by Karen Brooks
Rosamund studied the facade with great interest. The building was twice the size of its neighbours. There were three storeys, the lower one with large glass windows. Above them was blackened stone and long casement windows with tessellated glass. Above this was a jettied wooden storey with small dormers. The place was imposing. Directly opposite was the entrance to Exchange Alley, a tight covered walkway that broadened into what appeared to be a cruciform shape, exposed to the skies.
Sir Everard pushed open the door and bade Rosamund enter. A merry bell trilled her arrival.
She stepped into a room lined with shelves filled with all manner of books. There were two large tables in the centre, and a long counter occupied the far wall. Behind this was a rear door, which was ajar. On almost every surface were stacked books, folios, piles of news sheets and news books, almanacs, and numerous pamphlets with prints of flowers, women, children and buildings upon them. There were posters and notices tacked to any available surface and scrolls tied with string in bundles on the counter. Candles burned in lamps, illuminating pockets of the shop, their greasy scent mixing with the more pleasant one of old paper. Quills and inks also occupied the counter as well as an open ledger beside which sat a lump of cheese and a tankard. There was a steep staircase to Rosamund’s immediate left. Overhead was loud thumping, hammering and the guttural shouts of working men. The entire room was filled with what Rosamund first thought was smoke, but quickly realised was plaster dust when something heavy was dropped on the floor above, causing a cascade of white to rain upon them. The shafts of light, both from daylight beaming through the window and the candles burning within, created passages in which colonies of motes spiralled. Reaching for a kerchief, Rosamund sneezed three times in succession.
There was the scuffle of boots and a man rushed through the door behind the counter, positioning himself swiftly as he wiped stained hands on an old cloth tucked into his apron.
‘Oh, it’s you, Sir Everard,’ he said with relief. He was of medium height and sported a strangely coloured periwig and frilled shirt, the latter all but hidden under a leather apron. He had the biggest nose Rosamund had ever seen, maybe because it was so very red and had a rather large wen in the corner. His eyes, which were bloodshot, appeared swollen.
‘God’s good day to you, sir,’ he smiled, flashing a mouth with as many spaces as teeth and doffing his cap. ‘I thought you were Muddiman or worse, L’Estrange, here for a reckoning.’
‘Ah, William,’ said Sir Everard amiably, touching the brim of his hat. ‘Still suffering the effects of the renovations, I see.’ He gestured to the man’s clothes and face.
William rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘Me and my goods. A bibliophile only likes dusty books when they’re discovered in foreign monasteries or left in some benefactor’s will. No-one likes new items to be so afflicted, not even me,’ he said with a droll expression, beating his apron from which clouds of white chalk plumed. ‘It renders them old before their time.’
And men. Rosamund noted the way the dust settled in the creases on his face, emphasising them. His shirt was not grey, it was actually cream. Rosamund peered at the wig more closely.
‘How much longer do you think they’ll take, milord?’ William swept his hand across the counter, revealing the chestnut wood beneath the dust. ‘It’s affecting my business. If it wasn’t for the printing press out the back and my licence, I’d be sore pressed to make a living.’ As he finished, there was a loud bang above, followed by another shower of plaster and laughter. Footsteps could be heard before hammering resumed.
Sir Everard made a click of exasperation and slapped the powder from his jacket. ‘The men are working as fast as they’re able. Just be grateful I’m paying you for the inconvenience. That should more than compensate for any losses and enable you to meet your debts.’
William muttered something under his breath. ‘Financial losses, maybe, but it’s goodwill I can’t account for, and it’s not like there are no other bookstores customers can patronise, what with St Paul’s and those places in the Poultry. Even my regulars are choosing to buy their stationery from Watson’s over there.’ He jerked his chin in the direction of the shop on the opposite corner. ‘Scot reckons his business has never been better since you bought into the Lane.’ He nodded towards the bookseller across the road. ‘And God knows how long my licence will last with the mercurial L’Estrange about to be put in charge of printing. All it takes is one wrong word and he’d shut me down.’ Finally, he paused and noticed Rosamund.
‘Forgive me. Here I am complaining and forgetting my manners. Who might I have the pleasure of addressing?’ he asked, looking her up and down as he bowed, grinning broadly, the powder on his face settling into friendly creases. ‘Haven’t we met before?’
‘No, good sir. Of that I am certain.’ Rosamund dropped a curtsey. ‘I am —’
‘My wife —’ finished Sir Everard, covering Rosamund’s hand, which was still on his arm.
‘Wife?’ William gave an awkward bow. ‘Why, I didn’t know you had another one, sir. I mean, I didn’t know you’d re— I mean… Ah… Welcome to my humble shop, my lady. I must say, your resemblance to —’
‘This is the Lady Rosamund,’ said Sir Everard brusquely. ‘She’s a Tomkins of Durham and newly arrived from the country. I’ve brought her to London to teach her everything I can about the trade before we open.’ He pointed a finger upwards.
‘Hmmm, Tomkins, hey?’ He looked at her with fresh appreciation. ‘Learning about the trade, you say — the chocolate house, no less.’ The way William said it, he might have been discussing a conventicle of Catholics. ‘Have you tried the stuff yet, milady?’
‘No, Mister…?’
‘Henderson, but you may call me William, or Will. Most do. Then I hope you like it better than I do. Not that I’ve had any from upstairs yet.’ He pulled a face. ‘Nasty foreign ooze if you ask me. Best left to the Spaniards and Catholics with their pleasure-loving ways and fancy notions, him above excepted.’ He pointed a finger towards the ceiling.
Startled, Rosamund wondered if he was referring to God.
‘No-one did ask you, Mr Henderson,’ said Sir Everard, reminding the man of his position. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you kept your opinions to yourself.’
‘No, yes, well,’ said Mr Henderson, understanding he’d overstepped the mark. ‘Don’t let me hold you up. Pleasure to meet you, milady. If I can assist you with any titles you might like to read…?’ His arm swept the room, raining more flecks in its wake. ‘Or a news book or two?’ He flicked a stack of papers on the bench.
‘You too, sir,’ said Rosamund quickly, dismayed by his offer and wanting to quit his sight before he repeated it.
Leaving Mr Henderson and the deluges of plaster behind, they climbed the stairs.
Whatever she had imagined when she tried to picture the chocolate house, it wasn’t this disordered room filled with men in stained breeches and aprons, their sleeves rolled, bent over sawhorses, up ladders, hammering, painting and altogether appearing remarkably busy. There were dust sheets — for all the good they did — jumbles of chairs, pieces of broken wood, buckets filled with a noxious-smelling liquid, and windows so filthy there was little point to them. An astringent smell enveloped everything, underpinned by tobacco, sweat and another, richer, more earthy aroma.
Jacopo held the door open and Sir Everard tapped his cane hard against the floor. A man detached himself from a group. Doughty, with a stomach that arrived before he did, he doffed his cap to reveal a pate on which some strands of dark hair were buried beneath fine white specks. He gave a bow to Sir Everard, winked at Jacopo and flashed a wide, toothless grin at Rosamund that almost made his fleshy cheeks explode.
‘Good afternoon, Sir Everard.’
‘Remney,’ said Sir Everard. ‘Rosamund, this is my builder, Mr Remney.’ She waited for him to formally introduce her, but he continued on. ‘You received my note regarding the wood for the bar?’ Sir Everard scanned the room.
‘Aye, milord. This morning. The men have wasted no time removing it.’ Remney performed a flourish with his cap. ‘We’ve already reordered and will have its replacement built as soon as able.’
Sir Everard nodded approval.
‘Since your last visit,’ continued Mr Remney, ‘that wall is complete,’ he pointed towards a structure at the end of the room, ‘as is the kitchen, which pleased Señor Filip no end, let me tell you. We’re in the process of building the three tables you requested and, after we’ve rebuilt the bar, we’ll make the booths, fix the broken stools, paint the walls, hang the lights, bolt the last of the sconces, and then you can spruce the place up all nice.’ As he spoke, he regarded Rosamund with a very healthy curiosity. As did the other men who, though they kept working, did so with one eye upon her.
Self-conscious under their scrutiny, Rosamund edged a little closer to Sir Everard. She was his wife, after all.
Preoccupied, Sir Everard released her and beckoned for Remney to follow him. Soon they were thick in conversation.
Rosamund wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. The room was like the aftermath of a battlefield, strewn with the corpses of wood, paint and rags.
‘Signora,’ said Jacopo. ‘While the signore inspects the works, would you like to meet the chocolate maker, Señor Filip?’
This must be the man Sir Everard claimed he stole from the King of Spain. She glanced at her husband, who was using his stick to lift a dust sheet. ‘I would, Jacopo. Very much.’
Picking their way through the workmen and debris, Jacopo led her towards a heavy curtain at the back of the room. It reminded Rosamund of the one travelling players would erect upon their temporary stage at the Cock and Bull at Gravesend.
In an act of pure showmanship, Jacopo gripped the middle of the fabric and lifted it.
Ducking slightly, Rosamund went through, Jacopo so close behind her she could feel his warm breath on her neck. The curtain dropped, and she found herself in a long, narrow room that disappeared around a corner, filled with steam and gurgling noises.
‘You must needs be more careful, sir!’ cried a stern voice.
‘My apologies, señor,’ called Jacopo, peering through the mist. ‘I bring you a guest — of Sir Everard’s.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Bring her forward.’
Jacopo steered Rosamund through the damp air, his hand at the small of her back.
It wasn’t until they came closer to the two great bubbling cauldrons hanging over a huge hearth that Rosamund was able to see her surrounds more clearly. Not that she needed her eyes to tell her what was happening when her nose was already alert. The heady smell of spices and something she didn’t recognise filled her nostrils, making her head spin and her senses reel.
It was warm this side of the curtain. Near the hearth was a smoke rack filled with small dark stone-like objects. Against one wall were shelves scattered with all manner of instruments. There were shiny pots, pans, and any number of what looked like silver coffee pots with slender wooden sticks jutting from a hole in the middle of their lids and a long handle protruding at the back. There were lovely porcelain bowls and plates as well as ladles, spoons, copper jugs and jars of colourful spices. She could just discern cinnamon, annis-seed, and what looked like vanilla pods, along with pails of liquid. There was milk, water, one filled with petals, another with the peel of oranges and lemons. Curious, Rosamund would have moved closer, only Jacopo pulled her in another direction.
‘Allow me to introduce you to our chocolate maker extraordinaire, Señor Filip de la Faya.’
A compact man with a thick mop of greying hair — no cap or periwig for him — emerged from the steam on the other side of the hearth. His eyes, which were almond-shaped and alive with curiosity, were a vivid grey, startling against his swarthy complexion. Bowing low, the man smiled revealing uneven teeth.
‘May I welcome you, mistress? Madam?’
‘Señora will do,’ said Jacopo. ‘This is signore’s wife, the Lady Rosamund. She’s here to taste the chocolate.’
‘His wife?’ Filip’s eyebrows rose. Recovering, Filip’s smile broadened to include Jacopo, who returned his grin warmly. ‘Welcome, my lady, to the chocolate kitchen, where we’re perfecting the drink for English palates. I beg your forgiveness for the noise.’ He shook his head in disapproval towards the curtain where the hammering and sawing continued. ‘And for the mess. Querido Dios,’ he exclaimed as a sneeze the other side of the curtain exploded. ‘And the dust. Most of which we manage to ensure remains out there.’ He looked pointedly at Jacopo before slapping him affectionately on the back.
Rosamund decided she liked this forthright man with the lilting voice, even if he was a Spaniard and likely a Papist with pleasure-loving ways and fancy notions. The dust he complained of was barely noticeable in this part of the room.
‘Thank you, Señor de la Faya,’ she said and noticed a rather sallow-skinned boy with unruly dark hair sticking out beneath his cap, who sat at a low table bearing a large stone. He moved a fat roller back and forth across the dense blackish substance splayed across the stone. Ignoring the strangers in the kitchen, the boy continued working, the tip of his tongue peeping from the corner of his mouth.
‘This is my son, Solomon,’ said Filip, urging Rosamund closer and placing a hand on Solomon’s shoulder. The boy ceased rolling and looked up. He had his father’s eyes. Upon seeing Rosamund, his eyes widened and the colour in his cheeks deepened.
‘Hello, Solomon. That’s a fine name you’ve been given,’ Rosamund smiled.
The boy bowed his head. ‘It’s the name of a king in God’s good book.’ His hand flashed across his chest before it froze then dropped into his lap. Despite His Majesty’s calls for religious toleration, already the boy had learned to suppress the signs of his faith. Best in a country that, whatever King Charles said, regarded all Catholics as enemies. Rosamund prayed no-one else had seen his action lest it bring trouble.
‘It was his grandfather’s name, and his before that.’ Filip’s fingers dug into his son’s shoulder, causing Solomon to wince. The action had been noted after all. ‘We come from a long tradition of proud Spaniards.’
Determined to put father and son at ease, Rosamund said, ‘I have it on the best authority that Spaniards are the finest chocolate makers.’
Filip gave her a startled look.
Nodding, Rosamund said, ‘I can think of no-one better than you, Señor Filip, to tell me how the chocolate is made.’
The wary expression on Filip’s face altered immediately. ‘Is that so? Well…’ Reaching into a sack sitting on the floor beside his son, he pulled out a round dark mass. ‘Let’s start here, shall we? This is a chocolate cake.’
He passed it to Rosamund, who first removed her gloves, and held it in her palm. Heavy, thick and sticky, it was nothing like the cakes she knew. She wondered how it was eaten.
‘It’s the basis of the chocolate drink — broken into pieces before boiling water is added. We’re attempting to make our own cakes in the hope we do not have to import these from my homeland. This is what we’ve been doing since our arrival.’
‘You’re not long in London?’
‘About six weeks. The equipment only arrived two weeks ago, the raw materials a few days past, thanks to Sir Everard.’ He nodded towards what was in her hands. ‘That’s made from crushed cacao beans.’
‘Cacao?’
‘Si, cacao.’ Filip strode to the fireplace and returned with some small dark-brown pods, the same kind Rosamund had seen on the smoke rack and thought to be stones. ‘These are taken from inside the fruit of the cacao tree — Theobroma cacao. It means food of the gods.’ He beamed. ‘Si, señora —’ he tipped the tiny pods into her other palm, ‘in your hand, you hold the equivalent of ambrosia. An ambrosia we turn into nectar.’
‘Food of the gods…’ Rosamund stared at the seeds. They looked so ordinary, yet their name was so grand.
Filip continued, ‘They’
re roasted until the husks become brittle and we can peel them away. Then we grind the insides on a special stone called a metate — what my son is using. After any remaining grit is winnowed out, we’re left with a paste. This is fashioned into cakes. This is what Solomon is making. Smell it.’ He lifted her hand with the cake towards her nose.
Rosamund inhaled. There was little scent, just faint hints of earthiness, of duskiness. Same with the pods. ‘I can’t really smell —’
‘There’s not much odour. But once we add our flavourings…’ He gestured to the jars on the shelves, the sacks on the floor and the pails of liquid and flowers. ‘Then dissolve the cake in hot water, well…’ Once again, his eyes sparkled. ‘You will see.’
‘Indeed, she will.’ Sir Everard let the curtain fall behind him and brushed bits of detritus from his jacket. ‘Prepare some chocolate for my wife, Filip. First, let her taste it in its natural state, then include those additives of which you spoke.’
As Filip strode to the shelves to grab one of the silver pots, Sir Everard began a running commentary.
‘Did Filip explain about the cacao tree? He did. Good. Watch as he breaks off a piece of the cake and places it into the chocolate pot. Now he adds some boiling water, stirs vigorously to dissolve the cake and voilà — you have a drink. After you’ve tried it, he’ll add some sugar. Not all of us can drink it unadulterated like the Spaniards. It’s, shall we say, an acquired taste.’ He reached down to tug Solomon’s hair. ‘We English need sweetening, don’t we, Thomas?’
The last comment was directed towards another lad who sat on the other side of the hearth, quiet and unobtrusive. Now he all but cringed and began to work a large bellows to keep the fire burning hot. Sweat dripped from his brow and the front of his shirt, where it peeped above his apron, was wet. His hair, which was autumn brown, stuck to his moist forehead. He gave a quick nod.
‘Yes, milord.’ His voice alternated from high to low.
‘That is Filip’s other apprentice,’ said Sir Everard quietly. ‘Thomas Tosier. I’ve only recently hired him. In time, we’ll employ extra apprentices, more help. We also have Widow Ashe.’ As if on cue, a woman emerged from around the corner, a besom in one hand, a rag in the other. Dropping a curtsey, she could scarce look anyone in the eye; her cheeks were flushed, her face swollen, and she quickly disappeared to continue her duties. Sir Everard explained that her husband, one of Mr Remney’s men, had been killed when the cart delivering wood to the chocolate house had rolled back onto him. Rosamund bit back an exclamation. Why, the poor woman was not much older than her and already a widow. Since she had no family or friends to rely on in London, and had no desire to return to her native Berkshire, Sir Everard had told Mr Remney to put her to work. Responsible for keeping the kitchen free of dust while the renovations were in progress and fetching fresh water from the conduit, she’d only been working two days. No wonder her face was etched by sorrow; it also explained how awkward she was around the men. As soon as she could, she had allowed the steam to swallow her.
