by Karen Brooks
Reeling that the very man she was discussing had suddenly appeared, and with Jacopo in tow, Rosamund took a moment to find her composure.
‘Why,’ she said, holding up the newsletters, ‘some of your work. It’s not every day you meet a correspondent and I thought I should acquaint myself with your writing.’ She flashed a pointed look at Jacopo.
Mr Nessuno pulled a face.
‘I did warn her,’ chuckled Mr Henderson.
‘My lady,’ said Mr Nessuno, holding up his hands. ‘I pray you do not judge me by what is written there…’
Rosamund glanced down at the papers in her hands. ‘But if a man cannot be judged by his words, good sir, then pray, how does one judge him?’
Mr Nessuno stepped closer, his cerulean eyes capturing hers. ‘By his deeds, my lady, by his deeds.’
The sincerity of the statement made her catch her breath. She laughed to cover how very disconcerting she found his nearness. The smell of him reminded her of the chocolate kitchen, the headiness and rich spice. She stepped back and struck him lightly with the pages.
‘That is true, sir, unless, I assume, one is a correspondent. Then, surely, words — the weapon he wields — maketh man?’
Before he could reply, she swept past him and Jacopo, keen all of a sudden to return to the kitchen. Mr Henderson’s voice followed her.
‘If you still want to see my printing press, my lady, just let me know.’
‘I will, Mr Henderson. Thank you,’ she replied, and resisted the urge to run up the steps. It was a moment before Jacopo followed. Folding the newsletters, she shoved them in her placket. She might not be able to read them yet, her lessons with Jacopo being little more than a waste of time, but there were other ways of learning and other things to learn — and who better to teach her all about chocolate than Filip? After what Mr Henderson had told her, she determined to master this new environment through actions and words.
‘How do you know Mr Nessuno, Jacopo?’ asked Rosamund as they climbed the stairs.
Jacopo paused, gripping the railing. ‘We spoke briefly outside,’ he replied, gesturing for her to continue.
She wondered why he avoided answering her question. With an internal shrug, she realised she’d been so keen to remove herself from Mr Nessuno’s company she’d forgotten to bring the tray back up with her. Never mind, she could fetch it later. She’d wait until Mr Nessuno, the man Mr Henderson claimed wrote rubbish, had left.
Loitering by Filip’s elbow as he explained the art of additives, her mind wandered. If writing and publishing and now the chocolate house proved so perilous, she could hardly blame Mr Nessuno for sticking to gossip. So why did she feel a wave of disappointment wash over her that the man who had come to her rescue, who showed such wit and kindness on the street, lacked the courage of the convictions she was certain he possessed?
As Filip passed her a bowl of annis-seed and asked her what quantity the drink required, she wondered if she’d ever have the opportunity, or indeed the courage, to ask him.
SIXTEEN
In which plans are gently foiled
It was a dreary summer’s night about three weeks later and Rosamund sat in her bedroom succumbing to an uncharacteristic bout of self-pity. Learning his wife had arrived home after a long day at the chocolate house, Sir Everard had swiftly left the manor, claiming he’d business requiring his attention — business being another word for wine and gambling. On the table before her was the treatise on chocolate, and a crumpled pile of the newsletters Mr Henderson had given her. Slowly she turned the pages, as if simply gazing at them would reveal their secrets.
Carrying a glass of the malmsey she knew Rosamund had grown fond of, Bianca knocked quietly and stepped into the room. Busy repeating the words she could identify over and over, Rosamund failed to hear her until the door shut and the key turned. She quickly swiped at her wet cheeks with her sleeve, sniffing and blinking, trying to smile.
‘Signora,’ said Bianca. ‘Forgive me, but I cannot bear to see you in such a state. Night after night, you sit before those papers, those news sheets, and sigh like your heart will break. I’ve heard you parroting words and phrases; I’ve heard your gentle curses.’
A strange sound came from Rosamund. ‘And some not so gentle, no doubt.’
Bianca gave a small dip of her head. ‘You wish to read so badly?’ she asked, crossing the room and placing the wine before her mistress.
Rosamund stared at her, noting a change in those startling eyes, in her entire demeanour; a sudden resolve.
‘More than anything, Bianca… I want to know.’ She smoothed a hand over the paper. ‘I have to — for consolation, inspiration, and above all, so I might shuck off my ignorance.’
Bianca locked eyes with her, then bowed her head slightly before holding out her hand. A slow, brilliant smile infused with such warmth transformed her face. It caused Rosamund’s heart to expand. ‘Then, madam,’ she said, ‘please. It would be my privilege to help you.’
‘You can read?’
‘Si, signora. In English and other tongues. And I would that you could as well.’
Bianca drew up a chair. Rosamund passed the treatise over and watched with wide eyes as Bianca, aware she had the best and most earnest of pupils, began to read, her finger under every word.
Jacopo might have been forbidden to teach the master’s new wife to read, but no such prohibition applied to his sister. If Bianca dwelled on the consequences should Sir Everard find out, she didn’t show it. And Rosamund resolved that she would never divulge the identity of her new tutor; her new friend and ally in the enterprise of learning.
At the completion of their third evening together, after they’d frozen at each footfall in the hallway outside the bedroom and every rattle of the window, Bianca suggested they move their lessons to the closet. Not only did it reduce the risk of discovery, but it meant they wouldn’t have to hide the evidence of their activities from the other servants lest they talk. Armed with boxes and cloths, they packed up all Lady Margery’s objects. It was like Ali Baba’s cave — at least, that’s what Bianca called it as they folded the purple curtains away then rehung the tapestry with the pink-cheeked putti frolicking. When Rosamund asked her what an Ali Baba’s cave was, Bianca explained it was an old Maronite story she’d heard from sailors who, in turn, heard it in the city of Aleppo. It was about a poor man who found a treasure trove belonging to thieves and gained access and finally ownership of it, transforming his life. The tale so thrilled Rosamund, she decided she too wanted a cave, only she would fill it with words and ideas, not only things like the Tradescant’s Ark, and these would work to alter her life as well.
After they’d removed all of Lady Margery’s possessions — with the exception of an assortment of old pamphlets, books and almanacs, and the elegantly carved wooden box with the lock and those beads — they gave the shelves, table, cushions and window seat a good clean.
Not sure why, Rosamund kept the presence of the box with the ripped pages she’d found to herself, slipping it behind the books, determined that one day soon she would read what had been carefully hidden underneath all the pretty baubles.
In the garret upstairs, they found a disused table and two chairs. The chocolate treatise took pride of place on the shelves, alongside the newsletters Mr Henderson had given Rosamund, which included Mr Nessuno’s writings, an almanac for the current year, as well as, in a fit of optimism, a sheaf of paper, quills, an inkhorn and knife. Since Rosamund couldn’t yet write to her friend Frances, she would ask Bianca to scribe for her. The closet would be bitter when winter came, but the room could easily be warmed with a small brazier or, if she left the door open, the bedroom hearth should suffice. The space was cosy and the oriel window admitted much-needed light and air as well as not-so-welcome draughts.
As they progressed through Colmenero’s treatise over the following weeks, and Rosamund learned about the various additives that could be put in chocolate, she began to think of how she could use t
he drink to benefit others. She persuaded Bianca to accompany her to purchase some herbs from the apothecary in White Lyon Yard, and asked that a pot of chocolate be brought to her room each night. Once she was safely in the closet, she would break the chocolate cake into pieces, add the steaming water before agitating the molinillo and pouring the mix into the bowl. She would toss in everything from mint, which signified virtue, to honeysuckle for love, fennel for strength (it was very strong in taste) and peppermint for warmth of feeling. Mint also helped settle upset stomachs and the apothecary told Rosamund fennel would ease flatulence, which made her chuckle. She would be sure to add some to Sam’s chocolate. Hyssop and annis-seed, she knew from Widow Cecily back at Gravesend, would help with a cold, as would marshmallow and orange or lemon juice. Other herbs, depending on the strength, became purgatives, an effect Rosamund was grateful she discovered before offering any to Bianca or Jacopo or experimenting on the workers at the chocolate house.
Keeping little jars of dried herbs, plants and some spices on her shelves, Rosamund felt a little bit like the natural philosophers she had heard about who met regularly at Gresham College to present their findings to each other and, occasionally, the public. She knew it was immodest of her and very unfeminine to contemplate such a comparison, and begged God’s forgiveness for such vanity. Slowly, she began to understand not only what to put in the chocolate to achieve a particular result, but also how much so it wouldn’t be detected. As a consequence, she began to put a tiny sprinkling of gladwin root in Sir Everard’s bowl in order to ease his shakes. Sometimes she added celandine as well, so that his eyes might be opened to the joy she hoped to bring him. When his manner towards her didn’t change, she was forced to concede that maybe the chocolate killed its efficacious properties. Keen to share her discoveries with Filip, she nevertheless bided her time. She didn’t want to alienate the man who was fast becoming her mentor. For the moment, she kept what she was doing a secret.
Within the confines of the closet, and as reward for her efforts, at the close of each lesson Bianca would read to her. Usually it was from a discarded news sheet or handwritten pamphlet she’d brought up from Sir Everard’s study. From these, Rosamund began to learn not only about the state of the country and those powers who sought alliances or to make war upon it, but also about the various religious and other tensions within London and beyond. She learned about the Act of Uniformity, which demanded that all ministers be ordained by a bishop and subscribe to the new Anglican prayer book and the 39 Articles of Faith or quit their living by the 24th August, St Bartholomew’s Day — a matter of weeks away. The religious toleration King Charles had promised when he took the throne was hollow. Any who refused to accept the Anglican form of service were labelled dissenters and thrown in goal.
A religious group called Quakers were particularly targeted, and many were being arrested and flung into prison.
One night, after they had read a harrowing account suggesting over fifteen thousand Quakers had been imprisoned and that hundreds had died, Rosamund asked, ‘What are Quakers?’
Bianca grew very still, the pamphlet she had been reading (which Rosamund suspected came from an illegal press, as it was very critical of the government) open on her lap.
‘From what I understand, signora, the Quakers, who are also known as Friends, are a small group of devout people who worship in silence, believing no one person can interpret the word of the Lord but all have the Light of God in them. When it shines, whoever feels it may address others — the Friends — who gather for meetings. They believe that under the loving eyes of God the Father, all men and women are equal.’
‘Equal? Men and women?’ Rosamund could scarce believe it.
‘Men and women, the nobles and the poor, the gentry and the servants — even those with dusky skins or cream. All are the same.’
‘And they worship in silence? How?’
‘By communing with God in their own way.’
Rosamund regarded Bianca carefully. ‘How do you know so much about them?’
Bianca gave a ghost of a smile. ‘I do not know much, but what I do know mainly comes from reading the thoughts of their leader, a man called George Fox.’
Keeping her suspicions to herself, but glad beyond measure that Bianca, and no doubt Jacopo, was able to worship among similarly inclined folk without judgement, Rosamund nodded.
‘You read to me about him the other night. He was the one who’s been arrested many times and yet still had the audacity to write to the King from his cell, advising him how to govern.’ She laughed.
‘You were listening,’ said Bianca, flashing her rare smile, a proper one this time. ‘Si. George Fox believes that all outward strife and wars are against the will of God and urges that Friends take no part in them. It’s called his Testimony to Peace. He has written to the King many times, asking that the persecution of those who would never offer harm but seek only to worship God in their own way be put aside and that they be left to practise their faith.’
‘I might have been listening, but I don’t think the King is,’ said Rosamund quietly.
‘Like all those he has thrown in prison, I know he is not,’ agreed Bianca.
‘Bianca,’ said Rosamund carefully, ‘if one day you should happen to meet with these Friends… I think I would like to meet them too.’
Bianca regarded her quietly. ‘If one day I do… and it is safe… you will.’
They shared a conspiratorial smile.
Rosamund also learned about the regicides — those responsible for the beheading of the King’s father — who were being ruthlessly hunted down and put to death. For all that King Charles was criticised as being too merry and concerned only with pleasure, his reign was also marked by dissidence, religious discord and bloodshed. So much bloodshed.
Keen to discover whatever she could, when Bianca finally read a selection of Mr Nessuno’s writings to her, Rosamund was forced to concede Mr Henderson had been correct. They were, if not exactly rubbish, certainly trivial. Unless one was interested in the King’s favourite mistress (who, according to Mr Nessuno, was as beautiful as she was vulgar) or how often her cousin, George Villiers, was to be found drunk at a tavern, which horse had won at Newmarket, who was seen leaving Lady Frances Stewart’s bedchamber late at night, or who had broken the King’s laws and fought a duel, his work was scurrilous and shallow.
Disappointment threatened to swamp her. How could she have been so wrong? Was it because, like a hero from a folk tale, he’d come to her rescue and she’d endowed him with qualities he simply didn’t possess? She might have been turned by his sapphire eyes and warm gleaming smile, but she knew kindness when she saw it, didn’t she? She knew a good heart and mind?
For some reason, thoughts of Sir Everard intruded and doubt bit at her confidence. Hadn’t she once thought Paul the answer to her prayers? That a stepfather would be a wonderful acquisition?
Maybe, when it came to men, she didn’t know anything.
Pushing aside her grim thoughts, she begged Bianca to read her more — not from Mr Nessuno’s works, but from Muddiman’s other correspondents, the news sheets and, of course, the books Bianca brought from the library and which, as summer continued, she slowly began to master.
Together they read plays and poems by William Shakespeare and Thomas Hobbes’ Leviathan, and Bianca translated some of Ovid’s poetry for her as well as parts of Homer’s great works. They relished the poems of Andrew Marvell, John Dryden and John Milton. They read excerpts from the King James Bible, as well as passages from books of history, gardening, medicine and more.
The closet wasn’t much, but it was Rosamund’s, especially now it bore no resemblance to its former owner. It was her cave in which, like Ali Baba, she kept her trove of treasured ideas and growing knowledge, but could open and close it at will with the key hanging around her neck. It was in this room that Rosamund finally started to feel a sense of belonging.
SEVENTEEN
In which the many bene
fits of chocolate are explained
Chocolate dominated Rosamund’s increasingly busy days and sleepless nights. Every morning, she travelled to the chocolate house with Jacopo and saw the progress of the renovations, inhaled the robust, malty odour of the chocolate and drank the liquid velvet, the taste becoming as familiar to her as the ill-fitting garb she was still forced to wear. At her husband’s insistence, her new clothes were to be kept until the opening of the chocolate house. All the while she maintained the illusion of her lessons with Jacopo. No mention was ever made of her evenings with Bianca.
Whenever she left the house, whether it was to go to Birchin Lane, the tailors in Foster Lane, or a quick visit to the shops at the Royal Exchange and the markets in Cornhill Street, or even to examine the Blithman warehouses by the Thames, whispers and stares attended her. They were particularly prevalent by the river — an area at once crowded, pungent and carrying with it both an air of promise and an overarching sense of menace.
The contents of her husband’s warehouses brought the wonder of a wider, exotic world to her doorstep — the hogsheads of wine from Bordeaux, the Rhine, the Canary Islands, Tuscany and La Ribera; the pyramids of intoxicating spices and colourful bolts of silks and other rich fabrics for dresses, coats and upholstery. But it was the sacks of hardened cacao beans and the carefully packed porcelain bowls and plates from China that most interested her. She could only imagine what his other warehouses along the English coast held, not to mention those she knew he leased in other countries.
Lost in the quantity and unfamiliarity of the goods her husband imported, she wasn’t at first aware of the attention she attracted, as if she too were a peculiar consignment. Some folk were open and curious, others guarded and hostile. Occasionally, words carried and at first Rosamund thought she misheard ‘slattern’, ‘strumpet’, and ‘harlot’ until she recognised the accompanying glare and understood she had not. It also happened on her first visit to Westminster Hall (where she saw the rotting heads of Oliver Cromwell, John Bradshaw and Henry Ireton — the three men considered most responsible for the execution of the King’s father), and again later at St Paul’s, accompanied by the words ‘chocolate house’, muttered in a tone that brooked no misunderstanding. These experiences went some way to explaining why, while there’d been a flurry of invitations for her to dine with respectable people when she first arrived at Blithe Manor, these had eventually dried up. No-one, it seemed, wanted to share a table, or even a cup of chocolate, with a woman learning to make it. Neither her married name nor her family one could protect her from malicious gossip.
