The Chocolate Maker’s Wife

by Karen Brooks

  ‘Signorina?’ coughed Jacopo, waving the dust away before offering his arm.

  With a sweet smile at Sir Everard, Rosamund refused Jacopo’s assistance, rising with an elegance that belied her appearance. She steadied herself and her features settled into what Sir Everard later would describe as a state of resignation and resilience. It was like curtains closing after a wonderful performance or the moonlight drowning in clouds. Her eyes lost their sparkle, the felicity she’d so readily expressed was all but gone. About to leave the carriage, she turned, her face close. ‘Thank you, Sir Everard, and you too, Master Jacopo, for rescuing me,’ she said. ‘From the road and… from any other misadventures that may have befallen me. I do ask God to bless you for your kindness; I’ll not forget it. Good day, sirs.’

  Unable to summon a response, Sir Everard was imagining the effect she’d have upon others if she were washed and dressed in fine apparel. How no-one would ever suspect someone who looked and sounded like that of ill-will or malice. Knowing he should give Jacopo the coin to pass to the stepfather, he didn’t move.

  As Rosamund walked towards the pitted front door, the horses hitched to the railing raised their heads to regard her. She caressed a warm neck in passing, the beast shuddering beneath her gentle touch.

  Why did he feel as if he’d found a treasure and now had to surrender it?

  He gazed at the inn, taking note of its shabby exterior, the overgrown grass he could see in the yard behind it. Nevertheless, the glass in the windows was spotless, the curtains clean. An image of reddened hands, dirty knees and elbows, bruised wrists, sprang into his mind, along with those merry pipes. The inn was an unsightly shell housing a pearl… a hard-working pearl that by rights deserved a much finer setting. What he could do with such a prize; how it could work to serve his interests.

  Good God, her misery was evident; she said it herself, this wasn’t her home. She’d no allegiance here… Only a stepfather and pair of footpads she called brothers who didn’t understand the jewel in their midst.

  This would not do; he hadn’t made his fortune by ignoring his instincts. In his eagerness to stop Rosamund, he almost fell out of the carriage.

  ‘Mistress Ballister!’ he called, raising his stick.

  Rosamund halted abruptly and with an apologetic look at Jacopo, whose arm she now held, spun around. ‘Milord?’

  Sir Everard hobbled towards her, a preposterous idea growing in his head. He was about to speak when the door to the inn flew open and out stepped a tall man with a generous paunch. Dressed in an ornate jacket with a heavily frilled shirt, a dark horse-hair periwig and oversized hat, he paused in the shade offered by the huge trees growing near the front door, took in the scene before him then, with a huge smile that revealed enormous sulphur-coloured teeth, flung out his arms.

  ‘Rosie, my dear child, where have you been?’

  Before Rosamund could respond, the man snatched her off her feet, swinging her around, depositing a wet kiss upon both cheeks then setting her down.

  ‘Why, when your brothers returned saying you’d set off down the southern road, I thought I’d have to raise a hue and cry. I sent them to fetch your mother. But look, here you are. Returned to us safely, and by such august personages.’ Keeping one arm draped across Rosamund’s shoulders, the man lifted his rather fine hat and attempted a bow. ‘Paul Ballister at your service and in your debt. How can I ever thank you for returning my Rosie to me?’

  Touching his hat, Sir Everard introduced himself and Jacopo and explained what brought them to the inn. His mind was galloping. So, this was the stepfather, the cowardly Roundhead who could look to the cleanliness of his own person and attire but allow his stepdaughter and the exterior of his premises to present in such a state. This was a man who could pretend affection, shower it upon a lass who neither invited it nor, by her distasteful expression, wished it, for the benefit of his own reputation. What was he hiding?

  All these thoughts tumbled in Sir Everard’s head as he spoke. He omitted the part about Rosamund being chased by her brothers. The entire time, Ballister never released hold of his stepdaughter, and made sounds that were no doubt meant to express shock and sympathy. When Sir Everard reached the part about the horses knocking Rosamund unconscious, Ballister took hold of both her shoulders, bent his knees so he might study her closely and, upon seeing the cut to her head, clasped her to his bosom.

  Rosamund never uttered a word. Neither did she resist nor return the many affections this man bestowed upon her; not his kisses, embraces, or chucking of her chin. She could have been a life-size puppet whose strings had been severed. Her mouth was immobile; her eyes hollow. Sir Everard wondered if her smile was something he’d invented, let alone her astonishing laughter, only he knew they weren’t.

  ‘Does it hurt, my little kinchin?’ said Ballister in a voice reserved for a beloved pet, studying the recent injury closely and conveniently ignoring the others.

  Sir Everard had to resist the urge to strike him.

  Before Rosamund could answer, Ballister slapped his forehead. ‘What an addle-brained ruffler I am, keeping you standing out here in this heat. Please, please, come in, come in. After all, it’s not every day a London gent, a knight no less, brings my pretty heart, my sweet dimber panter back.’ He squeezed Rosamund against him. She was crushed to his side like an empty chaff bag.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ began Sir Everard. ‘I’m more than relieved to find your daughter unharmed by the sorry experience. Nevertheless, I think it appropriate I offer you compensation for damages done, then we’ll be on our way.’

  Ballister’s hand fell from the door as he turned around, relinquishing Rosamund at the same time. The relief on her face was palpable. She shuffled out of reach.

  ‘Compensation, you said?’ Ballister stroked his thin moustache, a feeble effort to disguise his Parliamentary propensities and mimic the King, as so many were wont to do.

  Sir Everard cleared his throat. ‘I did.’

  Rosamund was forgotten. Jacopo went and stood next to her.

  Rubbing his large hands together, Ballister sidled closer to Sir Everard. Ballister’s features were strong, his brows heavy, but his eyes were too close together, which spoiled the effect. His pores were large and his swarthy skin bore the marks of the pox.

  ‘I knew the moment I set my peepers upon you, my lord, that you were a generous cove, a man of high principles and sound sense.’ He smiled again, standing so close, Sir Everard caught a whiff of his sour breath. He was reminded of a riddle: Why is it better to fall into the claws of crows and ravens than of flatterers? Because crows and ravens do but eat us when we are dead, but flatterers devour us alive. Having encountered Ballister’s kind before, he’d no intention of providing this particular man with a meal.

  ‘Poor Rosamund,’ sighed Ballister, looking back to where she waited, pity etched upon his face. A frowsy smell arose from his wig. ‘What will her mother say when she spies her grievous hurts? Now I understand the dire extent of them, I doubt the lass’ll be fit to do her duties for months. I can see something’s not right with her. Look how close she’s standing to that tawneymoor, unaware of the danger she’s in.’ He waggled his head sorrowfully; Sir Everard put more distance between them which Ballister swiftly closed. ‘So, what kind of compensation are we talking about, milord?’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’ll have you know, I’m no nizzie to be bought with a few coins.’

  Sir Everard stiffened. ‘And I am no cully to be gulled.’

  Ballister looked at him agog, then his smile returned. Sir Everard could see it didn’t reach his eyes, which were of an indiscernible colour and as cold as the Thames in winter.

  ‘I didn’t think you were for a moment, sir. Not you, a London gent —’ there was a flicker of scorn as his eyes alighted on the walking stick, ‘with as fine a carriage and horseflesh as I’ve seen in these parts — even if they did mow down my little one and almost take her life.’

  A distant shout distracted them. A
group of well-dressed people slowly approached, chattering and laughing, led by a woman with dark hair wearing a green dress and a large hat. Two robust young men walked on one side of her while a gentleman in a long periwig held her arm on the other.

  ‘Why, it be my wife, Mistress Tilly and my boys,’ said Ballister, his brow creasing. Their appearance didn’t please him.

  It didn’t please Sir Everard either. Unable to bear a moment more of Ballister’s company, let alone the rest of his kin, anger rose within him. The girl was completely wasted here. This man and no doubt the entire family had no idea who and what they housed; look at the state of her, the way she tried to avoid her stepfather’s consideration, how her mother’s appearance made her more crestfallen.

  Before he could change his mind, Sir Everard unhitched his purse from his belt, noting the widening of Ballister’s eyes, the way his thick tongue sought his lips. ‘Listen here, Ballister. I’m only going to make this offer once, so think carefully.’

  With his eyes fixed on the purse, Ballister raised a brow. ‘And what might that offer be?’

  ‘You acknowledge Miss Ballister won’t be able to perform her duties for months?’

  ‘Aye, at least. Could be years, for all we know. Head wounds are funny things; suffered a few myself during the war.’ He pushed aside his coarse wig to reveal a faint scar near his shaven hairline. It looked like the scratch a nail might leave.

  ‘In that case, she’ll be of very little use to you,’ said Sir Everard.

  ‘No use at all,’ agreed Ballister. ‘She be damaged goods. Just another mouth to feed, as if times ain’t tough enough.’

  ‘Well, allow me to relieve you of that burden.’ Trying not to show his distaste, Sir Everard held up the purse.

  ‘Relieve me?’

  ‘Aye. Since I’ve damaged your “goods”, allow me to take her off your hands. What do you say?’

  Sir Everard saw the look of incredulity cross Jacopo’s face. Rosamund took a step forward, but whether in protest or approbation, he couldn’t tell.

  Ballister stared at Sir Everard, the dangling purse, then at his stepdaughter, who quickly lowered her head. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I want to buy your daughter, Ballister. What do you say? Will you sell her to me?’

  THREE

  In which an unconventional deal is struck

  ‘No!’ came a shout.

  Rosamund twisted at the sound, in time to see her mother, forgetting all propriety, break away from the group she was escorting and start running towards her. On her heels were Fear-God and Glory. Upon seeing Rosamund they slowed, confusion and guilt drawing them together. Glory had her slippers in his hands and quickly hid them behind his back.

  ‘Ah, you must be Mistress Ballister,’ began Sir Everard, taking off his hat and bowing. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am —’

  ‘I don’t care who you are, sir.’ Tilly halted before him, huffing and puffing, perspiration running in rivulets down her face, taking the poorly applied powder and patches with it. Looking him up and down, she all but sneered. ‘My daughter can’t be bought and sold like a slave at a market —’ she glared in Jacopo’s direction, ‘or a horse at a fair. How dare you. I’ll have you know we be no pinchbecks.’ She marched over to Rosamund and pulled her close. Rosamund made an effort to free herself, then gave up. Tilly would not be gainsaid.

  Joining his wife and stepdaughter in front of the inn, Paul smirked at Sir Everard. ‘Well, milord, you heard my wife. In fact, she took the words right out of my mouth. Rosie’s not for sale.’ Inserting himself on Rosamund’s other side, he placed an arm around her waist, his eyes on the purse in Sir Everard’s fist. ‘Though an offer of compensation still be on the table.’

  By now the guests had caught up and stood in the shade of the trees, watching events unfold. The women made use of their ostrich-plume fans, waving them back and forth and whispering to each other behind them. One of the men lit a pipe.

  Uncaring of the audience, Tilly continued. ‘If you want her so badly —’ She slapped Paul’s arm off her daughter and took Rosamund by the wrist, dragging her towards Sir Everard. ‘If you want her so badly you can bleeding well do the right thing. You can marry her.’

  There were gasps. One of the women tittered. Rosamund stared at her mother. The heat must have affected her. She’d taken leave of her senses.

  ‘Don’t appear so shocked, sir,’ cried Tilly. ‘What’s a wife but the property of a husband? What’s marriage but a business transaction? She’s as good as a chattel, eh? Even if she be spoiled.’ She was referring to the mark on Rosamund’s forehead, but the bitter look she cast was directed towards Paul.

  When Sir Everard didn’t answer immediately, Tilly came even closer, lowering her voice. ‘I haven’t kept her beneath my roof this long to have her given over to some knave so he can have his way. I don’t want her coming back ’ere with a belly full of sprog, leeching off me. You want ’er, you can buy ’er all right — as a bride. Otherwise, you’d best say good day, sir.’

  Rosamund knew Tilly was upset. She was dropping her haitches as well as her decorum.

  ‘But, Tilly, wife —’ Paul stumbled towards them, wringing his hands. ‘You don’t mean that.’ Wearing a silly smile, he nodded towards the guests, half-bowing towards Sir Everard.

  Tilly’s mouth twisted as she leered at him over her shoulder. ‘Don’t I?’ Her look was a shot from an arquebus. ‘I’ve never meant anythin’ more in me life.’ Ignoring her husband, she faced Sir Everard again. ‘What will it be? Will you make an ’onest woman of me daughter? I’ll have you know, though ’er clothes ’ave seen better days and she could do with a wash, good blood flows in ’er veins. More than that, she be a boon to us ’ere and will be a sore loss. Why, if you be the canny merchant you appear, what better than a wife who can read, write and is possessed of as fine a business ’ead on those pretty shoulders as you’d find in the Royal Exchange.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You’d not be short-changed in this bargain, milord. Not on any count. Why, look at ’er.’ She stepped away from Rosamund, inviting his gaze.

  Rosamund’s cheeks grew hot. She wished the ground would open up and swallow her right there and then. Tilly was behaving like a street vendor selling hot pies, and she was telling pork ones as well — bold-faced and as loud and public as you like. Exaggerating her abilities, pretending she possessed skills she hadn’t practised in a long time, let alone mastered. She might understand and even have improved the running of the inn, but reading and writing fluently were beyond her. Knowing she should protest, Rosamund stayed mute. Aware of Jacopo’s remarkable blue-green eyes upon her, she wanted to squirm with shame. Was it not a sin to lie? Yet she could not call a stop to this transaction. She wanted to see where Tilly’s sudden boldness led. Rosamund was filled to the brim with needle-like anticipation. It poked and prodded, making it difficult to stand still. Around the corner of the inn peered Widow Cecily, Sissy, Dorcas and Avery, their eyes wider than the skirts on the ladies’ dresses.

  Recognising the deal was not yet dead, Tilly stood behind Rosamund, clasped the girl’s shoulders and thrust her forward. ‘Just so you know what you be gettin’, she might look like a dirty drab, but she be a Tomkins of Bearwoode Manor in Durham.’ Addressing Sir Everard over Rosamund’s right shoulder, she continued. ‘Daughter of Sir Jon no less, she was raised by the Lady Ellinor herself — a proud royalist to the core, in case you’re wonderin’ — until such time as the old woman cark— I mean, passed into the Lord’s arms. It’s not like you’d be plighting your troth with common muck an’ all.’

  It took all Rosamund’s control not to let her mouth drop open. Not once had her mother ever acknowledged the relations whose blood, as she described it, flowed in her veins. The fact she was a bastard aside, here she was being forthcoming about them and in a voice that carried. It was if she wanted Sir Everard to take her; Tilly, who’d never put herself out for anyone, least of all her daughter — not since she carried her away from Bea
rwoode that wretched, rain-filled day so many years ago.

  Beyond Sir Everard, the women ceased waving their fans and appraised Rosamund, craning their necks to study her boldly. Aware of their scrutiny, Rosamund’s chin lifted. Even the men straightened and cleared their throats noisily, one spitting, others averting their eyes as if to compensate for the manner in which they’d appreciated her assets that morning. Like she was common muck an’ all.

  Everyone waited with bated breath for Sir Everard to respond. First replacing his hat, he plucked a kerchief from his waistcoat and slowly dabbed his forehead.

  ‘Bearwoode… a Tomkins…’ he said quietly. He studied Tilly’s apparel, her face, before his eyes slid to Rosamund. For the first time in months, Rosamund wished she’d washed that bit harder, spent more time scrubbing her neck and hands — only, any time she did, she paid a hefty price.

  ‘When I suggested I… er… um… buy… your daughter,’ said Sir Everard, ‘I’m afraid you misunderstood my intentions. I sought no mistress nor a wife, but to take her under my wing, like she was my… my… my own daughter.’ He glanced towards Jacopo.

  ‘Daughter? Ha! Think I haven’t heard that kind of confeck before? I know what you’re offerin’ all too well,’ said Tilly, earning a snigger from Paul and some of the men.

  Sir Everard ignored them. ‘I never meant to infer my offer was less than honourable —’

  ‘Well,’ interrupted Tilly, waving a hand to silence him, ‘if that’s the case, our business ’ere is concluded. We’ve nothing to discuss. You’ll not be takin’ ’er anywhere, ’onorable intentions or no. She’s not for sale, not without surety and, in this case, that be a ring and your name. Daughter my arse. She be my daughter and that be it. May God give you good day, sir. Come, Rosamund.’ Swinging Rosamund around, she tucked her arm through hers and pulled her away, head held high, her back straighter than the fine piece of wood upon which Sir Everard leaned.