by Karen Brooks
Sam’s eyes almost started from his head. ‘Aubrey? Alive?’ He choked on the chocolate and Rosamund was forced to slap his back a few times. Wiping away tears, he shook his head. ‘When I was told he’d died, I never doubted Everard for a moment; I was overcome with sympathy. I thought all his children lost to him. But… how? Why? Why would a father disown a son in such a manner?’
Rosamund shrugged. ‘I know not, Sam. I hoped you might.’
‘Believe me, Rosamund, I would tell you if I knew.’ He shifted slightly on his seat as pain pierced his body. He let out a deep breath and flashed her an apologetic look before continuing. ‘There were rumours around the time Aubrey left — was sent — to the New World.’
‘Such as?’
‘Oh, that he’d conducted himself in a most unbecoming manner. There was mention of treachery; of deals being struck with Hollanders and such. But I always felt there was something else… I do know he and his father argued a great deal. There was not the accord between them that Everard had enjoyed with his eldest son.’ He tipped his head in thought. ‘I don’t know. You’ve got to remember, it all happened when the King was set to be restored to the throne. Negotiations were underway. Preparations were being made. There was little else the city was talking about —’
Which meant there was nothing else Sam had been interested in discussing.
‘All I recall is one minute Aubrey was here, next he was gone. Monies were paid to the privy purse, his name was cleared and then, a few weeks later, he was pronounced dead. Everard never spoke of him again.’
‘Not so dead; he has come back.’
‘Are you sure it’s him?’
‘If his portrait is anything to judge by —’ And his manner, thought Rosamund.
‘I’ll know the moment I clap eyes on him. Where is he?’ he asked and craned his neck as if expecting to see him among the patrons.
Rosamund had the grace to look guilty. ‘At Blithe Manor. He was… very tired.’
‘He’s staying there? With you?’
‘Where else would he stay?’
‘But… But… it’s not proper.’
‘But it is, Sam. We are family. I am his stepmother, remember.’
A reluctant smile tugged his mouth. ‘I suppose you are, the lucky cur. Fancy, a stepmother younger than him and by some years. Even younger than his sister. You might be related — by marriage — but all the same, I don’t like the idea of you alone there with him…’
‘It doesn’t seem right, does it?’ agreed Rosamund, thankful Sam had taken the conversation in the direction she hoped. ‘And with my reputation already so… precarious.’
‘Only to those who don’t know you.’
She shot him a grateful smile. Really, he could be charming when he wished. And when he was suffering so. ‘You see, the potential impropriety of him and I sharing a roof is easily remedied. Well, maybe “easily” is too strong a word. It can be fixed. I even spoke to my lawyer, Mr Bender, about a related matter this morning.’
‘You did? What matter?’
‘Ah, that is what I wanted to share with you. I may need your help,’ said Rosamund, and quietly outlined not only her reason for visiting Mr Bender, but her solution to a very vexing problem.
Naturally, Sam protested — it was all quite unorthodox — but she managed to allay his fears and persuade him to support her. As she returned to the kitchen her passage was slow, the men seeking her company, pouring out their views about the dreadful explosion, the loss of life, how they were inviting trouble allowing women on board in the first place, as well as suspicions a Dutch spy had blown the frigate up.
From Sir Henry, she learned of a British ship capturing French sailors and torturing them by burning their feet. ‘The foolish captain was determined to have them say their cargo was for the Hollanders,’ said Sir Henry, rubbing the dark plaster on his nose for the umpteenth time. ‘But they were innocent. The King is furious and intends to flog the captain and crew as soon as they make land.’
Rosamund could not help but pity the misguided men. Feelings were running so high against the Dutch, inflamed by reports in the press and innate prejudices, it was no wonder men imposed their own justice on anyone suspected of aiding the enemy, hoping to insert themselves into His Majesty’s good graces. She’d heard of the members of the Dutch church being threatened, beaten and stoned wherever they walked about the city. Neighbours were turning on neighbours. The flimsiest excuse was regarded as justification for violence. Foreign folk were scared to leave their houses. Known Papists and Quakers too. Businesses had been boycotted and people were suffering as a consequence.
War didn’t just worsen prejudices, it legitimated them.
Those who didn’t want to talk about the London or the Dutch wanted to know about Aubrey. Nothing stayed a secret at the Phoenix. Some uttered his name with distaste, some with surprise, some with caution. Looks of pity and, occasionally, calculation were cast in Rosamund’s direction as the men weighed up what the consequences of his return might be. Some offered Rosamund a consoling pat on the arm, others even offered her a place to stay, the shrewd look in their eyes indicating the price of their generosity. Rosamund hoped she wouldn’t have to stoop to that, but thinking about alternative accommodation might not be such a bad idea.
Pretending an indifference she most certainly didn’t feel, and dismissing the less than honourable offers with a laugh, Rosamund kept her emotions close, even as her heart pounded. In the relative sanctuary of the kitchen, she collapsed onto a stool, her mind abuzz with what she’d heard. She smiled gratefully at Solomon when he brought over a steaming bowl of chocolate.
‘Have you eaten, signora?’ asked Bianca, sinking into the seat next to hers, wiping her hands and face upon the apron.
‘This will do nicely. I’ve no appetite for food.’
They both gazed towards the main room, watching Filip’s and Thomas’s backs as they worked hard to agitate and pour pot after pot of chocolate and coffee, while the drawers ran to and fro fetching jugs of beer, bottles of wine, cups of China tea and whatever else the customers desired.
‘You know we can’t stay here, don’t you?’ said Bianca quietly. ‘We’ll have to return to Blithe Manor. If we don’t, he can have us arrested. He’s our master now.’
‘I know you’ll have to return,’ said Rosamund. ‘But when you do, it will be on my terms.’
‘Your terms?’ Bianca twisted in her seat. ‘Allora. I know that tone. What have you done?’
Before Rosamund could answer, who should step into the kitchen but Aubrey Blithman; Mr Bender, Jacopo and Sam on his shiny heels.
Pouches cupped Aubrey’s deep-set eyes, and his face was grey. He needed a good shave and his periwig sat askew. His clothes had been nicely brushed and the scent in which he was liberally doused almost succeeded in covering the odour of unwashed flesh. Almost.
‘My Lady Rosamund,’ he said, opening his arms to appraise what stood between them. ‘You are full of surprises, are you not? Here you are, manager of this fine establishment —’ he turned back to the main room, ‘filled to the brim with court and country, cowering in the kitchen with the menials.’ He dropped into an exaggerated bow beside her stool, and pulled off his hat. ‘Still, I understand someone wanting to keep an eye on their investments — of all kinds. Maybe I can make a businesswoman of you yet?’
At his entry, Bianca had leapt to her feet. Cara, the kitchen hand, ceased what she was doing and faced the intruders, her eyes sliding towards Rosamund, uncertain and a little frightened. It wasn’t every day the gentry tripped into this part of the chocolate house. Likewise, Thomas and Solomon regarded the newcomers curiously. Jacopo moved to stand with Bianca.
Rosamund rose slowly. She’d learned to respect the authority her title gave her, no more so than here, in her territory. She might be working in the kitchen with ‘the menials’, but it was her kitchen and these were her people. Strictly speaking, they were Matthew’s and this was his business, but s
he wasn’t going to let those details destroy her little claim on power.
Aubrey’s last words caused a stir in her chest. What did he mean, keep an eye on investments? She glanced at Mr Bender who offered the slightest of nods. Sam made a positive sign with his fingers. She bit back a smile. Seemed her stepson had accepted her offer after all. She’d been right assuming money was more important to him than people.
‘Ah, well,’ she said with a deep curtsey, sweetening her tone. ‘I’d be foolish not to ensure I was striking a fair bargain, would I not?’ Praying Bianca and Jacopo would forgive her next words, she continued. ‘You said yourself an owner must wrest every last ounce from their slaves. You were right. Hence, I thought to test their value by putting them to work here as well as at the manor.’
Beside her Bianca grew very still. Jacopo made a noise that might have been a groan or a growl, she couldn’t tell. She wished she could reassure them. She prayed with all her soul they understood her purpose.
‘Indeed, one must give them as much work as one can. An idle savage is a dangerous one. Work them until they can no longer stand, so their minds do not stray to matters that are not within their compass to understand.’ Aubrey strode towards Jacopo and Bianca, stopping inches from them, examining them as if they were cattle about to be auctioned. Mayhap, thought Rosamund, to him they were. ‘Clearly, you aren’t working this pair hard enough. Father never did. He allowed them to develop airs and ideas that have no right in a tawneymoor’s head.’ He tapped Jacopo hard upon the skull.
To his credit, the man didn’t flinch.
‘That’s why I was hesitant to concede to your wishes, Lady Rosamund — or may I call you Rosamund? After all, we’re family, are we not?’
‘Indeed, we are, Aubrey,’ said Rosamund.
He gave her a smile, his eyes crinkling in the corners, though there was no joy behind them, just pure calculation. ‘Excellent. Well, Rosamund, if you will but take my guidance on how to deal with your slaves, I will be happy to provide it. With correct handling, you can gain much from this pair — they’re literate and, in the right conditions, they’ll work hard and may even be a boon to you. In fact, that’s how Mr Bender persuaded me to agree to your terms. He reminded me that as an ignorant woman, you will look to a man for example. With Father being dead, I am now the example from which you will learn. The notion gives me great pleasure.’ He smiled again and gave a half-bow.
Rosamund dipped her head. ‘And me too, Aubrey. I thank you. So am I to understand you have signed the relevant papers transferring ownership of Bianca and Jacopo to me?’
Cara dropped a bowl. It clanged as it struck the tub before breaking into shards on the floor. Red-faced, she muttered apologies and, with Thomas’s help, quickly began to pick up the pieces.
‘I have.’ Aubrey gestured to Mr Bender, who passed a roll of documents to Rosamund. ‘They are all yours. I just hope, Rosamund, that what I saw last night, the liberties being taken, will not happen again. Not under my roof.’ He tugged at Bianca’s apron. ‘You have given them ideas beyond their station. A respect they don’t warrant. Time to end this. They are slaves. Your slaves. Your property.’
‘To do with as I wish,’ said Rosamund, an edge of sharpness creeping into her tone.
Mr Bender gave the slightest shake of his head.
Sam cleared his throat as if about to speak.
Rosamund continued swiftly. ‘I assure you, sir, I will employ Jacopo and Bianca as you advise and in a manner suited to their birth.’ She smiled graciously.
‘Their birth?’ said Aubrey, his face growing red. If Rosamund thought to appease him, to reinforce their low status, she was wrong. He glared. ‘Do not speak to me of their birth. They’re slaves. No more and no less on God’s good earth and in His eyes. Remember that.’ He glowered. ‘You do but show your good Christian charity in thinking otherwise, madam.’ His frown transformed into a wide smile, revealing all that remained of his teeth. He was as mercurial as a summer storm. ‘And now, my lady mother, they’re yours. Do not make me regret this.’
‘Of that you can be certain, Aubrey.’ Rosamund didn’t dare look at either Bianca or Jacopo. What must they be thinking?
Mr Bender sought to clarify matters. ‘You understand, Lady Rosamund, that from this day forth, in exchange for the slaves, you’ll not receive another cent from the Blithman estate?’
‘I do,’ said Rosamund.
Sam gave her a look that might have been approval but also could have been disappointment. She’d been less than open about this part of the transaction.
‘Of course, as my stepmother, you will continue to live beneath my roof,’ said Aubrey suddenly. ‘In fact, I’m hoping we’ll get to know each other better and, in time, very well.’ The way he regarded her with his asymmetrical eyes and thin, mobile mouth made Rosamund’s skin goose. She swallowed.
‘I would like that.’ She prayed she sounded sincere.
‘Very well, then. I will retire to the main room and join the conversation. Appears the Dutch have been at it again. I look forward very much to trying more of your chocolate, Rosamund.’
Rosamund curtseyed, keeping her head bowed. ‘And I look forward to preparing more for you, Aubrey. I will send out a bowl shortly.’
Aubrey took her hand and helped her rise, then brought her fingers to his lips. At the last minute, he turned over her hand and impressed a kiss in the palm. His mouth was dry, hot. Unlike his tongue which was slick and thick. A shudder passed through her, which Aubrey caught and read a particular way. His eyes gleamed.
‘It’s not just me who’s been resurrected, Rosamund, but in your face, your presence, your status as a Blithman, my beloved sister too. Just as we looked to each other’s wellbeing, loved each other as family should while she was alive, I hope and pray we can do the same.’
With a final squeeze of her fingers, he released her. Before Sam could escape, Aubrey threw an arm around his shoulders and strode from the kitchen, laughing and nudging him when he didn’t share his humour.
Mr Bender went to speak, then shut his mouth. With a bow and a lingering look at Rosamund, he too left. Rosamund would be sure to thank him later, when she knew Aubrey was out of earshot.
It was some time before Thomas and Solomon started working their molinillos again. Some burnt cacao beans had to be tossed into the rubbish and new ones set to roast over the coals. Cara returned to the dishes, casting furtive glances over her shoulder to make sure that man didn’t enter again.
Aware something had happened, but unable to leave the bar, Filip sent querying looks towards Rosamund. She signalled she would explain everything later.
She sank onto her stool, the documents held fast in her fist. Aubrey had agreed to her bargain. She had the papers to prove it. In exchange for her jointure, calculated over a period of forty years (presuming she lived to such a ripe old age), he’d sold Jacopo and Bianca to her. They were hers. Could Jacopo and Bianca ever forgive her for dealing with them in such a manner? For not asking their approval? For owning them as one did a herd of sheep or a block of land?
Ready to face their accusations and their hurt, she rose as they approached, their faces unreadable. Before she could explain, Bianca kissed her soundly on the forehead and cheeks and pulled her into a strong embrace. Jacopo wrapped his arms about them both and held them tight.
‘Grazie mille, signora bella,’ murmured Bianca. Was that a quaver in her voice?
‘Grazie mille, grazie mille,’ repeated Jacopo over and over.
Closing her eyes, Rosamund lost herself in the wonder of two sets of arms enfolding her in gratitude and — dare she think it? — affection.
How strange that when she was certain she’d be showered with opprobrium, two of the people she cared for most felt nothing but gratitude. Yet, what she’d done was treat them like a commodity to be bought and sold. Aye, she’d bought them. Argued a price, bargained for their lives. The irony was not lost on her that this was exactly what Sir Everard had tried to do
with her before Tilly had turned it into a transaction of a different kind.
The apologies she’d prepared weren’t needed. Just as she didn’t need a piece of paper to know Jacopo and Bianca were hers, they knew that she was theirs. The important thing was to ensure Aubrey never saw the depth of their feelings for each other.
Was it not a sin to covet possessions? Well, God forgive her, she cherished her two newest ones. With all her damned heart.
THIRTY-TWO
In which old wounds are made afresh
Despite being away so long, Matthew’s first impressions were that nothing appeared to have changed in the river city. Better than anyone, he knew how looks could be deceiving and, even if London seemed to be operating under the principle of business as usual, it had changed — the last two hours he’d spent at Whitehall delivering his report on the situation in Holland to His Majesty and Sir Henry Bennet and his side-kick, Joseph Williamson, were enough to alert him to that. But it was what he saw and heard for himself as he strode the halls of the palace, the taut anxiety beneath the whispers, the false bravado — not about the worsening hostilities as he’d anticipated — but about the pestilence that gave him cause for alarm.
Pushing aside thoughts of sickness, grateful to have executed his duty to King and country, Matthew gazed around, drinking in the sights from his vantage point upon a wherry. The sky was a cloudless blue, the church spires, which looked more like scaffolding designed to keep the heavens aloft, shone in the sun’s glorious rays. The mud-brown river was filled with craft determined to make the best of the weather, though, according to the boatman, ever since spring took hold the sun had been a regular companion.
‘So,’ Matthew said to his one-eyed boatman, an old sailor by the look of the many scars that bit into the flesh of his arms and neck, ‘what have you heard of this pestilence?’
