The Chocolate Maker’s Wife

by Karen Brooks

  One had only to look to Gravesend to know the truth of that. Forget those tales about her being related to the Tomkins. What was a member of a decent northern family doing at an inn, let alone with chocolate beneath her nails, smeared on her mouth, an apron over her admittedly silken dresses and parading about town with a pair of blackamoors by her side. Like they were equals! The woman had no class, just arse, and that’s all there was to it.

  Now Rosamund had been running the Phoenix for a couple of years, Sam had grown accustomed to seeing her at work and quite enjoyed the spectacle. Leaning back in a booth on this cold winter’s day, he watched her standing behind the bar, her face a picture of sweet concentration as she mixed drinks for the patrons, her slender fingers hovering above a bowl here, agitating a chocolate pot there, moving around and beside that Spaniard, Señor Filip, as if they were dancing, and nodding as she listened to that rogue, the Duke of Buckingham, opining about his latest ailment. Sam noted the sympathy in her eyes was not forced, nor was the laughter that rang out when that impish Scot, Robert Gilligan, with his dark eyes and voice like a gargling seal, leaned over and whispered something in her perfect ear.

  Sipping his chocolate and marvelling at the way it coated the roof of his mouth, a syrupy thickness that slid down his throat and made his loins stir, as Sam studied Rosamund, he couldn’t help but reflect upon what had passed since he first met her.

  Rosamund had altered greatly from the young woman he had encountered that memorable morning at Blithe Manor. Gone was the uncertain yet gentle deference, replaced by a confident modesty that greatly endeared her to all who came within her compass. Choosing discretion over flaunting her widowhood, she was rarely found outside the manor or the chocolate house. If women could attend the chocolate house, Sam thought, they would see that the only threat Rosamund posed was to men’s dreams.

  He sat up abruptly and shook his head. What was he thinking? Thank God and all the saints in Heaven above the fairer sex were discouraged from entering. His eyes slid to the door to confirm it was so. The thought of anyone other than Rosamund and that doxy who worked in the kitchen sharing this space was almost enough to put him off his chocolate. The other one who used to work here had been delivered to Blithe Manor and given the role of housekeeper. When Rosamund had first told Sam what she proposed, to offer such a position to someone with no credentials other than loyalty, Sam nearly choked on his sack. Ignoring his entreaties, Rosamund did what she always did of late: exactly what she wanted. Installing Widow Ashe as housekeeper, she then elevated that Amazon tawneymoor, Bianca, to the role of companion. If running a business hadn’t been enough to set tongues wagging, giving a slave such a position — as if she was a gentlewoman come by hard times and not a savage lucky to be living under the same roof — did the trick.

  Draining his second bowl and smacking his lips in appreciation, he thought about calling over Harry for another. Good Lord, the lad had grown tall but not, sadly, another hand; though he appeared not to need one when he was so adept with that odd little stump of his. On second thoughts, he might sidle over to the bar and have Rosamund make him a drink while he waited. She was developing quite the reputation for soothing fractious spirits, helping with digestive problems, as well as other, less obvious, maladies.

  On third thoughts, given who had just monopolised her attention, maybe not.

  Sir Henry Bennet had snuck in while Sam was distracted, his elbow resting on the wood of the bar, his entire body tilted towards Rosamund. The former Keeper of the Privy Purse, now Secretary of State and spymaster of the King, was like a raven all in black with that ridiculous plaster across the bridge of his nose. What kind of wound suppurated so long it required a fresh plaster each day? There were men who lost entire limbs during the Civil War and they didn’t make a show of it. He was making Rosamund laugh, no doubt describing something to her in one of the five languages he spoke, gesturing with his elegant beringed hands. There was a time when Sam would have been jealous of the attention courtiers poured upon his cousin, and which she seemed to enjoy. Likewise, the flattery that idiot Charles Sedley, ‘Little Sid’, bestowed, a man whose only claim to fame, apart from his wit, was strutting naked with Sir Thomas Ogle at the Cock Inn in Bow Street. Though any number of louche gentry had adopted the Phoenix as their own and would no doubt have taken Rosamund under more than their wings if she’d been willing, Sam found it no longer bothered him.

  Well, perhaps a little.

  Ipso facto, more than a little. Rosamund had not only resisted his attempts to get to know her better — oh, all right, seduce her — but had kept even her most ardent admirers (and there were many) at arm’s length — including the King himself. That, decided Sam, deserved admiration, not disapprobation, at least from him. The day King Charles graced these rooms was, though she was reluctant to admit it, the making of Rosamund. It wasn’t so much that Charles, dressed in what he thought were ordinary clothes (an outfit that Sam would have been proud to strut about in), had come to the Phoenix and was clearly smitten with Rosamund that surprised people, it was that Lady Castlemaine arrived not long after him. Seeing the King astride a stool before the bar, his deep hooded eyes fixed upon Rosamund as she mixed a drink for him, she’d let out a yowl akin to a breeding cat. Ignoring the looks of shock and disapproval around her, she strode through the room and shot Rosamund a venomous stare, upended the prepared bowl of chocolate upon the bar and taken the King’s arm.

  ‘Do you not know this place, this Lucrezia, has a reputation that would make a Borgia blush?’

  The King had barely formed a protest before she dragged him away, unaware His Majesty bestowed a weary smile and a cheeky wink upon Rosamund as she did.

  No, it wasn’t the King’s patronage that shored up Rosamund’s reputation, but Barbara Castlemaine’s furious displeasure.

  Not that this prevented the King from returning, albeit in his usual disguise as a regular gentleman about town, answering only to ‘Old Rowley’. It always amused Sam that His Majesty thought by donning a dun-coloured jacket and some worsted linen and pulling a cap low over his head, he was unrecognisable. He was well over six feet, a giant among men. Possessed of the swarthiest of complexions and lugubrious eyes, he turned heads no matter where he went — taking his morning stroll in the park, enjoying the horse races, or boating on the Thames. What was a chocolate house a few miles from Whitehall to him? Especially when it housed such forbidden fruit. Anyone who knew the King knew that was his favourite kind, and if the Lady Barbara had her wits about her, she would have urged him to attend to Rosamund rather than disallowing him. So, Old Rowley returned to the chocolate house occasionally to flirt with Rosamund, and even tried to bestow gifts upon her. All were exquisitely rejected. It didn’t matter that he wore a crown, she refused all who sought her favours.

  The only exception was Matthew Lovelace. Whatever that man had done to earn Rosamund’s trust confounded Sam, but it seemed he had and she in turn had earned his. So much so that the man oft gallivanted around the globe — ostensibly to uncover stories for L’Estrange or Muddiman, though Sam suspected there was more to it than that, especially if the occasional shared drink and unhurried conversation he had with Bennet alone in one of the booths was anything to go by. Curious as to Lovelace’s whereabouts and wanting to confirm his suspicions, Sam had taken to reading every news sheet, searching for his byline to provide a clue.

  No longer Nessuno, the name he had adopted to conceal his whereabouts (unsuccessfully as it turned out) from Sir Everard, Lovelace now wrote for the official news sheets under his own moniker. Sam was unsure that was wise, as he’d dramatically altered the tone and style of his pieces and walked a fine line between comment and dissent. He needed to watch his back lest he draw down the wrath of the authorities.

  At least with Lovelace absent, Sam could enjoy Rosamund without him overseeing their interactions. No longer wishing to bed her (quite so often) didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate Rosamund. And he did. Almost daily. She was
like a habit he didn’t want to break.

  He let out a great sigh, spinning the bowl on the table with a finger, watching the particles clinging to the sides. Sam had to acknowledge the man knew what he was doing when he asked Rosamund to manage the place.

  The Phoenix was the place to go both to learn the news and to forget for a time the war against the Dutch and the plague said to be tearing through Belgium, Holland and Germany — topics that preoccupied those sitting in the booth beside him. Agog at the comet seen in northern skies a few days ago, the men were prognosticating about its significance. Sam heard references to famine, floods (no, he wanted to tell them, they occurred last year when all Whitehall was drowned), plague and fire. Next they’d be declaring the four horsemen had been spied on Fish Street. Sam had wondered about the comet himself. Seeing it arc across the skies, a flash of silver that made him think of sylvan sprites, for all its majestic beauty there was no doubt it augured something terrible — every comet did. What was it to be this time? They were already at war and foiling Papist plots everywhere. There was that cluster of odd deaths in Yarmouth to consider as well — sailors, or at the least, travellers who sickened and died the moment they set foot on English soil. Covered in strange boils and spots, they had died swiftly.

  A voice rose from the neighbouring booth. ‘What does a comet portend if not doom?’

  Sam repressed a shudder and pushed such bleak thoughts aside, focussing again on his cousin. Bennet sat back and took a deep swallow of warm, velvety goodness, his eyes screwing up tight, his tongue capturing residue from his rather sensual mouth. Rosamund smiled at him. She had a knack of appearing to concentrate solely on whomever she was serving, as if they and they alone eclipsed all others. She also had a damn fine memory, able to recollect insignificant details about her customers and to ask about them the next time she saw them.

  Sam trotted to the bar and, acknowledging Bennet briefly, leaned over the counter to farewell Rosamund, who was holding her own court. He made sure to plant a wet kiss upon her pillow-lips — the privilege of cousinage —and was gratified to earn the envious glances of all who loitered nearby.

  Tugging his forelock to the Duke of Buckingham and the gentlemen forecasting the future, Sam left the chocolate house with a spring in his step. Life continued, comets and dire predictions aside. Christmas was almost upon them and then a new year: 1665. What would it bring? As he entered Birchin Lane, shivering in the sudden cold, he prayed fervently it was Rosamund to his bed.

  Hope, like his prick, sprang eternal.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  In which restoration and anticipation rule

  Rosamund folded Matthew’s letter carefully and laid it upon the table in her closet, then poured two bowls of chocolate — one for her and one for Bianca, who sat quietly reading. It never ceased to amaze her, God’s good Earth. Here was Matthew, on the other side of the ocean, and he’d also witnessed the blazing star that had left its majestic trail across the firmament for weeks, causing all who viewed it to gasp in fear and wonder.

  To think, Matthew had been watching the very same celestial object and recording what he saw for her benefit (and no doubt, The Newes). A wave of contentment swept over her, followed by a rush of warmth that reddened her cheeks and filled her chest. She opened his letter again. It had been sent weeks ago from Boston. Not only did he write about the comet, but other words she hadn’t known she’d long to read. She began to fizz with happiness, like that peculiar sherbet drink Constantine the Greek sold in Threadneedle Street.

  She found it difficult to imagine Matthew writing the letter, what his surroundings were like, how he was feeling. Her heart ached for him, knowing he was both dreading what he had to do yet driven to accomplish the task he’d set himself.

  When he first told her that he planned to cross the world and deliver the letters he’d once intended to give to Sir Everard, she thought him mad.

  ‘Why?’ she asked, as they sat in their regular booth in the chocolate house drinking wine after closing one evening. It had been a cold day, and only the warmth of the bubbling vats, combined with the crackling fire in the main room that Wolstan maintained, managed to hold it at bay. Nevertheless, when Matthew announced he was sailing to the New World, Rosamund found herself shivering. It was those damn letters he continued to carry in his satchel. The ones that ensured that even when he was smiling or laughing, a tiny mote of shadow encroached upon his joy.

  Matthew took a deep breath, set down his glass and looked her in the eyes. The candle burning between them made his own into inky pools, his face an alien map of smooth planes and craggy peaks. Soft chatter from the kitchen reminded them they were not really alone — they never were, the workers as well as Bianca and Jacopo always aware of preserving her fragile reputation. She waited for him to speak, wanting to hold onto this instant, knowing that when it ended, so did the intimacy of their stolen moment. The past would once again intrude and disrupt all they’d managed to build.

  ‘I have decided that I must try to find Helene’s lover and deliver the letters to him.’

  Rosamund released a long sigh. A part of her had always known this moment would come.

  ‘You must? Why? If the man ever cared about them, cared about Helene, surely he would have sought them out for himself? Sought you out? It is he who owes you, not the other way around. If he’s done nothing about them, or you, then why do you feel you must?’

  Matthew’s lips curled. ‘It’s not for him I do it, Rosamund…’ He paused, refusing to meet her eyes. ‘But for myself.’

  The hands she’d allowed to creep towards his on the table retreated. Dear God, he still needed to confront the man who’d cuckolded him. Had Helene meant that much? She’d hoped that over the past year and a half she’d helped him forget; that the chocolate house and all they’d accomplished, his writings and the debates they’d stirred, the praise he’d drawn (even if many still didn’t know who the author of the more controversial pieces was), had helped him to put that part of his life in perspective. As her grandmother always said, you cannot alter the past, only the present and thus the future.

  She didn’t realise she’d said the last part aloud until Matthew responded.

  ‘That’s exactly why I am doing it. I realise that if I don’t release this burden, or at least make an effort to, then I, and perhaps even others, am forever bound to it — to a past that will not cease to intrude. I’m unable to move into the future while I carry these —’ He slapped the satchel which lay on the bench beside him. ‘Not only in there, but in my heart.’

  Rosamund shook her head. Sadness overtook her. It wasn’t until she became aware of Matthew’s intense gaze, his hands palm up on the table waiting to receive hers, that she dared raise her chin.

  ‘You see, Rosamund,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper, ‘until I rid myself of what they signify, of the man that I was and who I became, confront the cur behind all this, then I fear there’s no room for anything… or anyone… else.’

  Ever so slowly, Rosamund placed her hands in Matthew’s gloved ones. He stared at them before wrapping his long fingers gently around them. His grip tightened. ‘For a time, he called the New World home. So, it’s there I must go if I’m to learn anything of his whereabouts, much as the very notion of leaving for such a stretch pains me.’

  Unable to tell him it pained her too, she simply held his hands.

  How long they sat there, she was uncertain. All she knew was that when they left that night, she with Jacopo and Bianca for the manor, Matthew for his lodgings, he had, if not her blessing, then her understanding. It was all she could give.

  That had been nearly five months ago. According to Matthew’s latest letter, whether or not he was successful, he was briefly extending his travels, journeying from Boston to secure business interests and, if she’d understood what he inferred correctly, to report on rumours of Dutch uprisings for Sir Henry Bennet, and then returning via Spain and Holland. Calculating the number of days since the let
ter had been sent and how long he’d estimated his travels would take, Rosamund tried to work out when she might see him again. It was already February… February! And a new year at that. Where had the time gone? Before they’d even inhaled the last of the frosts, it would be March and spring. Ah, spring. Her smile broadened.

  Melting snows, budding vines, barren trees welcoming suits of green, renewal, rebirth and, God willing, Matthew’s return.

  His return. What a welcome notion. She was too afraid to imagine beyond that lest she destroy the hope just thinking about it gave her.

  Now, all the major players in this sorry saga had left the stage: Aubrey, Helene, the baby, Sir Everard, his first wife. The only ones left were her, Matthew and the lover. She wondered who he was. Jacopo said he didn’t know and she believed him. Bianca was unusually evasive on the subject and seeing how uncomfortable it made her, she let it be.

  After all, it wouldn’t change anything.

  Never mind, she would try to elicit the information from Matthew when she saw him. If it even mattered by then.

  ‘What does he say, Signora Rosamund?’ asked Bianca softly, interrupting her reverie.