The Chocolate Maker’s Wife

by Karen Brooks

  ‘Oh. Well.’ How did she explain that it wasn’t what he said so much as the fact he wrote. His reasons for doing so might be as simple as feeling obligated since they were, essentially, tied together by the chocolate house. All she knew was that his letters were welcome. More than welcome. They meant a great deal and demonstrated he respected her enough to keep her abreast of his movements. Gifted, and with a keen eye and a poetic turn of phrase, he described everything from the wonder of sunrise over the still waters of the Atlantic to storm-tossed seas along the coast of Guinea, torn sails and dolphins frolicking. With every word, the world contracted for Rosamund and she saw it through his eyes, as she knew he intended. In writing about the comet, he knew she too would have seen its journey and marvelled; it was a wonder that bridged the immense distance between them.

  ‘He describes the comet.’ Rosamund glanced towards the window as if it might manifest right there and then. ‘Imagine, Bianca, even though he is so far away, he saw it too. He writes that the Earl of Sandwich has kept a most detailed account of its passage for His Majesty. No doubt L’Estrange will publish parts of it. We should try to read that if we can.’ She imagined discussing it with Matthew and her heart quickened.

  ‘And when he has completed his task, how do you feel about his return?’

  Not much escaped Bianca, thought Rosamund. ‘Feel?’ She gave a brittle laugh. ‘Why, relief the man will finally be here to help me with the chocolate house.’

  Bianca stared at her a tad longer than was necessary.

  ‘What? What am I supposed to feel?’

  ‘It’s not for me to say, signora, only I cannot imagine why you would want him to help when you’ve done so well on your own and it gives you so much contentment. He’s been glad to let you manage the place whether he was in London or not. Unless, of course, the real reason is so you may dedicate your time as Signor Pepys thinks you should.’

  Rosamund pulled a face. ‘Finding another husband.’

  Bianca’s eyes twinkled. ‘You are the weaker vessel, remember? And, what else is it Mr Pepys warns? That having been “framed to the conditions of a man” you must find it hard to forgo the marriage bed.’ Bianca wore an expression close to a smirk.

  ‘Aye, well. Sam doesn’t know what he’s saying. My marriage to Sir Everard, as you know, was not… conventional. Anyhow, one has to look to find, does one not? I am not looking. Not for a husband.’

  ‘Because you’ve already found one?’

  Rosamund spluttered, almost spraying chocolate back into her bowl. ‘You’re very amusing tonight, Bianca.’

  ‘Si. Always glad to be of service.’ Bianca returned to her reading.

  Rosamund watched as her companion focussed on Muddiman’s latest private newsletter. Ever since Sir Everard’s death, she’d grown closer to Bianca than she thought possible — Jacopo too.

  It had taken some time before they divulged their history to her, and then only parts. Evidently, speaking of it pained them and while she was grateful for what she did learn, she would spare them. She gleaned that their mother was a slave, forced from her homeland and taken by ship to Venice, where she was bought by a cardinal. When he tired of her, he gave her to a house of ill repute. There, as a beautiful blackamoor, she was saved for only the richest clients. One of these insisted she be reserved for his pleasure, bestowing a comfortable amount upon her (and the bordello) to ensure his demands were met. When their mother fell pregnant, he moved her into her own quarters, and this altered her life significantly. She used the opportunity to educate herself and, subsequently, her children. Neither Bianca nor Jacopo mentioned the name of their father, only that, when their mother died, he kept his promise and ensured they were looked after.

  Recalling the beating Jacopo had received at Sir Everard’s hands, Rosamund wondered how their mother and this mysterious father would feel about their children being brought into the Blithman fold — or, more accurately, bought. Yet, for all that they were born slaves, Sir Everard had given them authority and treated them much like the other servants in his employ. Rosamund sensed no resentment regarding their station despite their evident learning, poise and decency. When she asked about this, Bianca simply replied, ‘We had a good life, in Venice; that is, compared to others in our situation – as the progeny of a black woman and a white man.’ Shadows flitted across her face, an array of painful memories, suggesting her ‘good life’ was far from perfect. ‘Signor Blithman… well, it could have been so much worse.’ Their equanimity made her love them all the more and, when she thought about the events that brought them into her sphere, despair as well. She would do all in her power to shield them from further ill-use.

  Rosamund settled into the chair and took in what she now thought of as her surroundings, astonished, as she oft was, that such good fortune had fallen upon her and wondering for the umpteenth time what she’d done to deserve it.

  Ever since she and Matthew had made their agreement, so much had happened — not merely at Blithe Manor or the Phoenix, but within her.

  There had been a period of adjustment where she tried to grow accustomed to the fact Blithe Manor was, to all and intents and purposes, hers. At least until the will could be formally read and the contents made public. A jointure from the estate ensured her basic needs were met and Mr Bender released funds for everyday expenses. The only niggle of doubt she had about the process (never having been privy to the vagaries of wills before) was to do with the papers Jacopo had her sign that very first morning in Blithe Manor — the ones she’d been unable to read. It turned out she’d agreed to cede to the executor in all matters pertaining to the will and the arrangements therein. She also acknowledged Sir Everard’s rightful heirs above her own claims. Puzzled by this, considering all his heirs were dead, she’d left the entire matter for Mr Bender to sort out. When she happened to mention the circumstances of the will to Matthew, he’d become very quiet and then questioned her closely. Lacking any further details to give him, she’d promptly dismissed the matter from her mind.

  Funny, she hadn’t thought about that in ages. She’d no need. The servants were paid and Sir Everard’s fleet continued to sail and trade. Notwithstanding port restrictions because of the Dutch War, or those blasted pirates that insisted on raiding ships, under Jacopo’s experienced hand the Blithman business continued. This all allowed Rosamund to focus on the activities which, as Bianca reminded her, afforded her great pleasure and a sense of worth; something she was determined to impart to all those who helped her whenever possible. After all, good fortune came about as a consequence of others’ work, support and goodwill, and should be held in common.

  She had devoted time to improving her reading and was now more than proficient. The shelf she’d first cleared with Bianca overflowed with tales of King Arthur and his knights, Ovid’s poetry, plays by Sophocles, Aristotle and Aeschylus, Apuleius, names she loved repeating in her mind because the mere sound of them conjured the drama, pageantry, passion, transformations and suffering of their heroes and heroines. One of her favourite writers was Geoffrey Chaucer — his poems of pilgrims exchanging stories as they travelled to a shrine in Canterbury were both heartaching and often sidesplittingly funny. Admittedly, one of the reasons she loved Chaucer was because she could read him for herself. It was the same reason she picked up Shakespeare over and over, and the works of Margaret Cavendish, the Duchess of Newcastle upon Tyne. They all wrote in English. Regarded as quite the eccentric, the duchess was a woman of learning who, like Rosamund, was self-taught. Her autobiography, A True Relation of My Birth, Breeding and Life, a gift from Mr Henderson, gave Rosamund a model to emulate. Here was a woman who dared to consider not only philosophy, science, astronomy and romance, but to write about her reflections and discoveries in insightful ways. Defying her critics, she determined that women were men’s intellectual equal, possessed of as quick a wit and as many subtleties if only given the means to express themselves — in other words, access to education. This could be demonstrated ove
r and over. One day in the chocolate house Rosamund heard John Evelyn refer to Margaret Cavendish as a ‘pretender to learning, poetry and philosophy.’ Rosamund didn’t care, she gorged upon the pretender’s writings, allowing them to saturate her senses and feed her hopes. Bianca enjoyed them too and the pair would debate the duchess’s ideas. She could not help thinking her grandmother would be pleased.

  The poetry of Richard Lovelace, Matthew’s father, was also favoured — and not merely because of the relationship. The way Lovelace’s poems mingled politics, war, the vagaries of love — its passion and pain — with fighting for what was desired, was something she could relate to.

  Of all the books, news sheets and letters she’d secreted away in her closet, the most important were stacked upon the table: Matthew’s correspondence sat in a neat pile, ordered by date. Read and re-read, as was any pamphlet or news book containing one of his reports, they remained where she could easily find them. It didn’t matter which one she selected, she knew the contents of each and where it was written, what had struck him as important, what the weather was like, the landscape, the ocean swells, and the scents he inhaled.

  Through all her reading, Rosamund learned her place in the world; who she was — more importantly, who she wanted to be. She came to understand that being a bastard, and even fatherless, wasn’t so very terrible. Suffering, joy, sorrow, happiness — the realm of human experience was not exclusive to the rich or poor. There were those who rose above adversity and triumphed. Those who defied God’s will or embraced it. What it came down to were choices.

  Her mother had made a choice when she abandoned her babe. Her grandmother made one when she kept her. Tilly made another when she took her back. Paul made his choices. Sir Everard made one when he married her. All around her, every day, people defined their lives through choices — good and bad.

  Until she chose to lease the chocolate house from Matthew, choices had been made for her, and she’d suffered for it. This was something the tales she devoured taught her. They also enabled her to make another choice: never again would she allow someone else to determine her future. Never.

  If only the men at the chocolate house knew what went on inside that golden head. Because she was a woman, and a beautiful one, they spoke of things in front of her they never would have thought to discuss in front of their wives, sisters, daughters, mothers. Working might not have given Rosamund respectability, but it did give her a degree of invisibility. She was a woman in a man’s world — an ornament for them to appreciate and whose appearance reflected upon them in the way the furnishings in a fine establishment reflect the worth of the patrons. With the exception of Filip, Mr Henderson, Jacopo and the boys, and even the most fearsome of their patrons, Henry Bennet, no-one credited her with the capacity to understand, let alone seriously reflect upon what she heard. Except Matthew, of course. Privy to many conversations, ideas and opinions that might see some of the men locked up as dissenters, Rosamund stored the details away. To her, they were like the tales in the books in her closet, to be kept safe, secure, treasured.

  She’d also mastered the art of writing. While her hand was not nearly as fine as Bianca’s, she was able to pen the occasional letter to Frances and even to her mother. Any letters she sent in reply to Matthew’s she dictated to Bianca. Her mother never responded to her notes, not even through the services of a scribe or notary. It was from Frances she learned that the inn had fallen into such a state of disrepair no builder could fix it. Likewise, Tilly and Paul, who, if Rosamund read aright, had grown fonder of the bottle than coin, cared not a whit for their business or each other. At first, the regular customers had tried to overlook the shortcomings of the Maiden Voyage Inn and its hosts, but gradually they stayed away. Widow Cecily had gone to work at the Cock and Bull. Sissy had been forced to leave when it became apparent she was with child. Who the father was, she never said. By far the biggest news was that the twins had been press-ganged into the Navy. At least, that’s what everyone assumed. One day they were in town, bullying and demanding, the next they were gone. Someone claimed to have seen sailors in the area who were known to entrap any healthy men of age — and some who were not. Rosamund had read about impressment; even merchant sailors were not immune from being forcibly recruited. Once war with the Dutch was imminent, the King had been desperate to man his ships, and the only way to do that was by virtually kidnapping crews — even pressing those not accustomed to the sea. Rosamund couldn’t be sorry, except for the captain the twins served. Nevertheless, she sent a prayer to God that He keep them safe. Not even Fear-God and Glory deserved a sailor’s death. For weeks after learning their fate, she would drift down towards the Thames and stare at the forest of masts upon the river, watching the swirl of currents as the water raced east towards the sea and wondering not only about the twins, but another soul adrift upon the waves…

  As she reminisced, Rosamund couldn’t help but note how lovely Bianca looked. Upon discovering her newly made wardrobe was not original but a copy, she’d ordered Mrs Wells to refashion every single dress to make new ones — not only for herself, but for Bianca and Widow Ashe as well — with additional fabric, lace and ribbons, and even using Margery’s old gowns. Pleased and proud, Rosamund no longer wore what she’d come to think of as shrouds, but her very own clothes.

  With new dresses to wear and shucking off of Sir Everard’s version of who she was, Rosamund also began to notice the interior of the manor more. While the chocolate house had undergone slight transformations once she took it over, Blithe Manor remained unchanged. It was dingy, dank and filled with unhappy memories. Rosamund determined to strip the darkness away.

  With profits from the Phoenix accruing, even after Matthew took his share, Rosamund invested much of them back in the manor. Employing the services of Mr Remney to oversee work, she had the curtains replaced, walls painted, fireplaces scrubbed, floors polished and the paintings in the study shifted to other parts of the house. The slashed portrait of Aubrey was repaired and then hung beside the rest of the family in Sir Everard’s old bedroom. Bedding was aired and linen bought afresh. New furniture was acquired. At Mr Remney’s urging, and accompanied by Jacopo, Bianca and Mr Remney’s journeyman, Ralph, Rosamund paid a visit to the warehouses along the Thames and purchased some extraordinary pieces brought back from Venice, the Levant and the south of France. Rugs from Turkey were laid across the floors, tapestries from the mountainous regions of the Dalmatian Coast hung on the walls and the windows and chimneys were cleaned.

  Just as Charles had been restored to his throne, so too Blithe Manor was restored, if not to its former glory, to glory nonetheless. Passersby would linger to see what the workers were up to on their scaffolding as damaged shingles were replaced on the roof, or tried to see the colours of the paints being lugged indoors and peer through the curtainless windows on the ground floor. Above the noise of traffic, whistling and singing could be heard echoing in the once silent rooms of the manor. Even the most jaundiced Londoners attributed this to the joyous presence of the Lady Rosamund.

  ‘Y’know,’ they’d say, nudging each other with a wink and brush of the tips of their cold noses, ‘this be the house of that widow, she who runs that chocolate house over by the Exchange and loves the blackamoors. They say she’s cast a spell over the men who go there with her drinks and her person. They can’t get enough of her.’

  Others would mutter, ‘They say the chocolate’s magic.’

  Some would reply, their voices low and infected with wonder, ‘It ain’t the chocolata, but the lady herself…’

  TWENTY-NINE

  In which there is a surprising homecoming

  Rosamund firmly believed Matthew’s homecoming was imminent now spring was here. The Thames had begun its slow sinuous flow again after being frozen for weeks, and her growing excitement manifested as impatience — something those around her were unaccustomed to seeing. The result was, as days went by with no sign of him, she became distracted and clumsy, even when prepa
ring drinks for regular customers.

  After she’d inadvertently added two pinches of valerian to John Evelyn’s chocolate instead of his usual one, rendering the poor man unable to write let alone think for a few hours, and tipped far too much rose-water into William Chiffinch’s bowl, and Robert Boyle’s was knocked over by her errant elbow before he could drink it, Filip suggested that Rosamund and her customers might be better served if she went home.

  ‘You’ve been here since dawn and haven’t stopped looking at the doorway. I fear the time for his arrival — at least at the chocolate house — has passed. The tides have retreated and no more ships will drop anchor till the morrow. Go home, querida señora, and save —’ He hesitated, biting his lip.

  ‘The reputation of our chocolate?’ finished Rosamund, looking in dismay as yet another customer coughed while he drank and then flapped a hand before his mouth.

  ‘Chilli,’ said Filip and Rosamund in unison. There was no need to add ‘too much’.

  They both laughed.

  ‘I was going to say, your enthusiasm for another day,’ chuckled Filip.

  ‘Aye, you’re right,’ sighed Rosamund. Filip didn’t even need to say whose arrival. He knew. They all knew. Was she so transparent? Apparently. Last month she’d received a missive from Matthew informing her he’d failed in his personal quest and was heading home. Alternately delighted she would see him sooner than she hoped and despondent that his intentions had been thwarted and what that meant, she could scarcely sleep, let alone make chocolate, for thinking about him.

  ‘I just thought…’ she gazed wistfully towards the doorway, ‘he might be back today.’

  Or the day before, or the one before that…

  ‘So did I,’ said Filip and placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Perhaps he’s yet making his way and will find you at Blithe Manor.’