The Chocolate Maker’s Wife

by Karen Brooks

  Rosamund regarded Sir Everard with kindly eyes. Seemed she wasn’t the only one to benefit from his largesse.

  It was only when Thomas resumed breathing life into the fire that the spell cast by Widow Ashe lifted. Nevertheless, Rosamund found herself searching for her; aware of the scratching of her besom, her soft shuffle.

  Encouraged by Sir Everard, Filip closed the lid on the unusual pot. Placing his hands on either side of the stick protruding from the hole in the lid, he began swivelling it back and forth between his palms.

  ‘Agitating the chocolate is, along with choosing the right additives —’ explained Sir Everard, gaining Rosamund’s full attention, ‘the most important part of preparing the drink. The stick, or molinillo, as the Spaniards call it, has ridges on the end.’ At a signal from Sir Everard, Jacopo darted over to the shelves and extracted a stick from a pot to show Rosamund, who placed the chocolate cake and cacao seeds on a nearby table, and took the stick in her fingers. Sir Everard explained, ‘It not only helps dissolve the cake and ensures the spices blend but creates the most delicious foam on top.’

  Filip ceased to work the drink and placed the pot on a tray with a beautifully patterned porcelain bowl. As he went to pour the chocolate, Sir Everard intervened.

  ‘Allow me,’ he said. He took the silver pot and, holding it with one hand by the long handle at an angle above the bowl, while using his other to keep the lid shut, poured from a height. A stream of muddy liquid splashed into the dish. ‘Here,’ he passed it to Rosamund. ‘As promised. Your first taste of sin in a bowl.’

  Aware everyone in the room was watching as she raised it to her lips, she closed her eyes and drank. All at once, the sounds that formed a percussive backdrop died away as a warm ribbon of thick fluid flowed down her throat, coating her tongue and leaving a small residue on the back of her lips. Heat filled her mouth and lapped her teeth before cascading in a hot waterfall to sit in her very core. Initially heavy, that feeling dissolved to be replaced by something oily, sour and very gritty.

  Unable to prevent it, she gagged. Resisting the urge to spit, she stared at Sir Everard and Filip in dismay. Only then did she see the grin on Filip’s face and the barely contained glee in Sir Everard’s. Even the boys turned their heads away lest she see their smiles. Jacopo simply shook his head. What tomfoolery was this? Why, no-one would pay to drink this rubbish, unless it was a torturer in the Tower who could put the threat of such a drink to good use.

  ‘It’s completely horrible,’ said Rosamund, coughing and smacking her lips together as she looked around for something that would rid her mouth of the awful taste. She’d be better off drinking coffee mixed with refuse from the streets.

  Sir Everard gave a long, loud laugh. ‘Without any additives, it is indeed a dreadful drink. My apologies, Rosamund, I’m deeply sorry. But you had to try it in its raw form to appreciate what comes next. You see, this is where Filip comes into his own. While the Spaniards can drink it untouched, emulating how the Mayans and Aztecs drank chocolate, they’ve also perfected what to add to transform it. Filip?’

  Filip swiftly opened the lid of the pot and with a flourish added first a little milk, then sugar, a pinch of cinnamon, some red powder, and other spices Rosamund didn’t recognise. He agitated the liquid with the molinillo once more and poured the contents into a second bowl, which he offered to Rosamund.

  She hesitated.

  ‘Go on, my dear. Taste it. I promise, you won’t regret it,’ said Sir Everard softly.

  Taking the bowl from Filip, she gazed at the frothy contents. Sir Everard gently raised her hands towards her unwilling mouth. ‘What you drank before is how the other businesses serve their chocolate. This, this is how we will serve ours.’

  Shutting her eyes and praying she wouldn’t embarrass herself by choking on the drink, Rosamund took a cautious sip.

  All at once something light and wondrous wrapped itself around her tongue and travelled down her throat in a sweet river of molten marvel. Her eyes flew open, followed by her mouth. A long, sweet breath escaped and her lips curved into a beatific smile. Slowly she licked her lips, trying to recapture the taste and understand it. Colours leapt into her head. She thought of the deep purple of her mother’s favourite hat, the soft velvet of the puppet show’s curtains, the stars above Bearwoode sparkling as if just for her, winking and blinking against their onyx backdrop. She recalled birdsong, the hum of bees in summer and, before she could prevent it, a burble of laughter escaped, rising from the same spot the chocolate now pooled, lifting her heart and exploding like the tiny bubbles that sat atop the drink.

  The contrast between this and her first sip could not have been greater. Her laughter grew, mingling with the bitter-sweet taste in her mouth, melding with the steam and honey-glow of the candles and the hearth. The sound was so pure, so heart-achingly magical, that each person beside her would recall it later that night in their dreams.

  For the first time in weeks, Filip would be able to reconcile his guilt over the circumstances in which he left his homeland. Solomon would clutch his pillow and see the face of the little girl in the barber’s next door with the tumbling curls and toothy grin. Thomas would remember the newly born kittens being licked by their mother. For the first time since her Davey died, Ashe wouldn’t weep herself to sleep. Sir Everard would be spared dreaded nocturnal memories of his wife and children, while Jacopo would wake with an erection so painful, he surprised his lover by thrusting into him without warning, delighting him with his sudden manliness and need.

  As if waking from a dream herself, Rosamund gradually became aware of the men and the boys staring at her and Ashe, her broom still, observing her with undisguised envy. As her laughter eased, her delight was echoed back in their expressions.

  ‘Why, milord,’ she said, composing herself, ‘if there is a way to find paradise on earth, then surely this is heaven.’

  At the end of the day, while fires were doused, stock set in order for the morrow’s preparation and perfecting, Rosamund wandered around, a bowl of chocolate in her hand, noting the number of chocolate cakes being stored, the type and quality of the equipment.

  She drifted towards a table hidden around a corner at the very back of the room, aware that wherever she wandered, Ashe hovered nearby, afraid to approach her but curious all the same. It reminded her of what she’d been like as a child at the inn, watching the guests, the servants too, longing to befriend them but knowing it was not her right. She made sure to smile warmly at the woman but was disappointed when she turned away. To Ashe, she was as remote as those at Gravesend had once been. The thought filled her with sadness — she was caught betwixt two worlds, belonging to neither.

  The table before her was strewn with ledgers, paperwork and quills. Her hand alighted upon a sheaf of bound papers with a picture on the front she’d never seen before. It was a botanical of some sort, broken in half exposing tiny beans, much like the cacao ones she’d held earlier. Were these the chocolate pods of which Filip spoke? How fitting they were heart-shaped. For Rosamund knew, as sure as her eyes were brown and her hair pale gold, that Londoners would grow to love this enchanted substance — at least, they would the way Filip prepared it. Flicking through the pages, she was dismayed she could only admire rather than discern the content. Words such as ‘its’, ‘with’, ‘and’ and ‘others’ she could recognise and sound out; but these were merely words that fitted beside important ones. On their own they had little meaning. Defeated, she pushed the pages away.

  ‘Wadsworth’s translation,’ said a voice by her elbow.

  She’d been so lost in studying the documents, she hadn’t heard Sir Everard approach. ‘I haven’t had time to read it yet, but I’m told if you want to understand chocolate, it’s invaluable,’ he said. ‘Wadsworth was a captain, took it upon himself to translate a doctor named Antonio Colmenero de Ledema’s work on the drink. He had years of experience making chocolate, refined the process.’ Picking up the documents, he gave them to her. ‘Here.
Take these home. I want you to read it; no, I want you to understand it.’

  Horrified, Rosamund quickly dissembled. ‘Thank you, sir.’ Tucking the pages under her arm, her heart sank into her too-large shoes. How was she to read it if she could only decipher a few words?

  Suddenly, this delightful excursion became a reminder of all that was wrong with her sudden marriage — apart from the obvious. Here was Sir Everard, who had shown her nothing but kindness and understanding, who had given her the gift of his name, his wealth and her first taste of chocolate. No. That she wanted to forget. Given her a second taste of this nectar of the gods. All she’d done was be complicit in the illusion of her talents; the falsehoods her mother told in order to trap the man and which she’d made no effort to undo.

  Torn by the desire the chocolate had aroused, Rosamund also wanted to flee and retreat to the sanctuary of her bedroom. There, she would pray to God and ask for his help in unravelling the dreadful knot of lies before they did any more damage. For a fleeting second, she was shocked to realise it was her room at the inn she pictured, not the one at Blithe Manor. Despondent, she thought of the closet and all the memories it contained.

  Sensing the shift in her mood, Sir Everard tilted his head. ‘Forgive me, Rosamund,’ he said softly. ‘I was so determined to show you the chocolate house, to have you to experience the drink, I forgot that yesterday you were not only ripped from your old life but were the victim of a harsh accident. How is your head?’

  Grateful she had an excuse, Rosamund lifted a hand to where the hooves had struck. ‘I fear I have a megrim coming on, sir.’

  ‘Come, we’ll get you home. The chocolate house will still be here. Remember, you may return whenever you wish. In fact, I insist you do. I want you to feel as at home here as at Blithe Manor.’

  Uncertain how to respond, Rosamund nodded and smiled.

  It wasn’t until they went to leave, and she said farewells to Filip, Solomon, Thomas and Widow Ashe, taking a last, lingering look at the chocolate beans, the elegant pots, the delicate serving bowls and the magical stick that worked such wonders upon the liquid, that she acknowledged that until she told her husband the truth about her so-called literacy, she could never allow herself to enjoy chocolate or the chocolate house again.

  NINE

  In which a husband hears a confession

  There was not one part of Sir Everard’s body that wasn’t aching or beset by confounded shaking. His fingers quivered before his eyes as if possessed and his legs weren’t cooperating either. With a click of annoyance, he forced his hands back under the coverlets. Sinking into the pillows, he tried to breathe deeply and allow the mulled wine he’d drunk as quickly as he was able to take effect. Jacopo fussed in the background, brushing his jacket, folding his clothes, his head turned aside discreetly so as not to see his master ailing. Sir Everard stared at the curtains as they billowed about the bed in the evening breeze. He detested being at the whim of others, blown in directions he’d no control over. Damned if he wasn’t again now Lovelace had re-entered the picture.

  Quashing the anger that thoughts of the murderous turncoat and his written demands engendered, he reflected upon the day and decided that, altogether, it had been most successful. Not only had the chit looked lovely clean, with her hair styled and a decent dress (even if it was out of fashion and swam on her), but she entranced everyone they encountered. Rosamund had not only played her part to perfection but she’d been seduced by the delicious temptation of chocolate. Chuckling inwardly, he recalled her face as she drank — her first predictable reaction and her second taste. How those long dark lashes swept her creamy cheeks, her full lips thinning in appreciation of what she held in her mouth; those sweet dimples forming. She put him in mind not only of his beloved daughter, but the King’s sister Henriette-Anne, whose complexion had been likened to roses and jasmine. Had he been younger, more capable, he would have hardened at the sight. As it was, he knew Filip and Jacopo had visceral reactions, the young lads too. Widow Ashe had stared like a moon-struck loon.

  News of her presence would be irresistible, even to one who thought himself beyond such temptations. Once he was enticed by the idea of her, there’d be no turning back.

  His jaded heart quickened with excitement. That young woman was a prize; she would give him the advantage. With every breath he took, he knew she would be the instrument of his revenge.

  A quiet drumming at the door ended his self-congratulation. Jacopo paused in combing Sir Everard’s periwig.

  As if conjured by his thoughts, the door slowly cracked open to reveal Rosamund.

  ‘Milord,’ she said quietly. Gowned in the apricot gauze, with her long, shining curls tumbling down her shoulders to brush the top of her thighs, she was like an angel fallen to earth. ‘I apologise for disturbing you, but I was wondering if I might have a word?’

  Trying not to show his astonishment, or how his heart ached at the sight of her and the memories she conjured, Sir Everard sat up, once more cursing his frailty. ‘Of course, my dear, of course.’ He waved her towards the bed, touching his head to ensure his nightcap covered his barren scalp.

  Jacopo closed the door behind Rosamund, found a stool upon which she could perch and tied back the filmy bed-curtains, raising his brows in an unspoken question.

  Rosamund dragged the stool closer at her husband’s urging, giving Sir Everard time to compose himself and cover his legs so his affliction would not be apparent.

  ‘What brings you here at this time of night, my dear?’

  Rosamund, who’d barely looked at him since she entered, raised her chin. Her face was pale, and she wore a deep frown that somehow managed to lend her sweetness an air of surprising gravity. Sir Everard found he wanted to wipe that frown away. Good God. He was getting sentimental in his dotage. It would simply not do.

  ‘Good milord, I fear you might not like what I have to say.’

  ‘Then perhaps you might do best to hold your tongue.’

  Rosamund searched his face and Sir Everard thought how the likes of Charles Sedley or Alexander Brome would compose poems for her eyes alone. He marvelled at their colour. Helene’s had been a pallid blue. While Rosamund’s were the same almond shape, her eyes were unfathomable inky stains; at other times, when the light struck them, they were swirling pools of chestnut and amber, capable of twinkling with delight or darkening in fear and sadness. They were the latter tonight and Sir Everard felt as if he’d been told to whip an already broken creature. He was unaccustomed to such a feeling and uncertain how to deal with it.

  Taking a deep breath, Rosamund sat up straight. ‘My lord, I cannot — not any longer. It’s my duty to inform you that you’ve plighted your troth under false pretences with a miscreant of the worst kind.’

  Whatever Sir Everard anticipated hearing, it wasn’t this.

  ‘My mother told you I am learned; that I can read and write. While I did indeed begin to acquire both these skills, I’m no more proficient than a babe, my education being… interrupted. I can scarce make out words on a document let alone craft them for myself.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you? In omitting to tell you the truth, milord, I fear I’ve already failed in both the obedience and loyalty you require.’ She stared at her interlocked fingers a moment, her mouth moving, but no sounds issuing. When she started speaking again, her voice was so quiet, Sir Everard was forced to lean forward to hear. ‘At first, I didn’t think my ignorant state would matter. I know many wives of gentlemen who can scarce make their mark — which at least I can do — or read, but now I’ve seen the chocolate house, now you’ve given me those papers and tasked me with learning what’s contained within them, I can hide the truth no longer. Sir Everard, I am not the boon my mother promised; I am nothing but an ignorant burden.’

  Sir Everard glanced at Jacopo, who had ceased to tidy and was listening to the conversation with great interest, his face betraying nothing.

  ‘I see,’ Sir Everard said again.


  ‘You do?’

  ‘You’re telling me you’ve been party to a falsehood that you believe renders our marriage null and void.’

  Rosamund let out a shuddering sigh. ‘Aye, that’s exactly what I’m saying. You deserve better and I’m so sorry I was complicit in this deception. Having spent a mere day and night in your company, having met Señor Filip and his son and learned of your generosity to Widow Ashe, having seen for myself your intentions, I understand you have need of someone who grasps the complexities of your enterprises, someone who can offer you much more than I ever can. You require a helpmeet in both words and deed. So, sir, if you decide to… break our bond, I will quit your sight immediately and our vows will be as if they were never spoken. You will not hear from me again.’

  Sir Everard indicated that Jacopo was to pour some wine. Two goblets were brought over while Sir Everard pretended to consider her words.