by Karen Brooks
‘Filip?’
Jacopo chose that moment to return with a brimming decanter. On his heels was Bianca, carrying a tray with soft cheeses, some fruit, cold pigeon and a manchet, which she set down on the desk, casting an expectant look in Rosamund’s direction.
‘Mr Lovelace, I believe you know Bianca.’
Rising to his feet, Matthew Lovelace bowed. Rosamund could not help but be impressed, not merely by his manners but that he offered such courtesy to a servant.
‘I have had the pleasure. Signorina Bianca,’ he said, ‘it is good to see you again. Properly.’
Curtseying, Bianca bestowed one of her rare smiles. ‘Signor Lovelace. It is good to see you too. It has been a while.’
‘Too long, Bianca. Too long.’ Releasing her hand, Matthew sat back down.
‘Sit, Bianca, Jacopo,’ said Rosamund. ‘But not before you’ve refreshed all our glasses.’ She found another for Bianca. ‘Whatever you have to say to me, Mr Lovelace, can be said before these two.’
Once Jacopo and Bianca were seated and had drinks, Matthew continued. ‘Filip tells me you are extraordinarily gifted when it comes to the chocolate. That somehow you infuse it with a quality that makes it taste like no-one else’s. Having had the privilege of drinking what you made while I was nobody, I can only agree.’
‘He is too kind.’ Rosamund felt warm. ‘As are you.’
‘He speaks the truth,’ said Jacopo. ‘If I may, sir?’
Matthew waved a hand in permission.
‘The signora is what they call in Spain an aficionado — she is someone with both passion and ability. Rare in a person, let alone a woman, but Filip, who has worked with chocolata his entire life, says he has never seen the like.’
‘Filip is the expert, not me,’ said Rosamund, shaking her head.
‘Ah, he didn’t say you were an expert, signora, but an aficionado — they are different. An aficionado is a devotee, someone with a natural gift for understanding and sharing the essence of something. Through the eyes of the aficionado, others come to appreciate and experience the joys and divine mysteries of a thing. An expert is someone with great knowledge, but who is not always able to persuade others to share it. Where one includes all who come in their compass, the other excludes. You, Lady Rosamund, are the former.’
Rosamund didn’t know what to say. Acutely embarrassed but also proud (she immediately asked her grandmother for forgiveness; Lady Ellinor could not tolerate pride), she gave what she hoped was a modest smile.
‘It’s true I do love the chocolate. And not the way one does a favourite dress or ribbon. But as a friend, a grandmother or, perhaps, a lover.’ She stared at Matthew in dismay — what had made her say that?
Matthew held up a hand, a grin transforming his face. ‘I understand. It is a true love, a love that acknowledges blemishes, foibles and seeks to make them part of the whole, not excise them as flaws.’
‘That is exactly what I meant.’
They shared a slow smile.
Bianca and Jacopo tried hard not to look at each other.
‘The signora has also dedicated weeks to experiments — with flavours and additives,’ said Bianca quickly, earning a wide-eyed look from Rosamund. Was this a conspiracy?
Matthew offered Bianca an encouraging smile. ‘Appreciating your unusual relationship with the chocolate and knowing how much the rooms benefited from your presence, as did the workers, I would ask, my lady, if you’d be prepared to manage the chocolate house. No.’ He held up his hand. ‘Manage is the wrong word.’
‘Excuse me?’ asked Rosamund, not daring to believe she’d heard him aright.
‘I propose, my lady, that you take out a lease on the chocolate house from me. We can work out the period between ourselves.’
‘You would lease the business to a woman?’
Matthew Lovelace bit back a laugh. ‘Not any woman. I would lease to you. As I said, Filip tells me your understanding of chocolate and the English palate is unsurpassed. Jacopo tells me your business instincts are like a man’s —’
‘You would discuss me with my —’ She was about to say ‘servants’, but stopped. Filip was no servant… he was her mentor, her master. She looked at Jacopo. For all his failings as a teacher, she had learned from Jacopo too — things a slave had no business teaching their so-called betters. Likewise, Bianca. Things about resilience, loyalty, courage. Yet they’d kept secrets from her, albeit with good reason. ‘My friends,’ she finished.
‘Friends?’ He glanced over his shoulder at Jacopo then back at her. Both Bianca and Jacopo offered her shy smiles, Bianca going so far as to give a slight nod, as if in response to the question she’d not yet asked: you may believe his word.
‘Yes, madam, I would — with Jacopo at least, I did. Forgive me, forgive him. He tells me I’d be an idiota not to let you continue to operate the chocolate house. Only if I do, it must be on your terms.’
‘My terms? I see. With you as my landlord.’
‘Yes.’ He flashed his teeth at her. Confound the man, but he had an infectious smile. ‘But I promise not to interfere… too much. I will continue to write — as I said — I will have to travel sometimes. In all but name, the chocolate house would be yours.’
Men were such strange creatures. Did he make her such an offer out of pity for her widowhood or sentimentality that she reminded him of his late wife? Or was it guilt at his role in what had happened to Sir Everard and how narrowly she’d avoided being accused of a terrible crime? Surely, now he’d explained everything to her, he owed the Blithmans nothing… on the contrary. Oh, perhaps that was it. He felt she owed him.
‘But, sir, you know nothing of me or my capabilities…’
‘Do I not? I know you do not take kindly to roaring boys and thugs. I know you to be brave, kind and curious; that you delight an old bookseller with your intelligence, that you give even street urchins and ragamuffins a chance. I know you to see good in those others refuse to, and to be accomplished with the chocolate. Why, even your late husband said an establishment like the chocolate house would do wonders with someone like you at the helm… remember?’
She did.
‘You’re also liked very well by those who would work with you — above all, you believe in the truth. And, my lady, you believe in me. At least, you did.’
They stared at each other. Rosamund was the first to look away.
‘Also,’ he added, ‘I like your laugh. Anyway,’ he eased back into his chair, ‘it’s my building, my decision.’
‘And if I say no?’
Matthew shrugged. ‘Then I will send Filip and Solomon back to Spain and lease the building to someone else.’
‘Send them back?’
‘They’ve no desire to work with anyone else but you… and me.’
Rosamund glanced towards Bianca and Jacopo — both were watching Matthew Lovelace closely. ‘But… but… This is tantamount to blackmail.’
‘In an excellent cause,’ he said. His eyes glinted, his mouth a work of mischief. ‘My Lady Harridan, I once told you I was a friend. For a while I feared you were the enemy —’
‘I was,’ said Rosamund. ‘Or, at least, I believed I should be. I also believed you were mine. I was persuaded you were the devil made flesh.’
Matthew nodded. ‘I would be your friend again, Lady Rosamund. I would, if it’s at all possible, you be mine — without blackmail.’
What an upset this was — a Blithman and Lovelace friends. Could she trust him? Filip seemed to, Jacopo and Bianca as well — and she trusted them. He clearly did as well, and that was important to her. Her eyes drifted towards Sir Everard’s portrait. Rage emanated from the painting like an aura. She could imagine his reaction to the request, how he would use his stick, shout, level accusations and insults, demand justice. Only, his idea of justice was to beat people, to use poison — and have her unwittingly administer it. Perhaps this was justice? A unity of purpose in two people hurt by those closest to them.
For tha
t was her truth, painful as it was to own: Sir Everard might have been her husband, but he was no friend.
Responding to Matthew Lovelace’s tentative smile, she returned a warm one. ‘I am sorely in need of a friend, so thank you.’
She’d believed that Sir Everard’s death meant she’d have to forget about the chocolate house, become the grieving widow locked in this dark drab house waiting until her husband’s will was sorted out and she knew her real financial status. Sam had already made it clear that her best option was to wait until the mourning period was over and then search for another husband. Another? Why, she’d barely had her first. Then there were those who propositioned her repeatedly — for her hand, for sex. She had even wondered if she should go back to Gravesend. She’d written and told her mother and Frances what had happened. Frances had replied immediately. From her mother, she heard nothing. Returning didn’t bear thinking about. But here was this man, this mysterious man who inspired such enmity and such devotion, who’d endured incredible heartache and narrowly avoided death, throwing her a lifeline. Offering her what Sir Everard had promised but never delivered — an opportunity. A real one. A proposition that involved neither marriage nor genteel whoredom.
Did she dare seize it? What would people say?
Sam would rail at her and tell her how much her reputation would suffer, how she would be viewed if she ran such an establishment without Sir Everard to protect her. Why, she’d be a pariah, constantly ogled and ill used in ways women of her station should never be.
What if she, already seen by some as a Jezebel of the highest order, accepted Matthew Lovelace’s offer? An offer from the man once accused of murdering her husband’s daughter and grandson?
‘Can you imagine what people would say?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes, my Lady Harridan, I can,’ said Matthew, his eyes gleaming diabolically. ‘Can you?’
‘It can be no worse than what they already claim for me,’ said Rosamund with a shrug. Could she really dismiss those harsh words so readily? Aye, she must.
‘And no worse than what they say of me.’
She couldn’t help it, she laughed. After a beat, he joined in. So did Jacopo, then Bianca.
As the laughter died and fresh drinks were poured, coal settled in the hearth, sending golden motes up the chimney and a large puff of smoke into the room, wreathing Matthew Lovelace in an opaque curtain. Aye, that was him in a nutshell, veiled in secrets and stories; dark smuts that would either stick or be cleaned away. In the semi-darkness, he was more shadow than person, more darkness than light. The devil was incarnate, sitting opposite, making secret pacts with her, asking her to sign over her soul. Even so, he wasn’t nearly as frightening as she’d believed. Truth be told, she trusted him just enough to perhaps say yes…
The rain beat a steady tattoo on the glass; the thunder now a distant purr, a large contented cat prowling over the land.
Before she could change her mind, allow the tiny warning voice tolling in her head to govern, Rosamund pushed back her chair and came around the desk. Matthew put down his glass and scrambled to his feet. Craning her neck to look up at him, she bobbed a curtsey. ‘I accept your proposition, Mr Lovelace.’
Bowing low, Matthew Lovelace took her hand in his gloved one. She remembered the first time he had held it, preventing her from beating Jed — or was it Ben?
‘Thank you, Lady Rosamund.’ He squeezed her hand then reluctantly let it go. ‘I’ll have Mr Roberts draw up an agreement and send it over for you and Mr Bender to consider tomorrow.’ He swept off his hat again, taking in the surrounds. The clang of church bells could just be heard above the rain, long, sonorous peals that marked the midnight hour. ‘Is that the time? Forgive me for keeping you from your rest, my lady. My business here is concluded.’ He returned his hat to his head. The feather made him appear quite rakish. ‘I’ll bid you good evening, my lady, Jacopo, Bianca. And thank you — from the bottom of my black, cold heart. Thank you.’
Despite all he’d suffered, Rosamund could not conceive of his heart being either black or cold. ‘Good evening, Mr Ness— Lovelace,’ she swiftly corrected. ‘And, I never thought I’d be saying this, but thank you.’ A thrill like mercury sped through her veins. As he reached the door, she added. ‘You won’t be sorry.’
He glanced over his shoulder. ‘My only hope is that you are not.’ With a brief nod and smile, he left.
Aye, well. That was her hope too.
Jacopo gave her the broadest of grins and, closing the door, followed him. Their voices were low and deep in the corridor.
Rosamund sank into the seat Matthew Lovelace had just vacated. The chair was still warm. Sliding her hands over the armrests, she stared at the fire, ignoring the accusing eyes in the portrait above it.
‘What have I done?’ she whispered.
‘What you must do,’ said Bianca, placing a hand over hers. ‘Put the past behind you — yours and the master’s — and go on as the chocolate maker’s wife. Though, truly, you will be the chocolate maker’s widow.’
Capturing Bianca’s fingers, Rosamund raised their intertwined hands, bronze and cream. She glanced up at Sir Everard’s portrait. ‘His widow… That must be why a small part of me feels as if I’ve just made a deal with the devil…’
TWENTY-SEVEN
In which a Navy clerk contemplates the passage of time
For all Sam Pepys had doubted Rosamund’s sanity when she agreed to lease the chocolate house nearly two years ago from that scoundrel Matthew Lovelace — who, if he hadn’t killed Sir Everard, had certainly contributed to the man’s sudden death — after some months, he had to admit the wench was doing an admirable job.
In the early days after its reopening, there were those who avoided the Phoenix, as it was eventually renamed, either because the Angel of Death had swung his scythe through the rooms or they couldn’t stomach the notion of a woman in charge. But when Christopher Bowman, the owner of the Turk’s Head in St Michael’s Alley, died and his wife, Mrs Bowman, took over its running, the regular patrons there remained loyal, which made those more inclined towards the chocolate house relax their stubbornness. It didn’t hurt that Rosamund was a splendid sight to behold, unlike the homely Mrs Bowman. Furthermore, she didn’t assert herself in the manner of women inclined to intrude where females were not welcome — like Lady Barbara Castlemaine, they’d mutter wryly. Nor did it hurt that very soon after taking over the running of the place, Lady Rosamund saw to it that beverages other than chocolate were served and a variety of other pleasing distractions were made available.
The moment she signed the lease granting her twelve months (with the potential to extend it a further twelve) at a reasonable rate and allowing Lovelace thirty per cent of the profits, Rosamund purchased ale from a local brewery. The brewer, Mr Brogan, delighted to count a real lady among his customers, began telling all and sundry where his beer was now being served. Rosamund also asked Jacopo to ensure some of the coffee beans her husband’s ships imported made their way to the Phoenix along with a ready supply of canary, sack and a fine majorca. Coffee serving implements were bought and Filip trained Solomon and Widow Ashe in the making of it. Much of the process mimicked the preparation of chocolate, so it wasn’t difficult to master.
It wasn’t only the range of beverages Rosamund improved. Whereas on opening day the news sheets and books had been sadly out of date, they were now current. Rosamund ensured that L’Estrange’s The Intelligencer: Published for the Satisfaction of the People, an eight-page news book, was readily available and, a few months later, The Newes as well. Now L’Estrange had been confirmed as Surveyor of the Presses, Muddiman had lost his licence. Nevertheless, he continued to provide his handwritten news sheets and Rosamund subscribed to these. Sam knew she also kept a supply of illegally printed news sheets and pamphlets (who didn’t), but made sure he never asked to see one lest a government spy be at his elbow. Talk at the Phoenix indicated that even if the men weren’t reading the latest from Muddiman or thos
e anonymous correspondents who dared to put their dissenting thoughts in print, other critics of the King and Council were making their opinions known. Debate was robust and oft times resulted in a gentleman storming out, or even, on two occasions that he’d witnessed, bowls of coffee and chocolate being upended on periwigs, much to the amusement of all and sundry.
Books were also available for reading, stacked in newly built shelves above the booths — another of Rosamund’s innovations. Pamphlets about the latest quack medicines and horse sales were liberally distributed, including those advertising forthcoming plays in the King’s and Duke’s theatres, and lectures at Gresham College. One could stand at St Paul’s Cross in the cold and rain or the blasted heat of summer and listen to the criers delivering the latest information, or retreat to the comfort of the Phoenix, be served a fine beverage, gaze upon the Winsome Widow and read the very same. Those with time and money chose the latter option. Packs of cards and counters were there for those inclined to a hand of ruff and trump, gleek or piquet, and ticktack and chess boards were also available. Discounts were offered to any musicians who played while they drank, and when members of the Royal Society decided to regularly patronise a booth, they too were given a small discount, providing they welcomed strangers to the table to hear their latest findings. Candle auctions were held once a week with merchants from the Exchange selling everything from ships to plots of land, wool, coal, tin, timber and hemp. The shouts of the men determined to secure their bids just as a candle expired made a deafening roar.
Less benevolent Londoners refused to believe anything good of a woman in business — especially a chocolate house. Claiming one could call that kind of place whatever they wanted, whether it be for the drink it served or the mythical bird that arose from the ashes, they knew what it was and, more importantly, what she was: once a trull, always a trull. Pretty dresses, a dimpled smile and a laugh that sounded like a chorus of angels didn’t change facts. Everyone knew what chocolate facilitated (did they not enjoy a bowl or two daily?) and the effect it had on all who consumed it. Rumour said that was how the Lady Castlemaine kept the King panting after her, even though she’d borne him more children than a brood mare and lost much of her youthful appeal. Chocolate was an aphrodisiac — a Papist invention brought to English shores to corrupt the souls of good British Protestants. It might put sap in a man’s hairy cullions, allow access to a woman’s bowers of bliss, but it was devil’s work all the same. As God Himself knew, that Lady Blithman let Sir Everard plough her. How else did she persuade him to marry her? Or that dashing correspondent, Lovelace, to hand over his newly acquired enterprise? Calling herself a businesswoman, they knew what she traded in — Cupid’s warehouse: the heavenly cleft where men stored their seed.
