The Garden of Promises and Lies Read online

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Thank you for buying this

  St. Martin’s Press ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new releases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  For email updates on the author, click here.

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  FOR DEE.

  WHO IS MOST DEFINITELY NOT A WICKED STEPMOTHER, AND WHO KNOWS A THING OR TWO ABOUT GARDENS AND ANTIQUES. HERE’S TO ENJOYING LOTS OF BOTH IN HAPPIER TIMES.

  This above all: to thine own self be true,

  And it must follow, as the night the day,

  Thou canst not then be false to any man.

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  1

  The moon shadows in the garden created unfamiliar shapes beneath the tumbling climbers and chaotic shrubs. From the window seat of her attic bedroom, Xanthe had a clear view of the muddle of borders and the barely tamed lawn as they began to emerge from the chill of winter. The roof-scape of the sleeping town beyond the redbrick garden boundary glistened under a light frost. She thought of how quickly the weeks had passed. Christmas and New Year had come and gone in a blur of activity in the antique shop and extra bookings for the band. Then there had been January sales to organize, and work on the room of mirrors in order to accommodate the new vintage clothing venture. And now it was the first day of March, and their first spring in Marlborough, with the slumbering garden at last beginning to properly reveal itself again after the bare winter months.

  In the corner, the grey stone of the little blind house stood without the softening cover of its deciduous rambling dog-roses and honeysuckle, so that it appeared all the more solid, aged, and humble. There was nothing about its size, nor its proportions, nor its worn, heavy door to give a hint of the magic that it contained. There was nothing to suggest that within those damp, bleak stones lay the secrets of the past and the means for some people—a few, special people—to journey back to times gone by. Not for the first time, Xanthe felt a sense of wonder at what had happened to her since she and her mother had opened The Little Shop of Found Things. What had begun as a new home and a new business for both of them in a quiet Wiltshire market town had turned into the greatest adventure of her life. On the first few occasions she had traveled back down the centuries she had done so without control, falling through time as if pushed from the top of a cliff of immeasurable height. Her trips to the era where she had faced danger and found love had been the floundering actions of a beginner in the art of time travel. Now though, after many more journeys, she knew that she did have some control over what she did. And now she had the book of the Spinners. To discover that she was part of a group who shared her ability to move through time and to hold their collected wisdom in her hands had given her courage. There were others like her and she could learn from them, and she was hungry for that knowledge. Slowly, she was starting to uncover their secrets. To understand who and what she truly was. However dangerous her journeys to the past had been, she was no longer afraid. That early fear of what she had been doing, and of all the possible perils, had been replaced by an excitement, a thrill, a deep, precious joy at the thought of what she now knew herself to be. Nothing, however, had prepared her for the shock of seeing her nemesis, Benedict Fairfax, standing at the top of her street, in her time. She had used her skills as a Spinner to send him away from Samuel, and in doing so, somehow, she had enabled him to travel forward to the present day. However he had achieved this feat, she had to accept some responsibility for it. She was the one who had helped him get the astrolabe. It was she who had tricked him into traveling to a time not his own to ensure Samuel’s safety. She could not, however hard she tried, shake the belief that it was her own actions that had led him to appear so close to her home, to her mother, to everything that now mattered to her. It was up to her, then, to hone her skills, to be better able to protect those she loved. In short, to become what Mistress Flyte had told her it was her destiny to become: a true Spinner of time.

  What was it that Fairfax wanted? Why had he come? Still she did not know, for since that first brief, heart-stopping glimpse of him standing at the end of the alleyway, she had not seen him again. She had attempted to convince herself, at first, that she had imagined seeing him. That the vision was simply the product of a tired mind, an overactive imagination, and a confusion brought about by the tumultuous events of her life at that time. But she knew, truly knew, that she had seen him, and that he had really been there. Flesh and blood, not a ghost or shadow of a person long dead. Real and calm and cold and dangerous as he had ever been. And knowing Fairfax as she did, she could be certain that he had not chosen to appear in front of her without good reason. He had meant her to see him. He had wanted her to know that he was close. That he could choose when to confront her. And yet, so far, after so many weeks, he had not. She had been watchful, nervously checking she was not followed if she went out at night, vigilantly locking the doors of the shop, taking care not to leave her mother alone for longer than was absolutely necessary. But she had not seen him again. What was his plan, she wondered. Did he want revenge for what she had done, for how she had tricked him? She couldn’t be sure. As time went by she wished he would show himself so that she could face him, once and for all. The waiting and wondering had become intolerable, and she knew that she had begun to let her guard down. It was impossible to stay alert to the danger forever. And the not knowing when or where he would show himself again was taking its toll. The only thing she felt with absolute certainty was that he would come again. One day. And that he was capable of anything.

  She pulled her woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders and got up from the window seat. Morning would come soon enough, there was work to be done and nothing to be gained by hours spent worrying over things she could not change. When Fairfax made his move she would have to be ready for him; losing sleep in the meantime was pointless.

  * * *

  Having at last fallen into a deep slumber, it was after eight the next morning when Xanthe descended the stairs from her attic bedroom to the kitchen on the first floor of the tall narrow apartment that sat on top of the shop. She could hear her mother singing along to the radio, raising her voice to compete with the sound of the whistling kettle.

  “Ah, there you are. I was going to give you a shout. Coffee’s nearly made. Sit down and help yourself to breakfast. We don’t want to keep Gerri waiting when she gets here. Can’t have been easy finding someone to man the tea shop.” Flora pivoted on one of her crutches as she reached for the jar of ground coffee, deftly snatching a spoon from the draining board as she did so. She had become so adept at managing the restrictions her arthritis placed upon her that most of the time Xanthe forgot how she had been before it had encroached upon her health. Before she had needed sticks for support and painkillers to sleep. “It’s going to be such a help, having her input on this. I can’t think of anyone better placed to advise us on buying vintage clothing,” Flora went on, waving the spoon at her daughter. “Apart from you, love, of course.”

  “I think of myself more of an enthusiast than an expert.” She gestured at her own seventies floral dress and sleeveless shetland jersey.
“I can’t hold a candle to Gerri. How she always manages to look so perfectly turned out with two small children and a business to run single-handedly amazes me.”

  “Not to mention her scarlet lipstick,” said Flora, pouring water into the coffeepot. “Never a smudge in sight. How come it always ends up on my teeth if I try it?”

  She smiled, taking in her mother’s fine, fluffy hair which was even now escaping from the random bit of scarf she had tied around it. She glanced down at the plate of food on the table in front of her. “Another experiment, Mum?”

  “There’s nothing particularly outlandish about crumpets.”

  “Crumpets, no. Crumpets covered in avocado and—is that broccoli?”

  “We had some left over from last night. I’ve added some grated cheese. It’ll be fine. Come on, eat up. Green food is healthy, isn’t it?” She sat down opposite her daughter and squeezed brown sauce from a plastic bottle onto her own breakfast. Xanthe poured coffee for them both, grateful for its aroma and hopeful it would make the food more palatable. Despite the twice-weekly food markets in Marlborough high street which her mother enjoyed browsing, Flora still preferred to cook whatever she found in the fridge, almost regardless of the end result.

  “And don’t forget,” she said, sipping the hot coffee, “you’ve got the sale at Corsham tomorrow. We need to get as much done to the new room today as possible. If I’m manning the shop and finishing that escritoire in the workshop I’ll have my hands full.”

  “Still can’t believe you’re letting me go and do the buying at a sale like that on my own. Stately home clearances are your favorite.”

  “I can’t be in two places at once. And besides,” Flora beamed, “we had a good Christmas, and now is the perfect time to invest in stock. A sale like that could yield all sorts of treasures. You know what you’re doing, most of the time.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “But if something sings to you…”

  “I know, don’t go mad.”

  “Of course you will have to get whatever it is. Just don’t blow the whole budget, is all I ask. We have made so much progress with the shop.”

  “Proved the doubters wrong, eh?”

  Flora nodded. “Your father among them. Not that I care, of course.”

  She chose not to pick up on the reference to the man she now thought of simply as her mother’s ex-husband. Instead she stayed on safer ground. “Like I did with the chatelaine, you mean? We did get a good price for it in the end, you know.”

  Flora smiled. They both knew that when something sang to Xanthe, when it triggered her gift of psychometry, she wouldn’t be able to resist it, whatever the cost. The ability to detect information about an object—its past, its origins, its story—was a rare thing and unheard of by many, but to the Westlake family it was simply a part of their daughter. Nothing would change that. “We need saleable items, love. Preferably small things. A little more jewelry wouldn’t go amiss. Seems popular. And if you see a little dresser for me to paint, or a pair of decent bedroom chairs…”

  “I will keep my eye out. Don’t worry. Business head firmly screwed on, Mum.”

  “Why don’t you see if Liam is free to go with you?”

  “You think he’s a sensible influence?”

  “I just thought it would be nice.”

  “Mum … he has his own business to run.”

  “He likes helping you. Spending time with you.”

  “I’ll see him soon at band practice. We spend plenty of time together already.” She shook her head at her mother’s shameless attempts to encourage her relationship with Liam. It was nice that Flora liked him, of course, but she refused to be rushed. Since the medieval weekend—since that kiss—they had agreed to take things slowly. In truth, Xanthe had insisted upon it and given him little choice. She valued their friendship too much to risk it. She knew she was still on the rebound from Samuel. And now that she was a full-time member of Tin Lid, her closeness to Liam had several aspects to it, all of which were woven into her new life. She didn’t want to jeopardize a possible future they might have together. As friends. As band members. As lovers. She gulped down her coffee. “Come on, Mum, eat up. I need to unlock and let Gerri in. We’ve work to do.”

  The room that the previous owner, Mr. Morris, had used to house his collection of mirrors was behind the main shop, and had only a small window. Xanthe had thought it rather dark and cramped, but since they had removed what turned out to be over fifty mirrors, the space had grown. They had ripped up the old carpet, sanded and polished the floorboards, applied pale gold paint to the walls and white gloss to the woodwork. The window had been left without curtains to make the most of the natural light, and three vintage standard lamps had been carefully placed to give the room a warm glow. Some of the mirrors had been a useful part of the transformation. A full-length rectangular one had been given a makeover by Flora, its pine frame painted and decoupaged with roses in soft greens and pinks. Two smaller mirrors, one elaborate French gilt, the other a smooth white plaster, had been hung to reflect the daylight and allow customers to view themselves from several angles when trying on the vintage clothing. The tasks that remained included setting up new rails and a hatstand, positioning and filling the glass-fronted display case, and unpacking the stock they had amassed over the preceding few months.

  “Right,” said Xanthe, rubbing her hands together. “Let’s start with these boxes.”

  Gerri, who had arrived on the dot of nine o’clock and was dressed as a land army girl in dungarees, hair expertly twisted under a gingham scarf, lipstick perfectly applied, started to pull garments from the nearest crate, handing them out for inspection. “What have we here? A houndstooth-check winter coat—good and roomy. A suede jacket with tassels…”

  Flora gasped. “Oh dear … does anyone actually wear tassels anymore?”

  “Mum,” she took it from Gerri and gently smoothed the fringed sleeves, “don’t be so quick to judge. It’s all about putting a look together. You’d be surprised what some people would do with that.”

  “Xanthe’s right.” Gerri held up a Laura Ashley dress. “It’s a matter of seeing the potential in things.”

  “Well, I’m very glad I’ve got you two to do that,” Flora said. “To me it all looks like jumble. All thrown out for good reason.”

  Xanthe shook the folds out of a maxi skirt. “Some of it’s a bit down-market, I grant you, but fans of vintage stuff know what works. We just need to make sure we have some high-end items too.”

  “Yes, designer pieces!” Gerri’s eyes lit up at the thought. “I bought an original Biba blouse the other day. It wasn’t cheap, but it’ll hold its value.”

  Flora tried on a dusty bowler hat, peering at herself in the gilt-framed mirror. “Hmmm, I think it’s a bad idea to wear vintage if you yourself are vintage,” she decided, making the others laugh.

  “The trick is,” Gerri said, minutely adjusting Flora’s hat to a more flattering angle, “to always choose clothes that suit your own shape and coloring. That’s the secret to avoiding giving the impression you’re in fancy dress.” She thought for a moment, removed the bowler hat, and replaced it with a beret, artfully positioned.

  Flora grinned at the result. “As long as you agree to be my personal dresser, Gerri, I’ll give it a go.”

  Xanthe started slipping blouses onto hangers. “The challenge is going to be locating the fine, expensive items. We want to get known for quality as well as range.”

  “Can’t we find things on the internet?” asked Flora.

  “If only,” said Gerri, frowning at a lurid green skirt before dropping it into the rejections box for recycling. “People are much more clued up about the value of things nowadays. Good pieces are in demand. You can end up paying over the odds.”

  “I’m going to the dispersal sale tomorrow,” Xanthe told her. “Corsham Hall, out toward Bath. Do you know it?”

  “Oh, that was the house of the Wilcox family. They were fabulously rich
, once upon a time.”

  “Let’s hope the late owner secretly hoarded all her ancestors’ clothes.”

  “There might be flapper dresses in the attic!”

  “Well, if there are, I’ll snaffle them. That’s exactly what we need to elevate this little lot.”

  They worked on, steadily sorting the wheat from the chaff, ignoring some of the faces Flora pulled at the more outlandish items. Xanthe was happy to have Gerri’s support for their new room. She knew her mother had agreed to it to please her, and it helped to have the input of a person whose taste they both trusted. Even though they were no longer in the financial difficulty they had been when they first bought the shop, every space in it still had to earn its keep. Mr. Morris’s mirrors had been taking up too much space and moving too slowly. She had been forced to swallow her pride and call Theo Hamilton again. She did not enjoy having to contact her rival antique dealer and offer him the pieces after turning him away the first time, but needs must. Fortunately he had still wanted the mirrors as a job lot, though he had not been above making her work at getting his forgiveness for his previous wasted journey when she had changed her mind about selling them. In the end his eye for a bargain had won out and they had agreed on a fair price. Her hope was that the vintage clothes would attract new browsers, extra shoppers who might not otherwise visit an antique shop. Once over the threshold, who knew what they might be tempted to buy?

  “Oh, look at this, love.” Flora held up a black sequined dress. “You could wear it for your next performance with Tin Lid.”

  Xanthe laughed. “Not unless we start booking gigs in a jazz club, Mum!”

  “I think you’d look lovely in it,” she insisted. “I bet Liam would agree with me.”

  “He usually does.”

  “Such a nice boy.”

  “He’s smart enough to know how to get around you,” she said, taking the dress from her mother and hanging it on the rail. “Anyway, he doesn’t really notice what I wear.”