“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.