. I need to get this lot sorted and priced up,” she said, indicating the box of strung beads, jet brooches, paste bracelets, and assorted rings. “And I really want to take a closer look at that wedding dress.”
Her mother looked at her knowingly. “OK, new plan. Give me that,” she insisted, taking the box of jewelry from her and tucking it under one arm in the awkward but effective way she had of carrying such a thing while using her sticks. “I’ll sit upstairs and sift through it for half an hour, then I’m ordering pizza. When it arrives, you have to stop and come up and eat it. Deal?”
“Deal. Thanks, Mum.”
Xanthe needed no further prompting to hurry into the second room of the shop. As soon as she stepped over the threshold she could hear the gown singing to her. She took it from the box in which the auction staff had expertly packed it, and slowly removed the layers of tissue paper encasing it. The light in the little room had yet to be perfected, and dusk had already descended outside, but even so, the tiny silver and translucent beads on the dress seemed to glint and gleam. With great care, she unfolded the precious garment, aware of it almost trembling as she held it up. She thought it to be around a British size ten, made for someone with slim shoulders and long legs. It was thrilling to think of a bride walking down the aisle in it, and she was greatly relieved that there wasn’t the heavy sadness attached to it that she felt with some of her found things. She found a padded hanger and slipped the dress onto it before hooking it onto the top of the door. She stood back to take it all in. There was a fairly high neckline, modest and trimmed with lace, with sleeves set to sit on the points of the shoulders. The sleeves themselves were long enough to cover the backs of the hands and made of very sheer fabric, possibly some manner of voile, embroidered with tiny roses here and there. The bodice of the dress was richly worked with the beautiful beads that she now realized were also stitched to form patterns of tiny tumbling roses. The dress was cinched in tightly below the bust, a broad ribbon of doubled lace forming the shape, and then the skirts fell in a beautiful, flowing sweep to the floor. It occurred to Xanthe that there were signs the dress had been altered in places. Could these have been repairs or adjustments made to accommodate a second bride who chose to wear the dress? Perhaps more than one daughter in the lofty Wilcox family had been married in it. She reached out and touched the delicate fabric of the sleeves, listening to the high notes only she could hear, wondering what it was the dress had to tell her. As she did so the sound shifted and then became bells ringing, clear and bold. She gasped as a realization came to her.
“Those bells,” she muttered to herself, remembering again how she had heard pealing the other evening as she had left The Feathers. Even then, even at that distance, the dress had been calling to her, drawing her closer, waiting for her to find it. She had longed for something to call her back to the past, and now she had something with a particularly powerful connection emanating from it.
Excitement mounting, she renewed her examination of the beautiful object. The style did seem to be Edwardian, but there was something unusual about the neckline, and the way the bodice was attached to the skirt. She tried to recall what she knew about fashions in that time but could picture only leg of mutton sleeves and high collars. She recalled the Queen Mother’s wedding dress, and could see similarities. The intricate lacework. The slender silhouette. It struck her then how different wedding dresses of the day were to what people were wearing in general. In fact, they seemed to hark back to the style at the beginning of the previous century, with its elegant Empire lines. She was aware that the Arts and Crafts movement of the late 1800s drew upon medieval styles and shapes for its inspiration. But that didn’t seem to fit with this garment either. At least, not quite.
She leaned closer, searching for clues. Could it be that part of the dress was in fact older than the rest of it? The lace of the bodice, she decided, was the thing that didn’t seem to quite fall easily into a style she could put a date to. It was then, when she was at her closest to the thing, that she became aware of a wonderful scent. She inhaled carefully, trying to place it, wondering if it were possible that perfume could stay in the fabric for over a hundred years. Of course she knew it could not. The glorious scent of roses that she was now experiencing was simply another way of the treasure calling to her, provoking her senses, trying to connect with her. She thought of the girl she had glimpsed in the walled garden of Corsham Hall standing in the rose beds, and felt with a fierce certainty that this dress and that young woman were indeed inextricably linked.
The arrival of Helga had slightly more of an impact than either Xanthe or Flora could have anticipated. This was in part due to the fact that she turned up much earlier than they were expecting, so that they were eating breakfast, with Flora still in her pajamas, but mostly because she brought with her a small, wiry, exuberant bundle of energy that was her pet whippet, Pie.
“Don’t mind her,” Helga said, pausing for a burst of her trademark laughter as the dog tore through the upstairs rooms, a black-and-white blur. “She’ll settle down in a bit. Just exploring her new surroundings.”
“She’s very lively,” said Flora, moving back against the fridge to allow the careening creature to fly past.
Xanthe couldn’t decide if their visitor was genuinely oblivious to the extreme nature of her dog’s behavior, and the very real hazard it presented to her mother, or if ignoring it was just her way of coping with the fact that she couldn’t control the dog. Helga sat heavily on one of the pine kitchen chairs, giving a sigh of relief as she did so.
“The traffic between me and you was ghastly,” she told them. “Not what I was expecting at all.”
“We don’t have a commute so we’ve never really noticed,” Xanthe pointed out, fetching an extra cup and pouring coffee. “It’s generally better after the school run is over, I expect. Would you like some breakfast?”
“Heavens, yes! I’m famished,” she said, spooning sugar into her drink. “Don’t worry, I’m the least fussy eater you could ever find. I’ll eat anything. So will Pie.”
Xanthe and Flora exchanged glances. Happily, there was fresh bread and locally made honey, so they were able to offer something less startling than some of Flora’s more usual meals.
Helga was a large woman, not fat, but sturdy, with broad shoulders upon which, according to Flora, many troubles had been placed. She had weathered a difficult childhood, a bad marriage, needy children who grew into problematic adults, and the loss of both her elderly parents in the same year. Through it all she had remained determined and positive, refusing to ever give in to self-pity. She was, Xanthe decided, a woman for whom the word “stoic” could have been invented. She appeared to favor clothes chosen for comfort rather than style, and wore no makeup. Her short, almost bristly hair was worn in a choppy pixie cut that many women her age might have shied away from. On her it looked right, somehow. Practical, and more than a little peculiar. After a bit of clearing space, moving breakable things out of the dog’s way, and finding another plate, the three were able to enjoy a pleasant breakfast. As promised, the whippet did calm down and sat beside Flora, gazing up at her with soulful eyes.
“She’s very friendly,” Flora said, reaching down to stroke her velvety ears.
“Don’t be fooled by that face,” said Helga through a mouthful of toast, “it’s your food she’s after. You could bribe her to do just about anything with the right treat.”
“She doesn’t look like a big eater,” said Xanthe, taking in her sinuous shape.
“Burns it all off tearing about the place. Loves to run. You don’t have a cat, do you?” she asked suddenly, an anxious note creeping into her normally confident voice.
Xanthe shook her head. “Doesn’t she like them?”
“Oh, she likes them well enough, as long as they’re running and she’s chasing them. This really is the most delicious honey. I’ll bet you have a splendid farmers’ market out here.”
“We do!” Flora said, offering a long-handled spoon which Helga ignored, preferring to upend the honey pot over her toast instead. “It’s on tomorrow. I’ll take you. There are lots of lovely stalls. And lots of good walks nearby too.”
Having drawn a blank on treats from Flora, the dog moved on to Xanthe, who fed her a crust. “She’s very pretty, with those smart black-and-white markings. Did you name her after a magpie?”
“The moment I saw her I thought of one of those darling pied wagtails that flit about near water. Dear little birds. There, I told you she’d settle.”
As they watched, Pie turned a circle three times and then lowered herself into a tight knot, eyes shut, ready for a snooze, on top of Xanthe’s left foot.
“Like a baby,” Helga crooned. “I don’t suppose the real thing will be half as appealing, though of course I’m not allowed to say that, not when I’m about to become a grandmother.”
“Congratulations,” said Flora. “Isn’t Penny living in Australia?”
“She is, and I’m not happy about it but what can I do? She must live her life, and I must embrace long-haul flights. But there, enough about me. Your life is far more interesting.” She took a large gulp of coffee. “Let me see if I’ve got this right: You’ve ditched the odious, cheating Philip, turned your back on London, and headed west for a new business and a new life. Do tell all!”
Xanthe noticed her mother smiling as she answered and thought how it would do her good to have someone she knew so well to talk to for a while. A friend rather than a daughter. Perhaps it would allow her the chance to dip deep into Spinners again to see if anything presented itself as connected to the wedding dress in some way. For the most part the book was silent, revealing its contents on the page to her so that she could slowly sift through them, gleaning what wisdom she could. The memory of the way the book had whispered to her when she had been at Mistress Flyte’s chocolate house was still vivid. She knew the book would only behave in such a way when it chose to; when the time was right. Perhaps, she thought, it would only do so when she was back in the time of the found thing that was singing to her. Maybe if she took the dress out to the blind house—just near it, not inside—maybe that would prompt it to speak to her again. She was wary of heading back to the past without knowing to when she was headed. Also, although the gown was clearly singing, and indeed chiming, there did not seem to be any great danger or urgency attached to it. How could she justify the risk of returning to the past if it wasn’t absolutely necessary? The risk, and the lies. While she was growing in confidence in her ability as a Spinner, she had not yet found a way of disappearing for days at a time without constructing elaborate lies to explain her absence. Lies that she had to tell again and again to the people who mattered most to her, which now included Liam. And Liam was not a person to be easily fobbed off with a half-baked story. The closer they became, the more difficult it would get. Was that one of the sacrifices of being a Spinner, she wondered. Would it be impossible to have a meaningful relationship ever again? Unless, of course, she shared her secret. It had been such a relief to Xanthe when she had told Harley about how she time-traveled. It had stopped her feeling quite so crazy, and given her another mind to put to all the complex questions and dilemmas she faced. She looked across the table at Flora and wished she had the courage to take her into her confidence too. One day, she promised herself. One day.
She left Helga and her mother to catch up and went downstairs to open the shop. The weather was warm enough for her to decide to prop the door open. She stood a moment on the threshold, taking in the day. The fresh spring air brought with it the distant sounds of the town coming to life, birdsong, and the smell of the burgeoning blooms in the hanging baskets outside. Xanthe felt at once more connected with her fellow shopkeepers, most of whom had also thrown wide their doors. Gerri was busy wiping dew from the wrought iron tables and chairs outside her tea shop. The woman who ran the print and framing business a little farther along the cobbled street was putting out a new wooden sign, searching for stones flat enough to stand it on. The newly opened traditional sweet shop at the end of the alleyway was already serving eager children who had evidently made a detour on their way to school. She promised herself she would visit it later and treat herself and Flora to a bag or two of old-fashioned sweets. She heard bells ringing and for a moment thought the wedding dress was calling to her again, but then realized it was only the town clock chiming the hour. She went back inside and turned her attention to the shop, arming herself with a feather duster, methodically working her way around the displays, rearranging items that had been put back in the wrong place, trying to decide where new stock could go, working out which pieces needed to be discounted, and what might make an eye-catching window display.
She was so absorbed in what she was doing she didn’t notice Gerri come into the shop until she spoke.
“You can come and give the tearooms a good dusting next, if you like,” she said.
“I can’t imagine there is a single speck of dust in there,” Xanthe replied, climbing down from the small set of steps that had enabled her to reach the top of one of Mr. Morris’s remaining over-mantel mirrors. “Unless it’s icing sugar, possibly.”
“You’d be surprised. Sometimes I feel I’m barely keeping on top of everything.”
She caught a rare glimpse of strain on her friend’s face. However well Gerri presented a perfectly turned-out image to the world, managing as a single parent with a business to run would surely challenge even the most capable of women.
“Come and see what I found at the auction,” she said, leading the way to the second room. She knew Gerri well enough to be certain she would be cheered up by her new acquisitions for the vintage clothes collection. “Here,” she said, dragging a large cardboard box to the center of the floor space and opening the lid. “How’s that for a cracking little job lot?”
Gerri gasped as she pulled out the first two of the silk scarves. “Oh! These are gorgeous. Some excellent silk here. And they’re in really good shape, most of them,” she added, digging deeper into the hoard. “Look! This one’s Yves Saint Laurent. Imagine throwing it in a box … and that’s a lovely chiffon one.”
Xanthe folded her arms and leaned back against the doorjamb. “You like them, then?”
“I want to take half of them home myself right now! How do you resist keeping the best things you find for yourself?” she asked, hugging tight a shocking pink silk square.
“Being hungry and having bills to pay makes you ruthless. There’s more. Look,” she said, stepping aside to reveal the trunk. This time she let Gerri open the lid.
“Oh! You hit the jackpot here. I know you like older stuff, but nineteen forties is the most popular era for vintage stuff bar none, I promise you. Just look at this little suit! Let’s make a window display with them, shall we?”
Xanthe thought then of how she had imagined the wedding gown one day gracing the shop window. She was keenly aware of the fact that she had deliberately kept the dress a secret from Gerri. Her mum understood her need to spend time with the things that sang to her, even if she only knew a fraction of the reason why. It seemed simpler just to wait. She would share the dress with Gerri once she had discovered its story. One way or another. In the meantime, a new window display trumpeting the arrival of the vintage clothing room was a great idea.
“We’ll need more than the clothes … what shall we put with them?” she asked as Gerri ran the silk through her fingers, releasing the faintest aroma of old perfume and mothballs.
“How about we do a forties and fifties mixed themed display? Most of these seem to date from around that time, not that they all have to. It’ll give you a slightly wider reach with other things to make the display. Have you got some stock in the shop that would fit?”
“Ooh, there might be one or two things. Let’s have a quick look.” She grinned. She enjoyed Gerri’s delight as she showed her a table lamp, two leather suitcases, a small collection of enamel signs, some biscuit tins, and a Lloyd Loom wicker chair. They went to stand as far into the bay window as they could, given the Victorian display that was already in it.
“Yes,” Gerri put her hands on her hips, her face serious and focused, “we can do something really clever with this. Almost a corner of a bedroom with the cases open, as if a glamorous young woman is about to go on holiday. I’ll have another look through our stock and find a dress. Oh, and a swimsuit! Wish I could stay and do it now but I’m late opening up as it is. I’ll come back after closing. Is that OK with you?”
But Xanthe heard little of Gerri’s excited chatter. Her attention had been taken up entirely by what she had seen through the small panes of the old window. There, sitting cross-legged and relaxed, leaning back on one of Gerri’s terrace chairs, sat Benedict Fairfax.