by Karen Brooks
There was a sharp rap on the door.
‘What is it?’ asked Aubrey. ‘Ah, come in, man, come in. I believe you know Wat?’
Dismay made Rosamund’s shoulders slump as Wat Smithyman entered the room. With a sly smile and half-bow, he acknowledged her and ignored Jacopo and Bianca.
‘Milord,’ said Wat. ‘Do you want me to organise your things be taken to your old room?’
‘My old room?’ asked Aubrey, patting his pockets. He pulled out a pipe and a pouch of tobacco. ‘I don’t think so, do you? The lord of the manor should sleep in the finest room.’ He glanced at Rosamund, leering. ‘Put me in that one, would you, Wat?’
‘With pleasure, sir.’ Wat bowed and left with one last triumphant look at Rosamund.
‘No objections?’ asked Aubrey.
‘Objections? Why would I object?’ Rosamund moved closer to Bianca. ‘This is your house, after all.’
‘I would have thought you would insist on keeping your bedroom. Though, you’ll hear no complaint from me should you wish to share it.’
Rosamund had to work hard not to recoil. ‘The best room is Sir Everard’s. With a couple of exceptions, it remains as it was when he occupied it.’
‘You didn’t take it for yourself?’
‘I prefer my own room.’
Aubrey stared at her for a few seconds then began to laugh. It was bitter, forced. ‘Beautiful and wilful. I can half-see why father wed you. He always liked to tame bitches.’
Bianca stiffened. Jacopo opened and closed his fists.
Breathe. Breathe and smile, Rosamund told herself.
Taking a few puffs of his pipe so the tobacco took, Aubrey studied the platter of food, shoving the meat and bread aside with a finger, searching for choice bits. Finding one to his satisfaction, he picked it up and, tipping his head, dropped it in his mouth. The way he masticated, his tongue searching his lips and teeth for anything he might have missed, reminded Rosamund of the wild cats Sam had taken her to see at the docks.
Bianca’s face wore an expression of utter desolation. Rosamund’s heart cracked. She knew that look: the unravelling of dreams. Unless she was very careful, they were about to lose everything they’d worked so hard to achieve — together.
Aubrey flicked his fingers towards Bianca, a piece of meat landing on the new rug. ‘You still here? Surely, Bianca, you know your place by now? You too, Jacopo. While your mistress may have indulged some primitive fantasy, it has no place beneath my roof. Off with both of you until I call. And I will call.’ He bent over the tray.
‘Bianca. Jacopo.’ Rosamund was not going to allow this. He could speak to her how he wished, look at her as if she were something dredged from the bottom of the Thames, but she wouldn’t allow him to address her friends, her family in such a manner. ‘Stay where you are.’
Aubrey’s hand froze over a morsel. Sensing he was about to let forth, Rosamund quickly took the chair opposite him. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Allow me.’ Moving his hand out of the way, she waited until he shifted his feet then deftly found a plate and sorted some of the choicer bits of meat and carved a piece of bread from the middle of the loaf for him, prattling all the while. She told him how hard it had been for her since Sir Everard died, how if not for the wisdom and experience of Jacopo and Bianca she would have been lost. Peppering her conversation with smiles and a few laughs (forced from some reservoir she’d forgotten she possessed), she didn’t allow him time to think let alone speak. All the while, he watched her, his eyes upon her face, openly appraising her décolletage, her hands, her mouth. She bestowed a huge smile upon him as she passed him the plate.
‘Enough,’ he said finally, smacking the plate out of her hands. It clattered as food struck the floor, the walls, the chair. ‘Enough of your mindless chitter. Good God. Do you think I give God’s good damn about you or how you feel? I’d sooner have a tooth extracted by a barber-surgeon than listen to any more of this… this blither. As for them —’ He jerked his chin towards Bianca and Jacopo. ‘If they don’t get out of here now, I’ll call for Wat to have them taken away. And I don’t mean to their rooms, I mean to where they belong.’
‘They belong here, with me —’ began Rosamund, half-rising. She felt Bianca’s hand on her shoulder, pressing her back into the chair.
‘They belong in the hold of a ship; they belong on a plantation and — get your hand off her —’ he said to Bianca. The hand was slowly withdrawn. ‘And, if they don’t quit my sight immediately, that’s where I’ll ensure they go.’ He didn’t shout; he barely raised his voice, but each word was laden with deadly portent. He meant what he said and wanted Rosamund to know that.
‘Very well,’ said Rosamund, standing slowly. ‘But I ask one boon.’
‘What?’
‘I ask that Bianca be allowed to fetch me some chocolate. It’s a well-known restive that your father and I were in the habit of drinking before bed. It’s a ritual I’ve maintained. If you like, I can mix you a drink.’ She lowered her chin in obeisance. No doubt he would prefer her this way.
Aubrey tilted his head to one side. ‘I’ve heard about you and your chocolate. Unnatural, you working there, making drinks for gentlemen. He never would have tolerated Helene doing such a menial thing. Still, if it’s good enough for the old master, then it’s good enough for the new one. At least in fetching and carrying, she’s —’ he glanced at Bianca, ‘doing what God put her kind on this earth to do.’
Rosamund felt Bianca touch her back. ‘Bianca.’ She didn’t look at her but kept her eyes on Aubrey. ‘If you could also bring some of that herb Mr Evelyn swears by and which the master so enjoyed as well, I would be grateful.’
‘Signora,’ said Bianca and with a curtsey followed a silent Jacopo out of the room.
Once they’d shut the door, Aubrey began to eat again. Keeping her face neutral, Rosamund’s mind raced. Aubrey Blithman was alive. The house was his. What did that mean for her, for the household?
‘You’re prettier than she was.’
She didn’t need to ask who ‘she’ was.
‘The men used to fall over her, you know. They must barely be able to stand in your presence. On their legs, at any rate.’ He chuckled, food spraying his chest.
Rosamund sat straight, hands clenched in her lap, and ignored his crudeness.
‘Oh, come now. You work in a chocolate house, don’t pretend a virtue I know you don’t possess. My father married you. It’s obvious why.’ He shook his head. ‘And he had the gall to question my tastes, my sanity.’
Rosamund prayed this man liked to talk about himself. So far it seemed he was keen to bring almost every other topic back to his desires. ‘Forgive my surprise at your arrival, Aubrey. May I call you that? As I said, your father told me you were deceased.’
He gave a bark of laughter. ‘The last time we spoke, he told me he would excise me from his life. I didn’t realise the old fool meant it. I thought it merely a threat. Still, at least he remembered me when it was important.’
‘In his will.’
Aubrey slowly relaxed into the seat. ‘Imagine my surprise when first Wat turns up and then these letters from Father’s lawyer, inviting me to claim my inheritance. Took their blasted time finding me, I can tell you. But at least they did.’ He glanced at her. ‘Guess I must be a shock then. Spoiled your plans. Not only am I like Christ, resurrected, but akin to some benighted thief: I snatch your wealth away when you least expect it.’
‘I’d no expectations, sir. The will was yet to be read.’
‘I know. It was waiting for me. I’m the executor. Father was thorough if nothing else. Fair, not so much.’
Swallowing her astonishment, Rosamund remained silent.
‘But you must be disappointed, surely?’ he asked. ‘It’s only natural.’ He heaved himself out of the chair and began to pace. He walked with a funny, rolling gait. Rosamund had seen it on the sailors who disembarked at Gravesend after years at sea. The man really had made his way straight from a ship. ‘A
fter all, for over two years you’ve been ensconced in my house, believing all this was yours to enjoy. And you have.’ He turned and waggled a finger at her. ‘You’ve been spending my money.’
Rosamund stood. ‘No, sir. I spent my own. Your father bestowed a jointure upon me and I have the money my business made.’
‘Is that right?’ He sounded disappointed. ‘Well, don’t think I’m compensating you. I never asked you to undertake improvements.’
Unable to think up a suitable retort, Rosamund was relieved when Bianca and Jacopo returned with the tray and some tiny bowls of additives. Until she saw the anger transform Aubrey’s face.
‘That will be all, Bianca, thank you,’ she said, moving between her friend and Aubrey. ‘Just leave the tray. Perfect. If you could draw a bath for me, perhaps ask Jacopo to help you — the tub is so heavy, I’d be grateful. I shan’t be long.’ She prayed that Bianca would understand.
‘Signora.’
‘No.’ Aubrey slammed a hand down on the table in front of him, making Rosamund jump. ‘I’ll not have that cursed language spoken here. English, do you hear me? You speak the King’s English or I’ll cut your tongue out. That goes for both of you.’ He glared at Jacopo and Bianca.
Rosamund tried not to let her fury show.
‘Sir.’ Bianca rolled the r. ‘Madam.’ Curtseying most obsequiously, she swiftly left the room followed by Jacopo.
When the door was shut, Rosamund began to put a little cinnamon, a bit of sugar into a bowl. She expected Aubrey to come and watch and wasn’t disappointed.
‘What’s that you’re doing?’ he asked curiously. His manner changed as quickly as the winds, blowing hot one moment, temperate the next.
‘I’m mixing our most popular additives into the drink I’m preparing for you.’
‘Good. The Spaniard’s version tastes like tar. Thick and bitter.’
Never having drunk tar, Rosamund couldn’t say. ‘I’m making it the way your father liked it — sweet, a little spicy.’
‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing at the annis-seed.
Relief swept Rosamund. Bianca had understood her message. Mixed in with the annis-seed was a hefty quantity of valerian. ‘This is a special root that also gives the chocolate a slightly fruity taste.’
‘Give me plenty. I’ve a desire for something fruity.’ He cast her a look that made her stomach slide into her boots.
‘Plenty it is.’ Throwing caution to the wind, she upended the entire contents into the bowl, quickly tipping in the milk. Little flecks of black, green and violet spun in the whirlpool her spoon created.
‘Now I add the chocolate.’
Knowing Bianca would have already agitated the molinillo, she gave it a further stir in the hope she’d increase the quantity of froth and hide the number of herbs. Pouring a stream of luscious chocolate into the bowl, she gave it a final blend and passed it to Aubrey.
Covering her hand with his, he took it from her slowly. He had peculiar eyes, the palest blue with very large pupils. One eye had a blot of brown disrupting the surface, making his gaze seem awry.
She allowed him to stroke her fingers, resisting the urge to pull away. His smile pulled back his lips, revealing crooked teeth.
‘Ah, even before I left the New World, I’d heard talk of your chocolate. Don’t look so surprised. I kept abreast of what was happening here. Everything except my father’s death. For some reason, that bypassed me.’ He blinked and stared into space.
Rosamund moved back to her seat and gestured for him to sit opposite. ‘Please, sir. Enjoy your chocolate. And, if you would be so kind, tell me of your life in the New World.’
Aubrey sat, holding the bowl to his mouth, his head slightly bent, and studied her above the rim. ‘You really are absurdly lovely —’ he said, moving the bowl away. ‘Even I have to admit, you eclipse Helene.’
Rosamund forced her hands to be still. She wanted to lift the bowl to his mouth, pry his lips open and pour the contents down his gullet.
Taking a great gulp of chocolate, his smacked his lips together. ‘Why, madam. Tales of your magic are not exaggerated. This is wonderful stuff.’ He took another swallow.
Much to Rosamund’s relief, Aubrey drank the chocolate, smoked his pipe and downed two glasses of malmsey while he regaled her with tales of Virginia and its sweeping coastal plains, glorious snow-capped mountains and verdant valleys. How he purchased land there and, with the labour of slaves, planted tobacco and cotton and, when he left nigh on three months ago, had just sown indigo. He spoke of how he’d increased business by advising other landholders to purchase slaves from him. Rosamund could barely keep a straight face as she recalled Matthew’s recent writings about the conditions of the slaves upon the ships and in the brutal hands of English colonists in Virginia, Maryland and Carolina. Given how Aubrey spoke to Bianca and Jacopo, it wasn’t hard to imagine how he treated those who worked his land. He told her about the Virginia Indians, the ‘savages’ as he called them, with names like Cherokee, Iroquois, Algonquin, and those belonging to what he called the Powhatan Confederacy. Contempt and what she thought might be fear dripped from him. Gradually, his words slowed, his eyes began to grow heavy.
‘You should see ’em, Helene. So tall, proud. With their feathers, and markings… like paintings. Like those ones you loved…’
For just a moment, she worried she’d added too much valerian. Poor Mr Evelyn had still been asleep when she left the chocolate house, curled up in a booth as a result of her heavy-handedness. Rosamund determined he wouldn’t pay for his chocolate on his next few visits — it was the least she could do.
Aubrey murmured Helene’s name a few more times, then slid down in the chair. His pipe fell from his fingers, his head dropped onto his chest. Before long, he was snoring worse than Paul ever had.
She picked up his pipe, placed it on the table and stood back to study him. Her stepson by marriage. Even in repose he looked angry and spoiled. Yet it was clear he still mourned his sister. Did he despise his father? Or was he simply afraid of him? There was no indication he was grateful to him. Seeing her had sparked bitter, sorrowful memories. Aubrey not only blamed Matthew for his exile, but declared the accusations against him were untrue; she knew whom she believed. But that still didn’t explain why, even two years after his son had gone to the New World, Sir Everard had maintained the ruse. Didn’t Matthew say that Sir Everard had paid a huge sum of money to have Aubrey’s name cleared? It must have worked or Aubrey wouldn’t dare show his face now. What else had Aubrey done to make Sir Everard keep him away? To excise him from his life? What had sparked the rage that caused his portrait to be slashed and hidden from view?
Such peculiar men, the Blithmans. Dangerous ones, too. She recalled Aubrey’s face as he barked orders at Bianca and Jacopo — oh, she saw his father in him then. But Sir Everard, thank God, never looked at her the way Aubrey had when he held her hand and caressed her fingers, remarking over and over how like his sister she was. They weren’t the absent strokes of a bereft man, but more like those of a child whose favourite toy had been stolen and replaced. The shivering that racked her body was fierce.
What was she to do about him? Just as she’d begun to make real plans, they were dashed. If only it had been Matthew who’d come to the door. Where was he?
It didn’t matter. She had to work fast to protect those she loved. Throwing open the door, she called, not for Widow Ashe, but for Wat.
On the third call, she heard the stirring of someone on the floor below and then shoes dragging on the stairs.
‘What?’ asked Wat rudely, running his hands through his hair as he reached the last step and spied her in the shadows near the door. ‘Whatcha want?’
‘What I want, Wat, is for you to take your master to bed. He’s quite exhausted.’ She stepped aside and gestured to Aubrey’s recumbent body. He’d slipped further down the chair. His knees pressed against the table, the only thing stopping him becoming a human puddle on the rug.
‘Whatcha do to him?’ asked Wat, striding over to his master, shaking him. When there was no response, he turned to her and snarled. ‘If I find out you’ve done anything…’
‘You’ll do what? Tell me,’ said Rosamund, smiling sweetly. ‘Complain I didn’t press charges after you stole those candlesticks from your master, or the silver urn?’
‘I didn’t steal them from my master — he was dead.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t referring to Sir Everard —’ Rosamund gave a pointed look at Aubrey. ‘According to your new master, this is his house. His property. And that includes everything within its walls.’
Understanding he’d just admitted to the crime, Wat ceased to challenge her and, with a groan, heaved Aubrey up under the arms and managed to throw him across his shoulders.
‘I think your master needs a good rest,’ said Rosamund, following him from the room.
Flashing her a look of pure resentment, Wat knew better than to argue this time. The young woman he’d left to fend for herself was the not the same one he faced now.
Once he rounded the corner and she heard a door open then shut, Rosamund flew to her room. As she’d hoped, Bianca, Jacopo and Widow Ashe were waiting.
‘Right,’ she said, closing the door. ‘We’ve no time to lose. All of you must gather your things and be gone this night.’ She raced to a small box on the mantelpiece, pulled out a purse of coins and counted some out. ‘I want you to take these and go to the Phoenix. Explain to Filip what has happened. You’re to stay there until we sort this out.’ She prised open Jacopo’s fingers and put the coins in the palm of his hand. ‘What are you looking at me like that for? Go. Now. You can’t stay here.’ She spun towards the housekeeper. ‘Ashe, I am afraid for you as well. That man means to wipe out all traces of me and impose his own authority upon the house. You must go.’
When they didn’t move, she went on. ‘I saw the way he looked at you —’ She grabbed first Bianca’s hand, then Jacopo’s. ‘He will do what he threatens.’
