The Chocolate Maker’s Wife

by Karen Brooks

  This wouldn’t do. Cursing her weakness, she resorted to pragmatism again.

  Testing the mattress, she was pleased to note it was soft. She sank into the feathers and wondered who’d slept on it before. Was this Sir Everard’s bedroom? There were two doors — the one she had entered by and another. Where did it lead? To Sir Everard’s chamber? Any thoughts she had about opening it were quashed. Was she to share his bed this night? Her throat grew tight. As his wife, was that not his prerogative? She offered up a swift prayer to God (and to her grandmother) that, even though he was old, he would be gentle and courteous, like the knights in the stories her grandmother told her. That he wouldn’t notice. That he’d be nothing like… nothing like…

  Stop. She was cleansed now. She wouldn’t sully that feeling by thinking of… the past.

  The mouth-watering smell of roasted meat reached her, reminding her she was utterly famished. Uncertain whether she was meant to indulge in the repast spread across the table or wait for company, Rosamund decided the amount of pheasant, bread, cheese and fruits, and the brimming decanter of wine, must be meant for two. Still, as the melting candles and the rhythmic tick of a clock suggested, Sir Everard’s ‘due course’ was taking a very long time.

  Resisting the cries of her stomach, she rose and went to the window and gazed out on the shadowy outlines of church spires and slate roofs, admiring the glow of distant bonfires and trying not to breathe in the thick smoke that hung in the air. Here was the city of which she’d dreamed, the city everyone spoke of — some reverently, in hushed tones; others more boldly, as if discussing a bear baiting; some spoke of it with such displeasure, it was as if they were describing Sodom and Gomorrah. In the distance she could hear the peal of a bell, the loud thump of a door, then a scream followed by coarse laughter and a volley of dog barks. London was wearing all its faces tonight. Turning away from the window, she continued her exploration of the room, opening empty drawers, running her hands over an assortment of glass ornaments, some with chips in them, picking up a fan, stroking a bed cover or chair. She was admiring a rich, if somewhat bedraggled tapestry hanging between the fireplace and the window when Sir Everard knocked and entered.

  ‘The room is to your liking?’ he asked, his arm describing an arc before he beheld her and froze. ‘My,’ he exhaled.

  Reddening under his appraisal, Rosamund was quick to respond. ‘Oh, indeed, sir. It’s… very nice.’

  Sir Everard returned to his senses. ‘I’ve been remiss in not saying it before, I do offer you welcome, Rosamund, and might I say, you look… well.’ He nodded. ‘I knew that with a bath and change of attire your loveliness would be evident.’ A look Rosamund was not unacquainted with appeared upon his face.

  Unable to help herself, Rosamund gave a dry chortle. ‘I would have thought you might also note the alteration in my fragrance, sir, since you found it so offensive before.’

  Sir Everard’s expression changed, his mouth opened and closed and he turned aside. ‘Ah… indeed. I see. Quite.’ His eyes fell upon the untouched food. ‘You haven’t eaten anything. I assumed you would be all but prostrate with hunger. You barely ate a morsel at the inn.’

  Rosamund dropped another curtsey. ‘I was waiting for you, milord.’

  Taking her by the elbow, he led her to a chair, using his stick to push aside an errant cushion. ‘Well, I’m here now. Sit, eat. Take your time. I’ve ordered the servants not to disturb us.’

  That comment gave her pause, but she arranged the flimsy robe and watched as Sir Everard sat in the chair opposite. ‘Will you join me, sir?’ she asked.

  He flapped a hand. ‘I’ve already eaten. Please, don’t stand on ceremony.’

  Repressing her shock that the meal was for her alone, and imagining how many customers such fare would feed (and the resultant profit), Rosamund began to pick at the meat, observing Sir Everard from beneath her lashes.

  Conscious of his eyes upon her, she ate slowly, making sure to chew with her mouth closed and holding a napkin close by to remove any grease from her lips or fingers. As the minutes passed and still Sir Everard didn’t say anything, Rosamund realised what a dullard she’d been.

  ‘Allow me to pour you a drink, milord,’ she said quickly. Half-standing, she splashed ruby liquid into the glasses, lifting one into Sir Everard’s outstretched hand.

  ‘May I propose a toast?’ asked Sir Everard.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘To my new wife.’

  Rosamund drank slowly. Summoning what little remained of her courage, she decided she’d nothing to lose and much to gain. While her mother thought knowledge overrated and questions intolerable, had not her grandmother said the ability to learn is man’s greatest asset? And how did one acquire learning if not by asking questions? A talent at which blasted women excelled, according to Paul.

  ‘Thank you, milord.’ Putting down her goblet, she began, ‘You referred to me as your new wife, which would imply there was an old one.’ She met his steady gaze.

  Sir Everard’s brow furrowed. ‘Indeed, there was. In fact, this was her room. I’ve not been in it since…’ He didn’t finish.

  Despite the expression on his face, the fact he was forthcoming heartened Rosamund’s resolve. Enjoying the mellow feel of the claret on her throat and the rich taste of pheasant, she leaned forward. ‘May I be so bold as to ask you a question?’

  Sir Everard waved his permission.

  ‘Why did you marry me? It’s evident your servants were astonished.’ He didn’t correct her. ‘While it’s clear I’ve much to gain from this arrangement —’ her nod encompassed the house, ‘I’m yet to understand how you benefit. What can you hope to gain from plighting your troth with me?’

  Sir Everard drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and took a long draught of his wine. ‘Why did I marry you?’ he repeated slowly, staring at a point beyond Rosamund’s shoulder. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve been asked that question tonight. It will not be the last.’

  Snapping out of his reverie, Sir Everard regarded her solemnly. ‘I’m not surprised my behaviour at the inn, offering to… errr…’ He paused, flicked his hand towards her a few times. ‘Must be troubling you. What sort of a man does that on a whim?’

  Rosamund nodded. She’d be lying if she didn’t admit it caused her more than a little perturbation.

  ‘You see, Rosamund, despite my impulsiveness, I married you with a particular purpose in mind. You’re quite correct that marriage never entered my initial reckoning, but when your mother pointed out it’s essentially a business transaction, I thought, dammit, she’s right. After all, when I married Margery (my old wife), I gained useful family connections, some of whom you’re bound to meet, and I’m afraid they must be endured, and her generous dowry. In return, she gained my name, a title, and later shared my growing wealth. Neither of us were too proud to turn to trade and improve our situation through hard work… unlike some. It was all that saved us during the Interregnum and Cromwell’s rule. Our families invested in us and we invested in each other. Just like a business. We protected each other, profited from our relationship. That’s what I’m doing now: in giving you the advancement that comes with my name, I’m investing in you with the intention to profit. It’s evident your fortunes have undergone dramatic alteration, allowing me to find you in such reduced circumstances. Despite your father’s name, marrying you was a risk; but something tells me —’ he thumped his breastbone to indicate what that something was, ‘you’ll be worth it.’ He leaned forward, his right hand curled upon his knee. ‘Understand this, Rosamund. I always expect good returns on my investments.’

  Taken aback, Rosamund waited.

  ‘As my wife, even though you’re a bastard —’

  She winced.

  ‘— you’ll enjoy a certain degree of prestige… and notoriety.’ He sank back into the seat.

  Rosamund worked to keep her face impassive as she wondered exactly what that meant.

  ‘What of the house, milord?
I’ve never been responsible for so large an establishment, for running it. As your wife, I assume I —’ How could she confess she’d never been responsible for any establishment? Unless the Maiden Voyage Inn counted and then she was hardly accountable — that particular pleasure had been Paul’s. Not that it prevented him apportioning blame when things went wrong, and punishment when it did… or didn’t. She swallowed and looked around, hoping her sense of being overwhelmed with responsibility wasn’t apparent.

  Sir Everard dismissed her anxieties. ‘Bianca is my housekeeper and has done a fine job of taking care of Blithe Manor since Margery’s death. Until you’re ready to take on the various duties a wife would, she will continue to manage.’ Leaning back in the chair, he smiled. ‘You’re not to concern yourself with such trivialities yet. I’ve another task I want you to focus on. My only expectation of you, Rosamund, is that you do exactly as I ask.’

  Rosamund mind was spinning. ‘What do you ask of me, milord?’

  Sir Everard adjusted his necktie, smoothed his hands down the front of his waistcoat then rested them atop his knees.

  ‘Quite simply, what I require of you above and beyond anything else, is both loyalty and obedience.’

  Rosamund waited for him to say more, but he appeared to have finished. She could hardly believe her ears. Was this all Sir Everard wanted in return for not only providing her with the means to escape her previous life, but giving her his name and the benefits of his fortune? There had to be a catch. Surely no man could be so generous, so forthcoming. What had she, Rosamund Tomkins, done to deserve such a benefactor? Why, she was already loyal — how could she not be? As for obedience, was it not a woman’s natural state?

  Sitting very straight, her hands folded in her lap, Rosamund said, ‘I can be both those things, milord.’

  ‘I never doubted,’ said Sir Everard, smiling at her. She hadn’t noticed before, but his teeth were quite crooked; like the tombstones in the churchyard at Gravesend. Whether it was a trick of the candles or not, there was something predatory about his expression. ‘I’m also pleased you’re not one of those women who bombard men with questions. I don’t like them.’

  Rosamund felt a rush of discomfort. Nevertheless, she took note. The last thing she wanted to do was displease him.

  ‘There’s something else you should know as well,’ said Sir Everard. ‘Something that will help you understand what I’m going to ask of you in the coming weeks — the task for which I want you to prepare.’

  Rosamund swallowed. Here it comes. ‘Oh?’

  ‘You see, Rosamund, when you married me, you didn’t just become Lady Blithman.’

  Unable to prevent it, the words tripped from her mouth. ‘What else did I become?’ Her voice was barely a whisper as her heart tumbled in her chest.

  ‘Today, my lady, you also became a chocolate maker’s wife.’

  SIX

  In which husband and new wife discourse about chocolate

  ‘Chocolate maker?’ She swiftly adjusted her tone, turning her involuntary question into a statement. ‘You’re a chocolate maker.’

  ‘Among other things, yes.’ He smiled at the expression on her face. ‘It’s a… new venture of mine. One in which you will play an important role.’

  ‘Choc-o-late,’ she said again, lingering on every syllable, making it last longer.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sir Everard, smiling. ‘Chocolate. I’m about to open a chocolate house here in London.’

  ‘A chocolate house?’ She’d heard of coffee houses, but chocolate ones? Why, this was completely splendid.

  ‘I’ve recently, er… acquired property in Birchin Lane, not far from here. It’s being renovated to accommodate the new business. In a matter of weeks, we’ll be open to the public. What say you to that, Rosamund?’

  ‘I’m not certain what to say, sir. I’m… shocked, nay, delighted. This isn’t what I expected at all.’

  Sir Everard smiled. ‘Have you ever tasted chocolate?’

  Clearly the prohibition on questions didn’t apply to him. ‘No, I…’ She shook her head. ‘No.’ Paul had intended to purchase some to serve at the inn, but since the excise was twice that imposed on coffee, the cost had been prohibitive.

  Sir Everard’s eyes crinkled in anticipation. ‘Well, that’s an oversight we’ll remedy. Let me tell you, it’s the wonder of our age.’ His head rested against the back of his chair and he shut his eyes. ‘I remember the first time I tried it. I was in Spain. I thought I’d entered the gates of paradise. I knew then, I was destined to introduce my countrymen —’ his eyes flew open, ‘and women — to its joys.’ He frowned. ‘Even so, I’m not the first to bring the beverage to London. Already, there are booksellers offering the drink and extolling its medicinal value. They say it prolongs life.’ He made a disparaging noise. ‘There’s Sury’s near East Gate serving a dreadful version, and a man named Richard Mortimer has started making medicinal comfits in his shop in Sun Alley in East Smithfield. He calls them “queen’s chocolatas”, but they look more like tiny hedgehogs, smell as bad and have the consistency of nuts. They break teeth.’ He tapped his cheek. ‘Much is claimed for chocolate — from curing stomach complaints to coughs and other diseases, which is all very well and good, but that’s not the most interesting thing about it. There’s another advantage to the drink which will, if I do it right, set my chocolate house apart from any other establishment.’ He cocked a brow, daring Rosamund to ask.

  Up for the dare, she did. ‘May I know the nature of this advantage, milord?’

  ‘You may.’ Sir Everard lowered his voice. ‘I have it on the best authority that chocolate is the most marvellous aphrodisiac known to man.’ He grinned wryly. ‘It’s an elixir that will increase a man’s sap and incite love-passions in women. It rules amour, Rosamund, and in a kingdom that’s controlled by love and lust, that has a king who holds his prick the way other rulers do their sceptres, that makes it priceless.’ He studied her a moment, pleased he was spared the usual maidenly blushes at his vulgarity.

  ‘It’s this aspect of chocolate I believe will allow our establishment to cast others into the shade. In due course, naturally.’ He smiled. ‘While coffee clears the mind, facilitates conversation and allows insights, chocolate is for those who seek pleasure. It’s the ultimate temptation: Eve’s apple in this overgrown city garden. I intend that every man and woman will desire to bite into its flesh and drink its juices.’

  He reached for her hands, holding them tightly. His skin was warm, his fingers soft. A gentleman’s. Yet what he was discussing wasn’t very gentlemanly. It made her feel hot and a little uncomfortable in a dreamy sort of way. Shafts of quicksilver speared her chest, her loins, made her flesh dance beneath her shift. She shivered.

  ‘What say you to that, my Lady Rosamund?’

  Rosamund stared at his white hands gently holding hers. ‘I think it sounds… fascinating. Fascinating and, if I may be so bold, sir, naughty.’

  Releasing her, Sir Everard guffawed. ‘Naughty. Now, there’s a word I haven’t heard since my boys were breeched.’ He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. ‘Naughty. I like that. Yes, I intend we’ll be very naughty indeed. More than you realise.’ His eyes ceased to see her as he looked inwards.

  My boys. Rosamund stored that for later.

  Rising, he began to pace again, his leg dragging slightly. ‘In the Queenshead, a tavern at the end of this very street, there’s a Frenchman making and selling chocolate. I’ve been watching him since he started; the men working at the Royal Exchange go there in droves. There’s also Morat the Great in Exchange Alley, he offers drinks of it in his coffee house. Christopher Bowman purports to serve it at the Turk’s Head, but those who’ve tasted the bona fide article know he’s really selling coffee but charging for chocolate.’ He shook his head, but whether in dismay or admiration, Rosamund couldn’t tell.

  ‘The Frenchies love it, so do the Spaniards and God knows, there’s plenty in this city who love them and ape their every fad and fa
shion. London is about to go wild for this West Indian drink — the genuine product — as word of its taste and the benefits that accrue from drinking it spreads.’ He paused in the middle of the room. ‘Especially its naughty benefits.’ He chuckled. So did Rosamund, pleased she’d delighted him so.

  ‘Before any more competitors arise, I will open my dedicated house, where anyone and everyone can come and taste what’s been described as sin in a bowl; where they can relax, converse, and drink my specially prepared chocolate.’ He stopped and stared out the window. ‘It will be my house; my triumph.’

  ‘May I see it?’ Rosamund thought a few more questions wouldn’t hurt, especially when Sir Everard was being so loquacious.

  He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Oh, my dear, you will do so much more than that.’ Before she could ask what he meant, he raised his glass. ‘To chocolate,’ he said.

  ‘To chocolate,’ she replied and drank. Her head swam, her senses were afire. Unaccustomed to so much wine, so much physical comfort, the urge to sleep began to settle and her head began to ache again.

  ‘Tomorrow, I will take you to see the chocolate house and introduce you to its delights; I will have my man prepare for you the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted.’

  ‘You don’t prepare it, sir?’

  ‘Me? No, my dear. I’ve contracted the services of the King of Spain’s former chocolate maker — stole him, truth be told.’ He laughed. ‘A man named Filip de la Faya and his son, Solomon, make the chocolate for me. For us,’ he corrected quickly. ‘It’s his chocolate you will drink. The Spaniards might be blood-sucking Papists, but they’re the only ones who really know how to prepare it.’

  ‘I will look forward to that very much, sir,’ said Rosamund.

  ‘Now that’s settled,’ said Sir Everard, putting down his wine and reaching into his waistcoat. He pulled out a long-stemmed clay pipe and pouch. ‘Let’s return to our earlier conversation.’