by Karen Brooks
Rosamund wondered what to do. Dare she complain to Sir Everard? What if Jacopo was rebuked? She could never forgive herself and, furthermore, bringing trouble upon Jacopo would hardly endear her to his sister, or indeed the other servants. She would think about other ways to make the time at the chocolate house beneficial. There was much she could grasp from observing Filip and the boys. As for reading, she would master it, despite Jacopo.
What she didn’t admit to him was, with every line he read and she repeated, some of her early lessons were returning to her. The thrill of recognition, the blooming of understanding caused a frisson similar to encountering an old friend. No matter what it took, she would read Wadsworth’s translation of Colmenero and learn all she could about chocolate.
She wished she’d been more tactful in presenting her ideas for the chocolate house to Sir Everard instead of blundering in. Had she learned nothing from her time at the Maiden Voyage Inn? It had taken her years to acquire and hone the skills that allowed Paul to believe her notions regarding the business were in fact mostly his. It was strange how women weren’t supposed to have original opinions or contribute to business or, it seemed, society in any meaningful way. Not openly, anyhow. It was as if everything was invented by men — even when it wasn’t. Women had to behave as if they hadn’t a serious thought in their heads. Smiling, being ingratiating and deferential, that was the sensible path, even for smart women. It was something she’d learned from observing Tilly, Widow Cecily, Dorcas, even the serving girls when they flirted with male customers. And had adopted in her own interactions with her stepfather and the twins.
Believing Sir Everard was a different kind of man, more like Master Dunstan and what she imagined her father would have been like had he lived, she’d misstepped. He’d seemed so prepared to listen, to accede to others’ suggestions, even a woman’s (hadn’t he listened to her mother when she’d said he should marry her?), that she’d misread him. It wouldn’t happen again.
What was it Widow Cecily always said? Grin and endure. It was something she’d become proficient in, smiling as if her life depended on it.
She wasn’t surprised to find Jacopo had vanished when she returned to the table. Rosamund pulled the treatise towards her, studying the paragraphs Jacopo had already read, trying to make sense of them, able to recall parts. She made a note to tell Sam that Dr Colmenero found drinking chocolate ‘cured the stone’. During their conversation that morning Sam had told her in considerable detail how, four years earlier, he’d seen a surgeon called Thomas Hollier, and had a stone the size of a tennis ball removed from his lower regions.
Such a peculiar man was Sam Pepys, but very nice all the same. Rosamund had enjoyed listening to him, even about his operation. She was left with the strong impression that he was oft underestimated due to his rather plain countenance and short stature. She smiled and hoped he was serious in his invitation, issued just before Sir Everard appeared, to take her to the theatre. Appalled she’d never been to a proper playhouse, he’d immediately offered to escort her.
Delighted, Rosamund had clasped her hands. ‘That would be lovely. And I would get to meet your wife.’
‘Oh, her,’ said Sam, with a dismissive twist of his wrist. ‘Perhaps.’ The glow in his eyes dimmed.
Upon reflection, though Sam had spoken a great deal about himself and the important people he knew, he’d barely mentioned his wife. Rosamund couldn’t even recall her name.
When Jacopo still didn’t reappear, Rosamund waited a few more minutes then decided to go in search of him. She’d been so lost in revising, she’d failed to notice that not only were Filip and the boys gone, but the constant clamour of the workmen had ceased. Parting the curtain, she found the large room deserted. At that moment, bells began to toll. Why, it was midday.
Where was everyone?
‘Widow Ashe, Ashe?’ she called.
A timid face peeked around the corner. ‘Madam?’ said a soft, high voice.
‘Where are the men?’
‘Gone to the ordinary down the road for vittles, madam,’ she said, jerking her thumb towards the street. ‘Said they’d bring us back som’in.’ Before Rosamund could ask another question, the woman slipped away.
Emboldened at being left alone, Rosamund stepped beyond the curtain, keen to inspect the chocolate house without having to endure the stares of the workers. As she wandered about, noting some fine new benches in need of sanding and the wooden bones of what would become a row of booths, all constructed since yesterday, she hoped Jacopo wouldn’t be gone too long. She’d barely broken her fast that morning, she had been so taken up with Sam’s arrival; she was quite famished.
Back in the kitchen, the vats bubbled, but the pans that held cacao beans had been removed from the heat and the metate upon which Solomon had rolled cakes was clean. She made her way out of the kitchen area towards a small window and pushed it open, inhaling the sultry air. Across from where she stood was the roof of the barber’s, and beyond that, she could see shadows and the glow of candles in the rear windows of the offices along the street, but little else. The clop of hooves, the rumble of iron wheels, traders’ shouts and even the faint clucking of chickens carried. Immediately below was a small yard with a ramshackle building that might have been stables. Feeling uncomfortably warm, and with Widow Ashe reluctant to keep her company, she decided to explore outside. Around the corner from the table, almost hidden by a cupboard, was a door. With some difficulty she opened it to reveal a dark, narrow staircase. Eschewing the lanthorn hanging from a hook, she descended carefully, hands pressed against the walls.
At the bottom she opened a door into the yard and blinked in the daylight. Bound by side walls shared with the neighbours, at the rear was a fence with a gate that led to a church which fronted Lombard Street. The yard was compact and very untidy. There was a strong smell of urine; urine and another, metallic smell. Empty barrels were stacked along a wall, some split from being left out in the elements. A pile of refuse had matured beside them and shuddered slightly as if rats burrowed within it. Trampled grass led to the old stables. The building was timber with double doors tightly closed, incongruously, by a shiny lock. If it wasn’t for the fence on one side holding it up, a gust of wind might blow the building over.
The new lock intrigued her. Why bother securing such a ruin? Before she could reach the doors, the rear gate swung open and two men staggered in. Clearly cupshotten, their paint-spattered blue shirts and the sigil on their aprons identified them as Mr Remney’s apprentices. Rosamund stopped, uncertain what to do.
When they saw her, the men also halted.
‘Hallo, what ’ave we here?’ called out a thickset young man with a ruddy face, and nudged his companion hard in the ribs.
His friend swung around and hastily shut the gate. He grinned, revealing brown teeth. ‘Something sweet from the chocolate kitchen, if I’m not mistaken.’
The greeting Rosamund prepared died on her lips. If she’d hoped they were somehow bonded because they worked in the same space, she understood how naive she was. She was a woman and as alien to these men as cats to canines. She noted how they quickly weighed up distances, saw she was alone. Thinking to tell them who she was, with dismay she remembered she’d hadn’t been introduced. To the workmen she was but a navvy or servant — likely another Widow Ashe — and thus, in their eyes, fair game. Her ill-fitting gown, the dust covering her apron, the mud and bits of grass spattering her skirts simply confirmed it. Even if she announced her identity, she’d scarce be believed. Would it even matter? From the looks upon their faces, she feared not.
The men moved closer and she began to back away towards the house, her eyes flitting from one to the other. The man with brown teeth jerked his head in her direction, then spat. Following the unspoken command, the ruddy-faced one moved behind Rosamund, blocking her exit.
Rosamund tried not to let her growing panic show. Raising her chin, she nodded to both the men. ‘Gentlemen.’
‘Oh, you b
e mistaken, miss,’ leered Brown Teeth. ‘We be no gentlemen.’
Ruddy-face lunged and grabbed her wrists from behind. Holding them tightly with one hand, he pulled her against his chest and covered her mouth with the other before she could cry out.
‘And you,’ whispered Ruddy-face in her ear, ‘be no lady.’ His tongue swiped the side of her face. ‘Tasty morsel, she is.’
There was a noise above and a pale face retreated with a cry. Widow Ashe. Would she raise the alarm?
Unaware they’d been seen, Brown Teeth began to loosen her hair, his filthy fingers twining through the tresses, raising them to his nose as he inhaled loudly. ‘Her ’air’s so long, she be like Lady Godiva.’ She caught a whiff of beer, sweat and the rank odour of onions. ‘She needs be naked,’ he murmured and began to nuzzle the other side of her neck while his friend thrust his hips into her back.
Struggling against Ruddy-face’s hold, unable to break it, Rosamund tried to appeal to Brown Teeth with her eyes. He simply laughed and, losing patience, tore away her apron before he reached into her bodice, exposing the shift beneath, pulling it away as if it were but thistledown so he could stare at her breasts.
‘Cor, a dimber pair of paps I’ve not seen.’
With a guffaw of delight, Brown Teeth began to squeeze her breasts and roll the nipples between fat, greasy fingers. Striking her legs hard to stop her kicking, he tugged at her skirts, lifting them, pawing her thighs. ‘We got ourselves a right rum mort here, Jed.’
‘Watch her stampers, Ben,’ mumbled Jed, dancing out of the way of Rosamund’s shoes as he drove his hips into her, his breath hot and rancid against her neck. Keeping a hold of her wrists, he tried to lift her off her feet.
Pressed between two stinking chests, she could scarce move, let alone call out. And even if she could, then to whom? Cries might attract more who would view her as a recreation rather than a victim. The stench of the men’s bodies, of their anticipation, swamped her. She tried to bite the hand clamping her mouth, kick out at the one who held her skirts around her waist, but they were too strong.
Aware of a hard prick prodding her in the back and a capless head of bristly hair grazing her chin while wet lips sought her breasts, she shut her eyes. Had she not fought off Fear-God and Glory? Had she not resisted their attempts to ‘teach’ her until they grew too big to repel? One of the ways she did that was by pretending acquiescence. Resisting every instinct shouting at her to fight with her last breath, she went completely limp.
The men’s hold relaxed. It was enough. With a bray of rage, risking having the hair torn from her scalp, she lunged sideways as swiftly and forcefully as she could. She kicked Brown Teeth Ben in the shins and he fell to his knees in front of her with a loud oof. Spinning, she kneed Ruddy-faced Jed in the cock. As he doubled over, she turned back to Ben and slammed her bent leg into his face. The resounding crack as she connected with his nose and the blood that spattered her stockings gave her nothing but satisfaction.
‘You cuntin’ whore,’ he screamed, his hand flying to his face. ‘You broke me nose.’
A dull roar filled her ears. Her mind became a melange of images, smells and sounds. Her heart, a confusion. No longer was it a dirty, unshaven worker on his knees before her, but Paul Ballister. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw the rear gate open and a shadowy figure step through. Another come to join the sport. Well, she’d not surrender willingly. Not this time.
Without hesitation, she began to kick Ben furiously, the pointed toe of her fine shoe striking his groin then, when he bent over, his mouth, discoloured teeth flying. She booted his cheek, his shoulders, his ribs. He fell backwards, howling, hands raised to protect his face then dropping to cover his balls. He tried to roll away.
‘Yer bitch,’ he said as blood flowed. ‘Leave off; we meant nothin’. Help! Help!’
Aware of muted cries and grunts coming from Jed behind her, a part of her wondered why he didn’t come to his friend’s aid and pull her away. Why whoever had entered did not intervene.
Ben found his feet and staggered back, an arm raised in surrender. Frozen in place, she stared at him. His nose was flattened across his face, blood smeared his cheeks, his shirt, and flowed down his chin, his lips coated in rubicund liquid. She felt nothing. He hadn’t listened to her pleas. He’d ignored her cries, her anguish; her terror.
It didn’t matter what she promised, how good she was, he never let her go… He never, ever stopped, however great the pain…
Calling on God to give her strength, she strode forward, fists raised above her head, when another pair of hands seized them.
With a cry of rage she twisted around to find herself held firmly by a stranger.
‘Madam, it is over.’ The voice was calm, authoritative. ‘You are safe.’
A huge gloved hand engulfed her wrists. She looked up into an unfamiliar face, aware of the blood pounding in her ears, the harshness of her breathing. This man’s fingers were strong, his words firm, but his manner wasn’t threatening. He was clean shaven, with thick arched black brows and a wide mouth, but it was his eyes that held her. They were the colour of the evening sky upon twilight; a deep blue tinged with lilac. His lashes were long and inky, as if black lines had been drawn around his eyes.
While one hand captured both of hers above her head, his other held a sword which was pointed at Jed, who lay unconscious at his feet. She blinked.
‘Who are you?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘A friend,’ said the man, slowly lowering her arms. ‘I’m going to release you.’ As he loosened his grip, his eyes never left her face and he continued speaking soothingly.
‘They will not harm you, on that you have my word.’
Standing perfectly still, she tried to concentrate on breathing. Her breasts, which she quickly covered, heaved. She was so very hot and yet cold at the same time. She shuddered.
‘Are you hurt?’ the man asked quietly.
Was she hurt? Not in the way one would expect. Apart from a torn shift, unpinned hair, a few bruises and a complete loss of dignity, she was, to all intents and purposes, unharmed. She’d experienced worse. Snatching up the apron from where it had been discarded, she clutched it to her chest to protect her modesty and shook her head.
‘No. I am well.’
There was a moan. ‘All right for some,’ said Ben. ‘I be in a right state thanks to this doxy.’ He found his knees and tried to stand.
Horrified by what she’d done, the fear and uncertainty on Ben’s bruised and battered face as he regarded her, Rosamund stepped away. The man with the lovely eyes reached over and hauled Ben to his feet. The apprentice barely reached his chest.
‘Thank the good Lord you came, mister,’ said Ben, one hand across his midriff, wiping his nose with his sleeve, wincing and smudging the blood on his cheek. ‘This vicious little kitchen bitch attacked me —’ He glanced to where his friend lay. ‘Us.’
The man raised a black brow, growled, and brought his sword to bear upon Ben.
‘Watch your language, scoundrel. I witnessed the attack and know it was not of the lady’s instigation. This “vicious little kitchen bitch” —’ he flashed an apologetic look at Rosamund, ‘has your life and that of your friend in her hands.’
‘She did attack all right, sir. Why, if you hadn’t come —’
‘You two would have forced yourselves upon her, which is what I will tell the constable when he arrives.’
‘There’s no need to call the constable, sir.’ Ben held up his hands in conciliation. ‘No need to involve the law. Why, we done nothin’ wrong, me and Jed. She be no innocent either, she asked for it, she did. Beckoned us in here and —’
The man thrust his sword under Ben’s chin, silencing him. ‘I’ve told you once, you ruffler, watch your tongue. If you cannot, I will take it.’ He flicked the sword. Ben screamed as blood poured from the scratch upon his neck.
‘Forgive me, sir, forgive me,’ he whimpered, clutching the wound and scooting out of reach.
There was a muted groan and the apprentice called Jed stirred, rolling onto his back, one arm draped across his chest.
‘Forgiveness is not mine to offer, but the lady’s. If it were up to me, I’d serve justice and see you hanged this very moment, right here.’
Dropping to his knees, Ben crawled towards the man and grabbed his coat. ‘Please sir, I beg you, you too missus, we meant no harm. ’Twas just a bit of rollick.’ He began to cry, great sniffles made worse by his ruined nose.
‘What would you have me do, madam?’ the man asked evenly, ignoring Ben’s weeping. ‘Hang them or fetch the parish constable?’
Jed managed to sit up and, hearing the choices on offer, buried his head in his hands. ‘We be for it now, Ben,’ he murmured.
Rosamund regarded the youths who had attacked her. Now they were cowed, she could see they were really very young. Workers who knew little in their lives but beatings and harsh words. A part of her wished they were Fear-God and Glory and experiencing this man’s wrath, feeling panic as his steel pressed against their flesh and the point of her shoes cracked their bones. Only, they weren’t. It was two strange men, boys, really, employed to renovate the chocolate house. And what if they had fathers like Paul? Fathers who taught them women were theirs to command, to beat, to take pleasure from, to discipline using their cocks, fists and teeth? What if their mothers also believed this? What if they didn’t know any different?
Ben raised his swollen, damp eyes to hers in a silent plea. Jed ceased to move. He was like a statue, waiting for sentence, his head lowered in preparation for the sword about to fall. For the first time in her life Rosamund was judge and executioner and she liked it not. Maybe if she showed clemency, then one day these boys might as well.
‘I would let them go.’
Ben’s eyes widened. Jed began to raise his head.
‘Are you sure, madam?’ asked the man, glowering at the two rogues, who quickly looked away.
