by Karen Brooks
If the chocolate house was to become a place where words were shared, discussed and fought over, Rosamund would need to be well armed whichever way she chose to fight. She made up her mind then and there to redouble her reading efforts.
NINETEEN
In which Sir Everard stipulates the impossible is possible
The following day the weather turned unexpectedly cold. In the chocolate house kitchen, with its constant heat and steam, the workers were oblivious to the frigid gusts of wind blowing hats from gentlemen’s heads and sprinting up maidens’ skirts. Likewise, they were spared the splash of icy puddles as horsemen rode through the streets, ducking beneath low-hanging shingles, narrowly avoiding the barrow-boys and the stalls that lined the lanes more by accident than design. Lost in the world of chocolata, Rosamund sat beside Thomas, taking her turn on the metate, listening to Filip tell Solomon about the time he prepared drinks for the French ambassador to Spain who, like Solomon, had been complaining about the cool weather. Thinking it would alleviate the man’s suffering, Filip was ordered by the King to prepare him an extra spicy chocolate.
‘It wasn’t until tears sprang into the man’s eyes,’ said Filip, making an explosive motion with his fingers, ‘that I realised I’d inadvertently added far too much chilli.’
There were gasps and chuckles.
‘What did the ambassador do, Papa?’ asked Solomon.
‘What could he do? To not drink or to spit it out would have offended the King. He drank and his face turned the most incredible shade I’ve ever seen. He neither coughed nor spluttered but drained his bowl soundlessly. From that day forward, I’ve had great admiration for the French constitution.’
Solomon chuckled. Thomas too. Widow Ashe shook her head. She’d no love of the spice.
‘At least he wasn’t chilly any more,’ quipped Rosamund.
Filip burst out laughing and Thomas joined in. Even Widow Ashe giggled. Solomon stared at them blankly. Homophones always stumped him.
Their amusement was cut short by raised voices on the other side of the curtain, followed by a crash. Everyone stopped what they were doing.
Swallowing the anxiety that anger in others usually presaged, Rosamund leapt to her feet. She recognised at least one of the voices. ‘Excuse me,’ she murmured, sliding past Thomas and brushing him on the shoulder reassuringly.
Filip grabbed hold of her skirt as she passed. ‘Señora… I don’t think you —’
Squeezing his arm briefly, Rosamund gave a tight smile. ‘It’s all right, Filip.’ Taking a deep breath, she parted the curtain and stepped into the main room.
Her husband and Mr Remney stood facing each other like combatants. Mr Remney was shouting with uncharacteristic vehemence. Sir Everard had his back to her but was bellowing much like Mabel when she birthed two calves three long summers ago as he tried to be heard over him. Mr Remney’s face was contorted with rage and his eyes were flashing; a nearby bench had been knocked over. It was evident how it had happened as his arms wheeled about and for a moment Rosamund thought he might strike Sir Everard.
Glancing in her direction as the curtain fell into place, Mr Remney turned his attention back to the object of his anger who, much to Rosamund’s horror, began poking the portly man in the belly with his stick.
How could she distract them and put a stop to their dispute?
‘You assured me it would be finished in time,’ yelled Sir Everard. ‘We have a contract.’
‘And it would be honoured if you’d but given me notice — a date, a time, sir,’ bayed Mr Remney. In an act of defiance, he took a step towards his employer, the stick burying itself in his girth, forcing Sir Everard to back away.
Where was Jacopo?
‘I’m giving you both now,’ growled Sir Everard, lowering his stick and lurching forward once more. He wasn’t going to be intimidated. ‘You must be finished by Monday morning at the very latest.’
This time, Mr Remney backed off. ‘I need more notice than three bloody days.’
Raising his stick again, Sir Everard stabbed Mr Remney in the shoulder. ‘You’ve had months.’
Batting the wood away, Mr Remney thrust his face into Sir Everard’s. ‘And I’ve not wasted a day of it. Every last thing you’ve asked for has been done, and then some.’ His burly arms swept the room. ‘If you hadn’t kept changing your mind —’
‘It wasn’t my mind kept changing,’ bellowed Sir Everard, then clamped his mouth shut, breathing heavily.
Mr Remney shrugged.
Whatever did her husband mean? Why, she’d heard him herself, demanding something be built or demolished one day only to send a note two days later countermanding his previous instructions. How Mr Remney and his men achieved anything was miraculous. Yet they had.
In the weeks Rosamund had been coming to the chocolate house, it had been transformed. Gone were the dust sheets, sawhorses, tools and most of the men. In their stead were long, beautifully polished tables, benches, a line of booths with padded seats, a shiny bar that also divided the main room from the kitchen, elegant chandeliers, clean, bright walls and a wooden floor with the most wonderful sheen. All that remained to be done were the finishing touches — the gilt, the repair of plasterwork damaged while the tables were being built, a last dab of paint on the walls, hanging more paintings as well as the curtains and cleaning. A great deal of cleaning.
Mr Remney oft reiterated the last twenty per cent of a job always took eighty per cent of the time; aside from the fact that Sir Everard continuously demanded additions or alterations for no sound reason. No wonder the builder was so upset.
Sir Everard studied his surroundings, a grim expression on his face. The set of his shoulders broadcast his unhappiness.
‘It has to be ready. I will brook no argument.’
Mr Remney made a choking noise.
‘If you cannot have this place finished, ready to be opened by Monday,’ growled Sir Everard, ‘I’ll find someone who can.’ He swung away. ‘Ah, Rosamund.’ His face underwent a transformation. The unforgiving glower was replaced by a smile. A smile that failed to reach his eyes. The scorching tone became unctuous. He began to weave his way towards her. She dropped a curtsey, flashing a concerned look at Mr Remney. Embarrassed at being caught losing his temper, the builder removed his cap and proceeded to strangle it. His two workers were frozen — one perched on scaffolding where he’d been painting the architraves gold, the other patching the wall where water had seeped in during the heavy rains. Not daring to defend their beloved employer against Sir Everard, the effort their restraint cost them was writ on their faces.
‘Forgive the disturbance,’ said Sir Everard, coming to her side, taking her hand and bowing over it. ‘I was just in the process of firing Mr Remney.’
‘Now wait a minute,’ said Mr Remney, righting the toppled bench as he barged towards Sir Everard like an angry bullock loosed from its yoke. ‘You can’t just dismiss me like that. We have an agreement.’
‘Oh, but I can,’ said Sir Everard. ‘If you cannot do the work, then I am within my rights. Speak to my lawyer if you doubt me.’
Whether it was because of Sir Everard’s threat or Rosamund’s presence, Mr Remney’s anger deflated faster than a becalmed sail. ‘I didn’t say we couldn’t do the work, milord. I said we don’t have enough time.’
Flapping a frilled wrist, Sir Everard turned his face away. ‘And I told you I don’t care. I will find someone who thinks the time more than adequate.’
‘The chocolate house is to open?’ asked Rosamund, finding her voice. A draught behind her told her the curtain had been parted.
‘Yes,’ said Sir Everard, his equanimity seemingly restored. Rosamund could see the white line around his mouth, the effort it took to control his wrath. Gesturing to the curtain, which admitted Filip, Solomon, Thomas and Ashe, he continued, ‘I came here to inform you all. We open on Monday, the 15th of September — at midday.’
There were intakes of breath followed by fervent whispers.
‘But that’s only three days away. Isn’t this rather sudden?’ asked Rosamund, immediately regretting it when Mr Remney flung his arms wide.
‘That’s what I’ve been saying, my lady. Maybe you can talk reason into your husband.’
There was silence. Sir Everard turned to regard his wife. ‘Well, my dear,’ he said, in a voice so quiet and deadly it turned Rosamund’s blood to ice. His lips curled to reveal the sharp edges of his teeth. ‘Do you wish to talk reason into me?’
Before she could respond, there was a clatter of boots upon the stairs and Jacopo burst into the room.
Sir Everard pushed Rosamund aside. ‘What’s their answer?’ he asked, moving swiftly despite his impediment.
Jacopo bowed, a hand touching his hat when he saw Rosamund. ‘They say it’s not possible, signore. The fastest they can make that curtain —’ he pointed towards the long red velvet drape that separated the kitchen from the chocolate house, ‘fit those —’ he gestured towards the windows, ‘is five days. But they would have to come and take measurements and there is no-one free to do that until the morrow…’ He would have continued, but whether driven by frustration that his plans were being thwarted, or wanting an easier target than Mr Remney, Sir Everard raised his stick and brought it down hard across Jacopo’s shoulders.
‘No-one?’ he blared.
Rosamund let out a cry. If Filip hadn’t prevented her, she would have flown to Jacopo’s side.
The young man fell to his knees with a groan.
Sir Everard bent over him. ‘I. Told. You. I. Wouldn’t. Accept. Anything. Less. Than. Three. Days.’ Every word was punctuated with a strike of the cane.
‘Signore! Milord!’ cried Jacopo, one arm above his head to stave off any more blows. ‘They’re sorry, they cannot —’
With a roar, Sir Everard raised his stick again and again. There were gasps, a small scream, noises of protest. It took Rosamund a moment to understand most of them came from her. Wrenching herself from Filip’s grasp, before she could think about what she was doing, she ran and seized Sir Everard’s arm. Holding it aloft with two hands, she was shocked to see the blood blooming on Jacopo’s cheek; his split lip. It was so red, so vivid against his torn skin.
‘Please,’ she implored. ‘Please, stop.’
Sir Everard threw her off him so hard she fell against a booth and tumbled to the floor. With a look of contempt, he slowly turned and began to strike Jacopo harder, grunting with effort.
Curled in a ball, his hands covering his head, the factotum whimpered as his master beat him repeatedly.
Gentle hands helped Rosamund to her feet.
They watched in silence. Only the swish of the cane, the dull thud as it struck clothes, the wet slap as it broke skin, and Sir Everard’s strepitous exhalations, could be heard. Jacopo had ceased to make a sound.
Outside, the sun shone, the wind blew and people went about their day as if a man was not being beaten bloody by his master.
Finally, when Jacopo’s coat was rent, when blood stained the fabric, coated his chin and cheeks, trickled into his swollen eyes and his body was still, Sir Everard’s anger was spent.
Panting, he turned around. His eyes were glazed; his mouth open. His shoulders heaved. His periwig sat slightly askew, sweat beaded his forehead, his upper lip. He glared at Mr Remney, who was holding Rosamund; then at Filip, who stood beside her, his face contorted by rage and sympathy. A weeping Widow Ashe, pale-faced Thomas and inscrutable Solomon were not spared as he lifted his chin and dared them to defy him. Mr Remney’s two workers looked on stunned.
‘There’s reason for you,’ he said. Spittle collected in the corners of his mouth. He spat on the floor.
Warmth travelled down Rosamund’s cheeks. Whether her tears were for Jacopo or herself, she couldn’t tell. Looking at Sir Everard standing there, flecked with Jacopo’s blood, his ruddy cheeks and those cold, cold eyes, she wondered who it was she’d married. Where was the marvellous knight who had swept her from a life of misery to hope? Where was the man who was so forgiving of her flaws, who sought to repair them?
Who was this man?
Face the truth, Rosamund. He cares nothing for people; only profit. He didn’t care for Jacopo, for the workers here, or for her. He didn’t even care for the chocolate house except for the money it could make him.
Wiping her tears away, she stood tall, watching her husband the way a rat does a hunting dog.
Sir Everard pulled a kerchief from his waistcoat and slowly mopped his forehead, his face, his mouth. On the floor behind him, Jacopo remained in a tight ball. Only the rise and fall of his back indicated he was still breathing.
Sir Everard met Rosamund’s gaze. Perhaps seeing the judgement in their depths, he coughed and looked away.
‘You have till Monday, Remney,’ he said evenly. ‘Hire as many as you need, but get the job done, do you understand?’
‘Milord,’ said Mr Remney tonelessly.
Letting his used kerchief drop on Jacopo, Sir Everard pushed aside a bench with his stick and headed for the stairs. ‘Clean yourself up, boy,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I’ve need of you on the morrow.’ Once he reached the door, he paused. ‘Rosamund, see to it the Wells know I’m most displeased. Tell them they too have until Monday. I’ll brook no excuses. Make them aware they do not want my displeasure.’
Was that what he called it, thought Rosamund. ‘Milord,’ she said, curtseying. The quivering beginning to overtake her body hadn’t yet reached her voice.
‘And hire extra hands. We’ll need chocolate drawers, messengers. They’ll need uniforms, and to be trained. Filip can see to the latter. I’ll have Wat organise the designs for the uniforms be sent to the Wells — make sure to tell them.’
‘Milord,’ said Rosamund, her mind awhirl, her heart sickened.
Once she heard the bell of the shop door downstairs, Rosamund flew to Jacopo and dropped to her knees beside him. ‘Oh, Jacopo.’ Filip joined her, murmuring words of comfort in his own language.
Lifting the kerchief from where it rested on his back, she and Filip placed tender arms about Jacopo and helped him sit. Rosamund tried to assess the damage as Filip took the kerchief and began to softly daub Jacopo’s face. Blood flowed from the wound on his cheek, from his broken nose and lip. When Filip pressed the kerchief to his nostrils, Jacopo winced.
‘Ashe,’ said Rosamund. ‘Bring water. Filip?’ She touched him to gain his attention. When he gazed at her with unseeing eyes, she saw they were filled with tears. Her heart lurched. ‘Fix him a chocolate drink. Add whatever you think is necessary, though some St John’s wort would be excellent. Do we have some left? We do. Good.’
With great reluctance, Filip heaved himself from Jacopo’s side, cupping his face and whispering to him. Jacopo tried to smile, but failed.
‘Thomas, Solomon,’ continued Rosamund. ‘I need you to go to the apothecary and get some lavender and feverfew — ask him to double my order for valerian. For a salve as well. Explain there’s been an… accident.’ She wanted the boys distracted, given duties so they didn’t dwell upon what they’d just witnessed. Best they were out, away from the building.
‘What can I do, madam?’ asked Mr Remney.
Astonished, Rosamund gazed at the large man with swimming eyes. Not only had the others done her bidding, but Mr Remney and his two workers were also looking to her for instruction, caps in hand. About to protest she didn’t know what he could do, she paused. The clatter of pots carried, the murmur of voices grateful to feel useful. She’d done that. Was she not the Lady Rosamund? Was she not the chocolate maker’s wife? Of course, they looked to her for direction — who else? It was easy to forget that for all they embraced her as one of their own, she was still viewed as their mistress, Lady Blithman. It was time she deployed her authority — the authority they were willing her to wield. It was the least she owed them after her husband’s appalling display. Ashamed and confused by the rapid alteration to his character when his plans were
challenged, she pushed her feelings aside to be examined later. These people needed her. God, she thought, looking at Jacopo, they needed her. She would be their champion. Their lady. Their knight. Wiping her eyes again, Rosamund said clearly, ‘You must do whatever it takes to make my husband’s demands possible, Mr Remney.’
‘But, my lady, what he asks is impossible.’ Mr Remney sank onto a bench, head bowed, shoulders drooping.
Filip brought the chocolate drink and insisted on feeding it to Jacopo himself. She was pleased to see he’d cooled it with extra milk. As he spooned it into Jacopo’s torn mouth, she could smell the cinnamon, the musk and the chilli. She prayed Filip had not been heavy-handed with it this time. Flecks of brown and green herbs swam beneath the surface. There was egg and ground almonds as well. After a few mouthfuls, Filip began to help Jacopo out of his jacket.
When Jacopo had taken more sips, she took the kerchief and wiped his mouth. Inhaling sharply, he soon had his jacket off. Blood stained the white of his shirt. The flesh below would be a welter of bruises and cuts. Leaning forward, she caught her own breath. Her ribs burned from her fall. She too would bear the marks of her husband’s loss of composure.
‘Grazie mille, bello, signora,’ whispered Jacopo after he’d taken another cautious taste of the chocolate. ‘Allora, do not look so sad, both of you. I’ve suffered much worse.’
Rosamund’s eyes flashed to Filip who nodded gravely. ‘Your husband, the señor, he often takes his… disappointments out on Jacopo.’
Rosamund tried not to let either of them see how much those words, the very notion, stung. Sir Everard was meant to be a good man, a kindly master if a strict one. Not the monster unleashed before her eyes. She tried to return Jacopo’s reassuring smile. Dear God. Jacopo bore no grudge. It was as if he expected such treatment. But no-one should expect that, least of all a loyal servant. Only to Sir Everard he wasn’t a servant, was he? He was a slave. A possession.
