by Karen Brooks
And then there were the paintings. She had barely registered them when Sir Everard lay dead before them, and she was not yet ready to face them. Instead, she perused the desk further. There were two inkwells, quills, a knife for sharpening them, a handful of spare candles and some tapers, as well as a decanter of wine. Bless Jacopo. Pouring herself a glass, she shuffled through the papers. There were what appeared to be letters from Sir Everard’s secretaries in Holland, Venice and the New World. The words ‘tobacco’ and ‘cacao’ were oft repeated. There were what she guessed must be the names of ships as well: Helene (of course), Lady Margery, Blithman’s Badger and Gregory. She wondered briefly what cargo they carried and was reminded of the well-stocked warehouses on the river. Beneath the pile of documents on her right was a fat ledger. Wat had not seen fit to take that. It was filled with neat entries and figures. She would have to become familiar with the contents, or at least have Jacopo explain them to her if she was to manage the Blithman estate.
Estate. Never in her wildest dreams would she have connected such a grand word and all it portended in terms of material possessions with her name. But here she was, the widow of Sir Edward Blithman and, according to what Widow Ashe whispered to her at the graveside, and Mr Bender intimated, since her husband had no surviving progeny, she was entitled to a portion of her husband’s wealth, or would be once the damn executor was found. Not that she felt either entitled or wealthy. Instead, she felt an acute sense of loss.
She wiped a hand across her brow and slowly drank her wine. It wasn’t Sir Everard she missed, unnatural churl that she was, but someone with whom she could share her turn of fortune. She didn’t want to think of it as ‘good’; how could it be ‘good’ when it arose from such misery? Helene and her brothers’ deaths, the loss of the little grandson, sweet Robin and Sir Everard himself. The latter embroiled in secrets, plots, blackmail and murder. It hardly bore consideration, yet wouldn’t leave her mind.
The one thing that really mattered to her was the chocolate house. Her secret hope, which she’d foolishly revealed to Sam in a moment of weakness, was that one day, when the will was settled and the mourning period was over, she would be able to purchase it back from Matthew Lovelace. Sam scoffed and told her she’d best forget the place altogether. Her duty was to shop. When she regarded him askance, he explained that was what widows did, they shopped — for a husband. Mayhap that was why she felt empty. The thought of losing the chocolate house, of never again being able to work beside Filip, Thomas, Solomon, the drawers and the girls, to fulfil her aspirations for what she knew the place could be, filled her with despair. Now that Lovelace had it, what was she to do? She’d no desire to be an idle woman on the prowl for a man. She didn’t want to be a merchant in the sense Sir Everard had been. Perhaps she could sell the ships? Or lease them?
That was something she had to ask Mr Bender, discuss with Jacopo and Bianca. A little seed of determination took root; a sense of purpose unfurled.
Her hand brushed against a pile of notes, almost scattering them. Glancing at the topmost one, she frowned. She’d almost forgotten the lubricious invitations from gentlemen, noblemen, businessmen — even the King’s procurer, William Chiffinch — all hastily scrawled and delivered to the house. They were very much the same. The men sought to either bed or wed her — though mostly, she thought wryly, the former. The notes had arrived daily since Sir Everard died, and she’d ignored each and every one. Rosamund had no regrets on that score, though she was puzzled that the higher the rank of the suitor, the more lascivious his suggestions. One even went so far as to describe Sir Everard’s death as a ‘delightful convenience’. At first she laughed them off, but they soon aroused nothing but sadness that men could be so lacking in respect for the deceased, for her mourning; that they saw her widowhood as an opportunity and sought to take advantage of it.
Maybe Sam was right. If nothing else, a man, a husband, would protect her from such unwelcome advances.
Pushing the notes aside, she scoffed at herself. She didn’t need protection, not when, as a widow, she had autonomy for the first time in her life. As a widow, she had freedoms, limited as they were, that a single woman — a feme sole — or a married one could only dream about, including refusing unsubtle requests to ‘play at heave-and-shove’. How often had her grandmother, for all the love she bore her husband, thanked God for her widowed state and the power it bestowed? No, Rosamund would not be in a hurry to seek out someone to wed, however much Sam and these so-called gentlemen might pressure her to do so. Still, it would be nice to share all this with someone.
Now that she didn’t have a husband to dictate what she could and couldn’t do, she could go to the theatre, attend a lecture at Gresham College, go to St James’s Park, travel by river… All the things Sam had invited her to do and which Sir Everard had postponed. He’d wanted to keep her strong resemblance to his daughter as secret as possible until he was ready to reveal it.
But did she really bear such a likeness to Helene? Her gaze drifted towards the series of portraits on the wall to her left.
She rose and went to examine the faces of those whose estate, through sheer tragedy, had come to her. The thought made her stumble. She’d never asked or expected it, please God.
She gazed up at a much younger Sir Everard, who stood in front of a mighty oak dressed as a cavalier with a feathered bonnet tipped at a jaunty angle, a frilled collar framing his face, and sword with a shining quillon upon his hip. He stared out boldly, almost arrogantly. There was a time when arrogant was never a word she’d have used to describe her husband — not at first — yet here he appeared to personify it. How had she not seen it? Discomfited, she moved away. The next painting was of a woman — Lady Margery; Rosamund recognised the dress.
Rather buxom, with dark hair, thick brows and deeply hooded eyes that suggested secrets, she looked down a rather large nose. The artist had tried to soften her face by putting roses in her cheeks, but the high colour succeeded in making her look angry. Rosamund wondered what had provoked it. Emboldened now, she moved to the next picture. It depicted a rather dashing young man dressed in the colours of his regiment. His eyes twinkled and seemed to follow her. He had his mother’s dark hair and brows and his father’s sky-blue eyes, but without the boldness. Gregory? Or Aubrey?
It was the final painting she was most curious about. As she stood before it, Rosamund’s breath caught in her throat. Fair curls cascaded over one shoulder. Dark brows and lashes framed eyes the same colour as her father’s and brother’s, only closer together. Her nose was long and narrow. Not as well endowed as her mother, but possessed of a fine figure nonetheless, the young woman chose not to smile, but instead to gaze earnestly upon the world with deep, deep sadness. Her mouth was downturned, her chin too, and one hand yearned for something beyond the frame, forever out of reach. What was it? Rosamund thought of the woman’s dead brothers, her mother, her grieving father… and the poor baby forever lost. A lump filled her throat, her chest grew tight as she willed herself not to shed tears.
So, this was Helene. The unfortunate, lovely Helene whose husband was Sir Everard’s mortal enemy. Rosamund could see a likeness, of sorts. They were both fair and dark, neither tall nor short, skinny nor fat. Their hair was long, palest gold and unruly. But there, surely, the resemblance ended. Why, this woman was so miserable, Rosamund was surprised the picture hadn’t fallen from the wall with the weight of her sorrow. It flowed out from the painting, swamping Rosamund. She reached out and gently touched the picture.
‘I’m so sorry for what you suffered; for your terrible losses. I’m sorry you were wed to one such as he. I too know the levels to which men can stoop. What they can do to us. I pray that you are with God now, you and your little boy.’ She shook herself at her flight of fancy (her grandmother would not have approved) and, composing herself with no small difficulty, continued to examine the room. The only other portrait was a small one featuring King Charles and his Queen Catherine. The other paintings
were pastorals or battle scenes. There was no sign of the other son. She glanced at the pictures again. The young man must be Gregory. There was something about the way Sir Everard had spoken of Aubrey which suggested he’d not found favour with his father. It would explain why his portrait wasn’t hung with the rest of the family.
Aubrey… Had Sir Everard been calling for him in his last moments? Aubrey, Helene and Margery. She gave a shudder as she recalled his face, his lips twisting as he tried to speak, crying out to the dead.
Before returning to the desk, she paused before Sir Everard’s portrait. ‘Did you see them beckoning in your last moments? I pray you are all together, united in death as you were not in life,’ she whispered, thinking how tragic it was that all three children had lost their lives so far from home, and before their father. ‘May you all find peace with God, milord.’
She waited. Sir Everard ignored her, much as he had in life. Either that, or heaven wasn’t where he was resting. Chastising herself for the uncharitable thought, she went back to the desk, this time approaching from the other side. As she did, she noticed a large object shoved between the cabinet and the wall. Putting down her glass, she slid it out with some difficulty and drew away the fabric covering it. The material caught briefly on a gilt frame before revealing another portrait of the same dimensions as the others. She propped it against the desk, stood back and gave a small cry. The canvas was slashed in three places, violent rents through the middle. Above the first of these was a young man’s face. A very handsome one at that.
Laughing, he stood with one foot in front of the other, his arms folded across a broad chest. His hair was fair, thick and long and sat in waves beneath a fine feathered cap. His jacket was pinked and made of blue velvet, which served to enhance the light, periwinkle eyes. His brows were arched, his chin tilted upwards. It would have been a joyous painting except for his mouth. The lips were thin, cruel almost, and the way they curled slightly to the right made his grin a sneer. Shivering, she wondered why the portrait had not only been savagely cut, but hidden away. This must be Aubrey: the family resemblance was obvious. Clearly, his misdeeds had been so very great he was shunned even unto death.
Instead of covering it again, she hefted it to a spot near the cabinet and leaned it against the wall. She owed her new comforts to all the family — including Aubrey. The slashes in the canvas were unnerving — a draught lifted them, giving the painting the illusion of being animated, as if Aubrey were about to step towards her and speak. Unable to tolerate it any longer, she rose and rearranged the fabric and stored the painting away again. Satisfied he was hidden, she was about to sit back down when there was a knock at the door.
It took her a moment to understand that whoever was on the other side was waiting for permission to enter. Her position was remarkably altered.
‘Come in,’ she said loudly and strove to appear business-like behind the desk.
The door opened a crack and Jacopo poked his head in.
‘Jacopo,’ said Rosamund, placated. ‘I thought you were still at the chocolate house, come in. I need your hel—’
‘You have a visitor, signora.’ He opened the door wider.
Before Rosamund could ask who would be calling at such a time on such a wretched day, in strode none other than Matthew Lovelace.
TWENTY-FIVE
In which the devil reveals a conscience
Rosamund felt as if she had lost possession of her body; if she hadn’t been leaning on the desk, she would have fallen.
Unaware of her shock, Matthew Lovelace approached, whipping off his hat and executing a most elegant bow. Dressed in black with a violet trim, he appeared tired and worn. The lines around his eyes were deep crevices, his cheeks hollow. Rosamund could feel the painted face of the young Sir Everard glowering at the intruder — and at her — while Helene radiated more of her ever-present sadness.
While his actions were not tentative, his words were. ‘Forgive my calling at such a late hour, my lady,’ he said, as if it was his habit to visit the house. ‘Or perhaps I should simply ask you to forgive me.’
A movement caught her eye. Ah, Jacopo remained by the door. Her breathing eased, though her heart beat fit to play at a royal procession.
Rosamund resisted the urge to ask after his health, and struggled to find not merely her voice, but the right words. Did she bid him sit as she should any guest? Did she curse and demand him gone? Did she ask why he looked as if the hounds of hell bayed throughout the night, chasing away the solace of sleep and comfort of dreams? Why did he look as if he grieved when she did not? What could she say? What could she do? Good God, what was Jacopo doing admitting him after everything they’d endured? She glanced at the paintings as if to find inspiration. They remained mute; haughty, but mute.
Matthew Lovelace was also looking at them — specifically, at the portrait of Helene. Was that regret upon his face? Or guilt? For all the man wore two faces, deployed two names (that she knew of), she did not want to believe him guilty of the crimes Sir Everard laid at his feet. Now he stood before her and she wanted to hear what he had to say.
‘Is that why you seek me out at such a late hour, sir?’ she asked, finding her voice at last.
With a sad smile, Matthew Lovelace replaced his hat. ‘I could leave it no longer. May I?’ he asked, indicating the chair.
Rosamund’s hand swept towards it. She sat as well, unable to trust her legs, they were shaking so badly. From fear, uncertainty and something else.
‘First of all,’ began Matthew Lovelace, ‘let me reiterate how sorry I am for your loss, my lady. I knew Sir Everard was unwell, but I didn’t know his palsy had weakened him so.’
‘The doctor said he died from apoplexy.’
‘I heard.’ He paused and studied his hands, still encased in gloves. She wondered why he always wore them. It was quite warm in the study. ‘I feel more than a little responsible for what happened… If I had not insisted upon redress; if the exchange of documents had not taken place in such a public manner…’ He hesitated.
Rosamund pressed her lips together. The same thoughts had occurred to her. The doctor, a Spanish physician whom Solomon had found, later told Rosamund he suspected Sir Everard hadn’t been long for this world. His colouring, the way in which she described his choking, sweating and shortness of breath, in addition to his slurred words in the lead up to his collapse, all pointed towards him being gravely ill. While she had wanted to deposit more blame at Matthew Lovelace’s door, she was strangely relieved she didn’t have to, and accepted the doctor’s diagnosis with grace.
Aware she wasn’t going to make this easy for him, Matthew Lovelace continued. ‘I’m here not only to offer my sincere condolences, Lady Rosamund, I’m here to offer you an explanation for what you witnessed at the chocolate house so I might solicit not only your forgiveness, which is of the utmost importance to me, but also, as strange as it sounds, proffer a proposal.’
For one mad moment, Rosamund thought he meant a marriage proposal. A bolt of lightning jolted her spine and a look of distaste briefly altered her features.
‘While I welcome an explanation, anything to help me make sense of what has happened, what makes you think, Mr Lovelace… or is it Nessuno…’ she dealt the names like unlucky cards, ‘that I would be interested in offering dispensation let alone listening to any proposal you have to make? All that mattered to me in this world, you have taken.’
Too late she realised it sounded as if she meant the chocolate house when she was referring to her husband… wasn’t she?
Matthew Lovelace shifted in his seat and nodded. ‘When I embarked upon this course and entered into an agreement with Sir Everard, it was never with the intention to deprive you. You were not within my compass when this was started. My understanding is you were not in Sir Everard’s, either. In all fairness, your union was still fresh… barely months old. If I’d been aware of you then…’ He hesitated, looked across at the portraits. ‘I can only imagine what you’ve hea
rd about me. However,’ he said, turning back towards her and raising a finger, ‘it’s only one side of the story. As someone who I know believes at least in those whose voices are clamouring to be heard, in the truth — or a version of it — you might wish to hear mine. That is all I ask of you — for the moment. I ask that you lend me your ears.’
Rosamund sniffed, her indignation growing. ‘My ears? Are you Mark Antony now?’ She sent a silent thanks to Bianca for reading her Julius Caesar. ‘You wish to tell your side of the story? This is no fairytale, sir; nor are you Shakespeare.’
‘No, it is not. And I certainly make no claim to be a bard, let alone the bard. But it is a tragedy borne of revenge. I think you would want to hear where it began. How it began.’
‘You thought wrong, sir.’ Oh, no he didn’t, but she would not give him that satisfaction. Not in Sir Everard’s study. Not before his portrait or Helene’s. It didn’t seem right. ‘And, I’m afraid I’ve had cause to observe your intentions firsthand. You cannot deny you were blackmailing my husband.’
‘I do not. I was. Over many months, I sent him numerous letters outlining instructions for the chocolate house, its specific design, materials to be used, changes I wanted, the workers’ conditions, uniforms, even who was to be employed — Filip, Solomon, Thomas and Widow Ashe. Finally, I dictated when the place was to open. When Sir Everard stalled in the last regard, I… let’s say, used additional leverage to ensure he adhered to my command. I cannot begin to express the remorse I feel about that. For what occurred as a consequence.’ He turned towards Jacopo. ‘My apologies are not enough.’ Jacopo lowered his head. ‘But I’m afraid they’re all I have.’ He threw up his hands. ‘Why do I seek to mitigate my behaviour? Facts are, I made demands and threatened him if these were not met. I do not pretend otherwise, milady.’
