by Karen Brooks
Rosamund stood her ground in the midst of the melee, her eyes fixed on the little boy in Filip’s embrace; the boy who had been so happy to have employ, a wage. She recalled him standing by Filip as she went to fetch the tray, scratching his ill-fitting periwig, licking his lips, eager to serve but also to have his own bowl. Slowly she turned to regard the chocolate pot from which she just poured a drink. The chocolate pot she’d innocently swapped with the one left in the kitchen. The one her husband had placed on a tray with strict instructions for her to collect for his special guest. She looked at Matthew Lovelace, who followed her gaze, then looked back at her. Knowledge altered both their faces.
Matthew Lovelace returned to the booth and scooped up the letters. Shaking moisture from the deed, he folded it and put it, and the letters, in his satchel.
Fury bloomed on Sir Everard’s face as he witnessed this. ‘What are you doing, cur? We have a deal.’ Shoving Sam out of the way, he used his stick to scythe a path through the departing patrons and back to the booth.
‘Not any more we don’t,’ said Matthew Lovelace. ‘You’ve forfeited. Yet again, through deceit and treachery, you lose what you most value. The chocolate house is now mine and I get to keep the incriminating letters.’
Sir Everard released a string of expletives. ‘Jacopo! Don’t let him leave. Wat? Where are you?’
Mr Roberts gestured for Matthew Lovelace to precede him to the door.
The new owner of the chocolate house paused next to Rosamund. ‘I’m so sorry… about the boy as well,’ he said, and joined the crush heading for the stairs.
Sir Everard stood, his chest heaving, his face florid, an island in the maelstrom, before his face twisted.
‘You.’ He pointed a shaking finger at Rosamund. ‘This… this disaster is your fault.’ He tried to reach her; he was a man possessed. ‘I never should have tr… trust… trusted a woman.’ He shoved her and she staggered into a table. A bench toppled. ‘You… y… you… stupid l… l… little doxy. You filthy, useless chit. After all I’ve done for you. After all I’ve given you.’ He grabbed a sleeve of her dress and tore it, flinging the fabric to the ground. ‘You are not fit to wear this gown, nor my wife’s.’ He slashed at the skirt and the fabric came away in his hands. Rosamund grasped at the material, tried to preserve her modesty. ‘I give you one simple in… ins… instruction… one t… t… task and you fuc… fucki…’ His face underwent a change. One side began to collapse, as if it were formed from wet sand. His lips could no longer make words. Nonsense spewed forth.
Rosamund could hear every ragged breath. Trapped against a table, she was unable to do much more than raise a protective arm as a torrent of spit and gibberish rained upon her. Sir Everard lunged, ripped her other sleeve away and tore her bodice. Not one man came forward to aid her.
That wasn’t quite true. There was one, but the patrons, halting their initial exodus, were keen to enjoy the show and wouldn’t allow him passage: Lovelace couldn’t reach her.
Refusing to cry out, to quiver beneath her husband’s fury and beg for mercy, she thought of Paul and stood straight. With a yowl of sheer impotence and rage at her wilfulness, Sir Everard raised his cane above his head and brought it down.
‘No,’ screamed Rosamund and with a strength she didn’t know she possessed, caught the wood in the palm of her hand and wrenched it from him, tossing it aside. It clattered and rolled under a table.
Sir Everard stared at her in shock and emitted a peculiar choking sound. He reeled and clutched the air, his fingers claws. His face, already red, turned vermillion and his eyes, horribly bloodshot, protruded as he tried to speak. Rosamund stepped aside as he began an inexorable slide to his knees.
Jacopo caught him before he fell and lowered him to the floor. There were more cries, a babble of voices, calls for help.
Rosamund watched in disbelief and sank to her knees beside her husband. His limbs spasmed, jerking uncontrollably. He gasped and fought for air. She loosened his collar, feeling his throat hard at work. Jacopo caught a flailing hand and tried to straighten the bent fingers. Sir Everard kept glaring at them and trying to speak. His breath was raspy, short. ‘He… He… Hel…’ His neck was twisted, his other hand rising and falling as if he were marching, striking the floor over and over.
A dark patch flowered around his groin. A sweet, sickly smell followed as his bowels opened too. ‘Fetch a physician,’ cried Rosamund.
The command was echoed. Men broke away.
There was a draught of air followed by a shadow. Matthew Lovelace knelt opposite her and began to rub Sir Everard’s arms. ‘Come on, old man. You can’t expire on me now. We’ve unfinished business, you and I.’
Astonished he didn’t flee in triumph the moment they were all distracted, Rosamund regarded him.
‘You have to believe me, my lady,’ he said, his eyes locking onto hers, ‘I never intended this to happen. If I’d known…’
Known what? He’d have… what? Never darkened the chocolate-house door? Never agreed to whatever devil-sent exchange they were engaging in? Never pretended to be her friend? She wanted to believe him. Oh, dear sweet Lord forgive her, she wanted to…
Her treacherous mind whispered Why did it have to be you? as her husband’s terrible pallor and blue lips filled her vision.
Sir Everard’s mouth worked urgently again, issuing primitive sounds. ‘Ma… Marg… Helene… Aubrey… Aub…’
His face twisted in a rictus. With hooked fingers he reached out towards Matthew Lovelace. Then his body gave one last great shudder and his arm dropped.
Rosamund gave a cry. Jacopo released his hand. The spectators drew back. Matthew Lovelace pressed his ear against Sir Everard’s chest.
Outside, the clop of hooves, the clatter of carts and the calls of vendors intruded. Somewhere a dog howled. Inside there were whispers, cleared throats and discreet coughs; downstairs the shop bell rang over and over and footsteps resounded on the stairs. An errant sunbeam stole in the window to fall across Sir Everard’s face. A face forever frozen in wide-eyed fury.
Full of disbelief and something else, Matthew Lovelace’s eyes composed their own words, even as his lips formed others.
‘I’m sorry to tell you, my lady,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But Sir Everard Blithman is dead.’
PART TWO
Autumn 1662 to Spring 1665
I love the old way best, the simple way Of poison, where we too are strong as men.
— Euripides, Medea (translated by Gilbert Murray)
The great Use of Chocolate in Venery, and for Supplying the testicles with a Balsam, or a Sap, is so ingeniously made out by one of our learned Countrymen already, that I dare not presume to add any Thing after so accomplished a Pen; though I am of Opinion, that I might treat of the Subject without any Immodesty, or Offence…
— Henry Stubbes, The Indian Nectar: A Discourse Concerning Chocolata etc., 1662, 1682
TWENTY-FOUR
In which a chocolate house is mourned
It was hard to believe it was almost three months since Sir Everard died. He had been like a comet flashing through Rosamund’s life and wreaking great change — though not in the way he intended. So much had happened, there were still moments when she had to reassure herself it wasn’t all a dream.
There had been so much to do in the immediate aftermath of Sir Everard’s and Robin’s terrible deaths. The coroner’s report had found Robin’s to be the consequence of poison, administered via chocolate by perpetrators unknown, and Sir Everard’s from apoplexy — though rumours of poison attended his demise as well. One question she had been determined to resolve, even while in mourning, was why Jacopo and Bianca had withheld Matthew Lovelace’s identity from her. What had motivated them to keep silent?
Once they confessed that Sir Everard had sworn them to secrecy on pain of punishment, Rosamund couldn’t remain angry or blame them for obeying their master. Wasn’t obedience what Sir Everard required from all who served him? Including his wife
. And having seen his attack on Jacopo, the reality of what they would have faced had either of them broken their word did not need to be spelt out.
Rosamund forgave them as soon as they asked it of her — after all, if anyone understood how coercion and fear forced even good people into behaviours they wouldn’t otherwise countenance, it was her. Equanimity in the household was swiftly restored.
One consequence of Sir Everard’s death was that she was no longer bound by the promises she’d made to him. Nor were Jacopo and Bianca. Rather than being pleased at this sudden liberty, they had all gone about their tasks as if little had changed.
But it had: Rosamund no longer had a chocolate house to visit each day. Was she so very wicked that she grieved more for that than the loss of her husband? Aye, she was wickedness personified.
After the initial outpouring of sympathy from Mr Bender, Mr Henderson, Mr Remney and even a few of the patrons who ignored the salacious rumours, Rosamund was, with the exception of Sam, Bianca and Jacopo, left to herself. She might be a titled widow, but it was a dubious status — and everyone knew it. And she was a Blithman, a name that, wealth aside, still carried a taint. All of this might have been tolerated had she not sullied herself by embracing work. There was not a lady in town who would offer friendship to such a one.
Bianca tried to engage Rosamund by continuing their reading lessons and even introducing her to the practicalities of running a household. While Rosamund cooperated, her heart wasn’t in it — it had been lost to the chocolate.
She kept thinking of what happened that day, of Matthew Lovelace, wondering how he was faring now the chocolate house was his — the cheating, lying blackmailer. Yet even those words took on a softer, less potent meaning, unlike the names gossips attributed to her in the wake of such scurrilous and tragic events.
She drifted about the manor in her widow’s garb, unwilling yet to venture beyond its four walls, though no-one prevented her, not any more. Church was an exception and there was a great fuss when she arrived the first Sunday following Sir Everard’s death. There, the reverend, a portly man of middling years with a strapping Dutch wife (a cheese-muncher, someone said unkindly and loudly enough for the poor woman to hear), offered his sincere condolences and to attend Blithe Manor so they might pray together for Sir Everard’s soul. While she graciously accepted the first suggestion, Rosamund was appalled at the idea he might actually follow through upon the second. She’d no inclination to entertain anyone and no idea what was expected of her. Furthermore, she wasn’t convinced Sir Everard’s soul could be saved — after all, he’d not only plotted to kill but was responsible for Robin’s death. Something she also blamed herself for… if only she hadn’t switched the pots. But then Matthew Lovelace would the one interred in the ground. Why did the notion seize her heart and make her vision blurry? Thoughts whirled in her head like autumn leaves along the river banks.
Sam, who’d abandoned his regular parish service so he might escort her to this one, saved her from having to respond to the reverend and whisked her home before the man of God could secure arrangements.
Most afternoons Sam made a point of calling. Appreciative of his concern, she nevertheless came to view his visits, accompanied as they were with his endless prating about naval matters, his house renovations and even the various ships he oversaw, with despair. Greatly excited about a play he’d seen on Michaelmas at the King’s Theatre, A Midsummer’s Night Dream, he once spent an entire afternoon describing it in detail, oblivious to her mood. It didn’t matter that she pleaded with him to allow her time to grow accustomed to her new status and what that entailed, Sam insisted on entertaining her — and lecturing her on the unhealthy state of widowhood.
Rosamund barely listened as he prattled, stroking her hand or arm as he did so. Once he even rested his fingers above her knee, his large eyes gazing at her, puppy-like, until she pried his fingers off none too gently. Unabashed, he saw the liberties he took about her person — including a lingering kiss on her lips whenever he entered or left the manor — as his right as her cousin. Indeed, as his right with any eligible woman, regardless of his marital state. The very thought of his wandering hands and where they might go, or his wet mouth, were enough to turn her not-so-delicate stomach.
After persevering for a few weeks, Rosamund told Bianca to inform Mr Pepys when he next came to call that she was indisposed, and she was thus for three days in a row. Showing uncharacteristic insight, he ceased to call so frequently.
Every day she sent Jacopo to the chocolate house to enquire after Filip and to see how Widow Ashe, Cara, Solomon, Thomas and the others were faring, sending her best wishes and hoping that Robin’s death had not affected them too badly. She prayed they thought kindly of her, despite her husband being responsible for so much heartache.
Jacopo would return with news they missed her presence greatly, they were all well, though having been closed for a month out of respect for Sir Everard and Robin, and only recently reopened, custom at the chocolate house (it was no longer called Helene’s and was yet to be christened) had suffered.
She never asked openly about Matthew Lovelace, though no small part of her longed to. Jacopo occasionally mentioned him, and Rosamund would find her heart leaping and questions forming on her lips. Questions she swiftly swallowed.
As expected, news of the deaths spread — by word of mouth then in the news sheets. At first, they were attributed to the chocolate, but as the weeks went by after the place reopened and no more brave folk succumbed, and Rosamund remained out of the public eye, other rumours spread. Everything from a Papist conspiracy to plague to a rival business in St Michael’s Alley were held accountable for poisoning Sir Everard (Robin was mostly forgotten). Rosamund was mentioned in most of the reports — some described her as the injured party and a winsome widow who had a genuine flair for chocolate and whose talents would be sorely missed. The word ‘talents’ was underlined, which Rosamund knew indicated less flattering connotations. Others brazenly attributed the deaths to her — the boy having died from want of the lady, the husband from a surfeit.
Oh, to die that way, muttered the men who’d spied her.
Few of the reports mentioned that Lovelace had taken over the business. No-one made a fuss. After all, wasn’t he related to the Blithmans by marriage? Anyway, no-one in their right mind would give it to a woman to run, not when there was a perfectly healthy male member of the family to do so. Any history between Sir Everard and Matthew Lovelace was quickly rewritten to suit the outcome. Just as well Sir Everard had signed the deeds over before expiring… Clearly, the new wife and business had been far too much for the old man.
Rosamund was pleased to note that none of the scuttlebutt was written by Mr Nessuno.
Nevertheless, many who had been present at the infamous opening returned to the chocolate house in the hope of seeing Ravishing Rosamund, the Winsome Widow. Learning she was no longer on the premises, despite being family, many took their custom elsewhere. In doing so, they could not help but note that no other place served chocolate quite like that prepared by the Spaniard or Lady Blithman — dangerous, delicious slut that she was.
Not even Sam relayed this information to his cousin. Some news was too sordid, even for a delicious slut to hear.
Rosamund was uncertain what she hoped to achieve by going to Sir Everard’s study one evening weeks after his death. The only time she’d been there before was to view his body. As when she had gone to see Robin’s corpse in the crypt at St Helen’s, she’d barely paid attention to her surroundings, drawn by the pale, bloodless form on display. Whereas Robin’s slight frame lay on the stone floor, and she’d knelt and stroked his thick, spiky hair, as soft in death as in life, and spilt tears over his skinny little limbs, twisted mouth and half-open cloudy eyes, bemoaning the waste of a precious life, she’d felt no emotion when she saw Sir Everard. Accompanied by Bianca and Jacopo, she’d stared at the large, blue-lipped man with the silver hair, his cane and sword laid diagonally ac
ross his broad chest, and spied a stranger. Touching his cold hand, she said a quick prayer and left the room.
Did she hope to understand why her husband had handed over the chocolate house? Why he succumbed to blackmail? The nature of it? To discover the contents of those letters that he’d been prepared to sacrifice the chocolate house to possess? Gah! She had to stop thinking about it. The chocolate house was no longer her concern. Only she couldn’t stop caring.
Chocolate had seeped into her blood.
First she lit some candles and a small fire to keep winter’s creeping chill at bay. Outside, thunder growled and lightning split the sky. Rosamund lowered herself into the chair behind the desk, her hands splayed across the surface and, like a king atop a castle, surveyed the room. Twin turrets of correspondence sat either side of her. Since Sir Everard died, Jacopo had been dealing with all matters pertaining to his business. Mr Bender had said that until the executor of her husband’s will was located or proven dead, there could be no formal reading of the will or disposal of property. Who this was he did not reveal, and Rosamund did not have the energy to ask. Reassured it was business as usual (whatever that was), until such time as the will could be executed, she was to continue as she had — which meant, with Wat suddenly gone, Jacopo took on his responsibilities as well.
Wat. Wat Smithyman. Sir Everard’s loyal steward, who disappeared two days after his master died (along with some household silver). There’d been no word from him since. Rosamund could only be glad. It made living at Blithe Manor far more bearable. Certainly, the servants seemed brighter for his absence. Jacopo said Wat had rifled through the study drawers, but if he had taken anything, they were none the wiser.
Dark wainscoting lined the walls, glowing gold and amber in the light cast by the flames. Altogether, the room was quite comfortable if somewhat smelly. Though it was weeks since Sir Everard had last used it, the odour of stale pipe tobacco, the acrid smell of coal burned over many winters, mouldy paper, sweat and neglected food and wine perfumed the room as it had her mother’s bedroom at the inn. A sword hung on one wall, a coat of arms beside it. Rosamund recognised the Blithman sigil — a large badger upright in a boat, adrift upon rough seas. Sir Everard had explained what it meant months ago. The badger signified independence and tenacity, focus and strategy; the seas were the forces of nature and God that, together, might rock the boat, but the badger would survive no matter what. The coat of arms appeared throughout the house.
