The Chocolate Maker’s Wife

by Karen Brooks

  Determined to return Jacopo’s courageous attempt at a smile, she fought to put one on her own face. Wavering at first, it grew steadily broader and she found herself feeling better, stronger for the attempt.

  Rising to her feet, she looked at Jacopo leaning against Filip, at Mr Remney and his workers, their forlorn expressions. She gazed at the pale faces of Thomas and Widow Ashe, the resigned ones of Filip and Solomon. They were all watching her, waiting.

  ‘Mr Remney, you say what Sir Everard —’ she could not call him husband, ‘asks is impossible. I say that we — you, Mr Remney, Filip, Thomas, everyone…’ she said, her voice becoming firmer, as did her resolve, ‘together, we must make the impossible, possible.’ She began to chuckle at the absurdity of their situation. ‘As ridiculous as it sounds, if we work together, we will achieve all Sir Everard asks and more.’ Ignoring the pain shooting through her shoulder and side, she began to laugh, afraid if she didn’t, she too would cry. Sir Everard might have beaten Jacopo but she could not, would not, let him beat her resolve to succeed.

  The power of her forced joy, the hope she infused it with and her determination to unite them, infected them all. As her laughter built like a peal of silver bells ringing for them alone and her tears retreated, shy grins were exchanged, nods, then slow chortles which built to defiant mirth. There were sympathetic glances towards Jacopo, who held his bowl of chocolate and managed a nod as they laughed. Together. Jacopo smiled, then spat a glob of blood onto the floor. A brazen chortle escaped him as his carmine spit sat upon the streaked wood, next to Sir Everard’s phlegm.

  Staring at the globule of blood, Mr Remney’s laugh quickly died. He was not persuaded.

  ‘How?’ he asked. ‘I’ve only two men. The rest of my workers are committed to other projects; they can’t simply leave them because a roaring boy cracks his stick upon an innocent.’ Aware of what he’d just said, he shook his head. ‘Sorry madam, I’ve no right to say such things. But I need many more people, Sir Everard doesn’t realise what he’s asking. There is much yet to do. It’s not just your husband’s reputation at stake here…’

  What’s left of it, thought Rosamund.

  ‘… but mine as well. How do you propose we make milord’s unreasonable demands workable?’

  They all waited for her to respond. Widow Ashe brought over a bowl of hot water and some clean cloths. Rosamund could smell the rose petals, the infusion of oranges and lemons. Widow Ashe knelt beside Jacopo and turned her thin face towards Rosamund.

  ‘Like this,’ said Rosamund and, gathering everyone around her while she and Filip tended Jacopo, outlined her plan.

  TWENTY

  In which the Lady Rosamund is declared fit for Bedlam

  By afternoon, the chocolate house was crawling with people. Mr Remney’s two workers (his journeyman, Ralph, and older apprentice, Jerome) were sent to other sites he oversaw, and had managed to find three more men. When Thomas and Solomon returned from the apothecary, Rosamund sent them off to find the children who drifted up and down the lanes causing so much trouble. Perhaps if they were given something to do, they’d forget their mischief. ‘Tell them there’s a shilling each in it for those who do the work. Make sure to add that Mr Remney won’t tolerate any devilment.’

  Having encountered Mr Remney when they’d tried to break into the chocolate house and having received a good beating for their efforts, they knew and respected the builder.

  With his wounds now salved and bound, and having consumed the herbal infusion Rosamund had prepared for him, Jacopo joined Filip to express his horror that she’d even consider bringing such rascals into the building, let alone paying them to do some work. The two of them tried to talk Rosamund out of it, but she would not be moved. The dozen extra pairs of hands — well, almost a dozen, as one poor child who turned up had only one hand, but more than made up for it in enthusiasm, the enticement of a shilling instilling good behaviour in a way that no amount of threats and curses could — plus all the kitchen staff, meant the required tasks could be tackled with ease. While the experienced builders tended to the plastering and intricate painting, the rest of them mainly cleaned.

  When he heard the noise and saw all sorts of vagabonds and rascals (his words) mounting the stairs, Mr Henderson appeared and, learning what was going on, closed his shop and pitched in as well. It was all Rosamund could do not to throw her arms around him — more than once. She half-expected Mr Nessuno to appear as well.

  Truth was, she more than half-hoped he would.

  Alas, he chose not to come this day. Nor the next three. The offence she had given was so great, it seemed her fears had been confirmed: she’d lost a friend. But, she thought, Mr Henderson had been right — she had more friends than she ever knew. For what were Filip, Jacopo, Ashe, Thomas, Solomon, Messrs Henderson and Remney if not friends? She sent a swift prayer of thanks to God for them.

  Content Mr Remney had the room under control, and everyone had a job to do, Rosamund made two bowls of chocolate and joined Jacopo where he was propped at the table out the back. The greyish cast to his skin had disappeared, though the cut on his cheek was swollen, one eye partly closed, and his lip was angry. Rosamund found it hard to look at him without feeling physical pain.

  She placed a bowl in front of him and sank into the chair beside his. ‘Are you grievously hurt?’

  ‘Not grievously.’ He tried to smile, then grimaced as the skin pulled.

  His understatement tore at her heart. She wanted to ask him how often Sir Everard beat him, but having suffered someone else’s mercurial whims, she knew the telling often caused as much torment as the acts themselves. Instead, she stuck to her plans.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t important, Jacopo, but I need you to write a letter for me. Do you think you can manage?’

  Jacopo flexed his fingers. ‘They still work, signora. I can write whatever you want.’

  ‘And your eye? You can see well enough? Excellent. I need you to take down a letter for Mrs Wells, the tailor’s wife and another to be delivered to a periwig shop. The drawers will be in need of hairpieces fine enough to impress gentlemen. I’ll ask one of the boys to deliver the notes.’

  As the church bells sounded two of the clock, letters were carried through the streets — one addressed to Mrs Wells. When the good lady saw who it was from, and read her most urgent and yet charming request, she swept into the workers’ room and announced that all orders were to be suspended until the curtains and uniforms for Lady Rosamund Blithman’s chocolate house were measured and made.

  ‘You mean, Sir Everard’s chocolate house,’ corrected Mr Wells, pulling a pipe out of his mouth and blinking rapidly, nonplussed as his wife undermined his authority in his own establishment. Had he not told Blithman’s blackamoor the work could not be done?

  Before he could say anything else, Mrs Wells said sharply, ‘I mean what I said.’ Her spaniel Charles barked, his little nose in the air, adding force to her statement.

  And so it was that at three of the clock sharp, Mrs Wells and three of her girls arrived at the chocolate house with string, pins, paper, scissors, designs for new uniforms (which arrived as they were leaving), samples of fabric and all sorts of accoutrements to measure windows and people.

  Upon Mrs Wells’ arrival, Rosamund greeted her warmly and, to Mrs Wells utter delight, embraced her. But her appearance also revealed to Rosamund the flaw in her plan.

  Concerned to have enough workers to finish the chocolate house, she hadn’t yet turned her attention to hiring the chocolate drawers and messengers her husband had instructed her to employ. Mrs Wells might be in possession of a pattern for the uniforms and know which colours they were to be, but if there were no people to measure, what was the point?

  She frowned, gazing about.

  It was just as well she’d been keeping a sharp eye on the children and the work Mr Remney gave them. While they might have been intent on creating havoc in the streets, in the chocolate house, surrounded by other adul
ts and children all working together towards a common goal, most of them were useful, polite and good at their tasks. Admittedly, bringing them bowls of chocolate encouraged their cooperative spirit enormously. Those who weren’t as helpful or keen she noted and would be certain not to hire them again — in any capacity. Gazing at the remainder thoughtfully, she began to imagine what they could do if they were clean, clothed differently, taught some manners and other skills and, above all, trusted. It didn’t bear considering. Or did it?

  Excusing herself from Mrs Wells, she whispered instructions to Widow Ashe, who stared at her as if an extra eye had sprouted in the middle of her forehead, then returned to Jacopo and asked if she might beg his assistance in another important matter — but only if he was up to it.

  ‘For you, signora, I would douse the sun.’

  Rosamund laughed. ‘I would not ask that of you. Come with me. I have an idea but need you to tell me if I belong in Bedlam.’

  Lined up in the kitchen, with Widow Ashe’s firm eye upon them, were the street children. Some were sniffing, others were shouldering each other and giggling. All looked a little afraid and a little defiant. Rosamund could scarce tell them apart — with the exception of the only girl, because she had freckles. They exuded sameness in the way the same fruit grown from different trees does. With caps screwed into their mostly grimy fists, they bowed, wiped their running noses on their patched sleeves, shivered in their thin garments and eyed the blazing fire with envy.

  ‘You are most certainly a loon, signora,’ said Jacopo softly, smiling warmly at her at the same time.

  ‘Good,’ said Rosamund. ‘I just wanted to be sure. Now, sit down and help me choose.’

  Moving along the line, she asked each child a series of questions, which many made sincere efforts to answer. With each response, she turned to Jacopo who raised a brow, gave a slight shake of his head or nod. What she found, apart from Jacopo being in complete accord with her, was that the dirtier the boy and more inclined to spit, the more in need of work and thus a wage he appeared to be — and the more inclined she was to provide it. There was young Harry, with a mop of chestnut hair and a huge gap between his large front teeth, who was all his ailing mother had. Rosamund didn’t care that his shoes were worn, his neck filthy and that he spat at least three times while she was talking to him, narrowly avoiding Thomas, who’d come in to grab something. He’d never even heard of a chocolate house (he wasn’t alone there). If the kind lady didn’t give him a chance (and a clean set of clothes) then who would? No mention was made of his missing hand. If Harry didn’t regard it as a cause for concern, why should she?

  Jacopo gave him a nod.

  Then there was skinny little Robin. With a shock of hair the colour of the ginger tom that prowled outside the ordinary, he had no front teeth and possessed knees and elbows so knobbly they were more like growths than parts of his limbs. Cock-eyed Lewis and his brother, the bow-legged Silvester, were only eliminated because Widow Ashe found chocolate cakes stuck to the inside of their pockets. After a lecture on stealing and a sound beating from Mr Remney, they were ordered to leave immediately.

  There seemed no end of them: Conrad, Owen, Wolstan, Hilary, and two whose names she didn’t hear aright, not that it mattered. The way those two looked at her and eyed the chocolate house and the serving pots and bowls as a fence might his goods, allowed her to dismiss them with a clear conscience and Jacopo’s endorsement. They were given the promised shilling for work done. Tolerance and Zeal she chose not to hire because their Puritan names put her in mind of the twins and she could not bear the thought of being reminded of them here.

  Finally, along with Harry, she chose Hodge, Art, Kit, Wolstan, Owen and Robin to serve at the front of the house. She hired the young girl, Cara, to help Ashe with the dishes and general duties. Trying not to feel guilty as the rejected trudged back to Mr Remney, she hoped the coin and additional bowl of chocolate they’d all been given appeased their disappointment and rewarded the fortunate.

  Late that afternoon, the new staff were rounded up by Mrs Wells and measured for their uniforms, but not before Jacopo told them in a tone no-one dared counter, that if they wanted to wear their new clothes it was to be on clean flesh. Ordered to wash or be washed — and before everyone in the chocolate kitchen — they swore to do so, goggle-eyed at the tall tawneymoor who’d clearly been in a mighty scuffle and lived to tell the tale. He also had the respect of Mr Remney, never mind Señor Filip, who made the chocolate, and the kind and oh so pretty Lady Blithman, whose smile, when it was bestowed, made them forget the cold and their hunger, so much so they each secretly wished they could bask in its glow forever more.

  TWENTY-ONE

  In which a chocolate house is opened Monday, 15th September, 1662

  If the paintwork on the architraves wasn’t completely dry, nor some of the plaster, and a few of the candles were tallow instead of beeswax, no-one except Rosamund noticed. If Sir Everard observed that Wolstan currently wore his own, albeit tidy, clothes, while Owen’s new ones were held together by pins as much as stitches, or that Cara was dressed in a shift that had once belonged to Bianca and was tied about her waist so she didn’t trip, he never mentioned it.

  Though the impossible deadline he set was on the cusp of being met due to the extraordinary diligence and efforts of his servants, workers new and old, the Wellses and their team of seamstresses, the beneficence of the men at the nearby periwig shop, and his wife, they received no thanks nor praise. Sir Everard was in a right dudgeon and made a point of ignoring everyone — especially Rosamund.

  He’d arrived mid-morning and, after casting a critical eye over the chocolate house, demanded a bowl of the drink which Rosamund alone had to prepare, and then retreated to one of the booths. While he drank and smoked his pipe, he checked the advertisement placed in The Kingdomes Intelligencer (another one was to appear in the Mercurius Publicus when it was published on Thursday) and in Muddiman’s handwritten newsletters. On the Saturday, he’d even placed an order with Mr Henderson to print a couple of hundred handbills advertising the place. That was how Rosamund discovered the name Sir Everard had bestowed upon the chocolate house. It hadn’t occurred to her it would require christening, but of course, it couldn’t simply be known as ‘The Chocolate House’. Being a creature of habit and wanting to thank Mr Henderson again for his aid the day before, she’d hurried down to the bookshop on Saturday morning with a bowl of chocolate and seen the draft for the advertisement on the counter.

  There it was, at the top of the handbill, bold as you like: ‘Helene’s Chocolate House’.

  Alternately surprised and dismayed, she wished Sir Everard had prepared her. Prior to Friday, she might have thought it touching that her husband saw fit to call his chocolate house after his beloved daughter, a sort of living memorial to her name. In light of Jacopo’s beating and her husband’s preposterous demands upon Mr Remney — and that he’d offered neither apology nor explanation for his behaviour and had neglected to seek her out these last three days — she could only see the name as a riposte of the worst kind. Was not Helene also Matthew Lovelace’s wife? Was he not using the name of his dead child to provoke his nemesis? A kind of revenge from beyond the grave?

  She prayed Lovelace, wherever he was, would never know.

  Her gaze could not help returning to Sir Everard as he hunkered against the wall. He’d visibly aged since last Friday. Gone was the older gentleman, and in his place was a bitter-faced, pouch-eyed curmudgeon, bowed by time, bewildered by the youth about him and determined to assert his authority through his presence alone. God knew, it was enough.

  Thankfully, late morning Jacopo arrived with two footmen bearing welcome packages. Though his bruises were still evident, Jacopo was walking without a limp. Only Rosamund and Bianca, who’d come to help with the opening, saw him grimace as his jacket pulled too tight across his shoulders when he bent over, or when Filip unthinkingly hugged him fiercely. Now he ordered the footmen who’d accompanied hi
m to hand out the remainder of the uniforms; the boys took the parcels almost reverentially, disappearing into different parts of the kitchen to dress. Bianca followed, needle and thread in hand.

  Jacopo and Filip had dedicated a couple of hours the past two afternoons to teaching the boys how to serve, take orders, and pour the chocolate. They had to learn to navigate the tables and benches first with empty trays, then with trays filled with old bowls and pots of water to accustom them to the weight and balance required. Finally, they were each given responsibility for a certain section of the room. Estimating the chocolate house would comfortably accommodate fifty men, Mr Henderson warned them they could expect many more to come to sate their curiosity in the first days after opening — if not about Blithman’s chocolate then, he shot an apologetic glance in Rosamund’s direction, about Blithman’s wife.

  The boys took their work seriously and were instructed to report to either Jacopo or Filip if they were sent outside with a message. Only one bowl was broken, two trays and a chocolate pot dented. All in all, it was regarded as a successful training session.

  ‘I wish we had more time,’ said Jacopo quietly to Rosamund as the boys dressed hurriedly. He sank gratefully onto a seat, his gaze travelling to rest upon Sir Everard, who ignored him.

  ‘Alas, we don’t,’ said Rosamund just as Harry appeared, bowing before her with a grand flourish of his hand.

  ‘We be right, milady,’ said the lad and proceeded to parade before her, his chest puffed out, his wig making his head appear larger, his scarf sitting so high on his neck, it forced his chin back. ‘Once them coves set their glaziers on this —’ his thumb indicated his clothes then encompassed the room, ‘or you,’ he nodded appreciably towards her, ‘they’ll be right keen on the place.’