by Karen Brooks
‘Here I was thinking I was being clever confessing to Sir Everard that Aubrey might be in serious trouble, that his business dealings were believed to be treasonous, when I was the one being outplayed all along. In revealing my heart, I became the perfect candidate. Gulled on two counts, they used the promise of Helene to secure my loyalty and silence and to give the child legitimacy.’
This time he laughed. It was long and bitter. ‘Ultimately it wasn’t about me saving the Blithman name, but the Blithmans tarnishing that of Lovelace.’
‘What did you do?’ asked Rosamund quietly.
‘Do?’ He leaned forward, his forearms resting on the desk. ‘Once I understood the content of the letters, I relit the fire Helene had started and tossed the pages one by one into the flames before, in a fit of fury, I threw in the whole damn lot. As they began to burn, I realised my error. I sought to extinguish the flames. Problem was, I’d drunk all the wine the captain had left, my jordan was empty, and fetching water would take too long. I’d no choice. I reached into the flames with my bare hands — not once, but over and over. I rescued the only proof I had of Helene’s infidelity and Sir Everard’s and Aubrey’s complicity in a plot to deceive me.
‘Did I mention I was drunk? Yes, well. In saving the letters, I ruined my hands.’ He held them aloft, the kid gloves taking on a suddenly sinister meaning.
Before Rosamund could form a question, he continued. ‘I left the ship on the James River in Virginia. I carried wounds both physical and much, much deeper. They didn’t prevent me writing at once to Sir Everard and telling him about Helene and the baby — I owed him that. But I also told him what I’d gleaned from the letters. I said I needed time to recover, to explore any opportunities the colonies offered. In time, I would return to London and, as originally intended, resume my stake in the chocolate house, which I trusted Sir Everard to keep for me.
‘What did my… Sir Everard reply?’
‘He didn’t. At least, not in words. No, what he did was to seek to destroy me — the one man who knew the truth about his daughter and what her family had done.’
‘What do you mean?’
Matthew threw himself back in the chair. ‘This. Late one night outside a tavern in Jamestown, I was beaten to within an inch of my life and warned that if I ever revealed what I knew about the Blithmans, I would be killed. You do not look surprised, my lady.’
Rosamund shrugged. ‘I wish I were…’
Matthew replenished his drink and Rosamund’s. ‘It was only the letters and the fact I’d sent them to my lawyer in England, Mr Isaac Roberts, for safe-keeping that guaranteed my life. Not that this stopped Sir Everard trying to ruin me in other ways. Mysteriously, I would find my negotiations with the colonists ended before they began, my reputation, fresh in these parts, sullied beyond measure; any loans I managed to secure were withdrawn without explanation. I was outwitted, outbid, and continuously threatened. Any ideas I had about beginning again were cruelly quashed. My only chance to salvage something of my life lay in returning to my old one. I decided to come back to the last place I wanted to be: London. With a pen name, a new identity, and vengeance raging in my heart.’
TWENTY-SIX
In which a widow is propositioned
‘And so,’ said Matthew, ‘before I left Jamestown, I wrote to Blithman, outlining a series of demands. If he would not allow me to enjoy my share of the chocolate house honestly, then I would come to it by other means. This time, I would deprive him of his share — I would have it all in my possession.’ He swirled the ruby liquid in his glass, watching as it caught the light, making eddies of carmine and gold. He rested his head on the back of the chair and stared at the ceiling. ‘I’m not proud of what I did.’ He lowered his chin and regarded Rosamund solemnly. ‘I hope you believe me when I say that. I had no other recourse.’
Rosamund did believe him in regard to Sir Everard. After all, was he not talking about the same man who would have happily seen his wife charged with murder? It was time she faced that truth as well. Dear God. By simply surviving the attempt to kill him, Matthew Lovelace acquitted her of any crime. In a peculiar sense, she owed him. Shocked and sickened by what he’d revealed, she also felt a profound sorrow. How people could behave in such a way confounded her; to practise treason, deceit, lies, as if they were some art form to be mastered. We are on Earth by God’s good grace for such a brief time, surely it is better to work together than against each other? Help one another, rather than to seek to fool, bribe and blackmail?
Her eyes drifted to the portrait of her husband and the one of his daughter. Helene’s misery suddenly took on an altogether different and sinister meaning.
And what of Sir Everard? What he did in gulling Mr Lovelace was wrong; the manner in which he ensured her complicity was wicked, but wasn’t he doing it because he loved his daughter? His son? Wasn’t he doing it to protect his family? Maybe there was no other choice for him either.
But there had been… He didn’t have to involve her. He could have encouraged Helene’s lover to marry her. He could have stopped his son.
And what of Matthew? Was he really as innocent as he claimed? By his own admission he had turned a blind eye to suspected treason for personal gain. Had he really felt such passion for Helene that he would first burn then rescue the missives she had kept? Or was that a fabrication designed to arouse sympathy? Her eyes went to Matthew’s gloved hands.
Without warning, he pulled off first one glove then the other. He held both hands up, turning them about.
Rosamund stared in horror. This was no fiction. The flesh was unnaturally pink, twisted, burned into knots and runnels, taut across his palms.
He flexed his fingers slowly. ‘It has taken me years to be able to do that. I thought my foolish impulse would mean I could never hold a sword again, much less a quill. Fortunately, I was wrong.’
Before she could pass comment, he replaced the gloves.
‘I’m… I’m so sorry,’ said Rosamund softly.
‘So am I. I was a gudgeon to thrust my hands into flames and not expect consequences. Still, if I had not…’
Rosamund absorbed this. At least now she knew what the ‘other matters’ were that distracted him from writing on the issues that meant so much to him.
‘Why didn’t Sir Everard force the rogue at the centre of all this to marry Helene?’
Matthew Lovelace stared at his gloved hands. ‘Because he could not. The church would not have permitted such a union.’
‘He was a Papist?’
Matthew Lovelace took a moment to answer. ‘There was another impediment.’
‘Oh…’ She wondered quickly if the man was low-born but couldn’t imagine Helene mixing in such company in the first place. Then it dawned on her. ‘Was he already married?’
‘Promised, aye,’ said Matthew Lovelace.
Rosamund sat back and silently twirled the stem of her glass, thinking.
‘Thank you, madam,’ said Matthew Lovelace eventually. ‘The story is not easy to tell.’
‘It’s not easy to hear, either.’
Matthew grimaced. ‘I feared it would not be, but in light of what I wish to ask you, I thought it important you know the truth. I remember you telling me how important it was to you. If you knew then how much that disturbed me…’
She almost burst out laughing. Truth? What was that? Did she even know any more? Sir Everard chose to believe that Matthew Lovelace killed his daughter and grandchild and allowed others, like her, to believe the same. For a time, it had been her truth. While Matthew Lovelace had indeed placed his wife and child in the boat, if what he said was true, he wasn’t responsible for what happened afterwards. The rope had been cut. Could Helene really have done that and consigned herself and her child to a watery doom? Or was she trying desperately to reach somewhere? Someone? The narrow-eyed visage that gazed from the frame suggested anything was possible.
As for Aubrey, well, Sir Everard had omitted any mention of his perfidy, preferri
ng to maintain a fabrication. Perhaps that was the only way he could deal with the truth.
But wasn’t it also true that Matthew Lovelace had resorted to blackmail to get his own way? What sort of man did that?
‘What do you intend to do with the letters now?’ she asked.
Matthew sat on the edge of his seat. ‘I have thought long and hard about this. You see, while I wanted nothing more than revenge on Sir Everard for what he did, I understand he too sought vengeance for what he perceived as hurts I inflicted. What both of us failed to understand was that first Aubrey, then Helene, duped us both. They kept secrets from me and their father, used us both to pursue their own ends. If only we’d all been more honest with each other…’
‘Would you have married her knowing she carried another man’s child?’
Matthew Lovelace gave a huff of air. ‘I’ve asked myself the same question. Truth is, most likely. There was a time I would have done anything for that woman.’
A peculiar ache throbbed beneath Rosamund’s breasts; the air grew thick.
‘I thought I wanted vengeance,’ said Matthew quietly. ‘I thought the chocolate house would serve as compensation for what he —’ he jerked his chin towards the painting of Everard, ‘and his daughter had put me through. If he would just cede his half to me, all would be right. It was never my intention that Sir Everard would die — yet his death has made me see how empty my goal has been. How futile. All I wanted, or thought I wanted, was for him to pay for what he did to me. Literally. I wanted something in return for what I had lost — not Helene or the babe so much,’ he gave a sour laugh, ‘they were never mine. But the trust I held them in, the faith I had in others. My reputation. That has all but gone. The Blithmans have ruined it. Had ruined it,’ he added softly.
Rosamund was about to protest that reputations were not for others to make or break, but oneself, but stopped herself. Now was not the time.
‘I wanted to make the chocolate house a viable concern on my own. He would have hated that; being forced to surrender his portion, being outwitted in business. It would have hurt his pride. Only, he never intended to surrender it, did he? He sought to have me killed.’
Rosamund couldn’t meet his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea —’
‘Oh, you owe me no apologies, Lady Rosamund. I know you were ignorant of the role he intended you to play.’ His eyes narrowed as he considered the portrait. ‘I never realised the extent to which he’d go to silence me and ensure his name was protected. I’m not referring to trying to dispatch me. On that count, he tried and failed a few times.’ He chuckled. ‘I’m not easy to be rid of — am I, old man?’
That he could say such things without so much as blinking astonished Rosamund, especially when her innards turned to ice at the very notion.
‘My greatest regret is that he embroiled you in his schemes, my lady. Schemes that, had they borne fruit, would have seen you irreparably damaged.’ He leaned forward. ‘I knew him to be capable of much that was treacherous, but to find and marry you, to allow you to learn to make chocolate, to frequent the chocolate house, dress you in his former wife’s clothes and then Helene’s wedding gown —’
‘Not just the wedding gown,’ interrupted Rosamund. ‘There were other dresses he had made for me that were the same as Helene’s. I asked Bianca and Mrs Wells confirmed it.’ She hesitated. Sickened by the knowledge her husband planned to dress her like his dead daughter, she’d also tried to make sense of it. With Matthew’s revelations, she felt she finally could. ‘I think his intention was to relive his victory over you every time he set eyes on me.’
It was a moment before Matthew spoke and then it was a whisper. ‘Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.’ In response to Rosamund’s quizzical look, he shrugged. ‘A saying I once heard.’ He studied his hands briefly. ‘You know,’ he continued, ‘it wasn’t until I saw you in Helene’s wedding dress that I understood just how far he was prepared to go to take revenge. When young Robin died, drinking what was evidently meant for me and which you were to serve, well, Sir Everard exceeded even my low opinion.’
And mine, thought Rosamund bitterly. ‘I don’t know how to express…’ she began.
‘My dear lady, I cannot repeat it enough. None of this is your fault. Blame lies firmly at Sir Everard’s feet and, I’m ashamed to say, mine.’ He bowed his head. ‘I drove him to such measures.’
‘Maybe. But it was his choice to enact them.’
They sat quietly. The fire glowed, the candles sputtered. Jacopo stood unmoving in the corner, his eyes drifting from her to Matthew Lovelace. She was beginning to understand why Jacopo and Bianca had kept his identity a secret from her. It wasn’t only that Sir Everard had ordered them to, they did it to protect Matthew Lovelace; the man inspired devotion.
‘And now that you have the chocolate house?’ asked Rosamund finally.
He began to laugh. It was not a pretty sound. ‘It too is an empty victory — not because I don’t want it any more. On the contrary, I feel I owe it to myself to make it work. If I don’t, all has been for nothing.’ He sighed. ‘I really believe it could be a fine business. Currently, because of what happened and the rumours attending it, it’s been emptied of custom.’ He waved a hand. ‘’Tis but a temporary thing.’
It pained her to hear that. She imagined Filip, Solomon, Thomas, Widow Ashe and the others sitting in the steamy kitchen, inhaling the rich aromas and having no-one to serve. The anticipation which drove their early endeavours buried with Robin and Sir Everard.
‘Aye,’ she agreed. ‘I think it would not take much to have the men return. For the few short hours I was there after it opened, the chocolate was much esteemed, the building; the entire enterprise. All it needs is a tweak here and there.’
There was a long roll of thunder followed by a flash of lightning. The threatened rain began to fall, lazily at first, then loudly drumming against the window. Matthew Lovelace tilted the decanter over his glass. A mere few drops remained. Jacopo excused himself and left to get more wine. Rosamund sent a silent thanks after him.
‘The other reason I desired to see you, my lady,’ said Matthew Lovelace, leaning forward over the desk lest the open door allow his voice to carry, ‘is because of the chocolate house.’
Rosamund’s chest contracted. ‘Oh?’
‘I want to beg a boon of you.’
‘Of me?’
‘Yes.’
‘A Blithman?’
‘Like me, you’re only part of that family through marriage.’ For some reason, Rosamund felt relief.
‘True.’
‘But what you also became through marriage, and how Sir Everard chose to identify you, was as not just as his wife, but as the chocolate maker’s wife.’
Rosamund’s burgeoning smile faded. Her attachment to that title was unnatural for such a short acquaintance, yet she’d cherished it. She hadn’t known how much until she heard it again.
‘Alas,’ she said, ‘that role was as false as the stories Sir Everard fed me. It was never mine to fulfil. It was the part Helene should have played — as your wife in the New World.’
Matthew Lovelace shook his head. ‘Helene would never have been a chocolate maker’s wife. Something I discovered too late. Anyway, she was too proud to ever don an apron.’
Heat flew to Rosamund’s cheeks. Matthew shook himself. ‘Oh, my lady, I speak recklessly. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to infer that you lack pride or shouldn’t feel it in such an establishment.’
Unable to allow him to continue, Rosamund began to laugh. The sound was as cheerful as it was unexpected. ‘Cease, sir, cease. I do indeed have pride but, unlike your former lady wife, it’s provoked by being at the chocolate house.’
‘Ah, that is what I hoped you would say,’ he said, and relaxed once more. ‘You see, as I mentioned earlier, I have a proposal to put to you.’ His eyes sparkled with hidden depths and the beginning of a smile tugged his lips as he rested his hands on the edge of the d
esk. ‘How would you feel about becoming the chocolate maker’s wife once again?’
For the second time that evening, Rosamund wondered if the man was going to offer marriage. ‘You jest, sir.’
‘No. I do not. I am quite serious. You see, while I was furious at you for what you said to me the last time we met in the bookshop — I understood I was only roused to anger because what you said was accurate.’
Rosamund’s cheeks began to suffuse with colour. ‘I was most presumptuous…’
‘No, madam, you were not — well, perhaps a little.’ He flashed a smile. ‘In fact, you have given me good cause to reconsider my work; indeed, my life. I’m pleased to say that I’ve made the decision to write about exactly the kinds of things I should have been writing about all along, but lacked… not courage, but the motivation to do so.’
‘You don’t any longer?’
Matthew’s eyes crinkled. ‘Being reminded by a beautiful woman that one’s work should be honourable and not the work of a poltroon is marvellous motivation.’
Rosamund lowered her eyes.
‘In order to do this, to spend time seeking out injustice and writing under my own name in a manner that pleases the authorities and anonymously in a manner that does not, I need time and space. I cannot run the chocolate house and devote the attention required to my other employers at the same time — both suffer. The chocolate house needs someone who can dedicate themselves to the business in order to make it work. Furthermore, having spent some time in it these last weeks, I understand how ignorant I am. According to Filip and Thomas, I lack your zeal.’ He smiled. ‘I believe in the chocolate. I believe in Filip de la Faya and, Lady Rosamund, he believes in you.’
